Red Sky at Dawn (2 page)

The day passed slowly, with the healer checking on him occasionally and rock-brains keeping him awake whenever he would almost doze off. By evening, he was so utterly exhausted that he couldn’t stand the feeling of his own skin. The dull headache hadn’t let up, and he thought he was losing his mind from the ordeal. As sunset approached, the healer returned again with more bread but hot tea in place of the water.

“Head sleep okay.”

“What?” Suvene asked, wanting to rebuke the wood-brain for mutilating the language so badly.

“Sleep tonight. Sleep good.”

He tasted the tea and recognized some of the herbs in it. He was friends with one of the plantation’s healers, and these herbs were generally used to aid sleep. He thought the wood-brain a fool for thinking he would need any assistance, but that was about what you could expect from them. He gobbled down the bread and curled up beneath the wagon to block the wind as best he could. Despite the cold air of the night, he was asleep shortly and didn’t wake until morning.

When he opened his eyes, the camp was already a flurry of action, so he rose from the ground and stretched his stiff muscles. The air was crisp, and he could see his breath, so he rubbed his arms to warm himself. The sun had not yet cleared the horizon, and the sky was navy blue and ominous, save the deep burnt orange strip where the sun was rising. He was given more bread and water for breakfast, and the taste had grown tedious, but he ate it anyway for fear of prolonged hunger. After breakfast, a group of rock-brains brought three more orcs to the wagon where Suvene was tied, and the four were left alone while the slaves bustled around to load more goods onto the other wagons.

“What’s happening?” Suvene asked. “I’ve been alone.”

“They’re preparing to march,” an orc returned. “They’ve stolen everything they can, the murderous thieves.”

“Any idea where we’re heading?” Suvene wanted to begin planning his escape.

“East, I think,” another answered. “I heard a little talk last night. They’re afraid of the wilds, the filthy cowards.”

Suvene envisioned the maps of the eastern lands. While the orcs themselves could be divided into two distinct races, the civilized lands consisted of four separate regions. The mountains of the west covered some of the orc lands and were home to the subterranean orcs, known as Turjhonks. These orcs were shorter and stockier than their cousins, and their temperaments had been hardened by the centuries of war with the Tredjards.

The central region, of which the Slithsythe plantation was a part, consisted of lush and fertile savannahs where sugarcane, corn, and wheat grew easily. The southern coastal lands were harsh, swampy places, and most of the economic production of this region consisted of lumber from the thick forests and seafood from the wetlands. The eastern region had many more gradients than the central and coastal regions, and the climate ranged from tropical summers to bitter winters. Most of the agriculture of this region consisted of cotton production on plantations that made those of the savannah seem small. The terrestrial orcs inhabited all three of these regions, and their culture was mostly the same regardless of region.

As Suvene remembered the geography of the eastern hills, he speculated on the path the slaves might take. If they strayed too far to the southeast, they would wander into the provinces of the goblins, which were allied with the orcs and would not offer safe passage. However, if they continued due east and avoided the military outposts along the Sojntejein Mountains, they could cross the Pass of Hard Hope and the Kryrstoshian River. Then, they could enter the swamps of the Marshwoggs, a solitary and peaceful race that would probably give them safe passage. If Suvene were trying to sneak this many people out of the orc lands, that would be his plan.

With other orcs to keep him company, the morning passed quickly, and by midday, they had been untied from that wagon and led to the phantom, where he continued to bark orders at the rock-brains and wood-brains that scurried about like mice. The four of them joined eight other orcs, all of whom were regular infantry, and the phantom spoke to them without malice.

“You are my prisoners. As long as you behave, you will be well-treated, but if you try to escape or resist my orders, I will not protect you from their wrath.” It waved its hand at the crowd of slaves, gathering in loose military formation. “Do any of you have questions?”

“I have one,” Suvene said flatly, looking the monster in the eyes.

“Shut your mouth, soldier,” an orc sergeant hissed.

The phantom motioned at the sergeant, and a female rock-brain with auburn hair and a cold, distant expression punched him in the solar plexus. With a grunt, the sergeant slumped to his knees.

