The Brotherhood of Dwarves Omnibus- The Complete Series

  The Brotherhood

  Of Dwarves

  The Omnibus Edition

  D.A. Adams

  Third Axe Media

  © 2019 by D.A. Adams

  Morristown, Tennessee 37813

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to use any part of this work should be e-mailed to:

  thirdaxe@gmail.com

  This work is fiction and derives entirely from the author’s imagination. Any likeness to a real person, location, or event is purely coincidence.

  For Sam, who first turned on the light…

  …and for Collin and Finn who keep it burning.

  Book One

  The Brotherhood

  Of Dwarves

  Prologue

  Rain and mist clouded his view as Crushaw peered from the slave quarters, watching for the patrol to pass. Once they did, he would only have a few minutes to slip from the building, cross the field, and clear the perimeter. His heart thudded against his sternum. His palms itched with sweat. Capture meant the worst beating of his twenty years and maybe death. Success meant leaving behind the only life he knew and the elves who’d raised him as one of their own. But there was no turning back, for he couldn’t live another day in slavery; couldn’t kneel at the food trough one more time and scoop out handfuls of slop; couldn’t watch one more friend dragged to the post and beaten for whatever excuse the overseer chose; couldn’t chop one more stalk of sugarcane. One way or another, he would die a free man and never again kneel before an orc.

  Rain peppered the tin roof of the quarters, a loud yet soothing din. Puddles throughout the room turned the packed clay into sloppy mud from leaks in the rusted metal, but the slaves had long grown used to such things. Most didn’t stir as the pools of water and mud expanded. Their bodies needed the meager sleep, and only the newest slaves bothered trying to stay dry on a rainy night.

  Crushaw glanced around the room, wishing he’d said goodbye to his friends, especially the elves. They had been kind to him, teaching him not only their language but also the human tongue and telling him about the world beyond the orcish lands. He would miss them but had not uttered a word of his plan for fear of someone informing the orcs. On the plantation, slaves would snitch on their own brothers for a hot meal or decent pair of shoes.

  Voices turned his attention to the doorway as the patrol neared. He slipped back a step to make sure he was in the shadows, certain the orcs could hear his heart pounding. Barely audible above the clatter on the roof, three guards grumbled to each other about the weather, one stating he’d heard an entire field washed away from the week of downpour. Crushaw held still, gripping his waterskin, convinced they were about to spot him, but they continued the patrol without slowing. He counted ten heartbeats after they passed and pushed on the door. The hinges groaned, the creak resonating off the walls in the quarters. He froze, glancing around to ensure none of the slaves had woken. Satisfied all were still asleep, he squeezed through the opening and gently closed the door.

  As soon as he stepped from the eaves, his feet sank in mud and his shoes filled with water. He trudged along the path to the nearest field and moved between two rows of cane, hoping his footprints filled in before the patrol returned. In the field, he sank ankle deep into the soft ground, and every time he pulled his foot from the glop, it was accompanied by a loud slurp. He drove across as fast as he could in those conditions, but with the mud, crossing to the far end seemed to take an eternity. At each slurp, he glanced behind him, expecting to see the patrol closing in, but finally, he reached the last stalks of cane and the line that marked the end of the plantation.

  Crushaw froze, doubt running through him like a cold shiver. He turned and faced the plantation, wondering if he should sneak back into the quarters and forget this insanity. Where was he going? He knew little of the world. How would he build a new life for himself? His only skill was chopping cane.

  Peering through the heavy rain, he couldn’t see any buildings, but in his mind, they came perfectly into view. In the middle stood the big house where the masters lived. He’d only been inside once, at sixteen, but remembered the plush furniture and thick rugs. Beside it was the guard barracks and armory, a sturdy building though not quite as ornate. To the south of that were the lowly orc quarters, structures nearly as crude as the ones for the slaves. To the east, three barns stood weathered and gray on the edge of the fields, and to the west, the five slave quarters were full of tired and broken bodies. If he stayed another day, another moment even, he might never again find the courage to do this. Without another thought, he turned and stepped onto the grasslands.

