The Brotherhood of Dwarves Omnibus- The Complete Series Page 2

  He dozed on and off all day, waking only from the heat and sipping water until he drifted off again. When he woke in the evening, he noticed how much cooler the air had grown. A strange scent startled him. He tried to place it, but the closest parallel he could draw was a mix between the food trough and the lowly orcs. He lay still, listening for any sounds.

  At his feet, something sniffed at the shield. Then claws scratched against the thick bone. He gripped one of the rib bones to hold it steady and hoped whatever it was would give up. The sniffing sound moved along the bottom of the plate closer to his face. A snout similar to a dog’s poked into his air hole, still sniffing. Its fur was brown, and a black, panting tongue hung over a row of sharp teeth. It began clawing furiously at the sand.

  Still gripping the rib with one hand, Crushaw moved his waterskin behind him and pulled the bone from his waistband. With a sharp heave, he thrust the shield at the animal. The jagged edge caught it in the shoulder just above its front leg, causing it to stumble back and yelp. Crushaw scrambled from his hole and brought the bone down on its skull. It collapsed with a whimper, twitching in the sand. Before he could gather himself, a second hyena jumped on his back, snapping at his neck. It only caught a mouthful of his hair, and he was able to flip it over before it could snap again.

  The hyena bounded to its feet and charged, kicking up sand with its paws. Crushaw set his feet and swung the bone like he had the machete so many times. The makeshift club struck the snarling hyena in the jaw as it lunged and sent it sprawling back on the sand. He started to finish it off but heard the high-pitched barking of more hyenas coming around the rock. Grabbing the shield, he readied himself.

  The second one got to its feet and shook its head. Lowering its snout, it snarled at him. He backed up, moving so the approaching hyenas and this one were all in front of him. Five more rounded the rock, fur standing on their backs and fangs showing. They fanned out around him, growling and crouching low to the ground. As had happened at the waterhole, his breathing and pulse slowed, and this time, Crushaw didn’t wait for them to attack.

  He charged the ones to his left, swinging the shield in an awkward motion but catching two of them with the jagged edge. Dark blood oozed from the gashes he had opened, and he spun, swinging the shield to his right, where the other three leapt at him. All became a swirl of motions as the hyenas snapped and nipped. He lost his grip on the shield but swung the bone over and over as they tore at him. Fangs sank into the skin on his arms and legs and chest, but he barely felt the pain. His club would strike one in the ribs, knocking it back, then catch another in the throat, dropping it to the earth, but as soon as he got one off, the others were on top of him.

  After a couple of minutes of frenzied fighting, he caught one squarely on the side of the head. It collapsed and didn’t move. Then another fell still, and another. One of the final two bit down on his left calf, teeth sinking into muscle, and he brought the club down on its head with all his might. The sound of its skull shattering was sickening, but its teeth released their grip as it twitched and convulsed.

  Before he could draw back, the last one clamped onto his right arm, catching mostly his shirt sleeve. The force of it hitting his arm knocked the bone from his grip. Reaching with his left arm, he grabbed it by the throat. It released its grip and tried to wriggle free. He grabbed the back of its neck with his right hand. Kicking, its back legs struck him in the face and throat, and they rolled in the sand. Squeezing with all his might, muscles earned from years of forced labor, something in its throat popped, and it went limp, the life draining from its eyes.

  Crushaw collapsed on the ground, chest heaving for air. The punctures on his calf sent jolts of lightning up his leg. As he stared at the cloudless sky, a figure began circling overhead, high in the air. It was soon joined by a second and then a third. He had seen plenty of vultures on the plantation, but these were twice the size of even the largest one there. Rolling onto his stomach, he pushed up to his hands and knees. His arms were covered in bites and scratches, and his sleeves fluttered in long, tattered strips. His hair was drenched in sweat, clinging to his face, and small drops of blood and sweat dripped from his nose and chin. All around him, the sand was stained dark with blood, some from the dogs but most from him. He struggled to his feet, barely able to put weight on his left leg, and limped to his hole to retrieve the waterskin.

