Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  You will be the first to pay for the mistress’ pain. You will be the first to feel the wrath of the Shadow.

  Erik scanned the wolves, growling and drooling, and focus returned to the one he knew was their leader. Erik sought to slow down his heart and compose his thoughts.

  I don’t fear the Shadow.

  For a moment, the wolves stopped growling. They just stared at him. The voices in his head stopped.

  How can you hear me?

  That was the leader of the wolves. It snarled and crouched low; its jowls quivered with anger, revealing deadly fangs.

  No matter. Today, you will learn to fear the Shadow … and you will learn to fear me.

  Even in the deepest, darkest places.

  Before Erik had finished his response, his dagger, glowing an emerald green, appeared in his left hand.

  “Erik, what are you doing?” yelled Wrothgard.

  One of the wolves attacked. Erik sidestepped it only to feel another attack from behind. He turned, bringing his sword hard across the wolf’s shoulder. His steel bit deep, but he felt yet another attack and turned again to see another wolf lunging at him. He jabbed, the tip of his blade punching a small hole in that wolf’s chest. But as he struck at one wolf, another would attack. He would turn and attack only to turn again and have to dodge claws and teeth. He finally turned to face the second wolf that had entered the cave.

  You will be the first to die.

  In response, Erik thought he heard more laughter. The wolf he faced growled and stepped forward. Erik felt a tickle in his left hand, knew his dagger was ready, and lunged. The wolf pushed back onto his hind legs, dodging the attack. That was what Erik wanted. He thrust forward with his dagger and, even though a small blade fell well short of the wolf’s exposed chest, the dagger began to change, glowing a bright green.

  The blade elongated, as did the handle, until Erik held a long spear with a broad blade of greenish metal. Even as the wolf seemed surprised and tried to back away, the spear grew and grew until the spear’s tip punched through the animal’s chest and through its shoulder blade and the beast growled and howled and cried, shaking violently, trying to free itself from the deadly shaft. As it did, Erik heard bone break and flesh rend.

  When he retracted the weapon, he once again held a dagger in his hand, and the wolf lay on the ground, dead. Erik stood ready, feet planted firm for the next attack, the dagger by his side as his heart beat as slowly as if he was sleeping. Erik’s companions stopped trying to come to his aid. He could see them, just standing and staring through a sidelong glance. They stopped yelling, and the rough, archaic voices of wolves stopped flowing through his mind as well.

  Another wolf leapt at him, and Erik stepped away. This time, his dagger glowed a bright gold. The handle remained the same, but the blade went slack, as if the steel had melted, but then it grew into the barbed tongue of a whip, coiled on the ground next to Erik’s foot. Erik twirled the whip around his head and snapped it, the crack thundering before it fell by his feet again like a loyal dog.

  The winter wolf moved to attack again, but Erik struck with his whip. He had never used one before, and the type some farmers had for their animals were shorter. But he instinctively knew what to do, his dagger leading him through the motions. He snapped the whip again, this time at the wolf. The tongue of the whip wrapped around the wolf’s legs, and Erik pulled the beast to him and onto its back. The animal whimpered at his feet, knowing it’s stomach and neck were exposed, and it tried in vain to free its legs. Erik brought his sword down hard onto the wolf’s neck, and its head rolled away from its body.

  Erik heard the leader growl and snarl before rushing him. His minions didn’t follow him. Erik held his dagger up, and it flashed a bright, silvery light, which subsided to reveal a glowing, wide shield. The winter wolf hit the shield with all its weight and force, but Erik felt naught but a minor jolt as the wolf bounced away.

  Wretched creature.

  Standing shaking its head, the leader’s voice dripped with hatred, and Erik smiled as his dagger returned to its usual form.

  Primitive creature, you sicken me. Your taste, your smell, your sight, everything about you makes me wretch.

  Erik smiled again and shared his thoughts.

  Sounds like the words of someone who knows they’ve been beaten.

  You, who try to rule Háthgolthane as if it was yours to rule, and yet, you are but a speck in its history books. You have upset the mistress. You have aroused an ire you for which you will one day pay. You will pay for your treachery, and as the fires burn on the backs of your children, the last thing you will see is my teeth sinking into your neck.

