A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  “Good memories,” Erik muttered, echoing to the response of everyone else. “Yes, good memories.”

  Chapter 47

  TURK SAT QUIETLY, REVELING IN the warmth of the campfire. Shadows and light intermittently danced off his face, playing games with the many lines along his cheeks and forehead and highlighting or dimming the different shades of brown in his beard.

  “What are we doing here?” Demik said in Darvish in case the men awoke. Turk shook his head and laughed softly. Demik did always prove a superstitious fellow.

  “I don’t know. I suppose we are here because of the very reason we told the men.”

  “We don’t need their protection,” Demik scoffed.

  Nafer nodded in agreement, sipping on dwarvish ale from a hollowed gourd. As he righted the drinking vessel, the contents promptly hissed, and a bit of a foamy froth spilled over onto Nafer’s hand from the small opening. The dwarf cursed silently, waiting for the ale to settle before pouring it into cups for his companions.

  “Is this part of your fool idea?” Demik asked, hands on his hips in motherly, scolding fashion.

  “Fool idea!” Turk exclaimed as quietly as he could. “A fool idea with which you and Nafer went along.”

  “It made more sense than what Belvengar was preaching,” Nafer suggested, smacking his lips and sighing satisfactorily.

  “We take the map to King Skella,” Turk said, “find the city for him, and return whatever it is the Lord of the East wants, all the while proving that men and dwarves can work together.”

  “Anything the Lord of the East wants can be of no good to us in his hands,” Demik said.

  “No,” Turk replied, “but with the lost city in our hands, and its treasure, I would say the scales weigh heavily in our favor.”

  “What about this so-called mission in general?” Demik asked. “How can we be so certain we will find the city first?”

  “Do any men know the Southern Mountains as well as we do?” Turk asked, to which both his companions—Demik clearly reluctantly—gave a quick shake of their heads. “And if we don’t find this treasure for the Lord of the East first, we still have a map to the city. We will give the map to King Skella, and within a day, he could have a whole regiment of warriors cleaning and setting things straight and making the city ready to repopulate.”

  “And the men?” Nafer asked.

  “An alliance with men is crucial,” Turk replied. “We must show our people, and the men, that we can work together, as we did in the past.”

  “And how do we do that?” Demik asked. “The short one doesn’t trust us, and the Goldumarian is a thief—we can’t trust him.” He pointed to Drake, curled up next to his saddle, and Switch, sprawled out in front of his and snoring loudly. “I think the sailor is a good man, but that’s like saying the sour milk isn’t too sour.”

  “No, my friend, it’s not them who we must convince,” Turk replied. “It’s the young ones. They are the future of our people. Especially that one.”

  Turk nodded to Erik.

  “I don’t know,” Demik muttered. “I agree with Belvengar more and more every day. You’ve lived with men longer than both Nafer and I. You’ve seen their treachery.”

  “Aye, I have,” Turk said, a contemplative look on his face, “and I love our brother dwarf Belvengar Long Spear, but I think he is a bit misguided. I have seen great love in the hearts of men as well, room for true compassion, and acts of extreme mercy. We, more and more, retreat to our mountains, secluding ourselves from the rest of the world.”

  “Aye,” Nafer replied, “but what does the rest of the world have to offer us? What does the world expect of us?”

  Nafer waited a little while, but neither Turk nor Demik answered. Perhaps Turk thought it a rhetorical question. Perhaps he knew the answer, knew the sadness of the answer and simply chose not to acknowledge it.

  “Smiths and Mercenaries,” Nafer answered himself. “And we have done both. My question is, will we even be welcome in our own city after selling ourselves as soldiers to the highest bidder?”

  “We have worked as mercenaries with a certain level of morality, I think,” Turk replied.

  The irony of it was that he felt the same way. A dwarf spent twenty years training to be a warrior, training to be the perfect soldier, training to operate in any climate, any situation. To take that knowledge and sell that loyalty to the highest amount of coin did not sit well with most dwarves. What would his father say? What would his grandfather say? Thank An, the Creator, they would not be there to see him shamed by his choices in the lands of men. Was Demik right? Was Belvengar right to distrust men—hate them even, want to kill them? No.

  “No, we have worked within those laws An has set before us and the ethics which we know should guide our lives.”

  Turk thought back on a wealthy landowner from Kamdum, who had employed their services as bodyguards. He seemed an all right fellow and seemed to appreciate the certain skills the dwarves brought to their job. They seldom had to use them. He treated his servants well, and the people who lived around his estates didn’t harbor ill will toward the man. Truly, it seemed a seldom occasion that the dwarves, Belvengar Long Spear—their companion who chose not to join them on this mission—included, had the opportunity to work for an employer from the Northern Kingdom of Gol-Durathna.

