“We are too late for them,” Turk said.
“Please, no,” Alga pleaded. “They are good people.”
Erik’s hand went to his sword handle. He felt a tickle at his hip as if his dagger was ready to come to his aid once again, as well.
“Erik,” Turk muttered.
When Erik looked to the dwarf, Turk shook his head.
“We can’t just leave them,” Erik whispered.
“Think of the lives we have already saved,” Turk said. “To attack these men—and we know they are well trained and well-armed—in our current state, with Threhof injured among others, would not only be folly for us, but it would also forfeit the lives of all these other people.”
“Please.” Alga cried. “Please. You can’t just leave them.”
“Think of your family,” Erik said. “Think of all these families. I curse myself for not coming sooner, but all the cursing in the world will not save your family if we were to attack former Eastern Guardsmen.”
They turned to leave when Erik faced the homestead one last time.
“May the Creator welcome you with open arms,” Erik prayed. “May you find peace in the Creator’s presence.”
They slowly crept back to the company. When they reached the dwarves and men and mountain refugees, they found a man tied up and gagged, lying in front of Switch, who had that usual malicious smile on his face. The man had on a leather breastplate emblazoned with the cobra, coiled and ready to strike.
“Look what we bloody found,” Switch said. Erik looked from the man to the thief and thought something about that smile seemed false, like it was pretense.
“One of Patûk’s spies,” Wrothgard added.
The spy looked up at them, seemingly staring at Switch more than anyone else. He groaned loudly against the cloth stuffed in his mouth, but Switch backhanded the man, and he shut up.
“We saw the rest of their force surrounding the last homestead,” Erik said. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, “This family is lost.”
“What do we do with him?” Bryon asked.
“There will be others,” Wrothgard said. “They might have even seen us.”
Erik looked to Balzarak. The look the general gave him might have seemed indiscriminate to most, but Erik knew its meaning.
“Kill him.”
The man shook his head with wide eyes. He tried speaking, looking to everyone with pleading eyes, and then finally staring at Switch. Erik couldn’t help thinking there was recognition in those eyes. Switch winked, and the spy’s eyes went narrow, and now, rather than fear, there was anger.
Wrothgard brought his sword down onto the back of the man’s neck. It killed him instantly.
“It was too quick for this prick,” Switch said, spitting on the man and kicking him, but again, there was something in the way Switch spoke that Erik didn’t trust. As they readied to leave, he saw the thief staring off into the forest, in the direction of the homestead they couldn’t save.
As Erik followed his gaze, he saw the quick shuddering of a branch but nothing else. When he looked at Switch, the thief gave him a wink and a nod and then clicked his tongue as he fell into line with the rest of the mercenaries and mountain men. Erik couldn’t help shivering.
Chapter 26
It took longer than expected to return to the trail that would hopefully lead them back to Thorakest. Switch and Wrothgard lagged behind, just in case any Golgolithulian soldiers or spies had seen them, while Nafer and Demik ran ahead. Their task was to make sure they didn’t wandering into any Golgolithulian traps or have another encounter with the winter wolves. Then there were the mountain trolls and even antegants to consider.
“We have to camp,” Wrothgard said as the sunlight began to wane over the trees.
“Just a little further,” Erik said.
“Erik,” Wrothgard replied sternly, grabbing the young man’s arm, “we have a woman that has probably seen ninety summers, and a babe who hasn’t seen one. We must stop. You wanted to save these people, and they are trusting us. Pushing them through the night in these mountains won’t save them, and might kill some of them.”
Erik thought for a moment. He looked back at the group of homesteaders. They looked hardy enough, but they also looked tired. It wasn’t a physical fatigue that Erik saw, it was an emotional one. They had all left most of their belongings and their homes and put their lives in the hands of men and dwarves they didn’t know.
“Trust?” Erik muttered, “Not in me.”
“Yes, in you,” Wrothgard replied. “These people … they don’t know you, and yet, look at them. Forty or more and they follow you. Not us. Not me. You. Do not break that trust. Do what is best for these people.”