  “The dragon?” Erik said out loud. He shook his head. “She’s dead.”

  He heard laughter.

  You can’t kill her, especially with fire.

  Erik watched as the bodies of the two dead wolves caught fire—one a green fire while the other a golden fire—and burned away. The winter wolf leader seemed surprised by that, and Erik laughed.

  Insolent creature. Your kind has no length to it. You are young, and you will die young. Do not forget me. One day, as you die, you will see again; know that the pain is just the beginning.

  The winter wolf growled at Erik and, for a moment, Erik thought the beast might attack again, but he just howled. The other two remaining wolves howled back, and after the leader had turned and fled into the mountain forest, they followed.

  Erik sighed and felt his shoulders hang low. He sheathed his golden-handled dagger. He felt a tickle at his side.

  Thanks.

  Erik picked up his shield. The hide that covered it hung in tatters. Some of the wood had split, and he could see that iron rivets along the edge of the shield had come loose.

  “Can you imagine an army of those beasts?” Erik asked of no one in particular—perhaps the forest in front of him—and shook his head. He added, “Led by a dragon, nonetheless.”

  Erik heard footsteps. He turned to find Switch and Wrothgard running to him.

  “What, by all the gods, was that?” Wrothgard asked, grabbing Erik’s left arm and inspecting him.

  Erik just shrugged. “A much appreciated gift.”

  “Are you all right?” Switch asked.

  “I’m surprised you care,” Erik said, looking at the thief coldly. He knew he didn’t. Switch had to show concern. He eyed his dagger now with the same intent that he eyed Erik’s haversack.

  Erik looked down to see a bloody boot. It didn’t feel all that bad. It certainly wasn’t broken. Just a bad scratch, perhaps. The others parted as Erik neared them. He couldn’t tell if they were scared, worried, angry. But then he saw Balzarak and Gôdruk.

  Balzarak knelt next to Thormok, who still lay, face down, in the mud. Turk tapped the general on the shoulder and, when Balzarak looked up, made a motion as if to ask him to move. Balzarak complied and stepped away from Thormok. Turk then knelt beside the fallen dwarvish warrior, put his hands on the dwarf—one on his neck where blood continued to spray from a gaping wound and one on his shoulder—and bowed his head.

  Erik walked up behind Turk. He could hear his dwarvish friend muttering in his native language. As Turk spoke, he began to glow. At first it was just a faint aura of golden-yellow, but as Turk continued to pray, it grew brighter and brighter. As the light around him grew, the rain above him seemed to part, flowing around him as if someone was holding a leafy branch over his head. Both dwarves had been soaked by the rain, but now, they were completely dry, as if not a single drop of rain had touched them.

  Thormok had lain motionless for many long moments, but now his back moved, his sides, as if he took long, deep breaths. Turk’s chanting grew louder, quicker. But then, he slowed. He looked tired. His breathing became more and more laborious. Erik didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to touch Turk, to put his hands on Turk’s shoulders as Turk had put his hands on Thormok. And so, against his own intuition, Erik did. He put his hands on Turk’s shoulders, and immediatel
y, he felt energy—like the shock one might feel when lightning strikes just a little too close, but only a thousand times more so—flow through his body. He had no idea what he was saying, but Turk’s words overtook his mouth and he said them in unison with the dwarf. And then he felt it—pain. Pain stabbed his neck, his arms, his inner thighs, his face. A stabbing pain like a thousand daggers; like teeth, biting into his flesh.

  Then, Erik felt weak, like the breath had been stolen from his body. He could barely stand as his legs wobbled and his knees buckled. And then he fell. His hands slid off Turk’s shoulders as he collapsed, and the feeling was gone. The energy. The pain. The chant. It was all gone, and Erik found himself staring up at a gray sky as rain fell upon his face.

  Erik looked to his side and saw Turk lying there, next to him, eyes closed.

  “What was that?” Wrothgard asked.

  Turk then sat up.

  “I’m sorry, General,” Turk said. “I couldn’t save him. We couldn’t save him.”

