Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  Before Erik could say anything, the two guards stepped in front of him, blocking Befel.

  “Are you serious?” Erik asked, pushing one of the guards away. “He’s my brother. Don’t you know that?”

  “Erik!” Befel cried again as he reached Erik. He looked upset. “The King has summoned us.”

  “What is going on?” Erik asked.

  “It’s Vander Bim,” Befel replied.

  “What about him?” Erik asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  Erik felt numb, standing in the throne room as Switch and Wrothgard and the dwarves argued with General Balzarak and King Skella. Their words sounded distant.

  “You were supposed to bloody protect us,” Switch hissed. “Or was this your plan all along?”

  “Watch your tongue,” General Balzarak said.

  “Or what?” Switch asked cynically. “Will I also end up with an assassin’s knife in my back, lying face down in some stinking dwarvish alley? Or would you have the balls to do the deed yourself?”

  Another dwarf standing to the right of Balzarak stepped forward and yelled. Erik, even though he had started to learn the dwarves’ language, didn’t know what he said, but it didn’t sound nice. The dwarf ’s hand went to the handle of his sword.

  “Thormok,” King Skella said, “stand down.”

  The dwarf bowed and stepped back, his scowl ever present.

  “Just wait, Thormok,” Switch mocked, “he’ll sick you on us all in due time.”

  “That is enough from you as well,” King Skella commanded, pointing a finger at Switch. “You have about exhausted my patience for your runaway mouth.”

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Wrothgard said. He tried sounding as cordial as possible, even though the look on his face said that he was just as angry as Switch. “You ensured our safety. Vander Bim was under the watch of your own personal guard when he was murdered.”

  Another dwarf, some other dignitary like Balzarak by his looks, pointed at Wrothgard, also speaking in Dwarvish.

  “How is it not murder, Captain Gôdruk?” Turk asked. “This is no accidental death. He was stabbed . . . in the back . . . while under the protection of castle guards.”

  Gôdruk replied, again in Dwarvish.

  “My allegiances are to my friends and those who I would feel are my people,” Turk replied, “which, at the moment, seems to be these adventurers I stand next to.”

  That brought on more arguing, each person trying to speak over the next until no one could hear anyone else.

  “A knife in his back?” Erik asked in a whisper.

  “Aye,” Befel replied. “Apparently, he had been drinking in some bar along Thorakest’s main street. When the guards led him out the back door into an alleyway, someone stabbed him.”

  “The guards?” Erik questioned.

  “They said they didn’t see it happen,” Befel replied. “They said Vander Bim ran from them, and when they caught up, he was lying face down with a knife in his back.”

  “A drunk sailor ran away from two well-trained guards?” Erik asked.

  “Exactly,” Befel said.

  “If we aren’t careful,” Bryon said, “the same will happen to us . . . each one of us. We need to leave.”

  “How?” Erik asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bryon said with a shrug.

  Erik saw King Skella sit down in his throne, rubbing his temples with a thumb and forefinger.

  “Quiet!” the King yelled. His voice, normally kind and somewhat feeble, had the uncanny ability to boom when he yelled.

  The commotion in the throne room came to a stop as everyone waited on the King, sighing and groaning and rubbing his temples.

  “This is my fault,” King Skella finally said. “I cannot bring back your friend, but his death is on my hands. The Creator knows, I have had to bear the death of many good people. The dwarves who were supposed to be guarding him will see justice. A life for a life. That being said, I cannot let you stay here, in my city.”

  “Your Majesty . . .” Wrothgard began, but a firm hand ceased his voice.

  “Let me finish,” the King said. “You will go with General Balzarak and Gôdruk and Thormok here. I have assembled a small retinue of warriors that I trust to go with them, to find the lost city of Orvencrest. You will go with them.”

  “My King . . .” Balzarak said, and again, a firm hand stopped him from saying anything further.

  “This is my decree, and my decision is final,” King Skella said. “These friends of Turk Skull Crusher will go with you, and they will help you find the lost city. They will retrieve this lost artifact of the Stévockians. As they expected to, they will also take with them whatever treasure they can carry.”

