A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  Erik nodded and felt better. He took in a large breath and let it out slowly, closed his eyes, and thought of home. He smelled the freshly shorn grass of early spring, the honeyed scents of roses and lilies in bloom. He heard the somber cooing of the mourning dove that, for the past few years before he left, sat on a purple-leafed bush growing just under his window. It serenaded him every day as the sun poked its face over the eastern horizon. He often thought that bird sang only for him. The first couple times he heard it, he sat up in bed, and as soon as the bird saw him, it promptly flew away. But after a week or so, it stayed, grew accustomed to the young man listening to its pseudo-sad song. He wondered if the songbird missed him. He smiled.

  “A good memory?”

  “Home.”

  “Aye, a very good memory. If we ever reach my home ...” Turk belly-rubbed himself through a self-critical chuckle. “When we reach my home, I will take you to Ilken Copper Head. He is the greatest of smiths in all Drüum Balmdüukr. He could look at your blade if you’d like. Tell you what it is, what it does.”

  Erik’s wide grin offered all the confirmation Turk needed.

  Chapter 59

  “BLOODY SHADOW! WHERE DID THIS heat come from?” Switch said as he yet again wiped sweat from his forehead before draining his waterskin in a single gulp.

  “We should camp early tonight,” Vander Bim said. Erik had noticed their pace had slowed, and the sailor must’ve realized it as well. “We’ve been riding hard for several days.”

  Switch scowled and groaned loudly.

  “You don’t agree?” Vander Bim asked.

  “What’s it matter what I think?” the pouting pickpocket muttered, but when Vander Bim continued to look at him, said, “what if more slavers are following us?”

  “Doubtful,” Turk said. “But we are a large group. Single men or groups of two or three could probably gain ground on us.”

  “Strength in numbers, right Vander Bim?” Switch chastised.

  “Aye,” Vander Bim replied, “and I still stand by my inclination. We can afford a few more hours of rest. While we sleep unafraid of cougars and wolves, those single men will have to rest with one eye open.”

  After Erik had seen to the horses, he plopped down next to his brother.

  “I know this game, Befel,” Erik said. “You feign sickness, and I get stuck with your chores.”

  Befel didn’t say anything. He just lay there, his breathing slow and even.

  “How are you?” Erik tapped Befel in the ribs.

  “Can’t you see I’m sleeping?” Befel asked.

  “I know your tricks.” Erik smiled.

  “If you think this is some trick, then you are more foolish than I thought,” Befel said.

  “I’m sorry,” Erik replied. “I know you’re hurt.”

  “You don’t know,” Befel replied with a hiss. “This ground is hard and hot. I won’t be able to sleep tonight. Every move I make sends ripples of pain down my arm and back. My head aches constantly, and I feel as if I’m coming down with a fever.”

  “It seems that everything in the world that could happen to you has,” Erik said.

  “Piss off,” Befel said, looking over his shoulder at Erik.

  “And where should I go?” Erik asked.

  “I don’t care,” Befel replied.

  “I don’t like arguing with you, Befel,” Erik said, “but don’t think I will just sit here while you abuse me and curse me and then whine about your shoulder.”

  “Whatever,” Befel said.

  “Vander Bim said we will stop for a few days in Aga Kona,” Erik said. “Maybe there, you can get some much-needed rest.”

  “How far?” Befel asked.

  “I don’t know,” Erik replied, “but it can’t be too far.”

  “Maybe I’ll just stay in Aga Kona,” Befel muttered.

  “And do what?” Erik asked. When his brother didn’t reply, he said, “You cannot still be serious about wanting to be a miner.”

  “Maybe I’ll do something else,” Befel said. “I’ll be a bartender. Run a general store. Something other than this, which I am clearly no good at.”

  Erik didn’t reply as he pushed himself to his feet, looking to the south and then to his brother, now pretending to sleep—perhaps wishing he truly slept—and no doubt hoping this was just one, long dream. Erik wandered back to the campfire and stood at the edge of the encirclement, lively conversation passing between Bryon and the dwarves or Vander Bim and Drake.

  Only Switch sat quietly, sipping on a cup of something, his lip curling with every sip, arms wrapped around knees pulled loosely to his chest. He wore a scowl, his typical gaunt grimace of pursed lips and crooked brows. Erik noticed Switch watching him from the corner of his grayish, yellowed eyes. His glance moved from Erik to Befel. Switch’s glower grew, and the clenching of his thin, yet prominent, jaw told of grinding teeth.

  With a quick snort of finality, Switch poured the contents of his cup out and punched the ground with both fists, pushing himself to his feet. The others stopped their conversations and stared at the thief. He spat into the fire and grabbed his cup. He made for Erik, and the young man backed up a few paces, balling his hands into fists, readying himself for a fight.