Erik thought only a moment longer before putting a hand up.
“We will camp here for the night.”
“Blood and guts and flaming pig shit,” Switch cursed. “We could at least go another couple leagues.”
“Not with an old woman and an infant, Wrothgard is right,” Erik replied. He thought the thief was going to protest again. He looked as if he was about to, but he didn’t. He just walked away, as he normally did, cursing as he disappeared for a while.
The night was uneasy. The children were anxious and scared, and the adults were apprehensive at best. To allow everyone to get close enough to the warmth, they had to build a half dozen fires, which spread the homesteaders out farther than Erik would have liked, so he and his companions took turns walking the perimeter of the encampment. They had tried finding the most open and flattest part of this mountain, but that proved the wettest, without trees to block the previous days’ rains and without a slope to drain the water properly. Erik knew he would get no sleep that night, and for that, he was thankful.
As darkness descended, Erik realized the homesteaders were growing more restless about being out in the open, and the children were picking up on their parents’ concerns. Erik went to speak to Alga, squatting down beside her next to the fire where she and her family sat. With her daughter’s head on her lap, Alga ran her fingers through the child’s hair as she leaned against her husband. She looked at Erik over her shoulder.
“We need a distraction. Would you tell the children, and their parents if they wish, to gather around me?” Erik asked. “Tell them I wish to tell them a story and maybe play them a song.”
She nodded with a smile and called to the other homesteaders. Most complied, even the old great grandmother, and Erik went on to tell the children a story—through Alga as his translator—that his grandmother once told him, of a warrior and an elvish maiden and how the man had won the maiden’s heart. Then he told the story he heard Rory tell, of a sailor who had sailed to a faraway, magical island and found a six legged horse that could fly and a lizard that laid golden eggs. Turk asked if he might tell a story and spoke of an ancient dwarvish knight who slew a dragon and saved a good king from certain death.
With both the children and their parents seeming enthralled in their stories, Erik retrieved his haversack and, digging through it for a moment, pulled out his simple, wooden flute. He sat, cross-legged, in front of the crowd of homesteaders and put the flute to his lips, thinking of his brother, and did not play yet.
Befel’s face seemed so clear in his mind. He had been so afraid it would fade with time, but this night, it was clear, as if he stood there, in front of Erik whose heart began to race. He felt tears at the corners of his eyes, his cheeks and ears grow red and hot with anger. Then he wanted to laugh.
Now he saw the farm. He heard the mooing of cows and the clucking of chickens. He heard children laughing. He smelled fresh cut roses and orange blossoms. He felt the warmth of a hearth fire. He felt the soft touch of a woman’s hand on his cheek. He felt the loving embrace of his mother. He smiled. He played.
****
Menacing gray clouds, full of thunder, rolled overhead. A boy looked out from his window, scared as the rain began to fall hard and fast. Lightning flashed through the sky, fol
lowed by the boom only a heartbeat later. His room shook. The whole world shook. And he cried. The earth couldn’t drink all of the rainwater, and it spilled over the wooden planks of his home’s porch. He cried some more. More lightning. More thunder. More rain. And the sky grew so dark.
Then, he found himself huddled next to a brother and two sisters. His mother and father hugged them, assured them they would be okay. The storm broke, and the rain subsided. The lightning and thunder faded away into the distance. And the parting cloud left the waning light of day.
The boy was now in his mother’s lap, in her arms, holding him so tight. They were in a rocking chair. The room was dark. It was night outside. But he was safe. She rested her cheek atop his head and, as she held him and as they rocked back and forth, she sang to him. Her song was sweet and soft, and nothing in the world—no amount of rain, thunder, lightning, nothing—could harm the little boy in that place.
****
With only a single, magical flute, Erik did his best to convey this image through his music. When he opened his eyes, he saw men and women holding their children tightly. They didn’t hold them out of fear, but they embraced them lovingly. They all went back to their campfires, and Erik could see the children quickly settled and fell asleep.
