Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  Erik heard that sucking sound again, felt the air and the sound go out of the cavern. He knew she was preparing to attack, preparing to kill again, douse them with fire.

  As his dagger had instructed him, Erik threw the stone, but not at the dragon. Instead, he simply tossed it into the river of fire, and when it touched the magma, it glowed even brighter, filling the cavern with a light that challenged even the midday sun. It didn’t sink but simply grew brighter and brighter until it forced Erik to close his eyes.

  Erik heard an explosion, felt a heat even more intense than what the dragon brought with her against his face. He opened his eyes to see a wall of fire before him. It was as if the river below rose up and surrounded the dragon. He heard a deafening roar and screaming. He heard the undead screaming. He heard the dwarves and men behind him screaming. He just watched.

  The wall of fire fell back into the river as a splash in a pool of water. As the ripples subsided, Erik looked up, and the dragon was gone.

  “Where’s the dragon?” he heard Switch ask.

  “Is it dead?” Demik added.

  “It must be,” Wrothgard said. “Erik killed the dragon.”

  “Erik?” Demik questioned.

  “Impossible,” Balzarak replied. “A dragon doesn’t die so simply.”

  “You’ve seen one die then?” Switch chided.

  “It’s not there anymore,” Turk said.

  “He must have. Erik killed the dragon,” Wrothgard said, his voice with the awe of a child receiving it’s most desired gift.

  Erik could hear joy in Wrothgard’s voice, but he felt none of it. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and goose pimples rise up along his arms. He felt his face grow hot and a knot in his stomach.

  “Befel,” he muttered. “Where are you?”

  He couldn’t hold back his tears. He tried, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop them from pouring down his face. He couldn’t help the gulping, gasping sobs as they involuntarily racked his body.

  “Please,” he whispered through weeping cries.

  He buried his face in his hands.

  Erik felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

  “Erik.” Wrothgard’s voice returned to its normal tone. “Erik. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish we could do something, but we have to go.”

  Erik’s tears stopped. He bit his lip. Anger raged over him. He shrugged Wrothgard’s hand off his shoulder and stared at the soldier. The look caused Wrothgard to take a step back, and Erik simply walked past him.

  Turk stood in front of Erik who balled up his fists.

  “There is no greater love than to lay your life down for another,” Turk said. “Befel did that. He died—willingly died—trying to save Bim. There is no greater honor than to know a warrior, man or dwarf, who sacrificed so much. Bim and Befel will go down in dwarvish history as heroes, warriors willing to die for their friends, willing to fight a dragon. They will surely be at peace this day, resting in the halls of An.”

  Turk smiled at Erik, even looked to offer a comforting hug, but Erik put up his hands and backed away. He didn’t scowl. He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He just stared past Turk, at another mountain tunnel and the pinpoint of light at its end—the pinpoint of light that signaled an escape from this underworld.

  “I don’t want a dwarvish hero,” Erik said. “I want my brother back.”

  Erik walked past them all and into the tunnel. It was dark, save for that pinpoint of light. He couldn’t really see, but he didn’t care. He knew they might be there, the undead. He didn’t care about them either. Part of him hoped they would be there. Maybe they would end this pain.

  Chapter 15

  “Did you hear that?” said Patûk as he put down his cup of hot, spiced wine.

  Usually, it helped chase the chill of the mountain morning away, but this morning, the general had drunk more than one cup. He rarely drank two, but this morning, he had drunk four already and was working on his fifth. He even chastised Li for questioning him when he asked for the last cup. Was it just the wine?

  “Are there clouds gathering?” General Al’Banan asked.

  “I don’t believe so, sir,” Andu replied.

  “Well, go check, man,” Patûk hissed.

  He heard it again. It sounded like thunder, but not quite. Patûk Al’Banan hadn’t seen clouds in several days. It hadn’t rained in a week.

  “Wine,” Patûk hissed. He slapped the cup of spiced wine away. “No more wine in the morning, Li.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Li said, bending to pick up the cup but ignoring the red spatter on his clothes. Making a fuss over that would have caused even more ire in his master.

