Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  Damned magic, Cliens thought.

  “What are we looking for, anyway?” Cliens asked.

  “A level path,” Ranus replied. “Something that will allow us to make it to the great ravine that splits the north and south ranges.”

  “And if we don’t,” Cliens called to Ranus. Amidst the heavy rain, he found himself yelling half the time. “If we don’t find a level path?”

  “Then we keep climbing,” Ranus replied.

  My legs are going to be twice as thick as they are now if we keep this up, Cliens thought.

  “Are you sure climbing into the Southern Mountains was a good idea?” Cliens yelled over a thunder strike. “Those other fools went all the way to Aga Min.”

  “That’s why they are fools,” Ranus replied.

  Right now, we look the fools, Cliens thought.

  “This is best,” Ranus explained, “if we wish to remain hidden.”

  Just then, a loud crack of thunder caused Cliens to jump, and even the stalwart Ranus ducked his head a little. The lightning that accompanied the boom bathed the whole mountain in white, electric light. Cliens hadn’t realized how far up into the mountain they were, as he looked down over the edge of the slope on which they traversed and saw boulders and trees and, far below, the feet of the Southern Mountains and the Plains of Güdal.

  More thunder reverberated through the peaks of the Southern Mountains and more lightning flashed and lit up the whole mountainous landscape. They were on top of one another—the thunder and lightning.

  “It’s close,” Cliens yelled. Ranus hadn’t heard him. Cliens walked faster, even ran, up to this friend. He crossed into Ranus’ magic—or charm—and the rain stopped beating against his shoulders and face. “That’s pleasant.”

  “What was that?” Ranus asked, turning to see Cliens.

  “Not having a river of rain beating against me,” Cliens said, “is nice.”

  “Do you see?” Ranus asked. “Now, would you like me to pray for a charm for you as well?”

  Cliens thought for a moment, almost forgetting why he had run to Ranus.

  “We need to find shelter,” Cliens said finally. “The lightning is close, right on top of the thunder.”

  Ranus nodded. A bolt of lightning struck a tall pine tree nearby. The sound was deafening. Cliens clasped his hands over his ears. It almost created a vacuum, and he couldn’t even hear himself scream. The tree exploded in flame, and the fire dared the torrential downpour to extinguish it.

  Ranus grabbed a handful of Cliens’ sodden shirt and half-lead, half-pulled the man as they searched for shelter. Cliens never could figure out how long, thin fingers could be so strong. Finally, they found a pile of rocks and boulders leaning together and squeezed in between a tight copse of trees that created a small cave. Just as Cliens stepped inside, he heard the low growl of a dog. He looked up to see the yellow eyes of a wolf.

  The wolf bared its teeth, the gray-black fur on its back bristling. Three other wolves stepped up to its side, all growling and snarling.

  “Wolf den,” Cliens said, his hand going to the handle of his sword.

  Ranus stopped Cliens from drawing his blade.

  “Look,” Ranus said. He pointed to the back of the cave where, huddled together and under some pine needles, half a dozen wolf pups lay, eyes barely open, all whimpering.

  Ranus crouched low, both hands held out, and began to speak calmly to the wolves in his language of clicks and chirps and whistles. It was a slow process, but the wolves began to calm. First, they stopped growling. Then, their ears stood up and their fur smoothed a bit. Finally, they simply paced back and forth, whining and whimpering. Eventually, one of them stepped forward and licked Ranus’ hand.

  “Do the same,” he commanded Cliens.

  “So they can bite me?” Cliens asked exasperatedly. “So they can taste my blood and find they have a liking to it?”

  “Do it, or they won’t trust you,” Ranus said softly, still crouched and staring intently at the wolves.

  “Fine,” Cliens said, stepping next to Ranus and squatting.

  At first, none of the wolves would come forward to Cliens. They all stayed back, near the pups. But, eventually, they did the same with Cliens that they did with Ranus.

  “We can sleep here tonight,” Ranus said as a crack of lightning sent the pups into frantic whining and caused more anxious pacing by the adults. “But, we must move on by first light.”

