Red Sky at Dawn (17 page)

“What are you waiting for?” the captain yelled. “Get the net!”

“It’s in the wagon,” Jase responded from behind Roskin. “He ain’t here yet.”

“Go see what’s keeping him,” the captain ordered. “I’ll watch this one until you get back.”

Jase rushed away, and gritting his teeth against the pain, Roskin raised himself to his knees and looked up at the captain. The man’s blade was inches from Roskin’s chest.

“You’re lucky that dwarf is such a weakling,” the captain said, holding his left arm across his stomach to stop the bleeding. “He barely broke the skin.”

“You best finish me, then,” Roskin returned, his voice dry and cracking. “While you can.”

“Oh, I’ve no intention of killing you. You’re much too valuable, and since you escaped, I’m sure you’re worth even more, now. Between you and the barkeep, we’ll make a nice profit from the orcs.”

Having resigned himself to death, Roskin was surprised by the wellspring of fear at the mention of being sold again. His left shoulder throbbed with pain, and he knew he wouldn’t get more than one chance to subdue the captain, but he couldn’t go back there. He could die on this night, but he would never return to bondage. Gathering his focus, he stared at the captain’s exposed ribs and steadied his grip on the axe handle.

“It’s a shame, though,” the captain continued. “You’re pretty good with a sword. For a dwarf, that is.”

Before the man could say more, Roskin hurled the axe with his right hand and launched his body backwards in one motion. When he hit the ground, the jolt of pain nearly knocked him unconscious, but with all his remaining strength, he rolled onto his stomach and clambered to his feet. As he got his balance and bearings, he half expected the captain’s sword to pierce him, but as he wheeled around and faced the man, he saw that the axe had found its mark better than he had hoped. Having dropped his own sword, the captain had both hands on the axe’s handle and tugged at it to dislodge the blade from between his ribs.

Roskin found his sword and, grunting from the pain, lifted it from the dirt. Growing paler by the second, the captain doubled his efforts to remove the axe, but as Roskin neared him, he realized the attempt was in vain. A disappointed frown came over his face, and he stared the Kiredurk in the eyes. Not flinching, Roskin drew back his blade and swung for the captain’s neck.

As the man’s body crumbled to the ground, Roskin collapsed again from the pain in his shoulder. He struggled to his knees and gasped for breath against the throbbing sensation. To his left, he could hear the other dwarves making their way back to the town square, and to his right, he heard Jase’s frantic voice calling again for someone to hurry. Despite his rising anger, Roskin couldn’t go after the traitor.

“You’ve got to get me out of here,” Molgheon said from the cage, her voice more panicked than he had ever heard it. “The wagon’s almost here.”

His arms and legs were weak from the fight, and as blood clotted in his wound, his shoulder became tighter and more sensitive to movement. While he wanted to rush to the cage, his body simply wouldn’t let him. He remained balanced on his knees, using his sword for support, and focused on taking regular breaths.

“Roskin,” Molgheon hissed. “Get to your feet, now.”

“Give me a moment,” he returned, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“We don’t have a moment. They’re almost here.”

Again, he tried to stand, and again, his body failed. He turned to look at Molgheon, hoping she could see his pain was sincere, but as he turned, he saw the wagon emerge from the far alley and back to the stone slab. Jase lead two thuggish dwarves around the wagon and motioned for them to grab the cage. Then, a fourth dwarf appeared from around the wagon, and at the sight of the slave trader Torkdohn, Roskin’s blood turned white hot.

Ever since Crushaw and the others had freed him, Roskin had been so focused on returning home that he had buried the memory of what Torkdohn had done to him. He had figured that if he wasted his thoughts on the old dwarf, he would become obsessed with finding and punishing him, and that might keep him from returning home for a long time. Now, with the dwarf standing only a few feet away, all of those emotions flooded him in one torrent.

“Get her loaded,” the old dwarf barked at the thugs.

“Look!” Jase nearly squealed from fright. “Roskin killed the captain.”

“Hurry up, then,” Torkdohn returned. “We need to go, mark my words.”

“Should I get the net for Roskin?” Jase asked.

“Forget him. The others are too close to risk it. Just get in the wagon. You two hurry with her or I’ll send you to the orcs, too.”

As the two lifted the cage onto the bed of the wagon, Roskin forced himself to his feet and started towards them. For a moment, his eyes met Torkdohn’s, and from the venom of Roskin’s stare, the slave trader’s expression morphed to fear. Roskin switched his sword to his left hand, which was still pressed against his body, and with his right hand reached for the second axe on his back. Torkdohn turned and, with speed that defied his age, rushed to the wagon’s seat, calling for the two dwarves to kill Roskin. They shoved the cage into the wagon, causing it to lurch and rock.

