“Then shave again, if need be, to keep that rubbish off your face, you piece of pig shit.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man didn’t move.
“I just told you to go shave,” Sorben said.
“Right now, sir?” his soldier asked.
“Yes,” Sorben said. He clenched his fists.
The soldier bowed, did an about face, and walked back towards the camp. Sorben Phurnan looked to the other man. His face looked soft, almost fat. The Lieutenant looked up at the top of the overlooking, forested hill, and motioned to another soldier standing there.
“You two will stand here, motionless, quiet, and at attention,” Sorben Phurnan said when the other soldier reached him. “What good is an ambush if the ones we wish to ambush can hear us?”
Just a day before, one of Lieutenant Bu’s scouts came with an order. A contingency of men and dwarves were headed their way. They were to stop them. Sorben had refused at first. He didn’t take orders from Bu, that son of a whore. When he threatened the life of the scout, the man laughed at Sorben, told him it would be a cold day in the nine hells when a man who shits himself killed him, and said that this day, he did take orders from Bu.
The hair on the back of Sorben’s neck stood on end just thinking about it. The look that scout gave him, the look his men gave him, the look—that stupid smirk—he knew Bu had as he handed the scout the orders. Nonetheless, there they were, waiting deep in the forests of the Southern Mountains for dwarves and men, supposedly in the employ of the Lord of the East. Sorben had insisted that they didn’t need to follow these ragamuffins. They had confiscated a map from another mercenary, but as soon as General Patûk Al’Banan touched the map, it went up in flames. They were to force these ones, at least one of them, to lead the General to some lost dwarvish city.
Sorben Phurnan stood, back straight, surveying the forest. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he had to at least give pretense. His men’s loyalty was already shaky at best. His trolls slouched to either side of him. One gave a quick grunt and, without thinking, he swatted its massive shoulder with the back of his hand. The creature could have pummeled him, but it just looked at him with irritation in its eyes and picked its nose.
“You are a disgusting creature, you know that, right?” Sorben asked. “You haven’t a clue what I’m saying, do you? Mongrel. If it were up to me, I would have all of you exterminated. Why the General employs you, I will never understand.”
He looked back at the sloping hill that rose just twenty paces from where he stood. He scanned the terrain, trying to find the two archers he knew knelt there, behind a copse of firs and tall bushes. He spotted one—the tip of his iron helmet. Seeing him, he then made out the outline of the soldier’s longbow amidst the shrubbery. He saw he had an arrow nocked and half-drawn. The soldier’s dark eyes met the Lieutenant’s eyes. The archer nodded and bowed, and Sorben nodded back.
“They will not know what happened.” Sorben smiled.
One of the trolls next to him stuck its nose in the air, sucking in deep breaths through its nose.
“Shut up you stinking . . .”
Sorben stopped then. The troll looked to the south. He followed the beast’s gaze. He thought he something move, behind several low hanging branches and a tall, reddish bush. His hand went to the handle of his sword, and he slid the blade out halfway.
Lieutenant Sorben’s hand dropped from his sword, and he closed his eyes, sighing. A man appeared from behind a tree—leather breastplate and soft, leather boots. One of the men from General Patûk’s spy network. One of Lieutenant Bu’s men. Sorben felt a frown dip the corners of his mouth, and he hissed.
“Stinking Bu,” he muttered.
He walked to Sorben, not bothering to kneel, bow, even salute.
“Lieutenant Bu wants a word.”
“You forget yourself,” Sorben seethed. “You are addressing an officer.”
“Lieutenant Bu wants a word, sir,” the soldier-spy repeated.
“I do not answer to Bu.”
“Lieutenant Bu answers to the General. Do you answer to the General, sir?”
“Y-you insolent bastard,” Sorben spat. His hand went to his sword. “I should have my trolls eat you where you stand.”
“Sir, we both know you won’t,” the spy said with a sigh of impatience. “I am short on time, sir. Do you have word to send to Lieutenant Bu?”
“You can tell that poor excuse of an officer to go piss on his mother’s grave,” Sorben spat, punching an index finger into the chest of the soldier.