  “Did the wolves tell you that?” Cliens asked.

  “In a way, yes,” Ranus replied.

  “More of your magic?” Cliens accused. “Or, I’m sorry, charms?”

  “No.” Ranus shook his head. “Just knowing how to understand a frightened animal.”

  “So, am I going to wake up with a wolf ’s fangs at my throat because you think you know how to speak with frightened animals?”

  “We will see,” Ranus replied. “Are you brave enough to stay? Or should we take our chances in the rain and thunder and lightning?”

  Cliens scoffed. He hated it when Ranus did that—gave him a choice when Cliens knew there was none.

  “No, of course we’ll stay in here,” Cliens replied.

  When the morning came, Cliens did not find wolf fangs wrapped around his neck. Rather, he found the small den of wolves fast asleep, the young pups nestling and rummaging at their mother’s teats. He looked up at Ranus, who was already ready to go. It took Cliens only a moment before he was ready as well.

  “How did you sleep?” Ranus asked.

  “Surprisingly well,” Cliens replied, “although, I am a little hungry.”

  “Here,” Ranus said, handing Cliens what looked to be a handful of crackers.

  Cliens’ lip curled at the sight.

  “Then go hungry,” Ranus replied, moving to put his crackers back in the pouch that hung from his belt.

  “No, no,” Cliens replied. “Give them here. Stop looking so hurt. It’s not my fault that I have no taste for your dried bread.”

  “What makes you think I have a taste for them?” Ranus asked with that crooked, almost sarcastic smile of his.

  “You don’t?” Cliens asked.

  “Of course I do,” Ranus said, smile still on his face.

  “You can be a piss ant, you know that?” Cliens replied.

  Ranus laughed. Cliens popped one of the crackers in his mouth and chewed slowly. The cracker became soggy instantly and seemed to slide down his throat. Cliens almost gagged.

  “They’re so dry,” Cliens said, “and they taste like moldy, bland dirt clods.”

  “And you know what bland, moldy dirt clods taste like?” Ranus asked.

  “Well, no,” Cliens replied. There it was again, that condescending questioning Ranus did when he knew he was right.

  “Only a couple of crackers will keep you sated for a day,” Ranus said.

  Cliens threw a couple more in his mouth, chewed, and smiled sarcastically at Ranus.

  “And,” Ranus said, putting up a long, slender finger, “they are nutritious. It is like eating a day’s worth of fruits, vegetables, meats, and milk all in one bite.”

  “Well, lucky me,” Cliens said, his voice somewhat muffled by a full mouth.

  Cliens looked over his shoulder at the wolves. They looked peaceful. Funny, how something so deadly could look peaceful.

  “Do you think they’ll make it?” Cliens asked.

  “Who?” Ranus asked with a quick click of his tongue.

  “Those fools marching into Aga Min,” Cliens replied.

  “I saw two companies headed to Aga Min,” Ranus said. “The one with the dwarves . . . I think they have a chance, especially if they make it to Thorakest.”

  “You think they’re heading to Thorakest?” Cliens asked.

  “That is my best guess,” Ranus replied, “and with the help of the dwarves, they have an advantage.”

  “The dwarves of Thorakest would help them?” Cliens asked with a tone of disbelief. “Being in the employ of the Lor
d of the East?”

  Ranus shrugged.

  “Only the Creator knows,” Ranus replied. “These are desperate times for many people, though, including the dwarves. Dangerous times call for drastic measures.”

  “We had better get going then,” Cliens said.

  Chapter 21

  ERIK SAT ON HIS BED, new sword resting in his lap. It was longer than his old one, straight with few chips and dings to speak of, and the edge looked sharp. He was almost asleep before Bryon had opened the door, exclaiming he had killed three mercenaries and confiscated their weapons. Now Erik couldn’t sleep. All he could do was think about what a mountain tunnel might look like. Would it be hot? Cold? Wet? What monsters lay in wait for them?

  He sheathed the sword, leaning it against the table next to his bed. Erik produced two large, smooth rubies, bobbling them in his hand. He put them up to the light. They seemed to drink it in, consume it all, and reflect nothing. They were dull and brilliant at the same time. Their worth must have been great, and every time he looked at them, he wondered why Mardirru gave them to him.