“Any others want to disobey?” It redirected its attention to Suvene. “Now, ask your question.”

“What do you hope to gain by this? Our armies will find you. You don’t have any hope. What’s the point?”

“I remember you,” the phantom said. “You fought bravely.”

“I beat you.”

“You
almost
beat me. Make no mistake, you lost.”

“We’ll see,” Suvene said, keeping his voice calm despite the rage burning in his belly.

“Yes, we will,” it returned. Then, it turned to the female rock-brain and spoke in the barbaric tongue.

She disappeared into the crowd, moving towards the front. The orcs were returned to the wagons and re-tethered behind them. Within a few minutes, the entire mass began marching east, and Suvene glanced over his shoulder at the plantation, unsure if he would ever see it again. It was here that he had come of age, and leaving it under these circumstances stung bitterly, fueling his hate for the phantom.

That afternoon, a cold rain began falling steadily, and by evening the ground had softened so that the wagons barely moved. The orcs were made to push them, and the labor was exhausting. When that day’s march ended, Suvene collapsed on the wet ground and crawled beneath the wagon to escape the rain. The other three joined him – muddy, wet, exhausted – and they huddled together for warmth, but the air, wind, and rain were bitter, making sleep miserable. The next day was more of the same, and Suvene began to wish that the phantom had done more than bust his head.

For an entire week, the rain continued, sometimes slacking to a drizzle and sometimes raging into a downpour, but the cold persisted throughout. When the rain finally broke and the evening sun peeked through the clouds, the orcs were completely exhausted from pushing the wagons in the muck, and two had taken a terrible cough from sleeping on the ground. Although he had either been training to become or serving as a soldier his entire life, Suvene had never done hard labor before, and his muscles and joints ached from deep within.

As night neared, the orcs huddled together at their wagons to rest and grumble about their treatment, but the slaves took no leisure before supper. Suvene was impressed by how quickly the phantom had trained the rock- and wood-brains to act like soldiers, and their daily activities were beginning to follow a strict regimentation that was, in the young orc’s mind, quite efficient. A group of ten or so served as mess officers, cooking every meal each day. Another dozen, all fleet-footed wood-brains, hunted small game through the day while the slaves marched, and even with the persistent rain, they proved to be deadly with their bows. A couple of wagons had been converted into portable forges where several blacksmiths refurbished the orc armor and weapons to better fit the slaves.

The entire camp awoke and devoured breakfast thirty minutes before sunrise and then marched from daybreak to noon. After a thirty minute lunch, the march resumed until two hours before sunset, and in the last daylight, the slaves drilled with their weapons. Suvene could tell that the phantom had already assigned ranks to many of the slaves, especially the ones with military experience, and those slaves led the others through the drills. Even through the miserable weather, they had followed their basic routine each day.

On this day, with the rain subsided, the slaves were especially energetic in their practice, and several received minor wounds. The orcs tethered with Suvene, irascible and exhausted from the ordeal, took great pleasure in watching the slaves hurt each other, and one in particular, a regular infantry soldier with a nasty temper and a foul mouth, muttered insults each time one would get injured. As the practice continued, his muttering grew louder and louder until he finally shouted profanity at a wood-brain that received a cut on its forearm. Several slaves approached the wagon with their weapons drawn.

“Which said it?” a Tredjard said in poor orcish.

None of the orcs responded.

“I’ll cut you each to find out.”

Still, no response.

The rock-brain said something to the others, and they untied an innocent orc and dragged him away from the wagon. The others watched in horror as the Tredjard slit the orc’s throat and let him bleed to death. Then, the Tredjard re-approached and repeated his question. Still, the orcs maintained their resolve and didn’t answer. The slaves untied Suvene, grabbed him by the arms, and dragged him beside his dying comrade. As they held him on his knees, the Tredjard pressed a knife to his throat and whispered that the orc was about to die. Suvene closed his eyes and waited to feel the sting, but as the cold metal began to pierce flesh, a voice thundered across the camp. Suvene recognized the voice of a battle-hardened leader. Even though he couldn’t understand the words, he recognized the anger at foot soldiers for disobeying orders, and he opened his eyes to see the Tredjard back away and sheath its knife. Across the camp, the phantom stood on one leg and berated the slaves for their actions. Suvene was returned to his tether, and the dying orc was dragged away, a trail of dark blood marking his last path.