  Kneeling and standing at the dug out shelter made him groan. Blood streamed down his leg from the deep punctures. Leaning against the rock, he tore off his sleeves and the longest strips of fabric. He tied the strips to his leg as tightly as he could, three layers of bandage over the bite. He glanced up and saw that five vultures now circled overhead. Knowing he had to get moving before more scavengers showed up, he gathered the shield and bone and limped away from the rocks. Each step was agony. His stomach burned with hunger. For a moment, he wondered if he should have stayed on the plantation.

  He imagined the food trough. Every morning and every night, the lowly orcs would pour whatever leftovers they had into it, and the slop would flow along the metal trench. Most times the food was unrecognizable, and the stench was often enough to gag him. The slaves would kneel at the trough and scoop out handfuls, like pigs in a sty. Though he’d never known anything else, the elves taught him not everyone lived this way. They told him stories of feasts they’d attended, of homes, of dinner tables, of fresh stews. He wanted to know those things. As each step sent jolts of pain up his leg, he thought about the food trough. Those memories made this pain not so bad.

  He found another oasis before the sun had fully set and inspected the area carefully before approaching the waterhole. This one was larger than the first, and several peach trees grew around the long, slender pool. Other than a handful of small birds that flew away as he approached, no animals were there. He filled his waterskin, drank heartily, rinsed the blood from his wounds, and washed the bandages for his leg. More than anything, he wanted to stay there and rest, but he knew he had to keep moving before predators showed up. He found a handful of ripe peaches and, using his shirttail to carry them, hurried from the oasis.

  As the sun set and the sounds of the wilds returned, he stopped atop a large dune and devoured the fruit. He’d only eaten fresh peaches a couple of times in his life, but these were the most delicious things he’d ever tasted. When he finished, his stomach still gurgled with hunger and his hands were sticky from the juice, but his energy rose from the nourishment. He marched through the night without incident and at sunrise found another rock to sleep under. He dug out a hole as before and positioned the plate for protection. The punctures on his calf had stopped bleeding, and the pain had lessened enough that he could walk without much of a limp. Lying in his hole as the sun climbed in the sky, he drifted off to sleep.

  That evening, he rose and continued north. For five days, he moved steadily, finding the occasional waterhole but without encountering any more creatures, and the terrain transformed from the flowing dunes to a harder, rockier landscape. On the fifth day, he peered into the distance, expecting to see something to mark the end of the wilds, but all around him were more barren rocks and coarse sand. He walked through the night and slept through the day. Seven days stretched into ten with still no end in view. Most days he ate nothing; sometimes he found a handful of fruit or nuts. At one oasis, he startled a young mountain lion and killed it with the shield. With nothing else to eat, he once again ate the meat raw and drank much of its blood. Another night, he ran from some kind of lumbering animal covered in thick, scaly plates.

  Ten days grew to thirteen, and he began to believe the wilds had no end, that the elves had lied to him. He needed a full meal and real rest, but with craggy rocks and brown sand as far as he could see, he knew he was still far from human settlements. As the sun descended low in the sky, he crawled from his hiding place and lumbered north, now dragging the shield behind him. In the faint light of dusk, he spotted a row of trees, large mesquites thirty feet tall, so he trudged toward the oasis. As he reached the trees, a large ravine opened, revealing a mostly dried lakebed with a large pool in the middle. Crushaw scanned the area for predators, but the only thing he saw was a large stone submerged in the pool.

  He walked around the perimeter, looking for a place to descend. The slopes were steep and the clay slate too treacherous to climb. The ravine itself was large, several hundred yards across at its widest point and, in the distant past, had been a massive lake. Now, the bed lay dry and cracked other than the fifty foot pool. Skeletons of all sizes littered the ground, some no bigger than his hand and others larger than seemed possible. Seeing the bones, Crushaw wondered if he should go near the water, but his waterskin was barely a third full. It wouldn’t last him through a full night’s walk, so he kept searching the edge for way down. On the far side, he found a place where the slate had collapsed, forming a gentle grade to the bed, and from the tracks around the lip, this was a common path down to the water.

