A Chance Beginning

by Christopher Patterson

  Patûk actually chuckled. “And that is why you never use mercenaries to do something well-trained easterners can do.”

  Patûk looked up at the sky again. “How far to Aga Kona?”

  “From where we are,” Bu replied, “a day. We would be there tomorrow by dusk.”

  Patûk nodded and turned to the captain of his guard. “Send Captain Kan ahead. Tell him we will meet him in two days’ time.”

  Bu nodded, bowed, and left, and Patûk turned back to Bao Zi.

  “Now, tell that fool, Sorben. ..” Patûk stopped, silently cursed himself for saying what he did in front of his bodyguard. “Go get Lieutenant Phurnan. Tell him to come here with as much speed as he can muster.

  “Yes, sir,” Bao Zi replied and hurried away again.

  Chapter 61

  RANUS AND CLIENS DECIDED TO camp up in the rising hills of the Southern Mountains. They knew all too well the things that traversed these parts of the mountains, especially as those rolling hills rose to tall peaks dotted with jutting rocks and huge boulders. Trolls, antegants, wolves, cougars, dwarves. The last might prove the most worrisome of encounters. Some southern dwarves seemed at least tolerant of humans—escorting them away from their homes at the very worst. Others, those disgusted with men and their constant excursions into dwarvish lands, may be polite enough to offer a quick death.

  Regardless, dwarves would be the least favorable. Trolls and antegants, well, Cliens shuddered at the thought. Perhaps they were all as bad as each other.

  “Shall we tempt fate and make a fire tonight?” Cliens asked.

  The click followed by a short hiss spoke of Ranus’ disapproval. It spoke of an argument these two soldiers had on many occasions in regards to fate and free will and the role of supernatural forces in people’s lives.

  “Yes, yes, I know you don’t believe in fate. I suppose I don’t either.”

  Ranus gave the Gol-Durathnan a look of disbelief.

  “Okay, so maybe a little. But you must admit, how can the Creator know everything, know what will happen, and yet still give us free will? And how can he love us and then allow us to make stupid mistakes that hurt ourselves and others?”

  Two clicks, a whistle, two hisses, and another click.

  “I guess you’re right. Perhaps this is a discussion for another time. Sometimes I wish, however, that my parents raised me to know the gods. It would be so much simpler to leave everything up to their fancies and perverse pleasures.”

  Ranus put his hand—long, slender fingers that were cold and clammy—on Cliens’ shoulder. How could such slender fingers be so strong?

  “Yes, yes, I know. Then I would spend eternity with the Shadow. Lucky I met you, right my friend?”

  Ranus smiled.

  “So, we should tempt all the nasties that live in these mountains and make a fire.”

  Ranus nodded.

  The fire proved a small one. It seemed enough, though, in the way of comfort. It gave a bit of warmth and a bit of light. Enough to ward off any incursions from curious creatures, or perhaps just enough to invite them. Cliens threw Ranus his bag, and the soldier rifled through the Durathnan’s things and found a pouch of dried fruit, rattled a hollow gourd filled with nuts, and several small sheets of jerked beef, lightly seasoned with pepper and salt. The soldier from the Shadow Marshes tossed the bag back to Cliens and then, setting his dinner before him on a small blanket, fiddled for something in his pocket. He smiled widely when he retrieved that for which he was looking.

  Cliens shook his head. Ranus snorted and presented the contents of his pocket to the soldier in a gesture of sharing.

  Cliens stuck his tongue out and curled his lip. “You know I don’t like that stuff.”

  A hiss, a click, a quick gurgle, then another hiss.

  “I know I’ve never tried it,” Cliens replied.

  Cliens didn’t need to. A black ball of something that looked like moss and dirt seemed none too appetizing. Ranus’ treats for himself—from home. This was his last one. He studied it, seemed to revel in its presence for a moment, and then tossed it into his wide mouth and moaned with delight as he began to chew.

  “Savor it, my friend,” Cliens said.

  Ranus nodded.

  The Durathnan looked up to the sky. Their small crackling fire was no match for the stars above. He figured that his children and their mother were looking at them at that very moment. In fact, they had probably been looking at them for some time. The sun rose and set earlier in Kamdum.

  Ranus made a complicated string of sounds.

  “I know they are safe.” Cliens hated being away from home for so long. He almost turned Darius down this time. He had served the General Lord Marshal well and faithfully for a long time. He had no reservations about turning down the commander of Amentus’ forces, and he knew the marshall would respect his decision. But when his eldest son and wife reminded him that duty to the Creator and Country came before family, he had no choice.

  Ranus clicked and hissed and groaned again.

  “Aye,” Cliens replied. “We do need to get as much rest as possible. We do have a long trek tomorrow.”

  Ranus knew Cliens too well. Watching the stars would put Cliens in a lamentable state. They needed every ounce of energy, courage, and heart focused on their task at hand.

