A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  “I don’t know why I am here, my lord,” Erik explained. “I don’t think I’ve known what, by the Creator, I have been doing since I left home. I care little for fame or wealth. I was perfectly happy on my family’s farm. I followed my brother and cousin, hoping I might be able to return with enough coin to help my father stave off the advances of Hámonian nobles.”

  “Just as I suspected,” the Messenger said. “A follower of the heart. That is what you are. It will get you into trouble, but the world needs more followers of the heart. Very interesting. Blessings on you, Erik Eleodum. Follow your heart, and I just may see you again one day.”

  Why would he care to see me again?

  Erik gave the Messenger a quick bow, and the mysterious man waved him on before walking back to his bodyguards.

  “To Dûrn Tor,” Vander Bim called, and Erik asked where that was.

  “The only other real city in Southland,” Switch replied. “It sits at the feet of the westernmost part of the Southern Mountains, called the Western Tor.”

  “All right then,” Erik said, more to himself than anyone else, “to Dûrn Tor.”

  As the six men and their packhorses broke into a trot to head out of Finlo, Terradyn turned to his master.

  “Who was that, my lord?”

  “I don’t know,” Andragos replied, steepling his fingers underneath the cowl of his robe. “Perhaps the man I had a premonition about.”

  “Man?” Terradyn asked with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “He’s only a boy.”

  “He’s seen twenty years,” Andragos said with a shrug. “And in his twenty years, he has seen much. Many of the soldiers who fight for us are four and five years younger. Would you not consider them men?”

  “He is no soldier, my lord,” Terradyn replied. “I beg your pardon, but could you be mistaken? Many of these men are trash, but I have seen some that might be worthy of serving you.”

  “He is not supposed to serve me.” Andragos shook his head. “And I do fear his and some of these other men’s paths will cross.”

  Andragos looked down at his feet, watching the pool of bronze from the former knife cool and harden.

  Fools. What a waste of a life?

  “How old were you when you began serving me?” Andragos asked. He knew Terradyn could not see his eyes even though he stood just a breadth away, and he looked straight at his servant.

  “You know the answer to that, my lord,” Terradyn asked.

  “Still,” Andragos added, “humor me.”

  “Six years old, my lord,” Terradyn said with a bow. “Same as Raktas.”

  “And at six years old,” Andragos continued, “did you not do things that most seasoned men could not do?”

  “That is different, my lord,” Terradyn said.

  “Perhaps,” Andragos agreed, “but there is something to this Erik Eleodum. Yes. I will see him again. He is the one I was to meet. Now, I am almost sure of it. Be well, Erik Eleodum.”

  Chapter 43

  BRISK TRAVEL ALONG THE SEA Born Road brought the group of mercenaries and the Eleodums to their first destination in only a day. What looked like barely a village at first, Dûrn Tor snuggled amongst low, rolling hills, with a simple grain silo and a few standalone homes. However, it quickly turned to a vibrant city almost the size of Finlo, but where the latter found no need of a wall, the majority of this other city hid behind a complex network of wooden palisades. Neatly constructed between taller hillocks, half a dozen men stood in front of what Erik assumed to the main gate.

  All were armored in simple leather jerkins and carrying naught but long spears and round, wooden shields. Two more stood in front of a tavern, The Hill Giant, four stories high and built right into one of the Western Tor’s knolls. Flags flew above both the tavern and the front gate—a white field and a black ship with three sails.

  “We’ll stay at the inn tonight,” Vander Bim said. “It’ll be the last bit of civilization we will experience for a while.”

  “Halt,” one of the armed men in front of the tavern said, a blond haired youth with a clean-shaven face and blue eyes. He grabbed the reigns of Vander Bim’s horse, and Vander Bim let go, allowing the young guard to take control of his mount.

  “What’s your business?” said the other man, a much older man who wore a thick mustache above a lip that was puffy and scarred.

  “We come from Finlo,” Vander Bim replied. “We only wish to stay the night, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “There’s been others with the same story,” the older guard huffed, his voice gruff. “You can’t enter the city, but you can stay in The Hill Giant.”

  “Very well,” Vander Bim complied.

  A young groom took their horses. Vander Bim threw the lad—no more than fourteen summers old—a Finnish nickel, and the boy grinned wide, bowed low, and bombarded the party with thanks and promises that he would take the best care of their animals.

  “That must’ve been a giant of an animal,” Erik said, eyeing the rack of elk antlers, eight points on each side and a beam the width of a man’s arm, that sat above the inn’s front door.

  “A hunter’s delight,” Vander Bim agreed as they walked into the tavern.