“So, you have no news of the men traveling with dwarves?” the spy asked, ignoring the finger.
Just then, one of the trolls grunted, and Sorben turned on the beast hard. He was about to kick it when he saw it, its nose to the air taking in deep breaths of air. It looked to Lieutenant Phurnan, then to the spy, then to the Lieutenant again. It grunted twice, and the Lieutenant thought it might have nodded.
“You can tell Lieutenant Bu that we have just found them, and they will soon be in our hands. You can tell him that, and when I am a Captain, I will make sure to . . .” Sorben turned to face Bu’s spy, but the man was gone.
Chapter 53
ERIK LOST TRACK OF THE days. They all seemed to cram together in one long blur of waking, training, hiking, training, and disturbed, dream-filled nights. That hill and tree started appearing in his dreams more often. A tree with low hanging branches stood atop it, and a man, someone he knew, always sat under that tree. And the undead were nowhere to be seen.
After another short morning training session, Erik knew something was wrong. As he became more proficient with Dwarvish, he overheard the dwarves arguing about the map the Lord of the East had given them. Erik didn’t say anything to the other men, but from what he gathered, they were lost. The map didn’t make sense to any of the dwarves, and none of them were familiar with this range of the Southern Mountains.
Erik had confidence in them, at least Turk, Demik, and Nafer, but his stomach sank when he heard trail and time hardened dwarves such as Threhof and Dwain disagreeing about which way to go and which landmark this was and that was. And on top of them being lost, he overheard Balzarak and Gôdruk speaking of danger in the forest that was mostly overgrown and teeming with unchecked predators that had little to fear in the way of men or dwarves. But it was a different danger of which they spoke, something more serious, more sinister, more deadly. Something or someone was tracking them.
When Erik came back to camp with Wrothgard from training, Dwain, the old, experienced warrior, greeted him.
“Come,” Dwain said in Westernese. His mastery of the language was as good as any man who had grown up in Western Háthgolthane. “Break fast with me this morning.”
Erik nodded with a smile.
“Where are you going, brother?” Befel asked.
“With Dwain,” Erik replied.
“He’d rather spend time with the dwarves than his own blood,” Befel said. “I am beginning to think he wants to be a dwarf.”
Erik heard his brother but pretended otherwise.
“It is time,” Dwain said to Erik as they walked a ways into the forest.
“Time for what?” Erik asked.
“A troll has been tracking us,” Dwain replied. “We need your help.”
Erik thought for only a moment before nodding.
“All right,” he said, “tell me what I need to do.”
“It will rain today,” the dwarf said. “That will help cover things up.”
“And why does it have to be me?” Erik asked.
“Trolls are weary of dwarves,” Dwain replied. “And they would be weary of the soldier. I am sorry, but you are the least suspecting looking, but, then again, well-trained enough to survive our scheme.”
Erik knew a troll had been tracking them, for several days now. The dwarves could tell that the beast thought it was well hidden, but they knew it was there almost the moment it had started following them. They
also suspected the creature hadn’t attacked, even while they slept, because it was employed by men and instructed to just watch. However, the dwarves knew instinct would always overcome a troll. Given the opportunity for a quick and quiet meal, the troll would act. Erik nodded his understanding.
They walked back to the camp, where the rest of their companions were packing up.
“I have to piss,” Erik said.
“Bloody great!” Switch cried. “I always want to know when you wish to relieve yourself. Tell me how it goes.”
The thief had become increasingly temperamental among the dwarves.
Erik felt his stomach knot as he walked out into the forest alone. He patted his golden-handled dagger and the scabbard of his dwarf-crafted sword—his only consolations. He walked far enough so that his companions were out of sight. He knew Dwain and Bofim were following him, somewhere even though he couldn’t see them. He laughed silently. They would make good thieves. That would make Switch smile and Demik grumble. When he felt like he was far enough away, he pretended to relieve himself. It began to rain, very softly, and the feeling of slight, cold drops tickled his skin. Then, he heard a sound, a twig snapping, leaves rustling, a bird fluttering away.