From a Bit of Bad News

Dorkhun became the Kiredurk capital during the Fourth Kingdom, under the rule of Dorkhene the Magnificent. He had believed that the previous capital, Kohnduhn, located too far north and too high in the tunnels, was hindering trade, so he requisitioned a team of miners, architects, sculptures, and engineers to carve Dorkhun in the most central point suitable for habitat. The Hall of Gronwheil, named for Dorkhene’s father, was the first permanent structure and became the seat of government as soon as it was ready. For the first two years, the royal family lived in a modest, wooden dwelling that caused many shortsighted council members to question the king’s sense of propriety, yet within a decade Dorkhun had become an economic juggernaut that vaulted the Kiredurk kingdom into the most prosperous nation in the world, save the Great Empire.

As the Kingdoms passed through the centuries, each succeeding generation celebrated Dorkhene’s vision by seeking out imaginative solutions to social and economic problems, and the solutions that worked well were named as one of Dorkhene’s Laws. By Kraganere’s time as tenth king of the Eighth Kingdom, there were twenty-six of these laws. Young Kiredurks analyzed each law as a means of training in law, social justice, and economics, studying the logic of each from problem to solution. In every city and township, a festival was held for students to read their analyses.

This year’s festival was very near, and Pulhdine, Executive Assistant to the Secretary of Military Intelligence, was at her desk picking the musical selections for Dorkhun’s festival when her assistant burst into the office.

“Forgive me,” the assistant’s assistant said. “But I have information that must get to the king.”

“What’s so important you interrupt me from this?” Pulhdine asked, motioning to the sheet music.

“It’s hard to explain.”

Pulhdine leaned back in her seat and sighed deeply, staring at the ceiling. This assistant had proven to be an annoying worrywart who rushed into Pulhdine’s office at least once a week with news that the kingdom was near collapse because of some looming disaster in a faraway township. She was certain this news would be no different.

“At least try,” she said, returning her gaze to the assistant. “I need to get back to business.”

“It’s about Roskin.”

***

As she made her way to the council chamber, where Kraganere and the council worked through the day, Pulhdine organized her thoughts. She couldn’t launch into this information without softening it for the king, but she had no idea what to say first. The news was bad, far worse than anything she had ever had to deliver, and for the first time in her career, Pulhdine wished she had chosen something other than military intelligence.

The kingdom had always been peaceful, and in her service as Executive Assistant to the Secretary, she had had only one brush with bad news – albeit nothing of this magnitude. Pulhdine remembered the task of giving Kraganere that message.

“My lord,” she had said. “Roskin has had another incident at a grappling tournament.”

“What this time?” the king had asked, covering his face with his hand.

“After losing in the finals, he verbally assaulted the officials before smashing a little furniture in the arena.”

“A little?”

“Just a few wooden tables and some chairs, nothing valuable this time.”

“That boy is his own worst enemy. Send out this proclamation to the entire Kingdom, from the River of Fire to Erycke’s Tomb to the Kireghegon Halls. Roskin is hereby banned from any and all grappling events. Then, send him to my study. And tell him not to delay.”

Outside the chamber, she notified the attendant that she required an immediate audience with the king, and being Executive Assistant to the Secretary, she was ushered into the room. As she marched onto the chamber’s speaking floor, the sharp clomp of her boots on the polished marble floor sounded intrusive and unseemly to her, but the king and the council members either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, for they greeted her warmly. She thanked them for seeing her on such short notice and went through the normal protocol for speaking to this esteemed audience. When she finished her introductions, Pulhdine turned directly to the king and kneeled.

“My King, I have an important message for you.”

“Rise, Pulhdine. No need for such displays between friends.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she returned, finding herself unable to stand erect. “I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news.”

“Don’t worry, old friend. You know we don’t kill the messenger - usually.”