  Patûk looked over his shoulder. He hated the way his seneschal seemed to sneak around, seemingly always looking for the shadows.

  “Is there something else you would prefer in the morning, my lord?” Li asked.

  “What else is there?” Patûk snapped.

  “Tea, my lord.” Li seemed unfazed by Patûk’s mood. That made the general even angrier. Most men bowed and cowered when he raged.

  “A woman’s drink.”

  “Yes, my lord. Certainly,” Li said. “What about coffee?”

  “What is that?” Patûk asked.

  “It is a drink normally served hot,” Li replied, “from Wüsten Sahil. It is made from a bean. They grow it on the Feran Islands and Isuta as well.”

  Patûk Al’Banan grunted.

  “It is dark and bitter, my lord,” Li said. “A rich and bold taste. A man’s drink, my lord.”

  “I’ll try it,” Patûk said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Li replied. “I have some now, and when we reach civilization, I can get more … if you like it.”

  Andu reentered the tent.

  “Clouds?” Patûk asked.

  “No, sir,” Andu replied with a bow.

  Patûk heard it again.

  “Do you hear that, seneschal?” the general asked. “Or is it the wine?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Li replied, “I hear it.”

  “What, by the gods, is that?” Patûk asked. He stood. The wine had affected him more than he had originally thought. He felt dizzy and grabbed the arm of his chair to steady himself.

  “Not thunder, my lord,” Li replied.

  “Then what, damn it?” Patûk hissed. He walked past Andu, pushing him aside, and stepped outside his tent.

  His men were standing and looking around. Patûk looked to the sky. He heard it again. The sound rolled over him. He felt his heart stop as the sound wave hit him. He felt rigid and stiff as if he couldn’t move. Just after he heard the thunder, a gust of wind blew through the camp, but it wasn’t cold and crisp like a normal, mountain morning wind. It was hot and putrid. The smell made Patûk want to retch. He never retched.

  “No, not thunder,” Patûk said to himself.

  He heard it again, this time louder. He froze again. He tried moving but couldn’t. His men froze as well. No one moved. The sound paralyzed them. And then the hot wind came again.

  “Not thunder at all,” Patûk muttered. “That sounds like a roar.”

  “A bear, sir.” Andu’s voice weak and subdued, caught Patûk by surprise, and he spun on the sergeant, the back of his hand slamming hard into the man’s face.

  “That’s no bear, you fool,” Patûk Al’Banan hissed.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Andu slowly pushed himself to his knees.

  “Are you crying?” Patûk asked. His hand went to the handle of his sword, but then he released his grip. “Damn wine.”

  He stepped out into his camp. He had trained his men well. Thirteen thousand men, all trained to his strict standards. And despite his training, much of his camp had fallen into disarray. The thundering sound, the fear that paralyzed even General Al’Banan, the waves of heat, sent his soldiers running about, confused. His mountain trolls met each thundering boom with a roar of their own and then pissed themselves. Even his officers seemed perturbed. Patûk looked down at Andu again. He scof
fed.

  “A bear. You fool. The only thing I have ever heard make a sound anywhere close to that,” Patûk said, not really to his sergeant, but to himself, “was a dragon lizard from Boruck-Moore. But nothing like this.”

  Patûk saw Lieutenant Bu with his corps of spies. They seemed a bit calmer than the rest of the camp.

  “Lieutenant!” Patûk yelled.

  Bu came to his general. He knelt before Patûk. General Al’Banan could see the lieutenant look at Sergeant Andu. He heard the lieutenant’s disgusted sneer.

  “Focus on me, Lieutenant,” Patûk commanded.

  “Yes, my lord,” Bu replied, bowing lower.

  “Where are my captains?” Patûk Al’Banan asked. “Why are my men in such disarray?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” Bu replied.

  “Why are your men so steady while everyone else is running about like idiots?” Patûk asked.

  “You have trained them well,” Bu replied.

