Free Between Dark and Light by D. A. Adams

him sharing the news, and they cheered and patted him on the back at the thought of fresh rabbit stew. Roskin smiled and for a moment forgot the perils behind them in the Snivegohn Valley. These Ghaldeons had endured years of slavery, and now, finally, they had returned to their free lands. He knew the feeling of believing he would never see home again; the scars on his back reminded him of it daily. At least one of them would see his town, possibly even his family, before they turned back for battle, and that filled him with happiness.
    Despite being over the mountain and fairly close to town, they continued sleeping in shifts, just in case any mountain lions or rock wolves wandered into their campsite. But the night passed quietly, and at first light, they resumed the march, with the local Ghaldeon leading the way. He pointed out various landmarks, telling story after story about his childhood. Roskin listened closely, soaking in the details. As the dwarf had predicted, by noon, they reached the outskirts of the town, named Horseshoe Bend for the small river arcing around the southern end.
    But the Ghaldeon’s excitement faded as they passed the first buildings, for the town had seen brighter days. Most of the structures hadn’t been painted in years, and the dwarves who trudged through the streets reminded Roskin of Rugraknere, their shoulders slouched and eyes cast downwards, and none spoke a word of hello. The dark fear, which had disappeared since the earthquake, crept into Roskin’s mind, so he moved beside the Ghaldeon and whispered:
    “No offense, but we better be on guard here. Something dim has settled on this town.”
    “I swear to you,” the Ghaldeon returned. “This place was nothing like this before.”
    “I believe you,” Roskin said. “Let’s just find that inn and hope the stew hasn’t suffered the same as the place.”
    “It should be one street over.”
    They turned down an alley between two dilapidated buildings and stepped onto a broad dirt road rutted deeply by years of travel and lack of repair. Just ahead, the inn sat on the right like an oasis in the wilds. Fresh paint adorned the walls, and all the exterior boards were well-maintained. Six Ghaldeons sat in rocking chairs along the wooden porch, laughing and joking, the first voices Roskin had heard since entering town.
    “Well, that’s a good sign,” he said to the Ghaldeon.
    As they approached the inn, the group on the porch stopped their conversation and watched them. They tethered their horses to the stand, and Roskin asked Krondious and Bordorn to stay with the horses while he and the others went inside. Both dwarves nodded and sat on the bench beside the tether post. As he turned to enter the inn, Roskin noticed one of the group from the porch leave and walk south, away from the direction they had approached. The dark fear gnawed at him.
    Inside, the lobby was deserted, so Roskin asked the Ghaldeon to lead them to the tavern. The dwarf turned left and followed a hallway that opened into a broad room with a polished stone floor, a mahogany bar, and several well-crafted tables. The bar was full of dwarves, all drinking ale but not talking, but none of the tables was occupied, so the Ghaldeon sat at the first one and motioned the others to join him. Roskin reluctantly obeyed, glancing around the room for any hint of trouble. After a couple of minutes, an old Ghaldeon emerged from behind the bar and lumbered to their table.
    “Can I help you folks?” he asked.
    “Kohldorn, is that you?” the Ghaldeon asked.
    “How do you know my name, stranger?”
    “You may not remember me, but I’m Krestreon. You were friends with my papaw.”
    “Krestreon? Your papaw was Hemelreon, right? Why, you disappeared two decades ago.”
    Krestreon related the story of his capture by the orcs and how his papaw had died trying to protect him. He introduced the other Ghaldeons and Roskin, explaining their escape from bondage, the Battle for Hard