Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  “General Al’Banan,” Pavin called, his voice much louder than it needed to be in the wide-open meadow that led into the mountain forest, “so good to see you after so many years.”

  “Has it been so long?” Patûk replied.

  “Long enough,” Pavin said. “I see you have finally come to your senses.”

  “How so?” Patûk asked.

  “You wish to join forces,” Pavin said with a smile. “You wish to align yourself with me. It’s about time.”

  “You misunderstand,” Patûk replied. “I come to accept your willingness to serve me.”

  The smile on Pavin’s face disappeared. Then he laughed.

  “Truly?” he said with the pretense of bewilderment. “You are not the commander of the Eastern Guard anymore, Patûk. You cannot simply command things and make them so.”

  “I outnumber you,” Patûk said, “and am more powerful than you. It would be folly to resist.”

  “We can work together,” Pavin said, “and together we can thwart the usurper and work to his overthrow.”

  “I am not so interested in Golgolithul anymore,” Patûk said. “And I have no interest in working side by side with you.”

  “You say you outnumber me,” Pavin said. “My scouts tell me you number thirteen thousand, but four of that is away. I number twenty thousand. And I haven’t spread myself thin like you.”

  “You lie,” Patûk said.

  “Do I?” Pavin replied. The look on his face said he was telling the truth, but Pavin was an adept liar. “You see, your harsh tactics and cruelty and regimented ways are your undoing. Men don’t want to serve a tyrant. It’s why they flee the east. It’s why they flee your ranks.”

  “Twenty thousand of your whelps aren’t worth a thousand of mine,” Patûk replied.

  “Just like old Patûk,” Pavin said with a laugh. “And what will you do, with your men and my men, if not overthrow the Lord of the East?”

  Patûk smiled. It was an idea that consumed his thoughts, his dreams.

  “Rule my own kingdom,” Patûk said.

  To that, Pavin broke out in a fit of laughter. Several of his officers and advisors, also horsed and standing by behind General Abashar, joined in the laughter.

  “And which kingdom will you rule?” Pavin asked. “Are you going to build your own castle? How will you populate your country? I don’t see any female soldiers.”

  “I will conquer Hámon,” Patûk said.

  “Now I have heard everything.” Pavin laughed. “Surely you jest.”

  “Will you join me or not?” Patûk replied.

  “But you don’t wish me to join you,” Pavin said. “You want me to serve you. No. I don’t think so. I think I will kill you, and then your men will serve me.”

  Patûk felt his face grow hot. He had expected as much from Pavin. He was always a fool. But he didn’t want to kill the man. He had value, and as foolish as he was, he was a decent leader, and if he did command twenty thousand men, they would serve Patûk well.

  The two antegants that stood next to General Pavin moved forward, one carrying a large club studded with iron spikes and the other carrying a double-headed axe that most men would barely be able to carry with both hands.

  “The trolls?” Captain Bu asked.

  “No,” Patûk replied. “We need to save our resources. In fact, it pains me, but I must kill these two creatures.”

  “You, General?” Bu asked.

  “Yes, Captain,” Patûk replied. “Be ready, just in case, but I must kill these creatures myself, as a show of strength. Do not worry, Captain Bu, I have survived much worse odds.”

  Patûk heeled Warrior, his great warhorse, and the horse took several steps forward. He heard the antegants laugh. They looked to one another, said something in their own language, and stared back at Patûk.

  Patûk drove his heels into the sides of Warrior, and the warhorse lunged forward at his command. The antegant holding a club swung its weapon at the general, but he easily ducked the attack. Horse and rider knew each other so well, and Warrior moved without him having to direct the animal, turning so that Patûk could jab the point of his sword into the side of the antegant’s neck. Blood immediately spurted from the wound, spraying the general across the face. As the antegant turned, the general brought his blade across the front of its throat and more blood gushed as it dropped its club and clutched at its neck. Patûk took the opportunity to jam his blade into the singular eye sitting above the humanoid’s wide nose.