  From what he’d learned from the elves, the wilds were twenty miles away. Crossing them would take at least a week, but if he could make it to the Great Empire he would be free. Unlike dwarves and elves who remained slaves for life, humans who made it into the empire’s lands could not be recaptured and returned. It seemed so simple: one week across the wilds for a lifetime of freedom. The moment of doubt faded into a lost memory, and he quickened his pace along the firmer ground of the grasslands.

  Since no one had seen him leave, he had a good chance of escaping. The overseers wouldn’t blow the morning horn for at least five more hours, so he would have a sizeable head start. Even if they chased him on horseback, he would reach the wilds well ahead of them, and the orcs wouldn’t pursue him far into the desert. He knew from conversations with lowly orcs and even some guards they were terrified of those lands. As long as he kept moving, his plan couldn’t fail.

  He marched through the night, rain stinging his arms and face. As the sky lightened in morning, he reached the end of the waist high grasses and, this time without hesitation, crossed into the wilds. The patches of grass grew farther apart, and the soil gave way to coarse sand that filled his shoes. The rain lessened to a drizzle and after nearly a mile stopped completely. From the previous day’s labor and overnight march, his muscles longed for rest, but even with the significant head start, he was too scared to stop. With each step, he expected to hear the orcs behind him, so he pressed on, ignoring the pains in his legs and the sand grinding against his feet.

  By midday, the temperature was already over a hundred, and sweat poured from his body as he struggled on the loose ground. He had drunk all his water, and his throat now burned with thirst. He had worked in the cane fields sixteen hours a day for as long as he could remember, but even that hadn’t prepared him for the heat of the wilds in mid-summer. Between his rubbery legs and parched throat, he wasn’t sure how much further he could walk, but as he stumbled over a dune, he spotted a grove of elderberry trees a few hundred yards to his right, so he turned that direction in hopes of finding more water and resting.

  Reaching the closest tree, he collapsed to the sand and crawled into the shade. Above him, a bird darted into the air, its wings sudden and sharp in the quiet of the desert, but Crushaw barely jumped. He gasped for breath, his body growing cold despite the heat. On the plantation, the old slaves warned of heat stroke, and he had always prided himself on never succumbing to it during a day’s labor. As he lay there shivering in the elderberry shade, he understood why the orcs were scared of these lands, and ever so slowly, the reality that he might not make it across crept into his mind. He should’ve stolen more waterskins, but there was nothing he could do about that now. After several minutes in the shade, he caught his breath and cooled down enough that the chills subsided, so he pushed himself up to search for water.

  Near the middle of the grove, a natural spring bubbled from the ground, forming a pool three feet across. Yellow grasses grew along the edge, swaying with the occasional puff of breeze. Near the puddle, a long rock jutted from the ground, unnaturally smooth and flat. He set his waterskin on the rock and bent towards the pool. As he knelt, small frogs hopped into the water, stirring muck that clouded the bottom. Peering closely for snakes, he dipped in his hands and splashed his face. In the heat, the water felt cold and sharp on his skin. Cupping his hands, he filled his mouth, swished the liquid around, and spat. The elves had taught him to do this before drinking because it quenched thirst faster. He repeated it twice more before finally cupping water into his mouth and drinking until his throat no longer felt dry. Then he filled his waterskin.

  He moved back to the shade and sat against one of the trees, staring south to watch for any orcs pursuing him, but he knew they had long turned back for the plantation. They would assume the wilds had claimed him. He removed his shoes and cleaned the clumps of packed sand from them and his feet. Cooling in the shade, he figured he would be better off waiting until the sun sank lower before continuing, so he stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Moments later, he drifted off to sleep still leaning against the tree with his shoes beside him.

  He slept and didn’t dream, but something woke him.

