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 almost 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.
Sturdeon prospers mostly from gems mined from the mountains and ore panned in the streams, but the blacksmiths of this region have produced the finest craftsmanship for centuries, which is one reason the Great Empire worked so diligently to conquer it. The economy of Sturdeon demands that weapons and resources be exported to other regions because, despite being somewhat flatter and lower terrain than Kehldeon, the farms of this area do not produce enough food for the city, so Sturdeon relies on the import of grains and vegetables. Because the soil away from the river is too rocky and too leached to sustain intensive farming, most of the land is used to raise chickens, cows, and pigs of good quality, and in many outlying regions, the families that can afford to import Sturdeon meats are considered very fortunate.
Of the three cities, Turhjik is the most unusual because it was taken from orcs hundreds of years before the Ghaldeons were conquered and divided. As such, the oldest parts of the city are carved deep underground, but the newer areas have spread across the mountain side. Turhjik serves two main economic purposes: the mining and the smelting of iron ore. Without these industries the city would have little to offer the outside world, but because the mines are so rich, Turhjik must defend itself from orcs routinely. Farmers in this region joke that they plant and harvest by the signs of raids, not by the signs of weather, and the soldiers of Turhjik are reputed to be as seasoned and cunning as Tredjards.
While the southern and central dwarves are known for their skill in warfare, the northern dwarves – known as Kiredurks locally but called white beards by the outside world – have lived peacefully for hundreds of years. Their military experience is usually limited to sending soldiers to other nations in need. Their own nation is located far to the northwest and their only neighbors are the Ghaldeon tribes not yet part of the Great Empire and the ogre clans, with whom they share close friendship and deep economic ties. Consequently, the Kiredurks have focused for centuries on art, music, craftsmanship, and poetry. While their axes and hammers are mediocre, their songs echo down from the mountains like melodic thunder, and bards from every land, even orcs and goblins, travel to the capital, Dorkuhn, to study. Kiredurk tapestries and paintings adorn the halls of many wealthy estates, and their jewelry surpasses all others in beauty and craft.
In appearance, Kiredurks generally stand four feet tall, have pale skin, and grow hair and beards that range from sandy brown to light blond. Physically, most are slimmer than the other two races, but they are more nimble and swift, often able to outrun the snow leopards of their mountains. While they are slimmer than other dwarves, their chests and arms are still thick with muscle, and they are astonishingly strong for their size, capable of pressing twice their body weight above their heads. Without much military service required, most Kiredurks stay fit by competing in athletic events, and being known as a champion hammer slinger or an uphill snowplow winner raises a dwarf’s social status considerably.
Because their winters are long and harsh, they live almost exclusively underground in complex cities that connect through hundreds of miles of tunnels, and they have developed systems of mirrors that allow sunlight into the deepest caverns, which allows them to farm miles below the surface. In turn, Kiredurks almost never face famine and have the most populous nation despite covering the least amount of surface land. Because of their love of art and skills with crafts like masonry and carving, their cities are marvels of beauty and engineering, humbling even the magnificence of Kehldeon.
Kiredurks also pride themselves in knowledge of the world and of history, and much time and energy is spent educating the young and continuing the education of adults. Even the lowest and least industrious families in the kingdom can read, write, and perform simple math, and in the most physically demanding professions, pride is taken in having knowledge of societies outside of their own mountains. This focus on education and passion for knowledge helps the country remain safe and peaceful, for carved above the door of the Hall of Gronwheil is a quote from Erycke the Just, founder of the First Kingdom : “Peace starts and ends within.” For the most part, the dwarves of the northern mountains embody this ancient belief – each individual doing his or her part to keep the local and national peace; each township maintaining efficient operations to keep taxes at a minimum; and each parent striving to instill this philosophy in their children. Of course there are Kiredurks who are outlaws and renegades, dwarves who steal from the granaries or drink too much ale too often, but they are the exceptions and are expelled from society if they show no willingness or ability to reform. In general, however, most Kiredurks seek peace, art, and beauty in their lives.
