Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  “Five or six years,” Befel muttered. He didn’t know if he had five or six years. Would the Lord of the East have him assassinated before then? Did the ruler of the most powerful kingdom in Háthgolthane actually care about him?

  “Aye. I know it seems like a long time, but you are young. In two weeks, you might already feel better. Who knows? You seem to heal fast. I will leave several bottles of sweet wine for you. It is strong and will bring on sleep, so only drink it if you are in an uncomfortable amount of pain.”

  “Yethan,” Befel said.

  “Ir wolkom,” Enfberg replied.

  Enfberg motioned to his assistant to follow him out of the room and leave, but as he got to the door, he turned.

  “Be careful with the sweet wine,” Enfberg said. “You will sleep better than you ever have, and it will dull the pain. Many have grown dependent on its use. Use it sparingly.”

  Once they closed the room’s door, leaving Befel alone, he lay down on Erik’s bed, as his sheets were stained with blood and puss. He stared at the room’s ceiling for a few more moments, and then, not meaning to, fell asleep.

  Chapter 43

  BRYON WALKED THROUGH THE COURTYARD, wishing he could hold his sword for only a moment longer. Erik had told him it was elvish—so said some blacksmith friend of Turk—but Bryon didn’t really feel like he could trust any dwarf at the moment. Nonetheless, the thought of not only owning a magic blade, but one crafted by the mythical elvish race was exciting.

  When the guards came to collect it—it had only been loaned to Turk so that he might have his friend inspect it—Bryon felt as if he were a woman whose child was being stripped away from her arms. He hoped he would hold it again. Could he even hope that the dwarves would return it? The King said he would return their weapons, but he had already betrayed them once, like all so-called noble-blooded people.

  A field of statues lay to one side of the castle, all lined in neat rows. Bryon went from one effigy of a dwarf to the next, inspecting the intricacies of the stonework, the attention to detail. They looked real. He remembered the statue of Stone Axe in the tunnels leading to Thorakest, and a shiver crawled up his spine.

  Bryon stared at one statue—a mean looking dwarf with a spear in one hand and a patch over his right eye—when something caught his attention, just in his periphery. His hand went to where his sword handle should have been as he crouched and, for a moment, he sighed in lament. He saw it again—the shadow of a man—going from one statue to the next. He trained his eyes on the statue behind which the shadow hid, hiding behind his own sculpture, and waited. There it was again . . . there he was. Switch.

  Bryon followed the thief through the side courtyard of the castle, to an even more secluded area, with no guards and eerie shadows being reflected off the tall cavern cliffs and castle walls. Switch hopped in and out of the shadows, moving from one to the other like a cat. Bryon could see the dim glimmer of a blade in Switch’s hand. He watched the thief ’s gaunt face stretch out of a shadow. The man stared at something intently, and Bryon followed Switch’s gaze to another statue—the face of a statue.

  This one was a little different than most of the others. The scepter the effigy of the dwarf held was made of gold, the crown on his head looked to be silver. It was accented with many different colors and precious metals, but that wasn’t what Switch stared at. He stared at the eyes. Each eye was a large cluster of blue sapphires, centered by a diamond, and all attached to a gold disk.

  Switch looked all around. Bryon slinked back deeper into the shadow of his statue. The thief raced towards the figure, jumping onto it like a cat, climbing up the tall statue and carefully jabbing his blade into the right eye of the stone dwarf, working around its edges. Within moments, the cluster of jewels popped away from the gold disk, and Switch caught it as it fell. It was bigger than the thief ’s hand, and Bryon could see Switch’s lips glisten as he licked them. He was like a dog drooling uncontrollably over a piece of fresh meat.

  He turned to the left eye, almost dropping the first jewel as he wrapped his legs tight around the statue’s neck and grasped his quarry with both hands. He shoved the first jewel into a large pouch hanging from his belt, grasped the statue’s head with one hand, and turned on Bryon, knife in the other. He hissed.

