“It’s not the heat,” Befel said. “Two men. There.”
“I see them,” said Turk. “Yes, good eyes, Befel. Two men, just on the horizon.”
They continued, slowly.
“I think they see us,” Befel said. “It looks like they are waving their arms.”
“Do you hear that?” Vander Bim asked.
“Aye,” Turk replied.
“What is it?” Befel asked.
“Voices,” Turk said.
“They’re calling to us,” Befel said. “Perhaps they need our help.”
“Or they’re bloody goading us into a trap,” the thief added, his words almost a hiss.
Befel looked back at Switch and saw the expression he gave Turk. A quick nod and a wink. He gave the same to the sailor and Drake. Turk said a quick word in his own language to his dwarvish companions. Demik slid his broadsword from its scabbard, and Nafer laid his mace across his lap. Vander Bim and Drake readied their weapons as well, and Befel’s brother and cousin caught on, unsheathing their swords too. Befel simply shook his head.
They mean to kill these men. We don’t even know who they are, and they mean to kill them.
The men became more visible, waving their arms and calling out, but Befel still couldn’t hear what they were saying. A slight breeze had picked up, blowing against their backs, and for that, Befel was grateful. Even though the air felt warm, it cooled the sweat that had collected on his face and brow. But with every breeze, the thief grew more fidgety. His hand gripped tightly around one of his daggers. The dwarves too looked nervous, and Nafer, Demik, and Turk rode close together, almost flank to flank.
He looked to Vander Bim. The sailor never took his eyes off the two men, never hinted to knowing what they said.
“So what? Do we just kill them and hope they meant us ill will?” Befel asked,
“Hush, Befel,” Vander Bim whispered.
“Doesn’t that seem rather rash?” Befel pressed.
“I said be quiet.” Vander Bim paused a moment, and then added, “This is the way of things in our profession. They are competition.”
“Shut your flaming mouths,” Switch said in a hissing whisper.
They finally got close enough to clearly see and hear the two men. They called out “Ho” and “Help” and “Friend.” Of course, none of Befel’s companions believed them, evident by the tightened grips on their weapons and the clenching of their jaws, ready for a fight. The farmer could see one man leaning against another. They had weapons—swords—sheathed as far as he could tell. The men wore armor, it seemed, for they glimmered slightly in the sun.
“What competition are these men?” Befel asked. “There are two of them, and one looks to be hurt.”
Vander Bim glared at Befel, pursed lips and curved brows, but the farmer thought he saw a hint of understanding, agreement, in the sailor’s blue eyes.
“They might have others waiting to ambush us,” the sailor conceded. “They seem innocent enough, but as soon as we let our guard down, play into their game, out come their comrades to slit our throats and take what treasures we have.”
“That’s bloody right.” Switch leaned forward in his saddle and glared at the two men. “Now don’t make me bloody say it again. Shut your flaming, sheepherding mouths. And if I have to tell you again, you tick-filled, cow-loving farmer, I’ll cut you open from balls to throat.”
The men were a hundred paces away, maybe less.
“Be ready,” Switch whispered.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Befel said to Vander Bim.
“No, it doesn’t,” Vander Bim replied, seemingly pondering Befel’s statement. “You’re right. Come, Befel, ride to them with me. Let us greet them before we get into a fight that need not happen.”
Befel nodded with a grin, and while Switch, Turk, and Drake spoke quietly of their plan, both the farmer and sailor spurred their horses and galloped towards the two men.
“Eh!” Switch yelled, trying to stop the two men. “Vander Bim! You old fool of a sailor!”
“Ho,” Vander Bim cried out as they neared the two waving men.
“Ho,” cried back one of the men.
They stopped a dozen paces from the two men. The one who had called back—a man of middle years with a face showing signs of at least two weeks without a razor—held up one hand, the other wrapped tightly around his companion’s waist, propping him up against his hip, the other man’s arm draped around the first’s shoulders.
“These men don’t look like a threat,” Befel said.
