“Back to the bloody grand adventure, eh,” Switch said.
“And back to sleeping in the open, under the stars,” Wrothgard responded.
“Soon enough,” Turk added.
“Just more steps farther from home, farther from anything I know, farther from Beth and Tia, Mother and Father, Simone.” Erik’s utterance was so soft, no one heard him, but as he watched the shoulders of his brother slump, he knew he thought the same thing.
“You know what that will do to you,” Erik said.
Befel looked at him, momentarily stopping the search through his bag for sweet wine. The main road to Thorakest was very large, well lit, and well-traveled. But they had turned away from it, onto this road towards the surface, more than a day ago. This one was dark and steep and, much to Bryon’s constant complaining, low. Erik was glad for his recent training. He felt tired, but just slightly. His legs and shoulders were strong and well accustomed to the work. Befel, on the other hand, seemed worn down, and Erik knew it wasn’t just his shoulder that hurt.
“I just need a little,” Befel replied, continuing his search. He found it, smiled cautiously, and popped the cork.
“You’ll be even slower,” Erik said.
“Thanks,” Befel replied facetiously.
Erik just shrugged and wandered away, beginning to talk to Bofim. Turk caught Befel’s hand before he could put the bottle to his mouth.
“No,” the dwarf said. “We can ill afford a sluggish trek right now. Fight through the aches and pains. We are going too slow as it is, and these dwarvish warriors with us are growing restless. You must have your wits about you, even if it brings discomfort. Do you understand?”
Befel nodded dejectedly.
“And can I trust you will not drink any tonight?” Turk asked.
Befel nodded again.
“You see Beldar?” Turk asked.
Befel followed the direction of Turk’s pointing finger to look at one of the dwarvish escorts who was speaking to Erik, seemingly doing his best to speak Westernese. He was very broad-shouldered and fiery-haired with an upper lip—which he kept shaved—that looked mangled with a massive scar.
“He drank too much sweet wine and lost an ear. In a training accident. Think about what might have happened had it been in a battle.”
Chapter 49
“WE SHOULD BE AT THE surface by now,” Threhof said as they stopped.
“I agree with Threhof. This is not a good start,” Balzarak said. “We are at least a day behind.”
“What would you have us do?” Wrothgard straightened his back and put up his hands. “We’re travel weary. Two months now, we’ve been on this journey.”
“You no argue Threhof,” Bofim whispered creeping up to Erik. The young man cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head. “No win.”
Erik understood.
“Two months,” Threhof scoffed. “Half of that was spent in the hospitality of the dwarves. Any warrior worth his axe could go double that and still move faster.”
“Hospitality,” Wrothgard grumbled. “As prisoners.”
“All this talk about a warrior could do this, and a flaming warrior could do that, and a tunnel digger can walk a thousand leagues without food or water. Do you ever stop talking about how bloody great you all are?” Switch asked. His face was red, and Erik could see a murderous look growing in the thief ’s eyes. “A bunch of bloody bearded monkeys if you ask me.”
Threhof ’s back stiffened, his lips pursed, and his gray eyes glared at Switch. Erik saw Switch lick his lips and tap the scabbard of one of his daggers with a thumb. That crooked smile crept across the thief ’s thin lips, one that spoke of blood and murder and the sickening satisfaction it brought. Switch inched his way towards Threhof.
Turk stepped in between the thief and the dwarf, putting his hand on Threhof ’s chest. The older warrior gave Turk’s hand a sour look and slapped it away. Turk just shook his head at Threhof.
“I won’t let a bearded midget come between our bloody fun, tunnel digger, if you won’t,” Switch chided.
Turk turned to Switch and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. That clearly took Switch by surprise as he stepped back and almost slipped.
“Listen thief, if you really want to see what a dwarf warrior can do,” Turk hissed, “keep on taunting him, and he’ll show you. I won’t step in between you two again.”
