A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  With that last sentence, his voice had become low and menacing as a clenched fist escaped the sleeve of his robe. Erik felt the air grow heavy again, and he rubbed his upper lip as if sweat had suddenly gathered there. The candles in the bar seemed to dim, but then the room returned to normal. Now the Messenger started explaining the task his master had for these mercenaries.

  He talked for a long while about the history of the Southern Mountains and its dwarvish inhabitants. Finally, he spoke of a city called Orvencrest, one where the early dwarves had stored a mass of wealth in during the ancient days. The ancestors of the dwarves, living in the south of the country they called Drüum Balmdüukr, still stored many family heirlooms in that city, but not everything in Orvencrest had rightly belonged to the dwarves; some had been taken by force. And some of those treasures were not just gold and silver and jewels. The Messenger referred to those times as barbaric and explained that a prized and long-lost treasure of the Lord of the East’s family rested among those treasures.

  “It has come to my Lord’s attention,” the Messenger went on, “through much research and many resources spent, that a document of lineage, an old scroll encased in bone and held in a small, golden chest sits in the hidden treasure room of Orvencrest. To you, this may seem of little consequence, but it holds a certain sentimental value for my master.”

  A low murmur rippled through the crowd, but it seemed odd to Erik that a simple scroll of family heritage would have such sentimental value for one of the most powerful rulers in all of Háthgolthane. Wouldn’t the historians and chroniclers of Golgolithul have kept records of his family’s history?

  “The location of Orvencrest has long been lost,” the Messenger continued, “even to the dwarves of Drüum Balmdüukr, but again, through exhaustive research, my master believes he has located the city, buried deep within the Southern Mountains and hidden by dwarvish ingenuity. For those of you who accept this task, I have a map that indicates where the city is within the mountains. How you get to that point is up to you.”

  “Your reward,” the Messenger continued and then paused for a moment. “Your reward is twofold. You may take whatever you can carry from the storerooms of Orvencrest’s treasure. Anything creatures of your profession could ever want, you will find in the treasure room of Orvencrest—weapons, armor, gold, jewels, anything. Then, upon your successful arrival to Fen-Stévock with that which my master desires, in addition to a chest of gold, you will receive a seal to be worn upon your breast. Wear this seal within the borders of Golgolithul and all its citizens will recognize you as a Champion of Fen-Stévock. No self-respecting tavern owner will ever charge you for boarding and all will applaud you wherever you go.”

  Another low murmur went through the crowd. Some smiled loudly while others again shook their heads, looks of pure skepticism scrawled across their faces.

  “One last thing,” the Messenger said. “You are not to look at my master’s document. It will be to your demise if you do, for my Lord will know and you, in turn, will feel his wrath . . .”

  In the ensuing silence, there was none in the room who could not understand what that might mean, and none could avoid the sense of dread. His point hammered home, the Messenger spoke his final words.

  “Now, as you leave, please retrieve a map from my menservants, Terradyn and Raktas. May the gods of the east smile upon you.”

  Terradyn, the first of the bodyguards standing in the middle of the bar, made his way back to the entrance of The Lady’s Inn and a second tall and large man with a single ring piercing the septum of his nose appeared from outside. Raktas, long, braided, red hair falling to the small of his back and red beard sitting on his barrel chest, handed Terradyn a clutch of rolled parchment, and they both stood at the door, offering the maps and instructions to anyone who would take them. Most of the bar’s inhabitants left without taking a map.

  “Are even mercenaries that afraid of Fen-Stévock?” Bryon asked, watching sell-sword after sell-sword decline the bodyguards’ offering.

  “Perhaps it’s too dangerous,” Befel replied, “or too secretive. I would think that mercenaries are about self-preservation above all else, and from what I’ve seen and heard, they like to know exactly what they’re getting into.”

  “Or maybe it’s just too good to be true,” Bryon added.

  “This is an adventure of folly,” Erik heard one man say. From another, he heard, “A lapdog’s mission. That’s what this is.”

  “I won’t risk my life for some myth,” yet another mercenary said. “And don’t think the dwarves are going to just welcome any fool wandering around in their mountains. They’ll crack his skull with one of their hammers faster than he can blink.”

  “A fool’s mission,” Erik muttered, sitting at their table and watching everyone leave. “Sounds fitting.”

  Chapter 39

  ERIK STARED AT THE COMPANY of soldiers standing at attention outside The Lady’s Inn.

  “The Soldiers of the Eye,” a man standing next to Erik said. Erik noticed him clutching one of the maps. “The personal guard of the Messenger of the East.”

  Close to a hundred men stood in that company, just outside the wooden gate, guarding three carriages made of a golden oak, ornamented with silver bells, and each drawn by a train of six jet black horses, purple-feathered plumes atop their heads. All the guardsmen wore a hardened leather breastplate emblazoned with an open hand centered by a single eye.

