20th Granite, 354"Still doing the hunger strike?" Frey asked through the bars of his cage. The sergeant sat motionless in the neighbouring cell, arms folded and eyes closed. The goblin prisoners were sleeping and the captured corporal had been moved elsewhere for medical treatment.
"He'll live, you know," Frey continued, heedless of the stubborn silence from his audience. "I did a lot of that during the war with the Green Monsters, I'm quite good at it. I imagine you know what I mean, you're a veteran of a few yourself, aren't you?"
Silence.
"Serve with old Stonebreaker back then? I guess I can understand why you'd stick around. The captain was a cruel, heartless bastard, but he kept you alive if you stuck by him. I guess when the world turns upside down, you just go with what's familiar, right?"
Silence.
"So, you going to keep stonewalling me, or are you going to give me a name? Otherwise I shall keep calling you 'Cog'. No? Suit yourself, Cog. I'll leave you a portion of my chow if you get hungry in the night." Frey slid a little cup of the unappetising prison mush through the bars, as he had each night of the week before. He was met with customary silence.
"Well, it's been a lovely talk as always. Goodnight, Cog."
Frey leant back in his cell and closed his eyes, drifting to dreams of another life. When he awoke, the sergeant was still sat in his cell, unresponsive. He did take heart, however, at the fact that the cup of brown chow was finally emptied.
21st Granite, 354"Have question," said Stug over a bowl of brown chow and wild maize gruel. Ragna looked up from her morning ale and nodded for him to proceed.
"Talk lots about Justice," he continued, "not explain well. Say 'no take from others, not just'. Also not law, but say do because not just as well as because not law. In job, stop dwarf hitting other, 'not just' and not law. If law cover crime, what justice mean?"
"That's one of the big problems," Ragna admitted, grooming the ale froth from her beard. "It's difficult to explain. Justice is about the natural order of things, about putting things in their place."
"So... you do what told?"
"No, no. It goes above people telling other people what to do."
"You do what gods tell you?"
"Not really that either. The gods aren't exactly particularly just. It wasn't particularly 'just' for Onol to turn his brother into oil or Zas into a dream when they lost the contest to create the dwarves. Justice is about fair treatment, about treating others as you wish you were treated yourself."
"So why you worship Onol if He not just?"
"Well, I respect what He is, the fact that for His faults He did create the dwarven race-"
"So you worship because strong, not just," said Stug, comprehending with a satisfied smile. "As my people."
"No, we are nothing like-"
"Nish is wealth, yes? Only some can be rich, only so many firecaps. Worship Nish for wealth, but is rich fair? Gigin not treat others as want treated - you want be killed? You eat dog - you want be eaten?"
"No, no, no," dismissed Ragna. "You can't apply justice to gods or animals, Stug."
"So justice not for those stronger than, or for those weaker than? Justice only for 'us'?"
"Now hold on-"
"
Togu way different." Stug dipped his spoon into the bowl of gruel. "All born slave, all dirt." He raised the spoon, much of the watery gruel dripping back into the bowl. "Many stay. All
can rise. Only few be strong, but earned. All respect strength because want strength. Do not resent place. Dwarves strange. Some born high, some born low. Those high stay high without earning, those low stay low, do not try to rise. Resent place but content with, instead hate those higher. Make excuses for inability." Stug frowned and dropped the spoon back into the bowl. "Confuses. Seem 'justice' make dwarven people weak all way through. Weak stay weak, strong made guilty, held back. Strong work for weak, are weakened by."
Ragna opened her mouth to protest, but found herself unable to answer. Stug had almost certainly understood wrongly, but there was truth to his words. Dwarven society was not known for its mobility - if you were born a hauler, you would be lucky if you ever rose to craftsdwarfship. If you were born a noble, you need never work. How could she defend a system like that?
As she pondered, Stug finished his breakfast and nodded to her as he left for morning patrols.
"Will consider. Thank for talk."
23rd Granite, 354"Hail!" called Ascubis as the dwarf approached, breathless from running. "What brings you to our town?"
"Slavers," breathed the dwarf hoarsely. "They're raiding Catchwater! We need aid!"
