Roskin turned and stepped off the magistrate's porch, trying to calm his temper. The gathering crowd murmured to each other about what was going on, but Roskin ignored them. He only wanted to know where Crushaw and others had gone if not into town. They were tired and hungry and, because of his selfishness, had been left in the mountains longer than was necessary. He couldn't fathom why they weren't with the wounded and elderly, and his fear and anger had clogged his judgment.

Suddenly, a group of Marshwoggs surrounded him, and one spoke with the magistrate. Roskin was trapped and considered overpowering one of them and running for the mountains, but he thought better of that. The magistrate and leader continued to croak at each other, and when they finished, the leader turned back to the officers and motioned for them to move aside. Roskin was left facing the magistrate with an even larger crowd watching the episode.

"By our laws," Rewokog said. "I could send you to jail for creating this disturbance, but I admire your pa.s.sion for your friends."

Roskin bowed his head in humble thanks.

"Hopefully, this news will ease your mind. Your leader chose to keep the healthy ones outside of town to keep from overwhelming our resources while the wounded are tended to. To my knowledge, they are safe and should be receiving food as we speak."

"Please, forgive me," Roskin returned, looking the magistrate in the eyes. The fear had subsided, and he suddenly felt ridiculous. "You've treated me as a friend, and I've returned it with suspicion and foolishness."

"I accept. Let's forget this."

Roskin extended his hand, and the magistrate shook it firmly. The crowd, satisfied that the scene was resolved, continued on their ways, but the peace officers lingered a while longer to make sure their magistrate was safe. Motioning with his long arms, Rewokog croaked at them, and they moved further down the street. Then, the magistrate asked the dwarf to enter his home to continue their conversation from the tower, and Roskin accepted, glad to have met such a kind, forgiving person. After supper, they talked late into the night, explaining their customs and laws to each other, and before Roskin left, Rewokog gave him a book that ill.u.s.trated in detail how Marshwogg laws and economics work. It had been Rewokog's textbook as a boy, and Roskin cradled the gift in his arm, hopeful that once he returned home he would have the time to study it.

Chapter 8.

Traveling Home.

Molgheon sat by a campfire, her belly full of crawfish. She and the others had been camped outside of town for a week, and each night she had eaten her fill of the most amazing food she had ever tasted. For most of her life, she had survived off of what game she could catch in the wild and had rarely had access to spices or herbs. Most of her meals had been bland acts of necessity, and as she savored the last bite of this one, she realized just how much comfort and joy she had missed.

The elves healthy enough to travel were leaving the next morning. They would head north along the mountains until they reached a western pa.s.s that led to Lake Va.s.sa. From there, they would make their way - either on the lake or by foot - to the Koorleine Forest. The trip would take them nearly two months and was extremely dangerous, since most of the territory was controlled by the Great Empire. There were barely 300 of them able to travel, so they wouldn't be able to fight any kind of a pitched battle. On the other hand, it would be difficult to move that many secretly, and if they were caught, they would face either a return to bondage or execution. Still, they were ready to be among their kin, and since they had fulfilled their oaths to Crushaw, none could rightfully stop them.

Roskin had decided to travel with them, for in his words, there was trouble in his kingdom that needed his attention. He explained that something had happened to his father, something terrible, and that a great peril threatened his people. Molgheon wasn't sure how he knew this, but after looking in his eyes, she knew that at least he believed it to be so. He would follow the elves to the forest and turn northwest back to Kwarck's. From there, he would cut west, stopping among the outcasts to retrieve his friend, Bordorn, and then continuing to the eastern gate.

Since the trip from the forest to the gate would consume two more months, Molgheon had decided to travel with him. She was also ready to be among her kin, and even though the Marshwoggs were kind, generous people, she longed for the shadows of the western mountains and the murmur of the Yuejdeon River. These lands, though fertile and temperate, were still foreign, and the truth be known, she feared Roskin traveling that far alone.

To her right, Crushaw lay stretched out on his back, staring at the stars. He was also full of crawfish, and in the flickering light of the campfire, he looked as calm and content as Molgheon had seen him. He wouldn't be traveling with them, for Vishghu was still too seriously wounded to move. Even though she was getting better, she needed a couple more weeks to allow the deep lacerations to heal, and Crushaw intended to fulfill his promise of returning with her to Kwarck's farm and serving his banishment.

"I'm grateful for all you've done," he said to Molgheon. "I haven't told you before, but we wouldn't have made it without you."

"It was nothing," she said. "Just good to be more than a barkeep to drunk Ghaldeons."

"You're a good soldier."

"You, too," she said, wanting to tell him to forget what had happened before, but the memories that made her despise touch were too painful. She couldn't say anything more.

"Take care of Roskin," Crushaw continued. "Make sure he gets home. He'll be a good king some day."

"Maybe," she returned. "I had my doubts at first, poor thing."