Erik’s heart raced as his hand went to the handle of his sword. He meant to grab his dagger first, but then he remembered what it had told him. The more he used it, the more time it took to recover. What was more urgent than fighting a mountain troll? Erik had a feeling he would need the dagger in the coming days more than this day. Then he saw it—a black tailed fox, with a large brown rat hanging limply in its mouth. The small predator scurried behind a bushy, green brush and then into the hollowed part of a log.
Erik dropped his head back and sighed as he felt his face flush and his heart drop into his stomach. His shoulders slumped forward, and his hand dropped from the sword handle.
“Thank you An,” he mouthed.
Then it hit him, the smell of decay and rotting flesh and worse than latrines, pigsties, or a butchered chicken that had sat for too long.
Erik swallowed hard and kept his eyes closed. He slowly lowered his head, and his hand went back to the handle of his sword. The mountain breeze was disturbed by a stream of hot air that hit his face and it carried with it that rotten smell, only tenfold worse. Erik felt his stomach knot and turn, and the acid taste of vomit filled his throat. He looked up again, and they stared at him. Those eyes. Yellow with black beady pupils, filled with hate and death.
If a cat’s purr had an evil twin, a deep rumble that denoted wickedness and filth and malice, that is what Erik heard. It rolled through this small space in the forest like quiet thunder, and with it, Erik knew the troll was about to strike.
It moved forward, planting both feet firmly into the ground a pace from where Erik stood. If Erik blinked his eye, it would be on him. His eyes fixed on the troll as if he might mesmerize it, slowly drawing his sword until he felt the tip of the blade clear the scabbard.
It took only seconds for a dozen scenarios to flit through his head, just as Wrothgard had taught him. Fight a fight a thousand times before you actually fight it. But each one ended the same. His death. That wasn’t what the soldier had taught.
“Always envision yourself winning,” he had said.
“And if I don’t end up winning?” Erik had asked.
Wrothgard had just shrugged.
Instead of charging him, the troll straightened its back and lifted its chin. It gave a quick huff. It knew they were there. It was too late, but it knew. It inhaled a chest full of air, but before it could bellow out, the broad blade of a spear thudded into its chest. Erik turned to see Threhof running towards them. Then he heard the sound of bone breaking. He turned to see the troll hunched over, grimacing and growling as Bofim’s hammer smacked into the troll’s shoulder once, twice, three times.
The troll reached up and ripped the spear from its chest, taking a good chunk of its flesh with it. Blood poured freely from the wound. It lifted its head, and Erik knew it was going to howl, seeking to warn its handlers. He knew there was no more time to wait, and he punched his blade forward, straight into the fleshy part just above the troll’s collarbone. The dwarvish blade slid easily through muscle and tendon. It looked at him, wide-eyed. It swung an arm to swat the sword away, and Erik’s blade came down hard where the beast’s neck met its large, sloping shoulders. Blood seeped from the troll’s nose and mouth.
Erik slid the blade out of the troll’s shoulder again, making sure to drag the steel along its flesh, and then struck again. At the same time, Bofim brought his hammer down on the other shoulder. They attacked together, again, again, and again. Threhof joined them, bringing his broadsword hard across the troll’s exposed chest.
Erik saw the troll’s eyes roll, its lids half-close. It was almost dead. His heart fluttered as pride welled up, as he avenged the death of Drake and Samus. A growl, forced and labored, rolled from its mouth, and the beast opened that gaping hole as wide as it could.
Erik struck, a move Wrothgard called Striking Viper. His blade punched through the mouth and hit the back of the troll’s thick skull. Blood and brain and bone exploded from the back of its head. When he retrieved his blade, the troll slumped to the side, limp and stinking.
Erik looked at Threhof, and the dwarf nodded before he looked back to Dwain, who had remained hidden behind a tree. Dwain nodded back and put his hands over his mouth, making the sound of a blue jay.
“They are brutal,” Threhof said, “but they are stupid. A well-coordinated attack will end like this most times.”
