“There’s no time,” Erik said, and he jumped out in front of the tree behind which they hid. “Stop!”
Patûk Al’Banan stopped reading and turned to face Erik. The sunlight returned, the unnatural heat dissipated, the stink of the dead disappeared, and the earth stopped rumbling. The general said something Erik didn’t understand. He would have to learn Shengu.
“By the bloody Shadow,” Switch said, although his words were labored and somewhat slurred.
“Do not read that!” Erik warned, pointing the elvish blade at the scroll. It hissed as he moved it.
“Erik of Waterton,” Cho’s seneschal said. The others looked at the man, and he returned that lazy-eyed response. “Truth be told, I didn’t expect you to live a week after you left Aga Min. How interesting?”
The seneschal steepled his fingers in front of his face.
“You left Aga Min to join traitors,” Erik said.
“No, my boy,” the seneschal said. “Aga Min is gone, destroyed like Aga Kona. I chose a path that offered life.”
“Enough,” Patûk Al’Banan said, speaking perfect Westernese. “Thief, I thought you said you were alone.”
“I thought I was,” Switch said with a shrug.
Patûk Al’Banan growled and drew his sword.
“Kill him,” he said.
The dwarves joined Erik. The two men wearing leather breastplates came at them, and Turk and Balzarak engaged them. Erik made for Patûk Al’Banan, but the older soldier stood in his way, his own sword drawn. Erik didn’t really know how to fight with two swords, Wrothgard had forced him to train with his sword in both hands. The older, scarred soldier attacked with perfect strikes, but Erik parried and blocked them. As the soldier lunged at Erik, he saw a small opportunity and jabbed Ilken’s Blade into the man’s hip. He growled and turned, just as Erik brought the elvish blade down hard.
As he was about to give the man a matching scar on the other side of his face, Erik felt something stick in his shoulder. One of Switch’s knives. It wasn’t really enough to hurt him or enough to throw off his attack, and the elvish blade seared through the soldier’s steel, sinking into the flesh of his chest and cutting through several ribs. He cried out in pain, falling backwards.
“Bao Zi!” Patûk Al’Banan yelled, jumping in front of the old soldier.
Patûk Al’Banan was the most adept warrior Erik had ever seen. His movements were crisp and precise, and a part of Erik felt that if the old general wanted him dead, he would have run him through the moment he jumped in front of the other, older soldier. He found himself back on his heels as each blade stroke from the eastern general came hard and fast, making anything Wrothgard had ever done seem novice. Turk and Balzarak tried to help, to come to Erik’s rescue, but the two soldiers clad in leather breastplates consumed their attention, cutting them off every time they tried to break away. The general clearly had the upper hand.
Erik’s shoulders ached, and the tip of Patûk Al’Banan’s sword found a space between his armor. He felt blood trickle down his arm and chest.
I’m going to die.
Erik could see Switch trying to sneak up behind him, and if the thief had been completely healthy, he might have, but he was slow and weak from losing his hand, and the grip he had on his backwards-curved blade was shaky at best.
While Patûk Al’Banan continued his onslaught against Erik, Switch attacked. Erik felt the wind move behind him and sidestepped. The thief’s knife caught Erik’s pant’s leg but only cut cloth. Erik kicked out, catching Switch’s shin and, at the same time, brought Ilken’s Blade down on his back. The thief went down with a muffled cry, tumbling into the general, who continued to come at Erik.
“You fool!” Patûk Al’Banan yelled as Switch caused the old soldier to trip. It was all the opportunity Erik needed.
As Patûk Al’Banan regained his balance and stood, Erik brought Ilken’s Blade down hard. He knew the general would block his blow with adder-like speed. He counted on it. Patûk Al’Banan’s sword barely moved as Erik brought his blade down as hard as he could.
“Looks like you need more training,” Patûk Al’Banan sneered. “Too bad you won’t receive it. You could have been a decent swordsman.”
