Why wouldn’t they attack? Why wouldn’t they have tried to kill us?
But then Erik saw the two men in the middle of their campsite. The man had kicked Demik in the stomach as he tended to Wrothgard, and the froksman held up a hand, a cloud of dust swirling around Nafer so that the dwarf couldn’t see anything. The froksman then leapt into the air, higher than any man could have jumped, and landed behind Nafer, kicking out and shoving the dwarf across the fire to the other side of the campsite, where he tumbled over haversacks and saddles and fell to his face.
Then, both the froksman and the man began rifling through their things, tossing clothing, cooking implements, anything about.
What in the world …
Realization hit Erik like a fist to the face.
“They’re looking for the scroll!” Erik yelled to Turk as he rushed back to their campsite.
By the time Erik and Turk reached their campfire, their things had been torn apart. Nafer and Demik were back on their feet, and both the man and froksman had to turned to face them. Erik saw the froksman lift a hand.
“Cover your eyes!” Erik yelled just as another flash of blinding light consumed the space.
Nafer hadn’t covered his in enough time, stumbling backwards, blinded, but the others had. The man said something to the froksman in a language Erik hadn’t heard before, and the froksman replied with a series of clicks and chirps and hisses.
“They’re Durathnan,” Turk said. “That is probably why they want the scroll, so the Lord of the East doesn’t get his hands on it.”
The froksman flicked a small knife at Erik, and he blocked it with his elvish sword, attacking the frog-man at the same time with Ilken’s Blade. The Durathnan man engaged Nafer, dodging arching swings from the dwarf’s wicked mace and returning the favor with precise swipes and slashes from his sword. Erik tried to close the distance between him and the froksman, but as soon as he got near, the creature did a backflip away, landing near their horses. He hissed and untied the reins of one of the animals, sent the horse running away into the darkness with a slap on its rump.
“Damn it!” Erik yelled, charging the froksman.
This time, the froksman leapt over Erik, and he heard the creature land behind him. Before he could turn, Erik felt a foot kick him in the back, and he lurched forward but managed to retain his footing. When Erik turned, the froksman was fending off Turk with a two-pronged spear while Nafer and Demik were fighting with the Durathnan man. He thought that two dwarves would have made easy work of one man, but this was clearly no ordinary fighter as his movements reminded Erik of Patûk Al’Banan.
He easily countered Demik’s sword strikes, blow for blow, while dodging Nafer’s mace, only to push him back with swings of his own. There were a few times when Erik thought the man could have certainly killed one of them but chose not to.
They’re simply after the scroll. Perhaps we should just give it to them. Gol-Durathna is a goodly nation, isn’t it? A friend of dwarves?
A tingle at his hip told him that wasn’t a good idea, and as Erik rushed in again to help Turk, the Durathnan yelled something to his comrade and pointed to Erik. The froksman looked at him as well. They knew. They realized he had been carrying the scroll case, and now both of them, ignoring the dwarves, made for Erik.
Another flash blinded everyone, save for the Durathnan and the froksman, and when Erik opened his eyes, blinking wildly, the Durathnan was on him, pushing him to the ground. Both his swords were on the ground, out of reach, and the man was reaching for his belt. Erik kicked up, catching the fleshy part of the man’s groin. He groaned loudly and rolled to the side, but as Erik sat up, the froksman jumped on him, shoving his shoulders to the ground and bringing one of the points of his two-pronged spear until it touched Erik’s face.
The froksman grabbed the scroll case with his long fingers as Erik instinctively reached for it as well. Even though his attacker was stronger than he looked, Erik struggled with the creature until he found one of the blades of the two-pronged spear pointed at his eye. With a deep sigh, he let go of the scroll case.
The froksman jumped to his feet, grabbed the Durathnan’s arm, and made for the horses. Erik turned onto his stomach, pushing himself up and grabbing his swords. The froksman cut several more reins, the horses fleeing into the night, before grabbing one for him and one for the Durathnan. Erik’s companions were next to him.
