Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  Chapter 17

  ERIK LOOKED BACK AND SAW the purplish shades of dusk dwindling away, giving space to the darkness of night and the twinkling of stars overhead. The clouds of early monsoons had all but disappeared for now. Erik could occasionally see them in the distant west, lit up by the quick flash of some faraway lightning.

  “Is that the camp?” Bryon asked.

  “I hope so,” Befel replied. The last two days had been hard on Erik’s brother.

  “Do you?” Vander Bim hissed, glaring at Befel under shadowed eyes as he spoke. “Will it be so welcoming when we find that glow is the fire of men and women and children burning?”

  “Must you be so dark?” Switch said, and Erik thought that somewhat contradictory.

  “Death is typically dark,” Vander Bim added as he spurred his horse forward. It was clear that the loss of his friend was still very much in his mind.

  Rather than destruction, they found a camp of semi-permanent buildings and dirt roads full of people despite the night. Even though there was no wall or fence, two men stood at what looked to be the main road, dented and rusted half-helms resting on their heads and tall halberds in their hands. When they noticed the party, they went from leaning on their pole arms to standing at attention.

  “Stop there!” yelled one of the guards.

  The party rode a few paces further before complying.

  “Ho,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Ho yerself,” said one of the men. In the light, Erik could see he had graying hair and a stubbly face. He extended his halberd so that the curving blade stopped just short of Wrothgard’s horse’s snout, his thin jaw tightening.

  “He’s nervous,” Erik whispered.

  “Aye,” Befel said with a nod.

  “We mean no harm,” Wrothgard said. “We’re simple travelers from the west—”

  “Yer no simple trav’lers,” said the gray-haired miner’s comrade. He had thinning red hair and a belly that hung sloppily over his belt. “We may be ign’ant miners, but we ain’t that ign’ant, thank ye very much. Ye’ve got three tunnel diggers, yer no simple trav’ler.”

  “What business have ye got in Cho’s camp?” the gray-haired man asked.

  “Our business is ours to know,” Wrothgard replied. Erik could hear a flatness in Wrothgard’s tone.

  “No. Sorry. That won’t do.” The gray-haired man nodded to the other. Erik saw the redhead moving towards a large bell that hung from an iron hook on a chest high wooden pole along the dirt road that acted as an entrance to the camp.

  “It’s a signal,” Erik whispered. He knew Wrothgard had heard him by the sidelong glance the soldier gave him. “A signal to warn a militia maybe?”

  He then heard the subtle, soft sound of iron sliding against leather and knew that Switch rode just behind him. Erik twisted, just ever so slightly in his saddle, to see Switch, hand firmly gripping the handle of one of his daggers.

  “That’s not necessary,” Wrothgard said before the redhead could ring the bell. Erik knew the soldier spoke to both the guards and to Switch.

  He stopped, and both guards looked to the soldier. Wrothgard waited a while.

  “Well,” the gray-haired guard finally said, “what’s yer answer? What be yer business?”

  “We are accompanying our dwarvish companions as they journey to visit their families in Thorakest,” Wrothgard offered.

  “What is men doin’ trav’lin’ with dwarves?” the redhead asked.

  “They are our friends,” Wrothgard offered. “Can dwarves and men not be friends?”

  Erik saw the two miners confer with one another. They were trying to be quiet but doing a poor job at it. He heard one whisper, “I don’t think dwarves live in these parts of the mountain.”

  “Aye, they could be lyin’,” the other one said.

  Wrothgard cleared his throat, “Excuse me, but don’t you think dwarves would know whether or not dwarves live in this part of the mountain?”

  The graying guard looked to his redheaded companion, who still stood within arm’s reach of the bell.

  “That may be, but to go into the mountain, ye must first talk to Cho. This be his mine.”

  “Very well. We will speak with him in the morning. Where’s the nearest—” Wrothgard started to say, but the gray-haired guard cut him off.

  “No. Tonight.” The gray-haired guard finally lowered his weapon. “Ye can stable yer horses at The Golden Miner. Not all of ye need to be visitin’ Master Cho, so the rest of ye can bed down there, or visit Madame Ary’s. Really, just ye need to go.”