  “What, by the Shadow, are you doing?” Switch furled his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Face red and jaw clenched, he looked like he might leap at Bryon. But then his look of indignation turned to a crooked smile. “I didn’t even see you. You might make a fine thief someday. Now piss off.”

  Switch turned back to the left eye of the stone dwarf.

  “Stop it.” Bryon stepped towards Switch. “You’re going to get us into trouble.”

  “Blood and guts and stone statues, boy.” Switch turned back around to face Bryon. “We only get in trouble if I get caught. No one comes over to this courtyard. I know—I’ve watched it for the last two days now. Look at the dust on these statues. Not like the ones by the rose bushes. They haven’t been cleaned in days, months, maybe even years. By the Shadow, it looks like it’s been so long since someone has been over here, they may chalk up the missing gems to time and neglect.”

  “And what if someone does see the statue? What if someone connects our appearance with a missing jewel?” Bryon asked. “What about then, you fool thief?”

  “You think I haven’t thought of that?” Switch asked. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Hell, it’s less risky than handing over a mission given to us by the Lord of the East to damned dwarves. With this, maybe I can live the rest of my life in comfort somewhere in Wüsten Sahil or on the Feran Islands, away from assassins and imperial inquisitors.”

  “You’re a bloody fool,” Bryon said.

  “Probably,” Switch replied. “Smarter than you, though. At least I’m thinking about what happens after I leave this damned prison. Where do you go? Back to your farm and your drunkard father to wait for some eastern rat turd to show up at your doorstep and murder you and your family?”

  Bryon didn’t know why, but the thief ’s words twisted his gut, made his face burn, and his vision redden. He found a small rock next to his foot, picked it up, and threw it at Switch.

  The rock struck the thief square in the back. Switch snapped around, face red. He clutched his knife with white knuckles. Any reminiscence of the sly, slippery, cynical Switch had vanished, replaced with rage.

  Switch leapt from the statue, taking a few heavy, angry, purposeful steps towards Bryon. The young man took a few steps back, balling his hands into fists.

  “You itching to die, boy?” Switch asked, pointing his knife at Bryon.

  “Don’t you care about what happens to us?” Bryon asked. “Don’t you care about Turk and Demik and Nafer? Piss on the King and that General, but what about our friends?”

  “Friends?” Switch said with a hint of both sarcasm and confusion. “You think . . . you believe they are your friends? What . . . do you think they would give their lives for you?”

  Switch laughed, and it twisted Bryon’s stomach even more.

  “Troll shit,” Switch said and then spat, his spittle striking the toe of Bryon’s boot. “Erik might give his life for you—because he’s an idiot. Befel, perhaps, out of duty. But even they aren’t your friends. The dwarves would sooner leave you. The soldier, the sailor . . . come now. And me, well, you’re lucky I haven’t already stuck a knife in your back.”

  Then, Switch gave Bryon a half-smile.

  “People say there’s no honor amongst thieves. Boy, there’s no honor among men, among anyone. You know that better than any of these other fools. Understanding that is what has kept me alive this long. You start fooling with what’s kept you alive, well, you might as well kiss your ass goodbye. In my world, it’s all about me. I don’t have family and don’t care to have family. By all the gods of the underworld, I bloody killed my own father when I found out who he was. Killed his wife too—slit her throat from ear to ear. I don’t care about or love an
yone but myself. It’s bloody cruel, I know, but it’s just the way it is.”

  “I don’t totally believe that,” Bryon said, taking a chance to step forward. “What about at Cho’s camp? What about that mercenary that was about to . . . well, you know, what about that?” Bryon asked. “You could’ve waited until they killed me, and then killed them.”

  “Don’t read into it,” said Switch. “Didn’t do me much good to kill you right before entering the mountain.”

  “You’re a liar,” Bryon accused, pointing a finger at Switch who was now only a few paces away. “I feel sorry for you.”

  “What about you, mate?” Switch said, pointing his blade at Bryon’s chest.

  “What do you mean?” Bryon asked, taking a step back.

