Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  “Yes, I can see that,” Bu replied.

  “No, General, men who want to join your army,” Ban Chu clarified.

  “How many?” Bu asked.

  “Several hundred, General,” Ban Chu said.

  “Truly?” Bu said. He didn’t mean for his surprise to be so evident.

  “Yes, General,” Ban Chu said.

  “I say we let them join,” Pavin said as Bu met with his officers.

  “Lieutenant?” Bu asked.

  “I agree,” Ban Chu replied.

  Both men’s responses were met by a cacophony of disagreement from the other officers. Bu finally put his hand up, silencing the men in his tent.

  “We will welcome these men,” Bu said. “They want to be a part of a new nation. I cannot blame them for that. Set them to do servant tasks. They must prove themselves. But, if I know the east, we will need every man willing to fight in the coming months and years.”

  Bu Al’Banan knew many of his officers walked away from the meeting disgruntled, upset about his decision. They still held on to eastern ideas of purity, but the man who, at the moment, mattered the most, Pavin Abashar, supported him. Pavin would take care of the officers who dissented too much. And anyone who continued to oppose his decision … Bu would use them as an example of what happened to people who decided to cross him.

  Chapter 39

  From the corner of a street at the edge of the city, Kehl and A’Uthma watched as all the whores and merchants flocked to the encampment that had been established outside Finlo. When he had returned, yet again defeated by that fat pig Del Alzon, the Samanian decided it was time to return home, taking with him what knowledge and wealth he had gained from Finlo and Háthgolthane. He would build a slave empire there and return to finally kill that fat bastard and burn his city to the ground, enslaving all its inhabitants in the process.

  Kehl couldn’t get his mind off the she-elf. He groaned, thinking about her, feeling his manhood stiffen. It wasn’t because of her beauty—despite her almost white hair and pale skin, she was beautiful—that aroused him. It was the very idea of having an elf in his stock, a creature many believed didn’t exist anymore, perhaps never existed, and there she was, in that shit heap of a city. She, alone, would make him a king. He wouldn’t even have to sell her. He could chain her and charge people to come see her. Men would pay a fortune to lay with her.

  “Who is this general?” Kehl asked, looking back at the encampment.

  “The son of some revered soldier from Golgolithul, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied. “He has frightened the Council of Five.”

  “The most successful general is a fool compared to the tacticians of Wüsten Sahil, A’Uthma,” Kehl said.

  “Truly, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said.

  “The arrogance of these Háthgolthanian dogs,” Kehl said. “We need to leave this place and soon.”

  “I agree, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said. “Men are even begging to join this soldier’s army.”

  “Why would a man beg to serve this man?” Kehl asked.

  “I have heard that he means to march on Hámon,” A’Uthma replied.

  “March on Hámon?” Kehl asked.

  “Yes, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied. “March on Hámon and take it.”

  “He means to be king of Hámon?” Kehl said. “Truly, what arrogance. I wish him a slow death. Should we slip into his camp and place a brain demon in his ear?

  “It is a tempting notion, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said, “but this man commands thirty thousand, and I have heard his tent is well-guarded.”

  “Do you doubt my ability to infiltrate?” Kehl asked, turning and glaring at his lieutenant.

  “No, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said, bowing low, “but it is said that he has a mage from the east, scarred from using too much magic, with him. Would your disguises work around such magic?”

  “Perhaps not,” Kehl replied. “Set our thieves to watching this encampment. They anger me. Any man that ventures into Finlo, have him castrated and raped before they slit his throat.”

  “Your will be done, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said.

  “Have we procured a ship to sail back to Saman?” Kehl asked.

  “Not yet, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma replied.

  “Do we not have enough money?” Kehl asked.

  “I am increasingly finding that men are unwilling to sell to us … as Samanians,” A’Uthma said.

  “These worthless dogs,” Kehl seethed and slammed a fist into the wall of the building next to which he stood. He wanted to destroy something, hurt someone.