Not ten minutes later the dwarf, whose name was Lokum, hustled back down the mountain's sandy slope with three of the town's best; Broose, Jora and Datan. The captain and guardsdwarves had stayed to protect the town. Even at a hastened pace the journey took over an hour of hurried marching before the four arrived at the sietch, its entrance marked by six standing stones. There were signs of battle and track marks leading into the desert, including a crumpled form in the sands. Lokum cried out in dismay and rushed forward to it, finding to his relief that it was merely the body of a goblin slave.
"They're moving by wagon," said Jora, studying the tracks. "We can catch up to them if we start going."
"Quickly, though," added Datan, pressing a palm to the corpse. "Meat's gone lukewarm and it's starting to stiffen, so they left a good half hour ago at least."
"Check for casualties," ordered Broose. "Jora, keep watch up here and be ready to leave. Datan, you and Lokum are with me, let's see if anyone is still here."
The three dwarves descended the narrow sietch staircase and shook a glowbulb to life as they left the thin shaft of light streaming down the burrow entrance. The fight had started in the sietch itself and Broose judged by the thin sprays of blood on the walls and the trail leading up the stairwell that the goblin outside had suffered his blow belowground and crawled out only to die from the wound. A row of bedrooms flanked the entry corridor on the left; one was missing its thin stone door.
Lokum blanched as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and turned to one side, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the dry sand. Datan side-stepped swiftly to avoid it, peering into the darkness until he saw the cause of the reaction. A dog lay slaughtered in the hallway, its innards strewn across the floor and one of its hind legs hacked off. Its tongue lolled from its jaws in an almost comical fashion, save where the nose had been caved in. Datan wrinkled his own nose at the sight.
"You want I should look after the kid?" he asked.
"No," said Broose. "Stay here and watch the exit, Lokum's coming with me." He frowned at a faint blueish light at the end of the corridor. The glowbulbs set into the sietch walls had been smashed during the attack and gave no light. He cocked his bow and knelt to take aim, but Lokum quickly placed a hand on his.
"The glowcaps are fruiting," he explained. "That's just the farm." Broose nodded and raised the bow, creeping carefully forward and pointing his bow down the hallway to the right.
"Is anyone there?" he called out. Receiving no response, he turned the corner and looked around until he saw the missing bedroom door wedged tightly into a doorway. Broose guessed at a barricade and called out to it. "Are you okay?"
"No I'm not bloody okay!" shouted a gruff voice from the other side of the door. "I'm not coming with you, you bastards!"
"Uncle!" cried Lokum tearfully.
"Lokum?" called the voice. "Lokum, is that you? You have my nephew now, you bastards?!"
"No, we're not the slavers," called Broose. "My name is Sergeant Broose, we are here to help."
"Broose? The one that visited last year?"
"Yes, that's me."
There was a measure of dragging from the other side of the door and finally it was pulled back and dumped onto a handful of blocks of charcoal that had been used to barricade it. A haggard old dwarf stood at the other side, arm tied up in a rough sling made from his shirt, a fretful young dwarf beside him. Broose recognised the old dwarf as the glassmaker Toolbridges, as well as the forge behind him.
"Thank Nish you've come," said Toolbridges. "The bastards took my Kulet, my wife! My daughter and niece as well!"
"If they've been captured, they should be relatively unharmed," said Broose. "The slavers will want to keep them intact for sale. If you can tell us what we'll be up against, we'll try and rescue them."
"Goblins, six of 'em. Maybe five if the one I got in the gut didn't make it. Couple of macemen, a swordsman, rest were slaves. Got the girls at the start. Bastard of a marksdwarf leading 'em, though. Shot me in my pick arm, after that we just had to batten down. Dog bought us time, poor beast, but nothing more I could do and my nephews aren't fighters."
"Alright. Datan! Get topside, the three of us are chasing that wagon! Lokum, stay with your uncle."
"I want to help!" cried the younger dwarf.
"Then get your uncle some rest and treat his arm properly. You're not a trained soldier, we are, and you're no use to anyone dead." Broose hefted his crossbow and headed quickly for the exit, Datan and Jora waiting above.