With that, he pushed Switch away, sending him back so hard, if Bryon was not there to catch him he would have tumbled backwards. Switch quickly straightened and slapped Bryon’s hands away from him. He clenched his hands with white knuckled fists and bit his lip hard but said and did nothing else.
“Is this what happens when you spend too many years with surface dwellers?” Condescension hung heavy and thick on Threhof ’s words, deliberately spoken Westernese.
Turk turned hard on Threhof and said something to the older warrior in their own tongue, something Erik didn’t understand. Threhof went red-faced.
“Stop this!” Balzarak yelled. “This is foolishness. Turk Skull Crusher, stand down.”
“Don’t tell me I have no honor as a warrior,” Threhof spat. “What would you know of a warrior’s life?”
“I’ve been baptized.” Turk touched a hand to his left breast. “So have my friends, Demik and Nafer. We are, by all the rights of our people, warriors.”
Erik had no idea what they were talking about, but what he did notice was the apprehension leave the other dwarves—most of them dropping hands from their weapons and loosening the stern looks they had been wearing on their faces—all save Threhof.
“As I told Switch,” Turk said, “I will not step in between you two again, and you might be surprised at what happens if you are foolish enough to fight him.”
“Threhof, stand down,” Balzarak commanded.
The older dwarf was not so quick to obey the General’s command. Balzarak said something in Dwarvish, twice, which was repeated by Thormok. With his face still blazing with anger, Threhof finally turned from Turk and walked towards the front of the company.
“We must push our pace,” Balzarak said, “regardless of how tired you are.”
Erik felt his shoulders slump and heard his brother groan.
“This is going to be a long trip,” Erik muttered.
“Aye,” Bofim agreed.
“Halgüth,” Erik said as they passed the single dwarvish guard.
Erik looked up at a fading night sky. That meant a full day of travel before they made camp, and, despite his training, he was tired. To his left, the mountain wall rose and to his right stood a stone wall a head taller than him, all covered in vines and creepers. He shivered.
Just as the pinks and purples of a coming morning began to stretch across an ensuing morning sky, clumps of clouds crept up from the south and covered the rising sun. Distant thunder rumbled through the mountains, echoing and shaking the earth. For a brief moment, the clouds actually warmed the air, but then Erik felt the first thick drop of rain on his head and the water felt freezing as it ran down his back. In moments, the rain fell in a heavy sheet.
As several cold and rainy days passed, along with freezing nights that required man and dwarf to huddle much too close together for comfort, the wall to Erik’s right lowered until it was only waist high. It was then that they could see the great ravine that separated the northern and southern ranges of the Southern Mountains that they would have to eventually cross. And as the wall shortened, the path on which they walked narrowed, so much so that they had to walk in a single file line and, even then, Erik felt like his shoulders were rubbing against the undulations of the mountain slope.
When the rain stopped, Erik could hear the sound of water washing off the mountain somewhere and into the gorge, falling seemingly into an endless void, even though they could barely see it, until the protective wall disappeared. Then, the ravine was exposed in all its terror. A giant gaping crevice that slowly descended into darkness, so large that, as Erik looked to the other si
de of the gulley, the rest of the mountain looked faint, covered by a blue haze and fog. When that range pushed closer, and the rain lessened, and the haze lifted, he could see tall, white-barked pines and ashy-barked cottonwoods covering every foot of solid earth, the redness of new growth sprouting from their branches like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Beyond that, Erik could see great, red-barked pines, so large they could be seen from leagues away, their tops scratching the bottoms of the clouds
That afternoon, Beldar found a cave—deep and wide, large enough to hold the whole company with room for comfort. Balzarak held up a fist.
“We will stop here,” the General said.
Erik spoke with Bofim for a while—he and Beldar always interested in talking with him—and when they stopped, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. When he realized sleep would not come, he saw Wrothgard and Switch, Turk and Balzarak sitting at the cave’s entrance, staring out into the blackness of a cloud-covered night. He crawled over to them, climbing over his sleeping companions. Wrothgard inspected the bow—etched with bone and silver—he had retrieved from Thorakest’s armory while Switch played with one of his knives and the dwarves just sat.
