A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  Chapter 51

  NAFER CRASHED INTO ONE SLAVER, unhorsed from the chaos. The man flew backward, hit the ground with a large grunt and thud, and when he looked up, the dwarf ’s vicious, spiked mace met his face. Nafer motioned to Erik and Befel, encouraged them to fight next to him. Befel raced in next to the dwarf, his younger brother close on his heels. The older of the Eleodums watched while one horsed slaver rode past Vander Bim, raking the thin blade of a long-handled wood ax along the sailor’s ribs. The mercenary gave a sharp yelp and collapsed, the hind leg of his attacker’s horse stepping squarely on the man’s thigh. Befel left Nafer’s side and raced to stand over the wounded mercenary.

  Vander Bim rolled about under the young Eleodum, clutching both his side and his leg. The slaver who attacked him turned around, swinging his ax in wide circles and laughing at the young man holding his curved blade in two hands. He charged—Befel’s heart missed a beat—and howled when the iron, pointed end of a pickax dug into his knee. Drake pulled his weapon free with a satisfied grunt, but before attacking again, the slaver turned his horse, its flank hitting the miner hard. Drake, under the force of the animal, fell to one knee. When he tried to rise again, the slaver’s horse kicked out, striking the man square in the chest. The mercenary crumpled to the ground.

  The slaver turned his horse. A grimaced snarl traced his pale face. Blood gushed from his knee and down his leg, forming a little red pool below his stirrup. The splotchy beard of dark hair exacerbated his ghostly look, with drawn cheeks and drooping eyes. Despite the pain, and despite weakness wracking his body, the slave trader heeled his animal with his good leg and charged at Befel. Every step the animal took looked excruciating for its rider, and only a few paces from the farmer—shaking and gritting his teeth as he readied himself for a fight—the man slid from his saddle and hit the ground with a hard thud. But he was not done for yet.

  Befel refused to leave Vander Bim, so the slaver gathered himself up, standing awkwardly, one hand over his knee and one clutching his ax. He hobbled toward the young man, but only two steps in, a knife thumped his chest. His head rolled back, his hands released both knee and weapon, and the slaver fell on his back.

  Befel saw Switch run by. Blood stained his shirt, and crimson smeared his face.

  “Let’s get bloody to it!” he yelled. He threw another knife at a horsed man. The thief cheered when the slaver gave a shrill cry, the blade lodging firmly in his shoulder. He ran to yet another victim and called to Befel, “The sailor will be all right. Get to fighting. We have them on their heels!”

  Befel noticed one slaver back away from the fight, riding back to another pair, both with tanned skin and dark, oiled beards. He also watched an unhorsed attacker flee that way. They did have them on their heels. He felt excitement well up in him. His stomach seemed to bubble, his skin crawled with goose pimples, and he let out a yell.

  Just then, the smaller of the two, tan-skinned men saw Befel and heard his cry of victory over the din of dying battle. Befel saw the man, clearly the leader, say something to the other beside him. He seemed to growl, his teeth bared, and Befel could not miss the words “Kill him,” and a wry, wicked smile grew on the second’s face, and the broad-shouldered slaver kicked his horse hard in the ribs. Even as two more slavers fell back to their leader, the tan-skinned man raced toward him. Only paces away, the slaver dismounted at a run and stopped short of where Befel stood. He towered over the farmer, a good hand taller, with shoulders broader than most farmers’. When Befel stepped back, the slaver smiled, showing teeth well cared for, gleaming white. His canines looked sharpened, and with a pointed nose, a long chin, and dark, squinted eyes, he looked a wolf.

  “You’re one of them,” he hissed.

  “One of who?” Befel fought to answer the man towering over him. He looked like Marcus—only, a predator’s eyes replaced those kind, gypsy eyes.

  “One of the men.” He smiled. “From the Blue Forest. With the gypsies.”

  Befel just stared. How could they have remembered him? Out of dozens of people—a hundred people—they remembered him?

  “If you remember me, then you’ll remember I killed a fair number of your kin.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t there.” The slaver laughed. “And any grunt you killed was no kin of mine. But my brother—”

  Yes, they did look like brothers—this man and the thinner, slighter slaver with the same face, same skin, same beard. That skinnier man—Befel remembered him now. He remembered hearing the long, low note of a horn. He remembered those dark eyes filled with hate and his words as he ordered retreat filled with venom. He remembered.

  “My brother has vowed vengeance on you,” the slaver continued. “So I won’t kill you. No, no. I wouldn’t want to deny my brother his justice. I wouldn’t want to deny him his fun.”

  One hand held a long, curved sword that gleamed in the sun, a thin red line running along its razor edge. The other held a thick piece of dark wood, lacquered and wrapped to its head with leather. The end of the club was shaped into a dog’s—or wolf ’s—head with an open mouth and sharp teeth. A direct hit with that could kill a man. That weapon he held out for Befel to see, to inspect. He would use that. Befel knew it. He would bludgeon him over the head and steal him away and . . . Befel shuddered.