  A groan erupted from beneath a pile of rags as a homeless man shifted in what Kehl suspected was a drunken slumber. He drew a knife, stepped to the man, stood over him, and plunged his weapon into flesh over and over again until all he felt, or heard, was wet, pulverized meat. He stood and breathed. He didn’t feel any better.

  “These Háthgolthanian dogs aren’t worth the shit on our boots, A’Uthma,” Kehl spat.

  “You speak truly, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said.

  Kehl groaned and thought for a moment.

  “Before I kill every man, rape every woman, and enslave ever child of Waterton,” Kehl said, “I will burn Finlo down. I don’t even want its riches or its people. I simply want to wipe it from the maps.”

  “A denizen of disease-ridden filth, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said. “It could not be destroyed too soon.”

  Kehl breathed and calmed himself.

  “Send Albin to buy a ship,” Kehl said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “They will sell to another Háthgolthanian, and I trust Albin.”

  “Yes, Im’Ka’Da.”

  “Are those men from our guild,” Kehl asked, pointing from the shadows at a group of four men walking to the camp.

  “I believe so,” A’Uthma replied.

  “Didn’t you tell our people they were not to go anywhere near this camp?” Kehl hissed.

  “I did, Im’Ka’Da,” A’Uthma said with a low bow.

  Kehl watched as the four men walked about the camp. But rather than drink or pilfer or thieve, they met with a soldier and seemed to talk to him for a long time. When they had finished talking to the soldier, they all four touched a fist to their breast and bowed to the man.

  “They mean to join this army,” Kehl whispered, narrowing his eyes and seething quietly.

  Three of his men stayed in the camp, but one made his way back to the city. Kehl jerked his head, commanding A’Uthma to follow him. They slunk through the shadows of the city’s alleyways. The city streets were almost vacant and quiet. As this one man wandered into a side street that would eventually lead to Kehl’s secret hideout, the Samanian snuck up behind the man and wrapped his arm around the man’s throat, pulling him back into the shadows.

  “What are you doing?” Kehl hissed as he released the man, pushing him to his knees.

  “Who … Kehl?” the man said, realizing it was Kehl who had grabbed him. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  A’Uthma backhanded the man across the face.

  “Answer your leader,” A’Uthma commanded.

  “I was just enjoying the revelry,” the man replied, rubbing his face.

  “You lie,” Kehl hissed.

  “Now see here …” the thief began to say, but another hand across his face shut him up.

  “You were there to enlist in that general’s army,” Kehl accused. “You dog.”

  “No, no,” the thief said, fear evident in his eyes. He knew what was coming.

  As Kehl stood straight, the thief’s hand went to a short sword at his belt. A’Uthma punched him while Kehl drew a razor-sharp scimitar, removing the hand from its wrist. A’Uthma clapped a hand over the man’s mouth, muffling any screams. Kehl then slashed his blade across the thief’s chest repeatedly. Blood poured down the thief’s front. Kehl nodded to A’Uthma who beat the thief until he could no longer even lift his head.

  “I hope your friends stay there, in that cam
p,” Kehl said, “because if they come back into the city, their punishment will be far worse.”

  Kehl drew his sword again, and in one, quick motion, removed the thief’s head from his shoulders.

  ****

  Kehl stood still in the room, trying to press himself into the wall. The Council of Five sat around a round table, arguing. He knew he didn’t look like some Samanian. The disguises left behind by the thief Toth worked well and even his own men didn’t know it was he at first. His voice and face had been changed, but nonetheless, he was still nervous, spying on the Council of Five.

  He did it, from time to time, disguising himself as a servant so he could eavesdrop on their meetings, find out ahead of time what parts of the city they were getting ready to pressure or inspect or increase security in. It helped him learn of militia movements, shipments coming in and from where, a number of things that might help a slaver and his band of thieves. With this army camping on Finlo’s doorstep, Kehl thought it prudent to find out what the Council of Five had to say. They didn’t look very happy after speaking with this General Bu Al’Banan.