  His eyes popped open, and he looked around with a start. The sun hung low on the horizon, and all around was quiet. But something had roused him from the deep slumber. He peered south, scanning for orcs, but nothing was there save rolling waves of dunes. Slowly, he turned north, and at the water hole, just a few feet away, the rock had moved, revealing a monster the likes of which Crushaw had never seen.

  It walked on four squat legs, standing nearly three feet high at the shou
lder and stretching seven feet from snout to tail. Its back was covered with a long plate almost like a tortoise shell but flatter and jagged along the edges. Before, the creature had burrowed into the sand, leaving only the plate visible. Now, as the desert cooled, it drank from the pool, a long tongue flickering in and out of the water with rapid flashes. As it leaned down, its claws dug into the sand, leaving deep impressions. Crushaw glanced at his shoes, wishing he had put them back on before falling asleep, but he dared not move for them. When the creature finished drinking, it raised its snout and sniffed the air. It turned from the pool and faced him, its tail splashing into the water.

  Their eyes met, and though he had known fear as a slave, Crushaw had never seen a wilder, fiercer set of eyes. Terror gripped him. The beast swished its tail, sloshing water onto the trees and grass, and crept forward at him. Crushaw leapt to his feet and sprinted from the grove, but the animal bounded after him, moving faster than he thought possible on those short legs. As it lunged, snapping at his feet with dagger-like teeth, he dove to his right and rolled in the sand. He came to his feet as it lurched around to face him. He’d only ever been in one fight, a minor tussle in the quarters with an older slave who’d stolen a piece of bread he’d been given by a guard. That fight had lasted mere seconds, ending when the old man had punched Crushaw in the sternum, knocking the wind from him. Now, staring at this beast that coiled its haunches to spring at him, he wasn’t sure what to do.

  As he waited for it to attack, his breathing and pulse slowed, and a strange calmness came to him. Time itself seemed to bend to his will as the beast lunged, moving in a slow unfolding of motions. As soon as it leapt, he jumped over it and landed on its back. The jagged edges of the plate ripped his clothes and scratched his flesh, but he kept his balance and twisted around until his face was inches from its head. Reaching forward, he wrapped his left arm around its throat and grabbed his elbow with his right hand. The beast twisted and thrashed, trying to throw him from its back. Its tail whipped back and forth, slapping against his thighs with each lash. He howled in pain from the welts that raised but tightened his grip and squeezed with all his strength. The creature coughed and gagged, struggling for air, and snapped its teeth trying to reach his hands, but Crushaw held on.

  The low sun cast streaks of red and pink across the western sky, and the wind picked up, raising swirls of dust along the desert floor. Crushaw’s arms grew weak. His legs throbbed as the tail continued to thrash. Suddenly, the beast ran forward a few feet, twisted one last time to throw him from its back, and then collapsed. Crushaw pulled as hard as he could on its neck, wrenching its head back until he heard a wet snap. Releasing his grip, he lay still on its back. Blinding pains shot up his legs from the tail’s thrashing, and he gulped for air. But he was still alive.

  As soon as he caught his breath, he got to his feet and dragged the carcass to the water hole. His stomach gurgled with hunger pangs, so he rolled the creature onto its back and found the fleshiest part of its belly. Having only his hands, he ripped open the thick skin and scooped out a handful of warm, slimy meat. He took a small bite at first, wondering briefly about poison, but as the meat reached his belly and the enormity of his hunger hit him, he stuffed the rest in his mouth and scooped out more.

  He lost track of how many handfuls he ate, but by the time he was full, he was covered in blood and slimy flecks of meat. Compared to the leftover slop he’d eaten his entire life, this meal of fresh, raw meat satisfied him more than any before. Wiping the blood from his lips, he looked down at the carcass.