  “Very well. May we pass?” Wrothgard asked.

  “Aye, ye may pass,” the guard replied.

  Erik let out a silent sigh and heard, again, the sound of iron sliding against leather. As he passed the two miners, they looked nervous. He heard the clink of a fingernail on metal and looked back to see the thief flipping a coin to the miners. Perhaps they thought him generous, giving them a copper coin, but Erik knew he meant it as a slight.

  Despite the busyness of the street, most of the commotion came from the east of the camp.

  “That must be the tavern?” Erik said.

  “What gave it away?” Bryon snorted. “Was it the shouting and laughing, or the shouting and laughing?”

  “Say whatever you need to say, cousin,” Erik said, but he knew Bryon couldn’t hear him, having moved towards the front of the group, “to make yourself feel clever.”

  Aga Min proved more a village than a simple mining camp. It had all the requirements one might think of, save for tents in place of thatch-roofed houses. They saw a smithy and a small mill, and along the main road on which they rode was a small marketplace. Carts of fruits and vegetables and meats were shuttered for the night and several tents that looked like makeshift temples for different religions.

  “There are more people here than Stone’s Throw,” Erik said. “That must be The Golden Miner and Madame Ary’s.”

  Erik pointed to two permanent buildings resting at the eastern edge of the camp.

  “I would guess so,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Madame Ary’s is an odd name for a store,” Erik added.

  “I don’t think it is a general store, Erik,” Turk said with a chuckle as a half-naked woman doing her worst to cover her breasts emerged from a three-storied building chased by a shirtless fellow with a huge smile on his face. The shirtless man finally caught her and dragged her back through the front door. In the darkness, Erik blushed at his naivety.

  The Golden Miner was another permanent building sitting to the left of Madame Ary’s, five stories of golden stained wood with a covered porch of polished rock. As the double doors of the entrance opened, the loud din of laughter and drinking exploded from the building. A few men emerged, and they mostly staggered into Madame Ary’s.

  “You all get several rooms,” Wrothgard said. He threw Switch a small purse that clinked of coin when it hit the thief ’s hand. “I will pay for tonight’s stay.”

  Wrothgard looked to Vander Bim and slightly jerked his head. The sailor nodded and pressed his heels to the side of his horse. Before they left, the soldier looked at each one of his companions. He locked his eyes on Turk.

  “I am sorry, master dwarf,” Wrothgard said. “I would normally have you come with us to meet this Master Cho, but I do not know what his feelings are towards you and your ilk. I hope you understand.”

  “Aye,” Turk said coldly, but his anger was not aimed at Wrothgard.

  Wrothgard then locked his gaze on Erik.

  “You,” he said curtly. “Come with us.”

  Cho’s villa—another permanent building, a single-story home of brick and wood and polished stone—sat away at the farthest, north-eastern corner of the camp. A reddish-stained, wooden fence with a post every several paces and a single rail surrounded the home. A torch stood at every other post along the fence in the front of the house, the light revealing a lawn of well-tended grass, rosemary bushes, and several orange trees. The
torches stopped along the front, however, and nothing illuminated the rear of the house. The only reason Erik knew a stable sat towards the back of the home was the faint whisper of a horse’s whinny.

  Two guards—true guards, in leather brigandines and carrying long swords—stood at the front of the path. Erik met one guard’s eyes, and the tip of the man’s spear dipped, pointing at Erik’s chest. He said something quickly, in a language Erik didn’t understand. Wrothgard replied. A back and forth conversation ensued then Wrothgard nodded to Vander Bim and Erik. They dismounted and handed over the reins to their horses to one of the guards.

  Erik smelled the rosemary as they walked along the brick path. Mixed with the smell of orange blossoms, it created a rich, sweet aroma that reminded him of his uncle’s orange orchards and his mother’s rosemary bread.

  The front door—a thick piece of dark oak with carvings of bears and lions and giant eagles etched into it—didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the house, with its brick and golden pine. The guard knocked on the door. Within moments, a large man opened the door. His head was shaved, and his oiled beard was trimmed close to his face. His colorful robes shimmered in the light.