Patûk Al’Banan laughed, but then his eyes went wide. Steam rose up and shadowed his face, and the smell of burning meat and heated metal hit Erik’s nose. The general looked down at his chest. The elvish blade sat there, hilt deep, melting through steel, flesh, and bone. Erik’s attack with Ilken’s Blade had been a ruse, giving him enough time to jab upwards with the magical blade.
The look on Patûk Al’Banan’s face was one of disbelief. This was a great warrior. Erik knew that he should be the one who was dying. If it hadn’t been for the fool thief, he would be dead. But the one thing that Wrothgard hadn’t taught him, but the past two years had, was take an opportunity when it presents itself, for it may never come again.
“I should have died by the hands of a greater man,” the general hissed. “You are a lesser man.”
The general should have died at the hands of some other mighty warrior, or fighting a hundred soldiers, or maybe even fighting a dragon, but he died at the hands of Erik, a farm boy who hadn’t seen twenty summers. Erik retrieved his sword with the sickening spitting of searing meat. He heard the two men who fought with the dwarves cry out when Patûk Al’Banan fell to his knees.
“Today,” Erik said, leaning forward so that his nose was almost touching the general’s, “you are the lesser man.”
Much to Patûk Al’Banan’s credit, and his resiliency, he reached up and grabbed Erik’s neck, squeezing with all his waning strength as his breaths became slower and more labored. Erik didn’t hesitate, even though the move did take him by surprise. He jammed Ilken’s Blade into the general’s exposed armpit, and the soldier released his grip and slumped to the ground, dead.
Erik turned his attention to Switch, who had started to scoot backwards and tried to stand.
“Mercy, Erik,” Switch said, almost crying. “Please, mercy.”
“Are you worried about tomorrow now, thief?” Erik asked. “All your talk about not giving a wit for what comes tomorrow or what happens after you die. Are you worried now?”
“Please, Erik,” Switch said. “They forced me. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“You are worried, aren’t you?” Erik added. “Now that it’s your time.”
“Son of a whore,” Switch cursed, but still looked frightened, tears filling his eyes, “please.”
Erik had heard enough. He brought Ilken’s Blade down hard, and the thief went limp.
“Erik!” Turk called.
The young man turned to see Cho’s former seneschal and the two leather breast-plated men trying to run. One of the men had the other older soldier over his shoulder, the injured man still breathing, albeit slowly. They didn’t bother with the scroll, which was still lying on the tree stump.
Erik gave a quick chase. Instinctively, he swung out with the elvish blade and caught the lazy-eyed seneschal on the shoulder. The heat burned away some of his robe, catching the rest on fire. The man screamed as the fire spread over the whole of the thin, shimmery material. He tried to strip the robes off as quickly as he could, and Erik swung again, the broad side of the elvish blade hitting the man in the face. The seneschal’s ear melted away, and his cheek and eye drooped as skin charred and cracked. The scream he gave was gut-wrenching.
The easterner not carrying the older soldier stopped. He leapt in front of the seneschal, sword out in front of him, staving Erik off from running the screaming, lazy-eyed man through. The easterner grabbed the seneschal—rolling about on the ground as much of his body was burned and disfigured—and quickly slung him over his shoulder, keeping Erik at bay, and ran. Erik wanted to give chase again, but when he saw his dwarvish companions were not behind him, he stopped.
“What are you doing?” Erik asked, walking back to his companions.
“They are unimporta
nt,” Balzarak said. “The scroll is what is important. The language Patûk Al’Banan was speaking …”
“It was evil, wasn’t it?” Erik asked. “I remember it from Orvencrest.”
“Yes,” Balzarak replied.
“What does this scroll do?” Turk asked.
“I dare not read it,” Balzarak said. “I wouldn’t know what most of it says anyways.”
“It’s connected to the dragon somehow,” Erik added. “I could sense her presence when the general was reading from it.”
“This is not something that should fall into the hands of the Lord of the East,” Balzarak said.
“Then perhaps we should take it to Thorakest,” Turk suggested.
But, to Erik’s surprise, Balzarak shook his head.
“No,” he said, “this is something that, if connected to the dragon, no one should have. It is evil. It was made by evil. And only evil will come from it.”