  “What about all your self-glory and honor? Taking the world by its goods and being your own master? Not caring about anyone but you?” Switch gently poked Bryon in the chest with his blade to make a point. Bryon flinched and swatted Switch’s hand away. He jabbed his own finger into Switch’s chest.

  “I care about my family, and I won’t let you hurt them,” Bryon spat.

  Switch shook his head. “You’re different than them. It’s too bad the dwarves bent us over and double crossed us with this treasure deal, because I think—as much as I hate you—that you got what it takes to make it in this world. Your cousins . . . no. But you . . . you’re more like me than you think.”

  “I’m nothing like you.”

  “Sure you are,” Switch chided, his smile growing.

  Bryon punched Switch. The thief fell to his back. Bryon kicked Switch’s blade out of his hand, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him up so that they were face to face.

  “I’ll kill you with my bare hands you piece of shit—you fucking waste of breath.” Bryon seethed so hard that spit flew from his mouth and spattered Switch’s face. The thief blinked as the saliva dribbled on his cheeks or his forehead, but nothing more. “How dare you talk about my family? How dare you put us in danger? You are filth, dirt, shit on a boot heel. I would do the world a favor by killing you, snuffing out your memory.”

  He shook Switch, whose feet were dangling off the ground, as he spoke.

  “Do it then,” Switch whispered so softly Bryon almost did not hear him. His voice sounded almost enchanted, hypnotic. A sickening glee entered his voice, and a cruel smile invaded his face.

  “I should,” Bryon hissed back. “I should. I could. I will.”

  He shook Switch every time he spoke. His grip around Switch’s shirt collar tightened. His grip closer to Switch’s neck tightened.

  “I will. They’ll thank me later,” Bryon whispered silently.

  Bryon blinked a few times, regaining some of his wits. He shook his head slightly, so slightly Switch did not see. Switch only smiled and wiped a trickle of blood away from his lip.

  “Go ahead. Bloody kill me. Murder me in cold blood with your bare hands. Then we’ll see who the scum is.”

  Bryon’s hands loosened, and he dropped Switch. The thief got to his feet and brushed himself off.

  “I didn’t realize it at first either, but face it, you and I, we want the same thing.”

  Switch’s words pierced Bryon. He knew they were true, but he did not want them to be. He wanted to be nothing like Switch, but that was what he had become.

  “You are filth,” Bryon said, but knew he was talking to himself. Worthless. Nobody. A waste. Those words rang through his head. The voice, though . . . it wasn’t his voice. His father’s voice. Worthless.

  “You’re a bloody survivor.” Switch laughed. He chuckled at Bryon’s hurt look. “Don’t look so pained, my son. I’m the one with the sore jaw.”

  He hopped back onto the statue and continued to work at the left eye. Bryon backed away, his eyes fixed in a gaze, staring blankly at Switch, staring blankly at nothing. He turned around and walked back to the castle, his head down, tears filling his eyes, his face burning, and his hands shaking.

  Chapter 44

  “WE NEED TO GET OUT of here,” Switch said in a hushed voice.

  They had all congregated in Wrothgard’s room. It was a secret meeting, and in the castle, they didn’t need to worry about guards following their every step, but still, the tension was palpable.

  “Then leave,” Bryon said. “What’s stopping you?”

  “Guards following my every movement,” Switch replied, glaring at Bryon as he spoke.

  “Why can’t we just wait?” Erik asked.

  “Wait for what?” Wrothgard asked. “Wait for this General to leave? Wait to go home only to find it burnt to the ground? Wait for a dwarvish knife in my back?”

  “A dwarvish knife . . .” Erik began. “You truly think the dwarves would assassinate us?”

  Turk just shrugged.

  “I don’t know anymore,” he said.

  “I mean to continue on,” Wrothgard said.

  “Continue on?” Vander Bim asked.

  “Aye,” the soldier replied. “I am going to Orvencrest.”

  “And how do you plan on finding it?” Vander Bim asked.

  “Each group had a map,” Wrothgard said. “I still have mine.”

  “We are men,” Vander Bim said, “and unfamiliar with these mountains.”

  “Turk?” Wrothgard asked.