  The slaver stepped in, club held high. Befel stepped to the side, sword out wide. He had seen Demik do the same thing. Misdirection perhaps. The club came down, and Befel dodged and struck. The wolf head smacked hard into the ground, and Befel’s worn blade glanced off its leather-bound neck. Befel knew that this man could’ve easily followed up with a jab from his own sword, but he also understood he wanted the farmer alive.

  Befel kicked dirt up at the slaver. He saw Switch do that. The man proved too tall, rocks and pebbles hitting his chest. He swung the back of the wolf head at Befel. It hit his hip. It might as well have been a horse’s hoof. The farmer stumbled forward but turned quickly to meet another overhanded strike. He ducked and stepped, his sword raking across the slaver’s high, leather boot, snug to his calf and stopping short of his knee. The boot was thick, and despite the blade cutting deep, it struck no flesh.

  The slaver growled. Befel looked up at him and saw the curved sword raised up, pointing face down, toward him. It jabbed, and Befel jumped, hearing a call from fifty or more paces away. The leader yelled to his brother, and the broad-shouldered man snarled. Was Befel really that important, or was it that this man’s brother simply felt that slighted?

  You can’t kill me, can you? Befel thought. A smile crept along his face.

  The next club swing was high, over Befel’s head, and the young man punched the slaver’s ribs, and he may as well have punched a stone wall. The oil-bearded man laughed, dropped his own sword and responded with a meaty fist to the farmer’s face. Befel tumbled backward but kept on his feet.

  Befel jabbed, and the sword skimmed along the man’s ribs. Cloth tore, and blood seeped through. So much for a stone wall. The slaver howled, and his eyes raged as he swung his club twice in arcing, diagonal strikes. Befel dodged, but the giant of a man rushing at him put him on his heels. He swung. This time, his blade nicked the front of the man’s leg. Another howl. Another bull rush of arcing club attacks.

  Befel fell back again, tumbled over his head but back to his feet, left shoulder facing the
slaver. He saw the wolf head descend and knew he had no time. He put his arm up—as if he had a shield—and lifted his shoulder so that it covered part of his face. The sound of a mallet hitting meat echoed through the battlefield. Befel felt skin tear, felt muscle rend and open, felt the wetness of blood pour down his arm and over his chest. Fire stabbed his skin, and then icy needles drove him down onto his knees. They shook, and he collapsed.

  His cheek pressed hard against the earth. Warm or cool, he couldn’t feel the dirt. He watched as feet ran about and hooves stamped, hoping they would miss his head and his body. He felt a rough, huge hand grip his shoulder—his good shoulder. The world went black.

  Erik watched with pride as Befel fended off a man that reminded him much of Marcus, save for his unkind eyes and snarling smile. His stomach knotted, however, when a wolf-shaped club hit Befel’s bad shoulder hard. Blood exploded in a thick mist of crimson, and he watched his brother going down in horror, that giant of a man standing over him, laughing, and reaching down to drag him away.

  That tingle of fear, the shaking tremble of uncertainty, crawled up Erik’s spine. He pushed it back. It was his brother. He gripped his curved sword and ran. He put his shoulder down, closed his eyes, and wobbled sideways when he finally hit the slaver. The man stood a head taller than Erik, and a bit broader. However, the force and the speed and the unknowing sent the large man forward—to his knees. He looked back, over his shoulder with squinted eyes.

  “I’m getting tired of you little maggots,” he spat.

  Erik wasted no time with talk. He kicked a boot-full of dirt in the man’s face. He cried out and blinked. He rubbed his eyes frantically. Erik pulled Befel away and stood in front of his brother. The slaver rose to his full height. Tears filled his eyes, now red and raw. He growled. He sounded like an animal, some hungry, angry animal waiting, wanting, needing a kill. The slaver looked over his shoulder. Erik watched, saw the other man—the slighter man—nod. What did that mean? The giant of a man turned back to Erik, teeth glaring in a wide smile. Erik saw the fingers wrapped around the handle of the wolf-head club tighten, saw the knuckles whiten. Ah, that’s what that nod meant.

  “You didn’t have me the last time we met. You won’t have me today, and you’ll not have me tomorrow,” Erik muttered.

  Erik quickly found himself on his heels. The assault felt impossible. He flinched every time he dodged a club strike and its carved head thudded to the ground. He tried pushing back. His foe batted away every jab with his sword, every swing. He put his shoulder down. He ran into a stone wall. The fist to his face sent him back again, hands flailing to catch his balance.

  The man looked over his shoulder again. Another nod. Just then, Erik heard a scream, saw the flashing of steel from the corner of his eye, saw a crimson rainbow spray out in a wide arc, and heard the now too familiar, welcoming grunt of a dwarf. Nafer rushed to his side, fresh blood on his mighty mace. The smile on the slaver’s face faded a bit.

  The giant looked to Erik, then Nafer, and back again. His smile returned. “A dwarf would be a good addition to our inventory.”

  Nafer growled.

  The slaver attacked again, and this time, he proved less successful. Erik and Nafer together, shoulder to shoulder, pushed him back. The man did not seem to want to give up on his quarry, but he was weakening. Then, Erik saw a few other slave traders—one on horseback and two on foot—running from where Turk and Demik were fighting.

