The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (10 page)

“Tell them about our adventure on the bridge, young master.”

“That is your tale,” Roskin said, not catching the sarcasm in Red’s voice. “I couldn’t steal it from you.”

“Then tell them about the ambush,” Red continued. Tell them how Bordorn fell so bravely.”

“Leave my friend out of this.” Roskin felt his temper growing.

“Tell them about Grussard. Tell them about his bravery, young master.”

“Maybe I should tell them about the general who was beaten by the ogres and banished to a remote outpost.”

“Beaten? Do you really think a pack of mindless ogres could outwit Crushaw?”

“That is how I heard it, from one who was there.”

“An ogre, no doubt. Let me tell you how the great general really lost his post.”

The other dwarves began jeering at the old man, but Roskin hushed them. He wanted to hear the story.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that Crushaw was bloodthirsty, and that much is true. He loved to fight, to smell fear. He was an escaped slave, you know, and enlisted with the Great Empire to fight the orcs, but they sent him north, instead. He quickly rose through the ranks because he was so fearless. When he took command of the northern army, he was ordered to rid the world of the ogres. His first task was to build Black Rock because he needed a defensive position to start from. After the fortress was complete, he raided village after village for five years, and few survived his attacks.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the torture chambers, and that also is true. The general would capture leaders and torture them for information. Torture is not for the weak, young master. It takes an iron will to keep turning the wheel after bones crack or to peel back more flesh with a scream in your ear, but the general had his orders, and he was loyal.

“Then, on the way to a raid, his army was caught in a storm. Wind and hail battered them, and lightning struck many of his men. Crushaw was caught in the open with a tornado in the distance. He knew death was at hand, and he was scared. He rode as hard as he could for shelter, but the roar of the funnel grew closer and closer. For a moment, he saw his life in perfect clarity. Somehow, he reached a small cave before the tornado took him, and for several hours he waited out the storm alone, thinking about warfare and slavery and torture. When the storm cleared, he gathered his soldiers and marched to the village they were going to raze, but instead of attacking, he rode through town and told the ogres that he would never again attack their lands. Then, he marched his confused soldiers back to the fortress.

“When word reached Emperor Vassa, she was furious and wanted him beheaded on the steps of his fortress, but the other generals were loyal to him and bargained for his life. Instead of death, he was exiled to the west. That, young master, is how Crushaw lost his army. He simply lost his taste for blood. No stupid ogres ever beat him.”

With that, Red turned back to his drink, and the room was silent. Part of Roskin wanted to strangle the general who had slaughtered so many, but the other part, the one that had held him in the mine and had sung lullabies to sooth him, wanted to move beside the lonely man and listen to more. As Roskin sat in silence and thought about the story, the group of workers disbanded and staggered out the door in twos and threes, muttering about Roskin’s duel with the orcs. Only Roskin, Jase, and Red were left as customers, and Jase ordered another pitcher of ale.

“You sure are brave,” Jase said. “I’d wet my pants and run.”

“You’d be amazed what’s inside you when you need it,” Roskin returned, using a phrase his father had repeated many times.

“I’m too sick to be a warrior.”

Roskin nodded and took a sip of ale.

“Tell me about the bridge. What happened there?”

“Another night, Jase. I’m storied out.”

They finished the ale with Jase prattling about Roskin’s bravery. As Jase talked on and on, Red stood from his seat at the bar and staggered out the door, and Roskin stood and told Jase to follow him. The dwarves tailed the old man into an alley where he lay down behind a stack of crates. Roskin watched as the old man covered himself with a rotten blanket, and the dwarf shook his head in disgust. He needed to get the man clear-headed to help him find the statue.

“Think Bokey would mind another guest?” he asked Jase.

The sickly dwarf shrugged.

Roskin walked down the alley and told Red to get up.

“Leave me be,” Red snapped.

“Come on. I’ve got a bed for you.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Come on.”

“You don’t know pain. You know nothing.”