  The man paid no attention to the three men. Rather, he spoke in a hushed whisper to the guard. Regardless of the volume of his speech, Erik thought his words sounded scornful, chastising almost. Eventually, the guard bowed and returned to his post, leaving the mercenaries with the large man at the front door.

  “You wish to meet with Master Cho,” he said in a nasally voice. “You wish to ask his permission to stay within his camp, yes?”

  “We do,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Who is calling at such a late hour?” His voice was void of any emotion, and his stare was a listless, half-lidded look of indifference.

  “My name is Wrothgard Bel’Therum, of Kamdum, and this is Vander Bim from Finlo and Erik, from . . .” Wrothgard paused, not knowing from where Erik hailed.

  “Waterton,” Erik interjected, “Erik Eleodum from Waterton.”

  “And you wish to enter the mountain?” the robed man asked.

  “Several of our companions are dwarves. They are traveling to Thorakest to visit kin,” Wrothgard replied.

  “I don’t care why you wish to enter the mountain. Although, it is a curious thing that men would be traveling with dwarves.”

  “We are their friends,” Wrothgard replied. “That is all.”

  The doorman looked at them for a long moment, again through those half-closed, condescending eyes.

  “One moment please,” he said before he shut the door. Erik could hear the man walking through the house. He heard voices. Then, the door opened again.

  “Please follow me.” The attendant opened the door fully and nodded for the three men to enter the house.

  From what he saw of the dwelling, Erik could tell this Master Cho had expensive tastes. They walked down a long hall, stepping on thick, soft rugs. Every few paces, an oil painting hung from the wall, depicting any number of scenes from nude women to war and battle. Tables of ebony and of golden oak stood against the walls as well, each holding a ceramic vase scrawled with blue or red inking, or a golden bowl, or a statue made of silver or brass. It all looked so elegant, so expensive, and yet, it seemed out of place to Erik. Each piece of art, each table, each vase, by itself, was something to hold any rich man’s attention. But combined they created a smattering of trinkets and treasures that spoke of a man trying to buy acceptance, trying to portray a sense of nobility he could never truly earn. It looked more like a store than a home.

  The hall opened into a large room that, much like the hallway, offered a mishmash of paintings and tapestries and vases and other treasures collected, perhaps, throughout a lifetime of travels. Centered in the room, at the end of a long, brown and blue rug, sat a large seat, ebony carved with a deft hand. The scroll work on the armrests and at the head clearly depicted the heads of lions, their eyes set with blue emeralds and their teeth made of small, yellow topaz.

  A broad-shouldered man sat upon a large cushion on the chair. A bit of loose skin on his neck shook as he turned to see the three men. He leaned forward and gripped the lion’s heads of the armrests hard until his knuckles turned white. Those hands could have crushed a man’s skull. He snorted, the air from his nose causing his bushy, peppered mustache to flutter. His jaw, hard and well-defined despite his apparent age, flexed and his eyes narrowed into small dark pools shaded under thick, black eyebrows. They seemed to stop on Erik, and the weight of his stare caused Erik to take a step back, and he bent his back a little in deference.

  “I am Cho.” His voice was a deep war drum. “And this is my camp, mined in service of the Lord of the East.”

  Wrothgard bowed, and Vander Bim followed suit. Erik stayed standing for a moment, but when he caught that stare again, he quickly complied, staring at the ground, and breathing quickly. A drop of sweat trickled along the back of his neck.

  “You may stand.” Cho remained at the edge of his seat. “You hail from the west, and yet, you,” he pointed a thick index finger at Wrothgard, “have the look of an easterner.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Wrothgard replied. “I am originally from Kamdum.”

  “And your reason for leaving the east?” Cho asked. “Your reason for leaving your home?”

  Wrothgard paused. Erik thought he looked worried. Cho gave the soldier that same stare, although he didn’t seem to bend as much under its weight.

  “Those reasons are . . . well, they are of a personal nature,” Wrothgard finally replied.