  “No.” Patûk Al’Banan shook his head. “You trained them well. You are now a captain. You are now Captain Commander. You are a captain of captains. Organize my camp. Organize my troops. Organize my officers. I need to address them.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bu replied.

  “After I speak to my men,” Patûk said, “I want you to send your spies out to our other camps to deliver my message. Is that understood, Captain?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bu replied.

  Bu stood to do as he was commanded, but then turned.

  “My lord, what is that?” he asked.

  “What is what, Captain?” Patûk asked.

  “The noise, my lord,” Bu added.

  “I don’t know,” Patûk replied, “but I intend on finding out.”

  “My lord?” Bu said.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Are we still following the mercenaries serving the imposter?” Bu asked.

  Patûk smiled. At first, he felt a flash of anger rush through his body, but Bu was an officer. He wasn’t just an officer. He was an officer of officers. He deserved to know what they were doing. He deserved to know their course of action.

  “Do not worry,” Patûk replied. “I have a plan. I have someone who is tasked with retrieving something for me that will turn the tables in our favor, Captain.”

  “My lord?” Bu asked.

  “It is a powerful weapon, Captain,” Patûk said, “but we will still need help to execute our plan. We need Pavan Abashar. If he is willing to come under my command, we will join our forces in our fight against the Stévockians.”

  “And if he isn’t willing to come under your command, my lord?” Bu asked.

  “We will force him,” Patûk said. “We will give his men the opportunity to join us. Those that don’t, will pay with their lives. Now, gather the men and break camp.”

  ****

  Patûk spoke to the men. It wasn’t all of them, of course. Over half his forces were spread throughout the Southern Mountains and beyond. But it wasn’t even to the whole force that he directly commanded. He spoke mostly to the officers and sergeants and corporals. The rest of the soldiers busied themselves with breaking camp, packing and readying for a journey unknown.

  Bu stood to the back of the gathering, listening absentmindedly to the general speak. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about what the general had to say. He simply knew what it would be.

  Through a sidelong glance, Captain Bu could see Li step up beside him. He thought he saw a smile on the seneschal’s face.

  “What are you smiling about?” Bu asked.

  “Does my smile upset you, Captain?” Li asked.

  “No,” Bu replied.

  “I told you, Captain,” Li said.

  “What did you tell me?” Bu asked.

  “I told you, you would continue to rise in favor,” Li replied. “The general will continue to recognize your worth.”

  “Yes,” Bu replied. He hated to agree with a snake like Li, even if it was in his favor. “You told me, didn’t you? You are so wise.”

  Li gave him a condescending look, making Bu want to slap him.

  Chapter 16

  Erik simply kept walking, his eyes trained on the pinpoint of light. No matter how long he walked, it always seemed so far away. It never got bigger, but he didn’t care. His aim was to focus on nothing, and the distant light offered the perfect solution.

  Several times Wrothgard or Turk called to him. He even heard someone try to catch up to him, once. He just walked faster. Ignored the calls. He didn’t care.

  With only the pinpoint of light, and the lanterns and torches some distance behind him, Erik’s path was dark. He found himself stumbling several times, catching some stubborn rock stuck in the ground, or not seeing some undulation in the pathway. He righted himself and kept on. He didn’t care.

  Erik heard his companions—he shook his head and scoffed at the word—behind him arguing.

  “We should stop and rest.”

  “Bryon doesn’t look good.”

  “What if our lights go out again?” someone asked.

  “What if those things come back?” another said.

  “We’re going to bloody die down here, dragon or no dragon.”

  Erik didn’t care.

  Finally, the light grew brighter, larger. Erik felt the air around him cool. It felt fresher as he breathed in, and then he realized he could smell rain. He touched the tunnel wall and found it wet. He felt little crawlers and vines clinging to the mountain wall as if planting them had been interrupted, an unfinished project. He was getting closer to the surface, to freedom. He sped up, walked faster, and then stopped and closed his eyes. He didn’t care. The darkness of the world beneath or the light, bright colors of the world at large, neither offered benefit because nothing ever would.

