Patûk Al’Banan looked to Bu. The Lieutenant nodded.
“Indeed,” Patûk replied.
“They fed Cho some story about accompanying these dwarves to visit family,” Li said. “In fact, they gave Cho little indication that they were mercenaries.”
“You didn’t believe them,” Patûk replied.
“No, sir.”
“Did you tell Cho that you didn’t believe them?” Patûk asked.
“He is—was—a hard-headed man, sir. Once he set his mind to something, he rarely changed it. They convinced him they were simple travelers accompanying dwarvish friends into the mountain.”
Patûk looked at the seneschal through squinted eyes. Could he trust this man? Telling Patûk this information served him how?
“We will talk later,” Patûk said.
Li gave the General a simple bow.
The General turned to Bu.
“I am going to put Andu under you, as a sergeant,” Patûk said. “His nobility deserves that much, and perhaps giving him some status and rank will help convince his father to support us financially.
Bu bowed, “As you wish, sir.”
“I do not trust him, but I feel he might prove useful. I will send word to his father,” the General said. He didn’t know why he felt he needed to explain himself to Bu, but Bu he trusted.
“His wealth may prove necessary. At the first sign of dissention, kill him. At the same time, I want you to give this Li an opportunity to prove his worth. I want you to set him to some tasks around my tent—transcribing letters, caring for my armor, charting those parts of the Southern Mountains we have explored thus far.”
Bu bowed again. “Yes, sir.”
Patûk turned back to the cliff and watched the sun setting. The sky looked more and more like blood, but now it was dried blood, old blood, the blood of an untended wound. The dusk disguised the smoke, but he knew it was still there.
Patûk saw his personal guard, Bao Zi, walk from behind a tree. The old man quickly knelt before Patûk and rose.
“You sent for me, sir.”
“Yes.” Bao Zi was loyal. He was loyal beyond question, and yet not a drop of noble blood flowed through his veins. He was so loyal, he had taken arrows for Patûk, lost his eye for Patûk, left his family for Patûk. “What are the known dwarvish cities in this area of the Southern Mountains?”
Patûk turned his eyes back to the smoldering camp, and the Plains beyond. Dusk was fully on them. He could hear the wild dogs howling to one another. His trolls had kept them away, but they were gone now, and they smelled blood, they smelled death and decay.
“Thorakest is their principal city, General. There is Strongbur also, just south of here,” Bao Zi said. “Ghezwath is in the Western Tor. Gerburton is a fair number of leagues east of here.”
“Do we know the whereabouts of their surface entrances?” Patûk asked.
Dwarvish cities, albeit underground, always had at least one surface entrance. They typically guarded them heavily and had them expertly hidden away, in Patûk’s experience.
“I believe we have an idea, sir,” Bao Zi said. “Lieutenant Bu thinks the dwarves he killed were from Strongbur.”
“Good. Concentrate on Strongbur and Thorakest, but watch the others as well,” Patûk commanded. “Watch any movement that might indicate interest in Orvencrest. Bu has recovered a map to Orvencrest for us, but I don’t know if the dwarves know where the city is; it seems as if they do not. There were dwarves at the Messenger’s meeting in Finlo, and there were dwarvish mercenaries traveling with men.”
“Are we looking for these mercenaries,” Bao Zi asked, “the ones traveling with dwarves?”
“Yes,” Patûk replied. “We lost two trolls to dwarves working with men. And they were seen in Aga Min, as well. I think, if anyone has a chance to find this city and deal with the ancient mysteries of these mountains, it would be the dwarves.”
“Do you expect them to surface, sir?” Bao Zi asked.
“If Orvencrest is where the usurper thinks it is, in the southern range, they will have to surface at some point,” Patûk replied. “They will have to cross one of the many dwarvish land bridges that connects the two ranges.”
“So, we are both looking for the usurpers mercenaries,” Bao Zi said, “and the lost dwarvish city?”
“Yes,” Patûk replied.
“Aye, sir. And when we find these mercenaries,” Bao Zi asked, “or any other dwarves?”