  “Perhaps you are a murderer who has fled his homeland for fear of the noose. Or, maybe you are a traitor, a spy for Gol-Durathna. How do I know?” His massive shoulders shrugged. “Maybe you are a gypsy or some damned sell-sword.”

  “Do I have the look of a gypsy or sell-sword, my lord?” Wrothgard asked.

  The thin lips under that bristling mustache turned into a frown, and Master Cho stared at them for a long while. Then, he sat back in his seat, running his hand over the top of his balding head, straightening the patch of black and gray hair that still sat just above his ears and at the back of his head. He chuckled.

  “How do I know what a gypsy or mercenary looks like? By the gods, how do I know what a murderer looks like?” Cho asked. “I probably have several in my employ right now. And what do I care?”

  He leaned forward again.

  “I don’t. But you see, I must ask, for this truly isn’t my camp. It is that of the Lord of Fen-Stévock, and if he were to ask, I must at least be able to say I asked. As if he would ever really check. I make him money, and he cares little for what we do beyond his borders.”

  Wrothgard bowed with an insincere smile on his face.

  “So,” Cho sat back again, draping one leg over an arm of the chair. He wore a sarong of reds and gold and purple, and when he put his leg up, some of the cloth revealed a thick leg covered in dark hair. He lazily reached over to a table standing next to his chair and picked up a golden, jeweled cup between his index and middle finger. “You have dwarves in your company.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Wrothgard replied.

  “I am not overly fond of dwarves. They are greedy. They think these mountains belong to them, as well as the riches that lie within. But,” Cho said with a shrug and a quick drink from his cup, “I suppose we are just as greedy. How long do you wish to stay?”

  “One, maybe two nights,” Wrothgard said.

  “And you assure me that you are going into the mountain to visit these tunnel diggers’ kin?” Cho asked.

  “Aye,” Wrothgard simply replied.

  “If I find out otherwise, I will kill you.” Cho dropped his leg and leaned forward again, the wry smile and nonchalant look on his face disappearing, replaced by narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “You have the look of a soldier, but do not think your skill with a sword will do you any good against a hundred pickaxes.”

  Wrothgard nodded.

  “Keep your dwarves at
The Golden Miner. They are to stay there for as long as you stay here. They are not allowed at Madame Ary’s. Only The Golden Miner. Do you understand?”

  He spoke as if the dwarves were their pets and could be leashed and muzzled.

  Wrothgard nodded again.

  “If I find them walking about, I will kill them myself,” Cho threatened. “It has been a long while since I’ve blessed any blade with dwarvish blood.”

  Erik stared at the large man, his muscled arms despite the skin loosening with age, the stern jaw, the hard eyes. He couldn’t imagine most men being able to kill a dwarf, especially after watching them in battle. But this man . . . if there was a man who could do so, Erik thought it would be Cho. He wasn’t lying about having killed a dwarf before. It was his eyes. Those eyes didn’t lie. Those were the eyes of a man who told the truth no matter what. If he bedded a nobleman’s wife, and it meant his death, he would tell the truth. Erik’s father had those same eyes.

  “You are most kind,” Wrothgard said with a bow. Cho flicked his wrist and the three turned to follow the master’s seneschal out when the master of the camp cleared his throat.

  “Waterton, eh?” Cho said.

  Erik looked over his shoulder. His heart quickened, beat against his chest with a deafening sound that everyone must’ve heard. The vein in his neck thumped against his collar.

  “It hasn’t been too many years since I have passed through Waterton. I don’t remember any Eleodums. It’s a small town. You would think I would have heard of the name. Although . . .” Cho paused for a moment. “Yes, I vaguely remember the name.”

  Erik let out a relieved breath.

  “But not from Waterton. No, it was in Venton I heard the name. Yes, Venton. What did you say you did in Waterton?”

  Erik turned and met those hard, truthful eyes. “I . . . I didn’t, my lord. I-I was . . . I was a barkeep.”

  Cho may have never traveled west. Why would he? He may be testing them. But, then again, he may not. The mining boss nodded, one side of his mouth turning in a slight smirk. He didn’t believe Erik. The young man could tell that much in that smirk and those eyes.