  Erik sat up as well, and as he did, he saw Balzarak drop to his knees and fall upon Thormok, his cousin. Thormok lay motionless. His back didn’t rise with breath. Nothing. Balzarak cried and cried, and Thormok didn’t move.

  Turk stood. As he did, he turned and offered Erik his hand, who wobbled when he stood and found himself light-headed.

  “What was that?” Erik asked.

  “Healing,” Turk said. The dwarf turned to follow the others—everyone but Balzarak and Gôdruk—back into the cave.

  “Wait,” Erik said. “Healing magic?”

  “Not magic in the sense you are thinking,” Turk replied, turning to face Erik.

  “What other sense of magic is there?” Erik asked.

  “Ever since I was a little boy, I knew I had this gift,” Turk replied. “My father had fallen ill—a serious fever of some sort—and it was just he and I. He asked me to pray for him. He was afraid. He wasn’t getting any better. So, I did, and as I did, the room lit up, and my father sat up, feeling as good as he ever had, as if he had never been sick.”

  “So, it’s not magic?” Erik questioned.

  “It’s a gift,” Turk replied, “from the Creator. The gift of healing. Every time I bandage a wound, every time I care for any of you when you are sick or wounded, I use this gift. I feel your pain, and I pray for An to take it away.”

  “So, what about Befel?” Erik asked.

  “My gift has its boundaries,” Turk said. “I cannot defy death. Truth be told, this was beyond my limits.” Turk spread his hands as if to present Thormok to Erik. “But, I felt I had to …”

  Turk trailed off as he seemed to be stuck in his own thoughts.

  “Drake then?” Erik asked. “Could you have healed the miner?”

  Turk shook his head.

  “No. Again, he was so broken,” Turk replied. “And, there is an element of willingness that needs to be there as well. If the person is unwilling to be healed, I can do nothing.”

  “And Bryon’s wound,” Erik asked, “the dragon wound?”

  “That is a difficult one, indeed,” Turk replied. “Dragons use dark magic, and their poison is black. I am fighting against darkness when I try to heal him. The healers in Thorakest will be able to fully tend to your cousin.”

  Erik thought for a moment.

  “What I felt, when I put my hands on you, is that what you felt?” Erik asked.

  “Perhaps,” Turk said. “I have no way of knowing what you felt. What I do know is, I believe you have the gift as well. My strength was waning, and when you touched me, it grew again. I thought, for a moment, I … we would be able to save Thormok, but he was beyond saving. My gift, like I said, has its limits.”

  Erik didn’t follow Turk into the cave. He looked at Balzarak and Gôdruk as they cried over their kin, and Befel’s face came to mind. He hadn’t forgotten what he looked like.

  Now they know. Now they know how I feel.

  Erik walked into the cave, only to meet Turk there, as if the dwarf had been waiting for him.

  “You have a lot of hate in your heart right now,” Turk said.

  “What do you mean?” Erik asked, shaking his head.

  “You have a vengeful heart,” Turk reiterated. “It will bring you to ruin. One of the greatest qualities you have, Erik Eleodum, is your ability to follow your heart. But if your heart is leading you astray …”

  Turk shook his head, turned, and walked to Bryon near the back of the den. Dwain and Threhof were there, as was Wrothgard, all waiting for Turk to tend to them.

  Chapter 21

  They sat under the large boulders that leaned against one another, forming the entrance to the den. The night was crisp and clear and, in this spot with its natural cracks between the large rocks, allowed for fire and ventilation.

  “What was that?” Wrothgard asked. “What just happened?”

  “Bloody wolves,” Switch replied.

  “No,” Erik said. He looked at Switch, who looked angry, and then at Balzarak, who sat motionless in front of the fire. “Winter wolves.”

  Balzarak just slowly nodded.

  “Damn the gods,” Switch hissed.

  “They are minions of the dragon,” Erik said. “Minions of the Shadow.”

  “Aye,” Turk said.

  “Evil wolves serving a dragon and some evil deity?” Switch said, almost exasperatedly. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Erik said.

  “What an excellent guess,” Switch said.

