He had already completed his work in the fields for the day, and his mother had squeezed fresh oranges and he drank two cups worth of the sweet juice. He had decided to do more work, tending to the horses to make sure their shoes were all right and they were groomed. That’s when his father grabbed him, led him to the fields he had just worked, and put his arm around Bryon. He squeezed Bryon and told him how proud he was. He had already started drinking, but it was too early in the day to be drunk.
He said he was proud of me,
Bryon sat up in his bed and watched the tears fall into his cupped palms.
You old bastard. You old drunk bastard.
He had forgotten those memories of home, pushed aside by the sour ones of the fighting, the yelling, the drunken, cursing rants that assuaged his guilt for leaving as he did. Then he remembered the sight of a young man, about his age, tilling a field with him, pulling weeds and digging ditches and planting seeds. Befel.
Bryon had gotten a late start and knew that he would never finish in time, causing his father to be furious again. So Befel came to help; despite all the work he also had, he agreed to help Bryon, work with him, side by side. The cousin he had so despised for the last two years.
Befel always comforting Bryon when his father got too drunk, when the cursing was especially mean. It was Befel, coming over to Bryon’s house when he just couldn’t stand being around five sisters anymore, just to be with Bryon. It was Befel, jumping into a fight to back up Bryon, even though Bryon had started it. It was with him whom he played wooden swords. It was Befel with whom he went riding. It was Befel with whom he shared his deepest secrets, his hopes, and his dreams. And now he was gone.
“I’m sorry, Befel,” Bryon cried. “I’m so sorry. I’m the bastard. I’m no better than my father. I’m worse. I’m so sorry.”
He sat there and cried, thinking of all the time he had spent with Befel, thinking of all the fits of laughter from his sisters he had missed in the last two years, thinking about all the batches of muffins and pitchers of orange juice he had missed, thinking about all the hugs—those coveted hugs—from his father he had missed.
“Just one more day, cousin,” Bryon sobbed. “I wish I had just one more day. Just one more day to tell you I’m sorry. Just one more day to tell you how much your friendship actually meant to me. Just one more day … one more day to tell you I love you.”
Chapter 37
The tall grass tickled at Erik’s fingers as he walked through the meadow. The sky was clear and dark, faint purples and reds floating overhead as the sun descended in the west. Erik had never been here at dusk, as the light of the day waned and dared to disappear.
Erik saw the hill in the distance, with the great willow tree sitting atop it. The tree looked like a shadow, dark and ominous, in front of the setting sun. The light breeze that always seemed to exist here had picked up, briskly fluttering the tops of the tall grass, whipping Erik’s hair about his face, and pulling and pushing the branches of the willow tree as it pleased.
Erik walked towards the hill expecting to hear the voices, the hissing curses and maniacal laughter he so often heard when he was here. He expected to smell the rot and the death and feel their hot breath of the dead on his skin. But they weren’t there, and he heard nothing but the flutter of a brisk wind through tall grass.
As he approached the hill, he saw the shadow of a man standing at the hillock’s foot, but as he neared the solitary figure, he saw that it wasn’t one of the walking dead. It was a man standing there.
“I normally see you sitting under the tree,” Erik said, speaking to the shadow even though he was clearly too far to hear.
As Erik got even closer, though, he realized this wasn’t the man he normally saw in his dreams, sitting under the willow tree and staring out onto the meadow. In fact, Erik could now see that man sitting as he normally did. No, this other man was broad at the shoulders, slightly shorter than Erik. As he came into view, Erik could see his sandy hair kept short in the back and around his ears. He wore plain clothing, wool pants, and a cotton, stitched shirt.
The man turned around and Erik stopped. His breath and his heart stopped. The world around him stopped.
“Befel,” Erik whispered.
Befel just stared at Erik; his pale face held no emotion. He stood straight and still, and now Erik moved to run to his brother as Befel turned back around to face the tree.
“Befel!” Erik yelled and ran to his brother. His heart went from not moving at all to slamming against his chest.