As her words faded, Leinjar appeared by the campfire and asked to join them. Molgheon motioned for him to sit and offered the last of her crawfish. He accepted and gobbled them down quickly. All the leisure slaves ate that way, and Molgheon, who had known starvation herself, understood the impetus to scarf food. For many years after the War of Resistance had ended, she had eaten all of her meals in less than a minute for fear that someone hungrier and stronger might s.n.a.t.c.h them away.

"We've been talking about it," Leinjar said after he had swallowed the last bite. "And we want to go with you and the tall one."

By "we" Molgheon knew he meant himself and the last two remaining leisure slaves from the Slithsythe. All three were Tredjards who had spent nearly as much of their lives in bondage as free.

"What we had before the cage is gone forever, and we owe you and the tall one our lives. We want to serve as your guards, if you'll have us."

"Who says I need a guard?" Molgheon asked.

"I do, for one," Crushaw said. "It's none of my business, but that would ease my mind. There's a lot of ground from the forest to Kwarck's. Five can watch each other much better than two."

"What are you talking about?" Roskin asked, sitting beside Crushaw.

"The Tredjards want to go with us," Molgheon said. "They don't think we can make it on our own."

"That's not what I said," Leinjar returned, shaking his head. "We respect your skills, but..."

"Leinjar, I'm just teasing you," Molgheon said, laughing out loud and slapping him on the shoulder.

The others stared in disbelief. None could remember her laughing like that before.

"It's fine by me," she said, composing herself. "What do you think, Roskin, we need guarding?"

"Has she been in the indulgent side of town all day?" Roskin asked Crushaw.

This time, they all laughed.

"Seriously," Leinjar said. "Will you have us as your guards?"

"I already said yes," Molgheon responded. "Ask the Kiredurk."

"Well," Roskin said. "If you're asking if you want to serve me as a guard, then my answer is no."

"Why?" Leinjar asked, raising his arms and shrugging.

"Because as Red already told you, you've earned your freedom. You serve no one. If you want to travel with me as my friend and my equal, then I'd be honored."

"Well put," Crushaw said.

Leinjar reached out and shook hands with the Kiredurk. They stared at each other for a moment in silence, but Molgheon recognized the look and knew that it, though unspoken, was allegiance as powerful as any oath. From their shared experiences, each dwarf would protect the other to the death.

"Then, it's settled," Molgheon said, ending the moment. "The four of us will escort Roskin back to his kingdom."

Much as Suvene had done a few days before, Toulesche staggered along the worn path to the fortress. He couldn't remove the arrow from his shoulder, and the skin around the wound was already beginning to blacken with rot. He knew enough about wounds to know that he might lose his arm, but he suspected that it could be worse. Still, his sense of duty drove him back to the fortress to report what had happened, in case no one else had made it, and to accept whatever punishment for his failure.

After he had fallen in the river, he had floated downstream for almost a mile before stopping in a sandy shoal. He had dragged himself out of the water with his good arm and had lain motionless for nearly a full day. The entire time he had expected to die, if not from the wound then from a hungry animal, but when it hadn't happened by noon the next day, he had struggled to his feet and started for the fortress.

Now, seeing its stone walls and iron gate before him, he was ashamed of what had happened during the battle. Too many of their troops had panicked from the archers, and as a sergeant, he felt as if he hadn't fulfilled his duty preparing the orcs for battle. Even though his platoon had performed well, he was also involved in drilling other soldiers, so in his mind, he was as responsible for the debacle as the arrogant general who had decided not to encircle the slaves before attacking.

A small detail emerged from the fortress and met him with a stretcher. He collapsed on it, and they carried him inside to the infirmary where dozens and dozens of orcs lay in various states of injury or dismemberment. Once Toulesche was on a cot, an orc healer examined him and called for his instruments. He gave the sergeant a drink of dark liquid, and within a few heartbeats, the pain in his shoulder vanished. Then, the healer ordered several others to hold him down.

Toulesche was aware of their hands pressing down on him, but the sensation was like the heaviness of a leg that has fallen asleep. Then, he felt the healer pull on the arrow, and he could feel the pressure of his shoulder rising from the cot with the tugging on the arrow, but there was no pain. It took several tries for the healer to remove it, and when it finally dislodged from the bone, the release of pressure was like having a bad tooth removed. Then, the healer gave him another drink of a different liquid, and this time, within a few heartbeats, Toulesche faded into unconsciousness.

Roskin woke well before dawn, another dream of his father and the kingdom haunting him. He packed his things and ate a breakfast of dried meat, not wanting to wake anyone with a fire. The dreams and the dark fear each grew more and more intense, the images palpable and visceral. He could almost smell their fear. The torment of being so far away frustrated him to the verge of madness, and part of him wished that he had never left home. At least then, he could protect his father, his people, his kingdom.

As he sat alone in the darkness of pre-dawn, he saw Crushaw rise from his sleeping place and stretch. Not wanting to be by himself anymore and needing to say a proper farewell to his friend, Roskin stood and walked to where the old man was preparing to strike a campfire. As Roskin approached, Crushaw looked up and smiled.