  He saw his brother. He saw the look Befel gave him right before he died. It was a look of fear, but it was a look of acceptance as well. It was the same look Befel gave his mother or father, whenever they gave him some new chore, some new responsibility. Erik always thought it was silly, how Befel could be afraid. Afraid he was in charge of shoeing the horses. Afraid he was in charge of plowing the cornfields. Afraid he was in charge of irrigating the apple trees. But he wanted to be the best. He wanted to make his mother and father proud. That’s who Befel was. Make everyone proud—even his little brother.

  Erik felt the tears again. He tried to hold them back, but couldn’t. That look … the look of resignation … that was the look he gave Erik just before he died.

  “I’m proud of you, brother,” Erik whispered through tears. “I am so proud of you. If I could have only been the man you were.”

  Perhaps that was why Befel had started questioning himself, questioning their quest, their decision to leave. He had thought he was doing what was best, and when he realized he had made a mistake …

  “And all I could do was chastise you for it,” Erik muttered. “And now father’s eldest is gone.”

  Erik thought of having a boy—three or four or five boys. He thought of the joy they might bring him. But he thought of that first boy—the oldest. He would be the first one. It would be he who Erik taught to fish and hunt first. He would be the first to learn to plant and sow. He would be Erik’s future. That was Befel Eleodum to Rikard Eleodum, and he was gone.

  “It should have been me,” Erik said. “I ran past them. All I cared about was myself. I should have been the one who died back there.”

  He felt a pinch at his hip.

  You’re not being fair to yourself.

  Erik ignored his dagger.

  The light grew increasingly brighter until Erik could see that it was an opening. Rocks were piled up in front of it, so there was only a face-sized hole, but nonetheless, Erik could see the outside world, all cloudy and rainy with the day’s light waning.

  Roots poked through the ceiling of the tunnel as Erik got closer, and he pushed them aside. Some were tough, and some he had to cut away. But he reached the opening to feel
the cool wind of a rainy, mountain day on his face. He started pushing rocks away, and the opening widened. One large boulder splashed against the wet ground, sending flecks of mud up onto Erik’s face, but he continued to clear the opening.

  “Erik,” Turk called, “wait for us. We will help.”

  He ignored the dwarf.

  Pushing enough rock away, he poked his head through and saw that the day was truly almost over, and he knew they would have to camp soon, so he left a wall of rocks, knee high, in front of the opening.

  “We will probably camp in here,” Erik said to himself, “and this will keep out the water.”

  Erik stepped over the wall of rock and out into the mountain rain. It was cold, but it was a welcome contrast to the heat of the underworld, of Orvencrest, of … her. The rain plinked off his mail shirt in a metallic chorus that Erik didn’t like. He took it off. Now, the rain just thudded against the soft leather of his jerkin. That was better.

  Erik heard the others behind him.

  “Well done, Erik,” Turk said.

  Erik heard someone moving the rocks.

  “Don’t touch those,” he snapped.

  “And why not?” Switch spat back.

  “Because we’re going to camp in there,” Erik retorted, “and unless you want to sleep in puddles, those rocks will keep most of the water out.”

  “Camp here?” Wrothgard asked. “Why do you think we are going to camp here?”

  “It is almost dusk,” Erik said. “Do you see any other place we can camp? Someplace dry and relatively warm?”

  “No,” Wrothgard replied, “no, I suppose I don’t.”

  Erik didn’t like the look Wrothgard gave him. It was one of disappointment. Part of Erik felt bad, but then he just shrugged.

  Darkness came quickly. Dwain tried to build a fire, but the dampness made it impossible. They kept a torch burning, for light, but other than that, the night, cloud-covered as it was, passed by in cold, wet darkness.

  Bryon sat against the wall, Turk tending to his wound. He groaned often. His face looked red, redder even in the firelight. He would shake, then seemingly fall asleep, and then come to again with a start and a short cry. It reminded Erik of his brother, just after he had hurt his shoulder.