“Aren’t you tired?” Turk asked.
“Exhausted, really,” Erik replied with a nod.
His muscles ached. It felt as if someone drove a rusted nail into his temples. Half the time, he saw double, his eyelids felt so heavy. But the alternative was darkness, death, screaming, shrieking, a night of fighting the dead.
“Do your dreams terrify you that much?” Turk replied.
“No, not my dreams,” Erik replied, “but what is in them, what awaits me when I close my eyes, what it means.”
“Get some rest, my friend,” Turk finally said, patting Erik on the shoulder and walking to the back of the cave.
Erik looked out at the dark mountain. He could see shadows of pines, far away. He could hear the scurrying and pitter-pattering of small feet. He could hear the distant howls of wolves. He could smell a skunk. He could feel the fire dying.
Finally, he looked to the sky. Amidst breaks in the clouds, he saw stars and the faint outline of the moon.
“An, Almighty, Creator, God, whatever you might prefer to be called, please let me sleep tonight. Please.” He breathed slowly as fatigue weighed on him so heavily that he wanted to cry. “I pray to you, please let me sleep. Give me this one night of rest. Please.”
Erik awoke, still at the mouth of the cave. He must’ve curled up in his sleep. His night had not been dreamless. But the dead did not meet him. He had seen a distant hill, a quick sunrise, and a clear morning. It was a cool day, comfortable enough for a thin, stitched shirt. On that hill stood a single tree, tall and wide with branches that hung and dipped low to the ground, brushing the tall grass that grew about its base if a breeze caught them just right. He saw a man under that tree, a single man. He knew him in his dream, but now he couldn’t see his face. Who was he? He knew him. He had run to him, embraced him, cried on the man’s shoulder. And now he couldn’t remember.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep.
“Thank you, An. Thank you.”
Chapter 50
LIEUTENANT SORBEN PHURNAN LED HIS men, several dozen soldiers following him, through the heavily forested area of the mountain’s southern range. He grumbled and ground his teeth before he touched his cheek and winced when he found the still slightly swollen spot. A gift from Lieutenant Bu. That bastard had chastised Sorben about his men, about their lack of training, and even ventured to say that it was his men’s fault they had lost a troll.
“Maybe it’s because you’re a stupid cunt with not an ounce of noble blood flowing through your veins and you don’t know how to lead,” Sorben muttered. It’s the same thing he had said to Bu in the confines of the officer’s tent. It’s the same thing that had led to Bu’s gift—a fist to the face, a swollen cheek, and a black eye.
When he had told the General of Bu’s offense, Patûk Al’Banan just laughed and asked Sorben if he had hit Bu back.
“We are not in the back alleys of Goldum or Bard’Sturn,” Sorben had replied.
That caused the General to laugh even louder.
“Grow some balls,” the General had said.
“I have balls,” Sorben hissed to himself, grabbing his crotch aggressively and then promptly letting go, realizing he had grabbed himself a little too hard.
Sorben Phurnan had been so deep in his own thoughts he hadn’t seen one of his scouts emerge from the darkness of the underbrush.
“By the gods,” Sorben said, “you smell like shit.”
“Sorry, sir,” the scout said, bowing. He was out of breath.
“What is the matter?” Sorben asked, the level of annoyance in his voice almost at its peak levels.
“I found a dead troll,” the scout said.
Sorben hadn’t bothered to stop walking as the scout spoke, but this gave him cause to halt, holding up a closed fist.
“One of ours?” the Lieutenant asked.
“No, sir,” the scout replied. “It had been mauled . . . badly. And I have lost track of Carl.”
“Who is that?” Sorben asked with derision.
“The other scout, sir,” the scout said.
Sorben could have cared less about the other scout, but a dead troll . . . that was cause for alarm.
“By the gods,” Sorben said, “why do you smell so badly?”
“I rubbed myself with bear scat, sir,” the scout replied, “to hide my scent.”
