The Fall of Dorkhun (12 page)

Through the curtain, a shadow slowly rose from a seat and approached the entrance. The door opened, and a stale, musty aroma rushed out, causing Molgheon to catch her breath. A bent, frail figure stared at her, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize him. Before she could say anything, the old dwarf’s eyes lit up and a toothless smile showed through his thick, white beard.

“Molgheon,” he said, reaching out a thin hand to touch her arm. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Yes,” she said, placing her hand on his. She was surprised not only that he remembered her name but also that she hadn’t recoiled from the touch. “It’s been a long time, Bressard.”

“Please, come in, come in.”

“I have friends with me.”

“Sounds like the old days,” the dwarf said, chuckling. “They’ll have to excuse the mess.”

“Of course,” Molgheon said, laughing. “Let me get them.”

She hurried back to the wagon and called for the dwarves to carry the cage inside. In a moment, they hoisted it from the bed and started for the porch. Molgheon walked a few feet in front, clearing branches so that nobody twisted an ankle, and when they reached the porch, she told them to give her a minute to clear the leaves and branches that hadn’t been swept away for years. When she finished, she guided them up the steps and through the door. The dwarves found a clear spot for the cage and set it down. Moving with the difficulty of old age, Bressard walked over and peered through the bars.

“You’ve captured a slave trader, eh?”

“We’re delivering him to Dorkhun for trial,” Leinjar responded. “Both of them.”

“So the hermit of Mount Roustdohn is still alive?” Torkdohn asked with a snort.

“He’ll be around longer than you,” Molgheon said.

“At my age, each sunrise is a pleasant surprise, but you can believe I’m happy to see the likes of you in a cage.”

“They won’t make it to Dorkhun, mark my words.”

“We’ll see,” Bressard said, returning to his seat. Slowly, he lowered himself. “The rest of you are friends of Molgheon, so you’re friends of mine. Please, make yourselves at home.”

The dwarves introduced themselves and thanked him for letting them spend the night. Two of the Ghaldeons went to the wagon for food, two more went for wood, and the fifth went to the stove to ready it for a fire. All three Tredjards stayed near the cage, moving items out of arm’s reach and watching the traitors closely. Molgheon sat in a chair beside Bressard and briefly explained the situation. He listened intently, nodding at times and asking her to repeat words when he didn’t quite hear. When she finished, he rubbed his beard and sat silently for a few moments, deep in thought.

“Well,” he said at last. “I’m glad for the company. It’s been awhile since anyone stopped by.”

The Ghaldeons returned to the house with wood and food. Within moments, a fresh fire sparked to life in the stove, the wood cracking and popping as it took to flame, and the dwarves prepared their meal. Molgheon leaned back and watched. More than twenty years earlier, she and her husband had sat in this living room and enjoyed their last home-cooked meal together. She smiled at the memory and reached over and took Bressard’s hand. His skin was thin as paper and his hand was lighter than seemed possible, but he held her hand gently and smiled again, his tired eyes shining in the faint light of his lantern.

***

Vishghu sat behind her mother as the clan matriarchs debated the latest proposal from the Kiredurks. They were evenly split, some believing the offer just and others holding firm that more land should be given. Vishghu’s mother was one of the few undecided, and her vote could decide the outcome of the war. Matriarchs took turns explaining their positions, and Vishghu noticed that the further to the east the clan lived the more they favored the proposal. She leaned forward and whispered the observation into her mother’s ear. The matriarch of Ghustaugaun turned and looked at her, pondering, and then smiled at her daughter’s keenness.

The two had talked well past darkness the night before, and Vishghu had told the story in as much detail as she could. Other matriarchs had gathered around and listened intently, especially whenever Evil Blade was mentioned, and when Vishghu had finished, her mother – while not convinced of Crushaw’s valor – had accepted that Vishghu had indeed fulfilled her duty by helping rescue Roskin from the orcs. The others agreed, and many had told the matriarch how lucky she was to have such a valiant and skillful daughter. Her mother had soaked up the praise with the pride only a parent can muster.

The story, however, had only more deeply divided them on the issue of the truce. Those wanting to accept the terms believed that since the heir was safe and Evil Blade still in exile there was no reason for continuing the war. Those opposed claimed that since Vishghu had been instrumental in freeing Roskin, the ogres deserved the lands from the gate to the Mother of Ice. For her part, Vishghu was frustrated by the lack of meaningful dialogue between the leaders. They were more interested in talking than listening, and the more one talked the more each seemed to solidify and defend her position. After having been around Kwarck, Crushaw, and the Marshwoggs, Vishghu had learned the value of listening and cooperating. This vain stubbornness for the sake of validating individual pride at the expense of the whole was not only ridiculous but dangerous.

Finally, it was her mother’s turn to speak, and she rose and walked to the center of the circle. She went through the standard diplomatic etiquette, thanking the other matriarchs for their thoughtfulness and for the opportunity to share her thoughts. Her mother was a good orator and a well-respected leader. If any could persuade the other undecided voters, it would be her, but Vishghu herself didn’t know which way her mother was leaning, so she listened intently as the matriarch started into her views:

“I am in a unique position. The Kiredurk heir and Evil Blade were discovered in our lands by my clan. I banished Evil Blade to the hermit Kwarck’s, sending my only daughter to watch over him. When Roskin, son of Kraganere, was taken as a slave, my daughter traveled across the Great Empire and into the orc lands to free him. My clan has fought at this gate from the beginning, and the blood of many of my kin stain this mountain.

“Nothing I can say here at this meeting could do justice to the sacrifices all of us have endured. I cannot give life back to those who’ve fallen, and I cannot take the grief away from those who’ve lost family. War is terrible, and the toll it takes on soldiers, leaders, civilians is immeasurable.

