A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  “It’s for small things, hard to see with the eye. It makes them larger,” the barber replied. “It doesn’t look like the infection is bad. I can stop it from spreading. How deep was the wound?”

  “The width of a small blade,” Befel replied.

  Kevon looked away from the wound and stared at Befel.

  “I would hate to see how the other man looks,” Kevon said. “How well can you move your arm?”

  “Some,” Befel explained. “I can move it more and more each day.”

  He raised his arm to shoulder’s height and made a circle with it as best he could.

  “I think you are lucky. The wound is not too deep, but it could have crippled your arm,” Kevon explained. “I will stitch these few places where the heat did not take and patch it with a cream made from Witch’s Root and Rain Leaf. The Witch’s Root will speed the healing and stop the infection from spreading. The Rain Leaf will reduce the pain and kill the current infection. I’ll also give you some Rain Leaf to chew if the pain gets too much. Just be careful. Chew it too much or too often, and you’ll wear your teeth away.”

  Most of the work was painless, but Befel winced as Kevon pulled the thread tight, tied it, and then cut off the excess.

  “You will be stiff,” Kevon said, “for a few days, and perhaps sore. But the problems will subside. Come see me every day, and I will take another look and apply some fresh ointment. Five nickels today. Two nickels for every other visit.”

  “A man called Bo said you might give me a friend’s price?” questioned Befel.

  “Ah, Bo and Dika,” Kevon said, a smile growing on his face. “Two nickels today. One every other visit. A friend’s price.”

  Befel nodded his thanks and paid the barber before he asked for a recommendation for buying food and other necessities for the week. He was surprised to be sent to The Drunken Fin. Apparently, it doubled as an inn and goods store, and that’s why it was so busy.

  Dodging the crowds on his way back, Befel avoided several brightly dressed gnomes pinching at the heels of older women, trying to look under the dresses of younger women, and sticking their tongues out at children. He then saw only the third dwarf he had seen in his life.

  The man—if one could call him that—wore the customary dwarvish beard and long hair and worked at a blacksmith’s anvil, as Befel had heard most dwarves did in the cities of men. The first dwarf he had seen worked in that trade in Waterton, and the second was an adventurer—the other profession many dwarves assumed in the lands of men—stopping in Waterton for supplies before heading into the deserts of Nothgolthane, the continent in which Gongoreth resided.

  This third dwarf, as the others, stood at least two heads shorter than Befel, and yet his shoulders were wider than almost any man the farmer had ever seen, his neck invisible amongst muscle. He had heard other men in The Red Lady, once, talking about fighting a dwarf, even killing a dwarf and cutting his beard off as a trophy to hang on their spear. After seeing a dwarf such as this one, Befel hardly believed that could’ve happened.

  Finlo certainly did seem to attract many different kinds of people, and just away from the dwarvish blacksmith, standing by a cart that sold silks, velvets, and other fine fabrics, were two men who could only be called giants. They looked like men, only they stood twice as tall as any other on the street. Their arms and legs bulged with muscles, and their hair was long and gray, although their faces showed youth.

  Another tall man joined them, this one a full head shorter, with a single eye sitting above his wide nose. A group of three women arrived at the stall, and one giant handed over several yards of fabric to be examined. He moved slowly, every movement deliberate.

  “Burn me, what are they?” Befel said to himself.

  “Which ones?” asked a man standing next to Befel.

  Befel, startled, looked at the man and then back at the cart.

  “Both, I guess,” he replied.

  “The bigger ones,” the man explained, “are ogres. Don’t know where they come from, and don’t know where they go half the time. They’re only here a few months at a time, bringing whatever goods they have, but always things of a rich nature. They seem harmless, even though just three or four could tear apart a whole city. I don’t trust ’em.”

  “Why’s that?” Befel asked.

  “Would you trust something that big?” the man said, pointing. “They’re like gypsies. They seem all right on the outside, but every bone in their body is as crooked as a burnt tree. They’ll let you slap ’em in the face, only to steal everything you own while you’re not looking. That’s what I think, at least.

  “Once saw one lose its temper. With one step of that ogre’s bare foot, he stomped a little pisser of a gnome out of existence. It was just as if he was squashing an ant, you know. Wouldn’t mind if they stomped all the gnomes out of Finlo.”

  “And you don’t know where they come from?” Befel asked.

  “Up north somewhere,” the man replied. “Nothing good comes from up north. They’re nomads, you know.”

  “And the other man,” Befel asked, “if that’s what he is?”