  “It’s not a guess,” Erik said. “They told me.”

  “Who?” Switch asked.

  “The wolves,” Erik replied.

  “Oh, so now you speak with wolves?” Switch asked.

  “I don’t know,” Erik said, and he couldn’t help seeing Balzarak staring at him. “I heard voices in my head, and when I responded, it was the wolves.”

  “I just want to go home,” Switch hissed. Then he looked at Turk. “And what about you?”

  “What about me?” Turk asked.

  “What are you? Some kind of wizard?”

  “I’m no wizard,” Turk replied.

  “But you can supernaturally heal people?” Switch said. “Sounds like a wizard to me. I tell you what, I am getting really bloody tired of all these surprises. Evil wolves. Dragons. Magic daggers. Magic dwarves.”

  “It’s a gift,” Turk replied. His face was growing red. “I have a healing touch. It is why I am always the one to bandage your wounds. It is why your wounds heal faster than they should. It is why you don’t have the scars you should have.”

  Everyone, dwarf and man, touched parts of their bodies—ribs, arms, legs, chests—where Turk had tended them.

  “My gift is why Bryon isn’t dead,” Turk said.

  “Did you know about this?” Switch asked Demik.

  “Don’t speak to me as if I am some simpleton fool, thief,” Demik hissed. He looked ready to fight Switch. But then, the dwarf shook his head. “Yes, I knew … partially. I, at least, had an idea of what he could do even though he never really told me. But what a truly blessed gift.”

  “Bloody blessed indeed,” Switch sneered, standing. He walked towards the cave’s entrance, sitting just outside, seemingly ignoring the wet ground.

  “Where are you going?” Demik called after the thief, but Erik put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.

  “Let him go,” Erik said. “Leave him be. It’s not worth the fight.”

  “How is your arm, Threhof?” Erik asked.

  “I doubt I’ll ever be able to use it again,” Threhof replied, cradling his arm close to his body. Turk had wrapped the arm in cloth and then tied a sling for the dwarf, it took some time, Turk being fatigued by his attempted healing of Thormok. Erik could tell Threhof was still in a lot of pain. He grimaced often and moved side to side, trying to find—in vain—a comfortable position in which to sit. It reminded Erik of Befel when he had first hurt his shoulder.

  “You never know,” Erik replied. “You seem to be in fairly good hands.�
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  Turk smiled and nodded at the compliment.

  “Do you see what this has caused?” Threhof asked Erik.

  “What are you talking about?” Erik replied.

  “This thing, desired by the Lord of the East. Look at the devastation. Mortin. Bim. Thormok.” Threhof looked all around, and when his eyes met Erik’s, he added, “your brother. All because of this scroll, this family heirloom.”

  “Threhof,” Balzarak said, almost scolding him.

  “No, General, I am sorry,” Threhof said. His voice rose a little, although he was more pleading than arguing. “The pain this thing has caused, and we mean to just hand it over to the Lord of the East, a sworn enemy of the dwarvish people whether we want to admit it or not.”

  “Don’t give us this speech as if it is because of the scroll that you left Thorakest, dwarf,” Erik said, his voice cold and hard.

  “What other reason is there?” Threhof asked, almost hurt by the question.

  “Gold,” Erik accused.

  “The lost city is more than just gold,” Threhof hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Erik. “History. Honor for our people.”

  “And gold,” Erik added.

  “Stop this,” Balzarak said. “Threhof, we are not taking the scroll. Erik will do as he was bidden to do, and we will keep our word. That is what honor is.”

  “Do not lecture me on honor,” Threhof said, moving to the back of the cave away from everyone else. Erik could see he was favoring his arm, and that he was in a lot of pain. He hoped it was the pain that was making Threhof inconsolable.

  “You needn’t worry about dwarves trying to take the scroll from you, Erik,” Balzarak said, chancing a quick glance at Switch, his back to the fire.

  Erik nodded.

  There was a long silence, men and dwarves passing water skins and wineskins, passing dried meat and dried fruit, simply welcoming the drying warmth of the fire.

  “They called the dragon their mistress,” Erik said, breaking the silence.