Between Dark and Light (18 page)

Leinjar’s eyes filled with moisture. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say hundreds of times in his mind during the trip here, but now, in front of his king, the words seemed empty and weak. He cleared his throat before speaking:

“I ask your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” the king repeated, looking around at his advisors. A murmur ran through the room.

“I failed at my post,” Leinjar said, falling to his knees. “Please, show me and my family mercy.”

“On your feet,” the king ordered.

Leinjar stood and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Until this moment, I doubted you. You look nothing like the dwarf I imagined all these years, but I see it in your eyes.”

“I swear to you, my king, I held the gate as long as I could. There were so many. They never stopped coming.”

“Tell me what you did that night.”

Leinjar told the story as best he could remember. With his captain here on business, he had been in charge, so he sent runners to Torjhien and Stoljehn to warn the guards there and ordered the civilians to flee. Then, he and the fifty-three soldiers fought at the gate until they were taken.

“Yes, fifty-four Tredjards at the gate,” the king repeated. Another murmur rippled through the room.

“I failed to fight to my death to defend our kingdom,” Leinjar said, choking on the words. “Please, have mercy.”

“You have no idea, do you?”

“No, sir.”

The king asked his aides to help him from the throne, and as he struggled from the seat, the observers stood. Leinjar bowed his head, awaiting his sentence. The king shuffled a couple of steps from the throne and then, with the help of his aides, knelt before Leinjar, touching his beard clip to the stone floor. The clink echoed through the room. The aides also bowed, followed by the guards, the observers, and finally the other two leisure slaves. The clinking of beard clips filled the room, and Leinjar looked around, in awe of the sight. Slowly, the notion dawned on him that he hadn’t failed. A rush of strange emotions overtook him.

“I’m honored to finally meet the sergeant who led the fifty-four,” the king said from his knees. “Welcome home, Lord Leinjar.”

The stunned dwarf stepped forward and helped the king to his feet. Then, the king embraced him, and the room filled with applause. Leinjar didn’t know what to say. For so many years, he had lived in shame, believing himself on level with Jorland the Coward, but here he was in the great chamber having just received the highest honor a Tredjard could receive from the king himself. It was all more than overwhelming, but a great weight lifted from him. The king stepped back and motioned for silence.

“First, you and your two friends will bathe in the royal bath, and then, tonight, we hold a feast in your honor.”

The king called for an assistant and ordered the young dwarf to take them to the bathhouse and prepare them for the feast. She nodded and led Leinjar and the other two through a door in the back of the great chamber. They descended a flight of stairs and meandered through a series of corridors until they reached the bathhouse, which was one room over from the spring. As he entered the steamy room, Leinjar realized he hadn’t bathed since the night before he had been captured.

The assistant found soaps and towels for them and left the room. The three dwarves stripped off their rags and climbed into the warm water. They lathered themselves and scrubbed off years of dirt, grime, and filth. The water soon swirled dark as mud. As they lathered, the assistant returned with two others and helped them wash and comb their hair and beards. That process took nearly an hour and many rewashes and recombs, but the assistants showed great patience as they worked the combs through years of tangles. When they finished, the three dwarves were provided with fresh clothes and were led into another room, where the assistants trimmed their hair and braided it into warriors’ knots. As he stared at the hair on the ground, Leinjar couldn’t believe the number of gray hairs mixed in with the black. He had noticed a few in his beard, but the ones on the ground seemed to outnumber the dark. When the assistants finished with their hair, they led the dwarves back through the series of corridors and up the stairs, but this time, instead of turning into the great chamber, they entered the banquet hall, where the king and most of the observers awaited them. The dwarves were seated near the king, but on either side of Leinjar’s seat were empty chairs. The king introduced Leinjar to the queen, whose skin was caramel colored like Leinjar’s but whose hair was as white as the king’s. He knelt before her and kissed her hand.

“Lord Leinjar, I have a surprise for you,” the king said, waving his hand to an aide.

A door opened and two young warriors strode into the room. One was tall for a Tredjard and sinewy, and the other was normal height but thicker and more muscular. As soon as Leinjar saw their faces, however, he felt like he was looking in a mirror as a young dwarf. He jumped up and rushed to them.

“Daddy!” they called, their eyes widening.

They ran to meet him, and Leinjar flung his arms around them, pressing against them as hard as he could. Tears streamed down his face, and they cried, too. From the moment he had awakened a captive, a knot of fear had burned in his stomach, and he had endured too many years of wondering if they were safe with no way of knowing or doing anything about it. Now, seeing them grown with thick, full beards, the knot disappeared, and he was whole again.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“We’ve lived here since you were taken,” the older, taller one said.

“Where’s your mother?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” the younger one said. “She took ill a couple of years ago and passed away.”

“She’s gone?” Leinjar asked, his heart breaking.

“I’m sorry,” the king said from behind him. “I wish it were all good news.”

Full of mixed emotions, Leinjar stepped back from his sons and looked at them. They had grown into such fine Tredjards. Their beard clips told him they were lieutenants in the military, which meant technically they were higher rank than he was, so he saluted them. They returned the salute and laughed, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Leinjar laughed, too, a full belly laugh from deep inside. Then, he thought about his wife and wished she could see them together again.

“Come, sit,” the king said, pointing at the chairs.

Leinjar allowed his sons to go first and then sat between them, once he was settled, the king tapped his glass with a fork, and the room fell silent.

“First, I will tell you what happened that night, and then I want to hear your tale.”

