Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  “Does the forest . . . how can a forest want anything?” Erik asked.

  “Remember, this forest is ancient,” Turk replied. “In the old days, the forests talked, moved.”

  Erik looked up at a giant red pine, one so tall he couldn’t even begin to see the top. He supposed if a dagger could speak, then certainly a tree or a forest could as well. He felt a tingle at his hip.

  “And what of them?” Erik asked.

  Turk didn’t move, nor did he look at Erik. He seemed irritated and upset all at the same time.

  “Your eavesdropping is going to get you into trouble, Erik,” Turk said, his voice hard.

  “I’m sorry,” Erik said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It is something we dwarves do not talk about,” Turk said, “a darkness in our past. And it is something we certainly do not talk about in mixed company while camping in ancient forests. I am sure you saw or heard how upset the others were with me.”

  “Yes,” Erik said.

  “It is something that we will talk about at another time,” Turk said, facing Erik and his tone softer. “It is something that could affect our mission, though. Do not speak of it again. At least, until I speak to you about it.”

  Erik nodded.

  Erik had dreamed about his parents and his sisters and Simone. It had been a long while since he had had that dream. Part of him felt glad, lucky even, that he didn’t dream of the dead, even though he had grown accustomed to just sitting on that hill. And part of him was glad that he still remembered the faces of his parents and sisters, of Simone. But then another part of him was sad as he watched his mother and father dangle from a tree, neck broken and noosed, and his sisters bound and crying in a cell. He hadn’t seen Simone in this dream before, but in this one, some Hámonian knight raped her and then he saw her begging on the streets of Bull’s Run, bastard child swaddled next to her breast.

  “More bad dreams?” Befel asked. Apparently, Erik’s face betrayed him.

  “I dreamt of Mother and Father, Tia and Beth,” Erik replied. “And Simone.”

  “And that’s a bad dream?” Befel asked.

  “They were dead,” Erik replied, his voice flat. “Imprisoned. Raped. Homeless.”

  “Why?” Befel asked. “How?”

  “Hámonian nobles,” Erik replied, rising and gathering his things into his haversack. “They wanted our land. They killed Mother and Father. Imprisoned Beth and Tia. And raped Simone. They slaughtered our animals. Enslaved the men who work for Father.”

  “They’re just dreams, Erik,” Befel said.

  He didn’t know Erik’s dreams. Maybe he had dreams that were similar, maybe not. But Erik’s dreams were vivid, real. A part of him wondered if this dream was just his imagination. Or had this come to pass.

  “Maybe,” Erik said. “But Hámonian nobles are encroaching on our lands. This will come to pass eventually.”

  “Father would never let that happen,” Befel replied.

  “How would he stop them?” Erik asked. “How would Father stop some count or lord, with a small army at their disposal, from taking our lands.”

  “There are many loyal to the Eleodums,” Befel offered.

  “Farmers, Befel,” Erik replied. “Not fighters. We understand that all too well and firsthand. And there are plenty of farmers who are jealous of Father and our success and would love to see him gone.”

  “Like who?” Befel asked.

  “Jovek,” Erik said.

  “He wouldn’t just stand by,” Befel said.

  Erik just shrugged.

  “I fear that if we return home,” Erik said, “home won’t be there anymore.”

  Chapter 58

  “DO YOU EVER GET THE feeling that we’re bloody lost?” Switch asked as they trudged slowly through the thick and ancient forest, shoulder high bushes and thick creepers crowding their path as much as wide-trunked pines.

  “I am sorry to say, yes,” Wrothgard replied.

  “You speak their ugly language now,” Switch said to Erik. “What do you think?”

  Erik just shrugged.

  “Don’t give me that troll shit,” Switch spat.

  “I don’t speak it that well and only understand it a little better,” Erik said. No one knew he was lying. “And I am certainly not going to eavesdrop on their conversations.”

  “I wish you would,” Switch said, that malevolent tone in his voice. “I would love to hear what those tunnel diggers say in secret.”

