The Fall of Dorkhun (6 page)

“Am I or am I not your king?”

Master Sondious looked up from the map and made eye contact with his old friend. Master Sondious wanted to remind the king that he had been the one who had tried to avoid war, that he had been the one who had gone to the ogres with an offer of peace before the fighting had begun. He wanted to remind the king that Kraganere’s own irrational grief for his son had brought this about. Instead, he dropped the map onto the table and smiled.

“My friend, you’re right. Roskin is safe. We’ve no need to keep fighting.”

The king nodded his approval and rose from his seat. Then, he strode from the room without a word. Master Sondious watched him go, thinking to himself the king had proven more than once that when his emotions were stirred, he was not a competent ruler. Then, he reached down and picked up the map. Truce or not, the Kiredurks would be prepared to keep the ogres from resuming the tunnel.

Chapter 4

To Protect His Family

Leinjar kissed his oldest son on the forehead and tucked the wool blanket under his chin. The boy was already asleep, his bottom lip sucking in under his tongue as he did every night. Leinjar lingered there for a few heartbeats, then stepped over to the baby’s crib and stared down at him. He was scared to touch the baby because he was such a light sleeper and difficult to get back to sleep, so Leinjar contented himself with gazing into the face that could be his own. The baby rolled onto his side and stretched his legs but didn’t wake, so Leinjar crept away, smiling.

In the master bedroom, his wife was already asleep, her back to his empty spot. This was the third night in a row that he had stayed late at the barracks, preparing for an impending orc attack. The farmers on the surface had fled underground four days earlier, spreading news of a massive force marching to the gate, and as first sergeant, Leinjar was responsible for preparations. Still, his wife wasn’t happy he had barely been home. For a moment, he thought about waking her to talk, but she had been chasing the children all day and wouldn’t appreciate the interruption to her much needed rest.

He unbuckled his chest plate and lifted it over his head. After placing it on the dresser, he removed the vambrace on his forearms and set them to the right of the plate. Then, he unclipped his beard piece and laid it on the left. As a sergeant, his clip was silver, fashioned into a halberd. In Tredjard society, beard pieces signify social status, and while his was not as ornate as the captain’s, he had worked hard to earn it. As he reached to unbuckle his pants belt, the barracks’ alarm sounded, loud and imposing in the still of night. From his crib, the baby started crying.

“Lorshia, wake up,” Leinjar called, grabbing his beard clip.

“Are you home?”

“The alarm,” he returned, unsure what else to say.

“It’s probably another false one,” she said, but the fear in her eyes showed that she didn’t believe it.

“Take the children to the shelter.”

She climbed from bed and reached for her clothes, and for a moment, Leinjar looked at the thin sheen of sweat on her caramel skin. He wanted to hug and kiss and tell how much he loved her, but there wasn’t time.

“Please, get them out of here,” he said, his voice sharper than intended.

She ran to the children’s room and lifted the baby from his crib and then roused the oldest.

“I’ll come for you when the battle is over,” Leinjar offered as he tightened the straps on his vambrace.

“Okay,” she said, moving to the front door with the baby on her left shoulder and the oldest clutching her right hand.

“Daddy, come with us,” the oldest said, trying to pull away.

Leinjar stared at his sons, wishing with all his heart that he could go with them to the shelter and play their nightly games, riding them on his shoulders and letting them jump on his belly.

“Daddy has to keep us safe,” Lorshia said to the toddler.

“I love you, son. Daddy’ll be there soon.”

“Be careful,” Lorshia said to him.

“They’ll regret coming to this gate. Now, please, get going.”

She made a game of having the oldest open the front door, and a heartbeat later, the three of them were gone. As he adjusted his chest plate, Leinjar glared at the closed door and fought against the scream building in his stomach. He grabbed his halberd from its rack in the hallway and hustled after them. Instead of turning right towards the shelter, he turned left towards the barracks.

The streets were full of dwarves, an odd sight for this time of night, and the sounds of chaos were overwhelming: mother’s calling children; babies crying; elderly singing old battle songs; soldiers shouting orders. Leinjar blocked out the din and focused on pushing through the crowd to reach his station. As he made his way, some dwarves begged him for protection, others wished him luck, while others asked to join the fight. He ignored them all, going through his objectives in his mind.

The captain had gone to a military meeting in the capital and wouldn’t return for at least another week, so Leinjar was the highest ranking soldier on duty. As such, he had to lead these dwarves, most of whom had never fought in a serious battle, and keep them centered on their duty. First, he had to make a quick roll call, followed by a status report from the sentry who sounded the alarm. Then, he needed to station the archers and check their equipment. After the archers, he had to align the infantry and also check their weapons. Finally, he had to keep them at the gate for as long as possible regardless of the force they faced. They had been rehearsing for three days, but from past battles, he knew that sometimes when metal clashed, nerves undid even the best of training. He had to stay focused.

At the barracks, soldiers moved in every direction, grabbing weapons, adjusting armor, fetching water, and settling into formation. He barked for them to get ready for roll call, his voice booming over the cacophony, and in a matter of seconds, their motions resembled order. He moved to his stand at the front and grabbed his duty roster from the shelf. He boomed again for them to line up, and the stragglers rushed into position. Quickly, he called off the names, and all fifty-three were accounted for. Then, with the group assembled, he called the sentry to report. The young dwarf approached the stand.

“They’re at the base of the hill, not more than half a mile,” the sentry said, leaning close, his eyes wild with fear.

