A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  Turk heard a familiar whistle. He looked to the third hill, behind which Demik hid. His friend held up a hand. They were near.

  “Don’t worry,” Switch said to Bryon. “I don’t believe in any of that bloody nonsense either. All that talk about a creator and good versus evil.” Switch stole his eyes from their gaze just over the hill for a moment to look Bryon in the face. “It’s a fool’s story to comfort little children at night because they can’t stomach the notion of not existing if you ask me.”

  Bryon nodded, not feeling that comfortable agreeing with a man he had despised.

  The thief returned his stare to the field that made up the feet of the Southern Mountains but went on talking.

  “Eternity and paradise and all that sound good, but I have a feeling that’s not where I would be going.” Switch chuckled. “It’s just tales, and if there really were a god up there that created everything, then why would the world be so bloody terrible? Most people, if they have the unfortunate luck of being born and the good luck to survive birth, live short, meaningless lives. And those lucky enough to be rich just take advantage of everyone else. Then what about slavers? Why would a god let bloody bastards like that exist?”

  Bryon just shrugged.

  “He wouldn’t.” Switch’s face turned to a quick scowl.

  “So what happens if you die today?”

  “What do you think happens?” Switch asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing.” Switch looked at Bryon again. His mouth sat straight, his eyes level. “Nothing bloody happens. You become food for the vultures and crows and wild dogs and worms.”

  “So.” Bryon stopped and thought of his question for a moment. “Are you afraid that you might die then?”

  “I do like living . . . most days,” Switch replied with a wry smile. “But live or die, it’s all the same to me. We all die someday. Today. Tomorrow. A week from now. Forty years from now. We live and die, and after, we don’t matter anymore, and we’re not around to care about it.”

  Bryon frowned. He felt a thick knot in his stomach.

  “Don’t be worried,” Switch added. “You’ll be fine. Fight well, and you’ll live to see tomorrow.”

  Bryon would have liked to believe him, but then who could be so sure?

  To Erik, the wait seemed to be forever as he stared at the hill that sat in front of him. He closed his eyes briefly, and his mind filled with blackness and death and faces twisted in pain. He opened them quickly, but the images lingered. Marcus, Nadya, the slavers—crude outlines of those killed in the battle—both good and evil—hung in the air, right in front of his face.

  Then the sound of galloping horses, iron-shod hooves slamming hard into the earth, filled his ears, and it was as if it had always been there. The echo drummed through the cliffs and hills of the Southern Mountains sounded like a never-ending explosion, a thousand mallets striking skin stretched tight. Sweat dripped down Erik’s forehead and off his nose. He gripped his sword hard and that all too familiar knot in his throat grew hard. His breathing quickened, and he felt the arteries in his neck thump hard against his skin.

  If he had given in to the burning desire to allay his fears with weeping, this would not have been a quick cry after a mother’s scolding. No, this was deep and mournful, a fear-laden sorrow like that he remembered feeling when his grandfather had lain in bed sick for weeks. He knew his grandfather had lived a long life and welcomed whatever might come and bade his family to do the same. Nevertheless, when his father delivered the news, when that pillar of the community, the solid rock of a family, walked into the house, eyes red, and cheeks streaked white with the salty trails of tears, Erik felt it then, as he did now.

  Amidst the ensuing sorrow, amidst the shaking hands and quickened breathing, he felt a slight tug on his side, not a pain, but not pleasant. He looked down to see Marcus’ jeweled dagger neatly tucked there, sitting in its golden scabbard. He looked up again, and once more felt a tug, like a little boy might pull at an adult’s sleeve. He looked down again and saw only the dagger, but suddenly the shaking in his hands calmed. It didn’t stop, but certainly lessened, and the knot in his throat subsided. His breathing slowed, and he was sure he felt . . . better. Not great. Not unafraid. Just better.

  Before he could think about what had happened, he heard the now familiar whisper of Turk break through the deafening sound of hooves.