  Now the other antegant attacked, swinging its double-headed axe wildly about its head. Warrior backed up, so that the wide blades missed, then reared up on its hind legs, kicking out with its front hooves. Both iron-shod hooves struck the antegant in the face. It staggered backwards, groaning, and as it took its attention away from the general, he attacked, slashing his sword across the antegant’s face and then jamming the blade, hilt deep, into its throat.

  Pavin’s men were silent. Patûk rode up next to the other general, sheathing his sword so that he looked less threatening, although from the looks on Pavin’s officers’ faces, he knew the show of peace did little good.

  “I don’t want to kill you, Pavin Abashar,” Patûk whispered, “but I will if I need to. I need able-bodied officers. Serve me and share in my dream of creating a new kingdom, one that remembers the Golgolithul of old. Join me, and you will be well rewarded.”

  “It is folly,” Pavin replied, also in a whisper.

  “You don’t understand,” Patûk said. “I will have, soon, a weapon … a most powerful weapon.”

  “What powerful weapon?” Pavin asked.

  “Bu!” Patûk called. His captain rode up next to him. “Do we have word? Has our spy recovered the weapon?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bu lied. They expected to get it but did not yet have it.

  “My sources tell me this weapon is mighty, powerful,” Patûk said.

  “A trebuchet is powerful,” Pavin said, “and both Hámon and Golgolithul have many of those.”

  “It is worth a thousand trebuchets,” Patûk said.

  Pavin seemed to think for a while.

  “You seem very sure of yourself,” Pavin said. “But it could all be an act.”

  “Golgolithul is actively trying to create a vassal in Hámon,” Patûk replied. “One of my officers, Kan, is in Hámon now. They are a fragmented, feudal kingdom. Between your men and mine, we number almost as many men in their combined armies. There are several more defectors like us out there. If we can convince them to join us, we will outnumber the soldiers of Hámon. With our men, and this weapon, the fight will be short.”

  “You cannot be sure of any of that,” Pavin said, but his resolve was weakening.

  “Their nobles are not stupid,” Patûk replied. “If we offer them the opportunity to keep their titles and their lands, they will relent.”

  “And what is this weapon?” Pavin asked.

  Patûk didn’t know, but he wouldn’t let Pavin Abashar know that. It was powerful, world changing. That was what his spy in the Lord of the East’s courts said. The usurper had convinced mercenaries that they were seeking a lost dwarvish city for some family heirloom. But, no, it was a weapon he was searching for. And then his other spy, his mercenary infiltrator, had sent word—a letter—that they had found what the Lord of the East wanted. He had given up hope on his spy, the thief from Goldum. He figured he had either died or decided he would keep the dwarvish treasure for himself. Either way, Patûk didn’t really care. He knew it was a long shot that mercenaries heeding the call of the usurper would find some hidden, fabled dwarvish city. But apparently they had. And with the help of dwarves, nonetheless.

  Patûk felt gooseflesh on his arms. A powerful weapon. And then he remembered the last thing the letter had said about the weapon. It had been protected … a Dragon. Patûk shook his head. Superstitious foolishness, no doubt. A fabled creature from the past, one that probably never actually lived. And then the general remembered the earthqua
ke he had felt, the unusually hot wind. He shuddered.

  “All in due time, General Abashar,” Patûk said with a smile. “I will reveal this weapon all in due time.”

  “And you will be King Patûk Al’Banan?” Pavin asked.

  The words sent more goose pimples along the general’s arms.

  “Yes,” he replied, “and you will be Duke Pavin Abashar. We will offer our officers and our loyal men titles and lands. Think of your men, General. Think of your future. Think of the whole reason we left the Eastern Empire. And if we control Hámon, we can stop Golgolithul’s expansion west. We can control the west, and with that, we can reclaim what is ours in the east.”

  Pavin Abashar looked down at the two dead antegants and then up at the sky as if the heavens would give him inspiration. Then he slowly nodded and turned his eyes back to Patûk.

  “All right, General Al’Banan,” he said, “We will follow you, but at the first sign of deceit—”

  “I am many things, Pavin,” Patûk interrupted, “brutal, cruel, hard … but one thing I am not is deceitful. I always keep my word.”

