Erik scrunched his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve never really been trained with a sword, or any weapon for that matter, other than a boar spear—and maybe the short bow. If I could choose something . . . Well, I think I’ve heard them called hand-and-a-half swords.”
“Ah, yes, a bastard sword,” Ilken said with a smile.
“Yes,” Erik replied. “A bastard sword I heard too.”
“A very popular sword among the peoples of Northern Háthgolthane,” Ilken said. “I will keep an eye out for one.”
Erik nodded with a smile.
Chapter 34
“I WILL JOIN YOU IN a moment,” Turk said to Erik, suggesting he had private business to discuss.
“If you like tea,” Ilken said, “Lita is brewing some.”
“I do,” Erik replied. “It has been a while since I’ve had tea.”
“He’s an extraordinary young man,” Ilken said when Erik had walked into the house.
“Yes, he is,” Turk replied. “He has a good heart. He gives me hope for the future of men—and for our future.”
“Is he a capable fighter?” Ilken asked.
“He . . . he has, I believe, good potential,” Turk replied, “and I should be more active in teaching him how to fight. A soldier from the east also travels with us, and I think, between he and I, we could turn Erik into quite a competent warrior. I fear I have failed him thus far in that.”
“Do you think the King will let you go in search of Orvencrest?” Ilken questioned.
Turk looked at his blacksmith friend with raised eyebrows but should have known if any of the citizens of Thorakest would have heard of their arrival, the reason, and the King’s decree, it would be the savvy Ilken Copper Head.
“We will see,” Turk sighed. “I suppose I should have expected some disagreement. King Skella is a good king, but to let a group of mercenaries carrying a map to the lost city of Orvencrest go when you could send an army . . .”
“Be prepared,” Ilken said.
“What do you mean?” Turk asked.
“As more people learn of your arrival and the reasons behind it,” Ilken replied, “you might find yourself and your friends becoming increasingly unpopular.”
“Even more so than we already are?” Turk said. “Arriving after so long, and with a retinue of men, seems to have rubbed many the wrong way.”
“Frewin?” Ilken asked.
Turk nodded.
“He’s a tick,” Ilken said and spat. “A pest and a drain on the dwarvish people.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Turk said.
“Nonetheless, whatever happens, you should train that young man,” Ilken said.
“I agree,” Turk said, “whatever happens. An knows, if we are sent on our way, he will have to know how to fight, with Golgolithul’s assassins on his tail.”
Turk then suddenly looked at Ilken, a small smirk on his face.
“What is that look about, Turk?” Ilken asked.
“Well, my friend could use a better sword,” Turk replied, “and you are an accomplished blacksmith.”
“So are you,” Ilken said.
Turk laughed.
“You jest,” Turk said, “if you are truly comparing my skills with yours.”
“Your skill will surpass mine when you are my age,” Ilken said.
“That may be,” Turk replied, “but right now, at this moment, you are a far superior blacksmith—a far superior blade smith.”
“What are you getting at?” Ilken asked.
“Would you be willing to make Erik a sword?” Turk asked.
“That is a tall task to ask,” Ilken replied.
“Aye, it is,” Turk said, “but if there is a man in this world that I believe is worthy of such a gift, it would be Erik.”
“If you are looking for a basic sword,” Ilken said, but Turk cut him off.
“I am looking for a masterpiece,” Turk replied. “I am looking for something that he can pass down to his son and grandson, something that will hail the hospitality of the dwarves in uncertain times.”
“It is a lot you ask,” Ilken said.
“I will pay,” Turk said, “whatever the cost.”
Ilken scoffed with an angry expression.
“I should whip you for saying such a thing,” Ilken said with a frown. “To think I would ask money from you, even for a task such as this. But this will take time, and much effort. I will have to focus solely on this, which means I will not be able to fill orders that have already been placed. I will also not be able to take on new business, which will not set well with Lita.”
Ilken looked at Turk with a smile.
“I will do them,” Turk said.
“You?” Ilken asked with a smile on his face.