  “Hey! Tunnel diggers! Where are we going?” Switch asked.

  “This way,” Threhof replied.

  “Why, thank you, revealer of secrets. So, we are just supposed to keep following you, without any hint of where we are going?”

  “Yes,” was Threhof ’s simple reply, and for once, Switch seemed lost for words.

  “General Balzarak thinks he has figured out the way,” Turk whispered to Erik in Dwarvish. Erik just nodded slightly as the thief watched him.

  Erik felt better about their journey, now that the dwarves were more confident about their path, until they came to a wall of pines, bushes, and creepers. The forest wall looked impenetrable as if no living creature had ever passed that way. The wall was so thick, everything grown so close together, that hacking through was not an option. Wrothgard mentioned burning the wall away, but then the fear of starting a forest fire ended that idea.

  “What, by the shadow, is this?” Switch cursed.

  “The forest is speaking,” Erik said to no one in particular.

  “What does that mean?” Switch asked. “You’ve been traveling with these dwarves too long.”

  Switch turned to Threhof.

  “Did you bloody bring us out here to kill us?” the thief asked.

  “Why would we bring you all the way out here,” Threhof asked, “sacrificing one of our own, when we could have killed you in Thorakest?”

  “Well, you killed Vander Bim,” Switch said.

  “Calm down, Switch,” Wrothgard said.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down,” Switch replied. “I am tired of this mission. I am tired of dwarves. I am tired of you. Damn it!”

  Switch clenched his fists and spat.

  “You look like a little child,” Bryon said with a smile, “throwing a tantrum.”

  “I’ll show you what kind of tantrum I can throw,” Switch seethed, walking up to Bryon.

  Wrothgard moved behind the thief.

  “I know you’re there, soldier,” Switch said. “As soon as I kill this gutter shite, I’m going to kill you.”

  “Stop this,” Wrothgard said. “This is lunacy.”

  “Come now, Switch,” Turk said.

  “Stuff it, tunnel digger,” Switch replied.

  “I’ve had enough of you,” Demik said, pulling his broadsword and stepping forward.

  “Fine,” Switch said. “I’ll do you after the soldier.”

  Wrothgard’s hand moved, as did Switch’s, as did Bryon’s, as did Demik’s. Erik drew his sword and, in one motion, blocked Demik’s blade and slapped the back of Switch’s hand with the broad side of his weapon.

  It was so unexpected that both Demik and Switch dropped their blades. Wrothgard stepped back, sheathing his own sword, and Erik stepped between Bryon and the thief, even as Switch swung, striking Erik’s chin instead of his cousin’s. Erik pushed Switch away, and the thief fell backwards. Erik put his foot on the thief ’s chest.

  “Get off me,” Switch hissed.

  Erik put the tip of his sword at the base of Switch’s throat and pressed just hard enough to break the skin. He watched the thief ’s eyes go wide.

  “Are you truly that stupid?” Erik said. “We have come this far, only to end it all here?”

  He lifted his foot from Switch’s chest, withdrew his blade from the man’s throat, and stepped away, shaking his head.

  “We found it,” Balzarak said as if completely oblivious to the near mutiny that almost consumed his company. “A small path. It will be tight, but it will
suffice.”

  “Bloody great,” Switch said, jumping up and brushing himself off as if nothing had happened. “I’ll go first.”

  “No,” Erik said. “Balzarak, you go first, and I will follow.”

  “Why?” Switch asked, almost pouting.

  “I don’t trust you,” Erik replied.

  Balzarak crawled through the gap he had discovered on hands and knees, and Erik followed. Low branches created a haphazard roof to the forest tunnel, and more than once, some twig or broken stub caught the top of Erik’s head, and he felt blood trickle from his scalp and down his temple. Eventually, the path opened up allowing them to walk, and within fifty paces, they were standing in a heavily forested area that looked much like the area from which they had just come.

  “This forest looks even older,” Erik said.

  “Dwarves do not come here, I think,” Balzarak said. “Nor do mountain men, or trolls. My guess is that this is an area of the mountain that is primordial. Forgotten.”

