The clouds built early the next day, shading the men and dwarves just past noon and bringing errant sprinkles of water. A distant wall of rain covered everything under the clouds. There was no horizon, only grayish-blue that Bryon knew was a downpour that would be flooding the already soaked Plains of Güdal. The bottoms of those thunderheads looked black, casting a premature night just several leagues behind them. Then, the clouds that billowed skyward turned white like goose down or freshly cleaned cotton. At the very top of the ever-growing clouds, the sun’s rays fought through, illuminating the edges of white with golds and reds.
As the day darkened, and the sun fell farther behind the clouds, the pretense of light and goodliness, given by the feigned aura the sun created behind the clouds, finally faded. More and more smatterings of quick rain wet them; clouds that traveled on an especially quick gust of wind reached them first.
“Is it time to make camp?” Bryon asked.
“No,” Befel replied. “It’s barely afternoon.”
“It’s so dark,” Bryon said.
“The clouds are thick,” Befel added.
“Clearly,” Bryon said. He felt sour.
“No need to be short with me, cousin,” Befel said, and before Bryon could retort, added, “just because Switch gave you a tongue lashing earlier.”
“I’ll beat you bloody,” Bryon said.
“I don’t think you will,” Befel replied.
“You son of a . . .” Bryon tried to say, but Befel cut him off.
“Careful, Bryon,” Befel said, “we come from the same family. Cursing me and my origins does the same to you.”
The smile Befel held on his stupid face was all Bryon could take. He took in a deep breath, ready to yell, jump from his horse, and throw Befel from his, but a shout from Switch stopped him.
“Sard! Stint your damn claps!” Switch yelled. “I see something ahead. You see it too, tunnel digger?”
Turk nudged Nafer, and the two nodded to one another.
“What is it?” Erik asked.
“I said, shut your damn mouth,” Switch hissed, never taking his eyes off the horizon ahead.
Bryon leaned forward in his saddle, happy that it was Erik who now took a tongue-lashing from Switch and not him; not that he was afraid of the Goldumarian. He didn’t see anything until something in the distance flickered.
“Is that a torch,” Bryon muttered.
“Blood and guts and village idiots,” Switch cursed.
Then, Bryon saw it, as if a shadow from the ensuing clouds had somehow hidden it. But suddenly it was as clear as day. Evidence of a small village glared like a blinding beacon in the darkness of a stormy afternoon. The faintness of torch fire began to come into view, and there it was.
“Is that bad?” Bryon asked no one in particular.
“I guess it depends,” Drake replied.
“On what?” Bryon asked.
“On whether or not they want to kill us,” Drake replied.
Bryon saw a mill, a barn, some homes, a great hall with gray smoke spilling from the ceiling, and rows of crudely made, wood colored fences—perhaps a wall.
“I doubt this place even has a name,” Bryon said.
“Maybe not to us,” Drake replied, “but the inhabitants here most certainly have a name for their little hamlet.”
“You sound worried,” Bryon said.
“Aye,” Drake replied. “You never know in these little villages. The small folk that live in these places are often a proud people, unawares of anything going on in the world around them. And they fear anything that challenges their own little domain. They can often be very untrusting and violent towards outsiders. They’d as soon kill you as feed you.”
Unaware of anything going on in the world around them. . . Bryon decided that sounded like himself before he left the farm.
“The thought of a warm, cooked meal is a good one, though,” Bryon said.
“Aye,” Drake said, “but if they offer one, make sure you check for rat turds and rocks.”
The thought made Bryon grimace, but then he smiled.
“The thought of a soft farm girl sounds nice as well,” Bryon added with a boyish grin. “I know how pleasant that can be!”
Drake looked at Bryon, meeting his eyes with his own.
“You keep your cock in your pants and your mind on the mission, you little shite,” Drake said. It was the first time the man had ever been short and direct with Bryon, and it took him by surprise.
