Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  “Will he be all right?” Erik asked.

  “I’m surprised you care,” Turk replied without taking his eyes off Bryon’s wound.

  “I don’t,” Erik said. He bit his lip and clenched his fists, but it was a lie. “No. I do. He’s my cousin. I care.”

  “Is that the only reason you care?” Turk asked.

  Erik didn’t answer for a while. He just sat and watched shadows dance along the tunnel wall, listened to the rain pound against wet dirt and grass outside their little sanctuary. He shivered as a quick gust of air doused him with rainy, nighttime air.

  “No.” Erik shook his head as if Turk could see it.

  This time, Turk took a while to respond.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” Turk finally said. “This is like no wound I have ever seen before. It has taken all of my knowledge of medicine and the body, all of my …” Turk paused a moment, “skills, to stem his fever and keep the pain at bay. This is no ordinary wound, with no ordinary poison.”

  “But he will all right?” Erik asked again.

  “I don’t know,” Turk replied, “I think I can treat him well enough until we get to Thorakest. Once we get there, it may take some time, but I believe he will heal.”

  “I’ve never asked about your ability to heal wounds,” Erik said.

  “What about it?” Turk still seemed short with Erik, agitated and curt. Erik couldn’t blame him but offered no apology.

  “Is that something all dwarvish warriors learn how to do?” Erik asked. “Work with medicine? Heal wounds and tend to injuries?”

  “Some, yes,” Turk said. “Not all.”

  “And why are you exceptionally good at it?” Erik asked. “Did your father teach you?”

  “No,” Turk replied. “I happened to learn on my own.”

  “How—”

  “You know,” Turk said, cutting off Erik and staring at him. Erik couldn’t quite see Turk’s eyes in the dimness of the lantern light, but he imagined those hard, gray eyes glaring at him. “You are not the only one who has lost loved ones. You are not the only one who has lost a friend on this journey. I am sorry for your loss, Erik. I know not how it feels to lose a brother, but I have lost friends that were like brothers to me. I know it hurts. And no one would ever fault you for grieving. But you act as if no one here knows what loss is, as if no one here has ever had to deal with the death of a treasured friend. Mortin and Bim were—are—beloved warriors by the dwarves here, with us now, and by those at home, including their families. They had wives and children. And, I fear, we may lose even more before our journey is done.”

  “It just hurts,” Erik said. He could feel tears coming to his eyes. He looked away even though Turk would not see him.

  “I am sure it does,” Turk said, “and I wish there was some sort of medicine in this world that could heal that hurt, but there is not. An knows, many try to heal this kind of hurt with ale and wine, or tomigus root, or kokaina, or any other thing that might numb their mind, but for this, there is no cure.”

  Erik stayed silent, staring into the darkness.

  “You are a good man,” Turk said. His voice softened. “You’re a righteous man, and I consider you a good friend. But the way you acted … it isn’t right. We all care about you, and we all cared about Befel.”

  By the faint light of a torch, sputtering in the mist of the rainy, mountain air, Erik couldn’t quite see Turk, but he thought he saw tears in the dwarf’s eyes.

  In the darkness, Erik remembered words his grandfather had said to him when he was just a little boy. He was scared, during a thunderstorm. It was dark then, too. And Erik cried.

  “Don’t be afraid,” his grandfather had said.

  “Why?” Erik asked, still sobbing.

  “Because, the Creator is always with you,” his grandfather had replied, “even in the deepest, darkest places.”

  “The deepest, darkest places?” Erik had asked.

  “Yes,” his grandfather had replied.

  “Even in the deepest, darkest places,” Erik muttered, and he wished he would believe his words.

  ****

  The dreamless night passed by quickly, and Erik woke to a rainy, mountain morning. The dim gray of clouds cast eerie shadows throughout the tunnel. Turk and Bryon were the only two awake as Erik stirred and stretched. He looked across to the other side of the tunnel as his eyes found focus.