  We’re winning, Erik thought. Then he heard it. A familiar sound. A low whine breaking through the din of battle. The horn. Erik saw that slight man with the oily beard, saw the curled horn pressed to his lips. The man in front of Erik turned and ran.

  He can’t get away. How many lives had he ruined? How many lives had he taken? He can’t get away.

  Erik went to follow but felt a strong hand catch his arm. He looked down to see Nafer holding him back. He shook his head.

  “He can’t get away,” Erik yelled, “they can’t get away!”

  “We won,” Nafer mustered in his broken Westernese.

  “Punishment,” Erik cried. “That is what they deserve.”

  Nafer let go, and Erik pursued. The giant slaver proved slower than Erik, and the farmer thought he might actually catch up to him, but the enemy reached his horse and pulled himself into the saddle, kicking its sides hard. Erik swung his sword, and a few dark strands of horsetail fell to the ground. The young man threw his sword. The curved blade wobbled through the air a short distance and then flopped to the ground.

  “No!” he yelled. He continued to run, his enemy close to joining with the slavers’ leader and a group of four others. He could never reach him. And if he did, a group of six men jumping at the chance to kill at least one of the mercenaries would surround him.

  When hope for vengeance seemed gone, when the punishment for these men, at least Befel’s brutalizer, seemed a dream, Erik felt a slight tug at his waist. It was the nagging bite from a horsefly, the pinch of a small red ant. He looked down, brows curved, frown on his face. He saw it, calling to him. How could that be? But it was. Trying to get his attention, a childlike tug at his sleeve. That golden, jeweled knife. Erik drew it. He had never thrown a knife before. Never had a need to. How hard could it be?

  He gripped the handle, felt the gems in the palm of his hand, and watched the steel blade glisten like a diamond in the sun. He picked a spot on the slaver’s back, took aim, and threw. The knife wobbled like his sword. The other slavers laughed. They had been watching him in his futility. Erik hung his shoulders in dejection.

  Erik didn’t see the knife straighten itself. He didn’t see one of the rubies on the gold handle glow, just ever so faintly. He didn’t see the whole weapon glow in a brighter red. What he did see was a streak of blood-red rain. He saw it race toward the horsed man, race toward the exact spot for which he aimed. He saw an arrowhead made of white steel, shaft made of golden oak, fletching of cardinal feathers, thump into the slaver’s back with a clap of thunder.

  Perhaps a normal arrow wouldn’t be enough to kill such a large man, even stop such a man, but immediately the giant stood up straight in his saddle. His horse stopped. The arrow glowed red again. It seemed to lengthen. Erik, even from fifty or more paces away, heard the breaking of bone, the ripping of skin as the man’s horse seemed to draw to an involuntary halt. He saw the slaver turn in his saddle, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  The man looked dumb, mouth open. Blood trickled and stained his beard. The gleaming steel of an arrow point protruded from his chest, streaked in crimson. The man tried to clutch at the steel, but it seemed that his shoulders were just not strong enough to lift his arms. They went slack. The slave trader’s breath became short and sporadic, his chest heaving in quick thumps. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he slid from the saddle, hitting the ground with a loud smack.

  The slaver leader let out a shrill, bone-chilling cry. He snapped his horse’s reins and dug his heels deep into its side, face red, spit flying from his mouth as he seethed, but one of his men caught his wrist, and another one grabbed the reins. The look he gave his men might have melted their skin clean from their bones, but after a brief struggle to free himself from their grasp, it seemed they had convinced him they had no chance if they resumed their attack.

 
“This isn’t over, you little bastard!” His screaming curse caused Erik to flinch. “I’ll gut you! I’ll eat your heart! You’ll pay for my brother’s death!”

  That made sense. The two men looked alike, save for their stature. Erik’s stomach knotted, and goose pimples prickled his arms as he looked around. Bodies, blood, guts, parts—it all littered the ground. The smell. He vomited, and when he stood again, Nafer grabbed his shoulder and shook him gently. The look he gave Erik begged the question, Are you all right? Erik nodded.

  The smell. Blood. Urine. Feces. Hair and skin baking in the noonday sun. Erik covered his nose. A brother dead. How many brothers dead? Sons. Fathers even—maybe. He felt a tear tickle his cheek as Nafer handed him his knife, its blade as clean and unsullied as ever.

  Chapter 52

  THE BRISK BREEZE WAFTING THROUGH the open window of his bedroom should have cooled his sweat-matted face, given him a stark chill even, but it didn’t. Del Alzon sat up. A rough palm across his forehead, quickly retrieved, revealed a head of thinning hair soaking wet. He coughed. His whole body shook as if filled with the worst of fevers. He swung his feet over to the side of his bed, and the wood underneath his girth creaked unsteadily. The fruit seller buried his face in his hands, elbows propped firmly against his knees.

  He stood and stared east, through his window. The wind finally made him shiver.

  “Poor bastards,” he muttered.

  Why did he feel so sorry? He sold them out but made a good profit for it in the end. At least for a fruit merchant in Waterton.