  They delighted that the lands in which they worked should, by all rights, be dwarf friendly, the Northern Kingdom being a longtime ally of Thrak Baldüukr and the dwarves of the Gray Mountains. For an entire year, they worked for and lived with the Baron—that’s what he often called himself—Geyus, living in his home and protecting him and that which was his. Truly, most of the wealth Turk and Demik and Nafer now possessed came from their short time employed by that fellow.

  However, in the winter of their second year as Geyus’ bodyguards, the Baron called Turk to his room. The dwarf complied, even though it proved the middle of the night. When he reached his employer’s room, he fell to his knees when he saw a scene that would probably haunt him for the rest of his years. Unbeknownst to the dwarves, Baron Geyus had a special liking for younger men and women. They would come to him in the middle of the night; he would do what he wanted with them, and they would leave before the first morning light. In fact, most of his retinue of servants and bodyguards had no knowledge of this particular obsession. This night, however, something had gone wrong. Turk never stayed to find out. Two bodies—those of a man and a woman perhaps Erik’s age—laid before him, bloody and beaten beyond recognition. When the Baron asked Turk to dispose of the bodies, he wrapped his hands around Geyus’ neck and tried to squeeze the life from the man before he hurled him across the room in disgust. Turk gathered his things, along with his companions, and before the sun had crested the eastern horizon, they had left Geyus’ estates.

  That proved only one example of the many times they left or simply turned down, employment as soldiers or bodyguards because of something they deemed as immoral.

  “Regardless of what level of morality we’ve conducted ourselves, our brethren will see us as what we are: mercenaries, nothing more,” Demik said.

  “Nevertheless, if something doesn’t change,” Turk said, “we will eventually retreat to our mountain
s completely, and then what? We will be no better than the elves, secluded in their forest kingdom of Ul’Erel.”

  “Hold your tongue!” Nafer hissed as loudly as he dared, pointing an accusatory finger at Turk. “How dare you compare us to those oath breakers?”

  “Hush.” Demik grabbed Nafer’s hand and lowered it. “Peace, brother. Peace.”

  Nafer took another drink of his ale.

  “We should get to bed,” Demik suggested. “It is late. We have traveled hard, and another long road awaits us. I think fatigue is wearing on our nerves.”

  Turk nodded and watched his friends slouch down against their saddles and slowly drift to sleep. He sat there, though, watching the flames of the campfire. They fluttered and flickered, and the wood popped from time to time, sending bits of red ember into the air, their glow quickly dying in the coolness of the night. He stared at his hands, worn and callused. He squeezed them, balling them into white-knuckled fists, and then opened them again, watching the blood flow back into his palms.

  “Father,” he muttered, “I am sorry for the shame I have brought our family. I only wish I had a brother to honor our family where I have not.”

  He continued to watch the fire, the growing shadows on his face mirroring the shadow growing in his heart.

  “An, Creator and Almighty,” he prayed, “give me the strength to do that which you would have me do and not what my own heart desires.”

  He kept his eyes closed, allowing the intermittent warmth of the fire to wash over him, and then the coolness of nighttime breezes to do the same.

  Chapter 48

  A RUMBLE RIPPLED THROUGH THE hills of the Western Tor. The older guard at the gates of Dûrn Tor looked south and saw a clear sky. An eyebrow painted with gray rose into a pronounced arch. He gave an exaggerated huff.

  “Bonn, did you hear that?” the other guard—a much younger man—asked.

  Bonn glanced at him over his shoulder. That look and a simple grunt gave his affirmation.

  “Thunder?” the other guard, Trimble, asked.

  Bonn’s head slowly moved side to side. He stared, one eye squinting under his bushy eyebrows, the other watching carefully. The sound rolled along the hillside again.

  “Hooves,” Bonn grumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Hooves,” Bonn snapped. He gave Trimble a sidelong glance and then looked forward again.

  A dust cloud swirled into the air, and dark silhouettes broke the horizon. Men. Horses. Hooves.

  Kehl rode hard, not concerning himself with his men, toward the gates of Dûrn Tor, men and women rushing out of his way. Two guards—one old and gray, the other young—stood in front of the city’s gate. A thin, menacing smile crept across the slaver’s tanned face. This would be easy.

  Kehl pulled up on his reins.

  “Kilben,” Kehl said to his younger brother, “stay here with the men.”

  “Yes, Im’Ka’Da,” Kilben replied.

  Kehl smiled when he rode to the two guards, both leveling their spears and keeping that much distance between them and the company of slavers.

  “You can’t come into the city,” the older guard said before Kehl could offer a salutation, make a demand, or say anything at all.

  Kehl growled and squinted his eyes. He pushed the cowl of his cloak back. Most men recoiled at the sight of his dark eyes, his oiled, pointed beard, and his snarling whitened teeth. Perhaps his look seemed devilish, wolfish, but the guard didn’t move, didn’t even notice a change in the slaver. Kehl would kill him first.

  “We’re looking for gypsies,” Kehl snarled.

