Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  “I have faced slavers, dwarves, trolls, wolves, a dragon, and the dead,” Erik said, caring little if Andragos understood what he was talking about. “How can this be any more challenging?”

  “Be careful, Erik,” Andragos said. “Dragons and trolls are not always the worst enemies man will ever face. In fact, at times, our worst enemies are inside of us. I think you already know, everything here is not as it seems.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Erik asked.

  “I am remembering that my name is Andragos,” Andragos said with a smile.

  “Andragos,” Erik whispered.

  “Yes,” Andragos replied, “and, in remembering who I am, I am starting to see that the winds of the world are changing. Everything we know is changing.”

  “What does that mean for me … us?” Erik asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Andragos replied. “I’m not sure what that means for me. Just, be careful. Be watchful. And, always, listen to your heart. It has done you well thus far. Follow your heart, and I will see you again.”

  “You said that to me once before,” Erik said.

  Andragos smiled.

  “Thank you,” Erik added. “You once told me my honesty was refreshing. So is yours.”

  Erik pulled at his reins and turned his horse around.

  When Erik looked over his shoulder at Andragos, the man just watched as a father might watch his son leave for a long while, a large smile on his face.

  “What did he want?” Wrothgard asked.

  Erik waited for a long while before answering.

  “I’m not sure,” he finally replied.

  “The Messenger of the East just wanted to talk?” Wrothgard asked.

  “Andragos,” Erik whispered so that no one could hear. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Oddly enough, he just wanted to talk.”

  Chapter 50

  “Have you heard?” Mardirru asked.

  Bo nodded his head, slowly, thinking still about the news that had come from the east. It seemed almost unreal. It must have been a myth. He practically shook the eyeballs out of the poor peasant boy he had overheard talking about it. He accused the boy of lying, threatening even to beat him. But even if the news was false, there was truth in that boy’s eyes.

  A dragon. It couldn’t be. They were pure fantasy. Something grandmothers told their grandchildren to scare them into obedience. And this dragon had attacked Fen-Stévock, burned the southern suburb of South Gate to the ground, and killed thousands before being turned away.

  And who was able to fend off this mythical beast? Most would say the elite Eastern Guard. Some might even say the Soldiers of the Eye or the Black Mage himself. Perhaps the Lord of the East even. But if there was truth in the rumors that were now spreading to the westernmost reaches of Háthgolthane, it was a boy from Western Háthgolthane who saved Golgolithul from fiery ruin … a boy named Erik.

  “Could it be?” Bo muttered.

  “My father knew there was something special about him,” Mardirru said with a smile.

  Erik Eleodum, the farm boy following his brother and cousin east. The farm boy who really had no desire for adventure. The homesick farm boy.

  Bo couldn’t help smiling either.

  “A dragon, Mardirru,” Bo said. “How?”

  “I heard that he possessed a mighty weapon,” Mardirru replied. “A spell and a magical sword.”

  “What have you been up to, Erik?” Bo said, staring to the southeast.

  The Gray Mountains obscured most of the horizon as they traveled north through the Pass of Dundolyothum. Most refused to travel into the western lands of Nothgolthane this way, but they were gypsies, and Bo had made the journey a dozen times. They would trade with the Northern Dwarves and the Ogres, and the northern men of Hargoleth. Then they would travel along the edges of Ul’Erel into the lands of Gongoreth. And eventually they would find themselves in Wüsten Sahil, in its northernmost city-state of Saman. That would take a year, but it would be a lucrative year and, much to Bo’s relief, take them far away from the current chaos that seemed to consume Háthgolthane these days.

  Despite the tall peaks of the Gray Mountains consuming most of Bo’s vision, he knew the east was out there, the country of Golgolithul, and Erik. He smiled.

  “You are truly an extraordinary man,” Bo said. Then he turned to Mardirru. “How do you think he got his hands on some sword powerful enough to fight a dragon?”

  “It is said he has a magical elvish sword, but I heard one rumor muttered that he possesses a dagger,” Mardirru said with a smile, “a jeweled dagger, that grew into this powerful sword.”

  “Your father’s dagger?” Bo asked with wide eyes. “Could that be true?”

  “I don’t know,” Mardirru said with a shrug. “It was always a mysterious thing. My father never once used it, that I know of, and yet, always had it tucked into his belt. Truth be told, I don’t even know when and where he got it. For a long time after he died, I didn’t realize it was missing.”