  He rolled it back over and pried the plate from its back. Bones snapped and popped as he tugged, and after a couple of minutes, he had it removed. The thick shell was nearly five feet long, and with the pieces of rib bone still attached, he might be able to carry it as a shield. He set it to the side and looked at the fleshy innards for any bones that could make a weapon. Scooping out the thick meat around the tail, he found a foot long bone at base that had a thick knob where it connected to the rear hips. He ripped the bone from the carcass and tossed it on the plate, but nothing else in the mangled body seemed of use. Not wanting to attract more predators, he cleaned off at the water hole as best he could. As he washed the specks of meat from the red hair of his scraggly beard, yelping in the distance caught his attention. He listened intently. It sounded like a pack of dogs approaching.

  They must’ve caught the scent of blood.

  He quickly slipped on his shoes and tucked the waterskin in his waistband. He grabbed the bone with his right hand and hefted the plate with his left. At first, moving with the long shield was awkward and clumsy. He thought about dropping it as he crossed the first dune away from the oasis, but he kept adjusting his grip on the protruding rib bones until he found a fairly comfortable position.

  Throughout the morning, he had been surprised by the quiet of the wilds, but now, as the sun set, the desert came alive with sounds. Behind him, the dogs had found the dead carcass and snarled and snapped at each other as they finished off what was left. All around, strange noises filled the air. He trudged north, peering into the dusk for any motions. His legs ached, and a stitch formed in his side from walking with his stomach so full, but he didn’t dare stop. Slowly, dusk gave way to darkness, and as the day’s heat escaped from the sand, the air grew cold.

  He marched until the waning gibbous moon rose on the horizon and then stopped for a rest. Sunrise was still four or five hours away, and he shivered as he sat on a tall dune and sipped water. Though he could see well enough to keep moving, he couldn’t make out enough detail to spot another oasis, so he wanted to stretch this supply as long as he could. His eyes were heavy with sleep, and his legs and feet throbbed with pain. Still, he knew he had to keep moving until sunrise for fear of predators. Their noises in the distance – long, ominous howls and the occasional shriek of prey going down – rang out as constant reminders of the dangers just beyond his sight.

  Struggling to his feet, he continued north, climbing and descending dunes in the moonlight. He marched until the moon was directly overhead and came upon a rock formation jutting from the sand. Knowing sunrise was merely an hour away, he climbed the rocks until he reached the smoothest elevation, fifteen feet above the floor. He curled up on the pocked stone, placing the bone and waterskin at his belly and covering himself with the shell. His feet and shins lay exposed at the far end, but at least his head and torso were covered in case an animal attacked him while he slept. Compared to this, the hard clay of the slave quarters had been comfortable, but his body was so exhausted, he didn’t care.

  He fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake until the sun was well overhead. Heat radiated from the plate and rock, and he was coated in a thick sheen of sweat. After tucking the bone and waterskin in his waistband, he lifted the plate and stood. Even through his shoes, he could feel the heat from the rock, so he looked around the ground to make certain no predators roamed the base. Satisfied all was clear, he threw the plate to the ground and began climbing down. The rock burned his hands, but he was afraid of busting the waterskin if he jumped, so he ground his teeth until he reached the sand.

  The day had grown far too hot for him to travel. He retrieved his shield, walked around the rock formation, and found the shadiest part. Using the shield as a shovel, he dug out a hole along the edge and lay as far under the rock as he could. He pulled the plate against it and wedged the bottom into the sand. In the hole, the air was still warm but bearable. He took a long drink from his waterskin and, before laying it on the sand, measured how much remained. If he took it easy, it might last another day. Then, he would have to find more.

  The welts on his legs still throbbed, and his muscles hurt. When he had first started in the fields as a young boy, his body had felt like this for the first week, and he hadn’t been sure if he could survive. However, as he’d grown accustomed to the labor, he hadn’t known muscle soreness for at least ten years. He had known pain, of course. There had been occasional beatings, sprained joints, cuts, and scrapes, but his muscles had grown into solid braids of iron capable of enduring the sixteen hours days and sweltering heat of the fields. Now, lying in this hole, he felt his own mortality.