As he put his flute back in his haversack, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Alga and Angthar there, and the man bowed.
“We believe,” Alga said.
Erik shook his head. “I don’t catch your meaning.”
“We believe,” she repeated. “We believe An sent you. We thank you, and we thank An. You have delivered us.”
“No yet,” Erik said with a mirthless smile.
She patted his mailed chest, over his heart, her smile genuine.
“We believe,” she repeated and returned to her fire with her husband.
Chapter 27
Erik hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but he did … and his sleep was dreamless. That was probably why he awoke a little confused, especially when he saw that it was still nighttime. The multiple campfires were still burning, the crackle of blazing wood mixing with the other sounds of night in a mountain forest. He sat up and looked around. Everything else was still. Even one infant who had constantly cried and fussed was silent. Was he in one of his dreams? But he knew he wasn’t.
He heard the rustling of a bush or a branch, hoping it was just a rabbit or a fox or night bird, but then he saw movement on the other side of the camp. He stood, fastening his belt and sword around his waist and tapping his golden-handled dagger. He didn’t see Switch, so he dug in his haversack to retrieve the cased scroll, and he stuffed it under his belt. This was just the kind of opportunity Switch would want to steal the treasure from him.
Erik slowly walked to where he saw the movement. He peered past a tree and saw the shadow of something, someone, moving through the forest. He sighed, relieved it wasn’t a winter wolf. But who could be traipsing through the forest at night, knowing what dangers lay nearby? A mountain man needing to relieve himself? Fool if that was the case.
Erik followed the shadow, slowly, relying on the training his mentors had given him. He felt as if he walked for a long time, even though he knew he hadn’t. Then, the shadow disappeared.
Damn it,
He felt his heart quicken as he heard hushed voices. Silently, he moved toward where sound came from and found the shadow again, in between two large red-barked pines. Another shadow joined it. Erik crouched, listening intently. He didn’t know what they were saying, but he recognized the language—Shengu.
Erik peered closer. He recognized one of the shadows. Was that …
“Switch,” Erik mouthed in a whisper.
“What are you doing out here?”
The voice startled Erik, although it wasn’t loud enough to alert anyone to their presence. He turned to see Threhof, his face barely visible in the intermittent moonlight of the canopied forest. He saw the pain on the dwarf’s face, though, and the sweat that was heavy on his brow glistened in the dim light. He breathed heavy, but shallow.
“What are you doing?” Erik replied.
“I followed you,” Threhof whispered.
“Why?” Erik asked.
“I saw you take the scroll,” Threhof said.
“Have you been spying on me?” Erik asked.
“What are you about, Erik?” Threhof asked. “We trusted you.”
“Wait … what?” Erik asked, confused at first. “Do you think I mean to do something with it?”
“Do what is right,” Threhof said. He raised his voice slightly.
Erik looked over his shoulder at the shadows. They had stopped talking. He thought the shadowy figures looked in his direction.
“Be quiet,” Erik said in a whispering hiss.
“Do what is right,” Threhof continued, “and hand it over to the dwarves.”
“Shut up and get down,” Erik said, squatting while he still watched the shadows. They drew weapons, one of them—the shadow that wasn’t Switch—holding a long sword that glimmered in the dim moonlight.
“I will take it if I need to,” Threhof said, his voice now fully raised.
“You’re delirious,” Erik said, “from fever.”
“Erik.” It was Switch’s voice, and it sounded surprised.
The other shadowy figure said something in Shengu.
“Is this what you’re doing?” Threhof yelled. “Selling us out to easterners?”
Threhof drew his sword. Switch stepped out from behind a tree, just a few paces away from Erik and Threhof. The other man, wearing a leather breastplate and holding his long sword, stood next to him.
“I should have known you would betray us,” Threhof said, looking at Erik.
“He thinks you’re a traitor.” Switch laughed. It was the genuine, malicious laugh of the thief. “You’re a fool, you little bearded prick.”