  “Martial law—that’s the answer!” one of the council members yelled, slamming his fist against the table.

  “I agree,” another said. “It is time to rein in our people. We have been too lax. They are all lawbreakers. Clean up the alleyways. Bar ships coming in from Wüsten Sahil and the Feran Islands.”

  “How will this help?” another asked.

  “We are no longer respected,” the first said. “It is evident. Look at the way General Al’Banan has treated us … treated our city.”

  “What say you, Amman?” asked the fourth council member, standing and looking at a man yet to speak, one that could have been taken for one of Kehl’s countrymen. Amman seemed to think for a while. Kehl knew that Amman was the speaker of the council. He had, at least for this cycle, the final say on the matters of law. Finally, he stood, placing his hands on the table in front of him and leaning forward.

  “Martial law,” Amman said. “Immediately. Close the docks for a week. Those ships that don’t want to leave, burn them.”

  Amman then looked at Kehl, pressed hard against the wall and looking, to the Council of Five, like some young serving boy with barely a hair on his chin.

  “Boy, my wine cup is empty,” Amman said, “and my pitcher bare. Go get more wine.”

  Kehl bowed and rushed out of the room. He walked past the kitchen, where the wine was kept, and out the front door of Finlo’s legislative building. When he reached the shadows of an alleyway, he pulled the disguise from his face. It still hurt, but he had finally gotten used to the pain.

  “We must leave,” Kehl said in a rushed tone when he met with A’Uthma.

  “We don’t have a ship,” A’Uthma said. “And some of our slavers and thieves aren’t ready.”

  “I don’t care,” Kehl replied. “We’ll steal a ship, and those that aren’t ready we will leave behind. The Council of Five is imposing martial law.”

  A’Uthma didn’t offer any other argument.

  ****

  Kehl knew that the commotion at the dock was because of the dead militiamen. He had killed them quietly, but one had still managed to cry out. He finished off the last sailor on this ship and threw his body overboard. The body thudded against the wooden dock, bringing even more alarm from the militia.

  “We must hurry,” Kehl said. He knew nothing about sailing, but some of his men did.

  “This whole dock is closed!” one of the militiamen shouted. “Get off your ships, now!”

  “Piss off,” one sailor shouted from a ship docked directly across from Kehl’s newly acquired boat.

  His curse was met with different cursing, and Kehl watched as several pitch-smeared torches flew over the side of the boat. The wood quickly caught fire. The flames blazed high, and most of the sailors on board had to jump into the dirty sea. Those who chose to try and escape via the dock met their demise at the end of a sword, and those in the water fared no better, meeting their end via a crossbow bolt as soon as they emerged for air.

  “Let’s move,” Kehl commanded as the militia set fire to yet another boat.

  Some of his men began using long poles to push the boat away from the dock while others unfurled the single sail. Kehl heard a scream as a crossbow bolt struck one thief in the chest. Another squirmed about on the ground, another bolt slashing a wide wound across his face. Kehl knew the man would be blind, at least in one eye, and nodded to A’Uthma. His lieutenant picked up the injured man and threw him overboard.

  “If you want to live, don’t get hurt,” Kehl said as some of the other Finnish thieves stared on in disbelief.

  He didn’t lose any more men, and they certainly gave worse than they got as they returned fire with their own bows and crossbows.

  “Finnish pricks,” Albin spat.

  They watched as the coastal city grew smaller and smaller, two large oars first propelling the ship and then, as the wind picked up, the sail billowing and speeding them out into the open ocean.

  “Most of these men are nothing more than dogs,” Kehl whispered, “expendable and worth little more than the dirt on my boots. But you, Albin, you are worth any Samanian, and when we reach our home, you will enjoy the pleasures on offer to a citizen of Saman.”

  Kehl continued to watch until Finlo was nothing but a speck in the distance. Then, he retired to the main quarter, where his woman waited. He would relish in the pleasures of his homeland, even as they traveled there.