The council chuckled at the joke, but when Pulhdine did not, the king’s expression turned serious.

“Then, tell me.”

“It’s Roskin, my Lord.”

“Yes?” the king asked, his eyes narrowing in concern.

“We have received word from a spy among the outcasts that the ogres have somehow sold him to the orcs as a slave.”

The council murmured and glanced among each other, stating their varying opinions on the news.

“What nonsense is this?” Kraganere asked, raising his hand to silence the council and creasing his forehead to signal Pulhdine that he was not amused.

“Sir, I wouldn’t have come unless I believed the source. This spy has always been credible in the past.”

There was a long moment of anxious silence.

“The ogres have sold Roskin to the orcs as a slave,” Pulhdine repeated, thinking the king hadn’t understood her clearly.

Kraganere exploded from his seat and pointed at her:

“How dare you speak such rubbish! Leave this chamber at once. Leave this city forever.”

Pulhdine still couldn’t rise from the kneeling position, but she wanted more than anything to run from the room. Stuck kneeling before the king, Pulhdine saw firsthand where Roskin’s temper came from, for the king grabbed the edge of the council’s table, which weighed at least 500 pounds, and flipped it from between himself and the Executive Assistant with a primal grunt that drove through the room. Council members scattered to avoid the table and the chairs that it displaced. A guard grabbed Pulhdine by the arm and dragged her to the hallway, away from the king’s wrath, but even through the stone, she could hear him screaming profanities at the council members about her incompetence and lack of proper upbringing. Ashamed of how poorly she had delivered the news, Pulhdine collapsed on the cold floor and wept like a spoiled child denied its favorite toy.

***

King Kraganere stomped around his study, demanding someone bring him real news of what had happened. It had been two weeks since the former Executive Assistant to the Secretary of Military Intelligence had disrupted actual business with her ridiculous claim about his son, and almost immediately, he had dispatched riders to bring back spies with valid reports. None had yet returned, and the king had failed to concentrate on any official business as his mind raced with violent thoughts about what had happened to Roskin above ground.

As he began to feel that he couldn’t wait much longer, one rider returned with a spy from an ogre clan just north of the village of Ghustaugaun, the place from which the original spy claimed Roskin had been sold. The new spy was brought to the king’s study, an unusual occurrence for anyone beneath an upper officer’s rank. The king, taking his seat behind the desk, ordered the thunderstruck spy to tell everything he knew about the situation.

“My news isn’t good. They say Roskin traveled into the ogre lands with a villain, and as punishment for his crime, he and the villain were sold to the orcs.”

“Who are ‘they’?” the king asked.

“The clan leaders, including the matriarch, of Ghlounsourhan.”

“But as a Kiredurk,” Master Sondious, a council member who was close to the king, said. “Roskin broke no ogre laws by traveling into their lands, even with a criminal. How do they justify this claim?”

“I can’t answer that. I don’t have any more information than that.”

Kraganere rose from behind his desk and resumed his pacing.

“This just doesn’t make sense, my King,” Master Sondious continued. “The ogres and Kiredurks have been allies for centuries. Why would they suddenly turn your heir over to orcs?”

“I know this much,” the spy offered, his voice tight with anxiety. “The ogres didn’t give Roskin directly to the orcs. They turned him over to a Ghaldeon slave-trader. It’s
presumed
that the Ghaldeon sold Roskin to orcs.”

“You are dismissed,” Kraganere said to the spy, motioning towards the door. Then, the king, obviously burdened by a deep anger, turned to his trusted friend. “Assemble the council by this afternoon.”

“My king,” Master Sondious returned. “We should wait for more news before we make any decisions. This is all hearsay and rumor. Roskin is probably fine.”

“Assemble the council, Master Sondious.”

***

Master Sondious had grown up deep in the mines, the youngest son of a common laborer, and his family, while respected as good people and hard workers as far back as local history remembered, was not considered especially intellectual. In fact, as a youth, Sondious became the first member of his family to even attempt advanced studies, but in the Kiredurk culture, no capable dwarf was denied a fair opportunity for education.