  “Stay down,” the dwarf mouthed. He then pointed to Nafer. He would tell them when to go.

  Behind his hillock, Erik could hear one, two, three horses close in, then more. They seemed to slow. They knew they were here. His breath quickened again. He watched Switch poke his head over his hill. He saw a thin smile creep along the thief ’s face. A man on the other side yelled, a voice Erik remembered. Another voice answered. Switch stood atop the knoll, bow in hand, arrow stretched and aimed.

  Switch nodded to Turk, and the dwarf nodded back.

  Switch’s eye trained on one of the first horseman, and seconds later, with the whistle of steel and wood breaking the air, his arrow thudded into the chest of a gray-haired man. He rolled off the back of his horse, and before he hit the ground, another arrow took flight. It struck in the same spot, this time a yellowed-haired youth who squealed like a piglet as he slid off his saddle.

  “Kill him!” yelled a tan-skinned, oily, black-bearded slaver. He pointed his curved blade at Switch and dug his heels hard into his horse’s ribs.

  When those words left his mouth, another arrow flew by his face. He winced. He touched his hand to his cheek. Crimson covered his palm. The thin red line just above his jaw trickled down to his chin. He slowed and looked back, over his shoulder. Another of his men sat, slouched over the horn of his saddle, arrow point poking through just to the middle of his shoulder blade.

  Despite the slowing leader, the slavers closed on Switch, and Turk whistled to Vander Bim. The sailor, already moving into position, gave an affirming nod and he, Drake, and Demik rushed from their hill. Vander Bim slashed his sword across the back of an unsuspecting man, who screamed loudly before he fell from his horse. Drake plunged his pickax into another’s chest, one who, hearing his companion’s pain-filled cry had turned. Drake then wrenched his weapon back, pulling the man from his mount. He squirmed and fought as much as he could, but Demik stilled him with a heavy hack from his broadsword to the shoulder.

  “Behind us!” yelled another man. He looked similar to the leader, only taller, broader. He spun his horse to face the three new attackers. “Kehl, it’s an ambush!”

  “Kill them!” yelled the leader again. “Kill them all!

  Switch threw down his bow and drew two knives from his belt, Bryon and Turk running by him, yelling battle cries. Turk, his stout legs taking him faster into the fight than anyone could have imagined, hit one slaver’s horse in the foreleg with his ax. The half-moon blade practically severed the limb, and the animal went down with a wrenching scream. The horse and its rider turned into a heap of tumbling flesh, and the sound of snapping bone and the quick cry of a man hushed by paralysis told Turk his attack did the job. Luckily, the mass of man and horse tripped up another rider going too fast to stop. That slaver crashed hard to the ground, and when he pushed himself to his knees, T
urk was there to meet him with his ax to the neck.

  Bryon nearly found his fight short-lived. A neatly carved club stopped just short of the young man’s skull when a knife dug deep into his assailant’s chest. When the slaver hit the ground, Bryon finished the job. He looked back, Switch gave him a quick wink, and he was back in the fray.

  “There’re only six of them, you fools!” screamed the slavers’ leader. “Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!”

  Just then, Befel, Erik, and Nafer ran from their hill. Bryon looked to his cousins. Befel caught Bryon’s gaze and nodded. Bryon didn’t know why, but he returned the favor.

  Bryon looked over his shoulder. The thief had thrown one of his knives at an attacker, the short blade lodging in the man’s chest. It didn’t kill, but it was all the slaver could do to stay in his saddle, dropping his reins and grasping at the knife handle. Bryon rushed at the man, his long arms reaching the enemy. He gripped an elbow hard and pulled. Without a fight, the rider tumbled from his mount. He hit the ground hard, and before he could work to his knees, Switch stood behind him, blade poised at his throat, wicked grin on his face. With the quick jerk of his hand, a crimson line appeared across the slaver’s throat, and his eyes went wide, his tongue lolling frantically as he gasped for air.