The king explained how the largest force ever to invade the Tredjard lands had attacked the fortress near Turljein. A thousand well-armed, well-trained Tredjards had fled the stronghold in terror, scattering in all directions. The orcs had then pushed to Leinjar’s gate, more than twenty thousand strong. Leinjar’s decision to send runners to the other towns and evacuate the civilians had allowed the army to fortify the gates and fend off the siege, which had lasted for weeks. The time he had spent holding the gate had allowed everyone to reach safety and had saved many lives. Given the cowardice of the soldiers at the fortress, Sergeant Leinjar had been declared a hero of the kingdom for his valor and was elevated to the status of Lord of Arms, the highest rank in the military, beneath only the king and queen. Since he was gone and feared dead, his family had been brought to the palace, where his sons had been raised as part of the royal family. When he finished speaking, the king took a box from one of his aides and asked Leinjar to come closer.

“No Tredjard is complete without his beard clip,” the king said.

He opened the box and lifted out a palladium clip fashioned as two great halberds forming an X. The king handed it to Leinjar’s oldest son and told the young dwarf to clip it on. The dwarf rose from his seat and attached it to the proper location halfway down the beard. As soon as it was in place, his oldest son stepped back and with all sincerity saluted his father. Every member of the military in the room, including his youngest son, rose from their seats and also saluted him. Leinjar returned the gesture and looked at the king, his eyes damp.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, bowing his head.

“No, son. Thank you. Now, please, tell us your story.”

Leinjar started with awaking on the surface and described the trip to Koshlonsen. He detailed the horrors of the trading block, how dwarves, elves, and even some humans were bought and sold with no more regard than cattle. He described the Slithsythe Plantation, explaining the division of labor among the orcs and slaves. When he came to the leisure slave cage, he paused and fell silent.

“I’d rather not tell you about that place,” he said, after composing himself. “My friends here can attest. None of you need to know what we endured.”

“I understand,” the king said.

Continuing, Leinjar explained about Roskin arriving and trying to escape. He detailed the beating Roskin had endured for the attempt, how he had reminded all of them that they were still dwarves. After that, he told them about the uprising and the ogre smashing through the cage door. When he mentioned the name of Crushaw, the king interrupted:

“
The
Crushaw? Evil Blade?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You fought with the general from the north who drinks his victims’ blood?”

“I never saw him do
that
, but we liberated many plantations together,” Leinjar said, smiling at the recollection. “And then defeated the orcs near the Pass of Hard Hope.”

“I’ve heard of this man. He’s almost as old as I am. Is he still a fierce warrior?”

“The fiercest.”

Leinjar resumed his tale, every ear in the room leaning closer to hear each word. He described the trek from the Marshwoggs to Kwarck’s home, relating how Roskin had chased and slain the dog-beast on the mountains. He explained about Molgheon being captured and having to hunt down the slave trader who took her. He illustrated their flight up the old road to avoid the Great Empire and the earthquake as they entered the Kiredurk gate. Then, he finished by describing how he and the other two had sneaked around the valley to avoid the Great Empire and return home.

“And all this time, you thought you had failed us?” the queen asked.

Leinjar nodded.

“Yet you chose to return, anyway?” she continued.

“Well, actually, I returned at the request of Roskin,” Leinjar said.

“Let me guess,” the king said. “The Kiredurks need help fighting the humans.”

“Yes, sir,” Leinjar said, holding the king’s gaze. “After the earthquake, their defenses are in ruins, and the Great Empire has sent a massive force against them.”

“What do you think?” the king asked. “Do they deserve our help.”

“If not for Roskin, I’d still be a slave. He’s a good dwarf, worthy of being a Tredjard.”

“High praise for a Kiredurk. Other than your debt to him, why should we get involved?”

“If the Great Empire conquers the Kiredurks, they will turn south on the Ghaldeons. Eventually, they will be at our gate. We should march out and stop them before that day arrives.”

“I see the wisdom in that,” the king said softly. “We should have done more when they first attacked Sturdeon. You are Lord of Arms. How many troops do you want?”

From the moment he had agreed to return, Leinjar had been so worried about how he would be greeted that he hadn’t once considered that question. If he were to make any difference in the battle, he would need at least two thousand, but he didn’t know how to ask, so he just sat there, staring blankly.

“My scouts tell me the orcs have withdrawn many troops from our border,” the king said. “So we could probably spare ten thousand. Is that enough?”

Leinjar nodded, words still escaping him.

“My king,” Leinjar’s oldest son said. “We volunteer for this service.

Leinjar looked at his boys, conflicting emotions pulling at him. On one hand, pride filled him that they had grown into brave soldiers, but on the other, he knew the horrors of war and had just learned they were safe and happy. The last thing he wanted was to lose them in battle before he had gotten to know them again.

“That is up to the Lord of Arms,” the queen interjected.

The king looked at her, the expression of a husband who had spent a lifetime having his wife answer questions for him but still got aggravated by it.

“He’s their father,” she said, a stern look on her face.

“After all these years, I’m still second in command of my own kingdom,” the king said, smiling at Leinjar.

“Daddy,” the younger one said. “We’ll serve you well. Please, don’t leave us here.”

Leinjar thought about that night, the sound of the older one’s voice as he asked him to come with them to the shelter. That moment had been the hardest of his life, worse than anything he had endured as a slave. Leaving his children, even to defend them, had ripped a hole in his heart that had not healed until this night. Even though he would prefer them safe, he couldn’t leave them again.

“If it pleases the king,” Leinjar said. “You can serve.”

“Don’t ask me,” the king said, feigning hurt. “She’s the one who has to approve.”