  Around the walls hung the heads of various animals—elk, deer, bear, wolf, cougar, and bison from the Plains of Güdal. A large chandelier hanging from the middle of the high ceiling and made of more elk antlers lit the room well along with dozens of copper candle holders interspersed between animal heads. Two barkeeps stood behind the wide bar and kept patrons’ drinks filled with a bit of humor and light conversation. A large mirror, a few cracks sprouting from its bottom, took up much of the lower wall behind the bar, and various stands and shelves displayed an array of alcohols and wines.

  A fat woman with a gray bun atop her head and wearing a brown dress covered by a dirtied white smock met the men at the door.

  “My name is Elena Minx,” she said, the fat under her chin jiggling when she spoke, “and I am the proprietor here at The Hill Giant. You may sit wherever you like.”

  The men nodded and began to move into the bar, but Elena Minx stopped them, putting her right hand in the middle of Switch’s chest.

  “There’re a couple of rules,” she said coldly like a grandmother scolding her grandchildren. Her blue eyes squinted as she studied them. Despite her short stature, at that moment, Erik felt as tall as one of his sister’s dolls as the old fat woman looked the men up and down.

  “There’re no whores here, so if you offer a woman money, even if she looks it, she’ll probably slap you in the face, and you right deserve it if she does. There’s no fighting. Tuc and Boz behind the bar both have nice, big, oak cudgels and believe me, they’ve cracked bigger skulls than you got with ’em. The kitchen closes at midnight, no exceptions and no bellyaching if you try to get your order in five minutes prior. Drinking—obviously everyone comes here to drink, but if you can’t lift your head off the table, you’ve drunk too much, and you’ll find yourself waking up in the street. If you need a room, see Tuc. He’s the bald one.”

  The men nodded, and Elena Minx moved out of their way. They picked a large, round, wooden table in the mi
ddle of the tavern, brightly lit as it sat underneath the chandelier. A younger, pretty, blonde haired woman with a soft face, large breasts, and round bottom, came only a few moments later carrying a tray of clean glasses. She smiled at the men and sweetly asked them if they wanted any hot, spiced wine or bread wine.

  Switch eyed the woman hungrily and then looked at Bryon.

  “Slap her ass,” Switch said.

  “What?” Bryon asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

  “Slap her bloody ass,” Switch said with a smile. “I want to see it jiggle.”

  “You slap her ass,” Bryon retorted.

  “I’m not getting kicked out,” Switch said. “Now, slap it. That’s an order.”

  “Switch,” Vander Bim hissed. “Stop it.”

  “I thought you were the tough one,” Switch chided, squinting his eyes at Bryon. “You’re nothing but a yellow-bellied gutter shite. Can’t even grab a woman’s ass. I was going to pay for your room, but I think you’ll just sleep in the stables.”

  “I planned on it anyway,” Bryon replied.

  “You like animals, yeah?” Switch said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He shrugged. “I thought you were partial to men, but who am I to judge?”

  Erik thought Bryon was going to hit Switch. He had that look on his face. But his cousin just sighed, and when the bread wine came, quietly drank his glassful.

  Vander Bim spread the small piece of parchment, their map, on the table for all to have a look.

  “We need to have a definite course,” Vander Bim said, and Drake and Switch nodded in agreement.

  The map looked simple. A sprawling mountain range was marked Southern Mountains. Erik was familiar with the range, at least from stories. It had a few markers. Two mining camps—Aga Kona and Aga Min—and two dwarvish cities—Ecfast and Thorakest.

  “Thorakest,” Erik muttered, looking over the map while the three mercenaries talked amongst themselves.

  “The capital of Drüum Balmdüukr,” Vander Bim said. “And Ecfast is an outpost, a gateway almost into the lands of the dwarves.”

  “What’s this?” Erik asked, tracing his finger around the red circle that had been drawn toward the bottom of the page.

  “Supposedly,” Switch explained, “the lost city.”

  There was a gap in the drawing between the lost city and Thorakest.

  “And what is this?” Erik asked, pointing to it.

  “Are you going to ask a thousand questions?” sneered Switch.

  “It’s all right,” Vander Bim said, holding up a placatory hand. “This is a ravine that splits the Southern Mountains into two ranges. It begins somewhere just east of the Western Tor and continues almost the whole length of the mountains.”

  “We need to avoid Thorakest and Ecfast,” Drake said.

  “Agreed,” Switch said. “Bloody tunnel diggers’ll ask too many questions. We’ll end up in some dark, dingy dungeon for a hundred years.”

  “We had talked about sailing around the Dragon’s Tooth,” Drake said, tracing his finger along a peninsula that extended deep into the South Sea.

  “Other than having to backtrack and lose a day,” Vander Bim said, “we would have to find a ship and sail through quite treacherous waters with only six men, only one of which is a trained sailor.”

  “That leaves us with our original plan,” Switch said. “We enter the mountain here, from Dûrn Tor, thus avoiding having to cross this ravine, and make our way to the lost city.”

  “That’s settled then?” Vander Bim asked.