“How many?”

“A thousand,” the sentry whispered. “Maybe more.”

Leinjar looked at the dwarf, wondering about the validity of his estimate. A force that large hadn’t pushed this far north in a hundred years. After reading the sentry’s face, he realized that, if anything, the young Tredjard was underestimating the number.

“I need two runners,” Leinjar called to the unit. “The two fastest, now!”

Two dwarves rushed to his stand and saluted.

“You, go to the shelter and tell everyone there to flee to Torjhien. Tell them not to delay, and escort them yourself. No loafing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My family is there so move your backside. Go!”

The dwarf saluted and sprinted away in the direction of the shelter, and Leinjar watched him leave before turning to the other.

“You, go to Stoljehn. Tell them to send every unit to this gate. Tell them we’ll hold as long as we can.”

The dwarf also saluted and sprinted away. The remaining soldiers whispered amongst themselves, and palpable tension rippled through the lines. Leinjar composed himself and banged on his stand.

“Every Tredjard at this gate,” he bellowed. “Shut your mouth and listen.”

The whispers fell silent.

“Our job is to hold this gate. We fight for those who can’t, for our friends, for our families. You are Tredjards, dark beards of the southern mountains. We do not fear orcs.”

The soldiers cheered and raised their weapons above their heads.

“Get to your positions and be ready.”

The archers moved to their perches, two rows of wooden scaffolds set back from and on either side of the gate. The infantry fell into place beneath the scaffolds, forming an arc around the entrance. Leinjar followed the archers and checked each dwarf’s crossbow and quiver. Satisfied that all twenty were ready, he climbed down and walked through the infantry, adjusting armor on some, repositioning others, and giving words of encouragement to all. When he completed the inspection, he took his place in the center of the arc.

“They come for slaves,” he called. “Don’t get taken alive.”

The soldiers readied themselves, and no one spoke. The only sounds were those of their own breathing, and as the minutes stretched on, Leinjar began to think that maybe the orcs had turned back south to another gate. Then, the faint sound of marching reached him, hundreds of feet moving in unison and armor clanging. At first the sound was pleasant, and as a well-trained soldier he admired the precision of it, but as the orcs got closer, the noise grew louder and more ominous, much the way thunder becomes more threatening the closer a storm gets. Then, the marching stopped and was followed by a voice hissing orders in orcish.

Suddenly, the first wave appeared at the gate with a battering ram. It was a recently felled tree with an iron cap fashioned on one end and several branches left to serve as handles. At least a dozen orcs charged the iron gate with the ram. Leinjar called for a volley from the archers, and they fired as one, the bolts whistling through the bars and striking the orcs near the front. The ram slammed into the gate with a crash, and the bodies of the front orcs were thrust against the bars. As the ram retreated a few steps, their broken bodies slumped to the ground.

The archers reloaded their crossbows, but the ram got in two solid blows before they could get off another shot. The gate was damaged beyond repair, so Leinjar called for the archers to hold fire. The ram thudded against the gate a fourth time, and its hinges gave. The Tredjard infantry readied their halberds, and the archers took aim. Leinjar called for them to fire in waves so there would be a constant volley coming down, and the head archer signaled his understanding and repeated the order.

A moment later, the first orcs came through the broken gate. They were armed with heavy clubs meant to subdue the dwarves. The archers unleashed the first wave, and the orcs fell in the entranceway, but more poured in. The second wave fired, and more orcs fell, but as soon as one fell, another pushed through. While the first and second waves reloaded, the third fired, but enough orcs had stormed through to reach the infantry.

Leinjar ordered his men forward, and with their halberds the Tredjards hacked and stabbed the orcs. For several minutes, they easily held the gate, and dozens upon dozens of orcs lay dead, but there was no end to the charge. A Tredjard to his left yelled above the noise:

“Sir, we have to fall back!”

“No!” Leinjar screamed, striking an orc. “We hold this gate to the last dwarf.”

“There’s too many!”

“Then, we die here,” Leinjar answered.

In his peripheral vision, he could see that several dwarves had been taken, and the flanks near the gate were being pushed back. In his heart, he knew they wouldn’t last much longer. The remaining infantry was tiring from the onslaught, and the archers were nearly out of bolts, but he knew that even if they retreated, they would quickly be overrun anywhere in town. Their best strategy was to give the people in the shelter as much of a head start as possible and hope the soldiers from Torjhien and Stoljehn would hold their tunnels.

Despite the fatigue in his arms, he moved forward, rallying those nearby to make one last push. From deep in his chest, he screamed for the Tredjards to fight, and several voices answered. Archers jumped from the scaffolds into the melee and drew their daggers, and for a few moments, the dwarves drove the orcs all the way to the broken gate, but the enemy was too many. Fresh troops appeared in the doorway, climbing over dead bodies. As soon as the Tredjards reached the gate, they were pushed back by the new wave. Leinjar tried to stand his ground, but he slipped in a pool of blood and landed on his backside. He struggled to get up, but a sudden thud struck the side of his head, and then all went black.

***

He awoke on the surface, shivering in the cold of dawn. His armor and beard piece were missing, and his arms and legs were bound by heavy irons. All around, dozens of his soldiers were held in similar chains. Some were awake, some asleep, and others near death. He tried to count how many were there, but his mind was foggy, and each time he lost track around twenty. By his best estimate, there were probably forty of them. He tried to stand, but two orcs rushed over.