Roskin reached down and took Red’s arm, but the old man held still.

“Nothing,” he yelled.

“Okay, Red. Just come with me.”

“I see their faces. They’re everywhere I go.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll never escape them.”

Finally, Roskin coaxed the old man up, and he and Jase helped him back to the house. They put him in Roskin’s bed, and he was asleep shortly. The dwarf slept on the floor that night, and the next morning he explained to Bokwhel that Red was his responsibility because of what had happened at Murkdolm. She agreed to let the old man stay as long as needed, but since he was human, he would have to earn his keep. When Red awoke, Roskin told him of the deal and asked him to accept the arrangement. Red had forgotten his anger of the night before and offered to cook for the family. Upon hearing the offer, Bokwhel nodded and told him to start with that day’s lunch.

Each day, Roskin would exercise to speed his healing, and Red would cook stews and cornbread, which were about all he knew, and clean the kitchen. The work seemed to do him good, for he didn’t drink quite as much, and he began to start grooming himself regularly. Each afternoon they would check on Bordorn, who was healing slowly, and each night, they would go to the tavern with Jase and drink with the workers. Roskin was mostly healed and had regained nearly full motion in his shoulders, but Bokwhel told him everyday not to rush it. Those wounds were deep and needed time, she would say.

After a week, Roskin started practicing with his sword to stretch his shoulders and back, and when Red saw him in the backyard, the old man went outside to watch. The dwarf was uncomfortable with someone watching him, but he continued his exercises, fighting an imaginary foe with the few moves he could remember.

“You have a lot of natural skill,” Red said. “But you need better technique. You look like you’re slinging an axe.”

“I’m better with an axe,” Roskin huffed.

“A swordsman who relies on skill alone will die very young.”

Red corrected the flaws in Roskin’s stance and showed him a few basic cuts and draws. For the next three weeks, they worked for at least an hour a day on different moves, but Bokwhel didn’t like them having weapons in the house and would fuss about the wasted time. To keep her from knowing, they would wait until a neighbor stopped in to check on her and sneak out through the storm cellar. They also had to bribe Jase, who didn’t like anyone to disobey Nanna Bokey, but he would keep quiet as long as Roskin would pay for the nightly ale.

During those three weeks, Roskin felt that his wounds were completely healed, and he often thought about leaving to get the statue, but whenever he mentioned departing to Bokwhel or Jase, they would warn him that he was still mending. If he were to travel in that condition, he would surely get an infection, they would warn. Even though he felt fine, Roskin listened to Shaman Bokey because she had been a healer, but he began to suspect that Jase was not as sickly as he let on. For someone with a bad stomach, Jase could hold a lot of ale and stew. The only times his stomach seemed to bother him were when someone mentioned work, but the one time he had mentioned this observation to Bokwhel, she had become defensive of her adopted son, so he didn’t bring it up again.

In his time there, Roskin didn’t get to know Dagreesh very well. The old dwarf worked nearly every day, and when he came home in the evenings, he usually fell asleep just after eating supper. Roskin wanted to do something for him, to somehow make his life easier, but the money was growing thin. He simply didn’t have enough on him to help out more than a day or two, so he tried to do little things, like repairing loose shingles or clearing rubbish from the yard. The old dwarf seemed to appreciate the effort, but Roskin still felt guilty about not being able to do more for him.

One day, as Roskin and Red were sneaking out the storm cellar’s outer door to practice, they heard a human voice calling from the town square. They stayed put and listened as the man explained that he was from the Great Empire and was hunting the cowardly murderers of one their soldiers. The Great Empire was offering a reward for their capture, and any dwarf who helped catch them would be regarded favorably, but any dwarf caught assisting the fugitives would be considered an enemy. Roskin closed the outer doors and turned to Red who was partially down the stairs.

“Get our stuff together from upstairs. I’m going to find Molgheon and Bordorn.”