“If these mercenaries have found a way, we will follow them as far as we can,” Patûk replied. “Dwarves are cunning, and I expect we won’t be able to follow them too long without being discovered. Any other dwarves . . . kill them.”
“And when these dwarvish mercenaries discover us?” Bao Zi asked. For a man of such lowly birth, he always asked the most intelligent questions.
“Attack,” the General replied. “Take the dwarves prisoner. Force them to show us the way.”
“Do you think they will, sir,” Bao Zi asked.
“It doesn’t matter how prideful someone is,” Patûk replied with a sinister smile, “they always start talking when you begin removing appendages.”
Chapter 36
TURK WAITED A DAY BEFORE starting Erik’s training, and they met in one of the castle’s many training rooms. Watched relentlessly by guards, Erik could sense their disapproving stares even through the helms covering their faces. But he didn’t care. He had learned to deal with disapproval, whether it was in the pig sties of Venton, the lumber yards of Waterton, or as a porter to the likes of Switch. Rather than worry about the watching eyes, he threw himself into Turk’s instruction.
The first day, Turk simply put Erik through exercises of strength and calisthenics, and there were no weapons in sight. Erik was ready to swing a sword and axe, throw a spear, and shoot three arrows from a bow with one draw of the string. But, despite his disappointment, he listened and did as Turk commanded. That first session ended with meditation and balance training. And then the next day and the day after that continued in much the same way.
“I don’t understand,” Erik said.
“What is that?” Turk asked.
“I am already strong,” Erik replied. “I am fast and agile. When am I going to learn to use a blade?”
“You are strong. You have endurance. You are agile,” Turk agreed. “But your greatest attribute, my friend, is your brain and your willingness to listen.”
Turk poked Erik in the side of the head.
“You are smart,” Turk said. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” Erik replied. He thought about his response for a moment. He didn’t know if he really had a reason to trust Turk. He had known the dwarf for maybe a month. They had fought alongside one another, but so had he and Switch, and he didn’t trust Switch. And now they were little more than prisoners in a dwarvish city. But there was something about Turk. Yes, he trusted the dwarf.
“Then do what you are told,” the dwarf said.
Erik nodded and bowed.
The next day, Erik met both Turk and Wrothgard.
“I am well versed in many fighting techniques,” Turk said, “but when it comes to the blade, there is none better to teach you than a former eastern soldier.”
Wrothgard stepped forward and bowed to both Erik and Turk.
“I am honored,” Wrothgard said. “I understand, Erik, that you have been promised a great gift, a blade that is made specifically for you. But for now, due to the King’s decree, we must use practice weapons.”
Erik could sense a bit of angst in the soldier’s voice.
A week passed, and Erik learned moves like Striking Snake, Falling Star, Rising Sun, Hawk in Flight, and Woodman’s Axe, simple names the soldier called different movements with the sword. After the first day, Wrothgard was so happy with Erik’s progress, he commanded he meet with him twice a day. He taught Erik how to fight with and without a shield. He taught Erik how to fight with only a shield, and then with just his hands.
/>
Turk then continued that unarmed context and taught the young man a different style of hand fighting, and grappling, before he introduced the intricacies of fighting with a battle-axe. All the while, more guards gathered and watched, some of them staring, some of them chattering silently, some of them cheering quietly when Erik mastered a movement, and some of them shaking their heads and cursing. After that week, Bryon showed up.
“You are behind, Bryon,” Turk said.
“It’s not my fault,” he replied. “I didn’t know you were training my cousin.”
“If you wish me to train you,” Turk said, “that is the last time you will speak back to me. Do you understand?”
Bryon nodded with an irritated expression.
“I will train you, from the beginning,” Turk said, “while Wrothgard concentrates on Erik’s more advanced training.”
Erik couldn’t help smiling, although he did try to hide it. It wasn’t often he got the betterment of his cousin.
