Soft boots stepped over dried leaves behind him. They would have fallen silent on most men’s ears, but Al’Banan was too seasoned to be fooled by stealth.
“Report, Lieutenant Bu,” Patûk Al’Banan commanded.
“We are almost finished,” Lieutenant Bu replied.
Patûk nodded with a grunt. He stared down at the fires again. Surreptitiously, his stomach knotted.
“I take no pleasure in death, Lieutenant,” General Al’Banan said.
“Sir?” Bu questioned.
“I’ve seen thousands die, most by my hand or my command,” Patûk explained without turning to face Bu, “but I take no pleasure in it.”
“It is a necessary evil, sir,” Bu replied.
Patûk Al’Banan nodded. He smiled a mirthless smile.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Patûk agreed, “a necessary evil. We are soldiers, and war is our tool.”
“War cares only for death, sir,” Lieutenant Bu said.
“War cares only for death,” the general repeated.
The distant rumble of thunder crept through the high peaks of the mountains. He looked to his left—the west—and saw the silhouettes of clouds, thick and heavy. He hoped it would rain, although he knew it would never make it over the tallest parts of the Southern Mountains.
“Perhaps the rain could wash away the stain of death,” Patûk muttered, but then shook his head. Then, he asked. “The three men?”
“Yes, General,” Bu replied. “They left late a short while ago.”
“Follow them,” the general commanded. “I have tasked Lieutenant Phurnan with that command, but I don’t trust his efficiency.”
“Just follow, my lord?” Lieutenant Bu asked.
Patûk Al’Banan chuckled. Bu proved a good choice. Sorben Phurnan’s worth quickly waned again.
“Make sure Phurnan follows the orders I gave him,” the general replied.
“And the bodies, General?” Bu asked. “Do we leave them as a warning?”
The general shook his head slightly. No warnings. No chances. No mercy.
“As you wish,” Lieutenant Bu replied.
As Lieutenant Bu filtered back into the dark, mountain forest, the cries died, and the reflection of fire began to fade as Patûk looked to the east.
“A Blood Moon. How fitting? Did these deaths appease your need for blood?” Patûk Al’Banan laughed. “A fool’s question. Of course not. You are a god of the old ways. Well, do not worry, ancient Princess of Pain, there will be more blood to come—much more blood.”
Chapter 66
ERIK STOOD ON THE PLAINS of Güdal in his dream. The moonlight was faint and sickly. Tall grass fluttered about his knees in a breeze that brought neither warmth nor coolness. That’s when he saw Marcus, ghostly pale. The man bellowed a deafening cry that sounded oddly stale in this place. Nadya wandered about him, circling him and crying—even though no tears fell from her eyes. He recognized other gypsies, meandering about, moaning and crying. Then, other figures rose from the grass, slowly. Slavers. They limped to him and, even though he tried to run, Erik found himself stuck, unable to move.
The dead slavers closed in on him, and he could hear their subtle laughter, cackling chuckles muffled by blood stuck in their throats. He could smell their stink. He could feel the putrid warmth of their dead breath. As he tried to cry out, he felt a cold hand wrap around his throat. The hand squeezed, and Erik couldn’t breathe. The hand was so cold it burned, and he could feel his flesh tearing away under the grip. Fingers crawled into his open mouth, jagged fingernails jabbing into the back of his throat. He tasted blood.
Erik awoke just as the faint purples and reds of the morning streaked across the sky. He turned to see his brother, still fast asleep.
“We should be in Aga Kona by tomorrow morning at the latest,” Vander Bim said as they finally broke camp and saddled the horses.
While they traveled, the day carrying on with little signs of civilization, Erik saw something on the distant horizon. It looked odd, in the failing sun of the late afternoon, almost like a thin strand of brown hair trailing in front of him. He thought, at first, maybe it was his own hair, fluttering in front of him, but, no, something was there.
“Do you see that?” Erik asked.
“See what?” Befel replied with a hint of irritation.
“There,” Erik said, pointing. “There is something on the horizon.”
“There’s nothing there, Erik,” Befel replied.
“No,” Erik continued, “I see something.”
“I see it too,” Demik said, and he spoke to Turk in Darvish, pointing.
“Yes, me too,” Turk agreed, nodding.
“What is it?” Erik asked.
Turk leaned forward in his saddle, then sat back with a sigh.
“Smoke,” Turk muttered.
“Do you fellows see that?” Switch called back, pulling on the reigns of his horse and turning the animal.