  “What is that on their chest?”

  “The All-Watching Eye. The crest of the Messenger of the East,” the mercenary replied.

  Each soldier held a long spear tipped by a steel blade that gleamed in the sun and a steel shield also bearing the symbol of the Messenger. All wore leather trousers of the same dark brown color, and all wore heavy boots polished to a bright sheen. When Terradyn and Raktas walked from The Lady’s Inn, the thunderous sound of a hundred boots, stamping as one, rang through the air as the company snapped to attention.

  “Unlike any other soldier in Golgolithul’s army, these men pledge fealty to the Messenger and the Messenger alone,” the mercenary continued. “People of Golgolithul, and elsewhere, hold only the personal guard of the Lord of the East in higher esteem. These men will give their life for the Herald. They swear oaths of celibacy, keep their heads and faces shaved, and on the back of each man’s head is the tattoo of the Messenger’s insignia—the All-Watching Eye—in black ink.”

  He looked over to see Erik watching him and then the guard that stood in front of the inn and then back at him. When Erik’s blue eyes caught his, he smiled and winked.

  “You seem a little young, lad, to be one of our kind.” Before Erik could answer the man, he added, “But, who am I to judge. Watch your step around them, lad. In fact, watch your step around all these fellows.”

  “Including you?” Erik asked timidly.

  The seemingly pleasant fellow chuckled. “Well put, my young man.” The man tucked his thumbs into his belt and tilted his head in thought. “Perhaps.”

  “Wrothgard,” one of his companions said, and he looked over to his departing friends. He nodded back to the other two men.

  “Peace be with you and fortune smile on you,” he said to Erik before catching up to his companions.

 
Those who did accept the Lord of the East’s offer gathered near to the stables, waiting to have a few words with the Messenger who, somewhat to Erik’s surprise, welcomed questions and small conversations from the mercenaries. The two cat-men spoke with him for longer than most, even though they did not take a map. Erik heard them speak in their language of growls and purrs and heard the Messenger respond in the same language. When finished, they bowed and left.

  Erik then saw the four dwarves talking amongst themselves. They seemed to argue until one of them put up a hand up to stop the conversation. He walked away, his face red and his cheeks undulating as he ground his teeth. He even grumbled at the two bodyguards when he passed them, and the other dwarves shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads. Finally, they put up their hands in capitulation and accepted a map from Terradyn.

  “I do not remember sending invitations to you three.” The voice startled Erik, and he turned to see the Messenger of the East standing next to him. He and his brother and cousin bowed. Erik felt his heart quicken and his hands shake as he bent low, staring at the ground.

  How does he know the faces of those he invited? He could not have met all of them.

  “We were in Finlo for the ships, my lord,” Erik finally said after a few, uneasy moments. “The ships east, that is. We had intended on going east and enlisting in Golgolithul’s armies.”

  “And yet you are here,” the Messenger spoke slowly.

  “Yes, my lord, we heard . . .” Erik said but stopped before incriminating Rory and paused a moment to gather his thoughts. “Rather, we saw all the men showing up to the inn and decided to find out why.”

  “Ah, I see,” the Messenger replied, deep cynicism in his voice. “Have you never heard that curiosity skins a gnome, young man?”

  “My father said that to me all the time,” Erik said with a smile.

  “So, you have a sense of duty then,” the Messenger said.

  “Honestly, sir, I think it is more that we are tired of begging and living on the street and wondering when our next meal is going to come,” Erik replied, hands crossed in front of him, head slightly lowered so he would not meet the Messenger’s gaze.

  “An honest answer if not a hard one,” the Messenger replied. Erik felt his hands shake again. “I like honest answers. Honestly suits you, Erik.”

  “How did you know my . . .”

  The Messenger put up a hand to silence Erik.

  “After hearing my lord’s task, what are you going to do?” the Messenger asked.

  Erik looked to his brother and cousin. Befel just shrugged while Bryon shook his head, a disapproving look on his face.

  “We are clearly not mercenaries,” Erik said.

  “Clearly,” the Messenger reiterated.

  “But we aren’t soldiers either. I think we will try to sell our services as porters. There is more opportunity for . . .” Erik stopped. He nearly said gold, but where was the notion of service in that? “There is a better opportunity to serve, this way. We would be just three in a thousand men if we went east, but here, maybe we can do more.”

  “I told you,” the Messenger said coldly, “honesty better suits you. The glimmer of gold, the thought of fame attracts you young men. Gold and fame attracting young men have never been a mystery, and I would be a fool to think otherwise. However, you might find it difficult to hire yourselves out to fellows such as these. Many already have menservants.”