  Both Bryon and thief looked to the man’s horse.

  “You know how to fight from horseback?” Switch asked. Bryon shook his head. “All right, then. I’ll mount up, create some havoc, and you watch my back.”

  Bryon nodded. Within moments, he saw a slaver, bow in hand, eyes trained on the thief. He didn’t think. He didn’t have time to think. He saw how fast Switch fired three arrows. It must’ve been within a heartbeat. Bryon ran. He ran fast, as fast as he could. His legs pumped hard. He dodged several horses and slammed his shoulder hard into the ribs of the bowman’s horse. It did nothing by way of injury—actually, it bruised Bryon’s shoulder quite badly—but the horse jerked just enough so that the slaver lost Switch in his sights and loosed his arrow off target. Bryon took a step back, the man glaring at him with dirty brown eyes. Out of instinct, Bryon swiped his sword across the slaver’s leg. He clutched the wound and seethed spittle through missing teeth.

  “You little bastard,” he hissed. His shaved head inked in red tattoos sweated profusely under the sun’s heat. Before he could say another word, though, Bryon reached up, grabbed the man by his belt, and easily pulled him from his horse. The slaver hopped up faster than Bryon thought he would and easily jumped away from Bryon’s ill-trained attack. The man drew his own sword and jabbed it at Bryon playfully, that smile of darkened gaps and blackened teeth glaring like a demon from the Shadow. Before Bryon could return the favor, he heard the sound of bone cracking and metal tenderizing meat. When the wide-eyed slaver fell forward, eyes filled with surprise, he saw Turk standing behind him, hands gripped hard on the handle of his half-moon bladed ax. The dwarf winked.

  “Not that I thought you couldn’t take care of him yourself,” Turk said.

  Bryon smiled, laughed. “Your help is appreciated.”

  Bryon swung at another rider making his way toward the horsed thief. That slaver turned quickly and, seeing a dwarf and a young man, laughed while he dismounted, club in one hand and curved sword in the other.

  “Come on then, you pip with your furry rat,” the slaver chided.

  Turk groaned. With a thunderous roar, he rushed the man. He pushed the slaver back with the top of his ax, swung once with a miss, and then caught a glancing blow from the club while preparing to swing his half-moon blade again. The carved wood didn’t seem to hurt the dwarf, but the slaver followed it with a foot to Turk’s chest. Turk fell back, his ax falling just a hair’s length from his reach. Bryon saw the look in the enemy’s eyes and rushed in before he could pounce. He shouldered the man aside, knocking him off balance. He brought his short-bladed sword down, its tip scraping the man’s wrist. He dropped his club with a yelp and gave Bryon a backhanded swing with his own curved blade. Bryon stepped sideways and then, noticing his weapon was shorter, moved in close. The slaver tried backing up, but Bryon stood not even an arm’s length from the man and punched him in his nose. Cartilage cracked, and blood spilled. Bryon followed with a headbutt and a knee to the groin.

  When the slaver fell to one knee, he dropped his sword and looked up to the young man, tears streaming down his cheeks, blood covering a thin blond beard on his chin.

  “No, please, I surrender.”

  Bryon lowered his short-bladed sword for a moment. He had trained it over his head, ready to deliver a deathblow to the slaver’s neck. But now—he didn’t know. He knelt, defenseless, crying, pleading, begging, and groveling. Then Bryon remembered a woman hanging from an oak tree in the Blue Forest. He remembered three people discarded like trash. He remembered children crying for their mothers and mothers crying for their children.

  He lifted his sword again.

  “Bryon, he surrend—”

  Before Turk could finish, Bryon brought his sword down hard. He felt iron hit bone. He swung again. He felt bone crack. He swung again. He felt bone give way to soft tissue. He swung again. His sword dug deeper. He spat on the corpse.