“We were just talking about it,” Turk replied. “It looks like smoke.”
“Aye,” Switch agreed, “bloody smoke. But I don’t see a flame.”
“Perhaps it’s too far away,” Vander Bim said.
“Perhaps,” Switch echoed with an unconvincing tone.
“Could it be a brushfire?” Erik asked.
“Maybe,” Turk replied. He seemed unconvinced as well.
“Those were thunderclouds a few days ago,” Erik said. “If the grass is dry, the lightning could have caused a fire.”
“Aye,” was Turk’s simple reply. Then he looked to Switch. “Switch.”
Switch nodded, turned his horse, and rode away, in the direction of the smoke. When he returned a short while later, the fact that he said nothing and only shook his head before he galloped off again was enough to get the others to follow him at the same pace, and they covered a league in what seemed a quarter of the time.
The thin wisp of smoke quickly turned into thick billowing columns swirling into the sky, giving the waning day a premature darkness. A breeze that should have been cool was warm, hot almost. As it intermittently picked up into a brisk wind, black smoke covered the party and caused both the men and the horses to cough and snort and sneeze.
Only a few dozen more paces revealed the origins of the smoke. The charred remains of a once thriving town—a large mining camp owned by Golgolithul, perhaps—sat before them. Some of the wood from the buildings still smoldered. Most had turned to black ash. Even at the outskirts of the town, Erik could see bodies, strewn about, broken and burned.
“I think we reached Aga Kona,” Bryon said.
“No,” Drake sorrowfully whispered.
“I think he’s right,” Switch said, causing Bryon to jerk his head around.
Bodies lay all about the camp, all men. None of them had weapons, save for a pickax or a small dagger. Those that still had faces stared blankly into the semi-cloudy sky.
“This was definitely Aga Kona,” Vander Bim said, pointing to a pile of rubble and boulders framed by large wood planks. “That was
the entrance to the mine.”
Erik felt his stomach turn as he led his horse through the camp, looking at the devastation around him. The piece of a tent floated by him, the cloth fluttering as if it were a bird, its edges black and red as a subdued flame still ate away at it. The want, the need to vomit didn’t just come from the smell of fire or the dead lying about the camp. It came from the body parts—the arms and legs, bones, mutilated flesh. Erik put a hand to his mouth, holding his retching back.
“Mining camps don’t have women and children?” Bryon questioned.
“This one should have,” Drake said. “It was as much a small town as it was a mining camp.”
“I think I found them,” Switch said.
He stood just inside the blackened stone foundations of what looked to be a large building, by the amount of burned timber and ash piled around it. Heavy beams made of white ash, too thick to burn quickly, still smoldered within the foundations, jutting haphazardly this way and that.
They all dismounted and timidly entered the building, joining Switch. Looking skyward, Erik could see some of the roof remained, four stories high. The frame shifted in the breeze. It would collapse soon. Clay pots and melted, pewter cups littered the ground. And then he saw them.
A large pile of wood and ash huddled in one corner of the building, only, it wasn’t wood and ash.
“Are those . . .” Befel began to ask, but then Erik heard his gagging cut him off.
“Those are people,” Erik said. He felt tears in his eyes. He felt his hands shake. He felt his face go cold.
“Not just people,” Turk said, walking closer. “Women and children. This is where they died.”
“This is where they burned alive,” Switch said.
Erik felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of him, as if some huge fist had just punched him in the stomach. He heard heavy sobs and saw Drake collapse to his knees. He even saw tears in Bryon’s eyes, but then remembered how he’d felt about children back in the gypsy train.
“This is where they came,” Vander Bim said, an obvious lump sticking in his throat, “for a last moment of hope.”
“Or this is where they were driven,” Switch added.
Vander Bim looked at the thief, a questioning arch in his eyebrow.
“These people were driven here,” Switch explained, “purposely trapped here so the building could be burnt down around them.”
“Why couldn’t we have just ridden right past this by night?” Erik muttered with his eyes closed. “Why couldn’t this just lay here a mystery?”
“It still would be here, whether we found it or not,” Befel said.
“Damn whoever did this,” seethed Vander Bim.
“You mean what.” Switch patted the sailor’s shoulder. “Whatever did this.”
Erik tried to force images of women and children out of his mind, but he couldn’t. He could see them clearly, crying in the corner and clutching one another as the roars of some evil creature burst through the walls and the heat of fire surrounded them. He saw their faces, heard their cries, felt their pain. More death to fill his dreams. He clenched his fists and breathed hard.