“You said I am a skilled blacksmith,” Turk said. “I will fill your orders, as well as complete any new business you take on, if you agree to make a sword for Erik.”
“And you will give that young man the training he needs and deserves?”
“Yes,” Turk said. “Straight away.”
Ilken smirked and nodded his head.
“I will do this then” Ilken said, “for you, and for your father, and for the legacy of the dwarves. I think I will need a fortnight to finish it. Come to my shop every day at dawn. You will work until noon. Then I will give you a break, so you might train young Erik. If there is anything else to do that day, you will come back and work until sundown. Is this agreeable?”
Turk nodded and shook Ilken’s hand.
Turk retrieved Erik from inside Ilken’s home and led him through the streets of Thorakest, back to the castle.
“Why would Ilken do such a thing?” Erik said, blushing slightly after Turk told him the blacksmith was making him a sword.
“Because he is kindhearted,” Turk replied, “and because I have agreed to train you. And I volunteered Wrothgard to train you as well.”
“Train me?” Erik asked.
“Aye,” Turk replied.
“What if the King sends us home?” Erik asked.
“Then you will need training to survive the Lord of the East’s assassins,” Turk replied.
Erik didn’t reply, and Turk didn’t bother to look at the young man over his shoulder. He already knew what look was strewn across his face. It was the same one on his own.
Chapter 35
PATÛK AL’BANAN STOOD ON A tall cliff that overlooked the mining camp. Smoke rose into the sky, and the gray clouds it created covered the deep reds of the setting sun, giving the sky the look of blood. Patûk smiled.
“Does this please you, Princess?” She desired blood and death, and Patûk had given them to her, his Princess of Pain.
He thought he could see Cho’s body—old and broken, and yet hard and defiant. He knew the miner would have never given over the camp. He was too proud. He was from an old stock. All Sorben Phurnan could say about the man was “old fool” and “worthless son of a whore.” Cho may have been a son of a whore, but Lieutenant Phurnan was the fool. Cho was a man of principle. Perhaps if he could have talked to him, instead of that little, pompous ass Sorben, but, no. It was destined to end this way.
He looked to the horizon. They ran like ants into the Plains—two dozen of them—and Lieutenant Phurnan wanted to give chase.
“Shall we run them down, General?” Sorben had asked.
General Al’Banan just shook his head.
“But General,” the Lieutenant had begun to plead.
That had brought on one of Patûk’s steely stares, and the Lieutenant slinked back away from him. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to do. Perhaps the Princess would be upset. Maybe she wanted more sacrifice, more blood, more death. Perhaps she would retract the blessing she had bestowed on the General.
He denied her to spite Sorben. That fool would waste resources, time, men to chase, and kill two dozen peasant miners. From what Bu had said, Sorben Phurnan had wasted both men and trolls—Pat�
�k’s lip curled at the thought of those beasts—chasing the Lord of the East’s mercenaries . . . and unsuccessfully. Fool. Fool indeed. Patûk’s use for him had run its course. Besides, any man who dug through rock and rubble—who desired life that badly—deserved to live in Patûk’s opinion.
“Bu.”
His newly appointed Lieutenant stood just behind him. He stepped forward and knelt.
“Yes, sir.”
“What word have you?” Patûk Al’Banan asked.
“Dwarves, sir,” Bu replied.
Patûk heard the sound of meat slapping against the ground. He looked over his shoulder and saw the head of a dwarf—eyes half closed and tongue lolling out its mouth lazily—laying in front of the Lieutenant.
“They were tracking men. More mercenaries in the employ of Golgolithul, I suspect,” Bu added.
“You killed them?” the General asked.
“Yes, sir,” Bu replied. “Both the dwarves and the mercenaries.”
“And how many men did this cost us?” Patûk asked.
Bu didn’t reply. General Al’Banan half turned to look at his Lieutenant, still staring at the ground but with a cocked eyebrow.
“Lieutenant, I asked you a question,” Patûk said. “I demand an answer.”
“I am sorry sir,” Bu said. “It’s just . . . well, we lost none, sir.”