  He held them up to the light again. They were something special. He reached under his pillow and pulled out his flute, the thing that puzzled him more than the rubies or the reason why Mardirru gave the stones to him. The magic of the flute scared him. Was it magic? If it was, wouldn’t Mardirru have been able to play the thing? He slid the instrument back underneath his pillow and pulled his hand back quickly.

  “Damn it,” Erik hissed.

  He sucked a little bit of blood from his index finger, coming from a small puncture wound at the finger’s tip. He was sure he had left his dagger sheathed.

  A tingle crawled up his spine. Erik jumped from the bed, stripping his shirt off, and flinging it around his head.

  “What are you doing?” Befel mumbled, his voice muffled with his face buried in his pillow.

  Erik couldn’t find a spider, but the tingle came again. Then it moved to the back of his head as if someone was running their hands through his hair. He looked at his brother.

  “Just a spider crawling up my arm,” Erik explained. “I guess I overreacted.”

  Befel’s snoring told Erik his brother wasn’t listening anymore. His cheeks began to tingle.

  His flute and dagger lay on the bed, exposed, the pillow that once covered them now on the floor. He eyed the dagger. Its golden-gilded scabbard lay next to it, and he sheathed the blade. Erik turned and bent down to pick up his pillow, and when he turned back, his dagger lay again, blade exposed. Erik raised an eyebrow. Was he going crazy? He shook his head. Then he felt another tingle . . . and a voice in his head. His thoughts, but, not. His voice . . . but not.

  His head buzzed as if he were drunk. That tingling sensation spread over his whole body, almost hurting. Goose pimples rose along his arms. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He heard the voice again. Erik looked to the golden-handled knife . . . no, it was a dagger. He shook his head again. How did he know that? Because the dagger had told him . . . in his head . . . through his thoughts. And the gold wasn’t really gold, but an Elvish metal that looked like gold.

  Forcing himself to accept he wasn’t going crazy, that this was really happening, he decided he needed to pay more attention to his dagger. It wasn’t just some toy, or simple weapon. Erik pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. All these thoughts rushing through his head, and they weren’t even his own thoughts. The dagger would make a deal with him, protect him, guide him, even teach him . . . as long as he paid it more attention.

  Erik’s hands dropped to his sides. The vision of a mighty warrior stood in his mind, plain as if he were looking at his own reflection. It was a man—broad shoulders, thick chest, strong legs. He was stunning, with shining armor and a great sword at his hip, the wind whisking through his hair. It was him, standing atop a hill, overlooking all he had conquered. And there, on his hip, sheathed next to the magnificent sword that had helped this warrior conquer all he saw, was a golden-handled dagger.

  “All right,” he said quietly and tingling left as quickly as it came. As he dropped the pillow back on the bed, the dagger was sheathed once more.

  Chapter 22

  BRYON LET BUCK EAT THE apple from his hand. He scratched him behind the ear as the horse pressed its nose into the man’s hand and then into his chest.

  “You’ll be all right. They’ll probably end up selling you to some rich bastard that uses you as a stud for the rest of your life. No matter what, if I survive this, I’ll find you, I promise.”

  He traced his finger down the white stripe that traveled down the horse’s head from between his eyes to the nose. How would he find him? How would he tell it was him? Bryon shrugged.

  “I’ll be able to tell if it’s you,” Bryon said.

  “Bryon, we’re leaving,” Erik said.

  Bryon looked at Erik and nodded.

  Walking to the rest of the party, he heard Switch talking to Wrothgard, Vander Bim, and Turk.

  “We should just leave him,” Vander Bim said. “He’ll only slow us down.”

  “I hate to say it, but he won’t be useful in a fight right now,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Everyone goes,” Bryon said, passing by the group and walking with Erik to the mine’s entrance. He knew they were talking about Befel. He looked over his shoulder. “He’s a member of the company, right, Vander Bim?”