  The King now turned away from his General to address the men and the dwarves who traveled with them.

  “I know that it cannot replace the life of your friend—and he seemed like a good man—but perhaps it can do a little to right a wrong. Hopefully, you will not have to watch your backs for assassins the rest of your life. Your weapons will be returned to you. Clearly, I cannot protect you, so you should have the right to protect yourselves within my city. And I have ordered my armorers to open the royal armory to you, so that you may take anything that you feel might help you on your journey.”

  The look Balzarak gave the King was disapproving, and the look he gave the company of mercenaries was downright malicious, but, nonetheless, he bowed.

  “Are you agreeable to this?” the King asked.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Who made you bloody leader?” Switch whispered.

  “Shut up,” Turk hissed.

  “On this journey,” the King continued, “General Balzarak will be your commander. I know he does not agree with my decree, but he is a good leader—the best—and a fair and just leader. Normally Captain Gôdruk and Commander Thormok are his seconds, but on this journey, I order that Wrothgard be his second. That way, both parties are represented. Are you agreeable to this?”

  “Bloody . . .” Switch began.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Wrothgard replied, looking over his shoulder and glaring at the thief.

  “General Balzarak?” the King asked.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” General Balzarak said with a bow, but the look on his face said anything but agreement.

  “Very well then,” the King said, “you will leave for the city of Orvencrest soon. I figure the sooner the better. We dwarves typically bury our dead, and you are certainly welcome to have the body of Vander Bim buried in one of our graveyards, but I will let you do as you wish with his body, whether it be cremating or whatever else . . . aside from cannibalism. I have heard that some of the tribes from Antolika do such a thing. That, I cannot allow.”

  Wrothgard looked to Switch. The thief just shrugged as did the dwarves.

  “We would like to see his body, Your Majesty,” Erik said. “Then, we can decide what to do.”

  “Very well,” the King said with a bow.

  “Bloody pig shit,” Switch said as guards led them through a narrow hallway to a small room that held the sailor’s body. Turk and Demik and Nafer had decided not to join them.

  He lay on a simple table, naked save for a loin cloth. The four torches in the room cast eerie shadows across the man’s body, but otherwise, he looked serene.

  “Why are we here?” Wrothgard asked.

  “I don’t know,” Erik replied. “I just thought I’d like to see him one last time before we decide what to do with him.”

  Wrothgard nodded quickly.

  “I didn’t know the man well, but he seemed like a right fellow,” Wrothgard said. “I don’t know what gods he prayed to, but I will pray to my family’s patron goddess that he meets the afterlife well.”

  “I always thought I’d be the first to go,” Switch said, looking down into the sailor’s peaceful face, “but here you are. Seems funny, out of the three of us, the miner seemed like the one most
worthy of living, then you, then me, and you two died first. Fate certainly is a dirty whore, isn’t she?”

  Switch pulled two rusted coins from his purse and placed them over Vander Bim’s eyes. Wrothgard bowed to the dead man and then placed one more coin over the man’s mouth. They both left, and Bryon followed shortly.

  “Are you staying?” Befel asked.

  “Yeah, for a little bit,” Erik replied.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Erik said. “If it wasn’t for him, we would still be in Finlo, or who knows where else. Maybe we’d be on some boat heading east or dead in Aga Kona, a pile of troll shit somewhere in the mountains.”

  Befel put his hand on Erik’s shoulder and then also left.

  When Erik was alone, he let a few tears escape his eyes but didn’t know why he was afraid to let them fall in front of the others. He wasn’t much concerned about looking weak. He figured in the last few weeks he had proven himself anything but feeble.

  “You deserved better,” Erik said to Vander Bim’s body. “I suppose I didn’t know you that well, and you could have been trouble before we met, but you were kind to me and my kin and for that, I thank you. I don’t know what you believed, but I pray the Creator welcomes you, and I pray I will see you again. Hopefully, Drake is there to welcome you with open arms.”