“Good job,” Bofim said, slapping the man’s shoulder. “Good sword.”
“Ilken made it for me,” Erik said. “It’s the first time I’ve used it.”
“Ilken Copper Head?” Bofim asked with a nod of approval. “It is very good then.”
Erik heard another blue jay call, this one coming from the direction of their camp. Bofim jerked his head, telling Erik to follow him.
“It is done?” Wrothgard asked when they came into view.
“It is done,” Threhof said.
“What is done?” Befel asked.
“All thanks to Erik,” Threhof added, presenting the young man with open arms.
“What are you talking about?” Befel asked.
“Good job, Erik,” Balzarak said. “You seem to amaze me more and more each day.”
“What are you talking about?” Befel asked again.
Erik explained what had happened, how he had agreed to be a decoy for a troll that was following them.
“And that seemed like a good idea to you?” Befel asked.
“It was the only option,” Erik replied.
“Bull piss,” Befel said. “I’m going to talk to Wrothgard right now.”
“About what?” Erik asked. He felt his face growing hot. “Are you going to take up a grievance with the elders? We are in the middle of nowhere being followed by creatures we never knew existed a year ago. What exactly do you think you would do? Stop trying to be father.”
He knew his words had hurt Befel, the look his brother gave him said that much. Erik waited for his brother to respond, but when he didn’t, Erik just walked away.
“He only worries for you,” Wrothgard said.
“It gets annoying,” Erik replied.
“I know,” Wrothgard said, “but it is only because he loves you.”
“I know,” Erik said more quietly.
“Clean your blade,” Wrothgard said. “It saved your life today.”
“Your training saved my life,” Erik said.
“Also true,” Wrothgard said. “But that sword had a lot to do with it. What will you name it, now that it has drawn blood?”
Erik looked at the grayish steel, deep with waves and still stained with blood.
“Ilken’s Blade,” Erik said with a smile.
Chapter 54
IN HIS DREAM THAT NIGHT, Erik had Ilken’s Blade. The dead were there, just like before, but there
was no hill, no swooping willow tree, and no man he knew. He was in a large pasture with rolling hills and ankle high grass, dead and brown but still trying to pretend to be alive. The sky was red, the sun a distant point of light, and the moon was faintly showing orange when the dead came at him. But Ilken’s Blade made little work of them. With every strike, he blasted the skeletal remains of someone out of existence. It was almost fun, but as he awoke, a tingle at his hip told him there was nothing to laugh about in his dreams.
“It seems I can will things into existence in that world,” Erik thought as he patted his dagger. “Maybe tonight, I will dream of you.”
But then the thought crept into his head as the tingle at his hip became a pinch. The dagger was not made for that world. It could not happen. And if it could . . . the thought trailed off.
“These are no simple dreams, then,” Erik decided, but he felt no response.
As the sun rose higher, the company of dwarves and men walked along in single file, Bofim in front of Erik, and Demik behind him. Erik had been thinking of a number of things—his training, movements with his spear and sword, his language lessons, the troll—and didn’t realize Bofim had stopped. The dwarf turned and put a finger to his lips. Switch and Beldar spoke with Balzarak, and then they gathered.
“Beldar and Switch scouted ahead,” Balzarak said. “There are two archers sitting behind a cropping of firs, up on a hill. Two more men with spears and swords, and another with a plumed helmet. Two trolls as well.”
“Perhaps we were wrong about the ambush,” Threhof said. “That’s not much of a force.”
“There are more, hidden somewhere,” Wrothgard said. “Eastern tactics. Feign weakness. Their main force will be hidden.”
“We are close,” Balzarak said. “We must continue slowly with caution. Be on the ready.”
They crouched, then tiptoed a few paces, then stopped. Dwain and Threhof disappeared only to reappear a few moments later. After whispering to Balzarak, they looked to the rest of the party and motioned for them to resume, all at a crouch, bent low, weapons at the ready. Then they stopped again after just a handful of steps. This continued for the whole day, inching along, crouching, stepping carefully, sometimes crawling, stopping frequently until it grew dark.
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