  Erik saw Bryon tense and move from sitting to crouching on one knee, a cat ready to pounce. But, when Switch reached the young farmer, he said nothing. Erik simply heard the man cursing under his breath. Rather, he stopped short of Befel, stooping over him and grumbling incoherencies. His back to the mercenary, Befel couldn’t have seen Switch, so the thief threw his empty cup at Befel’s feet.

  “My cup is bloody empty!” His yell cracked the now silent night. “Get up and get me some more water!”

  Bryon moved to his feet, but a rough, strong hand stopped him from fully straightening himself. Instead, Drake rose, face red, hands clenched and white-knuckled.

  “We hired them as porters.” Drake’s hiss sounded stern, accusing, and hateful. “To break camp and tend the horses; not to wait on us.”

  Switch looked back at the miner, barely paying him any attention, and then back to Befel. He grunted. He gave him a kick, not too hard, more of a nudge, but nonetheless, it was a boot to the back.

  Erik hadn’t seen him move. He hadn’t seen him traverse the span of the camp. He hadn’t seen him run up on the thief. But, Bryon’s fist flew, catching Switch square in the jaw, and he reeled backward, toppling over the prostrate Befel and landing on his back.

  The sudden silence brought on by the attack proved short-lived as a growl rolled from Switch’s mouth. Turk and Demik clamped their hands onto Bryon and wrestled him to the ground. It was a good thing.

  Switch jumped to a crouched position, long, straight dagger in hand. The poultice along his right shoulder seeped red through his dirty shirt. Drake ran in front of him, putting his hands on the thief ’s chest to stop him from charging Bryon.

  “That’s my family!” Bryon spat as he pushed the dwarves off him. “Employer or no employer, touch him again, and I’ll kill you.”

  Erik joined the dwarves as they moved to stop his cousin ag
ain, but the sidelong glance Bryon shot them told them to stay back. Befel scooted away, half kneeling, half sitting, behind Erik.

  “I’d like to see you try you little shit! You little maggot!” Switch rubbed his jaw with his free hand, spat blood and a bit of chipped tooth, and, despite his red-faced glare, gave the hint of a smile. “You’ll not get another cheap shot like that again.”

  Bryon made for Switch again, and this time the dwarves blocked his path.

  “You won’t always have them to step in between us.” Switch’s grip on his dagger tightened, and his other hand retrieved a smaller, curved blade from the back of his belt.

  “Good.” Bryon lunged forward again, but Turk put an open palm in the middle of his chest.

  “Bryon, stop,” Erik said as Turk shook his head, silently saying the same thing.

  Switch spat on the ground again and walked off into the darkness of the night, cursing Bryon the whole way.

  Erik’s eyes met Drake’s as the miner walked back to the campfire. His eyes spoke of worry.

  “The faults of fights and arguments with Switch normally rest on his shoulders,” Drake explained. “And often, he deserves a beating for something he’s said or done. However, fights with Switch normally result in someone’s death.”

  “A fight with Bryon might result in his death this time,” Erik added. His cousin was a dangerous fighter.

  “Perhaps,” Drake admitted, “or both their deaths. Whoever might die, there seems no sense in letting it happen tonight.”

  Befel stood, shaky and pale. Every step caused a grimace, and he clutched his shoulder. When he passed Turk, the dwarf commented, “Give me a moment, and we’ll have another look at that wound.”

  Befel nodded. Erik helped him over to a spot next to the fire, and as they passed Bryon, Befel tried to put his hand on their cousin’s shoulder. Bryon pushed his hand away.

  “Learn to fight your own battles.” Bryon stomped off into the shadows, in the opposite direction of Switch.

  “Don’t forget who stood by your side when Jovek’s boys bullied you, and who came to your aid when the Wodum brothers and their three friends had you on your stomach and would’ve kicked you until you bled to death!” yelled Befel as his cousin walked away. “Damn you!”

  “Let it go,” Erik said, helping his brother sit down. “He can’t hear you. He wouldn’t be able to hear you even if he looked you in the eyes.”

  Switch now seemed to have disappeared into the night, and as Befel fell into an uneasy sleep, the others gathered again, each with their own thoughts, around the fire as darkness sucked the heat out of the day.

  “Those two men we found, all twisted and burnt,” said Drake, breaking a long silence.

  “Must you really bring them up again?” Erik asked.

  “Well, as much as I don’t like to,” Drake said somewhat apologetically, “it’s interesting, what they said in Finlo before attacking the Messenger of the East.”

  “You understood them?” Erik asked.

  “Aye,” Drake replied. “I spent time in Gol-Nornor, in the North River Basin across the Giant’s Vein. I was a part of the Nordethian militia, and we are allies with Gol-Nornor and Gol-Durathna. Picked up some of the language while I was there.”

  “Is that considered Mek-Ba’Dune?” Vander Bim asked.

  “No,” Drake replied with a quick shake of his head, “but the languages are similar, although the people of Mek-Ba’Dune and the nomads of the North River Basin are quite different.”

  “So, what did they say?” Vander Bim asked.

