The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves Read Free Page A

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 Dorkhun, 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 Dorkhun, 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 Dorkhun, 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