A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

“That right there equals a year of hard work on the farm,” Erik said. He felt the smile growing on his face.

  “I know,” Bryon replied. “And there is more—in the east.”

  Erik’s mouth hung open, but then he saw them again. Scenes from his dreams of his sisters, abused and chained. Dreams of his father and mother . . . dead. Now came memories of children stolen away and a woman hanging from a tree. He shut his mouth quickly and frowned. A scowl crossed his eyebrows.

  “Blood money.”

  Bryon’s mouth dropped open. “Are you being serious, cousin?”

  “It’s blood money. It’s tainted.”

  “Isn’t all money?”

  “Men died for that money. Men sold other men for that money.”

  Bryon shook his head, blinking his eyes cynically as he sighed and laughed in pure, scathing bewilderment.

  “Whatever, cousin. When you need food, or shelter, or new clothing, just remember how tainted this money is.”

  Chapter 28

  ERIK AWOKE IN THE DEAD of the night. A cold wind swirled around him, and he shivered. He turned to the forest and stared into the darkness, the shadows of looming elms, oaks, and sycamores taunting him.

  A pair of yellow eyes stared back at him, and he thought of the eyes of the first slaver he had killed, the thick clubber with wild, dark, oily hair pulled into a multitude of haphazard tails. In death, his eyes had looked blank, yellowed even, his dark pupils sullen and dirty. However, they still looked piercing, watching and staring from beyond death. They had glared at Erik in disbelief. They accused him and protested at their sudden end. They hated Erik.

  Were these the eyes of a ghost? No. A scrawny, spindly wolf darted from behind a tree, ribs poking through its mangy sides. Erik pushed himself up to his elbows, ready to run for the curved sword he had pilfered from a slaver. He was an easy target for the wolf, a week’s worth of meat for such a hungry scavenger. Suddenly, it cut to its right hard, jumping and nipping at something. A small hare.

  Erik sighed with relief as the two animals, predator and prey, zigzagged in the black of night. Dashing back and forth, playing a deadly game of chase, they eventually disappeared back into the forest.

  Am I the hare? If I am, then who is the wolf?

  He continued to stare into the night, sure he’d never get back to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw dead men. A bald man with a gashing wound, coagulated blood thick like porridge oozing from his neck, taunted him. The clubber, a valley cut into the bone and flesh along the top of his head, eyed him with pure abhorrence. A middle-aged woman, perfect save for a slight, abnormal twist in her neck, watched him with sad, tear-filled eyes, salty lines staining her cheeks. A giant of a man, crimson matting his black beard, flesh about his chest ripped and torn, smiled at him.

  Despite the cold, Erik felt their hot, fading breath against his face. He gagged as a pungent, fetid smell hit his nose: Death. He retched again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  He looked over to several of the horses, hearing one snort and another stomp its hooves. He looked at his cousin as he lay sound asleep on the cold ground. He could hear Befel toss and turn in the wagon, still half awake, half asleep, groaning every time he rolled onto his shoulder. But for Erik, there’d be no more rest that night.

  The morning still held the cold sting of the fading night. Erik feverishly rubbed his arms, trying to warm up. Bryon had awoken early and had even deigned to help Bo pack the wagon as Erik fed the horses and other animals. Befel finally stirred, shivering in the morning’s cold as he tried sitting up. However, any movement sent a chilled, crippling vibration through his body and into his shoulder.

  “Erik.”

  “Yes, brother,” Erik replied, running to Befel.

  “I need help,” he said reluctantly. “I can’t sit up.”

  Erik gently placed his hand behind Befel’s back and hoisted him up slowly. Erik saw the look of embarrassment on Befel’s face. He patted his brother on the leg.

  “Don’t fret, brother. Your wound will heal. And when it does, you will not have to ask your little brother for help any longer.”

  “Is there anything hot to eat?” Befel asked as Erik wrapped two blankets around his brother’s shoulders. Erik looked to Dika. The gypsy woman nodded slightly, and within a brief moment, produced a wooden bowl of vegetable soup.

  “It’s not really hot,” she said apologetically, “but it’s warm.”

  Befel nodded his gratitude and dove into the meal.

  “That is good. You need to regain some of your strength,” Erik said, pleased to see an appetite returning.

  “Here.” Dika handed the young man a water skin. Befel took it.

  “It’s milk—fresh milk. It will help you get your strength back.”

  By the third day of travel along the Southland Gap, an unfamiliar smell filled Erik’s nose. It burned his nostrils, and he winced and sneezed at the odor.

  “What’s the matter, my friend?” Bo asked.

  Erik again sat next to Bo on his captain’s seat, keeping the gypsy company and listening intently to any stories he had to offer.

  “I’ve never smelled that before.”

  “What?” Bo asked.

  “That odd smell in the air,” Erik replied. “What is it?”