  “A good area for a lost city then,” Erik said.

  Balzarak nodded.

  “Do you know where we are going from here?” Erik asked.

  Balzarak smiled.

  “You understand our conversations,” Balzarak said.

  Erik nodded.

  “Yes, I am fairly certain I know where we are going from here.”

  “Does the forest speak here?” Erik asked Turk as he emerged from the deer path.

  “Oh, most certainly,” Turk replied. He looked around. “This is the oldest of forests.”

  “This part of the forest is older than the other parts?” Bryon asked with a hint of cynicism.

  “Actual years do not always explain something’s age,” Turk said. “This place is untouched, untraveled, unwatched.”

  “Untouched, yes,” Balzarak said “but unwatched . . . no, there are eyes that watch this place.”

  The night was dark, despite the fire burning high in the small, circular clearing, ringed by tall, giant trees.

  “The sounds are different here,” Erik said as he looked up. There were no stars, and all was darkness and shadows.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Bryon said.

  “Exactly,” Erik replied.

  As if on cue, the long, moaning howl of a distant wolf broke the silence, and Erik saw Balzarak sit up. They had heard many distant wolf howls and troll growls in these mountains at night, but he had never seen the General act that way, alert and hand going to his sword. Something was wrong with that howl.

  The General spoke to Gôdruk. Be ready. That is what he said. Be aware. And then he remembered what Balzarak had said. There were eyes that watched this place.

  A chill crawled up Erik’s spine. He watched the fire, trying not to stare at the darkness beyond. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index finger. In the darkness of his closed eyes, with the subtle glow of oranges and yellows from the fire, he saw them, the Fox and the slavers, dead soldiers he had killed, rotting, walking corpses. His eyes shot open, and he stood.

  Erik looked to the darkness again. His eyes narrowed as his chest tightened. His stomach knotted, and his pulse quickened. Sweat beaded down his face, even in the chill of the night. How were they there? Outside of his dreams?

  “What are you doing?” Bryon asked.

  “Shut up.”

  “What’s wrong with you, brother?” Befel asked.

  “I said shut up,” Erik hissed.

  Through a sidelong glance, Erik saw Balzarak stand. He saw the dwarf follow his gaze.

  A gust of freezing wind picked up, blew through the campsite and caused the fire to sputter. Erik’s hand went to the handle of his sword.

  “No one else heard that?” Erik asked.

  “Heard what?” Befel asked.

  “Laughter. Hissing,” Erik replied.

  Erik drew his sword, stepping around the fire and closer to the darkness of the forest.

  “I know you’re there,” he whispered. “I know you see and hear me.

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” was the response that came with a small gust of wind.

  “How are you here?”

  Erik took another step forward. He gripped his sword tighter in both hands.

  “Come, come, come, come,” the wind said, “into the darkness, darkness, darkness, darkness.”

  Erik stepped forward again and felt a chill on his face.

  “Are you with me?” he said aloud, looking down at the dagger at his hip.

  He felt a tingle and took another step. They became louder, and he could smell them, just beyond the darkness. Another step. He said a silent prayer, and in the shadows, he could see . . .

  A hand clamped down on Erik’s shoulder, and he spun around to see Balzarak.

  “Do not go into the darkness,” Balzarak said. “It is seldom safe, especially in an ancient place like this.”

  “They are there,” Erik said softly.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Balzarak replied. “This is a magical place where reality and imagination collide. Come, sit by the safety of the fire.”

  “Coward!” they screamed when Erik turned his back to them.

  The wind picked up and swirled about the encampment as the howl came again, louder than before. The wind seemed to attempt to extinguish the campfire, and Dwain rushed to pile more wood on it. But it didn’t matter how much fuel the dwarf added, the flames sputtered and diminished, and Erik saw their faces again, saw their shadows. And then . . . they stopped. The wind. The howling. The voices. And the fire regained its fervor.

  A speck of white dust, almost glowing, floated by Erik’s face. He felt a flutter of air on his face as something buzzed by him, and he wondered if it was one of the large butterflies they had back home. No. It was too cold here.

