A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  “I prayed for forgiveness,” Erik replied.

  “Forgiveness?” Turk questioned. Erik couldn’t help but think the dwarf sounded surprised.

  “Aye,” Erik said. “For the life I’ve taken. For the lives I’ve taken. For the lives I will take.” He was surprised how that last part came out and how little the idea surprised him as if it was his given destiny.

  “I see,” Turk said. “That is a good prayer, although, I don’t think you need forgiveness for the lives of these men.”

  “Why?” Erik asked.

  “They are evil men,” Turk replied, “and you were defending yourself, and your friends. Death in battle is inevitable.”

  “It still makes me feel sick.”

  “You cannot redeem another man.” Turk shook his head when he spoke. “Their hearts were wicked.”

  “How do I know what was in their hearts?” Erik asked. “Maybe Fox was forced into this life. Is that his fault?”

  “That is a good question.” Turk stepped forward, close enough to put a gentle hand on Erik’s elbow.

  “An—whom you call The Creator—has told us that a man’s actions are like a looking glass into his heart. A man can surely fool those around him. A seemingly righteous man who is truly wicked, or a man who seems wicked but who is troubled because he does what is contrary to his heart. But a man who rapes and murders, enslaves, beats, tortures—I think we can see his heart clearly.”

  “But he was once a child—just a little boy,” Erik said. “He was innocent, once.”

  Turk opened his mouth to say something else but quickly closed it. He moved to leave, but then turned back to Erik once more.

  “When you are finished here, come join us. I will tend to any wounds you might have.”

  Turk turned and walked toward his horse, where he retrieved a heavy ceramic jar from one of his saddlebags. It looked an odd thing, all brown and tan swirls with a wide cork. The dwarf opened it, and a smell that seemed a mixture of musk and mint and basil and sweat hit his nose. He remembered the first time he smelled that smell. He detested it. It made him gag. He welcomed it now. It had saved his life . . . more than once.

  “That shit stinks!” yelled Switch. “What by the Shadow is that?”

  “It will help wounds heal faster and help the pain subside quicker.” Turk scooped a healthy portion of the stuff onto his fingers and smeared it over a nasty looking cut just above Demik’s left eyebrow.

  “Magic?” Drake asked.

  “No, not magic,” Turk replied as he continued to tend to various wounds. “Medicine.”

  The dwarf turned next to Befel, who sat up against a large rock. His face had turned a sullen pale, and a smattering of dried blood around his shoulder, some of it partially coagulated, still ran down his arm and dripped off his palm and fingers.

  “Let us look at this,” said Turk.

  The skin looked burned, puffy and red.

  “This is an old wound?” Turk asked.

  Befel nodded.

  “Did you try to burn it closed?” Turk didn’t want to be too inquisitive, but he needed to know.

  “Aye,” Befel replied.

  “And then you tried stitching it as well?”

  Befel nodded. “A barber in Finlo.”

  “He did not do a very good job,” Turk muttered. “Don’t worry. Once I have a look at this, we should be on the right path to healing.”

  Turk took a clean cloth and pressed it hard against Befel’s wound. The young man let out a loud scream.

  “I know it hurts, my friend, but the pain is nothing compared to slowly bleeding to death or getting an infection and losing your arm.” When Befel gave the dwarf a worried look, he added, “Drink some of the sailor’s rum. That will help the pain.”

  The dwarf smeared a heavy helping of the greenish, gelatinous cream on Befel’s shoulder. The young man tensed when the rough hands touched the wound, but the cooling nature of Turk’s medicine seemed to ease any apprehensions, and Befel soon drifted off to a half-sleep, vaguely aware of someone tending to him, but too tired to care.

  Turk then turned to Bryon and cleaned a cut on his cheek.

  “Do not worry about your cousin,” Turk said. “He will be all right.”

  “I don’t care,” Bryon replied with a shrug. “He’s a grown man.”

  “Your concerned look says otherwise,” Turk said.

  Turk smiled at the scowl Bryon gave him.

  Vander Bim already had his shirt off and arm up, baring a dirty cut along his ribs. Nafer cleaned that one, and after more of Turk’s medicine covered that wound, the dwarf adorned it with a wide square of cloth and wrapped more cloth tightly around the sailor’s stomach to hold the bandage in place.

  Drake seemed a special case. Despite the normal bumps and bruises one might expect to get from such a battle, his true injury was his chest, where the horse had kicked him. He sat and wheezed, clutching his ribcage with crossed arms and looking wide-eyed as if he were suffocating. Turk inspected him, fairly certain he didn’t have any broken ribs and then proceeded to mix some of his medicine into a bowl of water.