"Good morning, young master," he said, knocking sparks against dry leaves.

"Morning, Red."

"What has you stirring so early?" Crushaw asked, laying twigs and more leaves above the small flame.

"Nothing."

"That so?" Crushaw returned.

Roskin sat beside the growing fire and watched the flames dance and flicker. Crushaw took a skillet from his pack and placed it on the iron grill above the fire. Then, he took out three eggs and two slices of salt-cured ham. When the skillet was hot, he laid the ham in it, and when there was a little grease popping and sizzling against the iron, he cracked open the eggs. In silence, Roskin watched him cook. As soon as the food was ready, Crushaw removed the skillet from the flame and sc.r.a.ped the ham and eggs onto his plate. He offered to share, but the dwarf shook his head and muttered a polite refusal.

"It's a long road home," Crushaw said between bites.

"Too long."

"Molgheon and the Tredjards will get you there."

"I know."

"Are you going to track down that traitor Torkdohn and punish him for what he did?"

"I hadn't thought about it?"

Chewing a piece of ham, Crushaw stared at him.

"I just want to get Bordorn and go home. That's where I belong."

Crushaw nodded his understanding.

"Red, I know I said it before, but I need to say it again: thank you for getting me out of there."

"Young master, thank you for getting me out of Murkdolm."

"That was different. I helped you because I wanted that statue from Black Rock."

"The why is insignificant," Crushaw said. "I owed you my life, so I repaid the debt. It's that simple."

"I'll visit you at Kwarck's as often as I can."

"I know you will. I think I'll enjoy living with that wizard. I can learn a little about protecting life before I die. That'll be a good change."

"You have a good heart, Red."

"No, young master, my heart isn't kind. I have a sense of loyalty and justice, but don't confuse that with goodness."

Roskin nodded and fell silent, not wanting to argue the point. All around them, elves were beginning to stir, and they would be on the road home within an hour or so. Even though he was ready to travel, he wanted to enjoy the company of his friend, for he knew it would be many months, possibly years, before they would see each other again.

When the news of Toulesche's return reached him, Suvene leapt from his seat and sprinted to the infirmary. He had been certain that his friend had perished, for none from that platoon had returned, and many fragmented reports of their encounter with the phantom were pa.s.sing around what was left of the eastern army. As he burst into the room, he saw his childhood sparring partner face down on a cheap cot. Toulesche's skin was pale and splotched with swollen, purple veins, and despite being wrapped in a fresh bandage, the black rot of his shoulder was a grim harbinger. The most startling image for Suvene was the vacant s.p.a.ce where Toulesche's left arm should have been.

He knelt beside the cot and spoke his friend's name. Toulesche opened his eyes, smiled weakly, and muttered something unintelligible before falling back asleep. Then, Suvene found a chair and sat beside the cot. He sat there for two straight days, not eating and barely drinking, and whenever anyone suggested that he should take a break, he responded with an iron stare. At the end of the second day, Toulesche regained consciousness and shouted a command at his platoon.

"You're safe," Suvene said, holding his friend's right hand.

"Take the flank!" Toulesche yelled. "Overrun the phantom!"

"It's okay," Suvene said. "You're safe, now."

"Where are we?"

"In the fortress," Suvene choked.

"Watch the archers."

"He's got a fever from the infection," the healer said, feeling Toulesche's forehead. "He's delirious."

"Will he come out of this?"

The healer stared at the floor and shrugged his shoulders.

"Its eyes are so cold. Be on guard!"

"Can you give him anything?"

"I've done all I can. It's out of our control, now."

"Suvene, you were right," Toulesche said, looking at his friend with wide eyes. "It's not natural."

"Rest, Toulesche. You need your strength."

"Take the other flank! Take the other flank! You hear me?"

"I will. Now, rest."

Toulesche closed his eyes and fell back asleep. Suvene sat with him for three more days, and from time to time the sergeant would awaken and make a similar rant. Each time, he warned Suvene about the phantom, and with each warning, Suvene's resolve grew stronger. On the fourth morning a" seven days after he had returned a" Toulesche spiked an even higher fever. The purple veins all over his body turned midnight blue, and green puss oozed from the rotting wound. Suvene rose from his seat and called for help, but before the healer could make it, Toulesche began thrashing on the cot, flailing with his right arm and kicking with his legs. When the seizure ended, his body went limp, and he was gone.

Suvene grabbed the chair he had sat and slept on for six days and hurled it at the wall. The wood shattered against the stone, sending shards and splinters across the room. Then, he charged from the room towards the Masters' chambers. He didn't stop to request admission from the guards, instead pushing pa.s.sed them and into the room. The Masters turned to look at him, their mouths agape at this transgression, but before any could admonish him, Suvene spoke: "Grant me permission to hunt down the phantom and make him pay for his crimes."