  “Don’t tense up,” Turk told Bryon as he pressed around the wound on the man’s chest. Bryon’s bare chest revealed an angry, reddened wound that seeped with not blood, but a greenish-yellow puss. “It will only make your wound hurt more and harder for me to bandage it.”

  Turk spread some of his cooling ointment over the wound, pressed a clean cloth against it, and then bowed his head and seemed to pray. Bryon leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Is he all right?” Erik asked, but Turk didn’t answer.

  Erik gathered his things as the others woke and stepped through the tunnel’s opening and out into the wet, mountain air. It took only moments for the rain to soak his hair and only a few more moments for Erik to feel the wetness through his mail shirt and leather undershirt.

  Erik walked off, not caring to wait for his companions. The trees were less thick in this area of the mountain than Erik thought they would be. There was no recognizable path, and he suspected it had been many years since dwarf or man had been here. He passed by several clumps of blackberry bushes and through a grove of white-barked ash. Rabbits and squirrels and other small animals scurried away as he walked by.

  Finally, he came to a ledge. Stepping to its edge, he could see, far below, a stream. It could not have been a large stream. The chasm at which Erik stood was barely twenty paces wide. But at some point, he knew it must open into a much larger river. This was, after all, how all raging rivers began.

  I wonder if you eventually flow into the Giant’s Vein.

  It was too far to hear, almost too far to see, but he could imagine the sounds of gurgling water spilling over rocks, of rain plunking into the rushing stream. He imagined it flow and widen and grow into a larger river. He imagined what a river the size of the Giant’s Vein might look like. The Blue River was big, big enough to require a bridge. But what he had heard about The Giant’s Vein …

  I wonder if it’s like the ocean. I can’t imagine anything that big.

  He remembered the deep blue of the South Sea, staring at it from so far away atop a hill overlooking Finlo. He had never seen anything like it.

  I thought mountains were big. I do believe the South Sea could swallow all the mountains in Háthgolthane. I would like to see the South Sea again, perhaps when I am not so worried about getting on a boat sailing east.

  Erik would see it again. He was sure of that … almost sure. Befel … Befel would never see anything again. Erik didn’t think his brother was aware that he had seen the look on Befel’s face when they first saw the South Sea. But that look, it was one of pure awe, of amazement, as if he had only dreamed of something so big, so magnificent, only to find out it was real.

  That look reminded Erik of the first time one of Befel’s crops—big, fat, red tomatoes—grew buds and then bloomed and then gave a fruit. He was there. Befel had that same look then. Awe. Amazement. Something he had touched actually grew and produced food. He was also with Befel when they both first saw a mare give birth to her foal. Awe and amazement.

  So simple. Tomatoes. Horses. The sea, and yet, so amazing.

  Erik wiped his cheeks. The rain was steady, but he knew that some of the wetness there were his tears. He looked down at the tiny stream again.

  They’ll torment you, Befel. The dead. They’ll chase you, stop you from getting on the caravan, make you one of them. You don’t know how to fight them.

  He looked down at the stream again.

  I know how to fight them. I could jump. I could find you, stand by you, chase them away.

  Erik stepped closer to the chasm’s edge.

  �
�Even in the deepest, darkest places,” he whispered as he stared down into the ravine. Then, he asked the question, “Even there, in the realm of the dead.”

  As he wondered what it would feel like, hitting the floor so many paces below, he heard water sizzle against fire.

  “How are you feeling, cousin?” Erik asked.

  “How did you know it was me?” Bryon asked in reply.

  “Your sword,” Erik answered. “I heard it sizzle in the rain. I’m glad to see its magic isn’t gone forever.”

  “Magic gone?” Bryon asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” Erik replied. “It was something that happened in the tunnels of Orvencrest when you had passed out from your wound.”

  “What are you doing out here?” Bryon asked. Erik could hear the weariness in Bryon’s voice. It was usually so commanding, even if the forceful nature of his voice was pretense.

  “Minding my own business,” Erik replied.

  “The dwarves were wondering where you were.”

  “Oh,” Erik said, “and not you.”

  “No … I mean, yes, I was wondering too,” Bryon said.