“No, they don’t,” Vander Bim replied, “but nonetheless, be careful and ready.”
“They both look beaten,” Befel added.
The first lowered his hand for a second to brush a bit of his wavy brown hair from his face, revealing a forehead full of tiny cuts and caked with dried blood. Despite the brown stubble on his face, Befel could see spots of yellow where the skin rose in soft puffiness.
“Bruises,” Befel muttered.
“Aye,” Vander Bim agreed.
“Ho there,” the man said again, and Vander Bim replied in kind.
The men looked like they could fight, once, both with polished breastplates and greaves and vambraces of high-quality steel. Shirts of mail poked through the armor’s joints and below their cuirasses. At the first man’s waist hung two long swords, one on either side, matching scabbards of well-worked leather and wood embroidered with silver scrollwork and a dagger with a similar sheathe hung next to one of the scabbards. The other fellow—the injured one—also had a single sword hanging from his left hip, its handle a thick piece of spiraling wood bound in leather and tipped with a golden orb etched to appear like the sun.
“They truly look like they mean us no harm,” Befel whispered as the injured man started slipping off the first’s hip.
He was barely conscious, blood caking his blond hair and beard. His battered face was evident by puffy cheeks and a left eye that was black and swollen shut.
“I agree,” Vander Bim replied, also with a whisper, “but we still need to be careful.”
“Thank you,” the first man finally said, a wide smile splitting his face and showing two rows of whitish teeth, cleaner than Befel might have expected from a traveling warrior. “We wouldn’t have lasted another day, and most men in these areas probably would’ve ridden us down rather than stopped.”
Befel gave the sailor a concerned look and tried to glance over his shoulders at the rest of the party.
“Throw down your weapons,” Vander Bim commanded, his voice hard and direct. “Slowly.”
The first man opened his arms, palms facing outward. He looked beyond Befel, who turned in his saddle to see the rest of their party joining them, weapons at the ready.
“You’ll excuse us,” Vander Bim said, his voice softening. “You are obviously well-trained warriors and, as you said, out here, most men might have ridden you down just as most men might feign injury to lure several trusting travelers into a trap.”
The man straightened his shoulders a bit, pulling them back and pushing out his chest, revealing a body of lean muscle. Despite the possible attack on his pride, the man never lost his smile and gave a dismissive shake of his head.
“Please, no apology needed.” The soldier said something to his companion that Befel didn’t recognize.
“Is that Shengu?” Switch asked as he arrived alongside them.
Befel looked at Vander Bim.
“The language of Golgolithul,” Vander Bim replied.
“Aye,” the man said, his smile fading a bit, but still present, however fake it might be.
“You’re an easterner, then?” Switch’s words were more an accusation than a question, but he still put it to the soldier to answer.
“Aye, both of us. Does that concern you, my good man?” the Easterner asked.
“Just lay your weapons on the ground,” Vander Bim said before adding, “please.”
As the one who spoke helped his injured companion,
they did as Vander Bim bid, slowly drawing their swords and laying them before their feet. Their swords were beautiful, wonderfully worked pieces of steel and polished and sharpened to a gleam. One of the two swords of the first man was broken just a couple of hands-span from its cross guard.
Befel saw Erik riding up next to him.
“I know these men,” Erik whispered. Befel waved him off as if he were an annoying gnat.
“That’s all of them?” Switch asked when the first man threw his dagger to the ground.
“An honorable soldier does not hide weapons,” the man replied.
“Well, you’ll bloody excuse me, but we don’t find too many honorable soldiers out here,” Switch replied.
“They were at The Lady’s Inn,” Erik whispered. “The one with the broken sword even spoke to me.”
“Erik, please,” Befel replied as he saw Vander Bim shoot him a hard look.
“But there were three of them,” Erik added.
“Are you sure?” Vander Bim asked.
“Yes,” Erik replied. “Without a doubt.”
“You were at The Lady’s Inn,” Vander Bim asked. “You heard the Black Mage’s message?”