“We can’t let them get away,” Demik said.
“No, we can’t,” Erik replied.
As the froksman turned his horse and lifted his heels to spur the animal on, Erik threw the elvish blade at him. The blade was a whirl of purple light as it flew steel over handle until thudding deep into the horse’s ribs. The animal crumpled to the ground in a heap, its legs flailing for only a moment. The froksman flew from the saddle, tumbling head over heel. He came up, visibly angry, and turned to Erik who saw another flash before he felt something solid hit him from the side. He flew through the air, knocking all the air from his lungs when he landed. He sat up gasping, blinking wildly. When his vision returned, the froksman and Durathnan were gone—with the scroll—and Turk was kneeling in front of him, Demik’s head in his lap, Nafer standing over them. The froksman’s two-pronged spear was lodged in Demik’s chest.
“He pushed you out of the way,” Turk said, fighting back tears. “The froksman blinded you and then threw his spear at you, and just before it struck home, Demik knocked you out of the way.”
“No!” Erik yelled, scrambling to his knees and crawling to Demik.
Demik’s breathing slowed.
“Why?” Erik asked in Dwarvish. “You fool. Why would you do that?”
Demik groaned and turned his head towards Erik. His eyes were closed, but for a moment he opened them halfway and smiled.
“You are my friend,” he said.
“But …” Erik began, but something caught in his throat.
“There is no … no greater honor … than to give your life … give your life for a friend,” Demik said, still smiling, eyes now closed, breathing slowing. “I choose to ... to give my life … for you, Erik.”
“You fool,” Erik said, tears welling up in his eyes. “I am just a stupid man.”
But Demik shook his head, the smile still on his face. Then he grabbed Erik’s wrist and pulled him close.
“Go,” Demik said. “Retrieve the scroll. It is … it is too important.”
“Go,” Turk said. “I will tend to Demik.”
Erik looked up at Nafer. The dwarf nodded back.
Almost all of their horses were gone, only five remaining. Erik and Nafer mounted and rode hard in the direction the Durathnan and froksman fled.
Will you help me? Will you lead me?
He felt that all too familiar tingle at his hip.
Chapter 38
General Bu led over thirty thousand men out of the Western Tor and into the plains of Southland. Even from a distance, he could smell the South Sea, and the masts of ships made slash marks on the horizon. There were few homes along the Western Tor of the Southern Mountains, but the small communities that did exist came out to watch the general’s army march by. A mixture of fear and wonder painted everyone’s face and, even though General Bu Al’Banan—a name he had started calling himself, convincing his men and Pavin Abashar’s men he was the late general’s son—kept his face forward as he led his men, he couldn’t help cracking a small smile.
As Bu and his army neared the city of Finlo, which he had no intention of entering, the city’s militia had seen them coming and rushed to create a human wall between the shops and homes and the army.
“What do we do, General?” Pavin Abashar asked.
“Nothing,” Bu replied.
“If they attack?” Pavin asked.
“They won’t,” Bu replied. “Look at them. They’re scared. Just keep marching. We will turn north at the Sea Born Road.”
As they reached the ancient road that once went from Finlo all the way to Gol-Du
rathna, a group of five men, very diverse in both appearance and clothing, rode quickly to the front of Bu’s long train of men, several well-armed militia behind them.
“Shall I have them moved?” Pavin asked.
“No,” General Bu replied. Then, he looked to his left, Li—all bandaged and wearing a scarf that covered most of his face. “Who are these men?”
“The Council of Five, the ruling council of Finlo,” Li said, his voice slightly muffled by both his injury and the scarf he wore.
Bu put his hand up, stopping the march of his army. He heeled Warrior forward, motioning for Li to follow him. One of the five men—a man with dark brown skin and a large bushy beard wearing brightly colored robes of orange and yellow and green and a flat turban—rode forward to meet the general.
“My name is Amman,” the man said. “I am the speaker for Finlo’s Council of Five. Who are you, and what are you doing with this large force of men in our city?”