But there was one Kiredurk who did not yearn for peace and had grown to loathe the art and beauty of his home in Dorkuhn, the capital city. This dwarf, first son to the king and heir to the throne, craved adventures and dreamed of glorious battles in which he would vanquish his enemies and become a legend. His desire for conflict began in his teens and was scoffed at by the elders as a phase, but the feelings lingered into his early twenties until even the most loyal of subjects began to whisper that the king’s son was mad. Most believed that the problem was that Roskin of the Dark Beard was not wholly Kiredurk, his mother being a wild elf of the Loorish Forest . The elf in him needed to live above ground, they would say. However, the elders remembered that King Kraganere had also been adventurous in his youth, which was why he had married a wild elf in the first place. Getting married calmed down the young king and helped him settle into the duties of his position, but their marriage had been brief – wild elves do not like living in densely populated underground cities – and the young woman had asked for and been granted a divorce shortly after Roskin was born.
The king remarried when Roskin was five and had three more children – two being girls who became the chief engineers on the structural reformation project after an earthquake had damaged much of Dorkuhn’s foundations, but that is a different tale. Early on, Roskin was considered unusual as a dwarf and a Kiredurk. For one, he was much taller than most, standing just over five feet tall and having much larger feet and hands than even the biggest dwarf. For another, his hair and beard were black with streaks of white and silver, just like the hair on the heads of the Loorish elves, but the most striking difference between Roskin and other Kiredurks was his temper. Most white beards remain calm and relaxed even under powerful stress, but Roskin easily became frustrated. If he could not get the sound right on a particular instrument, that flute or lire or fiddle would find itself at the bottom of a lake. In log chopping events, if he missed a stroke, he would smash his axe into the nearest stone, and he had been completely banned from all grappling events in the kingdom, by order of his father. His temper only added to the whispers.
On his twenty-second birthday, Roskin was summoned to his father’s private study, a room high in the palace where the king would spend his evening hours with a book or a pen. Roskin had rarely been inside the study, but he had always been fond of the dark mahogany desk that faced the Hall of Gronwheil and the gray marble bookshelves that were lined with volumes of history, lore, and poetry. Roskin’s favorite was the oil canvas of his mother that hung with the other family portraits. He had a similar painting in his bedroom but preferred this one because the artist had more fiercely captured the wildness of her eyes. As he entered the study, Roskin stopped beside the painting and stared.
“She was magnificent,” his father said, standing from behind the desk and moving toward his son. “But she wasn’t happy here.”
“I know,” Roskin said, looking away from the painting. He often wondered why she had never attempted to visit him, and each year on his birthday he would hope all day that she would remember him and arrive at the palace.
“You also have trouble with our ways.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I try to do better.”
King Kraganere laughed and hugged his son. “Do not apologize for who you are. You can’t help your feelings. A person should be measured by their actions.”
“Yes sir.”
The two sat by the window, staring into the perpetual night of the underground city, darkness broken only by torches and the faint glow on the fields outside of town. As they watched people move towards the entrance to the symphony hall, on their way for the evening concert, Roskin wanted to reassure his father that he loved the city and the people, subjects who would one day bind themselves to him without question. He did love them, but the love was drowning in a fear he could not place.
“I want you to update the maps of our kingdom,” the king spoke after a long silence. “They are old and missing information.”
“I will start tomorrow morning at the Hall, before lecture.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Sir?”
“To be accurate, you must see what you are mapping.”
“We have good maps of Dorkuhn.”
“Yes, we do, but the rest of the kingdom is poorly recorded. I think you can do better.”
“But I’m supposed to study the Fifth Kingdom from Master Hinkroh this session and finish my songs for the festival.”
“You need a change, something to help you relax. A little travel helps me.”
“I have never complained about my duty, sir,” Roskin said, suddenly afraid that this was a test.
“This is your assignment. Map the whole kingdom from the River of Fire to Erycke’s Tomb to the Kireghegon Halls of the great peak. There is no argument. The maps must be complete before you take your place on the council.”