  “Here.” The dwarf lifted the bowl up to Drake’s nose. “You must inhale this. It will help your breathing and reduce the tightness in your chest.”

  “I don’t need no damn tunnel digger’s cream to heal up,” Switch said, walking by Drake as the man breathed in the pallid mist rising from his bowl of water. “I’ve been cut worse than this.”

  “Good,” Turk replied, “then I will not waste any on you.”

  “You had best reconsider,” Vander Bim said. “What happens when those little cuts get infected? Who’s going to care for you when you get sick?”

  “Hot water and a good scrub,” Switch replied. “That’s all I need.”

  “A good scrub indeed,” Demik whispered to Turk in Darvish. “That man stinks.”

  “Aye,” Turk replied with a smile.

  Switch squinted his eyes and peered angrily at the dwarves.

  “Do not expect me to take care of you when you get sick,” Turk said.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” Switch replied. “I’ve been worse off, tunnel digger, and survived. And all without dwarvish medicine.”

  Turk shook his head as Switch walked away. Some men were so stupid, but this was one of the most ignorant he had ever met.

  “Perhaps,” Turk said to himself as he remembered several men in his past that were quite dimwitted. He walked over to Erik.

  “Do I need to look at you?” Turk asked.

  Erik looked up at the dwarf and shook his head.

  “Are you sure?” Turk asked.

  Erik extended his arms and inspected them. He looked at his legs and patted his stomach and chest.

  “I think I’m alright,” Erik said. “Not really a scratch on me.”

  “Alright,” Turk said. He saw Erik staring at his brother, concern creeping across his face.

  “He will be fine,” Turk said.

  “He doesn’t look fine,”
Erik replied as Befel breathed heavily, almost snoring.

  Turk reached up and put his hand on Erik’s shoulder.

  “Trust me. He will be fine.”

  “That sounds like something someone would tell the loved one of a dying man,” Erik said.

  “I would not lie to you,” Turk said.

  “Will he be able to use his arm?” Erik asked.

  Turk breathed deep. He knew his moment of pause gave away his concern, and he knew Erik would know he was lying if he said yes.

  “He won’t, will he?”

  “He might be able to use it again,” Turk replied, “but he has a long road ahead of him. It will hurt for quite some time, perhaps for the rest of his life. But with appropriate rehabilitation and care, it might heal. We will eventually need to get him to a real surgeon.”

  “He saw one in Finlo,” Erik said.

  “Like I said,” Turk replied, “a real surgeon. One of my people.”

  Chapter 56

  “WATCH,” BRYON SAID, “ALL THAT coin, and we will not see a single, rusted iron penny.”

  Erik watched as Switch moved from one dead man to the next, sifting through their purses, their pockets, their boots even.

  “Do you expect a portion of the coin?” Erik asked. “We are just porters after all.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Bryon snapped.

  “What point is there in arguing, Bryon?” Erik asked.

  “You always choose other people over your family,” Bryon hissed.

  Erik balled up his fists.

  “You stupid pathetic moron!” Erik seethed. Bryon backed up, his face a mixture of surprise and anger. He opened his mouth to retort, but Erik moved forward and stuck his face right into his cousin’s. “If any of us has chosen anything over family, it’s you.”

  “Now, wait just a . . .”

  “Piss on that,” Erik spat. He poked himself in the chest with his index finger. “If anyone here has thought about our family first, it’s me. I left with you two idiots because of family!”

  Erik felt tears in his eyes but from frustration and not sadness.

  “Nothing to cry over,” Bryon replied, trying to be sarcastic.

  Erik was about to hit his cousin, and all he could see had turned red. He felt his body tremble, and the only thought crossing his mind was the image of Bryon’s bloody face.

  “Bryon, Erik,” Vander Bim said, and Erik turned, his hands still in tightly gripped fists. “Give me your hands,” added the sailor.

  The tension diffused a little; Erik looked at Bryon, and they both opened a hand, presenting their palm to Vander Bim. The sailor pressed three silver coins into each one of their hands.

  “Consider this a bonus,” Vander Bim said with a smile, “for a fight well fought. And I have three more for Befel. I’ll give them to him when he’s awake, on my honor.”

  When Vander Bim walked away, Bryon shot Erik a dirty look. Erik returned the look with one of disdain, and then Bryon turned his back and walked away.

  Erik could hear Bryon mutter, “Should’ve given us more.”

  Erik turned to find Drake staring at him. As soon as his eyes met the miner’s, Drake turned, whispering something to Vander Bim. The man’s voice was so soft, Erik shouldn’t have been able to hear him, but he felt a tickle at his hip and, suddenly, the miner’s voice was audible.

  “Damned magic,” Drake said.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Vander Bim replied. Erik squinted his eyes as if that would help his hearing.

