A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  “You know I do,” Demik said. “We all do. And we were all right in our actions. Righteous kills, even if yours was a rude awakening to the world of men.”

  Turk remembered the woman he had saved from a would-be rapist in an alley in Vestingard. He also remembered the disgusted look she gave him and the warmth and smell of her spittle as it hit his face.

  “Aye,” Turk agreed, “but we were all trained to fight. We understand the difference between a righteous kill and murder. Erik was not and does not.”

  “But those slavers ...” Demik paused and shook his head. “It has been quite a while since I’ve seen men so ruled by wickedness. I don’t care how little and innocent they once were, their transgressions warranted death. They got what they deserved.”

  “I know,” Turk replied. “And Erik does too. They did fight well, though, didn’t they? These farmers turned porters.”

  “I will admit that I was quite surprised,” Nafer said.

  “They did well enough,” was Demik’s reluctant acceptance.

  “They could have fought like an army of dwarvish warriors, and you still would not give them their due credit,” Turk said.

  Nafer laughed, and Demik scowled.

  “They survived,” Demik replied, “against a group of untrained, hungry slavers that looked more like wild dogs. The only ones out of the whole lot that looked to have any training were the two Samanians. If you think that is fighting well, then, so be it. Let us see what happens when they are truly tested.”

  “And what test would that be?” Nafer asked.

  Demik looked to the Southern Mountains.

  “You know what tests lay ahead of us,” Demik said.

  “You think he’ll be okay?” Nafer nodded toward Erik.

  Turk glanced over his shoulder at the young man.

  “He never thought he would have to take a life. It is hard, and I understand that. And it does not make this any easier when he is surrounded by men such as these, men whose only hope is the glimmer of gold, the warmth of a woman, and to live another day. But he will be okay, I think. He is coming to terms with it.”

  “Let us hope An is with him in this time of grief and pain,” Nafer said.

  “An is with all of us,” Turk raised eyes heavenward. Demik just shook his head and gave a wry laugh.

  Chapter 58

  WHEN THEY STOPPED TRAVELING FOR the day, Switch begrudgingly decided that he would finally let Turk take a look at his wounds, the thief squirming as the dwarf tried to inspect his various injuries.

  “I wish he wouldn’t bother,” Bryon said. When Erik shot him a questioning look, he added, “Maybe he would get an infection and just die.”

  A part of Erik wanted to agree with his cousin.

  “We need him,” Erik said.

  “Need him?” Bryon questioned.

  “Yes, need him,” Erik repeated. “He’s good at it.”

  “Good at what?” Bryon asked.

  “This,” Erik said, slowly nodding his head to their surroundings. “He’s good at all this. He’s good at killing.”

  “Well, be careful then. You might find yourself on the end of his skill we need so badly.”

  “Sit still,” Turk commanded.

  “That shit bloody stinks.” Switch wrinkled his nose, jerking his head away from his wounded shoulder as Turk smeared his medicinal cream sparingly. This was one of the thief ’s many cuts.

  “And, by the gods, it burns. Are you trying to torture me, tunnel digger?”

  “The burn is your injuries healing.” Turk’s face held no emotion, but Erik could see Nafer biting back a smile.

  “Give me some rum, or tomigus root, or some flaming heart leaf,” Switch cried.

  “Ah, flaming heart leaf. We don’t have enough to feed you after you wake from the deep sleep heart leaf would give you,” Turk replied. “This cream will cure your ailments.”

  “Rum cures my ailments just fine,” Switch argued.

  “I told you, thief.” Turk seemed to hang on the word, to draw it out as Switch emphasized tunnel digger so often. “Rum, and anything else will slow the healing process. Leave your wounds be, and they’ll be alright. Continue to fuss with them, and watch them fester and spoil and turn black.”

  “You speak as if I’ve never been cut before.” Switch huffed and then hissed. “And what of the itching?”

  “Healing,” was Turk’s curt reply as Switch walked off without a word of gratitude. The thief plopped himself on the ground, and moments later, loud snores spoke of his sleep.

  Drake shook his head, a palm rubbing his breastbone as he walked, mumbling to no one in particular.

  “Not a drink of water. Not a nibble of jerky. Not a splash on the face. Not even a ‘good day, I’m going to sleep now.’ Such an odd fellow.”

  To Erik’s right, Bryon was being unusually caring and helping Befel settle down for the night in a relatively comfortable, shady spot guarded by a few more tall shrubs and a single, malnourished, rough-barked tree that looked twisted and bent. Its tiny oval leaves all arranged in a neat row along a thin, green branch did little for shade. Befel grimaced with every movement and gripped his shoulder as he waited for Turk to bring more of his medicine.

