The Fall of Dorkhun (20 page)

“What made you run away?” Kwarck asked. “I mean, most people born into slavery don’t know anything beyond that.”

“The elves. They taught me about the world.”

Kwarck smiled, adjusting his body to reach one of the buckets Crushaw had brought.

“There was a longing inside to be more than a field-hand,” Crushaw continued. “It took four years of planning to work up the courage.”

“How did you escape?” Kwarck asked, dipping water from one of the buckets and pouring it at the base of a plant.

“I slipped out of the quarters at night and crossed the Wilds.”

“On foot? Alone?”

“Yes.”

“How did you survive?”

“Too young and dumb to know I shouldn’t, I guess.”

Kwarck laughed and dipped out more water for the next plant.

“When we crossed them again to go after Roskin, I realized how lucky I must’ve been back then. I had no weapon, no training, and no clue where I was going.”

“Our will can be our greatest weapon.”

“Yes, my will has served me well.”

“Mine, too,” Kwarck said, dipping again.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Here, probably seventy-five years or so.”

“Really? Did you grow up here?”

“No, my friend. Remember, I’m half elf. Elves live much longer than humans. Compared to you, I’m quite old.”

“I hadn’t thought about that. The elves on the plantation didn’t live much longer than anyone else. The labor broke their bodies young.”

“Yes. I have felt that, too.”

The look in Kwarck’s eyes said he needed a minute alone, so Crushaw stood and stretched his arms above his head. Then, he picked up his pole and headed to the springhouse. There were only a few hours of daylight left, and they had three more rows to water. The worst of the heat had passed, and Kwarck had started at the farthest row, so each trip would get easier. Still, as he walked, Crushaw scanned the horizon for any sign of rain that could ease this job and maybe give them a day of rest. Unfortunately, as far as he could see, there was blue sky, so he opened the door to the springhouse and filled two fresh buckets. Then, he hoisted them and returned to where Kwarck poured water from plant to plant.

***

Stahloor, Alysea, and Suvene had been marching across the plains for three weeks, moving nearly due north but drifting west. As the terrain changed, Suvene marveled at the vegetation. Around the plantation, there was an overabundance of plant and animal life, but he had never seen these varieties. Golden prairie coneflowers and lavender dotted blazing stars were sprinkled amongst waist tall yellow grass that rippled in the steady breeze. Insects flitted from flower to flower, and Ponderosa pine and green ash grew sporadically along streams. While the greenness of the savannah was more plush, there was a beauty to these arid plants that stirred the young orc.

“We should make it this week,” Stahloor said, kneeling by a stream to fill his waterskin.

“Are you certain I’ll be welcome?” Suvene asked for at least the hundredth time.

“Yes,” Stahloor answered, handing his waterskin to his daughter.

“I’ve heard so many stories,” Alysea said, after a long drink. “I’m excited to finally meet him.”

“Please,” Suvene said. “Tell me his name again so I don’t forget.”

“He is Kwarck, Hermit of the Plains.”

***

Vishghu led her buffalo through the gate onto Kwarck’s land. Once the war with the Kiredurks was settled, her mother had asked her to check on Evil Blade. Though Vishghu had assured her he was serving out his exile, the matriarch had insisted her daughter make sure. Part of Vishghu was upset her mother didn’t trust her. She was certain that Crushaw had kept his word, and in her mind, that should have been enough. Another part, however, was glad to be returning to the serenity of Kwarck’s. After seeing the carnage of the front, she needed time to recover, and she knew the old hermit’s farm could soothe her.

As she rode to the barn, she waved at Kwarck and Crushaw watering plants in the middle of a field. They returned the greeting but continued to work, so she tethered her buffalo near the water trough and crossed the field to speak with them. In the heat, sweat poured from her body, but it wasn’t as crushing as on the savannah or among the Marshwoggs, so she breathed deeply and walked swiftly. As she neared, Crushaw extended his arm to her. She clasped her hand around his forearm, and he laid his palm against hers. They embraced for a couple of heartbeats, neither speaking, and then released.

“Glad you’re safe,” Crushaw said.

“Likewise. You look strong.”

“I’m a frail old man.”

“Hello, Vishghu,” Kwarck said, opening his arms. “He should be ashamed of lying to his friends.”

“You would think,” she returned, wrapping her arms around the hermit’s shoulders. He felt like a doll against her.

“So you’ve formed an alliance against me,” Crushaw said, feigning injured pride. “We’ll see about this.”

“Come,” Kwarck said, starting for the house. “You’ve had a long ride. Let’s get you food and water.”

“Are any of my kind still living in your orchard?” Vishghu asked, following him.

“A few,” Kwarck returned. “They don’t come to the house often on account of Crushaw, but they can stay here as long as they remain peaceful and do their part.”

“I will tell them the war is over. They may want to return home.”

“Once you’ve gotten refreshed, you can tell us what happened.”

The three walked across the field in the afternoon sun. For the first time in weeks, Vishghu was at ease. While nothing could replace her clan’s village and the comforts of the cold, the farm was as much a home to her as any place, and after a year of nearly constant travel across the land, she was glad to know for at least a little while she could relax and feel safe. The irony that she found comfort in the presence of the most despised person known to her kind made her smile. A year before, when she and Roskin first arrived at the hermit’s home with Crushaw scratching himself raw and calling out in pain from alcohol withdrawal, she couldn’t have imagined this moment. Life certainly was a strange, meandering stream.

***

Molgheon and the others climbed the trail on Mount Gagneesh that wound up to the southern gate. They had beaten the army to the valley and had raced along the level ground to get to the kingdom. Now, on this last climb, all were exhausted. None spoke. Their steps were deliberate and sapped of energy, their breathing ragged and forced.