  “How are you feeling?” Erik asked again, not turning to face Bryon.

  “Better, I guess,” Bryon replied. “Not very good, really. My whole body hurts … burns.”

  “So, is that all?” Erik asked. “You know where I am. Is that all you wanted?”

  “You’re too close to the cliff’s edge,” Bryon said. “You’re going to fall.”

  “You are suddenly worried about me,” Erik said with a smirk. “That’s interesting.”

  “What are you doing?” Bryon asked. Erik could hear him step closer. Erik inched forward.

  “Why do you care?” Erik asked.

  “You’re my cousin,” Bryon said, “my blood. Now, what are you doing? Why are you so close to the edge?”

  Bryon’s voice was still shaking and weak, but Erik could hear the intensity in it, a mix of fear and anxiety.

  “I’m not going to jump,” Erik replied, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No, of course not,” Bryon said. Erik knew he lied. He could tell by the tone of his voice.

  “Good. Well, you can go now,” Erik said.

  “What?” Bryon asked. Erik could hear the irritation in his voice.

  “Go away,” Erik said slowly. “I am fine. You are feeling better. Now you can go back to the dwarves as they sing funeral dirges for the dead.”

  “Why don’t you come back with me?”

  Erik shook his head. “I think I’ll stand here for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to watch the mountain. Because I wish to listen to the sounds of the wind through the treetops. Because I wish for the rain to completely soak my breeches. Because I wish to kill myself. What do you care why I want to stand here alone?”

  “Those words hurt,” Bryon said. “We are kin. We are all we have left now.”

  At that, Erik wheeled on Bryon. He could feel his face redden, his ears grow hot. For only a moment, the paleness of Bryon’s face, the sunken look in his cheeks, took him aback, but then he regained his composure.

  “Those words hurt?” Erik questioned, seethed, hissed. “What hurtful words have you spoken recently, Bryon?”

  Bryon stepped back. He looked surprised and then resigned.

  “Many, I suppose,” Bryon replied.

  “It seems to me that you took your leave of our kinship long ago,” Erik accused.

  “So, do you wish to make up for all the hurtful things I have said by saying them back to me?” Bryon asked. His pale face turned a pinkish hue, and Erik saw tears collecting at the corners of his cousin’s eyes. “Befel was like a brother to me, too.”

  Erik turned back around. “For a time, I suppose.”

  Erik waited for a few moments, watching the rain, staring at the stream below.

  “I can smell fresh tilled earth.” Erik closed his eyes. He saw fields of golden stalks fluttering in the wind. “I can smell wheat, the rain on the farm. Befel loved that smell.”

  “I used to love that smell too,” Bryon said, “until I realized it meant more work, more hours under the hot sun.”

  “And this isn’t work?” Erik asked.

  “It’s different.”

  Erik shook his head. “How?”

  “I see the riches of my work. I feel the weight of gold and silver in my haversack. All I saw on the farm, even when my father was sober and talked to me about owning it one day, was more work. Never riches.”

  “I think you misunderstand the true meaning of riches.” Erik wiped a tear away from his cheek. He might have just thought it was the rain, but he could tell it was a tear, the way it felt, the way it smelled.

  “Are you trying to sound like your father?” Bryon asked. Erik could hear the derision in his voice.

  “What good are riches to Befel now?” Erik asked. “What good is all this gold and silver? What good will your gold and silver be if that wound on your chest kills you?”

  “At least I won’t be on a farm with a drunken father,” Bryon said. “And Befel didn’t want to end up working on a farm either.”

  Erik clenched his fist.

  “You think that was the last thing on his mind,” Erik said through clenched teeth, “when fire consumed him? Do you think the last thing he thought, the last thing he was thankful for was the fact that at least he wasn’t working on a farm?”

  There was a long silence. Erik loosened his hands and leaned his head back, letting the rain hit his face. It quickened and hardened, and he could hear the small stream below start to rush as water flowed from higher upstream.

  “What do I tell my mother?” Erik asked, looking down again and catching his cousin’s eye.

