BlackengorgeSaga

Borik

The third cot was occupied by the grey-bearded dwarf, the same that Khalin had lifted along the Old Road. He looked quite peaceful asleep and now that the caking of blood and dirt had been carefully cleaned away from his face by the acolytes, Khalin could see a familiar tattoo, that of a chain, stretching down from under each of his eyes running down his face under his beard and onto his shoulders. The warlord didn't need to look to be sure that the chain continued down to the dwarf's wrists, where the chain would join tattooed manacles. The same tattoo that the dwarf in the torture chamber had borne.

Inside the nave the dwarf had indeed woken and was supping on a bowlful of broth that the acolytes had prepared. Whether Perissa and Arion had kept a vigil all night he was not sure, but they had been replaced by Dania and Maxwell, the younger pair.

Under his beard Khalin's mouth grew into a broad smile as he saw the dwarf looked to be in much better shape.

‘Hail, and well met!’ he declared, offering his arm to the stranger.

The dwarf turned slowly and looked up, a weariness in his eyes. He stood and took Khalin's arm, grasping the forearm tightly and holding on with gusto. ‘Hark! Borik Glintshield at your service,’ he replied in croaky Common, with a guttural edge.

‘Khalin,’ the warlord started before a short pause. ‘Khalin Grundokri, at your disposal.’

He had readied himself for any retort. The lessons he had learnt from Rangrim and Rhasgar had been short and sharp, but the last two evenings' thoughts had brooded within him. He was prepared to show his own deeds and prove his worth through his own actions, they would speak louder than any centuries-old myth of his ancestors.

The eyes of the old dwarf seemed to widen for a moment and he quickly looked away subconsciously. The grip on Khalin's arm did not waver, though, and stayed solid for a few moments more.

The pleasantries concluded, Khalin quickly offered answers to Borik's questions on where he was and how he had gotten here. The acolytes had prepared him with news of The Islands and Blackengorge's place in the world and he had had a fair few minutes to contemplate and digest this information. Gradually, however, the warlord turned the conversation around to Borik's plight, and how he had come to be at the ruined keep.

Borik had been at a mine in the Cairngorms, to the north, not far from Timbervale when orcs and hobgoblins had attacked. Many of his kin had been slain, but some were dragged off and thrown into bamboo cages. The story seemed familiar, the journey across the Stonemarch, the torture and branding. Khalin felt an anger welling up inside him at the lives that the priest in the ritual chamber had ruined.

Khalin considered asking Borik about the tattoos he bore, but felt that it may be too intrusive at such an early stage.

‘Borik here is a capable drover, so will lead the oxen – one other can sit on the front plate with him in turns for a rest. Our full packs can go at the back of the wagon.’

It was the older dwarf, Borik, that broke the silence. His gruff voice was quiet behind his white beard, but the gleam in his eyes above those faded tattoos showed he was sincere. ‘There is perhaps another way, suitable for the wagon, but may contain its own dangers,’ he began, catching both Khalin and Rhasgar in his glare.

Such was the shock that the dwarf had spoken up that the silence of the camp continued. Tradden itched to fill the void, but an icy look from Kireth in his direction stopped the young fighter in his tracks. Fortunately, Borik continued his thoughts.

‘If we cannot go south of the mountains, then perhaps we can go to the north? The Cairngorms stretch but a score of leagues before the pass. Through there it is only a day's travel to Timbervale and another to Winterhaven beyond.’

Borik thought for a moment, clutching at the short branch he carried as a walking stick. He looked up at Rhasgar with steely eyes. ‘The pass is clear, of that much I know,’ he said decisively. ‘Though you are right, the western gatehouse is taken. However, they have not managed to open the gate.’

‘Sticking close to the foothills of the mountains as we travel north we may avoid the worst of any creatures from The Stonemarch and remain hidden within the scrubs, although the going will be slow. After all, if you,’ he nodded at Khalin, ‘are heading north, perhaps we should too?’

The old dwarf studied Tradden for a few moments, considering his reply. ‘I was captured, along with many of my fellow dwarves, from a mine not far from the pass. Orcs, mainly, some hobgoblins. They came over the north of the Cairngorms, through the forest and round the side of the Wintermist. A small party, but enough to rout us. Most were killed, but some, like me, were captured. They took us through the forest and around the north before throwing some of us in those bamboo cages and sending us down south and west.’

‘On the way we passed the western gate and could see the mess the orcs had made of the gatehouse. It looked strong, still, though, and we'd not seen anything come through before, so I suppose it stands still. The orcs were fewer in number, less than it sounds have infested Kiris Dahn, and there was no sign of any dragons. If we seek a way through to the Vale, then I'd suggest that was the safest route.’

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