“Then what do we do with it?” Turk asked.
“Destroy it,” Balzarak said.
The dwarf picked up the scroll. It was a long piece of parchment, tanned and worn by time. The top half was script, line after line of writing, whatever Patûk Al’Banan was reading. The bottom half looked to be a map of sorts with writing underneath it. It almost looked like a list, and Erik presumed that they were directions or instructions. Balzarak grabbed the scroll with both hands and tried to rip it in half, but the parchment remained intact.
“What, by the Creator?” Balzarak grunted as he struggled against the scroll. “It is as if it is made of steel.”
Balzarak laid it back on the tree stump and nodded to Turk. The dwarf swung his battle axe down at the parchment, but just before the steel bit into both paper and wood, a glossy barrier appeared above the scroll, and Turk’s weapon bounced back, throwing both it and the dwarf through the air several paces and to the ground with a hard thud.
“Turk,” Erik said.
“I am fine,” the dwarf replied, brushing himself off with a confused look on his face.
“We’ll burn it, then,” Erik said, and without another word, touched the elvish blade to the scroll.
At first, the blade flared to an almost blinding purplish white, but then the metal dimmed, as it had in the tunnels escaping Orvencrest. It was as if the parchment was sucking the magic away from the sword. It did nothing to the paper, and Erik found himself pulling the blade away, but struggling to do so, as if the scroll held on to it with a firm grip. The sword looked like a normal, steel sword for a few moments, and Erik’s heart stopped until the purplish glow returned, and he could feel the heat it produced.
“I don’t think we can destroy it,” Erik said.
“Roll it up,” Balzarak said, “and place it back in its case.”
“The Lord of the East will know we opened it,” Erik said.
“He may,” the general said, “but we must worry about that later. We must rejoin our companions. I am sure, despite being dead, Patûk Al’Banan’s men will soon join the rest of his force, and they will be close on the heels of our company and moving fast.”
Erik did as Balzarak asked, and before they left, he stared down at General Patûk Al’Banan. He looked regal almost, even in death. His jaw was hard. His body even harder. And for a moment, Erik wondered if the man did indeed deserve a more glorious death. Then he remembered Aga Kona and the women and children. He thought about what Master Cho’s seneschal said, about Aga Min being destroyed as well. More women and children. This man was a monster, as evil as they came.
You deserved a worse death. We will see what you look like in my dreams as you begin to rot.
Then he looked at Switch. He looked thinner than before, pale and sickly. The gash that ran from his shoulder to hip exposed bone and intestines and even those looked sickly. There were moments when Erik actually thought this man was a true companion, maybe even, in a weird way, a friend. It was all a ruse, all pretense to get even more gold than he already had and, despite all they had been through, Erik didn’t feel any remorse for the thief as he had for Drake and Vander Bim.
“Erik, we have to go,” Balzarak said and Erik turned, nodded, and followed his dwarvish companions.
Chapter 30
Bu rode Warrior, Patûk’s old warhorse. He was surprised when the animal let him mount it. It was mean and angry and bit at anyone who wasn’t Patûk. But he had just stood there when Bu slung Bao Zi over his own horse, tethered the reins to Warrior’s saddle, and then mounted the destrier.
When they reached the camp, now ever growing as more of both Patûk’s and Pavin’s men showed up, Bu called for their healers. Some were just hedge witches and some were trained surgeons, but all were expendable.
“Listen here you gutter shite,” Bu said to the closest healer, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and pulling him close, pointing to Bao Zi, “if this man dies, I will cut off your balls, open up your stomach, rip out your intestines, and hang you with them.”
“But sir,” the man said with a shaky voice, “he is mortally wounded.”
“Save him,” Bu simple replied.
As the healers carried Bao Zi on a litter, the old soldier reached up and grabbed Bu’s wrist, pulling him down. Even near death, the man was incredibly strong.
“I serve you, my lord,” Bao Zi whispered into Bu’s ear. “I serve you.”