Broose, Datan and Jora huddled behind the sand dune, flat on their bellies and roasting in their chainmail.
"Remind me to wear lighter clothes next time we go into the open desert," muttered Jora.
"Quiet," hushed Broose, studying the wagon ahead. The pair of camels sullenly dragging the wagon across the sand seemed to be exerting all of their energy pulling the driver and dwarven cargo, so most of the goblins and the marksdwarf leading them trudged alongside the wagon in the heat. Broose brought forward his crossbow and laid it on the dune.
"When I fire, head forward and take them. I won't be able to get a clean shot on anyone near the prisoners, so if you can drag the gobbers away from the wagon, do it. All got that? Good."
Broose took aim and released the catch on his crossbow, elastic force propelling the thin steel bolt across the plain in a low arc and neatly impaling one of the camels in the neck. The wagon ground to a halt as the unfortunate beast stumbled forward onto its knees and its companion attempted to bolt in a separate direction, struggling so heavily against the weight of the wagon that it pulled it fully onto its side and over, the poorly constructed joists cracking and the entire vehicle breaking apart, sending the cages tumbling into the sands.
Jora and Datan sprang from their hiding place, charging at the band of slavers with brandished sabre and axe. The swordsgoblin and macegoblins drew their weapons and the two slaves made a brief effort to escape before the marksdwarf picked up a piece of torn camel tether and began whipping them towards the onrushing dwarves. Jora brought her sabre up across the torso of the first slave in a clean arc, sending it flying forward past the swordsgoblin and into the sands. Datan roughly lopped the head from the second slave and charged into the two macegoblins with a battlecry. Seeing the way the wind was blowing, the marksdwarf immediately turned tail and ran.
Datan roughly deflected a blow from one macegoblin with his shield, bringing his axe through the sternum of the other, then bringing its hooked end backward into the other's jaw. He wrenched the weapon out and struck another blow into the goblin's shoulder as it was still recoiling from the first blow and struck the spot again, cleaving through the torso on the third strike. Narrowly blocking another strike from the other macegoblin, he kicked his opponent in the shins and then brought the axe down upon him, splitting the goblin's skull with the blade.
Jora danced in the sand, slashing at the swordsgoblin while ducking and dodging his own strokes. A lucky blow dropped her to her knees and she glanced up as the goblin raised his blade for the killing blow. She brought up her free hand, filled with sand, and scattered it across the goblin's face. As the swordsman reeled from blindness, she thrust upward with her sabre and ran him through, grimacing as he toppled onto her. She shrugged him off and turned to chase the marksdwarf, only to find he had disappeared.
The marksdwarf stopped for a moment to catch his breath; he had made it to a high dune, out of sight of the two dwarves that had caught up with the wagon. He glanced up at the sound of scuffling from above and let out a brief cry as another dwarf landed on his chest, pinning him down and thrusting a crossbow into his beard. His eyes widened in recognition.
"Broose?" he exclaimed.
"...Brickbeard?" came the equally surprised reply. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"What does it look like I'm doing? What the hell are
you doing here?"
"What does it look like
I'm doing? Gigin's teeth, man. Stot!
Stot!" Broose stood up, keeping the crossbow levelled at the dusty ochre-bearded dwarf as he backed away.
"Get moving," he hissed. "You've got maybe half a minute to get behind that next dune before the rest of my squad gets here, Brick."
"Damn it. Thanks, friend."
"You owe me for this, you son of a bitch. Now go!"
Broose gritted his teeth as the marksdwarf ran across the sandy plain, diving behind the next dune just as Jora crested the one behind Broose.
"Cleared out the goblins," she said. "Datan got the cages open, they're a bit rattled but they'll be fine. Any luck with the dwarf?"
"No," grunted Broose. "Must've gotten away. Let's get those dwarves back to their family, aye?"
Broose spared a last look at the far dune before heading back to the remains of the wagon with Jora. Five minutes later, an ochre-bearded dwarf struggled out from under the red sands and began the long trek back across the desert.
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Topic: Olonkulet - Bloodlines (Read 62834 times)