“They find you sticking one of their daughters, or worse, you get one of them pregnant, and you’ll find yourself in a place that is worse than the hellish halls of the Shadow. If you know these people so well, you know how serious they take that sort of thing. They’ll beat you, rape you, and cut your balls off before they kill you, and that’s if they’re being nice.”
Bryon swallowed hard. He tried being defiant at first. What could some village ass do to him, but Drake spoke the truth. He couldn’t imagine what his father would have done to some traveler who he caught sticking one of his sisters. He couldn’t imagine what he would have done to someone he caught. They were annoying little cumber-wolds, but they were his sisters.
“Halt,” Vander Bim said.
“Damn it,” Switch hissed.
Bryon wondered who or what Switch was cursing at, but then he saw a dozen flickering lights moving towards them. Torches.
The men holding those torches soon came into view. Bryon recognized these men—scared farmers and small folk, carrying whatever weapons they could muster from pitchforks to wood axes. Men like his father, his uncle, and his grandfather. He used to be one of them too. He couldn’t much see their faces in the failing light and in the distance, but they didn’t look happy to see them.
“Peace!” Vander Bim yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We come in peace! We mean you no harm!”
The small mob of villagers didn’t stop. In fact, Vander Bim’s calls seem to spur them on faster. Bryon saw Turk put his hand on his axe. He saw Drake ready his pickaxe and Switch retrieve two of his many daggers from their hiding places. He even saw his cousins rest their hands on the handles of their swords, as if they would make a difference.
“Oh, here we go, boyos,” Switch said. There was a hint of glee, pleasure even, in his voice. “You boys ready for a fight. I am.”
“A fight is the last thing we need right now,” Turk said, and Drake gave him a grunt of agreement.
“Speak for yourself,” Switch replied. “I need to let off some steam.”
When the villagers came into full view, they slowed down until they all together stopped. Bryon could see them talking amongst themselves, heard their mutters and warbling, and couldn’t help thinking that they looked apprehensive at best, maybe even scared.
A very tall and broad-shouldered man walked to the front of the group of villagers. He was truly a large man, and when he looked to Vander Bim, he lifted his chin.
“We mean you no harm,” Vander Bim said. “We’re just looking for shelter from the rain.”
The rain had started to fall steadily, and Bryon felt rivulets of water run down his back. His hair matted around his face, and he constantly blew water from his moustache. The large villager didn’t answer for a moment, and then he spoke in a language Bryon didn’t understand. From Vander Bim’s look, he didn’t understand either. Bryon did notice, however, Turk looking up as the villager spoke. He whispered to his dwarvish companions.
As the dwarves spoke, Vander Bim continued to try and communicate with the villagers, but he only seemed to make things worse.
“I don’t think they understand you, mate,” Drake said.
When Vander Bim turned in his saddle and lifted a hand with his forefinger and middle finger extended—an impolite gesture meant for Drake—a shout came from the villagers, and they lowered their makeshift weapons.
“A little bold for lowly villagers,” Switch sneered, looking at a lowered boar spear pointed at his face. “How many do yo
u think I can kill before I get a scratch?”
“Stop it,” Vander Bim replied in a whispering voice. “You’re only agitating them more.”
“Good,” Switch said with a smile of finality. “Besides, if you haven’t noticed, they can’t understand us anyways.”
The presumed leader of this band of villagers spoke in hurried tones to his companions. They all replied and then inched forward.
“Here we…” Switch began to say, but Turk’s voice cut him off, an unusual gruff tone to it.
“Shut up,” Turk snapped, leaning forward in his saddle. Then, he said something in Dwarvish.
“What are you get—” Switch began again, but this time, Demik drew his broadsword and pointed it at the man.
“Shut your damned mouth,” Demik hissed, “before I run my steel through it and jam what little brains you have out the back of your skull.”
Switch closed his mouth hard as his face turned red. He shrugged in his saddle and stayed relatively quiet, but Bryon could hear the man cursing under his breath.
“I’d like to see you try it, you little bearded maggot,” Switch whispered through his teeth, so low that Bryon had to strain to understand him.