  Chapter 40

  Andragos watched the bowl of water intently. He saw this new general—a man named Bu—leading a column of many thousands of men, north, towards Hámon. What was he calling himself? Bu Al’Banan, the legitimate son of Patûk Al’Banan. Andragos knew that Old Patûk probably had a dozen or more children out there somewhere, but none of them would have been legitimate. And this fool didn’t even look like Patûk.

  The old soldier had always worn that stupid pompous look on his face as he tried to present a facade of humility, but Andragos knew better. He had been as prideful as the rest of them, even more so. He didn’t blame him, necessarily, he’d been successful, talented, a true tactician and leader. But he had left, defected, and before his death, wished to be his own king.

  “Insolence,” Andragos grumbled.

  Many could be kings. So why weren’t they? Why wasn’t he a king? His powers were great. He could simply speak a word, and thousands would follow him. Duty. Loyalty. Andragos clutched at the sides of the bowl, some of the water spilling out. Stupidity.

  This new man, the so-called son, however, wore a different look. There was nothing fake about that stern look he had. This man, this Bu, had no pretense about him. And as Andragos watched him through his water, he could tell that this man could be even more dangerous than Patûk.

  To think, Patûk Al’Banan was finally dead. He wished he could have seen it, at least known how. His magic wouldn’t tell him. The rumor was the pox. When word eventually reached the Lord of the East, Andragos knew he would laugh, internally at least. He would present a façade that he didn’t care.

  Pox? Andragos thought. What a comical way for such a warrior to die.

  But he didn’t believe it. Did this Bu kill him? Andragos shook his head. No. As he watched this General Bu ride in front of a column of men, he knew that this man took Patûk’s last name because, in a way, he looked to the general as if he were his father. He had Pavin Abashar with him. What a fool.

  Pavin Abashar was always arrogant and never sought to hide it like Patûk did. But this new general, he must have commanded respect for Pavin to follow him. Andragos could see how Abashar might follow Patûk, but some upstart general?

  Andragos continued to stare at his magical bowl of water. He saw another retinue of men, heavily armored and led by a rich carriage. A well-respected nobleman rode in that carriage followed by three thousand men. They were on a collision course with General Bu Al’Banan … and with their dea
ths.

  If Pavin counseled him right, and if Patûk had taught this Bu anything, the general would offer this noble, the honorable Barde Bik, the chance to surrender the gold he carried, gold meant for the king of Hámon, a chance to surrender his men to Bu, his horses and carriages. The general might even offer Barde the opportunity to go home unscathed, but that was perhaps unlikely.

  But Barde Bik would spit in Bu’s face, and all the men that followed him to Hámon would die. Bu would torture Barde—this much Andragos knew if Patûk had truly trained him—and then send his body back to Fen-Stévock as a message. And the Lord of the East—his lord—would scoff at the message, forget the loyalty and sacrifice that Barde Bik gave to him and his country. Syzbalo would wait until this Bu and Pavin Abashar and any other defector—Dimrûk Lu-Fan was another Andragos could think of who commanded a decent number of men—had established his own kingdom before concerning himself with the west. Fool.

  Andragos threw the bowl across the room. The water splashed across the wall, and his vision disappeared. The Lord of the East was always consumed with his witches, his new advisor, and his foolish new endeavors. If his father could see him. How disappointed he would be.

  “My lord,” Terradyn said, running into the room and Raktas following him, “are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Andragos replied, rubbing both of his temples with his forefingers.

  “My lord,” Raktas said, “beg your pardon, but you do not look fine.”

  “Patûk Al’Banan,” Andragos grumbled.

  “What about him, my lord?” Terradyn asked.

  “He is simply a thorn, my lord,” Raktas said.

  “Once, yes,” Andragos said, standing up and turning to see his two personal guardsmen. “But now, even in death, he is much more.”

  “My lord?” Terradyn asked.

  “He is dead,” Andragos said.

  “Truly?” Raktas asked.

  “But his protégé and Pavin Abashar march on Hámon as we speak,” Andragos explained.