“There is no hiding that scent,” Sorben replied. “How far away from here was the dead troll?”
“Not far,” the scout replied.
“What could bring down a mountain troll?” Sorben asked.
“Only a few things, sir,” the scout replied. “A pack of wolves. But only in desperation, and this was not wolves. An antegant maybe, some possibly live in these mountains, but I don’t believe it was that either. It left claw markings, but bigger than a cougar or bear.”
“Sergeant,” Sorben called. He noticed his scout duck as he raised his voice. He thought he even saw the man tremble.
Sorben’s Sergeant finally came to him, bowing.
“How many men do we have?” Sorben asked.
“Two score,” the Sergeant replied.
“Take a dozen men and search the forest ahead of us,” Sorben commanded.
“Sir, I would not advise . . .” the scout began to say.
“It will be a cold day in the nine hells when I take advice from a scout,” Sorben snapped. “Sergeant, do you understand my command?”
Sorben’s Sergeant stared at the scout for a moment, and he looked scared. The scout shook his head, only slightly, but Sorben saw it. The Lieutenant could see it too now, the fear on the scout’s face, and it had got to his Sergeant. Pathetic. He grabbed the Sergeant by the collar and pulled him close.
“Do you understand my command, Sergeant?” Sorben repeated.
The Sergeant turned his attention to Sorben.
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“You will go with them, scout,” Sorben commanded.
Then, he saw the scout sniff the air. He moved back, towards the company of soldiers, hand going to the handle of his sword.
Sorben, in turn, gripped the handle of his own sword.
“Scout, did you hear me?” he asked.
“Do you smell it?” the scout asked.
“All I smell is the bear shit stink coming from you,” Sorben said, drawing his sword. “Obey me, or I will run you through right here.”
“Do you hear it?” the scout added, seemingly unaware that the Lieutenant was even talking to him.
Sorben had had enough.
“That is . . .”
The Sergeant grabbed Sorben’s wrist.
“Wait,” the Sergeant said.
“Get your hand off my . . .”
“Shut up,” the Sergeant said. “Something is out there.”
Sorben felt his
face grow hot.
“How dare . . .” but then, he heard something too. The crunching of branches. A low groan. Heavy breathing. And then he smelled it, and the stench made him gag.
The fading light and the dense canopy of trees made the forest look almost like night. Sorben could barely see a dozen paces ahead of him, and then there was a thick copse of creepers, bushes, and pines in front of them.
There it was again. A snort and a low growl. The smell was heavy, pungent, and thick. Then, with a thundering roar, it burst from the trees before the company of soldiers, knocking younger pines over and uprooting them. As it stood to its full height, twice as tall as any man, it opened its giant maw and roared again, spittle flying from its mouth.
“Bear!” someone from behind Sorben shouted.
But this was unlike any bear Sorben had ever seen. It was a brown giant with thick, matted fur, a bony plate covering its forehead, and bony ridges and protrusions along both sides of its jaw.
The Sergeant still gripped Sorben’s wrist. The Lieutenant jerked his arm forward, throwing the Sergeant into the path of the giant bear. With one paw swipe, the creature ripped the head from the Sergeant’s body, and it bounced away across the forest floor. A unified chorus of cries rang out from the retinue of soldiers behind Sorben and several spears flew over his head. Two bounced harmlessly off the beast’s thick hide as one stuck, but the bear didn’t even seem to notice.
“Protect your officer!” Sorben yelled. Walking backwards he tripped over a root, and as he tumbled to the ground, he pissed himself.
All he could think of was that giant bear crushing his limbs between his huge jaws. Coming to his knees, he felt hot tears on his face. The beast had killed two more of his men. Archers came to stand in front of Sorben. They fired arrow after arrow even though they did nothing but annoy the bear. It stomped and roared, and Sorben froze. He couldn’t move no matter how hard he tried. He felt his bowels empty, and vomit rose in his throat as the creature roared, its stinking hot breath on his face, and the terror the sound created threw one of his archers back into him.
Dark Winds Page 33