Finally, with the sun getting low and shadows stretching across the mountainside, they found a fairly level area to make camp. Still not speaking, they performed their nightly duties with a perfunctory rhythm. Despite being close to civilization and possibly a comfortable bed the following night, none expressed joy, and fatigue made them miserable company. They sat around the fire and picked at their suppers in silence, then one by one drifted to sleep.

The next morning, however, as the horizon lightened and birds announced the new day, the dwarves awoke with a fresh outlook. Each slapped the other on the back and joked during breakfast. The gate was not much further, and after a good night’s rest, they allowed themselves to relish the achievement. They had sneaked by the Western Regiment and had gotten the criminals to the Kiredurk kingdom. It had been no small feat, and they rightly were proud.

Watching them, Molgheon allowed herself to feel happy, too. Though she had a long and perilous return ahead, she admired these dwarves who had risked their lives to rescue her. While she hadn’t needed saving, she was grateful for their loyalty, and she was proud to have known and served with them. Not long ago, they had been slaves devoid of hope. Now, they carried themselves with pride, not the vain, shallow kind, but the type that comes from enduring hardship and growing into a stronger individual. No matter what life had in store for them, each could find solace in the knowledge that they had earned their freedom and regained the spirit that made them dwarves.

“I have something to say,” she announced, waving for them to come closer. “This isn’t easy.”

The group surrounded her, each dwarf listening intently.

“Thank you for coming after me. I mean that.”

“No need for thanks,” Leinjar returned. Others murmured their affirmation. “You freed us.”

“As Red told you, you freed yourselves, but that’s not what I want to say.” She choked up on the last words.

“Go on,” one of the Ghaldeons urged.

“This is as far as I’m going with you.”

“What do you mean?” Leinjar asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I’m going back to Bressard’s.”

The dwarves stood in stunned silence. Finally, Leinjar cleared his throat and spoke:

“I won’t pretend to know your pain,” he said. “You’ve sacrificed more than your share. Right now, Bressard deserves to die with dignity, so go back and do what you need to do.”

The others nodded in agreement. For the first time since her husband died, Molgheon’s eyes filled with moisture. She had expected resistance and pleading, not support and encouragement, and she had steeled herself against the former. The latter surprised her so much she barely held back the tears.

“Maybe we’ll come see you in the spring,” Leinjar added.

“Please, explain to Roskin that Bressard needs me.”

“The tall one has a good beard. He’ll respect your decision.”

One by one, the Ghaldeons stepped to her and shook her hand. Molgheon clasped each hand. Then, the two Tredjards kneeled in front of her and bowed their heads so that their beards were touching the ground. This gesture was the highest honor a Tredjard could show a leader and was usually reserved for fallen heroes who had sacrificed themselves in battle. Rarely did a living dwarf receive such tribute, and Molgheon knew enough of Tredjard culture to recognize the sigificance. She knelt with them and reached for their hands.

“I’m proud to have fought with you,” she said.

“We’ll never forget you,” the one to her right said.

“You’ll never know what you gave us,” the other agreed.

“I was only one small part,” Molgheon responded.

“You better get moving,” Leinjar said.

The three dwarves stood, and Molgheon held out her hand to Leinjar. He shook it firmly, staring into her eyes. For the first time since she had known him, the crazy look of one who had lost everything was replaced by tenderness.

“You’re the finest warrior I’ve ever known,” he said.

“Thanks,” she returned, glancing down. Taking a compliment had never been a strength of hers, even when given by her husband. “I can say the same about you.”

“Get going before that army reaches us.”

Molgheon strapped on her pack and slung her bow across her right shoulder. One of the Ghaldeons handed her the quiver of arrows, which she fastened on her belt over her left hip. Then, she started down Mount Gagneesh without glancing back. Her legs were stiff and sore from the climb the day before, but she knew within a couple of hours all that would fade. Away from the group, she allowed the tears to flow, and they streamed down, tickling her cheeks and dripping onto her tunic. The mountains ahead lightened to welcome the sun. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. The decision had been made, and Bressard was counting on her to see him through his last days, so there was no use wasting energy on more tears.

***

As the city of Dorkhun came into view, Krondious had a wave of mixed emotions wash through him. The last time he had entered the capital had been in shackles and under armed guard, so his memory was mostly negative, but this time, he was the personal bodyguard of the kingdom’s heir. As such, he allowed himself to savor the splendor of the most magnificent dwarven city ever built.

Even on the outskirts, the buildings were clean and polished, and the streets were broad avenues free of litter. Dwarves moved in all directions, some doing business, some running errands, and others seeking leisure. The city buzzed with an energy all its own, and while it wasn’t quite the deep, Krondious was grateful to be back underground and see his capital under better circumstances.

Since he had killed the cave troll, Roskin and Bordorn had spoken to him with the reverence the lumberjacks had used when describing his prowess in the forest. Above ground that had felt like gilded praise, stripped of honor by his exile, but here, he considered it with more veneration. While he hadn’t fully redeemed himself, he had found his purpose in life, and that in and of itself was reason to accept the praise. So as he soaked in the view of the city from the crest of this avenue, he let go of some of his shame and held his head a little higher.

***

Roskin stopped on a wide avenue that overlooked Dorkhun and stared at his home. In the cage, he had given up hope of ever seeing it again, and from his visions on the trek home, he had expected to find it in turmoil. Instead, the city was almost exactly as he remembered it. While he was glad everything was as it should be, he was certain the dark fear which had haunted him hadn’t been for nothing. He glanced at Bordorn, who had also lived here as a young dwarf, and his childhood friend seemed lost in memories. Krondious, on the other hand, beamed like a child who had just found a lost toy. Roskin reached over and touched Krondious’s shoulder.