  He looked around one last time, wondering if it would be safe, and for as far as he could see, nothing stirred except wisps of dust lifted by the breeze. Gripping his shield and pulling the bone from his waistband, he started down. The slate crunched under his weight, and twice the ground gave way as he stepped on it, causing him to stumble, but he made it to the bottom safely. As he approached the water’s edge, he glanced at the boulder. From this angle, it seemed to be in a different position than before, so he stopped and watched it for several heartbeats. Satisfied it wasn’t moving, he crept to the water and knelt.

  The ground on the lakebed was packed hard, but near the pool, it turned to soft mud. Footprints crisscrossed all around the edge, ranging from small birds to massive paws as big as his torso. Uncorking his waterskin, Crushaw looked over each shoulder to make certain nothing approached. He dipped his waterskin into the brown water and watched air bubbles ripple the surface. When they stopped, he re-corked the opening and rose. To his left, motion near the boulder caught his eye, so he turned in that direction. Slipping the waterskin back into his waistband, he pulled out the bone. As he did, he realized the motion wasn’t near the boulder. The rock itself was rising in the pool.

  Just a few yards away, an iron rhino, the largest beast of the wilds, emerged from the water. Fifteen feet at the shoulder and weighing at least three tons, its hide rippled with thick layers of muscle as it stretched. Its horn, as long as his arm, caught the last rays of sun and gleamed as water dripped from its snout.

  The oldest elves had talked about the iron rhinos with reverence. Long ago, when the Koorleine forest extended closer to the wilds, their ancestors had hunted them. One of these beasts had the strength of a hundred bulls. Though herbivores, they were territorial and would chase anything from their lands.

  Crushaw backed away slowly, hoping it wouldn’t see him. He tripped on a skull, his foot slipping on mud. As he fell, the plate and bone flew from his hands. The shield clattered against the skull, and the club splashed in the water. The iron rhino raised its head and bellowed.

  Then it charged.

  Water exploded in every direction as its massive paws thundered toward him. Crushaw crab-crawled in the mud, slipping and sliding and clambering to his feet. He spun, pushed himself up, and broke into a dead sprint. His waterskin jostled against his thigh and stomach with each step, but he ignored it, not caring at that moment if it fell to the ground, and ran as hard as he could. Behind him, the rhino gained ground, bellowing and snorting as it charged. To his right, he spotted a rock outcropping and turned for it. He leapt over the rock and crashed into ravine wall, sending a shower of slate down on him. The iron rhino swung its horn at the outcropping as it charged by, and chunks of rock blasted into the air.

  Crushaw staggered to his feet and ran back in the direction he had come, hoping to reach the gentle incline in time. The rhino turned on the dry lakebed and gave chase, its bellows growing louder as its rage increased. He could see the incline ahead, nearly a hundred yards away, but behind him, the rhino gained ground with each step.

  Crushaw knew he wasn’t going to make it and looked for somewhere closer to hide. There was nothing except the pool and scattered bones. He would dive into the water and hope for the best. As he turned in that direction, a motion from the lip of the ravine caught his eye.

  The rhino bellowed again, but this time, the sound pealed of agony, not rage. Crushaw glanced over his shoulder and saw that two sand lions had pounced on the rhino’s back, claws embedded in its hide. Crushaw slowed his pace and watched, dazzled by the enormity of the cats. The front lion sank its teeth into the rhino’s neck, and the rear one bit its right flank. The rhino staggered and lurched, trying to rid itself of the lions, but they held on, dark blood oozing where their claws and teeth ripped into the thick hide. Suddenly, three more lions jumped from the edge. One drove straight for the rhino’s throat and launched itself, fangs sinking into the soft flesh and its rear paws wrapping around a front leg. The other two bit the rhino’s hind legs, and after a couple more wobbling steps, it collapsed on the lakebed with a deafening crash. It bellowed once more, a long, mournful sound as the lions shredded its skin.

  Crushaw faced ahead and made for the incline, hoping more sand lions weren’t waiting at the top. He scrambled up the loose slate, using his hands to steady himself. The sun had nearly set, and long streaks of red stretched across the sky. He ran as hard as his legs would carry him, wanting as much distance between himself and the lions as possible before dark. As he ran, he secured the waterskin, thankful it hadn’t toppled from his waistband in all the commotion. A wave of nausea passed through him as the reality of what had just happened sank in. Those sand lions had taken down the largest beast of the wilds as if it were a docile cow, mere feet away. If he ever made it out of this desert, he hoped never to come that close to one again.