“Aye, we were, and we did,” the healthier of the two men said. “I remember seeing you there.”
He pointed at Erik.
“What happened to you?” Vander Bim asked. “Was there not a third?”
“There was,” the Easterner replied, his voice laden with sadness.
“And where is he?” Switch asked, cynicism ripe in his voice.
“Soldiers attacked us,” the Easterner replied, “three days ago—a day as the crow flies. They killed our friend.”
“What kind of soldiers?” Vander Bim asked.
“Eastern soldiers.”
“And why would men from the same country you are currently serving attack you?” Switch asked.
“Men loyal to Patûk Al’Banan,” the Easterner replied.
“Were mountain trolls with them?” Turk asked.
“Aye, master dwarf,” the Easterner replied. “In fact, that is the only reason they were able to take down our friend, Tedish. When they killed Tedish, Samus and I ran. I am ashamed to say it, but we had no choice. They followed us—the trolls and soldiers. We killed at least two of the soldiers, and my sword is broken because of the deep wound I gave one of those trolls.”
“Blood and guts and queen’s ashes,” Switch said.
“Poor Tedish,” the man muttered. “He was a good soldier and an even better man. He didn’t deserve to die that way. Curse the gods for their follies. I have been soldiering for a long time all around this world, and yet never had seen such a sight as mountain trolls working with, or for, men.”
“What is your name?” Vander Bim asked.
“Wrothgard, Wrothgard Bel’Therum,” the healthier man replied, “and my friend’s name is Samus Sunrider. We are, as you can tell, soldiers by trade.”
“Soldiers turned sell-swords, aye?” Switch’s tone always had an edgy hardness to it.
“Aye, ’tis true, whether I like to admit it or not,” Wrothgard replied, “the life of a simple soldier can be a short one, and if a man happens to outlive his usefulness, well, there is little else for which he is qualified. I would like to think that, despite carrying the title of mercenary, we still practice the honor we did as soldiers.”
“Soldiers for the Eastern Kingdom,” Turk said. His voice sounded hard, irritated, and disapproving.
Wrothgard Bel’Therum nodded.
“There is little honor in that.” Switch laughed, showing his yellowed teeth. “And even less as a sell-sword. Don’t try to fool yourself, or us.”
“A point well taken,” Wrothgard replied. “Certainly, many military actions taken by the Lord of the East have stained his country’s reputation, and those who serve him. And, no, I suppose there is little honor in being a mercenary. However, we are both strong men . . . when healthy.”
“And what do we care, however strong you are?” Switch hissed.
“We have much experience in the way of soldiering, sword and shield, the spear, the bow. I feel that, perhaps fate has brought us together.”
“You wish to travel with us, join our company?” The answer seemed obvious, but Vander Bim had to ask anyway.
“Aye,” Wrothgard replied.
Vander Bim looked to Switch and Drake and the dwarves. Befel could see the slight shake in the thief ’s head. The miner shrugged. Demik grumbled, and Nafer said something to Turk in Dwarvish.
“We will have to confer as a group,” Vander Bim told Wrothgard. “Give us a moment.”
The soldier bowed, and the party followed Vander Bim as he rode a dozen paces away. Everyone circled up, even Befel, Erik, and Bryon.
“Cut their throats and leave them here for those damn trolls,” Switch said.
“I think we should let them into our company,” Vander Bim voted. “We watch them for a day or two, help the injured one heal up, and make our final judgement that their word is true. If it is, and they actually are the soldiers they say they are, then we offer them a partnership. Equal shares. If that fellow served for Golgolithul, he certainly has more fighting experience than me.”
“Aye, and me,” Drake added.
“They seem trustworthy,” Befel said.
“Eh, you, my son, just shut your mouth,” said Switch, true to form as usual. “You have no say in this, and you and your kin have bloody well said enough already.”
“Will they slow us down, though?” Drake said. “They’re both injured, one badly. Dwarf, can your medicine heal him?”