Their training continued, and in another week, Erik started learning to use a staff and a spear. He spent hours training, even on his own after Wrothgard and his cousin left, and Turk went to work for Ilken. He felt stronger. He felt accomplished. For the first time since his father had taught him to catch his first fish, or shoot his first deer, or plant his first grain of wheat, Erik felt as if he had done something worthwhile. Bruises and welts grew along his arms—Wrothgard carried a thin stick with which he would strike Bryon and Erik when they made mistakes—but he owned each one of those marks, and he wore them with pride. The soreness in his muscles felt good. The fading aches in his joints said he was improving. The burning in his lungs when he ran told him every day he could run a little farther.
As the watching crowd grew too big—now with noble and aristocratic onlookers as well as the guards—word of men training in the ways of dwarvish tactics spread throughout the city. Turk and Wrothgard now decided to move their training to a more obscure location, with the King’s permission, of course.
Erik sat in the new room after their second day there. Wrothgard and Turk had since left, leaving Bryon and Erik and two guards to watch them.
“I am going back to the room,” Bryon said.
“Alright,” Erik replied.
“Are you coming?”
“No,” Erik replied. “I think I’ll stay here for a while.”
He sat cross-legged, hugging his knees to his chest and looking at a giant tapestry that almost covered one wall. It was an intricate thing, with depictions of continents and oceans and lands and mountains and forests and armies. At the very top of the tapestry was a giant, winged lizard, sewn to span the entire width of the wall-hanging. A man—armored from head to toe—stood under the beast.
“I don’t think you should stay here,” Bryon said.
“Why not?” Erik asked, looking up at his cousin. Bryon had a genuine look of concern on his face. “I won’t be long,” Erik added, “I have to meet Demik soon for my language lessons.”
Erik had been meeting with Demik to learn Dwarvish. If he was going to be trapped in the city of Thorakest, rather than wallow in misery and boredom like Switch, complain about injuries like Befel, or drink himself into oblivion like Vander Bim, Erik decided he would learn everything he could.
“I don’t trust them,” Bryon replied.
“The dwarves?” Erik asked.
“Yes,” Bryon said.
Erik looked to the dwarves. They looked kind enough, but then again, he had been a poor judge of character in the past.
“I appreciate your concern,” Erik said in a hushed voice, “but I think I will be alright.”
“Suit yourself,” Bryon said with a tone of finality as he turned and walked out of the room with heavy steps.
Erik just shook his head as he turned back to the tapestry.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
Erik thought he recognized the voice and turned to see King Skella walking into the room. Erik stood quickly and bowed as the guards snapped to attention.
“You have created quite a commotion, Erik Eleodum,” said the King.
“I didn’t mean to,” Erik said.
“The fault is really not yours,” the King said with a laugh. “But people can’t help themselves. A man, in the castle, learning to fight using dwarvish tactics, but yet, eastern tactics at the same time. And then also learning our language. Who knows how the public hears of these things?”
“Gossip, I suppose,” Erik replied.
The King nodded with a smile. Then, his eyes trailed to the tapestry.
“Drak Vurm,” King Skella said, pointing to the giant winged lizard.
“A dragon,” Erik said.
“Aye, a dragon in Westernese,” the King replied. “They roamed the skies in the old days—some good, some bad. All terrible.”
“How can something be good and terrible at the same time?” Erik asked.
“Indeed,” the King said. “Those that were our allies were good, but still dangerous. Nonetheless, they are all gone now. The devastation of the Drak Vurm is legendary. The knight, however . . .”
“What of him, Your Majesty?” Erik asked.
“He is of your people, Erik Eleodum,” the King replied. “The last of the dragon slayers, defender of free peoples, and foe to the Shadow. We don’t know his name, but many suspect he was from the far west, from what is now known as Gongoreth, and ancestor to the people who now live in northwestern Háthgolthane.”
The King stepped forward.
“You are a good man,” the King said.
“Your Majesty,” Erik replied with a bow.
“I have made many mistakes in my life,” the King said, “and keeping you here, not letting you go off to find Orvencrest, may be one of them, but I have always been a good judge of character. I have always been good at reading a man’s heart.”