“I am not in your city,” General Bu replied.
“You are traveling through Southland,” Amman said. “What is your purpose for such a show of force? And who are you?”
“You would be wise to watch your tone,” Pavin Abashar shouted from the front of the troop column, “when speaking with General Bu Al’Banan.”
Bu gave an irritated look over his shoulder, making eye contact with Lieutenant Ban Chu. The Lieutenant nodded back and inched his horse forward.
“Bu Al’Banan?” Amman said with an air of apprehension. “I know of Patûk Al’Banan, former General of the Eastern Guard. But I have never heard of you.”
“I am his son,” Bu replied.
“By what proof?” one of the other council members asked, a man with gray hair, a long mustache, pasty pale skin, and a simple brown tunic.
“By proof that I say so,” Bu replied, “as do the thirty thousand men who follow me.”
“We need more than that,” the long mustached man said.
“Will it matter when I have you drawn and quartered?” Bu replied. He turned his attention back to Amman when the gray-haired man’s face went even whiter than it already was. “We are heading north. That is all you need to know.”
“We have no allegiances or alliances with any nation or kingdom,” Amman said, “and as such, have no reason to care that General Bu Al’Banan, son of Patûk Al’Banan, passes through the country of Southland. However, with such a large force of men following you, and so many in Háthgolthane and beyond opposed to your father—peoples and nations that are incredibly powerful—your presence here could bring us trouble … trouble we do not want or need. Where is your father?”
“Dead,” Bu replied.
“Truly?” Amman asked.
Bu cursed himself inwardly. It was an ill-advised response.
“Our lord Patûk Al’Banan was tragically taken by an outbreak of the pox,” Li intervened. “We once numbered forty thousand, but that scourge ravished our men. It is a tragedy, that such a man as General Al’Banan would leave this world so. Truly, he deserved a glorious death in battle.”
“Truly,” Amman said, and Bu couldn’t tell if the man believed his seneschal.
“The wonderful city of Finlo has always treated my father kindly,” Bu added.
“As such, you must lead your men away from our lands immediately,” Amman replied.
The general had every intention of leaving Southland as soon as possible. He knew Patûk detested the coastal city, which meant so did he, and the late general had even less love for a people who claimed they held no allegiances or alliances, which meant so did he. And, in thinking about a stance of neutrality, Bu didn’t think it possible. But this insect of a man, trying to command him, General Bu, son of Patûk … no, he couldn’t have that. Now Bu Al’Banan decided he would stay just outside of Finlo for a day or two, camp his men along the countryside of Southland.
“As much as I wish to lead my men north, immediately, I have many mouths to feed, and we will need to camp here for a day or two,” the general replied, speaking with a feigned politeness.
“No, you cannot,” Amman replied. “This is unacceptable.”
“I am truly sorry,” Bu said, putting a hand to his chest and giving a bow that was entirely too low, “but there is no other way. We will camp but two days, after which, we will continue our march north.”
“This will not stand!” yelled another of the council, this man with fiery red hair and a leathern jerking.
“Oh no,” Bu replied. He knew Ban Chu and Pavin had ridden up next to him. “And what do you plan on doing about it?”
“We have our militia,” the red-haired man said.
“They will be dead within the hour,” Bu said. “All of them. And then I will set my men loose upon your city. They will rape every woman and plunder every shop. And after I have skinned each one of the members of the council alive, feeding your skin to street dogs while you watch, I will put fire to your beloved city, surrounding it with my soldiers, so that not one wretched soul will escape.”
Amman moved to speak, but before he could, General Bu put a hand up.
“Or, you can ride away and let us camp here for a couple days, unharassed,” Bu added.
The general could hear the other men protesting, but Amman hushed them.
“What assurance do we have that you will not unleash your men on our city?” Amman asked. “What assurance do we have that law will remain?”