When the thugs turned for him, Roskin hurled the axe at the one to his left and struck the dwarf directly in the chest. The wagon began moving away from the square, and the wounded dwarf reached to grab hold of the sideboard, but his fingers slipped off the coarse wood. He fell to the ground with a thud and lay moaning on the hard earth. Seeing his friend fall, the other thug drew his wood axe and charged. Roskin grabbed his sword with his right hand and, ignoring the screaming pain from his left shoulder, rushed forward to meet him.

The thug drew back as far as he could with the axe and swung with all his might. Roskin slipped to his right, and the axe smashed into ground, sticking firmly. Roskin drove his sword into the dwarf’s side and, as the thug fell, again into his chest. Then, Roskin ran to where the other dwarf lay dying in the dirt and stabbed him through the back. Without stopping for the axe, he ran after the wagon, but it had already turned from the narrow alley onto the main street and was gathering speed.

Running as fast as he could with one arm pressed against his body, Roskin chased it across town, but his efforts were in vain, for the horses had settled into a good stride. Losing his balance, Roskin stumbled and fell face first in the road. Once again, he tried to stand, but this time, the exhaustion and pain were too much. Helpless and desperate, he lifted his head and watched as the wagon disappeared over the last hill at the edge of town.

The Clouds Threaten Rain

On the loose dirt and gravel of the road south, Leinjar found Roskin where he had fallen and, after deciding that the Kiredurk was able to stand, helped him to his feet. At first, Roskin tried run again for the wagon, which was by then a couple of miles away, but Leinjar held him fast. Roskin struggled for a moment but quickly realized his folly.

“I need a horse,” he said, looking around for the closest stable. “I can catch them with a good horse.”

“You’re in no shape to ride,” Leinjar returned, wiping clean Roskin’s sword and returning it to the scabbard on his belt.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll live a while longer. That’s for sure, but you can’t ride at speed with one arm. Not long enough to catch them, anyway.”

“I failed her, Leinjar. I just let them take her.”

“We know better than that. She knows better. You fought like a king.”

The other dwarves caught up to them, and Roskin frantically explained what had happened. When he finished, one of the Ghaldeons who had been on the Slithsythe plantation spoke up:

“I’ve pledged loyalty to you, but Molgheon freed me and that old dwarf has sent too many to the orcs. Let me chase them down.”

“That’s right,” another Ghaldeon agreed. “I’ll go, too.”

“We’ll all chase them,” Roskin returned, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“You can’t travel like we’ll have to to catch them,” Leinjar said. “Besides, what about your kingdom? What about the war?”

Roskin shook his head and cast his eyes at the ground. Leinjar was right. There wasn’t time for him to chase Torkdohn and return to his father to stop the fighting. While he owed Molgheon his life, he would have to trust that they could track the wagon and stop Torkdohn and Jase before they reached the Great Empire. After a moment, he looked up and spoke.

“One condition. You have to bring the two traitors back to Dorkhun to be tried for their crimes.”

“By our beards,” Leinjar said. “They won’t reach the Yuejdeon.”

Each one swore the same, and to dwarves no oath is more sacred.

“Excuse me,” the stocky lumberjack said to Roskin after they had finished. “If I overstep my bounds, forgive my poor manners, but I don’t know her very well, so I think I’d rather travel with you.”

“You fulfilled your end of our bargain,” Roskin said. “You’re free to travel as you please.”

“You fought well back there,” Leinjar said, stroking his beard. “What’s your name and where’d you learn to swing an axe like that?”

“I am Krondious, and I’ve been cutting trees since the king expelled me. All I know about axes I learned in the forest.”

“You learned that chopping trees?”

Krondious shrugged.

“Time’s wasting,” Roskin said to Leinjar. “Find horses and get after them.”

The Tredjard nodded and asked Krondious where a stable was located. The stocky dwarf pointed to a building on the western edge of town, and after saying a brief farewell, the freed slaves rushed to find mounts. Dwarves by nature aren’t good horsemen. Their senses and limbs are built for tight, dark places underground and rugged subsistence in the mountains. Mostly, they use horses to pull wagons and plows, but Ghaldeons, who spend much of their lives above ground, learn to ride at an early age and are often as capable as most humans. As such, the group only took five horses from the stable, and the three Tredjards, their arms locked around each rider’s waist, sat behind and held on with all they had. The horses thundered by where Roskin and Krondious stood and charged down the southern road after Molgheon and the two traitors.

