The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves (18 page)

Now, as he ducked into the tall grasses of the savannah, he remembered the pain and the scar, and the memory fueled his desire. The thick grasses brushed against his face and bent with his weight, but their density and volume slowed him considerably. He heard animal noises from ground level, hissings and rustlings that were unfamiliar, but he was glad that he couldn’t see through the grass to know what kinds of beasts were making those noises.

The ground was soft and springy but not very moist, so his feet, which were wrapped in thin, leather slippers, still had good traction. He ran several miles until he reached a shallow stream that divided the grasses from a forest of tall, thin pines. He had been heading due south, but at the stream he turned east and splashed up-current. He made his way against the stream for another thirty minutes, and by the time he turned back south into the forest, the sun had risen. With the land illuminated, the recklessness of his flight came into focus. He had no idea where he was or how to get out of orc lands. He was surrounded for many miles in every direction by enemies who would either kill him for sport or capture him for reward. As he ran on through the forest, he tried to sort out a new plan for staying free, but his mind was fuzzy with fear and hunger, so he decided that his first task was to find some kind of meal.

He was a good enough hunter that if he had possessed a bow or a spear or any kind of sharp tool, he could have killed countless forest animals, but having nothing and being weak made the task more difficult. He scavenged for nuts and berries, but in the late fall, they were scarce and in poor condition. What little he did find hardly made a dent in his hunger. When he was on the verge of exhaustion and almost ready to collapse on the forest’s floor, he caught glimpse of a small cabin ahead. He crept closer, scanning every direction for any sign of an orc, and when he felt confident that the place was clear, he slipped inside.

At once, he recognized the place as a hunter’s shelter, not a permanent residence, so he quickly searched the cabinets and found several sealed glass jars of various vegetables. He dislodged the wax seal on a jar of green beans and shoveled several handfuls into his mouth, soaking his beard with juice as he chewed greedily. After eating the entire jar, he scoured the rest of the cabin for gear and found a leather sack, a pair of boots that fit better than the slippers, a rusted but functional knife, a set of clothes that fit, and a blanket.

After changing clothes and lacing the boots, he packed as many jars as would fit into the leather sack, stuffed the blanket on top of them, and tucked the knife into the blanket. Then, he slung the pack over his shoulder and left the cabin, feeling sure that at any moment an orc was going to appear and take him back. With a full belly and the heavy pack, he moved much more slowly, but his head was more clear, which allowed him to start a plan. He would have to travel all day and night at first to get as far away as possible, but then he would travel just at night and hide wherever he could during the day. From his geography lessons, he knew major landmarks of the orc lands, and he would travel east across the hills and into the Sojntejein Mountains until he reached the Kryrstoshian River. When he reached it, he would turn northeast and head for the lands of the Marshwoggs, a peaceful people who should give him asylum.

Without more detail, that was his best hope, so he marched through the forest and listened intently for any sounds of pursuit. For most of the day, nothing followed him, but as evening dimmed the forest and shadows grew long, the dark fear began to resurface in his mind. He hadn’t felt it since Black Rock, and at first, the feeling was odd and haunting, a sensation like staring at an unknown picture that was eerily familiar. As it grew, he remembered Kwarck’s explanation of it and concentrated on the feeling until an image came to him. He saw clearly a pack of dogs sniffing his trail through the woods beyond the hunting cabin, and behind the dogs, several heavily armed orcs marched in tight formation.

By his reckoning from the image, he had a fifteen minute lead, but since he was moving more slowly, he would be caught soon. If he tossed the food, he could probably outrun them but might struggle to find more. If he kept the food, he would have to fight, and with only the dull knife, he didn’t like his odds. He tried to quicken his pace, but the sack was awkward and made him lean more towards the shoulder it was slung over. From being off-balance, he stumbled on fallen branches and slipped on dry pine needles, and the missteps cost him more time than he gained. But he had decided to keep the food and deal with the dogs and soldiers when they caught him. He had been too hungry for too long.

