Free Red Sky at Dawn by D. A. Adams

these circumstances.
    As he sharpened the blade, he remembered Grussard, the dwarf who had fashioned it. He had barely known the blacksmith, but this sword had become such a part of Roskin’s life that he felt as if Grussard had been a dear friend from childhood. He knew that was an absurd feeling, but as his father often said, a person can’t be judged by their feelings. Actions are what determine character, and Roskin’s had cost the smith his life, so he was bound to the sword by a blend of guilt and admiration.
    From Grussard, his thoughts drifted to Bordorn, who was a friend from childhood and who had been abandoned in a logging camp in the land of Kiredurk outcasts. Before Roskin could go home, he had to find Bordorn and get him away from that hovel. While the elfish intuition warned him of his father’s danger, a different feeling whispered that Bordorn was not safe among those dwarves.
    The eastern horizon showed the faintest signs of dawn, and Roskin put away his sword and went to where Leinjar and Molgheon slept to wake them. Knowing better than to rouse either one by touch, he stood a few feet away and spoke their names aloud. At his voice, each bolted upright – dagger drawn – and searched for the enemy at hand. Having grown up in the most peaceful kingdom in the known world, Roskin wondered at the experiences that had forged such reflexes, and he hoped never to know them firsthand.
    The captains grumbled and stretched against their stiff joints until each was awake enough to rise and begin waking the camp. The terrain had become much more hilly and broken as they neared the eastern mountains, and that day’s marched threatened to be the most difficult so far. Within half an hour, the cooks prepared and distributed the breakfast of pecans, dried venison, and cheese, and within another half hour, the army was on the move.
    They marched nonstop until noon, and as expected throughout the morning, the inclines turned more and more severe as the rolling grassland became the foothills. During lunch, Roskin joined Molgheon and Leinjar, who marched at the point. Vishghu and the other leisure slaves marched at the rear to watch for deserters or possible escapees, and on most days Roskin ate with them because he felt a bond with those dwarves from their shared experiences in the cage. Today, he wanted to determine the captains’ moods as the battle neared, for while Crushaw had given him a vague notion of the strategy, the captains probably knew more. With his intuition overwhelmed by the images of home, he couldn’t focus on a feeling of this one. He needed to know if they believed there was a good chance to cross the pass.
    “Have a seat, tall one,” Leinjar said, motioning to the ground beside him.
    “Thanks,” Roskin said, sitting.
    “Care for some pecans? They’re left from breakfast. Don’t care much for them myself.”
    “Sure,” Roskin said, holding out his hand. From the excessive hunger as a slave, he couldn’t pass up food when it was offered. “How are you, Molgheon?”
    “Fine,” she mumbled, not looking up from her meal.
    “She’s a little tired today from making arrows all night,” Leinjar said after several seconds of awkward silence.
    “Can I help with those?” Roskin offered, wanting to be helpful. Of all the dwarves he had known, he respected her as well as any.
    She shrugged, stood up, and then without speaking walked away. Roskin watched as she disappeared over a rise.
    “What did I do?” he asked.
    “Forget it, tall one. She’s got a lot on her mind. It wasn’t meant at you.”
    Roskin lingered for a few more minutes with Leinjar, asking mundane questions about what tasks needed done. Molgheon had dimmed his hope, and he stayed with the other captain just long enough not to be rude but then returned to the rear. He had gone to the others to find comfort but went back more distressed than before. Molgheon had fought against the Great Empire in the bleakest days of the