“I’m touched, Your Majesty,” Erik said.
“I don’t just say that as a frivolous thing,” the King said. “You will do great things with your life, Erik Eleodum. They may not be here, but you come from strong blood. Remember that. Pay attention to Turk and Wrothgard and Demik. And keep an eye on your cousin and make sure he trains as hard as you, eh?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Erik said with a bow.
“Get some rest,” King Skella said. “Tomorrow is a new day, and that always brings new challenges.”
Chapter 37
ERIK STRETCHED AND YAWNED, SITTING up in his bed and feeling refreshed. His brother and cousin were gone. His wash basin was empty. The closet was empty. His bags were gone. It was as if the room had never been used. He turned to look at his bed. It was undisturbed, sheets clean and pressed.
Erik opened the door and walked down to the bathroom. The heat of the room seeped from underneath the door. The smell of mint hit his nose when he entered, but behind that smell, though, was the stink of stale, wet clothes. The bathroom was empty, and a thick mist hung above the large, pond-sized bath.
As he walked towards the stone tub, the mist seemed to swirl around him, his ankles, and away from the water. It left clear spots so Erik could see the water, stale, deep and dark—almost black. Something moved and sent ripples towards the edge.
Erik knelt down at the bath’s edge, waving the mist away. All he saw was deep, dark, black water. Small waves lapped against the side of the tub, and he saw something float to the surface. A face, mouth open in a silent scream, burst from the water.
Erik lurched backwards, his back and head slamming against the white deck.
“Damn dreams,” he said.
He rubbed his head hard as pain shot through his neck and shoulders. He rolled to his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. He looked to the bath and a head, floating like an apple, bobbed along the water’s surface. The head turned towards Erik, and he covered his mouth. Tears filled his eyes, and his hands shook, sweat collecting around his ears, and at the back of his neck.
“Turk.”
His
beard looked ragged and torn as his tongue lolled out of his mouth like a panting dog. His eyes were half-closed, barely revealing white pupils. His face looked pale, milky white like the moon. Now Erik saw more heads. Vander Bim and Demik. Wrothgard. Even Rory, Bo, and Del Alzon.
“It’s a damn dream,” Erik repeated, closing his eyes, and trying to make himself wake up.
Then he saw Bryon and Befel. Erik choked. He wanted to scream or cry or vomit but couldn’t.
He looked at the deep, dark, black water.
“Blood.”
He stood straight, staring at them as they stared back from across the pool.
Yessss.
It was a chorus of painful, ear-raking hissing. He saw their faces. Just a few days had rotted their flesh. Skin barely clung to their bones, and what skin remained had turned black. Maggots danced in and out of eye sockets, and they lumbered like slow golems.
Slavers. Murderers. Rapists. They jumped into the pool of blood and waded towards him. He could see the excitement in their rotting faces, in those vacant eye sockets. Erik crouched, like a cat, waiting to attack. They inched further. He pressed his fingers on the decking until they turned white.
“I told you,” he said, “you have no power over me.”
“We don’t care what you say,” they hissed together.
One made its way to his side of the pool, clawed at the edge, tried to pull itself out. Erik kicked its skull. Bone cracked under his boot, and the thing shrieked as it fell back into the pool of blood. Another came, and Erik kicked it. Its skull shattered into a thousand pieces.
The sharp, stinging smell of rotten meat struck Erik’s nose. He looked to his right, and there was one of them, next to him, clawing at him. He stepped back, swung with a clenched fist, and hit it so hard, its jaw hung loosely to the rest of its skull by rotting ligament. Erik’s foot slipped on the spilled blood, and he fell forwards. He reached out to grab the bath’s edge, but it was no good, and he toppled in, the thick liquid washing over him as blood entered his mouth.
Erik burst upwards with a gasp and flailed about, trying to get to the bath’s edge and pushing severed heads out of the way. He felt vulnerable as if the dead that haunted his dreams could hurt him there. They lurched towards him, moaning with malevolent groans.
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