  “Then I must accept your word,” Pavin said. “Lead the way, General.”

  Patûk rode back to his men with Captain Bu.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Patûk said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Bu replied.

  “Over time, we will gain the loyalty of his men,” Patûk said. “This much I know. As that happens, he may begin to rethink his loyalties.”

  “And if he does?” Bu asked.

  Patûk smiled, looking almost fatherly for a moment.

  “You know what to do,” he said, and the look was gone.

  Patûk watched as Pavin explained what he was doing to his men, and they seemed excited. A good sign. He heard voices behind him and saw Ban Chu, Bu’s corporal, speaking hurriedly to the captain. Bu now turned to the general.

  “Sir,” Bu said, whispering.

  “Why are you whispering, Captain?”

  “He has it,” Bu replied in the same quiet tones.

  “What are you talking about?” Patûk asked.

  “The treasure,” Bu said, “the thing the usurper wanted. Our spy, the thief, has it.”

  “Truly?” Patûk said, trying to quell the excitement in his voice.

  “He is close,” Bu explained. “Apparently, the mercenaries he traveled with are not even a half-day’s ride away. Shall I have him brought here?”

  “No,” Patûk said. “We will meet him away from Pavin. I want to find out what this thing is, first. Bring Ban Chu with you, and Li.”

  “Li, my lord?” Bu asked.

  “Yes,” Patûk replied. “He seems like a worldly man. Supposedly this treasure is some scroll. Who knows what language it is in, what symbols it has. I would think Li might know how to decipher such things if anyone does.”

  “How is a rolled piece of parchment a weapon, my lord?” Bu asked.

  “I don’t know,” Patûk said with a shrug, “but I trust my spies in Golgolithul. One of them is a member of the Soldiers of the Eye.”

  “That is why you attacked The Messenger,” Bu said. Patûk could sense the smile on his captain’s face. “So, you could kill some of them, regardless of the cost in our men’s lives, and have your spy infiltrate their ranks.”

  “You are learning, Bu,” Patûk said, looking at his captain. Indeed, the man was smiling. “What seemed like folly to most, even to the Black Mage, was a well-executed plan, one that was set in motion a long time ago.”

  “I still don’t see how a piece of parchment could be used as a weapon,” Bu said.

  “Perhaps it is directions on how to build a weapon,” Patûk said, as much to himself as to Bu, “or maybe it is a map to locate a weapon. Whatever it is, Bu, it is in our possession now, and our purpose is at hand. Revenge will be mine.”

  Chapter 29

  “Continue to lead the homesteaders,” Erik told Wrothgard early the next morning. “Dwain recognizes where we are now.”

  The dwarf nodded in agreement.

  “What are you doing?” Wrothgard said. “This is folly. If Switch is working for Patûk, there is no way we will ever see that scroll case again. It is gone.”

  “Switch couldn’t have gone far,” Erik said, although he didn’t completely believe himself. “If we return to the civilized world without the Lord of the East’s treasure, we might as well kill ourselves.”

  “I cannot believe it of him,” Wrothgard said, shaking his head.

  “I can,” Bryon said through labored breaths. He grew paler every day. “He’s a bastard. I even caught him stealing from the dwarves in Thorakest when he knew it would be the death of us all.”

  “Balzarak and Turk will go with me,” Erik said. “Wrothgard, I suggest you take charge along with Dwain.”

  Both man and dwarf nodded in agreement.

  “I’m going also,” Bryon said, trying to straighten his back despite the severe grimace of pain on his face.

  “Not a chance,” Erik replied.

  “You can’t tell me what to do, little cousin,” Bryon said.

  “This time, I can,” Erik replied. “Look at you. You are barely clinging to life right now, Bryon. You need to get help in Thorakest. You’ll do us no good tracking Switch. You will slow us down and be weak if it comes to a fight.”

  Bryon looked like he wanted to protest, but he didn’t. He simply opened and then closed his mouth.