The dark fear continued to grow as twilight faded to night, and he could hear the dogs sniffing and panting behind him not more than a few hundred yards. They would catch him within the hour, so he prepared a strategy for dealing with the dogs. Back home, dogs were used solely to guard premises and to locate victims buried in cave-ins, so he had little knowledge of how they hunted and attacked prey. To him, his best bet was to find a fallen branch that could be used as a club, so he scoured the forest floor before him for one that looked sturdy enough to work. He tried several, but each one was too rotten, breaking and crumbling as he smacked it against the ground. Finally, he found one that was thick and solid.

He made his way to a mound, the highest ground he could reach, and laid the pack against a pine. He tucked the knife into his belt and readied the club. The dogs came up the mound after him and fanned out around him. One dog crouched before him and barked in a shrill, annoying yelp, and Roskin swung at it with a steady well-aimed blow, but the dog jumped back just out of reach. As Roskin was fully extended, a dog to his right bit into his side, and as the dwarf turned to hit that one, it let go and jumped back and another bit his other side. Within moments, the dogs had him on the ground, and if the orcs had not called for them to heel, they would have ripped him apart. With that, his flight from slavery was over.

Chapter 11

Evil Blade

Crushaw walked the streets of Koshlonsen in search of the brokerage house that had sold Roskin. He wore his sword in the open, letting the brokers know its danger, and he carried himself as one who has forsaken all fears of death, his eyes cold and unyielding, his face hard like unquarried stone. On the streets that day, any who glanced his way saw the calculating, ruthless warrior he had once been.

Molgheon and Vishghu had remained camped outside of town and well off the road. If either of them was spotted in this area, they could be captured as slaves and sold, even with Crushaw wearing the general’s uniform. He had no papers, and they bore no brands, so any could claim them as property.

For his part, Crushaw was glad to be alone in the city. He felt free and unencumbered. For his entire life, he had been under someone’s charge, and at seventy-five, he liked not having to report to anyone. Still, being around so many orcs made him uneasy, and every time he made eye contact with one, he had to resist the urge to draw his blade.

Koshlonsen was originally an elfin city at the southern border of the Koorleine Kingdom, and some of the original woodcraft remained on the oldest buildings. When Theodore the Daring of the Great Empire had conquered the Koorleine elves three hundred years before, he had burned most of the elfin cities, leaving little as proof of their existence. But he had captured Koshlonsen and turned it into a trade route between the humans and the orcs; and as the Great Empire became more and more involved in trafficking slaves, it became the hub of the industry, and the free population became mostly orc. Beyond the southern walls were the wilds, broken and arid lands of poisonous beasts and lethal heat, which kept runaway slaves from getting far. To the north, the Koorleine Forest stretched for a hundred miles, and the trees of the ancient woods were so wild and thick that those who strayed from the main roads were rarely seen again. Some whispered that deep in the forests the last of the elves had begun to rebuild, but not even the most skilled soldiers could scout the area to learn the truth.

While the older parts of the city were beautifully crafted by elfish hands and had been built to survive epochs, the newer areas built by humans and orcs were crude, wooden structures thrown together as quickly and cheaply as possible. Few of those buildings had any adornment, and most were a weathered gray. Black smoke billowed from the smokestacks of industrial shops, and a layer of soot clung to every smooth surface. After just a few hours in the city, Crushaw felt the grime on his bare face and neck.

As he moved from one brokerage house to another, the old man’s war-hardened heart pitied the slaves. The newly captured had a countenance of terror that touched him, and the lifelong slaves moved with an all-too-familiar slouch and shuffle. Fifty-five years removed from his own bondage, he recognized the defeat in their eyes as if he had never left. And like Roskin, the dissonance of the slave blocks was a noise he would never forget.