Befel didn’t respond, remaining facing away from Erik, unmoving, stoic almost.
“Befel!” Erik cried again. He ran so hard his feet got tangled and he fell, hitting the ground hard. As he skidded along the ground, Erik felt dirt cake on his cheeks and forehead. A strong gust of wind blew over the dream meadow, and the grass whipped hard against Erik’s face.
He pushed himself to his knees and over the tops of the grass, saw Befel, still standing there. He got to his feet and continued to run to his brother.
Erik finally stopped, just paces away from Befel.
“Befel,” he said. The smile on his face made his cheeks hurt. “Brother.”
Befel didn’t move, as if he didn’t hear Erik, didn’t see him or even sense his presence.
“He can’t hear you, Erik.”
Erik recognized the voice. It was the man sitting under the willow tree.
“What do you mean?” Erik asked.
“He cannot hear you,” the man said again. “He has passed from this world. You know this. You saw him die.”
Erik felt tears well up in his eyes and trickle down his bearded cheeks.
“He is getting ready to take the caravan home,” the man under the willow tree said. “He is waiting to join many others, including your grandfather.”
Erik was close enough to touch Befel, and he reached out, putting his fingers on Befel’s shoulder. Befel turned around and looked at Erik with blank eyes as blue as they had always been. But they saw nothing.
Erik’s stomach knotted, and a lump caught in his throat. He couldn’t help himself. He hugged Befel, squeezing his brother as hard as he could, weeping the whole time. Befel didn’t move. He didn’t hug back. He didn’t push Erik away. He just stood there and stared straight, eyes still blank.
“What cruel place is this?” Erik cried, releasing his brother, “that my own brother doesn’t recognize me. Won’t recognize me.”
“One more moment,” said another voice, not of the man under the willow tree. Erik turned to see another figure, clothed in a black cloak, a cowl pulled low over his face so that it was hidden, standing next to Befel. He remembered this person, from another dream, deep in the forest. He remembered this person leading people onto a carriage. He remembered the person cursing others to doom.
“That is what you wished, yes? One more moment with your brother. You cried it, over and over. You prayed it. You even commanded it—such boldness—of the Creator, that he gave you one more moment with your brother. This is your moment. Do with it what you will.”
“What good is a moment with my brother if he doesn’t recognize me?” Erik asked.
He could see the cloaked figure’s shoulders move as he shrugged.
“What good would one more moment do you if he did recognize you?” the cloaked figure asked. “What would you say to him?”
“I would tell him I love him,” Erik said, straightening his shoulders a little, wiping tears away from his cheeks.
“Did he not know you loved him when he died?” the cloaked figure asked.
“I don’t know,” Erik replied. “I suppose he did. I would tell him how much I appreciated him.”
“And he didn’t know that?”
“I would talk to him about our family. About my mother and father and sisters,” Erik replied.
“And how long would that take?” the cloaked man asked. “Do you see, Erik, that a moment is not enough time? Do you see that a day is not enoug
h time? Do you see that even a year, a lifetime, is not enough time?”
“So, I am a fool,” Erik muttered.
“No,” said the man under the willow tree. “You are no fool, just a man who misses his brother.”
“Will my brother ever recognize me?” Erik said.
“You will not see him again,” the cloaked man said.
“For a while,” the man under the tree added. “Probably for many years. But you will see him again. And when you do, he will recognize you. And the lifetime that you’ve been apart will seem like just a moment.”
“Come, Befel,” the cloaked man said.
Befel looked at the cloaked man and nodded, allowing the man to lead Befel to a carriage that had appeared in the meadow, amongst the tall grass.
“Befel,” Erik whispered.
Befel continued to walk, slowly, towards the carriage.
“Befel!” Erik cried. “Befel! I love you!”
Befel stopped, just before the carriage, and turned to face Erik. He didn’t smile, didn’t show any emotion at all but, for a moment, his eyes met Erik’s. Erik knew, then, that his brother recognized him, and he smiled as Befel stepped onto the carriage and as it rolled away.