  “You see, Mek-Ba’Dune means ‘Sacred Plains,’” Drake explained. “So, what they said was, ‘for the people of the Sacred Plains.’ Most of the people of Antolika don’t much care for the people of Háthgolthane. We have a history of meddling in the affairs of the people east of the Giant’s Vein. I’m sure they were sent to assassinate the Messenger, to try to stop Golgolithul’s incursions into their lands.”

  Drake looked down at his feet, picked up a small twig, and, with the flick of his wrist, tossed it into the fire. Erik watched the twig, watched the fire consume it, and then watched the fire’s light dance off Drake’s stern face.

  “There’s much bigger things going on in this world than we know, things much bigger than most could imagine.”

  Chapter 60

  PATÛK AL’BANAN LOOKED UP TO the darkening sky and squinted as he traced his index finger around a constellation of stars. They seemed to stand out amongst the million others, floating indifferently in the heavens above the Southern Mountains.

  How fitting that you’re called the Troll’s Shadow in this part of the mountains.

  He looked up to the slopes of the mountain range as the waning light cast faint apparitions as if a giant of a ghost moved from one night tree to another, like one of the boulders brought to life. The general stooped, crouched low to pick a bit of dirt between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned his forearm against his knee and looked back up to the sky, now darker than it was just seconds before.

  “What do the dwarves call you?” Patûk furled his brows. “The Bear. No, The Great Bear. I don’t know which I prefer.”

  He threw the dirt back to its resting place and brushed his hand off on his pants. Standing up, he pulled his shoulders back and rolled his head, his well-muscled neck popping and crackling. He smiled.

  “I think I’ll take the Troll’s Shadow this night. Tomorrow you can be The Great Bear, protecting the heavens. Tonight, I need something terrible.”

  He gave a sideways jerk of his head, and Bao Zi walked to his commander’s side, Warrior—that loyal, battle-hardened, and equally as surly warhorse—in tow. Patûk took the reins, and Bao Zi bowed and shuffled backward, face always to the ground. The general smiled. Loyalty and humility went far with the old commander.

  “Is Lieutenant Bu here?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bao Zi’s responses always sounded abrupt.

  When he first took the man on as his personal guard, Patûk thought the man insolent. He even had him beat several times. But when it came time for battle, that old, half-blinded soldier proved his worth. He even gave his right eye for Patûk. The general remembered that day reverently. A dwarf ’s broadsword meant for his own face had thudded into the guardian’s scalp. He thought Bao Zi dead, for sure. Not only was he not dead, but with a single, hateful swing of his long sword—the same one that still hung from his belt—he removed that bearded midget’s head from his shoulders.

  “Bring him,” the general commanded, and Bao Zi bowed, moving silently away.

  The lieutenant walked quickly to Patûk Al’Banan’s side and knelt, face to the ground. Despite his promotion to officer and his command of all Patûk’s spies, Lieutenant Bu chose to continue to wear the leather breastplate of an enlisted soldier. When Lieutenant Sorben Phurnan saw that, he scoffed and the general had given him a hand across the face for it—privately, of course. Sorben, that fool. His privileged upbringing had clouded his senses, his reasoning. Bu was a spy, and silence and stealth were his armor. Lieutenant Phurnan would have given up the requirements of his trade for a simple symbol of status. And since Bu became lieutenant and had chosen to continue to wea
r the armor of his men, they had worked doubly hard for him.

  “News.” Patûk Al’Banan’s statement seemed simple, but Lieutenant Bu knew what he wanted.

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant remained kneeling and bowed. “Men, dozens of mercenaries heading east from Finlo. In search of a dwarvish city called Orvencrest, my lord. My apologies, sir, but I’ve never heard of it.”

  The general grunted his disapproval but waited. Bu shifted uneasily.

  “Some went directly into the Western Tor but only a few. One man is dead and two others disappeared a week ago. Most are heading along the northern edges of the Southern Mountains, my lord. Heading to a mining camp known as Aga Kona.”

  “Any interventions?” Patûk Al’Banan asked.

  “No, my lord.”

  When Patûk gave a glare that could melt steel in the dead of winter, Bu scooted back several paces.

  “Th-the mercenaries seem to be doing our job for us, sir. Just three days back, we found over a dozen dead, left for the crows.”

  “They were killed by mercenaries?” Patûk Al’Banan asked.

  “My scouts think so, sir,” Lieutenant Bu replied. “They found a dwarf ’s throwing ax among the dead.”

  “We are in the Southern Mountains, Lieutenant,” Patûk Al’Banan replied. A dwarvish tool may not be so uncommon in a place where dwarves live. In fact, most of the dwarves that live in the world of humans come from the Southern Mountains.

  “Aye, my lord. But the southern dwarves are not active in this area of the mountains,” Lieutenant Bu said, “and we know that three dwarves left Finlo with an acceptance to the Messenger’s proposal.”

  “So they are fighting one another,” the general said.

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Bu replied.