“What ... what could’ve done such a thing?” Drake sobbed as Vander Bim led him out of the building.
“Mountain trolls,” Switch said, “bloody mountain trolls.” He turned to Turk. “Where is your god now?”
“Here,” Turk replied. “He is here more than you might think.”
As Erik and Turk passed through the burned entrance of the building, the roof began to collapse behind them, sending up clouds of black smoke and burying the remains of the people who had spent their last moments there.
Erik watched as Nafer turned to face the building. He bowed and touched an open hand to his chest. He dug in a pouch at his belt and retrieved what looked like dirt. He said something in Darvish and threw the dirt to the ground. Then he retrieved a piece of bread from his haversack, tore off a smaller portion, touched it to his forehead—still whispering in Darvish—and threw that to the ground.
Erik heard Demik mumble something, and Nafer joined him, and they spoke in unison. Only a moment later, Turk left Erik’s side and joined his companions. He chimed in with the cant, joining in perfectly so that their whisperings sounded like a poem or song.
Erik bowed his head, saying his own prayer as he assumed the dwarves were doing. He saw Vander Bim walk by, shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” Erik asked
“Nothing,” Vander Bim replied.
“You don’t approve of their prayers?” Erik asked.
Vander Bim stopped and looked at Erik with a kind smile. His wrinkles and the gray in his blond hair seemed extenuated in the waning light for some reason, and Erik could tell—perhaps it was the deep redness in the sailor’s eyes—that he had been crying.
“It’s not that I don’t approve, lad,” Vander Bim replied. “I just sometimes wonder what good it can do. I suppose it does us more good than anything else, makes us feel better. I hate to say it, but in times like this, I agree with Switch. What loving and merciful god would allow this to happen?”
“Have you never prayed?” Erik asked.
“Sure, I’ve prayed. I suppose at times I still pray,” Vander Bim replied. “For what, I’m not sure. A long life? Money? That I won’t be eaten by monsters lurking in the mountains and turned into troll shit? Like I said, I pray more for me than anything else.”
Erik bowed his head again and closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to pray. He wanted to pray for his dreams to go away. He wanted to pray for his mother and father and sisters and Simone. He wanted to pray for the children who had been stolen away by the slavers, for these people in Aga Kona. He even wanted to pray for the slavers. But it all seemed too much to deal with.
“You are praying?” Turk asked, coming back alongside him.
“Maybe,” Erik replied. “But I don’t know what to pray.”
“Whatever is in your heart,” Turk replied.
“That’s a lot,” Erik said.
“I think An has time,” Turk replied with a smile.
“I don’t speak Darvish,” Erik said. “Will the Creator understand me?”
“He understands all languages,” Turk replied. “Would you like me to pray with you? Silently?”
Erik thought for a moment.
“Yes,” he finally said.
Turk held out his hands. Erik, at first, didn’t know what to do. Did he really mean for Erik to hold his hands? Finally, Erik grabbed Turk’s rough and calloused hands, and they both bowed their heads and stood for a long time, silent.
“What do we do now?” Erik asked as the sun began to disappear in the west.
“I know I would rather camp away from the dead,” Vander Bim replied.
“We may not have a choice,” Switch replied. “They are close by—the trolls. I don’t know if I would chance traveling with such little light.”
“Then what?” Vander Bim asked.
“Hike north,” Turk offered, “a league perhaps. Camp in the Plains. It will be h
ot, but better than being surprised by mountain trolls in the dead of night.”
“It’s a good plan, tunnel digger,” Switch said.
“And after that?” Erik asked.
“Stick to the plan,” Vander Bim said. “Make for Aga Min and enter the mountain there.”
“And hope it still stands when we get there,” Switch added.
Erik stared at the burned building, the final resting place of all those women and children. He looked to the mountains and watched shadows that probably weren’t there.
Then, his thoughts went to his home, his farmstead, and his parents. Just two years ago, he was farming, planning a marriage with Simone and dreaming of one day becoming a man like Rikard Eleodum. Adventure, dwarves, mountain trolls, magic, gypsies, fighting . . . killing were the last things on his mind. What things had to have happened in order for him to be where he was? He’d left for a new life, a chance of a better life.
“Truly,” Erik muttered to himself, “a chance beginning. A chance beginning to a new life.”
Or was it?
A Chance Beginning Page 36