  “Ah, yes, the sea. The smell of fish, salty water, and sandy beaches. It is peculiar, isn’t it? I think at times I welcome that smell, and at times I dread it.”

  “And today?”

  “Hmm,” Bo mulled. “I think today I welcome it. It signifies a new chapter in my life and the life of my family. So, yes, today I welcome that smell.”

  Erik smiled as his eyes followed the line of trees creating the Blue Forest’s border and on over a small hillock.

  When they reached the top of that hill, that same line of trees stopped suddenly just before a wide expanse of sand, and then, there it was—the ocean. Erik’s mouth dropped. A curving horizon of blue, strands of silvery clouds hanging just above it. Black specks weaved through those clouds and dove down to the water.

  “Seagulls,” Erik muttered.

  “Aye,” Bo said, hearing the gawking screech of one the birds. “Little better than rats with wings if you ask me.”

  “Those I’ve seen before.”

  “Really,” Bo queried. “How so?”

  “On especially wet monsoons, they make their way to our farmstead and settle around several of the large lakes. I suppose it might be a little cooler farther north from here, and during rainy seasons, those lakes fill with so many trout and bass there’s practically no room.”

  To the east of the beach, they saw the large coastal city of Finlo, abutting the South Sea. All they could see of the city’s port were the tall masts of ships that were anchored in the harbor.

  “There it is,” Bryon said as he rode up next to Erik and Bo. He pointed to the masts.

  “What?” Erik asked.

  “That’s our ship. That’s our future.” Bryon said it with such certainty. Erik gave him a questioning look. “It doesn’t matter which ship, b
ut one of them will take us east, and that’s our future.”

  Chapter 29

  “THERE ARE NO WALLS,” ERIK said as they neared Finlo.

  “No lad, no walls,” Bo replied.

  “Even Waterton has wooden barricades,” Erik said.

  “Southland is a neutral country,” Bo explained. “It always has been, never taking sides in any war, just importing and exporting for whoever pays.”

  “That seems impossible,” Erik said.

  “Perhaps,” Bo replied with a shrug. “I know I wouldn’t be able to just sit by and not take sides in a fight. Finlo has survived through the rule of law. That’s it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Erik said.

  “Finlo and its ruling council—the Council of Five—doesn’t care who you are, what you believe, what you look like, what food you eat, what you wear, or from where you hail. All Finlo cares about, is that you obey the law.”

  “Are its laws so different?” Erik asked.

  “They are very strict,” Bo replied. “Just watch yourself, Erik. You have a good head on your shoulders and a good heart, but it’s very easy for a young man to get himself into trouble here.”

  “A young man like Bryon,” Erik muttered.

  “Aye,” Bo replied and smiled. “So, make sure you watch him as well.”

  As they neared the entrance to Finlo, three cages were suspended on sturdy poles along the road. Each had an occupant, offering up a sweet meal of rotting flesh for the gulls screeching and hovering overhead.

  “Too bad those slavers aren’t here,” suggested Bryon as he pointed at a wooden placard hanging from one cage that read Thief, Third Offense. The body, picked to the bone, clutched the bars of the cage tightly with bony fingers.

  “I didn’t know you cared that much,” Erik said.

  Bryon just shrugged.

  “They know to stay away,” Mardirru said, riding up next to Erik and Bryon. “Their sentence would have been much worse—much more painful—than a simple, poor begging thief.”

  Erik thought Mardirru’s expression was one of sympathy.

  “These men got what they deserved,” Bryon replied.

  “Perhaps,” Mardirru replied.

  The other two cages held bodies a little fresher. One placard read Inciting Riots against the Council. The other read, Proselytizing and Disturbing the Peace.

  “I hope that’s what those rat turds look like right now,” Bryon said as he tapped one of the wooden placards. “The slavers. I hope that’s what is happening to them. I hope worms are tunneling through their flesh.”

  “Are you going to keep staring at rotting corpses, or are you going to join us inside the city?” Erik asked over his shoulder as the wagon followed Mardirru and the rest of the gypsy caravan along the main road into the city.

  Sand dotted with broken seashells filled the streets of Finlo, and the smell of fish and old seawater filled the air.

  “I think I might prefer cobbled streets and the smell of stale beer to this,” Erik offered as they slowly rambled down the main street, his nose crinkling at the strange smells.

  They stopped in what Erik assumed to be a town square. It had several brick benches and a myriad of carts and vendors where people congregated.

  “What will you do now?” Erik asked Bo, who helped the young man pack a few pairs of clean pants and shirts—gifts from Dika—into his pack. Erik looked at the leather haversack, bulging with clothing and food. His throat went dry when he realized that all he owned sat in that pack.