During his advanced studies, Sondious became involved in political science and quickly earned respect as one of the most promising students of the Deep Region. By the time he was thirty, he had been promoted through the ranks of local government and on to a regional position as Special Advisor to the Governor of the Deep. Just before his thirty-fifth birthday, he was invited to Dorkhun to meet the ninth king of the Eighth Kingdom, and while in the palace, he befriended Kraganere, himself in his mid-thirties and on the verge of becoming king. It wasn’t long before Sondious was a permanent fixture in Dorkhun as an assistant to Master Kohldorghn, one of the most well-respected and most decorated council members of the Eighth Kingdom.

From his years as Kraganere’s friend and advisor, Sondious respected the king’s sense of fairness and keen awareness of the power of law and justice. Kraganere always strove to be fair to his subjects, almost to the point of fault, and whenever possible, the king gave his subjects a second and sometimes even a third chance to overcome their difficulties. With Roskin, Sondious had observed, Kraganere had shown superb patience, itself a tremendous feat, for the future eleventh king of the Eighth Kingdom had a penchant for trouble. Whether it be in grappling events or poetry recitals, Roskin’s temper usually had bested him, and the king had repeatedly been forced to make amends for his son. From this constant cycle, the king and heir had formed a deep bond, one Master Sondious, himself without children or even a spouse, could scarcely understand, so he couldn’t make sense of the king’s overblown reaction to the speculations surrounding Roskin and the ogres. How could one normally so reasoning and patient lose his self control so completely?

One thing that was clear, however, was that the king’s rage was affecting his decision making. For two weeks little official business had been conducted, and grave matters that would affect at least three economic cycles had been left untended. Master Sondious was gravely concerned with leaving important issues untended, and he liked making rash, uninformed decisions even less. He had learned from Master Kohldorghn that any matter worth coming before the council was worth at least one week’s study and another week’s deliberation. Master Sondious often enforced this standard to the chagrin of his colleagues, the king included.

Now, with Roskin in some sort of trouble, the king had recalled the council to deliberate on questionable information with less than an hour’s preparation. The whole business made Master Sondious uneasy, and he had said as much to Kraganere in the antechamber just before this meeting commenced. The king had responded that council members were welcome to leave meetings at any point. Unable to abandon his post at such a crucial time, Master Sondious had left the king in the antechamber and had taken his seat at the repaired table.

The other council members seemed discombobulated from the many disruptions to their routine, and they whispered among themselves, morphing the rumors and speculations with their own inferences, before the king entered from antechamber. When Kraganere came into the main chamber and took his seat without the usual protocol, a sharp hush fell.

“As you are aware,” the king began. “My son is missing and is believed to be...” He choked on the words. “The ogres have committed the worst possible treachery by sending him to that fate.”

“We should demand retribution,” one council member erupted, but he stopped short from a ferocious stare by Kraganere.

Again, silence overfilled the room and remained for several moments. Finally, the king broke the awful quiet:

“For as long as history records, the Kiredurks and ogres have lived peacefully as neighbors, and we have always respected each other’s cultures and customs without harsh judgments. For the last thirty years, we have given them more than generous support in their war against the Great Empire, and our kindness has been returned by this betrayal.”

“My king, we don’t know that for sure,” Master Sondious interrupted. Normally, he would have never opposed the king so directly, but he didn’t like Kraganere’s direction and wanted to stop it before a point was breached that couldn’t be mended.

“We have the reports of two highly respected spies, Master Sondious. What more do you require?” the council member who had spoken before said.

“I’d like to speak directly to the matriarch of this clan.”

“So she can lie and twist the truth?” the other returned.

“My king, she is a trusted friend. Many times, she has dined in your palace. We should send a diplomat to her to learn more before...”

“Silence! I did not call this meeting for deliberation.”

Master Sondious, sensing the words about to come from the king, bowed his head and closed his eyes. The cold, dark reality of defeat settled on him as he recognized that Kraganere had abandoned reason for emotion. He recalled Erycke the Just’s famous phrase that “peace starts and ends within” and saw now that it was more of an admonition than a proclamation.