The Fall of Dorkhun by D. A. Adams Page A

the gate. Shortly, she was satisfied that in the failing light, only a dwarf from underground would be able to tell anything had been disturbed. From down the trail, the sounds of marching reached her, so she climbed over the boulder and crouched on the other side. She signaled to the others to remain quiet, and everyone held still.
    As the soldiers got closer, Molgheon’s heart beat harder and harder, and the time it took for them to reach the boulder seemed impossibly long. She was certain at any moment one of them would notice the gate or hear one of horses whinny or even worse be called to by Jase or Torkdohn. If the dwarves were found, Molgheon would fight to the death, for she would never again be taken alive by them. She pushed those thoughts from her mind and focused on breathing.
    As the regiment marched by, bits of conversation came to her, and Molgheon gathered the soldiers seemed not to care about the quickly abandoned campsite or that there were dwarves on the trail somewhere. Instead, most of them were more interested in when they were going to stop to eat and how long they would get to rest before continuing the climb. Molgheon was relieved by their disinterest and, for the first time since spotting them, relaxed a little. Once they were out of earshot, she rose from behind the boulder and walked to the wagon.
    As she neared, the Ghaldeons dismounted and let their horses graze in the tall grass. She had expected Torkdohn to call to the soldiers and wondered why he hadn’t, but as she neared the cage, she saw why. Leinjar had gagged him with a thick strip of cloth and still held both ends tightly outside the bars. The old dwarf clawed at the binding, but the Tredjard’s grip was too much.
    “The coward kept silent from a threat, but didn’t think I should give this one the chance,” Leinjar said to Molgheon, smiling.
    “Good. You can let him go, now.”
    “Maybe I should tie this to the bars.”
    “No, they’re gone. We’ll be fine until morning.”
    Leinjar released the cloth with his left hand and pulled it through the bars with his right. Torkdohn spat and coughed to regain his breath as Molgheon leaned close.
    “Try to call for them, and I’ll shoot you myself,” she said. “Understand?”
    “I won’t need to call out,” Torkdohn returned. “These mountains are crawling with soldiers. You’re all dead, mark my words.”
    “If it comes to that, you’re the first to die.”
    She turned to Leinjar and told him to drive the wagon, then motioned for the Ghaldeons to get their horses. Without waiting for anyone to answer, she marched down the old path that led to the house. No one had traveled this way for some time, and she was certain the old dwarf had passed on, but with luck, the house would still be there. They could sleep in it for the night and regroup in the morning.
    Twilight gave way to darkness as she strode towards the house, her head full of memories she wished she didn’t have. The last time she had been at this place was a few days before her capture. She had been half-starved and mostly frozen, and the old dwarf, while not able to offer much because his stores of food had been depleted by the retreating dwarves, had given her warm clothes and a decent meal. She had always remembered his kindness and, truth be told, had taken in Red in part as a way to repay that generosity.
    The path curved with the mountain’s contour, winding deep into a grove of trees. Up ahead, a light flickered from inside the old house, and Molgheon froze. From the condition of the trail she hadn’t expected to find anyone, and now, seeing the light, she was unsure what to do. Leinjar stopped the wagon, hopped down, and moved beside her. She pointed to the light, and the two stood for a moment before either spoke.
    “Maybe it’s your friend,” Leinjar finally offered.
    “I don’t know how. You saw the gate, the path.”
    “Only one way to find out.”
    Molgheon nodded and continued forward.