  The dwarf looked at Demik and Nafer, and all three nodded.

  “It is folly,” the sailor added.

  “This whole mission is folly,” Wrothgard said, “but I have lost too much already to quit. What honor do I bring Tedish and Samus if I simply lie down like a beaten dog and return home? What honor do you bring Drake?”

  “Piss on you,” Vander Bim said, standing.

  “You’re drunk,” Wrothgard said. “That’s all you’ve been doing since we’ve been here.”

  “Aye,” Vander Bim replied. “What would you have me do? Learn the dwarves’ language and train with a play sword like these two idiots.”

  “Who are you calling an idiot,” Bryon said.

  “Piss off,” Vander Bim spat.

  “I’m in,” the thief said. Bryon looked at Switch, surprised. He nodded.

  “Me too,” Bryon added.

  “Without talking to us?” Befel asked.

  “What is there to talk about?” Bryon replied.

  Befel looked at Erik. Erik truly didn’t know. He was as upset as everyone else when the King forbade them from continuing on with their journey, but a part of him was happy to be returning home, to see his mother and father, his sisters . . . Simone.

  “I don’t know,” Erik replied.

  “You would actually consider going?” Befel asked.

  There was something about his brother’s tone that upset him. Erik felt his face grow hot.

  “Home,” Befel said.

  “You’re the one that wanted to leave!” Erik yelled.

  “Oi, quiet down,” Switch hissed.

  “You stupid lubberwort,” Erik accused. Then, he pointed to Bryon. “We would still be home if it wasn’t for you and this rat turd.”

  “This is what we’ve come to,” Vander Bim said before Bryon could retort. “Boys arguing about home? Dwarves considering treason? Shove a wooden leg up my arse. I’m going to get a drink.”

  The sailor walked out of the room, shaking his head and cursing under his breath.

  Erik looked to his brother, then to Bryon—who scowled back—then to the dwarves, the thief, and then, finally, Wrothgard.

  “I’m in,” he said with a nod of finality. “I’ll go.”

  Before Befel could say anything, Erik stood and left the room.

  Erik looked over his shoulder, the two dwarvish soldiers eyeing him as he walked through the farmlands of Thorakest. Despite the constant reminder of imprisonment—guards following him whenever he left the walls of the castle—the low moans of cattle, the rows of wheat, the orange and apple orchards all made Erik think of home, and he smiled when he saw cherry trees.

  He remembered Farmer Elgin try
ing to grow cherries, and he remembered his father buying cherries for his mother at the market. The little pink blossoms covered the trees so much you couldn’t see the branches, and the buzz of bees flying from flower to flower created a loud, constant humming.

  As he looked at the trees in the dwarvish fields, one blossom shook loose and twirled to the ground, landing at Erik’s feet.

  “No,” one of the soldiers said when he reached up to pluck another blossom.

  The two dwarves glared at him with hateful eyes.

  “Why?” Erik asked.

  “No,” was the soldier’s only reply.

  Erik wondered if that was the only word in his language they knew.

  “Are you a giant rat turd?” Erik asked with a smile.

  “No,” the dwarf replied.

  That was definitely the only word they knew. He could have spoken to them in their own language. He knew enough now. But he figured there would be no point.

  As he listened to the familiar constant hum of bees and looked at the pink covered trees, and then to the floor, carpeted by those same blossoms, wilting and turning brown, Erik was struck with the sudden realization that nothing could remain the same. The blossoms were beautiful. They gave life to the bees, but in order for the cherries to grow, the flowers had to die.

  “Things change,” Erik muttered. He turned to face his dwarvish guards. “Let’s go.”

  He led his escorts—his captors, he thought—back through the farmlands and into the city. As they passed by homes and shops, the stares that the citizens of Thorakest gave him seemed different. Dwarves huddled in little groups, whispering, and the normal commotion of a city seemed gone, and Erik found it odd. The mayor stood out in front of the entrance to his keep, scowling at Erik, and when he approached the castle walls, Befel rushed out to meet him.

  “Erik!” Befel yelled.