  He slowed his pace as dusk settled on the rocky terrain. Clumps of thick, yellow grasses and sparse sagebrush now sprinkled the landscape on this side of the ravine. He took a long drink from his waterskin and carried it in his left hand as he walked along the changing ground. His pants fluttered around his legs, the tattered strips catching in the rising breeze. His feet were raw and sore from grinding against the sand, and the scabs from his cuts and scrapes itched all over his body. His stomach burned with hunger.

  As the landscape transformed, he knew he had nearly reached the other side. By morning or maybe the next evening, he would step foot on human lands and become a free person. If he could survive this night, he would never again set foot on a plantation, would never again venture near the orcish territories, and would certainly never again cross the wilds. As the stars became visible, he stifled the urge to call out in joy, for the life he knew was forever behind him. He had almost made it.

  He was almost there.

  Chapter 1

  A Rite of Passage

  The dwarves of the western mountains are three distinct races, each offering unique physical characteristics, temperaments, and cultures. The southernmost dwarves, known as Tredjards or black beards, live under the rule of one kingdom that has been in nearly perpetual war with the orcs to their southeast. As their name suggests, these dwarves have thick, black hair and caramel skin. As warriors both male and female are fierce and unrelenting, preferring spears and halberds in hand to hand combat, and in a battle, Tredjards become overwhelmed with bloodlust and lose all sense of self. It’s common after a battle to find these berserkers without limbs but surrounded by scores of slain orcs, and in social life missing an arm or leg is considered a high honor. They live almost exclusively underground in fortified lairs of stone and metal, and outsiders, regardless of race, rarely find occasion to visit, for these dwarves prefer isolation and are known to attack strangers on sight. If Tredjards want something from the outside world, they will go to its source.

  Conversely, the dwarves of the central mountains, known as Ghaldeons, prefer interaction with other races. For their part, all dwarves are brothers, and they will aid any of the dwarf nations that come under attack. The Ghaldeons cannot claim sovereignty, having been mostly conquered by the Great Empire to the east and existing in disjointed tribes to the west. In appearance these dwarves usually have brown or red hair and fair skin. They are taller than Tredjards by a few inches because they usually live above ground and are considered outstanding farmers, even in the highlands. In warfare, they are skilled with bows and short swords, and like all dwarves they are miners and blacksmiths, their skills with metals being unrivaled. Because of their outgoing nature and fondness for commerce, their three major cities, Kehldeon, Sturdeon, and Turhjik, are strong centers of trade, especially with humans, ogres, and the northern dwarves.

  Kehldeon, the unofficial capital of the Ghaldeon tribes not ruled by the Great Empire, is the westernmost dwarf city and the least accessible from the east. The mountains in this region only have passes to the north and south, which means most of the trade in this city is with other dwarves. The foundations of the buildings are carved from the diorite of Mount Kehldeon and have a distinct salt and pepper coloring. Most buildings in the city are framed from large blocks of granite and decorated with palladium from local mines. Because of the steep slopes and difficult terrain, the farmers surrounding the city have built a patchwork of terraces filled with nutrient-rich soil from the lowlands and river basins, and the farms are so efficient that, in a normal season, they completely feed Kehldeon, supply the nearby villages and townships, and produce a surplus for trade.

  Sturdeon was once the capital of the Ghaldeon Nation, before the Great Empire seized it. This city lies along the banks of the Yuejdeon River, and its buildings are formed mostly from blocks of basalt and gabbro. Unlike Kehldeon, the buildings of this city are finished with wood that is usually stained or painted to meet a particular purpose. For example, all official government buildings have wooden roofs, doors, and trimmings that are painted forest green. Likewise, any commercial building should be adorned with dull red. According to Ghaldeon lore, this tradition began under the rule of Pertomis the Orchammer, who believed that color coordination was the key to social harmony and who died in a peasant revolt. After taking control, the Great Empire, which is known for eradicating local customs, loved the colorful layout so much they put into law that this custom must remain intact.