Now Threhof turned his attention to the thief and lunged forward, but he was in no condition to fight. He was injured, his arm still slung to his body, and fevered.
“Threhof, stop!” Erik shouted, but it was too late.
Switch easily dodged the dwarf’s attack and, with the flick of his wrist, a thin bladed knife thudded into Threhof’s thick neck. That, alone, wouldn’t have stopped the dwarf, but the other man, capitalizing on the dwarf’s surprise, plunged his long sword hilt deep into his belly and up into his heart. The dwarf let out a deep gasp and fell back, dead, when the swordsman retrieved his weapon.
“You’re a dirty bastard,” Erik hissed.
“No denying that,” Switch said with a smile. “Now hand it over.”
“No,” Erik said. “You’ll have to kill me.”
“Suit yourself,” Switch said with a shrug of his shoulders.
He flicked his wrist, and Erik moved to the side as another thin bladed knife whizzed past his face. The other man came at him, and Erik easily blocked his attack, only to feel yet another thin knife digging into his shoulder. It wasn’t a grievous wound, but it surprised him enough to give the other man time. He drove his shoulder into Erik’s stomach, sending him back. Erik dropped his sword. They wrestled for a moment, Erik trying to keep his eyes trained on the thief. Erik finally kneed the man in his crotch, and he rolled away with a groan. Erik stood, retrieving Ilken’s Blade.
He had seen Switch in battle but wasn’t prepared for an actual fight with the thief. He was much more adept than Erik thought he would be, attacking with two blades, slashing precisely and quickly. Erik felt a cut on his arm, along his chest, and along his abdomen; he immediately regretted not taking the time to don his armor. He pushed back equally as strong and had Switch on his heels when the thief’s accomplice tackled Erik from behind. Falling on his face, Erik felt a hand digging underneath him, felt that hand grip the scroll case and pull hard.
Erik tried to get up, but the man on top of him pushed his face into the dirt. Erik couldn’t breathe, and for a moment, he panicked before he felt the tickle. He work
ed his hand and arm free enough to grab the dagger and swung up with a backwards stab. He caught flesh, and the hands on the back of his head released. He rolled over to his back, seeing the man on top of him grasping at his thigh, and he plunged the golden-handled dagger into the man’s belly, the steel easily passing through the leather armor, which—as Erik could fully see it now—had the symbol of a coiled cobra ready to strike emblazoned on it.
Erik stood, pushing the dead man off him and lifting his sword once again. Switch stared at the scroll case, holding it up to the moonlight.
“Here’s to my future,” he whispered.
He was so engrossed in the Lord of the East’s treasure, he didn’t even seem to notice Erik slowly approach him, still staring at the case. Erik lifted his sword high, and Switch turned, just as Erik brought the blade down.
Instinctively, Switch lifted an arm to block the blow, screamed as Ilken’s Blade easily passed through bone, severing Switch’s left hand just above the wrist. The stump sprayed blood across Erik’s face as Switch clutched the scroll case close to his body with his other hand and turned to run.
Erik gave chase and was able to briefly follow the thief, but the nimble Switch disappeared. Erik wanted to keep following him, but even a one-handed Switch would be dangerous, especially in the dead of night. Erik felt sick. The scroll was gone. Threhof was dead. They had failed in their mission … and Befel’s death was all for naught.
Chapter 28
Patûk Al’Banan’s lip curled. Pavin Abashar had let his hair grow long, and it looked ridiculous, gray and thinning, he had tied it back in a knot. He was a ghost of the soldier he once was, not that he was ever much of a soldier. He held that haughty look he always had, a tilt of his head with a feigned air of confidence that looked more like a smirk.
The two antegants standing to either side of him—still half a head taller than him even astride his warhorse—were off-putting as well. Mountain trolls were bad enough, but these were hideous. One of the creatures had hooves where feet should have been, the other had splotches of gray scales all over its chest and arms. And both had a single, gnarled horn above their one, grotesque eye. These were not the antegants that often dwelled amongst men.
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