  “Here.” Vander Bim passed Erik a cup of rum as he looked down at his brother. At the young farmer’s hesitation, he continued, “Rum always seems to dim pain. All kinds of pain.” Vander Bim smiled at his own medical advice. Befel reached for it for himself.

  “Perhaps a cupful,” Befel said before he coughed on one sip, his face brightening at the taste.

  Drake laughed until a sharp snort and a chastising stare came from Turk.

  “No rum for this one,” Turk scolded.

  “Can’t you see he’s in pain?” Drake asked. “You offered it the first time you treated him.”

  Turk seemed none too moved.

  “He was in more pain then. No rum for you, as well,” Turk added.

  Drake almost looked like a child robbed of his favorite toy.

  Turk leaned back, a hand in his satchel. Bottles clinking, he drew out a pouch of something and shook it before he passed it to Drake.

  “Spend time you’d be drinking inhaling this medicine. Mix it with water.”

  “Why?” Drake spouted his plea like a little child.

  “Have you ever tended to wounds before—or even dabbled in the healing arts?” Turk asked.

  Drake shook his head.

  “Then you’ll do as you’re told.” Turk gave a gruff nod of finality to the miner, and Erik smiled for the first time in a day.

  “Like a mother scolding a child,” Erik muttered with a rare smile as he went off to see to his horse.

  Moments later, lost in his thoughts, a heavy thump startled him. Fear jerked his shoulders and, gripping the reins of his mount in his left hand, the right one firmly wrapped around the golden hilt of his dagger.

  Turk held his hands up in defense, a saddle dropped at his feet.

  “I am sorry, my friend. I d
idn’t mean to startle you.”

  Erik released his breath and relaxed the hand on his weapon.

  “I was just cleaning my horse’s coat,” Erik said.

  “Quite thoroughly I see.” Turk nodded to the gleaming patch of brown fur the young man had brushed repeatedly until it reflected the sun while the rest of the poor animal sat dingy and dull.

  “I take pride in my work, I suppose.” Erik shrugged and turned back around. He moved to another spot and, with as much care as he could muster, stroked his brush across the animal’s hide.

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps you didn’t mean to clean at all.” Turk chuckled.

  “Then what would I be doing with a brush and a dirty horse standing in front of me?” Erik glowered over his shoulder, hoping his tone spoke more than his words. Inside, he regretted being sharp when he knew the dwarf meant well.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.” Turk’s lack of reaction surprised Erik.

  “You are still upset about those men—the slavers.” Turk didn’t need the young farmer to answer.

  Erik thought about going back to brushing his animal’s coat but instead dropped his brush, his chin touching his chest.

  “I wasn’t—not at first. I don’t know. I can’t get them out of my head. I can’t stop thinking of ...”

  “You can’t stop thinking of them as little children—innocent, little children,” Turk interrupted.

  “Yes.” Erik met Turk’s blue-gray eyes.

  “You know,” Turk spoke softly, “there comes a time when a boy’s innocence passes away, and he begins to make choices on his own—he becomes accountable for the things he does, both good and bad. Those men held no innocence. They made their choices. Even though they were once little children, and their choices may have been difficult—perhaps they did not have loving mothers and caring fathers—they still made their choices. They are not guiltless, little children.”

  Turk smiled, not a laughing smile, or a mocking smile, but an understanding smile, one that knew exactly what Erik thought and felt.

  “You have continued to pray?” Turk asked.

  Erik nodded again. “My prayers do nothing. They don’t comfort me, and I think the Creator wants nothing with them.”

  “Sometimes An answers prayers through his silence,” Turk explained. “You must know that An, who you call the Creator, forbids murder without reason, but not killing amidst the bloodshed of battle, defending oneself, fighting for a righteous cause.”

  “But does the Creator know that I rejoiced when they died?” Erik replied, his voice hard, angry almost.

  A part of him wanted to be sorry for the men whose lives he had taken, but he wasn’t and prayed for them more because he thought he ought to and not because he wanted to. A part of him wanted to grieve for the gypsies and miners who had died, but he didn’t. They just haunted his dreams, night after night. And every ounce of him wanted to hold his mother and father, kiss the foreheads of his sisters, caress the face of his beloved Simone, but they were so far away, and he didn’t even know if any of them were still alive, let alone waiting for his return.

  “Does the Creator know that I smiled as I watched crows pick at their flesh?” Erik hissed, his words bearing the same intensity as water hitting red-hot iron.

  “Aye, that he does,” Turk said, “and for that, you must continue to ask his forgiveness. But if he never forgave us, never turned a blind eye to our transgressions even after we’ve repented, I fear there would be no one dining in the halls of Heaven, and the Shadow would be brimming with the souls of even the most righteous warriors who have walked Háthgolthane.”