  “I don’t like it,” Drake said. “Unnatural.”

  “It’s saved my life several times,” Vander Bim replied. “By the gods, magic saved your life once.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Drake whispered. “He should have told us.”

  “Drake, I don’t think he knew,” Vander Bim replied.

  Be careful, Erik thought but knew the words were not from his own mind.

  His palm brushed the hilt of the golden dagger and felt a vibration in his hand as it touched the hilt.

  “Should have damn well told us,” Drake hissed.

  Friends can become enemies very quickly. Erik looked down at the dagger, eyebrows furled.

  “Erik.”

  The voice seemed barely audible as Erik just stared at his weapon, trance-like.

  “Erik.”

  Vander Bim’s voice finally cut through, and Erik looked up.

  “Help your brother onto his horse,” Vander Bim said.

  Erik didn’t reply, just nodded.

  With Befel still half asleep, Erik lifted his brother gently by the armpits, nervous about moving the shoulder, and then gut his rump into the saddle.

  “Don’t know what good an injured porter will do us,” Switch muttered as he walked by.

  “He’ll be fine,” Erik replied as he made sure Befel was steady.

  “Cut him loose I say,” Switch said to no one in particular. “His fault this happened anyway.”

  “It could have happened to anyone,” Vander Bim said.

  “You and I both know that’s not true,” Switch replied. “Bloody pricks. Little gutter shites bringing trouble down on us, and all we can do is sympathize over a hurt shoulder.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Vander Bim said to Erik.

  “I try not to,” Erik replied.

  “You earned your pay today,” Vander Bim said.

  “And some,” Erik added. He thought that maybe his voice sounded unappreciative but felt he cared less than he might have done before.

  “Aye, and some,” was Vander Bim’s simple reply as if he too was recognizing the change.

  As they rode away, Erik looked over his shoulder. Buzzards had already started circling overhead, ravens bouncing about the dead and squawking, their black beaks glimmering and stained with blood. Later that night, the plains dogs would come in and carry away whatever the ravens and buzzards didn’t take. These men deserved nothing better.

  Erik thought that, knew that, but nonetheless, the smile on his face faded. The image of Fox crept into his head, but not as a ruthless slaver, but a little, fiery-haired, freckled boy, spindly-armed, and knobby-kneed. Even he was an innocent child, once. Even he had a mother and a father.

  Erik knew he shouldn’t care, but he couldn’t push the image out of his mind. Then his thoughts turned to the dreams of his mother and father, hanging from a tree, of Marcus and Nadya, lying dead in front of their caravan, the other slavers he had killed.

  “How many people have I killed?” Erik whispered to himself as he watched the ground pass by.

  He was not so much considering the slavers who had died by his hand, but of the people that had lost their lives because of him. Miners and gypsies. Dreams of the dead—dreams of those who he had known and died—haunted him every night. Then another thought grabbed his attention as he looked at the mercenaries he rode with, talking and laughing as if nothing had just happened. That thought stayed in his head, there at the front of his t
houghts as he watched six men who killed for a living. Was this what he was becoming? Was this who he would one day be?

  “How many men will I kill?” he murmured.

  Chapter 57

  “IS THE YOUNG ONE OKAY?” Nafer asked. Turk had barely heard his friend speak.

  “What did you say?” he asked, and Nafer repeated his question. Turk inhaled slowly as he watched the young man before answering.

  “Ah, yes. Young Erik will be fine, but he faces a long road to becoming a man, a treacherous one.”

  Turk watched the boy, like water in the saddle, head hanging low, chin to chest. Still a farmer really who had never even considered that one day he might hold a sword, let alone kill another man.

  “Why so melancholy, do you suppose?” Nafer asked. “He should be celebrating. It makes no sense.”

  “He grieves for the men we killed,” Turk replied.

  “Vass?” interjected Demik and his Darvish exclamation drew the attention of the other travelers, though it was only Turk and Nafer who understood. Tossing a scowl from beneath squinted eyebrows, Turk returned a guttural chastisement to Demik as Switch scowled again.

  Demik opened and then closed his mouth at Turk’s look.

  “Erik can’t stop thinking about the slavers as little, helpless children running to their mothers, or playing with their fathers.”

  “Ah ha. That is sad.” Nafer shook his head and looked back at the boy, reins loose in his grip. “Now I am sorry for the young man.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Demik huffed and flicked his reins as if swatting a fly away. His horse picked its hooves up and began trotting, forcing the dwarf to pull back to slow down the animal. “None of those children had a mother or father.”

  “He is not like us Demik,” Turk said, looking at his friend. His glare at first was firm, but then he let out a forgiving sigh. “Do you remember the first time you took a life? I do.”