***

Suvene marched in the middle of a line of Marshwoggs, his arms bound behind his back. They had crossed the mountains and were near the boundary that separated the orc and Marshwogg lands. Much to his surprise, they had decided that instead of executing him for attacking the phantom on their soil, they would expel and ban him for life from any of their territories. That kind of mercy was foreign to orcs, and it made the frog-like creatures seem weak. Still, he was grateful for his life, for one more opportunity to hunt the phantom.

As they reached the border, they were greeted by a platoon of six orcs armed with pikes. Rewokog, the Marshwogg leader, stopped his group a few feet from the sentries and walked forward to speak with them. Suvene had learned that Rewokog spoke excellent orcish, and the two had spent several hours conversing while Suvene was held in a small jail in the base of a guard tower. The strange creature was curious about orc customs and asked dozens of questions about everyday life. All in all, Suvene had come to like the Marshwogg and wished that they had met under different circumstances.

When he finished talking to the orcs, Rewokog returned to his group and spoke in his strange tongue with the others. Without a response, they retreated several yards away, leaving the two alone. Rewokog removed the binding from Suvene’s wrists and stepped back.

“Return to your people,” the Marshwogg said in orcish. “And please don’t test our will. If you return to our lands, you will die.”

“Understood,” Suvene responded, rubbing his wrists where the cord had been. “Thank you for treating me well as your prisoner.”

Rewokog nodded and then walked to where the other Marshwoggs waited. Suvene moved to the platoon of orcs, expecting at least a cordial greeting, but instead, he was grabbed on either arm by two soldiers and clasped in shackles around his wrists by a third. Suvene was speechless, and when one of the soldiers poked him with a pike and ordered him to march, he responded with perfunctory steps in the direction of the fortress. They walked in a single line, three in front and the other three behind him, and nearly a mile passed before anyone spoke.

“The Masters are disappointed with you,” the platoon’s sergeant finally said. “They never should’ve sent a commoner for this.”

“I almost had him,” Suvene managed in response. “I was tricked.”

“Save your excuses for them. I’m sure they’re interested to hear them.”

The rest of the platoon laughed at the sergeant’s sarcasm, and in that moment, Suvene realized that because he had failed, the Masters planned to execute him. While his head understood that he deserved punishment, his heart was broken by the betrayal. Twice he had matched the phantom blow for blow and had come closer to defeating it than any other orc. He didn’t deserve the end of a thief or coward, and as they continued towards the fortress, which was still at least two miles away, he decided that he would not die at the hands of his own kind, not without resisting until the end.

In one motion, he looped the shackle-chain over the head of the orc in front of him and with a sharp twist snapped the neck. Then, turning towards the dumbstruck soldiers behind him, he flung the lifeless body at them. The first two dove aside, but the third was struck in the legs and toppled to the ground. Without pausing, Suvene grabbed the dropped pike and speared one of the remaining two in front before he could turn around. The other one did turn to see what was happening but was greeted by a thrust to his chest. Suvene twisted the pike, and the orc collapsed with a faint sigh.

Of the three still alive, one dropped his weapon and sprinted for the fortress. The one knocked down had gotten to his feet and had retrieved his weapon, and he and the final one crouched into offensive postures and were moving to get on either side of Suvene. As a boy, one of his favorite training games had been bull in the ring. In it, one person stands in the middle, and the other players form a ring around him. Then, the ones forming the ring will attack two and three at a time from random directions. The one in the middle has to learn how to anticipate the blind charges and react to them with timing that reverses the element of surprise. Suvene had always been excellent at bull in the ring, so instead of trying to out maneuver these final two, he simply stood still and waited for their attack.

The one directly in front tried to distract him by feigning thrusts, but Suvene listened for the other’s move. When the orc rushed forward, his armor clinked more loudly than from his controlled movements, and Suvene paused for nearly a heartbeat before dropping and rolling to his right. When he came back to his feet, he was now behind that orc and jabbed the pike into his back. As that one fell, the final orc charged too late, for Suvene sidestepped the protracted swipe and stabbed him through the side.

With all five neutralized, Suvene found a rock and busted the locks on his shackles. Then, he took a pair of daggers and some dried meats from the fallen soldiers. After finding nothing else of value on them, he grabbed a pike and started north. He was now an outlaw among his own and would need to put as much distance between himself and the fortress as possible before they learned of the escape.