Patûk turned back around. He didn’t want Bu to see the smile on his face.
“Send for Bao Zi, Captain Kan,” the General commanded, “and bring me the prisoners of note.”
He didn’t see the Lieutenant bow but knew he did. He could trust this man. But why? His ideas about trust and loyalty had changed over the last twenty years. When he had served in the Eastern Guard, his officers, society, taught him not to trust peasants, those of low birth, enlisted men, the commoners. The last score of years had taught him the exact opposite. He could trust those people. Men like Bu and Bao Zi, the common soldiers who came to serve him despite the usurper. And the others—men like Sorben Phurnan, this new prisoner, Andu—he couldn’t trust these men. They had ulterior motives: self-advancement, personal glory, wealth, and riches. They didn’t serve for honor. Especially men like this Andu—how does one give loyalty to one man and so easily change his allegiances? Fear of death?
“Weakness,” Patûk whispered. He could hear Bu coming up behind him. The Lieutenant knelt again. Two other soldiers brought the prisoners. Bu looked over his shoulder and squinted his eyes, and the soldiers pushed the men to the ground. The General thought again how he needed to promote more men like Bu.
“Did you send for Bao Zi?” Patûk asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Introduce me to our guests,” Patûk commanded.
Bu stood and looked over his shoulder again. His soldiers pulled the prisoners up to their feet. Patûk walked to the two men, facing first a young man with close-cropped, black hair and fair features. He’d arrived in Patûk’s camp over a day and a half ago, and not a single whisker stood on his chin. He stood shorter than Patûk, but most easterners did. He wasn’t soft, by Patûk’s estimation. His shoulders and arms and chest looked well-muscled, a soldier’s muscle.
“What is your name?”
The young man flinched at Patûk Al’Banan’s voice, and at that, the General scowled.
When the man didn’t respond right away, the corners of Patûk’s mouth dipped low into a deep frown. He saw Bu move to his side and lift a gauntleted hand. The young easterner gasped and ducked, covering his head with one arm. The General thought he heard a whimper. He put a hand up.
“Stay your hand, Lieutenant.”
Bu bowed and dropped his hand.
“Speak, quickly, before I let my Lieutenant beat you and then feed you to the mountain trolls.”
“Andu, of House Gházjûka,” the prisoner replied.
Patûk nodded to Bu. The Lieutenant struck Andu of House Gházjûka hard across the face. The prisoner fell to the ground, dazed, blood trickling down his cheek.
“When you address General Patûk Al’Banan, you will address him as sir.” Bu reached down, grabbed the front of Andu’s shirt, and pulled him to his feet. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Andu replied.
Patûk looked at Lieutenant Bu again, and again, nodded. The Lieutenant struck the prisoner across the other cheek.
“He’s crying,” Patûk said with a muttering scowl.
Bu reached down and pulled him to his feet again.
“When you address me, you will address me as sir as well. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Andu, eyes wide, red rimmed, and wet, looked up at Bu. He started to shake, and Patûk thought he smelled piss. He put a hand up. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”
Patûk Al’Banan saw a small smirk cross Bu’s lips. That made Patûk smile.
“What were you doing at Aga Min?” Patûk Al’Banan asked.
“I . . . I w-was Sergeant of the camp g-guard,” Andu replied, and when he saw Bu lift his fist again, he added, “sir.”
“Little good your camp guard did. Wouldn’t you agree?” the General asked. Before Andu could answer, Patûk added, “How did an inexperienced whelp such as yourself become the leader of Aga Min’s guard? Did your father pay for your position?”
“I . . . I p-proved myself—”
Bu’s gauntleted fist struck Andu across the face again. When the Lieutenant pulled the man to his feet, the easterner’s knees buckled, and he slouched just in front of the General. Bu pulled him up again.
“Stand. Be a man,” the Lieutenant commanded.
“I don’t like it when men lie to me, Andu of House Gházjûka. It greatly upsets me.” The muscles of Patûk’s hardened jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth.