  Another speck floated by, and this one touched his hand. It was warm, and Erik wiped it away. But then there was another one and another and another. He looked up.

  “What by the Creator?” Erik gasped.

  All around them, all around the clearing to the very tops of the trees, white dust floated by, like snow in the dead of winter.

  “Is that snow?” Wrothgard asked, standing.

  The specks of white fell on Erik’s face as he looked skyward. Again, it was warm and, in a way, comforting. And among the white, warm dust, he saw things flutter by, leaving streaks of light behind them. They weren’t insects.

  “What are they?” Wrothgard asked.

  “Moon fairies,” Balzarak said.

  “Fairies?” Bryon asked.

  “Is this some fable?” Wrothgard asked.

  “This is a primitive place,” Balzarak replied, “with primitive creatures, beings that are older than ancient, as old as the world. We have them back home, in the northernmost reaches of the Gray Mountains. One could just sit and watch them dance . . . perfect.”

  Balzarak extended a hand, and a glowing ball of light came to rest on his palm. Erik leaned closer and saw, as the bright light sputtered, that it was a tiny being, no taller than the width of his hand . . . a woman with dragonfly-like wings. She sat cross-legged on the dwarf ’s hand and stared at him, and he just stared back. Erik leaned even closer.

  “It’s a woman,” he said.

  “Be gentle around her,” Balzarak said with a smile. “They are skittish. And, yes, this fairy is a woman. All moon fairies are.”

  “How is that possible?” Erik asked.

  “They are born in the trees,” Balzarak said. “Fairies. They are some of the first creations of An. It is from them the elves and all other Fairy Folk get their name. They are beautiful.”

  “I wouldn’t say beautiful,” Bryon said, staring at the fairy from over Balzarak’s shoulder.

  Erik had to agree with his cousin. The fairy’s face was hard and angular, with a pointed chin and pronounced cheekbones. Her shoulders were narrow, and her hips were bony. Her eyes were black, void of any pupils, and her ears were tall and pointed.

  “It is not her appearanc
e that makes her beautiful, Bryon,” Balzarak said, “but her very being. She is simple and pure. She harkens back to a time of creation.”

  More fairies appeared and, as they flew around the encampment, brightening the space with their white light, Erik heard buzzing and tinkling, whizzing and whistling. One fairy came to flutter just in front of his face, her light almost blinding, she almost touching his nose.

  “Are those sounds their language?” Erik asked.

  “No,” Balzarak replied. “They don’t speak. They communicate with their minds and thoughts.”

  “That’s weird,” Bryon said.

  “Not so weird,” Erik muttered, patting his golden-handled dagger.

  Another fairy fluttered in front of Bryon, seemingly whistling as she floated about him, inspecting him. He went to touch her, but as his finger grew closer, she gave off a high pitched squeal, and her brightness grew to a blinding glare. The air around Bryon rippled and, with a loud bang, he flew backwards and thudded hard on his back. Switch and Wrothgard drew their weapons.

  “Put your weapons down,” Balzarak said, “they are ancient, primitive and powerful. They can be cruel if they feel threatened.”

  The fairies had dispersed, just for a moment, but when Wrothgard and Switch sheathed their weapons, they returned. The one that had fluttered in front of Erik’s face returned. They all looked the same, but somehow, Erik knew it was the same one.

  “Beautiful,” Erik muttered with a smile.

  She inspected him, flying around his head, tilting her own head this way and that. Erik felt the urge to sit, and so he did. The fairy floated so that she rested, cross-legged, on one of his knees. He felt warm, and any thought or memory of the undead in the darkness disappeared. He instantly thought of his wooden flute and retrieved it from his haversack. He put it to his lips and played.

  Erik had no idea what he played. It wasn’t like before, where he played his thoughts and imagination. He had no thoughts or imagination at that moment. He just played, and the fairies danced in the air and his companions all sat and relaxed, even the anxiety-riddled Switch.