“My men will do as I tell them,” Bu said, “and we have no interest in making trouble within your city. But my men do not fall under your law. If they cause lawlessness, I will take care of it. You will not. It would be great folly if your militia men attempted to discipline even my lowly soldiers.”
While they camped that night, what must have been every whore and butcher and brewer streamed from Finlo and into Bu’s encampment.
“Let’s see that pompous bastard complain when his tax coffers fill with my men’s coin,” General Bu said as he stood in front of his tent, hands clasped behind his back, watching his camp.
He had seen Patûk stand in such a way, surveying everything before him with an emotionless stare. He knew Patûk had a penchant for spiced wine, but never too much, so when a brewer passed by offering drink, Bu just glared at him. He never saw the general eat in front of his men, so when a butcher passed by, he simply nodded to Ban Chu, and his new lieutenant hurried the man along. And he was certain the general had lain with women before—in fact, he heard him talk about it, but Bu didn’t even know if the general would have enjoyed it. So, when several whores came by the general’s tent, as beautiful as they were, Bu told them to piss off and service some soldier, for that’s all they were good for.
“Said truly, my lord,” Li said. “You have brought them much financial gain.”
“The Council of Five are fools that hide behind a pretense of lawfulness,” Bu spat. “I have been in Finlo before. Lawlessness rules that city.”
“That they are,” Li agreed. “Anyone knows that the true law here is the glimmer of gold.”
“Who do they think they are, to challenge me so?” Bu asked, almost ignoring his seneschal.
“They must challenge you, my lord,” Li said.
“How do you mean?” Bu asked.
“Would the citizens of Finlo trust the Council, or their laws, if they didn’t at least show a moment of force?” Li asked. “Today, they would let you pass by, unabated, and tomorrow they would find themselves out of a job and new men serving as the Council.”
Bu nodded.
“How are your injuries?” he asked.
“Every movement hurts,” Li replied. “My face is scarred. My skin is cracked. My speech is slurred.”
“But you still have your wits?” Bu asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Li replied.
“And the surgeons are tending to you?”
“Yes, my lord,” Li replied, “although, I fear drinking too much tomigus root tea, or drinking too much dream milk, lest I become complete
ly dependent on them.”
Bu nodded.
“And what do you make of your translation of the scroll,” Bu asked, “the one those mercenaries are to return to the Lord of the East?”
“It is called the Dragon Scroll, my lord,” Li replied. “Part of it is a spell that gives the reader the ability to ward off dragon fire and dragon magic. The other part is a map and directions to the Dragon Sword.”
“And, tell me again, what this Dragon Sword does,” Bu said.
“The wielder, with the spell, can control or even kill a dragon,” Li said.
“That is power,” Bu muttered.
“But it is incomplete,” Li added.
“As you have said,” Bu replied.
“And I have no idea where the missing piece is,” Li added. “It was clearly ripped from the bottom of the parchment.”
“Do you think the missing piece could be with the Dragon Sword?” Bu asked.
“Perhaps,” Li replied. “It is a good notion. Or at least some indication as to where to find the missing piece.”
Bu nodded again.
“Might I ask,” Li said, “what was your surname before you became the long, lost son of the late Patûk Al’Banan, thus making you Bu Al’Banan?”
Bu never knew how to take any of Li’s questions. There was always a hint of derision and sarcasm in his voice. But he shrugged.
“I don’t know,” Bu replied. “I was a gutter shite, a fatherless gutter rat. I am no one.”
“You were no one,” Li said, and Bu turned to look at the man, who dared to allow his scarf to drop from his face in the confines of Bu’s tent. The cracked skin on his face was red and glaring, his left eye permanently closed, the left side of his mouth drooped slightly, and his hair patchy over burnt skin where his ear once sat. “You are now Bu Al’Banan, son of General Patûk Al’Banan, leader of thirty thousand free men.”
Bu smiled, and gooseflesh rose along his arms.
****
“My spies report we have men coming into our camp,” Ban Chu said as Bu met with his officers in a larger meeting tent.
Breaking the Flame Page 27