“I cannot join the council until I finish school, at least five more years.”
“Do not question my orders. You have your duty. I expect not to see you in the morning.”
After that, the king returned to business, and Roskin went to his room, packed for the journey, and then said goodbye to his friends, siblings, and stepmother. Early the next morning, he gathered a set of maps from the Hall and set out for the Kireghegon Halls, the oldest remaining section of the kingdom. The city was actually from the Second Kingdom of Lord Thysian the Explorer, but all of the First Kingdom had long been abandoned because of structural issues. The Kireghegon Halls were two month’s walk from the capital, but to Roskin, that boundary was the most logical place to start because it was the highest point of the kingdom.
Travel was easy for the heir to the throne. In every township once someone recognized the king’s insignia, food and shelter were readily offered. For the first two and a half months, Roskin spent each night in a new tavern or inn, surrounded by new people who all laughed at his jokes and listened intently to his theories on goshkenh ball, and he was never in need of companionship or lonely at night. This new freedom began to quench his need for battle and lessened his dreams of glory, but in every new place and with every new companion, the dark fear scurried around the edges of his mind. While he never had reason to feel physically threatened – not even the most foolish or distressed outlaw still underground would consider harming the heir – Roskin constantly felt that his life was at risk, but he dared not mention this fear to anyone.
When he reached the Kireghegon Halls, Roskin was astounded by the ancient architecture and engineering. Every town and city that he had seen were open at the entrances because the Kiredurks had learned that, during a siege, heavy fortifications can cause catastrophic cave-ins as they are ravaged by battering rams, so sometime in the Third Kingdom all new settlements were built with only guard posts at the tunnels. However, Kireghegon was built with and still utilized metal doors that rose forty feet from floor to ceiling, and the hinges alone were taller and thicker than Roskin. The surface facing away from the city was carved with images of great leaders who had long been forgotten, even by the best scholars, and the surface inside the city was covered by mosaics of Erycke the Just as he defended the first town from cave trolls. The mosaics were made from gems and minerals and still glimmered and sparkled in thousands of shades of every color, but to Roskin the most astonishing feature was the mechanism for opening and closing the gate. One person of average size could turn the crank that stood on a two foot tall pedestal beside the main path, and the crank would wind or unwind a chain that disappeared into the ceiling and snaked through a system of pulleys that leveraged the massive doors. As the guard who was at least eighty years old demonstrated the system, pride surged through Roskin, for his ancestors had built this contraption that still functioned flawlessly after thousands of years.
In Roskin’s time, most cities had been built by hollowing large caverns, then using the stones as blocks for new buildings. Ceilings were always reinforced with metal pillars and cross members, because they had found this system to offer more stability, yet every structure in the Kireghegon Halls was carved directly from the mountain. Many buildings were adorned with platinum, silver, and palladium ornaments, and all the doors were made of sturdy metals that showed no signs of rust. While he had seen paintings of this ancient city, Roskin found himself stopping every few steps and absorbing the grandeur of the former capital, and mapping the city took nearly two weeks.
During that time, he grew fond of the citizens. For the most part, they were taciturn and stoic but not malicious or bitter; they simply had little to say because, as one dwarf put it, living around such history humbled them enough to keep them from thinking they had anything new to offer. When they did speak, they usually told some local legend or piece of trivia about a structure. Roskin listened to most only from respect for his hosts, but one story in particular caught his attention.
According to the legend, the Kiredurks of this city had crafted a ceremonial figurine for the Ghaldeon king during the Second Kingdom . The sculpture was cast from platinum and portrayed two dwarves standing shoulder to shoulder in a defensive posture. The gift symbolized the Ghaldeon spirit of brotherhood after they had helped the Kiredurks repel an invasion, and it had remained in Sturdeon for over two thousand years. Rumor was that when the Great Empire captured the city, all precious artifacts were moved to a human town to the east. A group of dwarves, loyal to the fallen Ghaldeon king found the hiding place and reclaimed several pieces. After this, the remaining treasure was transferred to a fortress along the northern border for protection. The fortress had been built by the most ruthless general of the Great Empire, a man referred to by the ogres on whom he had waged war as “Evil Blade.” None who had been taken to the fortress was seen again, so no dwarf or ogre actually knew if the Brotherhood of Dwarves was there or not, but it had not been part of the recovered treasure.
