A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  Befel pointed to the mercenary as he walked from The Hill Giant.

  “He would be the man to tell,” Befel said.

  “Thank you,” the dwarf said, extending his hand. “Turk Skull Crusher, of the Eorthfolk Clan.”

  Befel shook the dwarf ’s hand, and that simple handshake proved the myths behind the legendary strength of the dwarves. He thought Turk had broken his hand, he squeezed so hard, and when Befel retrieved his hand, his knuckles were white and bloodless.

  “I remember seeing them in Finlo,” Erik said, stepping up next to Befel.

  Befel nodded. He remembered them as well, but there were four of them in Finlo, at The Lady’s Inn. One of them had stormed away, seemingly upset. They watched Turk and the other two dwarves greet Vander Bim. The dwarves all bowed so low their beards almost scraped the ground. Turk and Vander Bim spoke for a while until Drake and Switch joined them. The other two dwarves didn’t say anything, but Befel could see them eyeing the men closely, one resting a hand on the handle of a broadsword, its scabbard embossed with iron that looked like a thorny vine, the other resting both his hands on the handle of his mace, a large iron ball studded with four, large spikes around its equator.

  “What do you think they’re talking about?” Erik asked.

  Befel just shrugged.

  “Who cares?” Bryon said. “Just make sure the horses are ready so I don’t have to listen to Switch whine and complain and curse us.”

  Moments later, the mercenaries and the dwarves walked over to the stables and the other two dwarves—Demik Iron Thorn and Nafer Round Shield—were introduced. Both had long beards like Turk, although Nafer shaved his mustaches and his hair was a bright blond in contrast to the deep, reddish browns of the other two. As they bowed low again, Befel heard Switch groan, and the look on the slight man’s face showed irritation.

  “They wish to travel with us,” Vander Bim explained, “join forces, I guess you could say. They have already been quite invaluable in reevaluating our travel plans.”

  “Oh?” Befel asked.

  “It seems entering the Southern Mountains here,” Vander Bim said, turning and looking to the gently rolling hills of the Western Tor, “would have been a fatal mistake.”

  “Assuming you can trust them,” Drake muttered, and Turk’s bulbous nose scrunched and his bushy brows pinched atop dark eyes.

  “And so where do we go, then?” Befel asked.

  “Who cares?” Bryon whispered, and Befel looked over his shoulder, giving his cousin a hard look. It was ignored.

  “We will follow the Southern Mountains to Aga Min,” Vander Bim replied. “From there, our new companions say they know of a secret, underground road that leads directly to Thorakest, the capital of Drüum Balmdüukr. It will let us avoid the many dangers of the mountains and afford us some dwarvish comfort part way through our journey.”

  “Comfort indeed,” Switch whispered, his tone sounding very cynical.

  “They have agreed to double your pay,” Vander Bim added. “You will care for their things the way you are to care for ours. Agreed?”

  Befel looked back at Bryon and Erik. His brother nodded slowly, and his cousin shrugged.

  “All right,” Befel said with a shrug of his own, and the dwarves bowed again before the six left the Eleodums to their work with the horses.

  “I wonder why dwarves want to travel with us,” Befel asked as he tightened the saddle of Vander Bim’s horse.

  “Maybe we look like an easy target,” Bryon replied. “We certainly aren’t employed by the best of the best here. They mean to kill us and take what we have.”

  “Doesn’t sound like something dwarves would do,” Erik said, dropping two haversacks at Befel’s feet. “And we don’t have anything to take.”

  “And how would you know what dwarves would and wouldn’t do?” Bryon asked.

  “I don’t know,” Erik replied. “How would you?”

  Bryon shook his head and started cursing under his breath.

  “I think I overheard them saying something about strength and safety in numbers,” Erik said.

  “That makes a little more sense,” Befel said, and that was the end to conversation until Switch and Drake came back.

  “Why are we traveling with bloody tunnel diggers?” Switch asked, grabbing the reins of his horse from Befel without even looking at the young man.

  “Strength in numbers,” Drake replied, taking the reins of his horse and nodding at Befel. “That’s what Vander Bim said. That’s what the dwarves said.”

  “Blood and guts and queen’s ashes,” Switch cursed. “Strength in numbers. Did you see the one’s mace? Bloody crack over the head with that thing. That’s what’ll happen. Sleep with one eye open, Drake.”

  “Do you think that’s true?” Erik asked.

  “Any one of those weapons would crack your skull,” Bryon said. “That mace. The broadsword. Even—what was his name—Turk’s ax. Did you see that thing hanging from his belt? That blade was big enough and sharp enough to sever through an apple tree in two swings.”

  “I’m sure they could kill us,” Befel replied, “and quite easily. I don’t know why they would join up with us just to kill us, though. I think maybe Switch is just superstitious. Doesn’t seem like most men like dwarves. And perhaps the feeling is mutual.”