“If he is willing,” Turk said, shrugging. “I would have to look him over. Maybe. Their eastern roots are what concerns me.”
“Aye,” Demik said.
“And not just easterners,” Turk added, “but eastern soldiers. Too many dwarves have lost their lives to the treacheries of the Eastern Kingdom for me to so easily trust these men simply because they say they are honorable.”
“Saying honorable man is like saying clean mud,” Demik added, to which Switch whistled. Turk said something to his dwarvish friend in their native tongue.
“It should be unanimous,” Vander Bim proposed. “You know my vote, and you know what must be done if we vote not to allow them into our company.”
“I don’t really care either way,” Turk said. “You know my concern. I will keep a watchful eye on them. However, if the vote is to leave them, that is fine with me as well. If we leave them, I am not, however, comfortable with killing them.”
“We are already behind,” Drake said, “but if they can keep up, then so be it. The first sign of falter, though—I am not a greedy man, but this is about money and about seeing my children again.”
“I say they will slow us down,” Switch added. “They’re injured. I say kill them or leave them. Let the trolls occupy themselves with these fools while we make a clean break.”
“You are truly heartless,” Befel said.
Switch just shrugged his shoulders.
“I can live with that,” Switch replied. “Listen, I’m not going to bloody argue about it. If you fellows want them, fine. Nevertheless, their seeming so honest makes me think they aren’t. But then again, who am I to judge? Like the miner said, though, they slow us down and I’ll just cut their throats in the middle of the night, along with these three idiot porters.”
Chapter 12
VANDER BIM RODE OVER TO the man who called himself Wrothgard.
“We’ll let you into our company, if you wish,” Vander Bim said.
“We do,” Wrothgard replied with a quick bow.
“We have porters with us that will serve you as well,” Vander Bim said, “and two packhorses you and your friend can use.”
“May we have our weapons back?” Wrothgard asked Vander Bim.
“Why don’t you let Turk take a look at your wounds first?” Vander Bim replied.
“The dwarf?” Wrothgard questioned.
&n
bsp; Demik grunted at the inquisition.
“Aye,” Vander Bim replied, “he is an exceptional healer.”
“Very well then,” Wrothgard said. “Have him look at Samus first. I have been in battle many times and have many times seen wounds such as his. They look grave to me.”
Turk nodded, tending to the blond-haired man who seemed to have trouble simply keeping his eyes open. Erik remembered the man being an imposing figure with well-kept hair and a trimmed beard, broad shoulders, and a barrel chest. A muscular man then that had the prowess of what the young farmer expected to be a seasoned soldier, but now? Presently, he looked little more than a cripple, or some old, weathered beggar that might inhabit the streets of Eastern Finlo.
Erik looked to the sky. Not a cloud in sight. Just crystal blue staring back at him, so crisp and bright that he had to blink after only a short while.
“If the sun stays out,” Erik murmured, “perhaps it will burn away all the moisture. That would be nice.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Drake said as he walked past Erik, eyeing the two new members of their party suspiciously.
“Not good.” Turk’s words caught Erik’s attention.
“What is that, master dwarf?” Wrothgard asked.
Turk probed Samus’ ribs. The mercenary would fall asleep, only for a moment, and then snap awake with a shrill cry or a low grunt as the dwarf pressed down.
“Erik,” Turk said.
“Yes,” Erik replied.
“Get the blue jar out of my bag, along with several strips of cloth and the round, clear bottle,” Turk commanded.
Erik complied, bringing the dwarf what he asked for.
“Master dwarf,” Wrothgard said, “what is wrong with Samus?”
“His ribs are certainly broken,” Turk replied, opening the mouth of an unconscious Samus and pouring in the clear liquid.
“Not to second guess your medical expertise,” Wrothgard said, “but I already knew that. We have all probably had broken ribs.”
“Aye,” Turk acknowledged, “but the real problem is that I think his broken ribs have punctured a lung.”
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