Roskin heard that story three times in Kireghegon, and it appealed to him. He had met the descendants of the displaced Ghaldeon king, who had died in the barn of a pig farm seventy miles from his palace. The farmer never knew that the king had been hiding on his farm until he noticed the smell one morning, and even then the farmer only knew that a filthy, disheveled old man had ruined a week’s worth of feed. The farmer went to his grave without sharing the story with anyone, fearing he might be charged with murder by the Great Empire, and for years few believed the king was dead because the body was never recovered.
The king’s grandson, now an old man himself named Gebdorn, had sought and received exile in Dorkuhn, and Roskin had grown up hearing stories about the Ghaldeons and their once mighty kingdom. As a boy, he had always felt sorry for Gebdorn and had many times offered to help reclaim the lost lands, but the old dwarf would smile, pat Roskin’s head, and say that the old ways were lost, the old brotherhoods broken. As Roskin grew into a young man, more of the fallen king’s family moved to Dorkuhn, and he had become close friends with a great nephew named Bordorn, who was two years older and taught Roskin how to wield a short sword. When he came of age, Bordorn decided to join the Resistance of the western tribes, and on the night he left, Roskin had walked with him for several miles.
“I go to certain death,” Bordorn had said.
“Don’t say that. It’s awful to think.”
“Your city and kingdom are magnificent, but I would rather die fighting for my name than hide like a coward and grow old.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I can see that. Then, I’d have two armies to fight.” Bordorn laughed and punched Roskin in the arm.
“When I’m of age no one can stop me.”
“Then join us if you wish, Pepper Beard.”
But after Bordorn had left and Roskin had returned to the palace, King Kraganere lectured his son for three months on how the Kiredurks had not joined in that battle because the Great Empire was too powerful for their armies, and it was better for their kingdom to help the Ghaldeons through other means, like food and money, than to risk an invasion they could not repel. Roskin never agreed with his father but gave up that dream of glory as more and more duties became his. Yet he had remained in touch with Bordorn, who had not died because the Resistance had grown so weak and insignificant that there were no battles left to fight. For his part, Bordorn lived with a small tribe in the Snivegohn Valley and also gave up fighting for what was already lost.
After the Kireghegon Halls were mapped, Roskin traveled north to Geishkuhn, the most distant township, and there he found more hospitality and more legends told around more pitchers of ale. He spent a week in that city, and from there he crisscrossed east and west on his way south. He mapped every major city and minor township until he reached the outer gate that opened onto the Ghaldeon lands. Over two years had passed when he finished the last map, and Roskin was ready to return home, but one night in a township outside of Dorkuhn, he heard again the tale of the stolen statue, the Brotherhood of Dwarves, from an ogre merchant traveling on business.
“They say it’s kept in Evil Blade’s castle, but no one knows,” the ogre said, waving his gnarled hands for effect.
“What do you know of this statue?” Roskin huffed.
“I know that its worth is more than this whole township.”
“Sounds like a fool’s treasure to me,” the barkeep said from behind the bar.
“Yeah, you’d never make it in and out,” another ogre added.
“Surely there’s a secret entrance,” Roskin said.
“You’d be full of arrows before you found it,” the second ogre returned.
“There’s one who knows the way in and around that place, and he might be willing to help,” the first ogre said.
“Help with what?” the barkeep asked, wiping out a tankard.
“Stealing the treasure.”
“None of you are that crazy, I hope,” the barkeep said, returning the mug to its hook above the bar.
“We’re just talking,” the first ogre said. “But there is one who would do it.”
“Who?” Roskin asked.
“Evil Blade, himself.”
