The Fall of Dorkhun by D. A. Adams

hitting a fallen log, and for a moment, she thought about dropping it to better maintain balance. However, she kept her wits and held on to the weapon. The second time she fell, most of the bolts in her improvised quiver spilled, leaving only two. She got to her feet and kept running, but the slope was harsh. Her legs were jelly, and her lungs ached.
    Finally, she burst onto the trail and stumbled a third time as the incline leveled off. Leinjar and the others jumped to their feet and started for her, but she scrambled up and waved her arms for them to halt. She tried to yell, but her breath was too short to form more than a syllable. Her legs weak, she ran to the campsite, trying to motion for them to mount their horses and wagon, but none understood, so she stopped at the back of the wagon and took a couple of deep breaths.
    “Soldiers,” she managed, pointing down the trail.
    Finally, Leinjar got the message and called for everyone to pack and mount, and the dwarves each moved swiftly. They tossed pans and blankets into the wagon, and attached weapons to saddles. Within a couple of minutes, everyone was ready, and Molgheon hopped into the wagon’s seat and took the reins. Leinjar sat beside her, and the other two Tredjards got in the back of the wagon with the cage. The five Ghaldeons mounted their horses, and Molgheon shouted for them to follow.
    She released the brake and snapped the reins sharply. The horses jumped forward, causing the wagon to lurch violently. Leinjar furrowed his brow at her, questioning whether she knew what she was doing, but she returned his look with an icy glare that forced him to look away. Working the reins, she settled the horses into a smooth pace. As they climbed the mountain with the sun sinking, she searched her memory for any side trails that might help. When they rounded the next bend, the landscape brought something back, an old dwarf who had sheltered her unit a few times during the Resistance. If he were still there, he might be able to help, and his house wasn’t too far away.
    “I’ve got a friend,” she shouted to Leinjar above the clatter.
    “Glad to hear it.”
    “It’s a long-shot.”
    “I understand.”
    “We may get cornered.”
    “I trust your judgment,” Leinjar said, his wide eyes staring forward.
    Up ahead, she saw the landmark that marked the path to the old dwarf’s house. It was a salt and pepper boulder on the trail’s edge. On either side of the gabbro block, thick underbrush gave no hint of any trail, but Molgheon stopped the wagon by the boulder and hopped down. She motioned to the Ghaldeons to watch for soldiers behind them and then walked to the left side of the boulder. Reaching through the underbrush, she felt around until she located the gate’s latch hammered into the rock. The latch was rusty and hadn’t been used in some time, and once she got it to release, she pushed on the gate to swing it in, but the honeysuckle, which once only been a decoy, now held it fast.
    Her heart sank, but she returned to the wagon and found two daggers. Handing one to Leinjar, she motioned for him to follow her and returned to the gate. Using the dagger, she hacked at the vines, and following her lead, Leinjar did likewise. Within a couple of minutes, they cleared enough that the gate started moving, so Molgheon pushed it open enough to get the wagon through. She signaled to Leinjar to drive the wagon, and he ran to it and released the brake. The horses hesitated, not trusting the new way, but Leinjar guided them through and onto the overgrown path. The Ghaldeons followed one at a time, and when the last reached her, Molgheon stopped him.
    “Wait for me right here,” she whispered.
    He nodded and raised his hand for the others to stop, and the group halted in the tall grass. Molgheon pulled the gate shut and fastened the latch. Then, she brushed pieces of branch and root that lay scattered on the trail’s edge underneath the base and fluffed the vegetation on