  “I don’t think he will forgive me,” Erik said and felt the muscles in his jaw ache as he ground his teeth.

  “If you truly ask it, truly in your heart ask for forgiveness, An . . . the Creator will grant it,” Turk explained. “That is his promise to us.”

  Erik nodded slightly.

  “You will be all right, my young friend.” Turk patted Erik on the shoulder. “This time of uncertainty will pass. I think I would be more worried if you didn’t lament the death of another.”

  Turk remained next to Erik for a short time, making what little small talk a dwarf and young, inexperienced farmer could make. Erik spoke of his father and sisters, his brother and cousin, other things about a farm that could not at all interest a battle-hardened mountain dweller. Nonetheless, he spoke, and the dwarf nodded and smiled as if he truly cared about what Erik had to say. All the while, Erik could not help but think his friend looked nervous, apprehensive almost.

  Turk finally took in a large breath, seemingly resigning himself to something.

  “Quite a blade you have there.” He pointed to the jeweled hilt and scabbard stuck snuggly in Erik’s belt.

  Erik looked down at the weapon and didn’t know what to say. He seemed to stare at it with as much curiosity as the dwarf.

  “You didn’t know what it could do, did you?” Turk asked.

  Erik shook his head. A small smile crept across his face. “It belonged to a friend.”

  “A good friend to give you such a gift,” Turk said.

  “Aye,” Erik replied, “a very good friend.”

  The dwarf protruded his lower lip, his brows curved downwards in contemplation.

  “Magic,” Turk said, “but what kind?”

  “Magic?” Erik said. Did that exist? He guessed now that it did, that something could possess powers not normally of this earth, but many in his farmstead didn’t believe so. Erik laughed silently. Some in his village, many in the world, believed only men inhabited the earth. Obviously not true either. What would his grandmother say?

  “The Shadow,” he could hear her rasp in the back of his head. “Magic, my boy, is the tool of the Shadow and all his minions.”

  He looked at his dagger again, removed it—scabbard and all—from his belt and inspected with at least a little bit of caution.

  “I think the others are upset with me,” Erik said.

  “Why?” Turk asked.

  “Because of the dagger,” Erik replied.

  Turk shrugged.

  “Irritated, maybe,” Turk said. “Mercenaries aren’t as wary of magic as simple folk from Western Háthgolthane. But it is a courtesy, typically, to let your adventuring companions know you have something enchanted in your possession.”

  “But I didn’t . . .”

  Turk put up a hand, cutting Erik off.

  “I know you didn’t know,” Turk said. “And they know that as well now. That is why they are merely irritated and not actually upset.”

  “I think the flute I play is magic also,” Erik added. “I don’t know how to play the flute, and yet, I do. Or rather, it plays—whatever I think, whatever I imagine, it plays itself. This also a gift from my friend.”

  Turk nodded and reached for the knife. Erik relented and gave the dwarf his weapon.

  You would freely give this dwarf your weapon? Erik thought. I trust him. I don’t know why, but I trust him.

  “And this man,” Turk said as he turned the dagger in his hands, “this friend jus
t gave these things to you? Even in lands that scorn magic, it will fetch a high price, one too big for someone to simply gift enchanted things to friends. When someone comes across magical things, they normally keep them, hide them, treasure them, but never give them away. Who was this friend?”

  “They belonged to Marcus.” Erik’s voice cracked. “A gypsy. He died in the slaver attack along with his wife. His son gave them to me. Said they’d be better use to me than him. I couldn’t believe it at first. The dagger, even without being magic, must be expensive, that I know for sure. I have often thought that I could sell that dagger and make my father a rich man. And the flute. Marcus played it every night. I thought a son would want to keep such a thing. Perhaps he knew where I would be going.”

  “Perhaps.” Turk looked at the unsheathed dagger and then to the dented, single-edged short sword hanging from the young man’s belt. The dwarf handed the weapon back to Erik.

  “You say that with some uncertainty,” Erik said.

  Turk shrugged. “These gypsies, goodly people, yes?”

  Erik nodded. “Why?”

  “Gypsies have a way of getting their hands on things that don’t belong to them.” Turk quickly looked up at Erik. He must’ve seen the look of defiance work across his face. “But, if you say these men were good men, then he must’ve come across them some other way. I would think if someone, especially in the west, found themselves in the possession of a magic dagger and flute, it would be a gypsy.”

  Erik felt his face soften.

  “Why?”

  “They travel all over the world, my friend,” Turk replied. “Despite the stereotypes, they are expert tradesmen. I’m sure in a land such as Wüsten Sahil, where things of an enchanted nature are more prevalent, a gypsy would readily take it in lieu of gold, knowing what price it could fetch in Háthgolthane or Antolika. This is a precious gift. One that is truly heartfelt. Treasure it.”