The second ogre nearly fell backwards from his seat. “That is crazy. He would cut your throat or boil your head in oil. He’d never help any but himself.” He spat on the floor when he finished.
“He’s an old man, now, and he’s not on good terms with Emperor Vassa anymore.”
“How do you know this?” Roskin asked.
“A few years ago an army of several clans drove Evil Blade’s forces from the homeland. He was disgraced by the defeat, and the Emperor stripped him of his rank and banished him to a little town in the Ghaldeon lands. I bet he’d like to get even.”
“I’d rip him limb from limb. He killed half my clan in one year. Even after we surrendered, he kept killing us. He’s the devil, and I’d rip him limb from limb,” the second ogre hissed. He slammed his fist on the table and stood. “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense.”
“It’s just talk, anyway,” Roskin said with a wink to the first ogre, but in his mind the idea began to burgeon. He would find Evil Blade and convince the old man to get him to the statue. Then, he would turn the fallen general over to the ogres, who wanted vengeance for the terror he had unleashed on their lands. Roskin had heard the stories of Evil Blade wiping out villages and showing no mercy to any ogre – male, female, or babe, but Roskin did not fear him. The old man might have been fierce in his day, but Roskin was in his prime. If it came down to it, there wouldn’t be much of a fight.
Two days later, he was back in Dorkuhn, and his stepmother and siblings had arranged a party in his honor in the courtyard behind the palace. Exotic meats roasted on spits, and aged ale flowed freely from kegs. For three days most of the city shut down commerce and industry, showing honor to the heir, and every house rang with song. To Roskin, the festival seemed extravagant, but unbeknownst to him, the mapping had been more of a rite of passage than an official duty. Every Kiredurk heir back to Lord Thysian had, as part of his unique education, walked the entire kingdom and sketched a record of his future lands. If the heir failed at this task, he was found unworthy for kingship and had to turn over the throne to another. Throughout history, only two Kiredurks had failed the task, one from dying in a cave-in and the other from being too lazy. When those two had failed, their respective families had had no other legitimate heir, and the crown had passed to a new family. King Kraganere was the tenth king of his line, which represented the Eighth Kingdom . Erycke the Just’s bloodline established and maintained the First Kingdom and ended when the fifth king and his wife were unable to have children. The transition from the First Kingdom to the Second was the bloodiest and most chaotic, for in those days, clear laws had not been developed. When Lord Thysian’s blood failed after nine crowns, the Third Kingdom evolved from a series of contests between the strongest and wisest generals. Very little blood was shed in that transition, and in each successive Kingdom, the change of power through force lessened until between the Seventh and Eight Kingdoms the respect for law and peace had become so much a part of Kiredurk culture that none dared violate the sanctity of what the council decided. King Kraganere explained all of this to him in the private study the fourth day of Roskin’s return.
“When I passed my walking of the kingdom, my father explained to me as I will explain to you, the secret to peace within this kingdom begins with the king, for if you do not have inner peace, this kingdom will fall into chaos. To find your inner calm, you are granted one year of freedom to do anything you please within our lands, but choose carefully. During that year you lose your status as the heir and must remain outside of this palace without any insignia.”
“What was your choice?” Roskin asked.
“I was bold and headstrong. I thought the outside world was where I belonged, so I chose to travel to the ends of the earth.” The king stopped and stared out the window, a smile faintly showing.
“Where did you go?”
“First, I went to Kehldeon and played music for the travelers at the Crescent Moon Inn. Then, I turned east and traveled into the conquered lands.”
“That is where you met my mother?”
“Not right away. On the way to Turhjik, I was spotted by a patrol of the Great Empire. In those days, the Resistance was still strong, and any dwarf found away from his or her labor was considered a threat to peace, so they chased me into the lowlands that bordered the Loorish Forest . They gave up chase, but the elves didn’t trust outsiders. An archer shot me in the chest, and I was left for dead.”