  “Sleep with one eye open,” Bryon said. “That seems like good advice.”

  “Oi!” Switch called. “Let’s go. You’re wasting time standing there and talking. What am I paying you for?”

  Befel turned to see the three men and the three dwarves waiting, ready to go.

  “I don’t think I like that man,” Bryon grumbled as he walked by with his horse’s reins in hand.

  Chapter 45

  A SCORE OF MEN, MOST unkempt looking, rode into Finlo via the Sea Born Road. Several days of hard travel wore on their horses, and they panted and coughed. Once they tied the animals to hitching posts in the center of the city, the men split up into all directions. They hurried down alleyways, into bars, main streets; all asking the same question: “Gypsies. We’re looking for a band of gypsies, small by comparison. They came from the west, Waterton. Were they here? Where did they go?”

  “Gypsies,” a drunken man sitting next to a large tavern called The Drunken Fin muttered. “Gypsies are a strange folk, now aren’t they?”

  “You saw them?” Kehl asked, looking down at the man.

  “Now, I see a lot of people, just sitting here. You know, watching people is one of my specialties. I watch them come and go, and I listen. Listening is another one of my favorites. I remember sitting next to a tavern much like this in Goldum listening to a group of gypsies . . .”

  Kehl’s hand around the man’s throat cut him off. The slaver stood the man up, the drunk’s face turning red.

  “I don’t give a bucket of shit about you or your stories. Answer me, or I will open you up from your balls to your throat.”

  The drunk nodded. Kehl released his grip. The man slouched a bit but remained standing.

  “The gypsies,” Kehl repeated.

  “They’re gone. They
left almost as soon as they got here.” The drunk gasped for air and rubbed his neck as Kehl opened his wool cloak a little, showing the man a long-bladed knife.

  “But I know a man who would know where they went. He sometimes visits with the gypsies when they’re here for a longer time. I think he may be friends with them. I don’t know.”

  “His name?” Kehl spat.

  “Kevon. His name is Kevon. He’s a barber, just down there,” he said, pointing a filthy finger. “Look for the tabard with the scissors.”

  “If you are lying to me,” Kehl pushed the man hard against the wall and closed the gap between their faces, “I will be back.”

  Kehl hurried down the street, three of his men, including Fox, in tow. He found the shop and pushed the door open. The door hit the wall so hard that one of the small, square panels of glass that sat in the middle of the door broke. A man Kehl assumed to be Kevon looked up from his seat, his hand firmly holding someone’s chin, his other hand hovering above the client’s face with an unfolded straight razor.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked curtly. Kehl nodded to his three men. They rushed into the store. Fox grabbed Kevon by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall. The other two slavers roughly grabbed the client and quickly tossed him into the street. The man stared at Fox through a pair of glasses that sat at the end of his nose. Kehl thought he saw a smirk cross the old man’s face as Fox held him there.

  “Are you Kevon?” Kehl asked.

  “Aye.” Kevon nodded.

  “The gypsies ...” Kehl pushed Fox aside and came nose to nose with the barber.

  “What about them?” Kevon replied.

  “Don’t play stupid with me,” Kehl spat.

  “Then don’t ask stupid questions,” Kevon retorted.

  To that, Kehl drew his long-bladed knife and gripped Kevon’s left wrist. He pressed it up against the wall and promptly removed the pinky finger on that hand. Kevon let out a low grunt and fell to his knees, gathering up a used cloth on the floor and wrapping his hand in it. He looked up at Kehl, face red, mouth contorted with pain.

  “Now, before I remove any more appendages, where are the gypsies that came through here recently?”

  “Gone,” Kevon said. “They’re gone, a week now. Left as soon as they came.” Kevon rocked back and forth a little, groaning as the pain in his hand grew.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” Kevon said. “They seldom make plans. They’re gypsies, after all.”

  “A fingerless barber. What good will that be?” Kehl kicked the barber in the stomach and then punched him hard in the face. Kevon spat out a tooth.

  “I helped a young man who had traveled with the gypsies. I know he stayed here after they left. He may know where they are.”

  “Where did he stay?”

  Kevon didn’t answer.

  “I will burn this pile of rubbish down around you, old man.” Kehl nodded to one of his men. The slaver grabbed a lantern off the wall and tapped it suggestively against the wood of the shop. Kehl waited a while longer, and when Kevon still didn’t reply, he looked to his man again. The slaver lifted his hand high, lantern in tow, with the intentions of smashing it against the ground.

  “Wait!” Kevon shouted. He clenched his teeth, squeezing his four-fingered hand hard. Spittle ran down his chin. “The Lady’s Inn, on the eastern edge of the city.”