As Turk spoke again, the village leader appeared to listen as if they shared the same language.
“What, by all the gods, has this world come to?” Switch asked no one in particular, although Bryon overheard him. “Men speaking Dwarvish. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You’re a fool,” Drake replied. He must’ve heard Switch as well.
“Oh, look who decides to chime in,” Switch said. “All bloody good, but can you even read?”
“What does that matter?” Drake asked.
“You’re no better than these small folk,” Switch replied. “Can’t read. Don’t know your asshole from a hole in the ground. Is your wife your sister?”
“Coming from a dirty street rat,” Drake retorted, “that doesn’t mean much.”
“You don’t have the balls to do what you know we should do,” Switch said.
“And what’s that?” Drake asked.
“Command them to feed us,” Switch replied. “Lead us to some farm girls. Been awhile since I’ve shagged.”
“You’re foul,” Drake said, his lip curling.
“Piss on your grave,” Switch cursed. “You’re lucky we’re not by your little village. I’d be shagging everything in sight. How would that make you feel, watching me stick your sister . . . or your wife.”
Before Drake could leap off his horse and wrap his strong hands around Switch’s throat, the village leader nodded and motioned to Turk. The dwarf clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“Let me take the lead, Vander Bim,” Turk said.
The sailor paused for a moment and then relented.
“That’s all we need,” Switch grumbled, “a bloody tunnel digger in charge.”
The villagers surrounded the party, escorting them to their hamlet. Bryon smelled a familiar smell, the thick scent of tallow. Looking down, he saw a man next to him holding a torch. He suddenly felt the heat from the torch, especially in the rain as it picked up and began to bear down on them harder with each passing moment. The flame sputtered in the wetness but burned strong, and that strong smell of cow fat hit Bryon’s nose like a fist, bringing back memories of home, reminding him of the smells of his mother’s kitchen, her mint garden, and his father’s orange brandy. Bryon’s stomach twisted and knotted.
The tall villager spoke again, his voice resonating from deep within his keg of a torso and bull’s neck. His voice was curt. He didn’t seem angry, but he spared little civility on Turk, even if the dwarf could understand the man’s language, at least somewhat.
“What are they saying?” Vander Bim asked.
“It’s hard to completely understand them,” Turk said with a quick shake of his head. “Their language is similar to our southern dialect of Dwarvish, but not the same. I think they are harboring some of the survivors from Aga Kona.”
“Survivors?” Drake asked, spinning around in his saddle.
“Aye,” Turk replied. “A large group of them came upon this village—they call it Stone’s Throw—just yesterday. These men thought we were the same soldiers who had attacked Aga Kona. They thought we were leading the trolls.”
“So what do we do, tunnel digger?” Switch asked.
“They’re concerned about giving us shelter,” Turk replied, give Switch an irritated sidelong glance. “They don’t know if they have the resources to feed us, and they don’t know if they trust us.”
“What’s not to trust?” Switch asked.
“You,” Demik replied.
“They are a simple people,” Turk said, “who barely make a living here in the Plains of Güdal, carving out an existence against terrible odds. They are alive because they don’t trust most people.”
“They think they don’t have enough food?” Vander Bim questioned. “Tell them we have our own rations.”
“And what of their distrust of us?” Drake asked.
No one seemed to have an answer.
“Tell them we’ll give up our weapons for the night,” Bryon said. It seemed a good idea, and he didn’t see a need for weapons around these people. He knew these people. They were traditional, lowly farmers simply trying to survive.
“I told you to shut your bloody mouth,” Switch hissed.
“That’s a good idea,” Vander Bim said.
“Are you daft?” Switch asked.
“Will you stop your constant bitching!” Vander Bim shouted, turning halfway in his saddle. “I want to get out of the rain and away from the prying eyes of trolls. And if I have to give up my sword for a night while we sleep amongst innocent country bumpkins, then so be it.”