  After Threhof had been buried—the other dwarves simply accepted what Erik said about Switch killing him when Threhof was trying to help Erik—it was time for Erik to leave, to follow the thief into the forest with Balzarak and Turk. As Erik turned to move away, Bryon put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Take my sword,” his cousin said, handing Erik his sheathed blade.

  Erik took it, hugged his cousin—something he hadn’t done in a long time—and left.

  It took Turk only a small amount of time, in the early morning, to find Switch’s trail. Erik saw the blood, and the severed hand. They took a moment to inspect the other man that had been with Switch.

  “A spy,” Balzarak said. “You can tell by his armor and his boots.”

  They followed the trail for half a day, finding the places where Turk said the thief had rested for a time. Then they found discarded cloth, soaked still in blood, and the remnants of a fire.

  “He cauterized the wound,” Erik said, remembering the way in which Bo the gypsy had sealed the wound on Befel’s shoulder.

  Then, at about noon, Turk held a hand up. He pointed to his ears and his eyes, and then pointed beyond several trees.

  “There’s a small clearing,” he whispered in Dwarvish. “I hear voices.”

  They inched closer, and Erik could hear the voices as well.

  “Shengu?” he whispered.

  Turk nodded.

  Erik saw Switch. He held the stump of his left hand close to his chest. He looked worn and tired, sweating profusely. He saw two other men wearing leather breastplates—spies—and he saw another two men wearing steel breastplates. They were both older, one with a glaring scar running down his face and through an eye. The other, he remembered this man from the last homestead they couldn’t save; he had a hard jawline, close cropped, gray hair, and looked powerful and mean.

  “Patûk Al’Banan,” Erik whispered.

  Balzarak nodded this time.

  Then, Erik saw him, another man he recognized. He wore loose fitting robes, had a baldhead, and a close-cropped, black beard. His lazy eyes stared at something the group of men had spread out on a tree stump.

  Cho’s seneschal. What is he doing here?

  “What are they looking at?” Turk asked.

  Erik chanced to lean forward. He saw a scroll case lying on the ground, next to the tree stump. The cork that sealed it was gone. His eyes widened with a mixture of shock and horror. They had opened it.

  “The scroll,” Erik said, “the treasure for the Lord of the East. They opened it.”

  L
i pointed to something on the scroll, then looked at Patûk Al’Banan. They seemed to argue, only briefly, as the other men just stood and watched. Switch swayed back and forth, and sweat poured down his face.

  Patûk Al’Banan sucked in a deep breath and then began to speak, but it wasn’t Shengu. Erik didn’t know what language it was, but he recognized it. It was the language his brother had spoken in the tunnels of Orvencrest. It was the language that had consumed him and taken control of him. It was the language that he heard when the dragon spoke in his mind as if she had spoken Westernese. It was the also the language of the winter wolves, an evil language that belonged to the Shadow.

  As Patûk Al’Banan spoke, reading from the scroll, the sunlight in the forest clearing seemed to dim. Erik wasn’t the only one who noticed it as both the dwarves and the other men started looking around. Erik felt a tremble in the earth below his feet. He heard a distant rumble, like thunder, even though there were no clouds to be seen. His stomach knotted. He knew what the sound really was.

  Erik’s thoughts went to the dragon, and he heard her voice in his head. She laughed as he felt heat; her presence. She wasn’t dead. Not at all. She was barely hurt, and she was coming for them. These fools had no idea what they were doing.

  Erik smelled the rot of the dead. He heard them, amongst the trees, their feet shuffling, smelled their rancid breath as they laughed.

  “He has to stop,” Erik said. “He doesn’t know what he is doing.”

  “What?” Turk asked.

  “This is no family heirloom, some scroll of lineage,” Erik said. “I don’t know how, but it is tied to the dragon. Somehow the scroll is calling to her; she will rise again and wreak havoc on the world if they finish reading. We have to stop him.”

  Erik drew Ilken’s Blade and his cousin’s elvish sword, holding it in his left hand.

  “Erik, wait,” Balzarak said.