  The older guard just stared at the slaver, the blade of his spear level and steady. Kehl noticed the younger guard glancing at the graying man.

  “Did you hear me, fool, or has age deafened you?”

  The older guard stayed where he was, not moving and not speaking. When Kehl looked back to Kilben and then cleared his throat, the soldier spoke up.

  “I hear just fine, and I heard you just fine. No gypsies here. Haven’t seen gypsies in months. Wouldn’t let ’em into the city if I did see ’em.”

  “What about three younger men?” Kehl asked. “They would’ve come with three other men, fighters, soldiers perhaps. They would’ve come—”

  The guard cut Kehl off. “A bunch of soldiers came through here a day or so ago, coming from Finlo along the Sea Born Road. What about ’em?”

  “I’m looking for three of them.”

  “Don’t know. Plenty more than three came through here,” the old soldier said, his voice quick and curt.

  “I understand that,” Kehl hissed. “Let us through. Let us search the city. These men owe me something.”

  “Don’t care,” the guard spat back. “No one enters the city unless cleared by the Council of Five. That includes the lot of ya, no matter how tough you try to look.”

  “You don’t want to know what happens if you don’t let us through,” Kehl replied, grinding his teeth. “Let us through.”

  “You’re in no position to bark orders at me, son,” the older guard seethed.

  Kehl hissed and buried his heels into his horse’s ribs. The animal stepped forward, but the younger guard thrust his spear outward, the steel point stopping just the length of a fly’s wing from Kehl’s throat. Kehl’s head never moved, but he pulled on his mount’s reins.

  “We let none of ’em in.” The grizzled, old guard squinted at Kehl with one eye. “Just like we’re letting none of you in. They all stayed at The Hill Giant. Go check there.” The guard then smiled, a wry, old smile that stretched some of the wrinkles around his mouth. “And if there’s any trouble, well, you don’t wanna know what’ll happen.”

  Kehl looked over his shoulder. Kilben stared back, waiting for his brother’s move. The captain of the slavers huffed through his nose and pulled on his reins to turn his horse. He trotted to the tavern and jumped from his mount without even tying the reins to a post. His men followed suit, Kilben close on his heels. One glare from the slaver caused The Hill Giant’s stable boy to wish he’d never got out of bed.

  Kehl burst through the door of The Hill Giant, the doors slamming into the wall and the lively conversations stopping. A woman, her fat body, short and round, weighing her down, ran to the front. She breathed hard and sweat trickled down her cheek when she curtly greeted the men.

  “Now see here,” the old, fat woman yelled, “you won’t just come barging into Elena Minx’s tavern like that.”

  Kehl drew a curved sword in response. Elena Minx backed away a bit, but no fear showed on her face.

  “Think you’re the first idiot to draw a sword on me?” she barked, “If you get past me—and that’s a big if—then you’ll have to deal with Tuc and Boz.”

  Two large men, one of them with a reddening, bald head, stood in front of the bar, large cudgels studded with iron in their hands. A young serving woman, soft-faced, large breasted, and round-bottomed, held a thin-bladed belt knife in one hand and a simple kitchen knife in the other. Even the cook left the confines of his kitchen, cleaver fresh with animal blood gripped tightly and ready for more.

&nb
sp; Kehl lowered his blade.

  “We’re looking for gypsies, a band of them.”

  “No gypsies ’round here,” the older, fat woman replied.

  She’s lying. She had to be lying. They all had to be lying. Kehl would have to deal with that later.

  “We’re also looking for six men, then,” he said, insistence and impatience in his voice. “Three would be young, twenty years at the oldest, and three would be soldiers or fighters, experienced men.”

  “Don’t know,” the fat woman replied, “but everyone who stayed here went north, along the Sea Born Road.”

  “You better not be lying to us,” Kehl hissed.

  “And what if I was?” the woman replied. Other patrons in The Hill Giant stood, some with nothing but forks or their fists, and some with long-bladed knives or swords or clubs.

  Kehl’s face grew red, and the grip on his sword tightened to white knuckles. In an instant, he could remove her head, but that wasn’t his goal right now. He threw a copper penny, more for insult than anything else, on the floor in front of the fat woman, and he and his crew left, mounted their ragged steeds, and rode north along the Sea Born Road.

  “After we find them,” Kehl said to Kilben, “we’ll come back here and burn that tavern down around that old bitch.”

  If it hadn’t been for her weight, Elena Minx would have stormed past her stables, hands clenched in white-knuckled fists, face red and sweat trickling down her fat cheeks. She headed straight for Bonn, and when she called out his name, the old guard slowly turned, one eye still squinted. Before he could say anything, Elena brought her right fist hard against his weathered jaw and the left one into the middle of his chest.

  “Damn it, woman!”

  “What, by the Creator and the Shadow and everything in between, gave you the bright idea to send those bloody bastards to my inn?”