  “What do you mean?” Bryon asked.

  “When I see her,” Erik said. “When I return home without my brother, what do I tell her?”

  “I don’t know,” Bryon said.

  “I’m afraid I’ll forget his face.” Erik dropped his chin to his chest. “I’m afraid I won’t remember.”

  “What?” Bryon asked.

  “Befel’s face,” Erik replied. “I’m afraid I’ll forget it, along with Tia’s and Beth’s. And my mother’s and father’s. Simone’s.”

  “How could you forget your brother’s face?” Bryon asked.

  “I don’t know,” Erik said. “His face is just a memory now—just a fading memory.”

  “You’ll see him again, won’t you,” Bryon said, “in your afterlife?”

  Erik turned on Bryon.

  “How dare you?” Erik spat.

  “What?”

  “You mock me and my faith. You make fun of my belief in the Creator. And then you try and use it to console me?”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Bryon said, stepping back.

  “Well don’t.”

  Erik turned around again to look down from the ledge, trying to ignore Bryon. He felt his cousin, knew he stood there for a long while, watching him. When he eventually walked away, Erik fell to his knees and wept.

  Chapter 17

  Del Alzon rode quietly, looking back over his shoulder ever so often. He wasn’t as heavy as he was when they had left Waterton, and he found himself riding longer, horse tiring more slowly. Of course, he was a far cry from what he was when he fought for Golgolithul, but as he looked down at his belly, it disgusted him less than before. Just the day before, he had poked a new hole in his wide girdle. He thought the simple Yager would never stop laughing when he stood up in the middle of that inn in Dûrn-Tor and his belt slipped off his waist and collected on the floor and around his ankles. The thought made him smile.

  “Del, what are you looking for?” Danitus asked, riding up next to the former soldier.

  “I don’t know,” Del Alzon replied. “I hoped … I hoped …”

  “You hoped to what?” Danitus asked. Del Alzon could hear the irritation in the man’s voice.

&
nbsp; “I guess I had hoped we might run into them,” Del confessed. “I hoped we might see them, that they would come back.”

  “Del, this is crazy,” Danitus said.

  “I know,” Del Alzon agreed. “It’s just … I don’t know what it is.”

  “You saved those children,” Danitus said. “And the others. People we didn’t even know. If you’re trying to make up for something you’ve done in your past, surely you have.”

  “You don’t know what I’ve done in the past,” Del Alzon said.

  “You must have been some terrible bastard to be that conflicted, my friend,” Danitus offered, a small smile on his face.

  Del Alzon laughed.

  “Aye, a terrible bastard I was.” Del Alzon closed his eyes and breathed in the cool air of the Abresi Straits.

  “Smells like home,” Del muttered.

  “I don’t quite know what home smells like,” Danitus said with a smile.

  “I suppose I know what you mean,” Del Alzon replied. “I’ve lived in so many places too.”

  “Aye,” Danitus agreed.

  “I’ve lived in Waterton the longest, though,” Del Alzon added, “so I suppose, Waterton is home.”

  “Isn’t that a sad thing to say?” Danitus asked.

  “What’s that?” Del asked.

  “Waterton is home,” Danitus repeated.

  Del Alzon shrugged with a smile.

  “I don’t know. There are worse places to live.”

  “Like where?” Danitus asked.

  “The bloody east,” Yager said, riding just behind the two men. “Fer sure, the bloody east.”

  “And how would you know?” Danitus asked.

  “All in the past, mate,” Yager replied, “but I’ve been. I’ve lived there—sort of—and I can’t think of a worse place than the east. Golgolithul and Gol-Durathna.”

  “Aren’t you originally from Golgolithul, Del?” Danitus asked with a smile.

  Del Alzon nodded his head.

  “And you’re from Gol-Durathna, aren’t you Danitus?” Del Alzon asked.

  Danitus nodded.

  “Don’t care,” Yager said. “Big cities. Lots of people caring nothing fer no one. Cruel, brutal governments created by greedy bastards. No thank you.”