  “May the Great Bear watch them tonight and keep them safe. May he watch us and give us a hasty return home.”

  Chapter 62

  “WHAT YOU SPEAK OF IS treason.” The older man, Arnif, ran a hand across his gray hair.

  Patûk Al’Banan scuffed his own gray head, watching the old man lean back in his chair, right hand resting gently on the table that separated the two. Age had not treated him as kindly as Patûk.

  Wrinkles creased Arnif ’s face, and the white lines of ancient scars crisscrossed his cheeks and forehead unevenly. He tapped his fingers, arthritic and swollen, on the table slowly.

  “Not treason,” Patûk reasoned in a rare calm, cool voice, “but business. The Lord of the East is a businessman, after all. We all are, are we not?”

  “Business?” the other man laughed. “Aga Kona would bring a high price if someone proved foolish enough to consider what you are offering.”

  “I can pay it. In fact, name your price, and I will double it,” Patûk Al’Banan said. “Give the money to the Ruler of Golgolithul if you like.”

  That threw the man into a fit of laughter. “Oh, yes. He would welcome me with open arms after selling his new mine, one that sits on a fortune of gold. A mine that would bring a hundred thousand times what you would pay over its life.”

  “Then keep the money for yourself,” Patûk Al’Banan replied. “What do I care what you do with the money? Just don’t pass up a once in a lifetime offer.”

  “And look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.” The old man, face long and drawn with a hawk-beaked nose and thin mouth laughed.

  “I may have only a few years left, but I plan on stretching those out as best I can. Besides, even if we made no money here at Aga Kona, my only welcome for selling it would be the gallows. No, it is not for sale. N
ow, if you have nothing else to say, I bid you a good night.”

  Patûk grabbed the man’s wrist before he could move. His steel grip held the man’s arm firm, even as he tried to pull away.

  “Then abandon it,” the general said in a low, whispering hiss. “Tell your king brigands ran you off. Tell him whatever you like. Just leave.”

  Arnif ’s thin lips grew even thinner. His white, haphazard eyebrows curled over squinting eyes.

  “A sword would run me through the minute those words left my mouth. Or worse.”

  He stopped struggling to pull his wrist free and studied Patûk’s face. The general didn’t think the man recognized him, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Do you think you are the first thug to try and intimidate me?”

  Patûk Al’Banan jerked back; Arnif ’s words were venom, dirty spittle in his face.

  “In my line of work,” Arnif added, “I encounter the likes of you all the time. You’ll not scare me. You’ll certainly not drive me from this mine. And if you don’t let go of my arm, you’ll not soon forget this day.”

  Patûk released the man. He nodded a slight approval at the man’s defiance even if a storm did rage inside the general’s head.

  “No,” Patûk corrected. “You never before encountered the likes of me,” he explained, offering that intentional smile he typically gave right before he killed someone. “I am not some ordinary thug. I am the worst kind of thug. But you are right on one thing, my foolish Arnif. I will not soon forget this day.”

  “Then get out . . .” Arnif said quietly but with clear meaning.

  “Gladly,” Patûk Al’Banan said, standing and giving the captain of the Aga Kona mine a curt bow.

  Patûk pushed aside the door-flap angrily, leaving behind a cursing Arnif. He stopped just short of a well-groomed man and watched him getting ready to walk inside. Broad-shouldered and tall, his cloak was surprisingly free of dust and wrinkles when he must have been riding to get to this place.

  Wavy brown hair spread evenly over his shoulders gave him the look of a successful adventurer. The finely crafted hilts, bound in richly colored leather, of two long swords poked through the man’s cloak, and his attention seemed to be on his riding gloves, pulling them off and stuffing them neatly into his belt. But it was the man’s clean-shaven face, his rigid jawline, and the way he held his head when meeting Patûk eye to eye, that gave the look of a soldier. So engrossed in his hands, he did not see the general.

  “My apologies, sir,” the man said, bumping shoulders with Patûk. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. My fault entirely.”

  Patûk just grumbled under his breath and moved on with a sideways glance at the well-groomed adventurer. Certainly, a soldier at one point. Any mercenary or treasure seeker would have punched him for such an insult of standing in a man’s way. It would have been to his death, of course, had he sought to attack Patûk.

  As the supposed soldier pushed the tent’s flap aside, Patûk heard Arnif yell, “What the hell do you want?”

  “My apologies,” Patûk heard the adventurer say, “but I wish to beg a night’s stay in your camp for myself and my two companions. We have money, of course.”

  That was what Patûk heard before the tent’s flap closed and muffled any more coherent sound. From the corner of his eye, he saw two other men standing by three horses. One nickered and stomped as Patûk walked on.

  The fading dusk and oncoming night muddled their features, but he could see their build at least in the waning light. They looked much like the other adventurer—tall, broad-shouldered, well-built. Curious.

  “Well?” Sorben Phurnan asked when the general returned to his side, holding Warrior’s reins.