  “I don’t know,” Bo replied, looking over to Mardirru as he bid his farewells to other travelers. “We have a new leader, and therefore, we have a new course.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Aye, I believe it is,” Bo replied. “Mardirru is a good man. He takes after his father. His brother, Max, will support him, as will his sister, Melia. And even though he is young, he is wise—wise enough to listen to the counsel of the older gypsies in our caravan when needs be.”

  “As long as he listens to anyone’s advice but yours,” Dika chided, walking by.

  Bo scowled playfully at her. He turned back to Erik. “Whatever we do, we will stay here, just outside the city’s limits, for a few days before we’re off again.”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done.” Erik extended his hand.

  Bo laughed, grabbed Erik’s wrist, and pulled the young man into a wide embrace.

  “We’ve been through enough together, my friend. I think a friendly embrace is acceptable. While you’re in Finlo, I want you to make sure your brother sees that man named Kevon. He will tend to his wound. Tell Befel to say I sent him.”

  Bo handed Erik his pack, and the two hugged again. With a hearty pat on the shoulder, and a small tear teasing the corner of Bo’s eye, they departed. Erik left his brother and cousin saying their goodbyes to Bo and Dika and went over to Mardirru. The younger, slightly smaller version of Marcus stood straight and regal, falchion sheathed at his side, wooden flute tucked into the front of his belt along with a jeweled and golden-hilted dagger.

  Erik didn’t know what to say and felt relieved when Mardirru finally spoke.

  “My father saw something in you. I don’t know what. I must admit, I didn’t have the opportunity to know you as I should’ve. I fear, in my youth, I’m still a little cynical of outsiders. That fallacy is something I should’ve learned from my father sooner.”

  Before Erik could reply, Mardirru pulled Marcus’ wooden flute from his belt. He handed it to Erik, a sad look on his face.

  “I am not the dreamer my father was, nor is Max. It pains me to realize that, but I will just have to find where my strengths lie. My father saw you as a dreamer. The way he spoke of you . . . this flute belongs in the hands of a dreamer.”

  “I can’t,” Erik said, trying gently to push the flute away, but Mardirru just held it there, waiting for Erik to take it.

  “Thank—” Erik started saying when Mardirru cut him off.

  “You do not have a reliable weapon.”

  He pointed to the curved blade randomly hanging from Erik’s belt before he reached for the bejeweled dagger in his belt. It was a long-bladed weapon, with a gold scabbard encrusted with every gem from diamonds to emeralds.

  “This belonged to my father also. This is a reliable weapon. I’ve never seen my father use it, and I’ve only heard his stories about what it is—what it can do—but just know it will aid you when you are in need of trustworthy steel.”

  “What it can do?” Erik asked.

  Mardirru smiled. “I will leave that to you to discover. And, of course, I am giving you back the money you paid my father for passage into our caravan.”

  Mardirru dropped a heavy leather sac into Erik’s hand, and Erik guessed the young gypsy had returned more than they had originally paid.

  “I wish you speed and success on your travels east, Erik Eleodum,” Mardirru added. “Go with the Creator, remembering always his steadfast love and unwavering courage.”

  “Thank you, and may he bless you as well, Mardirru.”

  The gy
psy turned away with a final nod, and as Erik stood by himself in the bustling square of Finlo, he didn’t know if he had ever felt that lonely.

  He watched the gypsy wagons roll on toward the city’s center. He waved at the families he knew, the little girl he had saved, her mother and brother, men he drank with, women who served him hot bread and fresh milk.

  “I’ll never see them again” he muttered as Bryon appeared by his side.

  “Probably not,” Bryon said matter-of-factly. He didn’t even sound glad or sarcastic.

  He handed Erik the reins of a horse the gypsies had given them, and Befel held the reins of his. Erik looked back to see two other horses laden with blankets, food, clothing—anything they might need.

  Didn’t Bo remember they meant to sail east? Then Erik laughed silently. That seemed just like Bo—leaving them with options.

  “We need to find a place to stay. I do not trust this place for sleeping on the streets,” Bryon stated.

  “Agreed,” Befel replied.

  Before he could mount his horse, Erik jerked forward as something hard hit him from behind. He looked up to see a thick-shouldered man walking away, looking back at the young man with a sidelong glance and a cruel smile stretching across his wide-chinned face. Erik continued to stare with squinted eyes, disregarding the man’s size.

  The thick man turned, his bare feet crunching several small, white shells under his heels. The cloth vest he wore opened and displayed a defined chest covered with thick clumps of blond hair obscuring a smattering of blue and black inked tattoos. The tattoos continued down his arms to his wrists, and his clenched hands sent waves of rippling muscle up his arms, the ink undulating under the tension.

  At first, Erik felt sure of himself, but as this large, tattooed Fin stared at him, his chest sank a bit. Erik swallowed hard, and he stepped backward. This wouldn’t be a fair fight, despite Erik’s strength and size and rusted, bent sword. Erik jolted when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun to see his cousin gripping his shoulder firmly.