A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  “What services do you offer?” he asked quickly.

  The man crossed his arms in front of his chest and pushed his chin forward, tapping a foot and waiting impatiently for a reply.

  “Porters, sir,” Befel replied. “We have strong shoulders and two packhorses in addition to our own riding horses. We will provide our own food and clothing—and we’ll cook, make camp, and clean, as you need. We also have some skill with the sword if the need arises. We only ask a silver crown a day.”

  “Each!” exclaimed the blond haired man, starting to turn around and continue to pack.

  “No, sir,” Befel replied quickly, “between the three of us.”

  “A silver crown, eh?” the blond haired man said, his interest obviously peaked. He scratched his chin through his stubble. “And how do we know you don’t intend to knife us while we sleep? A little odd, young men such as yourselves with two packhorses in addition to your own riding horses wanting a job as a meager porter, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed,” Bryon mumbled.

  “It would be a fool thing to try,” Befel replied, “to try and knife mercenaries like you. We have little skill with the sword—just enough to get by and maybe help when the need arises. And the horses, well, actually a friend gave them to us. They’re nothing special, but they have strong backs and good stamina.”

  “Maybe you stole the horses. Maybe you slit their owner’s throat and took them in the middle of the night” the shorter, sandy-headed mercenary suggested.

  Bryon felt a small smile creeping across his face.

  These men are truly fools. We could slit their throats, no doubt. Wait until they’re asleep, slit their throats, and take what little they own.

  “Nah, they don’t have the look.” The blond haired man said with a coy smile.

  He turned to the other two and whispered, their backs to Bryon and his cousins. The gaunt man seemed the most animated, lifting his hands up and down indiscriminately. The shorter, sandy-headed man looked concerned, staring back at Bryon with furled eyebrows and a slight frown. The blond man nodded at the comments being made and then finally turned back to the young men.

  “All right,” he said, “on several conditions. Firstly, we’ll pay an eastern crown. You may not know what that is, but it’s made with as much silver as a silver crown, carries a little less weight in these parts, but worth more in Golgolithul.”

  “How do we know that’s true?” Bryon asked, cutting the man off.

  “You’ll just have to take my word for it,” the mercenary replied, “and if you don’t like it, leave it. It’s nothing to me if you don’t want it.”

  “No,” Befel said, “I know what an eastern crown is.”

  Bryon knew he was lying and seethed silently.

  “It’s a fair deal,” Befel added.

  “Very well,” the blond mercenary said. “You will make and break camp, cook, and clean. You will also provide for yourselves, including clothing and food. You will have a need to use your swords, of this, I am certain. If you back down, if you fail to fight when we need you, we will not simply dismiss you. We will kill you . . . all three of you.”

  Befel looked back at Bryon, and then Erik. Bryon thought he’d like to see him try, but both he and Erik nodded to Befel.

  “Agreed,” Befel said.

  The blond haired man shook hands with Befel and Erik. When he shook Bryon’s hand, Bryon made sure to grip hard, tight. The man’s hand was rough, and his grip much stronger than what Bryon had expected. And when he looked Bryon in the face, when they clasped hands and Bryon squeezed, the mercenary smiled, almost laughing.

  Chapter 41

  “WHERE?” KEHL ASKED.

  Fox groveled in front of the slaver, panting and ducking, expecting a hard fist from his commander. He had good cause to be afraid—the puffy lip, black eye, and bruised cheeks showed evidence of that.

  “Finlo,” Fox answered quickly.

  “Then to Finlo we go.” Kehl turned to walk to his horse.

  “Kehl,” his tall, second in command said, clearing his throat with a quick cough, “what of the slaves?”

  Kehl spun, fists clenched. His dark eyes blazed fire. His second in command backed away. He never hit his brother—he never would—but his brother didn’t know that.

  “How many men do we have?” Kehl asked.

  “Subtracting the men we lost and adding the men we kept in reserve,” his brother said, counting on his fingers. “Forty, Im’Ka’Da.”

  Kehl lowered his head, allowing a small smile to creep across his face. He liked it when his brother referred to him as Im’Ka’Da—leader in their native, Samanian tongue. He stared at the ground for a moment, thinking. He looked at Fox, still kneeling and whimpering. The man disgusted him, and he backhanded the weasely creature across the face. The fiery-haired slaver reeled to the side, crying as an older wound burst open, and blood ran down his cheek. That made Kehl feel better, and his smile widened, When the men, women, and children, all tied in a line by a long strand of rope, cried, shuddered, and cowed at his brutality, that was when he was most content.

  “I will take half to Finlo,” Kehl finally said, “and you, Kellen, will stay with the slaves and wait for our return. Send for Kilben. I will take him with us. And you, worm,” he added, pointing to Fox, rolling on the ground, snaking over an elm’s root and trying to crawl to his knees again.