The villagers seemed startled by Vander Bim’s shouting, but Turk spoke with the leader nonetheless. The large man didn’t say anything for a while and then nodded. The leader turned and walked closer to the village, between some sticks stuck into the ground and sharpened at the end sticking out.
“A meager barricade,” Bryon said, “considering what the mountain trolls did to Aga Kona.”
“It’s all they could muster, I bet,” Drake said. Bryon could hear sadness in his voice.
As they passed through what Bryon presumed to be the front gate, the villagers that had escorted them collected their weapons. Bryon saw Erik stuff his jeweled dagger into a saddlebag. He didn’t blame his cousin. That was a prize even an honest farm boy might find hard to resist. Then he saw Switch, slowing his horse and dropping to the back of the company. No doubt he was stuffing any number of daggers and knives away to someplace no simple villager would think to look.
A pretty farm girl came to fetch their horses. The rain had plastered her dark hair against her face and soaked her dress so that it clung tightly to the curve of her breasts. Bryon couldn’t help staring, but she caught his eyes, snapped her fingers, and pointed angrily. Bryon felt like a boy being scolded by an older schoolhouse teacher.
“Oh, son, you got caught,” Switch said with a whistle, and as the girl passed by him, he winked and pinched her behind, also prominent under a wet dress.
When the girl turned hard and glared, Switch smiled and blew her a kiss. A younger village man walked up behind her and also glared at Switch. The Goldumarian could have cared less, pressing past both of them and making sure to nudge the man with his shoulder.
He means to get us killed, Bryon thought.
Chapter 4
THE MAIN HALL OF STONE’S Throw was nothing more than a large home that had been converted to a meeting place. A fire raged in the hearth, the only stone fixture in the whole structure. Even though only several dozen men and women crowded the hall, it might as well have been a hundred. At first, Erik found the warmth of the raging fire and bodies crammed together welcoming, a stark contrast to the cold of the raging storm outside. Now, it seemed unbearable.
“How much longer will this thatched ro
of hold up to the storm?” Erik wondered as another boom of thunder shook the walls of the hall and the glow of lightning flashed through the cracks of the room’s doors.
“I think that roof has held up much longer than you would think, Erik,” Demik replied.
A broad-shouldered man with a barrel chest and a large gut sat in a chair in front of the hearth. His bushy white beard spread over his chest haphazardly. This man clearly sat in a place of leadership amongst the people of Stone’s Throw, but he looked sickly and immobile. His breathing was labored, and a gurgling grunt accompanied every breath.
“Is he their leader?” Erik asked Demik while Turk stood in front of the fat old man being interrogated. “Their chief ?”
“Yes,” Demik replied in a hushed whisper. Whenever one of the village men or women caught them speaking, they would glare at the two with disapproving eyes.
“Some leader,” Erik muttered.
“Looks can be deceiving, Erik,” Demik replied.
That was truly a lesson Erik had learned more than once since he had been away from home. Marcus’ face popped into Erik’s head, and he smiled. Then, he remembered a dream when Marcus’ kind face had turned white and pale, his kind eyes blank and unknowing.
The fat chieftain leaned forward, trying to fight against his own girth, and spoke to Turk in a gruff, harsh tone. Spittle collected at the corners of the man’s mouth and every half dozen words, he had to stop to take an extra-large breath. As his eyebrows frowned, the white tufts of hair shadowed his piercing, blue eyes, making them look even harder. They were judging eyes. Those were the eyes of Hámonians who watched his father ride into Bull’s Run with his harvest in tow. Those were the eyes of nobles passing by in Venton, watching him throw slop to pigs. Those were the eyes of the people of Waterton, watching Marcus’ gypsies with fearful glances.
“What is he saying?” Erik asked.
“The man who led us into Stone’s Throw is named Arynin Flatenfer,” Demik replied. “This man who is their chieftain is Arynin’s father, also named Arynin.”
“He sounds angry, this Arynin the Second,” Erik whispered.
Dark Winds Page 3