  Bryon turned to Turk and helped his companion up. The dwarf looked at the mutilated mess, then at Bryon. His face was flat, emotionless. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Bryon knew what he would say. He knew what Turk was thinking.

  When Bryon turned to find another slaver to fight, he caught a ways off, the glint of fiery red hair. Fox. He sat atop his horse next to the man Bryon presumed to be the slavers’ leader. Next to him sat another man who looked to be his brother, only wider at the shoulders and a head taller.

  “Ren!” Bryon shouted. Fox didn’t hear him. “Fox!”

  Fox saw Bryon, and his eyes grew wide, those icy, evil blue orbs stretching to their extent. He muttered something to the leader. The man looked at Bryon and nodded. Bryon ignored him. He only saw Fox. Fox pulled gently on his reins. Even his leader looked at him queerly. Bryon stepped forward, even though Fox sat a good fifty paces away. The fiery-headed man pulled a little harder. His leader said something to him. Fox ignored him. Bryon smiled.

  “You know,” he muttered to himself. “You know I’m going to kill you.”

  He caught the reins of an errant horse and pulled himself into the saddle. At that, Fox turned his mount and dug his heels into its ribs. His leader yelled after him, but he was already twenty paces away and riding hard. Bryon chased. He flicked the reins with deafening cracks and jammed his heels hard into the horse’s side. The animal roared, coughed, and pushed its head forward, galloping faster and faster.

  “I’m coming for you!”

  Fox looked over his shoulder, saw Bryon gaining ground, and pushed his animal harder. Bryon passed the other two men. It seemed that, perhaps, they tried to stop him, but any attempt to swing a sword or club would’ve been in vain; he was traveling too quickly.

  Fox pushed on faster, and Bryon could hear Fox’s horse huffing. He could hear the man breathing heavy, panting, and see his pale, freckled hand shake as he flipped his reins. He could touch the animal’s tail, its flank—he was next to him. He gripped the reins hard and pulled himself into a crouching position on the horse’s back before he loosed one foot from it
s stirrup, and then the other. He stuck his arm out to the side to balance and leapt.

  When they hit the ground, Bryon’s vision went black. He tried to fight it, to fend off the unconsciousness and knew if Fox was still alive, if he were awake, it would be Bryon who did the dying.

  His eyes shot open to the blue sky overhead muddled with smoke and the sound of loudly neighing horses. Despite the pain wracking his brain, he turned on his stomach and pushed himself to his knees. He lost his sword for the moment, and then saw it, tip broken, blade bent completely sideways. He looked over his shoulder. There was Fox, lying motionless.

  Bryon crawled to him. He grabbed Fox’s shoulder hard and turned him onto his back, catching the wrist of the hand holding a long-bladed knife, aimed for his throat. Bryon shook the blade free and straddled the redheaded man, his weight pinning the slaver’s hips to the ground. Fox’s left hand, the one that had held the knife, gripped at Bryon’s shirt. The other arm lay limply on the ground, twisted weirdly.

  Bryon’s eyebrows lowered, his teeth clenched, his face reddened, and his hands wrapped around Fox’s throat. He squeezed.

  The slaver fought hard with one arm. He raked at Bryon’s wrist and arm, fingernails scratching away bits of skin. He pulled at the farmer’s shirt. He tried to swing at him, but Bryon’s arms were too long.

  “Please, Bryon,” Fox gasped. “I have money. I’ll give it all to you. You can take all my money. Just let me live. Have mercy.”

  When he said that last thing, when he pleaded for mercy, Bryon only squeezed harder. “I’ll take your money anyway—when you’re dead.”

  Bryon squeezed harder and harder until even little blurting grunts from Fox couldn’t come through. He squeezed until the pasty, freckled face shrouded by red hair turned blue. He squeezed until Fox stopped kicking, until his good arm fell limply to the ground. He squeezed until the sheer strength of his squeeze forced blood from Fox’s nose and mouth. Then he stopped. He stopped . . . and he cried.