As usual, Crushaw woke well before sunrise and went outside to watch the night give way to dawn. Kwarck had commented more than once that the old general was one of the few who regularly beat the wizard out of bed, a point that gave Crushaw pride. The self-exiled ogres were still asleep near the orchard, so he had the yard to himself. He and they had come to a tentative peace, as much out of respect for Kwarck as anything, and he was glad not to have to worry about one of them challenging him to a fight or ambushing him in the dark.

Out of habit, he practiced with his sword, going through his repertoire of offensive and defensive moves. He did it mostly for exercise, for he was fairly certain that he had fought his last battle. He had thought about going so far as to bury his weapons under a field for a sense of finality, but he had decided against that because if he ever needed to defend Kwarck or the farm, he wanted them close at hand.

As the sky lightened, he worked up a good sweat sparring with the shadows. His feet weren’t as light as they had once been, and he could feel that the blade took longer to finish each motion than even just a year before, but the familiarity of the routine was comforting. He had come a long way from chopping sugarcane as a slave, and as he neared the end of his life, with tiring muscles and stiffening joints, he had fulfilled a purpose greater than just killing ogres for a greedy emperor. He had helped free many from slavery, and while that didn’t absolve all his evil, it did help him sleep more soundly. If he were ten years younger, he would raise an army and conquer the orcs completely, but since that wouldn’t happen, he was content with the small thing he had done.

By the time he finished the workout, Kwarck had awakened and prepared breakfast, so Crushaw went inside to join the wizard. They ate quietly, each enjoying the chorus of birds through the open window. For the first time in his seventy-six years, he was glad to be alive and looked forward to what awaited him each day. He had found on this farm that he was capable of more than killing, and in Kwarck, he had found a good friend, someone who wanted nothing more than an honest day’s work in exchange for food and shelter and someone who had not once judged him for his past. More and more, he had come to realize that Kwarck was the man Crushaw wished to be.

When they finished eating, Kwarck suggested that they head to one of the corn fields because he had noticed weeds sprouting between the stalks. It would take most of the day to clear them, so starting at first light was a good idea. After clearing the table, the two men went outside to the tool shed to retrieve hoes. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, and the horizon glowed bright red.

“We may not be weeding today,” Kwarck said, pointing to the east.

“Hmph,” Crushaw responded. “Looks bad.”

“We should get the animals to the barns.”

Crushaw nodded but lingered by the tool shed as Kwarck went to wake the ogres. He stared at the ominous horizon for a few more moments, hoping that Roskin and the others were somewhere safe. A sky like that could only mean ugly weather, and he hated to think of them caught in the open when it got bad.

***

Roskin, Krondious, and Bordorn woke that morning to the same red horizon. They were less than half a day’s walk from the eastern gate and, at the threat of storms, packed camp without breakfast to get an early start. The wound on Roskin’s back, a seven inch long cut just inside his shoulder blade, was beginning to heal. It wasn’t deep but was painful, especially as it scabbed. To keep his movements to a minimum, they had immobilized his left arm in a sling, and from the wound, this final stage of the journey home had been the most unpleasant.

Bordorn’s wound had also healed well, and other than missing his left arm from just below the elbow, he was nearly his old self. When Molgheon had found him bound to the bed, he had been grabbed from his labor just minutes before. The soldiers had come upon him without warning and had drugged him with something. As he swallowed the bitter liquid, Bordorn had figured that they had learned he was from the Ghaldeon nobility and were executing him. It was not poison, however, just a low dose of sleeping potion, for he had slipped in and out of consciousness even as they had bound him to the bed.

On the walk from the logging town to the eastern gate, they had pieced together the story and realized that Jase must’ve known about Roskin going to Shaman Bokey’s house. He then probably sold the information to the soldiers. Knowing that Roskin was there to find Bordorn, the soldiers had laid the trap at the infirmary, expecting to catch the Kiredurk. Bordorn explained that Torkdohn had only arrived in town that morning, but the slave trader had become a regular, stopping there every couple of months to collect dwarves that wouldn’t conform to the Great Empire’s new labor laws. The fiend had been making a fortune off the Kiredurk outcasts.

Once he had healed, Bordorn had been put to work at the loading yard, where from sunup to sundown seven days a week he had loaded logs onto wagons. The loading yard crew, five rock-solid dwarves with iron arms and nasty temperaments, were cruel to him at first because of the missing limb, but as he proved his worth each day, they had slowly come to accept him as one of the crew. Now, nearly a week removed from the yard, Bordorn missed those dwarves and the bond they shared. From the hard labor, he had learned how far he could push himself, and his body had become more lean and solid than he would’ve ever dreamed. Even so, he was glad to be returning to the Kiredurk kingdom and said as much to Roskin and Krondious as they walked.