  For all of Kehl’s brutality and Kellen’s wits, Kilben—their youngest brother—seemed to have all of that plus the body of a giant. Kehl would have liked to see his little brother fight that huge bastard of a gypsy. But he needed someone reliable to guard his camp, someone other slavers—the untrustworthy bunch that they were—would be afraid of, someone they wouldn’t dare cross.

  “Yes,” Kehl affirmed, “we will go to Finlo, and we will finish those gypsies. I will have my revenge. I will have my revenge, and I will replenish my ranks with their men.”

  “And if they refuse to serve, Im’Ka’Da?” Kellen asked.

  “Then they die.”

  Chapter 42

  BRYON THREW SEVERAL SADDLEBAGS ACROSS the back of a packhorse. The animal snorted and stomped a hoof at the luggage. He laid four hemp baskets, two on each side, across the beast’s neck. It snorted again.

  “I know boy,” Bryon said, patting the animal’s neck. “The load will lessen while we travel. I promise.”

  He loaded more bags onto the horse’s back, full of food mostly, then firewood and extra sets of clothing. He rolled up several tents, meant only for inclement weather if they ran into any, and decided to load them onto the other packhorse, which proved no happier than the first.

  While Bryon loaded the packhorses, Befel fed all the animals but, of course, he fed their new masters’ horses first. Erik beat the riding blankets, polished the saddles, and fitted the tackle and bit to the mounts. When he finished tightening the saddle belts, he brushed the dirt from their manes and tails.

  “Damn it all,” Bryon seethed, accidentally dropping a small basket of apples. “This is no better than farming. Piss on this.”

  “Well, it’s a start,” Befel said, “and we’re gett
ing paid a fair amount more than farm work.”

  “Damn you,” Bryon hissed, his face red with anger. “This is your fault.”

  “I suppose I should introduce myself,” the blond haired mercenary said, interrupting the cousins’ argument. He wiped off a bit of dirt from his hand with a worn rag and extended it to Befel. “My name is Vander Bim.”

  “Befel,” he replied, grasping Vander Bim’s hand. “Befel Eleodum. And this is my brother Erik, and our cousin—”

  “Bryon,” Bryon said, cutting Befel off. He extended his hand again, made sure he squeezed extra hard this time when Vander Bim shook it. The mercenary smiled.

  “You’ll cramp your hand,” Vander Bim said, “trying to squeeze so hard.”

  “Oh,” Bryon said, trying to sound indifferent, “was I squeezing hard? I didn’t notice. Sorry if I hurt your hand.”

  Vander Bim laughed, and that caused Bryon’s pulse to quicken, his ears to grow hot.

  “Don’t worry,” Vander Bim said. “You didn’t hurt my hand. Shake the hand of an antegant. Now, that’s a handshake that might break your fingers. No, after years aboard a ship, you develop a strong grip, one that can withstand the firm handshakes of young, vibrant men.”

  Bryon fought the frown on his face, fought the urge to throttle this middle-aged mercenary mocking him.

  “So, are you also an Eleodum, or shall I call you Bryon with the firm grip?” Vander Bim asked.

  Bryon decided he’d had enough of the mercenary’s jesting, but he didn’t do anything. He just stood there and fumed while Befel laughed. Bryon wiped his brow, his forehead hot since the sun seemed more intense, and he felt his skin burning.

  “Eleodum,” snapped Bryon as if he couldn’t close his jaw quickly enough.

  “Very well, then,” Vander Bim said. “This is Drake Dreorigan of Nordeth Manor.”

  He pointed to the sandy-headed mercenary, shorter and stockier than he. The man waved and bowed slightly with a smile on his cheerful, rough face.

  “You just call me Drake,” he said.

  “And that fellow over there,” Vander Bim said, referring to the gaunt man, “that is Switch. Drake and I have been fighting together for four years, and Switch joined up with us just a year ago. He can come off as crude, but I guess we all can at times. He’s a good chap, an excellent scout and hunter, and an even better fighter.”

  “Oi, I heard my name,” Switch cried, stringing his short bow.

  He walked over to the group of men, a large, menacing smile on his face and mischief in his squinted, gray eyes. He didn’t bother to shake hands as Vander Bim did. Instead, he pointed a thin-bladed knife at the young men.

  “That’s right. My name’s Switch. Been around awhile, even longer than these two blokes. Been on several of these adventures before. Do what you’re told, and I’ll keep you alive, make you some money, and get you a little quim while we’re at it, eh Vander.”

  Switch nudged Vander Bim with a knobby elbow and laughed. Vander Bim returned the laugh, but Bryon suspected it wasn’t sincere.

  “Now that we’re all friends,” Switch continued, “you three better get back to your duties so we can leave soon.”

  “We’re all done,” Erik said. “The horses are packed, cleaned, and fed.”

  “Oh?” Switch said. “If I’m paying a crown a day for you, you better believe I’ll find something else for you to do.”