He hadn’t spoken orcish since escaping bondage, but as he went from shop to shop, the language came back to him like a slow rain on a dry field. He conversed with several brokers, and none remembered a tall Tredjard with a mangled ear, but because of the uniform and his effort with the language, he was treated courteously. Orcs appreciated when dignitaries from the Great Empire spoke their tongue. Most of the brokers suggested other shops to visit, and some wanted to show him new dwarves as a replacement for the one he had lost. By late afternoon he was tired from the fruitless repetition and was on the verge of calling it a day, but one orc finally remembered hearing of such a dwarf. The gangly creature made exaggerated hand motions while offering directions to where he thought Roskin had been.

“How long ago?” Crushaw asked.

“Two months, at least.”

“And this broker sold him?”

“Oh yes. A nice price, too. Your rock-brain was a fine beast.”

Crushaw choked down the urge to kill the orc and excused himself. He hurried down the streets to the shop and barely caught the broker before it closed down for the day. He went through his explanation about his servant being kidnapped while they were traveling through the conquered Ghaldeon lands.

“You can’t trust any of those rock-brains,” the orc said, nodding his understanding. “The one who brought him to me is especially sly.”

“Once I retrieve my boy, I’ll pay a visit to that villain.”

“Come, my friend. Join me for supper and we’ll discuss your property later.”

Crushaw didn’t want to eat among orcs, but he knew that once they had decided to have a meal, they would conduct no business until their bellies were full. He nodded in agreement and walked beside the orc to a restaurant near the shop. A wave of revulsion washed over him as they went inside, for the sight reminded him of his only visit inside the big house. He had been sixteen and was by far the biggest and strongest slave on that plantation. The masters were considering him for a leisure slave instead of a field hand, but they got more joy from watching Tredjards kill Tredjards than anything, so he had remained in the sugarcane. Inside the big house, he had stood in the study and listened as the masters discussed his fate like they might a prize hog. The luxury and comfort of the study had dazzled him, and that taste of life beyond the field spawned the need to escape. From that day, it had been his obsession.

The restaurant had similar luxury, with thick mahogany tables and high-backed chairs. Linen tablecloths and dwarven silver adorned the tables, and oil canvasses of long dead human and orc slave traders covered the walls. Orcs sat three and four to a table and discussed the day’s business and local politics, and the orc with Crushaw joined a table of three. It introduced the pseudo-general to the others and took a seat. Crushaw made eye contact with them and quickly studied the room before sitting himself.

“What do you think of our little town?” the nearest orc asked before taking a sip of its brown soup.

“Quite a place,” Crushaw said, keeping his left hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case.

“Our nations do good business here, your Excellency,” the orc directly across from him said. “Who knew rock-brains and wood-heads could be so valuable?”

“Here, here.” The others orcs agreed, toasting the question.

“What’s your name, General?”

“In Black Rock, I am known as Crushaw, General of the Northern Plains, Bane of Ogres.”

“I’ve heard of you, your Excellency. You defeated the Glilglock Clan with only two regiments.”

“It’s an honor to meet such a dignified leader of the Great Empire.”

“What leads you to this end of your empire? Are the ogre wars over?”

“For me, yes.”

“Now, now, General, you can tell these boys your business here. They are my friends.”

Crushaw retold the lie about Roskin, and two of the others remembered the dwarf. They congratulated the other orc on its profit on the transaction.

“Right place, right time, boys. But it seems my profits are ill-gotten. The rock-brain that sold him to me will have to pay for that treachery.”

“Leave him to me,” Crushaw said. “His crimes are against Emperor Vassa, may she reign eternally.”

“Of course, General. Now, let’s enjoy some supper.”

After living with Kwarck and eating the healthiest foods of the finest quality, Crushaw didn’t think he could eat the brown soup of some dreary meat and lumpy broth. But he couldn’t offend his hosts for fear of losing Roskin’s trail, so he imagined himself back in the slave-house kneeling at the food trough. Whenever he had to do anything unpleasant, like torturing an ogre for information or pulling an arrow from a soldier, he thought about the slop, leftovers from the big house mashed together in a barrel, usually with bugs mixed in. Compared to those meals, the soup was rather enjoyable.