  He pointed to a richly robed man with pale skin who stood beside his pure white stallion which waited obediently. The man barked orders to two other men, both wearing red trousers and red vests. They packed saddlebags onto two smaller horses, but both still fine looking animals.

  “He could probably use your swords more than your shoulders,” said the Messenger, “but mercenaries are a greedy lot, and he already has two men serving him.”

  The Messenger then pointed to three well-groomed men.

  “Then there are those that do not have servants because they have no need. You might find luck with those fellows,” the Messenger said.

  Erik recognized one of them as Wrothgard, the man who had told him about the Soldiers of the Eye. They looked to own few possessions aside from their weapons, and what they did have they carried in simple, leather haversacks. One might think they could at least use someone to fetch wood or food if rations ran low, but each man carried a short bow on his back and a small hand ax for cutting wood on their belts.

  He then pointed to another man, a blond haired fellow wearing a simple cloth shirt, its sleeves rolled up revealing the tattoos of a sailor. The scruff of a week without shaving on his weathered, tanned face. He handed a bundle of rations to another, sandy-headed man a hand shorter than him. The second man wore an iron corselet lying over a brown leather jerkin; both seemed worn and in need of some repair.

  Behind them, a third, gaunt fellow with stringy, thinning, gray hair and a simple cotton-stitched shirt that hung loosely from his shoulders, packed more supplies onto another horse. His sunken, grayish-brown eyes squinted, and his weather-beaten skin looked tan and wrinkled. His body, albeit thin and malnourished looking, didn’t look a day older than Bryon’s father, a man in his early middle years, and yet his face looked the part of the Eleodum’s grandfather, long since passed from this life.

  “They could probably use your backs and horses—and your swords if the need arises,” said the Messenger. “Although seasoned fighters, they are perhaps not as experienced as some of the others here. They would probably welcome your services, for the right price.”

  Chapter 40

  “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THIS,” Bryon said.

  “They were the ones the Messenger suggested,” Erik said.

  “But why?” Bryon muttered, more to himself.

  He didn’t trust the Messenger, and these three men looked little better than themselves. One even looked sickly, ragged, and worn down. And they all looked well past their prime.

  These men won’t lead us to riches. They won’t lead us east. They’ll lead us to our doom.

  “It’s the choice we’ve made,” Befel said. “Stick to the plan.”

  “The plan has changed so many times,” Bryon replied. “Who knows what the plan is anymore?”

  “We agreed,” Befel said, looking agitated. “We will sell our services as porters.”

  “Little more than slaves,” Bryon spat. “That’s all we’ll be for a silver crown a day—slaves to fools on a fool’s mission for another fool.”

  “I’d watch your tongue around all these men who serve that fool,” Befel replied. “Besides, the alternative is a crowded boat for several months taking us to a land we know nothing about, fighting for a cause we know nothing about, and for that very same fool. And a silver crown is what we made for a week’s worth of work in Venton. I think it’s a fair wage, considering what we will be doing.”

  “Agreed,” Erik added.

  “Fine,” Bryon said with a shrug. “Do what you want. What do I care?”

  “You sound like a child,” Erik said, and Bryon glared at him, clenching his fists.

  Oh, how I would beat you right now if we were home.

 
“Excuse me, sirs,” Befel said, clearing his throat to get their attention. The three mercenaries didn’t seem to hear him, so he cleared his throat again. “Excuse, good men.”

  Bryon rolled his eyes again as Befel cleared his throat one more time.

  “Just tap him on the shoulder,” Bryon said.

  “I don’t want to be rude,” Befel replied.

  “Rude?” Bryon questioned. “Are you kidding me?”

  Bryon looked at the skinny one with the gray eyes sunken. He imagined that if the man took his shirt off, he would be able to see his ribs. Bryon shook his head.

  This is folly, he thought, and then loudly said, “Hey, you. We want to talk.”

  “Damn it, Bryon,” Befel hissed. “They’ll never want to hire us if we speak to them like that.”

  “What the bloody hell do you want,” the gaunt man said, his voice rough and crude. “How’d you beggars slip through the guard here?”

  “We’re not beggars,” Bryon retorted curtly.

  “Well,” the gaunt fellow said, “you could’ve fooled me. Did I make you mad, boy?”

  He smiled maliciously, showing yellowed, browning teeth in need of attention, and Bryon felt his face grow hot.

  Small men. Small men with big mouths. Great.

  “We came to humbly ask if you could use our services,” Befel said calmly, “that is all.”

  “Services!” the gaunt man cried. “You must be from the streets of Bard’Sturn, along with the other boy lovers. I prefer women, lad.”

  He laughed at his own joke, but the blond haired mercenary shot him a dirty look and stepped in front of him.