“We ogres have lived with war for many decades, and while we are far from broken, the strain of defending ourselves from the Great Empire has burdened us. Even as we stand here debating, human soldiers in the east are invading our lands and killing our people. All of us have sacrificed for that war, too, and I would argue that those sacrifices weigh more heavily than the ones on this mountain.

“While we haven’t broken through the gate and overrun the Kiredurks, we have wounded them deeply. As much of their blood covers these stones as ours, and we have shown them that they cannot send enemies into our lands and then blame us for defending ourselves. We have shown our strength and resolve, so much so that they kneel before us with wagons of gold and food. We have won this war, and they have surrendered to us.

“We all agree on that. Our only point of contention is whether or not we accept their terms of surrender, and today, I have listened as each of you have given your views on this matter, and I have been impressed by your thoughtfulness, your wisdom, your courage to speak your heart. On this day, I am proud to be an ogre. Now, the time is here to decide which path we will choose.

“I say to you, my sisters, that the prudent choice is to accept these terms and return our focus to driving the humans back south. They are our real enemy, and the gold and food we have won here, while not equal to even one ogre life, will serve us well against that enemy, and we should use it as such. For as long as history remembers, the Mother of Ice is our western border, and it does not serve us to cross it and give the Great Empire the impression that we are retreating from them. That is my belief, and that will be my vote.”

She thanked them again for allowing her to speak and then returned to her seat. One by one, the other matriarchs left to speak declined their turn, and finally, the moderator rose and addressed the assembly:

“Since no one else wishes to have their say, let’s break for lunch and return in an hour to hold the final vote.”

The ogres disbanded and settled into smaller clusters. Their attendants carried in their lunches, and soon, the din of many conversations filled the air. Vishghu wanted to say something to her mother about the speech, but she wasn’t sure what to say. She was glad that her mother had seen the prudence of returning focus to the Great Empire, and she had been moved by her mother’s words. Now, sitting here just the two of them, she wanted to tell her mother how proud she was and how much she loved her but couldn’t find the words.

“After we accept the surrender, I want you to return to Kwarck’s and finish your duty,” her mother said between bites.

“As you wish,” Vishghu said.

“You may think Evil Blade can be trusted, but we should watch him just the same.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good. As soon as he dies, you can return to the village and take your place on my council.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“You’ve earned it. Learn as much as you can from Kwarck. He is very wise. He can teach you all you need to know about how to rule.”

“Do you think we’ll ever heal this rift with the Kiredurks?”

Her mother shook her head, frowning.

“That’s a shame,” Vishghu said.

“We spent centuries living in peace,” her mother said. “But it only took a couple of months to tear that down. Strange how fragile it is.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Vishghu said, looking to the east. “How did things escalate so fast?”

“They found Evil Blade and were going to use him to attack us. It’s just fortunate we caught them before they made it to the gate. Who knows what they could’ve done with him leading them?”

“That’s not right. Roskin wasn’t taking him back to Dorkhun. They were heading east to Black Rock, something about a lost treasure.”

Her mother arched her eyebrows.

“Yes, I heard the story a few times. Something’s not right about any of this.”

“Well, hopefully this war is over, now.”

“I just hope we haven’t been weakened so much that we can’t fend off the invaders.”

“Me too, Vishghu. Me too.”

Vishghu stared at her plate of food and thought about the situation. She had learned at Kwarck’s that the dwarves believed Roskin had been sold into slavery by the ogres, and the ogres believed the Kiredurks were planning to attack them with Crushaw. How had both sides been led so astray from the truth? How had such inaccurate information made it to leaders of both sides? There was something she wasn’t seeing, but she knew there was more to this war than Roskin and Crushaw. She just needed to figure out what she was missing.

Her mother told her to stop daydreaming and eat her food, and the reprimand brought back memories from childhood. She had heard that line many times, and now, even though she was grown, she still minded her mother. Grabbing her fork, she tore off a piece of meat and chewed it slowly. The meat was cooked and seasoned perfectly, and she savored the flavor before swallowing. Soon enough, she would be back at Kwarck’s, and while his food was good, he couldn’t prepare meat like the ogres could. She would enjoy dining at her mother’s table for as long as possible, but even as she relished the meal, her mind mulled over all she had learned, trying to decipher what had driven two allies to turn on each other so completely. There was an answer, and she would find it.

Chapter 8

One Conflict Ends

Roskin stood in a blacksmith’s shop next to the armory and marveled at the volume of weapons produced. The Ghaldeons had been at work night and day, hammering out axes and pikes with unrivaled efficiency. Many of them, like Molgheon, had been part of the Resistance, and they had been biding their time for the opportunity to put their skills back to use. When King Kraganere had requested they work for him, they had come in droves and had worked with the fervor only those whose livelihoods have been restored can. Now, with the war winding down, Roskin could sense their disappointment.

He had brought Bordorn here to see about the shield he wanted and had decided to have an axe forged for Krondious as well. Each dwarf was talking individually with a blacksmith, describing in detail what they wanted. The blacksmiths were taking measurements and scribbling notes. Roskin told the one with Bordorn to fashion a sword he could wield with one hand, and the smith added that to his notes. Once the blacksmiths were satisfied that they knew enough to fashion the equipment, Roskin handed them his sword and throwing axes and asked them to sharpen and polish his weapons.

“Where’d you get these?” one smith asked, his face glowing as he held the ancient weapons.

“Long story,” Roskin returned. “Please, take good care of them.”

“They were forged at least three hundred years ago. Look at the casting.”

The other blacksmith stepped closer and inspected one of them. His face also lit up as he rubbed his fingers along the handle, around the blade, and back across the counterweight.