  “Ah,” the man said. “That is an antegant. Also, somewhat of a mystery. One moment, they’ll be friendly and then the next throw a fit and kill twenty men without even thinking about it. Some are evil to the core, and others you would let watch your little girls while you were out. The wicked ones, well, you won’t see ’em in cities, at least not here in the south. You never know what goes on in the east. Nothing good comes from the east, you know. Midius there,” he said pointing to the antegant talking to the ogre, “works on the docks. Several of ’em do. Midius will stand there and talk to those ogres all night. I guess big gets along with big.”

  The man laughed and walked away. Befel watched the man for a moment. He walked to the ogres’ cart—the big fellows paying him no attention—and snatched a box of coin. The ogres knew none the better. Thieves indeed.

  Chapter 32

  AS BEFEL MADE HIS WAY through the crowd and to the bar, trying not to knock into too many people as he went, it felt like half the city had crowded into The Drunken Fin. To his right stood another antegant, tall and broad with a shaved head save for a topknot of thick, brown hair. Its one eye glared at Befel as it drained a clear glass pitcher of ale in one gulp. Befel hurriedly looked away and then almost gasped.

  To his left stood two men—rather, they had the bodies of men and the heads of wild cats. One had orange fur about its wide head, all streaked with black and white stripes—a cat he had never seen before. Its cat-like ears sat up on its head with black tufts of fur, making them look longer than they really were. The other looked like a Plains cat of some sort, light tan fur about its head except for its mouth and ears, which were a dirty white. Befel could not help but stare at them intently.

  Their hands looked human, only covered by orange or tan fur and clawed. They wore clothing like any other adventurer Befel had seen in Waterton, getting ready to travel west. The orange-furred cat-man wore a heavy leather jerkin studded with iron while the Plains cat wore a shirt of mail and a heavy girdle. Travelers’ pants made of thick leather covered their legs and hard leather boots their feet.

  The orange cat-man carried a long s
word sheathed at his side while the other wielded a long, broad-bladed, two-handed sword held across his back. They casually leaned against the bar, speaking a language that seemed to consist of hisses, screeches, and meows.

  The one facing Befel, the Plains cat, saw him staring, and his cat-like eyes squinted as he bared his teeth and gave a low growl. Befel now quickly turned away, sweat beading down the side of his face as the cat-man’s whiskers quivered.

  “You don’t seem to be making friends easily,” the bartender suggested when he finally made his way to Befel’s end of the bar. The handsome, clean-shaven face of the man took Befel by surprise. All the bartenders Befel had met before were fat, bald, and dirty.

  “The name’s Morgan. Want a drink or did you need something else?”

  “Are you still selling goods from your general store?” Befel asked.

  “Aye,” Morgan replied. “It’s open all night, just like the bar.”

  “Well,” Befel said, “then I would like a dozen eggs and a measure of flour. A bit of sugar, enough for a day, and fresh bacon and milk as well.”

  “The milk will be expensive,” Morgan said with a matter-of-fact look on his face. “Not many cows around here, and it’s in high demand.”

  “That’s all right,” Befel replied.

  “Is it?” Morgan asked inquisitively. Befel cursed himself for his quick and ill-advised response.

  “I’ll have my errand boy go fetch your goods. In the meantime, would you like a drink, my friend?” the bartender asked.

  Morgan motioned to a young boy who stood at the end of the bar, and the boy immediately ran off after Morgan had passed on Befel’s order.

  “I could use a glass of ale,” Befel replied.

  “You look like you’ve been traveling hard. A pint then,” Morgan said.

  “Yes,” Befel said.

  The antegant that stood next to Befel scoffed and chuckled again.

  “A pint!” His voice was deep and reverberated through the bar. He stared at Befel. “Figures, you men and your pints,” he added as he slammed his large pitcher down on the bar, signifying he was ready for another one.

  Morgan’s errand boy returned with two burlap bags containing Befel’s goods. While he sat, bags in front of him, sipping on his ale, he heard music behind him. He turned to see two short men pass by, dancing and playing their instruments.

  “What are they?” Befel asked the bartender as he looked down to see that the men’s legs were, in fact, the legs of a goat.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No.” Befel shook his head.

  “No matter. Most people in here aren’t from around here,” the bartender said, nodding toward the antegant and then the cat-men. “Katokiens. That’s what we call them.”

  Befel nodded, still none-the-wiser about the musicians.

  “So,” Morgan said, “what brings you to Finlo?”

  “East,” Befel replied. “I’m going east. To fight.”

  “To join Golgolithul’s army?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes,” Befel replied.

  “You’re a soldier then?” Morgan asked, serving more ale as he spoke. He seemed able to hold a conversation while hearing orders yelled at him across the bar.

  Befel shook his head. “No.”

  “Interesting,” Morgan said as he wiped his bar with a rag. He didn’t seem all that concerned with Befel anymore.

  “I heard men become rich in the east,” Befel said.