  Erik put his hand on Vander Bim’s shoulder. The man was cold and pale. It was different when his grandfather had passed. Even though he was gone, he felt warm, his old skin soft. His face had looked serene, happy almost. Without the coins, the sailor looked troubled and sad, and that look knotted Erik’s stomach.

  Erik felt a tingle in his back and knew it was time to go. Something inside his head—his dagger—told him that. It was time to move on and move forward.

  Chapter 45

  ERIK HELD BETH AND TIA’S hands as they stared at their mother’s roses. Tia giggled every time a petal tickled her nose, and Beth scolded her for getting too close; she always liked to enjoy them from a distance. Beth liked to enjoy everything from a distance, never getting too close, never taking too much risk. Erik’s grandfather, before he passed away, had said Beth would make a farmer happy—loyal, hardworking, attentive. Tia, on the other hand, she might drive several husbands to their grave. Rikard Eleodum had scolded his father for saying such a thing, but Karita Eleodum just laughed, and Erik had no clue what that meant until he’d aged a few more years.

  The roses were extra fragrant that day. His sisters couldn’t stop talking about smelling them, watching the ladybugs dance about on their petals, watching the butterflies flutter as if they were applauding. They had asked Befel at first. He was the eldest, and Erik didn’t feel hurt that they would ask their oldest brother to hold their hands while they inspected Mother’s roses. But, as always, he was too busy, so they’d asked Erik and, of course, Erik could never say no to his sisters. He knew Befel would admonish him later and complain about how he always got saddled with all the hard work and his younger brother never had to do anything, but it was worth seeing his sisters smile.

  “Erik, take us to the apple orchards,” Tia had begged.

  “I have to get back to work.”

  “But Erik.” Tia was so good at pouting, surely she practiced it.

  “Leave him alone,” Beth had said.

  Erik could see, from the corner of his eye, Tia sticking her tongue out at Beth. He squeezed her hand and shook his head ever so slightly.

  “Girls.” Erik’s mother’s voice always sounded so gentle, even when he knew she was upset. “Girls, your brother has work to do. He can’t play with you and take you all over the Creator’s world. You’re going to get him into trouble. Come help me in the kitchen.”

  Beth hopped to obediently, but little Tia dragged her feet and drooped her arms to her sides as if she was a rag doll.

  “Come on, Tia,” Erik whispered, “you’re going to get into trouble.”

  She looked back at him over her shoulder, smiled, and then stuck her tongue out before running into the house.

  Erik stared at the roses. He held his hands out as if holding his sisters’ hands, but they weren’t there. His mother wasn’t there. His father wasn’t there. His house or his farm. He played his mother’s voice over and over again in his head. He tried to remember it, exactly the way it sounded. Was that right? He might have forgotten it.

  You’ll never forget the sound of your mother’s voice. He reached to his side and touched the golden handle of his dagger, knowing that’s where the thought came from.

  Erik heard the clearing of a throat behind him, several footsteps, and the heavy breathing of a dwarf. He turned and saw General Balzarak Steel Fist standing behind him. The dwarf bowed. Erik returned the favor.

  “Erik Eleodum.”

  His command of Westernese seemed good, but his voice was so rough, one with the texture of bark and bare sharp edges.

  “Yes,” Erik replied.

  Balzarak nodded with an affirmative grunt.

  “I have spent many hours looking at these roses as well. We have them at Isen also, but they do not grow like this.”

  “They remind me of my mother’s roses.” Erik turned back and thought he saw the golden hair of Tia bouncing between each bush, and then turned back to the General.

  “Isn’t it funny how certain things remind us of our mothers, no matter how far away we find ourselves?” Balzarak asked.

  “Funny, indeed,” Erik replied.

  “You hail from the north, yes?” Balzarak asked.

  “Yes,” Erik replied. “Our lands are west of Nordeth and south of the Pass of Dundolyothum.”