  Switch walked back to his horse, sliding his bow into its sheath.

  “This is just great,” Bryon said. “Thank you, cousin. I love little gutter rats who think they’re bigger than they are.”

  “You keep speaking as if this is my fault,” Befel said.

  “It is,” Bryon replied.

  “You’re the one that wanted me to come to Finlo with you and not go to Aga Kona,” Befel said.

  “No.” Bryon shook his head. “You can thank your little rat turd brother for that.”

  “Little?” Erik said. His voice almost sounded hurt.

  “I can only put up with so much of that hedge-born churl’s mouth,” Bryon said, “before I punch him in the face.”

  “Relax,” Befel said. “Besides, I think Vander Bim is in charge, and it seems as if he likes us.”

  “Well,” Bryon replied, “while his back is turned, that sly one will try to work us dead.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Befel said, trying to give Bryon a comforting smile, but it didn’t seem to work. “We’re their porters. Servants, not slaves.”

  “What’s the difference?” Bryon asked and went over to Buck as Erik mounted his own horse.

  “We should leave,” he heard Vander Bim say, “if we don’t wish to travel by moonlight.”

  “All right then,” Switch said, sitting astride his horse next to Erik, “let’s bloody go.”

  Aside from one other group of mercenaries, Erik’s new employers were the only ones left at the front of The Lady’s Inn. This other bunch—also three men—didn’t look like mercenaries, they were all scraggly and thin with worn clothing. They looked more like the beggars.

  One man with a square jaw was watching his colleagues nervously, his eyes darting between them, the Messenger’s entourage, and the Messenger himself. One of the man’s companions, a thin man with a deep cleft chin simply watched the Messenger, who stood alone with his back to the two men. Square jaw said something to cleft chin, and the latter nodded, slowly.

  In that instant, they had both pulled crudely fashioned longbows off their backs, nocked arrows, and readied them to fire. The third of the ragtag mercenaries, a man with a huge beard, rode up on a decrepit looking horse, pulling two more sad looking animals behind him. He clenched a fist and shouted, “Lo Hûn Vin Mek-Ba’Dune!”

  The bowmen let their arrows fly, straight toward the Messenger. Erik meant to yell, but before he could, the Messenger spun and put up his right hand. His hand flashed twice with blinding light and what once were arrows were now a mere pile of splinters lying on the ground. Three arrows thudded into the chest of square jaw. He stumbled back but still remained on his feet. Cleft chin ran toward the horses, jumping atop one of them and grabbing the thin reins, turning the animal with a savage kick in its ribs. Clearly intent on leaving their doomed companion behind, the two men sped off in a cloud of dust.

  Square jaw looked as he might now fall, but instead, he pulled a bronze-bladed knife from his belt and threw it at the Messenger who once more, put up his hand. The knife stopped, simply hanging in the air a blade’s-width from the Herald of the East. The blade began to glow white and then melted, the liquid hitting the ground and sending up a thin trail of steam. Five more arrows thudded into the would-be assailant’s body, and he fell to the ground with a piteous cry. Terradyn called to the Soldiers of the Eye in a language Erik didn’t understand, but the company of soldiers snapped to attention and began to march.

  “Let them run for now,” the Messenger of the East said, putting up a hand to stop his personal guard. “They will receive their punishment in due time. Those who oppose the might of the Lord of the East will all receive his retribution in due time.”

  After the shock of the attack h
ad subsided, Vander Bim gave a call to move out. Erik waved to Rory, who watched them from the porch of the inn. Then, much to his amazement, the Messenger stood next to him. He hadn’t seen the man—if that’s what he was—walk to him, but there he was.

  “My lord,” Erik said, his voice shaking. He moved to dismount.

  “Stay on your horse, Erik Eleodum,” the Messenger of the East commanded, although his voice sounded soft and calm.

  “Yes, my lord,” Erik replied. “Is there something you need of me?”

  “Yes,” the Messenger replied.

  Erik’s throat went dry.

  “I have been thinking about you,” the Messenger said.

  The Messenger of the East, thinking about me?

  The Messenger reached up and touched the golden handle of the dagger Mardirru had given Erik.

  “You are an interesting young man, and I did not see our paths crossing. I have a hard time reading you, Erik Eleodum.”

  “Reading me, my lord?” Erik asked.

  “Yes. Reading you,” the Messenger confirmed with a nod. “Understanding you. Knowing who you are by just looking at you. There is something special about you, Erik Eleodum.”

  Why does he keep saying my name over and over?

  “I don’t know what it is yet,” the Messenger continued, “and that frustrates me. So, I have one question for you before you leave.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Erik replied. “Anything.”

  “Why are you here?” the Messenger asked.

  “Why do you want to know that?” Erik asked without thinking about his words first.

  “Your honesty, young Erik Eleodum, is a little refreshing I think,” the Messenger of the East replied. “I would like to know, that is all.”