“Come, Erik,” the man under the willow tree said. “Come, sit next to me and watch the sunset.”
Erik climbed the hill and sat down under the tree. The wind was cool on his face as it dried the tears that rested there.
“I was here, in another dream,” Erik said, “but everything looked dead and dull. There was a man there. And a dwarf.”
“Ah, yes,” the man under the tree said. “The Shadow tries to mirror everything the Creator does, but it is always twisted, distorted, ugly. That you were there, in that place, makes me wonder …”
“Wonder what?” Erik asked.
The man only chuckled and shook his head with the slightest of smiles.
“A conversation for another time, perhaps,” the man said.
Erik stared out at the meadow of grass, the sun setting, and the carriage gone.
“I’ve never seen a sunset here,” Erik said.
“It is a rare thing,” his companion said, “that someone is here when the sun sets. But it is a wonderful sight, unlike any other sunset you will ever see.”
And it was. The colors were nothing like Erik had ever seen. Golds and silvers and coppers. Reds and purples and pinks and blues. Yellows and oranges and greens. It was as if all of the colors of the world had been painted across the sky. And when the sunset subsided and the nighttime took hold, the sky sparkled with stars, constellations Erik had never seen before. They shined so brightly, it almost looked like daytime across the meadow.
“Beautiful,” Erik said, keeping his eyes on the sky.
“Yes, it is,” the man next to him said. “Beautiful and everlasting, just like life.”
Erik looked to the man sitting next to him, and the man looked back. Where did he know him from? Erik shook his head and looked back at the stars, smiling at his constants.
****
Erik woke and sat up. It was night, but traffic could still be seen traveling along the road to Fen-Stévock. He rubbed his face and stood, his companions still asleep. Then, his hand went to his belt. The scroll case wasn’t there, and for a moment, his heart stopped. He looked about, feeling underneath his blanket on which he slept and under his haversack. Then, he remembered he had put it in his haversack, not worried about Switch or Threhof or anyone else trying to steal it anymore. He retrieved the treasure and held it, staring at it in the moon and starlight.
You are becoming obsessed with this thing.
He stuffed it in the front of his belt, feeling the obsession he had over it. He could not get the scroll out of his mind, nor the smell of the dead as Patûk Al’Banan read the words on the scroll, nor the voice of the dragon inside his head. What exactly was on that scroll? He knew it was evil. He knew it had to do with the dragon and the dead and the dwomanni. But a part of him wanted to know for sure.
A finger tickled the small cork that sealed one end of the case, knowing it had already been opened. He was probably already destined for punishment for that from the Lord of the East, so what would be one more look?
But then what? Perhaps in his mind he understood the language of evil, what Balzarak had said was called the Shadow’s Tongue, but he doubted he could read it. But in the halls of Orvencrest, when the evil that resided there had taken over Befel’s body and Befel spoke those words, Erik understood. Maybe the same thing would happen if Erik read the words. Would he recognize the characters on the page? There was only one way to find out.
He tickled the cork again, grasping it with his thumb and forefinger, wiggling it just a bit … Another thought entered his mind. What if a man with a good heart controlled a dragon? Could a thing of pure devastation be used for good? Could not a sword be used for sin or righteousness?
If Erik controlled a dragon, he could wipe the dwomanni from existence. He could use it to support rulers that were good and depose rulers that were wicked. Slavers and thieves and assassins and murderers and rapists would fear the punishment of their crimes so much so that they would turn from their malicious ways.
A smile crept across Erik’s face as he wiggled the cork toggle a little more. Then he felt a pinch, a painful poke at his hip from his dagger.
You toy with something you know nothing about Erik.
I simply wish this could be used for good.
You have no idea what is on that scroll, what true devastation can come from this thing.
Do you know?
Yes.
Tell me!
Men become drunk with the thoughts of power, It turns good men evil, heroes to villains, and righteous rulers to tyrants.