  Without another world, Kehl spun on his heel and walked back through to where they had left their horses. His three lapdogs following close on his heels, but not until there was the sound of shattering glass, accompanied by the din of a roaring flame. A woman somewhere down the street screamed, and another man called for water.

  By way of forcing people to give him directions, Kehl made his way to The Lady’s Inn, picking up several of his other men along the way. He motioned for them to follow until he pushed open the inn’s door hard, the wood banging against the wall. A tall, fat, bald man looked up from his bar.

  “You better have a good reason for barging in here like that.”

  “Three men, around this one’s age,” Kehl said as he grabbed the back of Fox’s neck and pulled him so that the man behind the bar could inspect the red head. “Where are they?”

  “A lot of young men his age come through here.”

  “No, not this inn,” Kehl snapped, “but three in particular were here—and I want to know where they are.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Perhaps you would like to see your shit heap of an inn in flames like Kevon’s shop,” Kehl threatened.

  The barkeep frowned. His hand moved underneath the bar.

  “You think you’re going to intimidate me?” the fat, bald man retorted. “I’ve dealt with worse and in larger numbers.”

  Kehl drew his long-bladed knife and nodded to two of his men. They moved forward, toward the innkeeper, one with a cudgel and the other with a short sword. The barkeep laughed and retrieved a huge ax from beneath the bar and struck his bar hard. The ax head sunk into the bar with a loud thunk. He pulled the ax loose, wood splintering when he did.

  “I hope you’re ready for a fight you won’t forget,” the innkeeper spat. “Those boys are gone.”

  Kehl put his hand up, and his men stopped. He squinted, studying the innkeeper. “What about the gypsies they were with?”

  “Never saw ’em.”

  The barber had been easy to intimidate, but this man, he wouldn’t be so easy to break. Kehl could ill afford to lose any more men and was sure he would before the fat man had had enough.

  “You best watch your back, old fool,” Kehl hissed.

  “Always do,” the innkeeper replied.

  The slaver backed out of the inn, eyes trained the whole time on the man behind the bar. His men followed. Outside the inn, when they walked past the stables, he ran into a woman, blonde bun sitting atop her head, mascara and rouge smeared along her face in the humidity, clothes well-worn but good enough for a whore in the eastern part of Finlo.

  “You looking for someone?” she asked, her voice a pretense of smoothness and sweetness.

  “Out of my way, whore.” Kehl pushed her aside.

  “If you’re looking for someone, I might be the person to ask.”

  Kehl stopped and turned on his heels.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “For a price,” she replied.

  “I’ll pay it,” he said with a wry, malicious grin on his face. “I’m looking for three men. They’re young, like this one.” He pointed to Fox, who flinched when Kehl motioned toward him. “They were traveling with gypsies.”

  “I don’t know about gypsies,” the woman replied, “but there were three young ones here just yesterday. Wouldn’t normally notice three young lads except for they were here, and the young ones normally stay in the center and west of town.”

  “Where’d they go?” Kehl softened his voice and closed the distance between him and the woman.

  “I saw them leave with three other fellows,” she explained. “A whole bunch of men gathered here just yesterday. They a
ll looked like fighters. Adventurers, I guess. You’d think that sort would want to have a little fun, but hardly any of them did.” She cursed under her breath and kicked a small mound of dirt in frustration. “Anyways, one of those boys, he was a mule-headed one, pompous and feisty that one.”

  “That sounds like Bryon,” Fox whispered. Kehl gave the young man a sidelong glance over his shoulder.

  “So where’d they go?”

  “North,” she said, “to Dûrn Tor. That’s where a lot of them went.”

  “Good,” Kehl smiled. “I thank your generosity.”

  He moved to leave, but the woman grabbed the edge of his cloak. He turned and glared at her, lips pursed, and eyes squinted. His gaze went from her dirty hands to her face and back to her hands. She let go.

  “What about payment?” she pled. Kehl smiled again.

  A short while later, Rory stood on the front step of his inn, watching the dust of twenty horses trail away in the distance. He shook his head.

  “Boys, I hope you’re long gone.”

  He walked to his stables, rake in hand, and started piling straw under the stable’s roof. When he finished that, he took his shovel and began scooping horse apples into a large bucket. The shovel hit something soft underneath one particular pile of straw. He jabbed again and felt it. He bent low and saw a strand of blonde hair.

  Rory pulled the woman out, brushing dirt and straw from her naked body. He recoiled at first, muttering about monsters. He scooped the dead prostitute into his arms, caring little for the blood that now soaked his apron.

  “No matter what station in life,” he said to himself, “no one deserves this.”

  He dug a hole some way away from his inn and placed the woman’s body inside, covering her with what was left of her tattered dress. He thought he recognized her, but blood covered her whole body, and her face swelled so badly, he couldn’t tell if she was whom he thought she was.