The king pulled up his white tunic and revealed the scar just to the right of his heart. Roskin leaned closer to his father to hear more clearly because seeing the scar made the story seem more real and more immediate, and he felt a strong need to protect his father.
“Your grandmother found me at the base of her tree dwelling and took pity on me. The rest you already know.”
Roskin pressed his hand to the king’s cheek and held it there. He wanted badly to tell him of the statue and the fortress and Evil Blade, but he knew his father would never let him travel into the Great Empire, not after telling that story.
“I want to visit Bordorn and live with the Ghaldeons,” Roskin lied.
“If you leave the kingdom, your safety cannot be guaranteed.” The king took Roskin’s hand and held it tightly.
“I will be safe with Bordorn.”
“Very well. In the morning, we will announce it to the council.”
That night, Roskin assembled gear for the cross-country hike. According to his maps, the road to Bordorn’s village was a couple of days from the outer gate, but the way into the conquered lands would take at least two weeks. As he organized the sleeping bag, cook set, and hunting tools, his stepmother came to his room. She was a thoughtful woman who had never shown resentment towards Roskin’s mother, and she had always treated him with the same love and care given to her natural children.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said, helping him load the backpack. “Your father needs you to return. The kingdom needs it.”
“Ma’am, I’ll be safe. The road to Bordorn’s tribe is too far west for the Great Empire.”
“You can tell that lie to your father, and he may act like he believes you, but I know better. Where are you going?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Roskin, don’t treat me like a fool. Where?”
The young dwarf looked into her eyes and knew that her intuition had formed a guess.
“He would not let me go if he knew.”
“Because it’s not safe,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I always knew you’d want to find her.”
“I have to know,” he said, trying to avoid eye contact.
“Then go to Bordorn first, and let him go with you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hugged him and slipped several strange coins into his purse. He had already packed several dozen Kiredurkian coins in his backpack, and he was puzzled by her gift.
“Out there,” she said. “Our coins aren’t always the wisest choice. You will need these.”
He hardly slept that night. Visions of what the outside world would look like raced through his mind. He had been to the surface many times, but always within the kingdom and in the same three locations that were used for athletic events. He had heard stories of meadows and forests, but having the opportunity to see them for himself almost seemed surreal. When his attendant woke him the next morning, he felt drunk from grogginess but climbed from bed and dressed quickly.
The morning was a blur of activity, and the ceremonies to send him off seemed endless and dull beyond belief, yet by lunch he was on the road to the southern outer gate. The two week trip through the kingdom was much different without his insignia. Dwarves he’d sat with just days before turned him from their doors like a beggar, and the only foods offered to him were scraps and leftovers. By the time he reached the gate, Roskin was more tired and hungry than ever before, and his back ached from sleeping on hard stone and damp earth. He was ready to get above ground.
The guards who searched and questioned every person who passed through the gates opened his backpack and threw the contents in the snow outside, as they would with any renegade or outlaw banished from the kingdom. When Roskin tried to get back his poetry journal, the guards laughed and shoved him around. At first Roskin played along, believing it an extension of the ceremonies, but when a female guard began reading one of his poems in a mocking voice, his temper flared beyond control. He punched the guard in the nose, and she slunk to her knees, coughing and spitting from the blood that poured down her face. The other guards were stunned at first, and Roskin managed to knock out two more before they could react. He had always been an excellent grappler and pugilist, but one dwarf is no match for nine. The guards punched and kicked him until his eyes swelled and his ribs went numb; then they flung him out the gate into a snow pile.
“You’re lucky we don’t cut your heart out, renegade,” one guard said, kneeling over him. “But if you return to this kingdom, we will.”
The guard punched him one last time and left him in the snow. Roskin lay still and tried to catch his breath. He had lost fights before but had never been hurt like this. He ached all over and could barely see, and the snow was beginning to burn his skin, even through his leather boots and thick clothes. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, he got to all fours and began repacking his gear. When he was sure that everything was accounted for and repacked, he glanced back at the gate and saw that a guard was watching him with a crossbow in her hands. There was no choice but to go down the mountain.