Bu stood as they carried the man away and, even though he felt silly for it, gooseflesh rose along his arms. Li still rolled about on the ground, his face marred—left ear gone, left eye gone, left cheek a blackened, cracked mess—and much of his chest and back burned. The two fingers on his right hand had melted together, but he still clutched something, a rolled-up piece of parchment. Bu crouched down.
“I’ve never heard you so excited,” Bu said as the seneschal rolled about.
“It burns,” he groaned in a long, pained, wheezing tone. “Please, it burns.”
Bu thought the man had started to cry.
“I am sure it does,” Bu said. “What is that in your hand?”
“The scroll,” Li replied, good eye closed, body shuddering with pain. “I convinced General Patûk to let me create a copy before he began reading it.”
“Did you now?” Bu asked. “With what intention?”
Li didn’t answer. He just breathed heavy and shook. His flesh had turned a bright red, and much of his chest had begun to blister.
“You are false,” Bu said. “An opportunist indeed. What does the scroll do? I somehow believe you could read it.”
For all of Li’s excitement, still rolling about and crying, Bu was calm.
“Help, please,” Li whined.
“Tell me what the scroll is, first,” Bu replied.
“It is an ancient spell,” Li replied, eye still shut. “It has to do with dragons. What exactly, I don’t know. Part of it is a map … to a weapon—a sword. The wielder becomes powerful. That’s all I could decipher.”
Bu stood. Dragons? Did they still exist? Did they ever exist? And a sword. History was full of stories about powerful wizards who commanded dragons, full of stories about powerful warriors who slew dragons.
“Healer,” Bu said to a single surgeon standing by, “get this man help.”
“Yes sir,” the surgeon said.
As Li was placed on a litter, Bu leaned in towards him.
“Before the tomigus root and dream milk take your senses, know this,” Bu said, “you now serve me. You are alive simply because you are useful. If I find you to be false, like you were with old Patûk, the pain you feel now will pale in comparison to the horrors I will put you through before being merciful and ending your life.”
****
Bu pushed Pavin Abashar to the ground, right hand wrapped around the general’s throat. The general squirmed and struggled, but Bu was too strong. No one else was in the tent, save for Sergeant Andu and Ban Chu, who Bu had made a lieutenant. Ban Chu was loyal to the death to Bu, and Andu was a broken dog and wouldn’t say a word.
“Listen here, you worm,” Bu seethed, pushing hard against Pavin’s throat. The general’s face started to turn purple, and his eyes began to bulge. “I am in charge. You now follow me. You will tell your men such, and my men.”
Bu let up on the general’s throat a bit so he could respond.
“The nine hells I will,” he replied.
“Wrong answer,” Bu said, pressing down now even harder.
Pavin kicked and gurgled and clawed at Bu, but Bu simply squeezed and smiled. Just as Pavin was about to pass out, Bu released his grip.
“You now serve me,” Bu said, “as do your men.”
He held out a hand. Ban Chu gently placed something that looked like a small, white worm in his open palm. He presented the little worm-like thing to Pavin. The general’s eyes widened.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” Bu asked.
“Brain demon,” Pavin muttered.
“That’s right,” Bu replied with a smile, “and if I am nice, I’ll simply drop it in your ear. If you struggle more, I’ll stick it up your ass.”
Brain demons, starting life off as helpless, white larvae, were beetle-like insects that seemed to seek out the brains of whatever host they had infected, burrowing into the skin or finding their way into whatever orifice they could. As they grew, thus growing barbed legs and large, sharp pincers, they caused a tremendous amount of internal pain, especially as they made their way to the host’s brain. The farther they had to travel to get to the brain, the more pain they caused. Once they reached the brain, as they ate away the fatty organ, they then caused insanity.
“Who do you serve?” Bu asked, inching the little white larvae closer to Pavin.
“You,” Pavin whispered back, voice shaking.
“Who do your men serve?” Bu asked.
“You,” Pavin replied again.
“And when we conquer Hámon,” Bu said, “which I still intend on doing, who will be king of Hámon?”
Breaking the Flame Page 21