  Switch and Drake nodded.

  “Sounds good,” Erik said with a smile.

  “No one gives a shit what you think. You’re the paid help,” snapped Switch.

  Instead of feeling small like Bryon used to make him feel, Erik almost felt like acting like his cousin and punching the scrawny man.

  Perhaps I’m growing up?

  The sun’s light had not yet completely left the sky when Befel and Erik turned down their beds. Befel stared at the faint glow of reds and yellows through the western facing window as he rubbed his shoulder and made circles to stretch it. It still hurt, but not quite as bad, and every day it seemed to get better. Befel was glad for Vander Bim’s compassion, and he doubted that Switch would have offered to pay for their room. As for Drake, he seemed as indifferent as a leaf carried by the wind. They were a strange bunch for so-called mercenaries, and he wondered if they really could fight but guessed they could because it must have been their reputation which led the Messenger to invite them to his meeting.

  Through his window, Befel watched as Bryon walked to the stables. His cousin kept to his promise of sleeping with the animals.

  “Fool,” he muttered. “He likes those horses more than us.”

  As the last little glimmer of light twinkled behind the horizon like a yellow diamond, he looked out to sea and thought that the young men that had traveled to Finlo to sail east would be on their ships now. They would have heard an encouraging message from the Agent of Fen-Stévock, and Befel was sure he must have instilled in them great courage and then bid them farewell and gave them blessings. Now Befel imagined cramped bodies, barely able to move, and men retching at the movement of the water, some pissing themselves with fear of the unknown.

  Instead, Befel stood in the window of a decent tavern with a comfortable bed waiting and the open road at his feet. The cool, spring morning air would blow on his face and through his hair, and the smell of dew-soaked grass would fill his nose. The freedom he had hoped for, and yet, his thoughts always turned to home, to his mother and father, to his two little sisters, to the wheat and corn and soybean fields. He thought of fishing on afternoons when he finished his duties early and squishing the mud of the pigpen through his toes on a rainy day. He shook his head. No. That was not the life he wanted. He hated farming. He wanted riches, fame, and fortune. Did he?

  He closed the window’s slats as if blocking off the fading sunset would also block the memories of home. As he sat on the edge of his bed, he looked at the floor for a while, eyes fixed on a single beam of light seeping through window slats. Little particles of dust floated in the air, their invisibility unveiled by the light, but then they were gone as the light disappeared like a snuffed candle. He finally laid back, his head hitting the soft pillow.

  As Befel stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, Erik sat cross-legged on his bed, turning Marcus’ flute over and over in his hands. Erik put the flute to his lips, remembering the little his uncle had taught him, and tried blowing a single note. The flute screeched, and Erik recoiled at the sound. Disgusted with himself, he too lay back and stared, dejected, at the instrument.

  “How did Marcus make this thing sound so beautiful?”

  “Practice,” Befel replied as he closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead. “And now is not the time for that.”

  Erik went to put it back in his pack when he felt a flutter in his stomach and, for only seconds, his heart raced. His palms felt clammy, and his fingers shook a bit, but he put the flute back to his lips.

  He did not think, did not contemplate where he would put his fingers,
did not wonder what notes he would play. In fact, he did not know what he did. He simply envisioned a small pond, sitting in the green glade of a dense forest. The rays of a late morning sun sparkled on the pond’s surface, and a breeze gently blew through the tall grass. Daffodils and lavender grew along the pond’s banks, and a jay, perched high in the branches of an oak, sang a sweet morning song, and a cardinal from across the glade answered with even sweeter words.

  Erik played that. The notes floated through the air, and his fingers did what they willed. He just thought of that glade and those birds. Seemingly unsurprised by his brother’s new found gift, Befel closed his eyes and fell asleep, breathing gently with a smile on his face. Finally, the cardinal fluttered away and the jay, with no one to sing to, slowed its song and flew away itself. Erik put the flute down, his eyelids heavy. He laid back, the flute resting on his chest, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 44

  AFTER A HEARTY BREAKFAST OF vegetable soup and bread, Befel went to the stables with his brother and cousin to ready their horses.

  “It is a dangerous course you men wish to take.”

  The voice took Befel by surprise. It was hard and guttural. He turned to see a dwarf standing there, one hand tucked into his belt, the other stroking his long, brown beard.

  “Come again?” Befel asked.

  “It is a hard road you wish to take, heading into the mountains from here—the Western Tor,” the dwarf said. He pointed to two other dwarves standing just a few paces back. “We heard you discussing your plans last night.”

  “I don’t remember seeing you three at The Hill Giant,” Befel said.

  “We dwarves have learned to make ourselves less seen in the lands of men,” the dwarf replied.

  “I see,” Befel said. “It’s not really our choice. We’re just porters, working for the other three men we were with. That’s Vander Bim, right there.”