  Vander Bim nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

  Bryon walked next to Erik, looking over his shoulder to the sailor, and then looking to his cousin.

  “We will need to watch them, especially the thief,” Bryon whispered. Erik nodded. Bryon added, “That sword looks good on you.”

  Erik smiled, tapping the pommel of his new blade before he stepped into the darkness of the tunnel and the smile quickly faded.

  Thick oak beams shored the opening, but, that didn’t make him feel any better. He felt for his brother, brushing his arm in the darkness, and Befel flinched before he pushed the hand away; Erik resigned to keeping his hand on the smooth wall of the mineshaft. The shaft took a sudden left, and there was welcomed light, with Demik holding two torches. Wrothgard and Vander Bim stood at the front of the party, each holding a torch as well.

  “Take the rear with me,” Demik said. He handed Erik a torch.

  The tunnels of the underground were wide and even at first, the sides of the walls and ceilings supported by wooden columns and rafters. Picks, shovels, and buckets littered the mineshaft and at regular intervals lanterns—some lit and some extinguished—hung from an iron hook hammered into a wall or wooden post. The tunnel declined gently at first, but then became steeper. Erik could feel the pounding in his chest and the clamminess of his palms as he heard his breath quicken. The light from the torch in his hand danced as his hand shook, and the only consolation to Erik’s apprehension was that a dwarf was leading them through the mountain.

  As a child he’d hated small, dark spaces, and sweat poured from Erik’s forehead, stinging his eyes, and dripping into his open, panting mouth, leaving an acrid, salty taste that only made him thirstier.

  “This heat is worse than the heat of the Plains,” Erik said, seeking to focus on something tangible.

  Erik heard Demik grumble at his complaint, but then felt a rough hand on his elbow. He looked over his shoulder and saw the dwarf handing him a water skin.

  “Drink water,” Demik said.

  “I’m all right,” Erik replied. “Thank you, though.”

  “You think you’re all right. But this heat is dry,” Demik explained. “You’ll sweat out all your water before you know it, and then you won’t sweat anymore. When that happens, it’s too late.”

  Erik nodded, took the water skin, and took a hearty draught even though he didn’t feel he needed any.

  “Thanks,” Erik said.

  “Don’t worry,” Demik added. “It will grow cooler, once we get deeper. It will almost feel like a cool spring day.”

  “That’s nice�
��and welcomed,” Erik replied, but he wasn’t sure he meant it.

  “Aye.”

  Erik heard something in the pressing darkness, a distant echo, and his chest tightened and pulse quickened. He felt dizzy, and the next step, lost his balance and leaned against the tunnel wall for a moment.

  “Don’t worry,” Demik said. “It’s nothing. Probably a rock falling from the wall. A miner perhaps.”

  “A miner?” Erik questioned.

  “Aye. I wouldn’t worry much,” Demik said. “Just keep an eye out.”

  Demik patted Erik on the shoulder, which took him aback a bit. The dwarf wasn’t necessarily known for being overly friendly to any of the men in the company.

  “You’re in dwarves’ hands now,” Demik said with a certain amount of mirth.

  Erik tried to smile.

  Chapter 23

  “ARE THOSE FOOLS STILL IN my camp?” Cho lifted a silver chalice up to his lips, holding it between his index and middle finger. He slung one leg over the arm of his chair and loudly sipped.

  “Which fools?” Cho’s seneschal replied.

  “Any of them,” Cho replied with a hint of irritation.

  “No,” the seneschal replied.

  Another man, Cho’s personal manservant walked up the few steps to the dais where his throne-like chair sat, a silver pitcher gingerly held in both hands. He lifted the pitcher, and Cho responded with a quick shake of his head. The thin manservant hugged the pitcher to his chest and bowed, his wispy, gray hair floating in front of his face.

  “Good. I hate mercenaries,” Cho said.

  “So you said, my lord,” his seneschal said. “Do you believe the group with the dwarves is truly a group of mercenaries as well?”

  “If those three barbarians are to be believed,” Cho replied.

  He sat up in his chair and leaned forward, elbows propped up on armrests carved into lions’ heads and cup held tightly between both hands.