  “Lots of men going east these days, thinking the same thing,” Morgan said. “Not a whole lot coming back.”

  “Should they be?” Befel asked.

  “Don’t know,” Morgan said with a shrug. “Don’t really care.”

  “Why’s that?” Befel asked.

  “Don’t much care for the east,” Morgan said. “Never done anything for me but crowd Finlo’s ports with ships full of men that would rather drink on their boat than come to my bar. Don’t much care for anything from the east. Don’t much care for anything going east.”

  Morgan gave Befel a hard look before he nodded his head.

  “I’ll make sure your pint gets a refill, and good luck. Gods know, you’re going to need it.”

  Befel sat for another moment when he heard the antegant next to him grumble loudly.

  “East,” the antegant said. “What do you want with the east?”

  “I’m going to go fight for the east,” Befel explained, “for Golgolithul.”

  “Why? What has Golgolithul done for you?” the antegant asked.

  “Nothing. I just . . .”

  “Then why go east? Why even speak of the east?” the antegant asked. “No one likes the east in here, all you men coming through the city, going east. All those eastern ships, crowding our docks. The east—always taking, always imposing, always going where it isn’t welcome. The east.”

  He drank the contents of his new pitcher, slamming it down on the bar again, angrily. Befel felt small as he sat, staring forward, and drinking his second pint.

  What am I doing? What are we doing?

  Befel looked around the bar, and some of the others looked at him, probably overhearing the antegant’s booming voice. Most went about their business.

  I should have gone to Aga Kona, Befel thought, but then shook his head. What do I know about mining? What do I know about life without Erik and Bryon? We can’t go east on the ships, though. We won’t last a day.

  Befel sat for a while, slowly sipping his ale and thinking.

  Chapter 33

  ERIK TOOK A DRINK OF what the bartender insisted was ale. It didn’t taste like ale. For a moment, he wished he wasn’t the only inhabitant of this rundown inn just past the eastern outskirts of Finlo. He had asked Bryon to come in from the stables, but he seemed to enjoy the company of horses over his own kin.

  A wooden plate of bread and cheeses was plopped in front of Erik, and he looked up to see the bartender looking down at him with his almost toothless grin.

  “Eat, lad,” the bartender said, and before Erik could say anything, he added, “my treat.”

  As the bartender sat down to join Erik, he set a pitcher for himself next to the plate of cheese and bread.

  “How’s the ale?” the bartender asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “It’s . . . different,” Erik said, nibbling on some of the cheese.

  “Aye,” the bartender said, “I thought you would say that. I add a spice to it, from the Feran Islands. They call it cinnamon. Do you like it?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Erik replied.

  “It takes some getting used to.”

  When Erik had finished his ale, the bartender poured Erik something from his own pitcher. It didn’t look like ale, and when Erik took a drink, he almost coughed.

  “Brandy?” he croaked.

  “Aye,” the bartender replied.

  “Also seasoned with . . . what did you say . . . cinnamon?”

  “Aye. You have a good pal
let,” the bartender replied. He extended a meaty hand. “The name’s Rory.”

  “Erik,” Erik replied, shaking the man’s hand.

  “You and the fellows you’re with—you’re all related, yes?” Rory asked.

  “Yes.” Erik nodded. “My brother, and that’s my cousin,” he said, pointing outside with a thumb over his shoulder.

  “And you wish to go east?” Rory asked. “To fight for Golgolithul?”

  Erik nodded again.

  “That’s good,” Rory said. “Serving can turn a boy into a man, make a man a better man, gives a person purpose.”

  “It seems there are very few people who share your sentiments,” Erik said.

  Rory shrugged. “I served Golgolithul.”

  “Its army?” Erik asked.

  “Nah,” Rory replied. “Navy. Seemed a natural fit. Grew up on a boat, fishing with my father.”

  “And you enjoyed your time in the navy?” Erik asked. He looked around the bar, the warped wood, and worn furniture and boarded windows. “It made you a rich man?” he added with a smile, and Rory laughed.

  “I wouldn’t say enjoy,” Rory said. “It was good for me . . . to serve. Gave me skills that have saved my life many times. Made me grow up. As for being rich, well, I did, at one time, actually have some coin to my name, my own ship, my own crew. Did that make me rich? Sure, to some maybe. But, as you can see, if I was ever rich then, I am no longer.”

  “What happened?” Erik asked, finishing his cup of brandy. He noticed Rory finished his own, which prompted the bartender to refill their cups.

  “After serving Golgolithul for twenty years,” Rory replied, “I had saved up enough money for a business of my own. With my captain’s blessing, I left the navy, bought my own ship, hired a crew, and ran goods from Wüsten Sahil all the way to the Isuta Isles. Nothing like being on the open water. Nothing.”