  “You would do well to watch your tone with me, Lieutenant,” Patûk commanded.

  “Yes, sir. I apologize most . . .”

  “Stuff your apologies,” Patûk Al’Banan said with irritation, “I am tired of receiving apologies tonight.”

  Sorben Phurnan bowed low in submission. Patûk looked up to the Southern Mountains, its low rolling hills of the Western Tor all but gone, finally turned into high mountain peaks. In the night air, he saw the shadow of another boulder move up among the undulations and dips of the rising slopes. But this time, yellow eyes were highlighted by the soft moonlight, and they met Patûk’s steady gaze before they quickly blinked into darkness. The shadow moved, seen no more.

  “The Troll’s Shadow,” the general muttered and smiled.

  He turned his attention back to the lieutenant. The man stood smugly in front of the old soldier, head bowed and knees bent in half reverence, half disdain. Patûk remembered a thought he had had many nights before. Did Sorben Phurnan’s zealotry outweigh his foolishness? The general shook his head. His foolishness was beginning to outweigh his zealotry.

  “What did you make of those three men who arrived?” Patûk Al’Banan pointed to the two darkened silhouettes standing by their horses.

  “They were at the Lady’s Inn, my lord,” Sorben replied. “They are mercenaries.”

  “Truly?” the general asked.

  “Yes, sir. That is, at least, what our spies—Bu—tells us.” A strong hint of contempt seasoned Sorben Phurnan’s words.

  “And you distrust his information?” Patûk asked.

  Sorben didn’t reply.

  “They have the look of soldiers to me,” the general said.

  “Agreed, sir,” Lieutenant Sorben Phurnan replied. “In fact, they move and look like Eastern Soldiers. I heard them, as they spoke with one another, speaking Shengu, and in a dialect that sounded refined, educated. Nonetheless, Bu saw them in Finlo. And he saw them accept the Messenger’s offer.”

  Perhaps mercenaries speaking Shengu—the language of most Golgolithul—didn’t seem such an oddity. Perhaps even well-trained, soldier-like men speaking Shengu didn’t seem so strange. But all officers of Golgolithul received an education where, in addition to many other things, they learned to speak well. An Eastern soldier speaking an educated dialect of Shengu made an obvious conclusion.

  Patûk’s lip curled. “Eastern officers selling their training as mercenaries. It makes me sick.”

  “What would you have me do, sir?” Sorben Phurnan asked.

  “Follow them when they leave. Kill them when you have the chance.” Patûk’s tone was as if he was telling someone to pass him a drink.

  Sorben Phurnan gave the general’s reluctance to kill former eastern officers a decidedly derisive look. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Patûk saw the disrespect on Sorben’s face, heard it in his voice. He would deal with it later. Lieutenant Bu was proving a loyal soldier, one who did what the general asked of him without question, without needless, negative responses and looks. And Captain Kan had mentioned two other men under his control who could readily serve as faithful junior officers in Patûk’s ever-growing army of dissidents. The general’s need for Sorben grew smaller and smaller. He looked back up to the mountains. Those yellow eyes appeared again.

  “And Aga Kona, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

  The general looked at his underling, his head still bowed in mock reverence. “Th
ey will not sell. They will not abandon. I think you know what to do.”

  Chapter 63

  SWITCH, AS HE OFTEN DID, rode ahead of the company for most of the day, scouting and surveying their course, and Bryon eyed the thief closely.

  “It’s a wonder he just doesn’t leave,” Bryon whispered to no one. “It doesn’t seem like he needs us, and we’d be better off without him.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Turk always seemed intent on listening to Bryon’s self-directed mutterings as if the farmer would have something of worth to offer. “He may be crude and unruly, and at times we all might question whether he’s a foe more than a friend, but I have a feeling his skills may come in handy. You must admit, our encounter with those slavers might have gone quite differently without his help.”

  “I still don’t like him,” Bryon muttered through ground teeth.

  “You don’t have to like him.” Turk smiled. “You need only tolerate him. Do you think you would’ve liked every soldier you would’ve stood next to in the ranks of the Eastern Army?”

  Bryon shook his head.

  “No indeed.” Turk’s self-righteous smile irritated Bryon like a thorn in the thumb. The dwarf knew he was smart and had no compunctions about letting others know how intelligent he was. Despite all that, he did seem to make sense most of the time ... all the time, but Bryon would have hated to admit that.

  “But you would’ve tolerated them to survive, and that is what you must do here. I hate admitting it as much as you do, but Switch could very well save your life one day.”

  Every moment without Switch around felt like a breath of fresh air. So, when the gray-brown head of the emaciated thief emerged from the eastern horizon, cursing his galloping horse, Bryon’s heart sank a little. Part of him wondered why the Goldumarian spurred his poor horse so vigorously, to the point of coughing fits, and then part of him didn’t care—the part that wanted the fool to keep on riding.