“Y-yes, sir. M-my father p-paid for my p-position. We are a minor house—”
“Yes, I know of your house—and I know how minor it is,” Patûk said with an element of disgust in his voice.
“W-we are wealthy, sir— extremely wealthy—and m-my father figured, if g-given the opportunity, I m-might prove myself a military leader and raise our house’s status, but without paying for a position, I w-would not have that opportunity, sir.”
“Why didn’t your father do something to raise the status of your house?” Patûk asked. “And stop sniveling.”
“He can’t, sir,” Andu replied, doing his best to straighten his back. “He is lame, sir. His left leg is crippled. He never had an opportunity to serve in the military. He never had an opportunity to prove our house’s worth through combat.”
“Much good you did for your family’s honor” Patûk said. “Are you your father’s only son?”
Andu nodded.
“Better you had stayed home and stayed a minor house, for now you may not have a house after your death,” Patûk said.
Andu fell to his knees and clutched at the General’s cloak. When the old soldier pulled his cloak away, the easterner groveled at his feet.
“Disgusting,” Patûk hissed.
“W-we have money, sir. M-my father w-will pay whatever you ask.” He looked up at the General. “I-I w-will serve you if y-you wish. I trained at the academy in Fen-Stévock. We really don’t hold strong allegiances to the Stévockians.”
“No, you hold allegiances to whoever helps your status. Your family has no honor, does it?” Patûk pulled his boot away from the man as he tried to kiss it. “What is your father’s name?”
“Andu, sir.” When Andu looked up, his face was still bloody, but tear-streaked as well. “He is the f-fourth of his name. I am the fifth, sir. I will do w-whatever you ask me, sir.”
“Yes, I am sure you would.” The General looked up at one of the soldiers. “Take him away.”
“To the prison tent, sir?” the soldier asked, his head bowed.
“No,” the General replied. “Take him to my tent. You may leave him unchained. He will go nowhere. Will you?”
“No, sir.”
The soldier led Andu away, and Patûk walked
to the other prisoner, a bald man with eyelids that hung only half-open.
“And you?”
“Li, sir.” The bald man gave the General a half bow, hands folded and hidden under the sleeves of his robe.
“Who are you?” Patûk asked.
“My last employment was as Cho’s seneschal, sir. I served him for three years. Before that, I served in the House of Mafu’Sûn, as Lûk Mafu’Sûn’s manservant.”
“You left a moderately-sized home, with decent political power, and employ of that house’s heir, to serve the master of a mining camp?” Patûk asked, a level of disbelief rising.
“Cho paid better, sir. And I did not see myself rising above the level of a simple manservant with House Mafu’Sûn,” Li said. “I must admit, I am an opportunist, sir.”
“Clearly.” General Patûk Al’Banan groaned loudly and frowned. “And where do your loyalties lie?”
“A man of my status can ill-afford loyalties, sir,” Li replied. “I have no status, no family name, no wealth.”
“So, what shall we do with you?” Patûk didn’t like this man. He looked smug, pompous, and, worse, he had no reason to be.
The General saw the bald man, eyes still half-open, purse his lips. Was he thinking, trying to figure out some opportunity for himself?
“I could be your seneschal, sir,” Li finally said.
Yes, indeed. Opportunity.
“I have no need for a seneschal,” Patûk replied.
“You have no need for a seneschal until you actually have a seneschal, sir,” Li said. “Then, suddenly, all the menial work you once did, I do, and you can attend to more urgent matters.”
“We will see.” Patûk looked at the soldier behind Li and nodded. The soldier grabbed the seneschal by the elbow and led him away.
“Sir.” Li’s voice was lazy, uncaring. Patûk didn’t like it. But, the General thought him a man who didn’t speak unless he had something important to say, so when he called for the General, Patûk Al’Banan stopped the soldier leading him away and let the seneschal speak.
“As you know, sir, mercenaries in the service of Golgolithul came to Aga Min.”
“That is no mystery,” Patûk replied.
“They were with dwarves,” Li added.
Dark Winds Page 25