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

Leinjar followed in the wagon. The yard around the house was overgrown, and vines climbed wooden walls that hadn’t been painted in years. The front porch was littered with leaves and branches, but the house still looked sound. While most dwarves prefer the certainty of stone, some Ghaldeons are renowned carpenters, and like the elves, many of their wooden structures can survive for decades. Molgheon hesitated at the bottom of the porch, but then, brushing away debris with her feet, she climbed the three steps, crossed the creaking boards, and knocked on the door.
    Through the curtain, a shadow slowly rose from a seat and approached the entrance. The door opened, and a stale, musty aroma rushed out, causing Molgheon to catch her breath. A bent, frail figure stared at her, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize him. Before she could say anything, the old dwarf’s eyes lit up and a toothless smile showed through his thick, white beard.
    “Molgheon,” he said, reaching out a thin hand to touch her arm. “It’s so good to see you.”
    “Yes,” she said, placing her hand on his. She was surprised not only that he remembered her name but also that she hadn’t recoiled from the touch. “It’s been a long time, Bressard.”
    “Please, come in, come in.”
    “I have friends with me.”
    “Sounds like the old days,” the dwarf said, chuckling. “They’ll have to excuse the mess.”
    “Of course,” Molgheon said, laughing. “Let me get them.”
    She hurried back to the wagon and called for the dwarves to carry the cage inside. In a moment, they hoisted it from the bed and started for the porch. Molgheon walked a few feet in front, clearing branches so that nobody twisted an ankle, and when they reached the porch, she told them to give her a minute to clear the leaves and branches that hadn’t been swept away for years. When she finished, she guided them up the steps and through the door. The dwarves found a clear spot for the cage and set it down. Moving with the difficulty of old age, Bressard walked over and peered through the bars.
    “You’ve captured a slave trader, eh?”
    “We’re delivering him to Dorkhun for trial,” Leinjar responded. “Both of them.”
    “So the hermit of Mount Roustdohn is still alive?” Torkdohn asked with a snort.
    “He’ll be around longer than you,” Molgheon said.
    “At my age, each sunrise is a pleasant surprise, but you can believe I’m happy to see the likes of you in a cage.”
    “They won’t make it to Dorkhun, mark my words.”
    “We’ll see,” Bressard said, returning to his seat. Slowly, he lowered himself. “The rest of you are friends of Molgheon, so you’re friends of mine. Please, make yourselves at home.”
    The dwarves introduced themselves and thanked him for letting them spend the night. Two of the Ghaldeons went to the wagon for food, two more went for wood, and the fifth went to the stove to ready it for a fire. All three Tredjards stayed near the cage, moving items out of arm’s reach and watching the traitors closely. Molgheon sat in a chair beside Bressard and briefly explained the situation. He listened intently, nodding at times and asking her to repeat words when he didn’t quite hear. When she finished, he rubbed his beard and sat silently for a few moments, deep in thought.
    “Well,” he said at last. “I’m glad for the company. It’s been awhile since anyone stopped by.”
    The Ghaldeons returned to the house with wood and food. Within moments, a fresh fire sparked to life in the stove, the wood cracking and popping as it took to flame, and the dwarves prepared their meal. Molgheon leaned back and watched. More than twenty years earlier, she and her husband had sat in this living room and enjoyed their last home-cooked meal together. She smiled at the memory and reached over and took Bressard’s hand. His skin was thin as paper and his hand was lighter than seemed possible, but he held her hand gently and smiled again, his