The Brotherhood of Dwarves by D. A. Adams

Author:D. A. Adams [Adams, D. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9780976554721
Publisher: Third Axe Media
Published: 2005-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

A Soldier Remembers

On good nights, Crushaw would dream about the childhood he had never had, dreams of being the son of nobility in a prosperous kingdom. His mother and father would read stories to him about dragons and sorcery as he went to bed, and he would get to sleep until noon. After waking, he would receive his breakfast, exotic fruits and rich meats, in the luxury of his bed. His mother’s hair would be pumpkin orange, like his, and his father would rule their lands with justice and mercy. On good nights, he could see their faces clearly.

But on bad nights, the dreams were of the morning horn calling slaves to the fields; the food troughs flowing with slop for them to eat like pigs; the sun beating down on sugar cane; the lash splitting flesh. On bad nights, he slept little and wanted to forget that he had never seen his mother’s face, had never heard her voice.

Since being at Kwarck’s, he had had mostly good nights. The wizard had explained about the herbs, how they soothed nerves and helped the body heal itself, and Crushaw was glad to have them. The shakes had almost killed him, and staying sober was harder than crossing the wilds on foot as he had done after escaping the plantation. Every morning he woke wanting a taste, and the feeling stayed with him all day. Most days it was like an afterthought just beneath the surface, but some days it crept into his arms and shoulders and burned. He didn’t want to know how bad it could be without the herb’s help.

Since Roskin had left, Crushaw and Vishghu still worked in different fields every day and took their meals in different rooms, but Kwarck was so focused on the coming harvest that he paid little attention to either one. Each morning and evening the wizard would spend time preparing stalls in his barn for the new crop. Crushaw had offered to help, but the wizard had refused because he believed only the master of a house should handle its ruined food. The custom was strange to the former slave, but the wizard was earnest in that belief, so Crushaw was left to himself.

Even without the dwarf, Crushaw practiced swordplay every evening, using the sword the horseman had dropped when Roskin had sliced his arm. The old man’s muscles had grown stronger, and he felt thirty years younger from the labor and exercise. Still, his legs were cumbersome and clumsy as he went through his footwork, and his feet were heavy like stone slabs, making him much slower than he had once been. Since he had no intentions of going back to war, the slowness didn’t bother him too badly, but Crushaw knew the fearsome days of his youth were long gone. Even those pitiful soldiers from Murkdolm could probably take him now.

He remembered being fierce, the looks in his enemies’ eyes as he swept into their lines. Many were so frozen by fear that they were beaten before his blade reached flesh.

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