Erik grunted with frustration. What did his dagger know? But it did. It helped lead him to the scroll. It trusted him. Did it choose poorly, trust wrongly?
“No,” Erik muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be a savior. I don’t want to be some hero. I just want to go home and hope that my family and Simone are still there and alive.”
He pushed the cork back into place, pushed the scroll case farther into his belt and patted his golden-handled dagger.
Thank you.
He felt a gentle tingle along his hip.
Erik decided he would try to go back to sleep, but as he was crouching down to lay down once again he saw a shadow move off to the side of the road. It shouldn’t have been such an alarming thing, there were lots of shadows along the Merchant’s Road as people camped for the night, but this was different. There were two of them, moving stealthily as if stalking something, stopping for a moment before moving again. They got closer, and Erik reached down and shook Turk’s shoulder.
“Huh, what?” the dwarf said, still groggy with sleep.
“Wake up,” Erik whispered. “There’s someone out there.”
Turk sat up, rubbing his face.
“There are a lot of someone’s out there,” Turk grunted.
“I know, and if this is a false alarm, I’m sorry,” Erik said, “but if there is anything I have learned on this journey, it’s to listen to my gut which is saying there is something out there that has its sights set on me … us.”
“All right, Erik,” Turk said, still with a hint of irritation in his voice as he sat up straighter and grabbed his battle axe.
Erik woke Wrothgard and Beldar and Bofim while Turk woke Nafer and Demik. It had been a few moments, and Erik hadn’t seen the shadows for a while. Demik decided to make a fire since they were all awake.
“Well,” Wrothgard said, “I suppose at least we’ll get an early start.”
Erik wondered if he was being foolish when he saw them again. They were closer. He stood, one hand on Ilken’s Blade, the other on Bryon’s elvish blade. Then he felt something disturb the wind as it passed by him, a sudden whiz as if a large bumblebee had fluttered by his face.
“What, by the god,” Wrothgard said, standing q
uickly with his hand grasping a small dart that had stuck in his neck where it met his shoulder.
It was a tiny thing, and Wrothgard pulled it, barely drawing blood, but when Wrothgard moved to stand, he stumbled and fell to a knee.
Erik drew his swords.
“It’s a froksman’s dart,” Demik said, inspecting the tiny weapon as Wrothgard sat on the ground. He looked, drowsy, almost drunk.
“A froksman?” Erik asked.
“Frog men,” Demik explained, “from the Shadow Marshes. Not meant to kill, but to slow down, put a man to sleep, as you can see.”
Erik felt another dart whiz by his face. This one bounced off Turk’s shield just as he raised it. Then one hit Beldar, and the dwarf fell back, tripping over his saddle. He groaned as whatever poison on the dart began to take hold of him.
“Show yourself!” Erik yelled.
The answer given was another dart. This one scratched his cheek, and Erik could immediately feel numbness on that side of his face.
Bofim was next to Erik, but when a dart hit him in his exposed forearm, it took just a bit more time than it took Wrothgard for him to go to both knees, woozy and fighting unconsciousness.
Erik leapt into the darkness beyond their camp, the purple light of his magic sword casting weird shadows. That’s when he saw them, two men he recognized from Finlo. The recognition was only because of the froksman—the frog man. He was an odd-looking thing, with the torso of a man, but the wide, wedge shaped head of a frog, eyes set atop. His hands were webbed and, even though Erik couldn’t see them, he suspected his feet were too. His companion, who was simply a man, was broad shouldered and bald, with a close cropped, black beard that still looked somewhat wild. Erik only recognized him because he was with the froksman.
Erik charged them. He could hear footsteps behind him and knew at least Turk followed. Erik had his eyes trained on the froksman, with his poisoned darts, but suddenly, a flash of bright light blinded him, and he felt himself stumble. When his vision returned, both men were past him, making their way towards the camp. Turk was on his knees, also blinking wildly.
Breaking the Flame Page 26