  “Those are strong bloodlines,” Balzarak said. “Those bloodlines belong to men who have been warriors, heroes, and friends of dwarves.”

  “I suppose,” Erik said with a shrug. “That’s what the King says, at least. I guess I don’t know that much about our history.”

  “Yes, well, you should be proud of your heritage,” Balzarak said. He extended his hand to Erik. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, as you men say.”

  Erik looked at the dwarf with a raised eyebrow and cautiously took his hand, shaking it.

  “I cannot say that I much agree with the King’s decree,” Balzarak continued, “but if we are to travel together, we should try to be amicable. We need to work together.”

  “I agree,” Erik replied, “but why tell me? Why not speak with Wrothgard or Switch . . . or the dwarves even?”

  “I have,” Balzarak said with a smile that looked a little forced. “But I think it is appropriate that I say this to all of you, not just your leader. I have already spoken with your brother and cousin.”

  “Very well then,” Erik said. “As my grandfather used to say, the past is the past until we repeat it.”

  “Very good,” Balzarak said with a smile. “The King, in preparation for our journey, has given you access to the royal armory. May I show you there?”

  Erik nodded and followed the General.

  Erik looked at the shield Bryon had picked up. It was round, with brown cowhide stretched over it. He slid it over his left forearm and lifted it up. It looked a good fit, and by the smile on Bryon’s face, he assumed his cousin thought the same thing. Erik had found one almost just like it, only black.

  Erik patted the mail shirt of iron scales he had found. It was heavy, and he wondered how an untrained soldier could have moved with such a thing, but he had grown stronger over the last few weeks.

  What if I had sailed east on a Golgolithulian ship? Erik wondered. Wearing armor he couldn’t handle and carrying a sword he didn’t know how to use, he knew the answer would have been death.

  His brother and cousin found mail shirts as well.

  “Is it odd, that a dwarvish armory has shirts made for men?” Erik asked.

  “You must remember,” Turk replied, “Thorakest is large and trades frequently with the world of men.”

  Erik grabbed a scabbard that seemed to fit his sword well enough
, a small hand axe that he slid through a loop on his belt, and a tall spear—at least a head taller than him butted with a thick iron shod and tipped with a broad, gleaming iron blade.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Befel asked.

  “Kill someone,” Erik replied matter-of-factly.

  “You don’t know how to use it,” Befel said.

  “Truth be told, I prefer the sword,” Erik replied, “but Wrothgard has taught me how to use a spear, and Turk has taught me how to use an axe.”

  “Just more to carry,” Befel said, irritation rising in his voice.

  “You should have been training with Bryon and me,” Erik said.

  “With one arm?” Befel asked.

  “Then why don’t you stay here?” Erik asked. “We will go on this journey and, Creator willing, when we return, we will pick you up and head to Fen-Stévock, and then back home.”

  “Are you crazy?” Befel asked. “Stay here? Leave you and Bryon to who knows what?”

  “Is it such a crazy idea?” Erik asked in return. His own irritation was pushing aside his genuine concern for his brother.

  “Out of the question,” Befel said.

  “What good are you?” Erik asked. He didn’t mean for it to come out like that.

  “Apparently none,” Befel said, turning and storming away.

  “Very tactful, cousin,” Bryon said.

  “Bugger off,” Erik said.

  “Gladly,” Bryon replied with a quick laugh, “if there was someone here to bugger.”

  As his cousin walked away, and most everyone—save for Wrothgard, inspecting a long bow he meant to take—left the armory, Erik stood and waited, thinking. He looked down at himself, armor, sword, axe, dagger, spear, bracers covering his forearms and greaves covering his shins. What did he look like? He couldn’t find a mirror. He didn’t feel different, but, then again, he did. What would his parents say? His sisters? Simone?

  He closed his eyes and tried to think of home. He had just held his sisters’ hands, pretending they were there with him, and now he couldn’t picture them. The faces of his father and mother faded. His grandmother and uncle. His grandfather, long gone to the Creator, even more so.