Red nodded and went back inside the house. Roskin ran to the infirmary and sneaked in a side door. He found Bordorn and Molgheon in an exercise room, where she was helping him walk slowly around the room. His color was still poor, but he could make two or three laps around the room, and his severed arm hadn’t gotten infected.

“Did you hear him?” Roskin asked.

“Who, Pepper Beard?” Bordorn said.

“The human in the square. They’re looking for us.”

“Great,” Molgheon said, helping Bordorn sit in his wheelchair. “How many?”

Roskin shrugged.

“You three leave. I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t just leave you,” Roskin said. “We all go or we all stay.”

“They’re just looking for you and the old man,” Beshnic said, entering the room. “They’ve put up posters all around town.”

“You’re sure?” Roskin asked.

“That’s what the poster says, a Tredjard and a man.”

“Will you be safe here?” Roskin asked Molgheon.

“We’ll have to be, won’t we?”

“Hurry, Pepper Beard. Don’t get cornered here. Someone’s bound to turn you in.”

Roskin knelt beside the wheelchair and took Bordorn’s left hand.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Don’t get soft on me,” Bordorn scoffed. “I could’ve stayed home, but I had a duty to fulfill.”

“Your family’s obligation has been repaid,” Roskin said.

“What are you talking about?” Molgheon asked. “Duty and obligation, my foot. We got ambushed.”

“Roskin’s family helped mine,” Bordorn said. “When we had to flee Sturdeon and the conquered lands.”

“Bordorn is the great-great nephew of King Logruhk the Vanished,” Roskin said.

Molgheon and Beshnic both gasped and bowed, but Bordorn, blushing, told them to stand.

“I’m not your lord,” he said. “I’m a farmhand in the Snivegohn Valley. Thanks, Roskin, son of Kraganere.”

The other two showed no reaction.

“For my part,” Roskin said with a grin. “You are my captain.”

“Get going, Pepper Beard, before
I
turn you in.”

Roskin hugged his friend and shook hands with the others. Then, he scampered back to the house where in the back bedroom Red had gathered most of their equipment. He had Roskin’s backpack already finished but didn’t have anything to use for the rest. Roskin stared down at the hunting traps, cookware, and supplies trying to think of something to use as a pack.

“What are you two doing?” Bokwhel called from her bed.

Roskin went to her room and stood in the doorway.

“We have to go,” he said.

“What do you mean? You can’t just leave us. You’re wounded. He’s sick.”

“I think I’m better. Anyway, we have to go.”

“You ungrateful mule” Jase said from behind. Roskin turned to face the lazy dwarf.

“This is none of your business,” he said with a voice like stone.

“Don’t talk to my son that way. You are acting ungrateful. We’ve fed you and helped you heal and taken in that drunk thing.”

“Ma’am, I don’t mean to leave like this, but we’re in trouble.”

“Nanna, they’re murderers and thieves.”

“That’s not true,” Roskin said to her. Then he turned to Jase. “Why don’t you hush?”

“There’s a reward for them, Nanna.”

“Go fetch those humans,” Roskin said, poking Jase’s chest. “Bring them here to arrest me, if your beard is thick enough.”

“I will, you sorry mule.” Jase turned and hurried from the house.

“I appreciate all you’ve done,” Roskin said, turning back to her. “But we’ve got to go.”

“Then leave, but hear me well. You’re still wounded, and he’s a sick old man. Out there, you won’t last long.”

Roskin turned and went back to the other room. He was hurt and offended by the old dwarf’s tone, and he wanted to slap Jase across the mouth, but he didn’t have time to deal with them. He stripped a sheet from the bed, and a cloud of dust rose and swirled around them. He threw the equipment into the middle of the sheet and tied the four corners into a knot, explaining that they could just throw the sheet into the wagon. Red slung the makeshift pack across his back and groaned as he adjusted to the weight. Roskin shouldered his pack and carried the sword in his left hand. The dwarf and man slipped out of the house and slunk along an alley until they reached the livery.