  “Do you think we will ever see him again?” Dika asked as she sat in their cart, looking east with Bo.

  “I don’t know, my heart,” Bo replied. “I would like to think we would one day.”

  “We could have stayed in the lands of his people for a while longer,” Dika said.

  “I know, my love, but it isn’t our way,” Bo said.

  “And I feel we were overstaying our welcome,” Mardirru added. “They are a good people, but simple and noble. Their life is hard work, and I feel we might have been a distraction.”

  “I do hope I see Erik Eleodum again, someday,” Bo said, “although, I don’t know if I would recognize him.”

  He looked to his wife, then to Mardirru, and then back towards the east. He laughed, quietly.

  “A dragon,” he said with a smile and a playful shake of his head. “Erik Eleodum the Dragon Slayer.”

  ****

  Bu sat in the small inn, staring at his cup of spiced wine. His brows furled and cast brooding shadows over his eyes. His men sat around him, but none dared say anything. All the other patrons had left, and the barkeep watched the retinue with worried eyes, constantly wiping the same spot on the bar. South Gate, where he grew up was gone, but that wasn’t why Bu ruminated so. A dragon, the Black Mage, and a boy named Erik. Could it be the same one that had killed Patûk had also defeated a dragon? Bu still couldn’t believe it as he repeatedly muttered the word ‘dragon’.

  As soon as the dragon had been defeated, the Black Mage and his Soldiers of the Eye had escorted this Erik, accompanied by a single dwarf, into Fen-Stévock, to the black keep, to the Lord of the East. It was the scroll. It had to be. Luck had smiled on this boy … the man who had killed Patûk. But a dragon? It had leveled a whole suburb of Fen-Stévock and killed thousands of people. The only way he could have defeated such a creature was the scroll.

  “My lord,” Bao Zi said, his voice a raspy grumble.

  Bu’s personal guard held a local villager down, hand around the back of his neck, face pressed into the table. He was the one Bu overheard speaking about the dragon, about the destruction, and about this Erik. He didn’t believe him at first. He wanted to kill him.

  The man stared at Bu with worried eyes. He was thin and drunk, and dirt smeared his face, his hair hung in matted clumps. He was the kind of man that spent all his coin on drink and whores, and this place had no whores. He was the kind of man Bu presumed was like his own father.

  If Erik understood the scroll … but by the gods, how could he? Maybe the Black Mage translated it, using his black magic. Maybe the Lord of the East translated it. But no. Erik had used it. He had to have used it. Even Li had trouble translating the document, albeit copied from the original. The Lord of the East and the Messenger would know what was in that scroll, and they would be after the Dragon Sword as well, and soon. Who would they send? This Erik?

  Bu growled.

  “Let him up,” he said, his voice even. “Do you know of the free farming families in thes
e lands?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” the man stammered, sobering a little.

  “Do you know the Eleodums?” Bu asked.

  “Aye, m’lord,” the drunkard repeated.

  “Are we close to their lands?” Bu asked.

  “Not really, m’lord,” the man replied. “They have a large farmstead, a week west of here.”

  He couldn’t afford to let the Lord of the East reach the sword first.

  “Release him.”

  Bao Zi obeyed and pushed the drunkard out the inn’s door.

  “We cannot afford the time travel to these farmsteads,” Bu said.

  “My lord?” Bao Zi asked.

  “What then?” Sergeant Andu asked.

  “We head north now,” Bu said, standing, “into the Gray Mountains.”

  “How early?” Andu asked.

  “Now,” Bu replied.

  “You mean to travel through the night?” Sir Garrett, Count Alger’s knight, asked.

  “Yes,” Bu replied. “We are behind. The usurper will already have men seeking the same thing we seek. We cannot waste any more time.”

  “This is absurd,” Garrett said. “I am quite tired.”

  “I don’t give a pig’s fart,” Bu hissed, drawing his sword and leveling the tip at Garrett’s throat, who had been, up to this point, leaning nonchalantly back in his chair. “You will get on your horse, or I will open you from your eyebrows to your balls.”

  “You heard the king,” Bao Zi yelled, “mount up!”

  No one needed any more encouragement.

  “When we find this Dragon Sword,” Bu said as his followers filed out the inn’s door, “I am going to put this Erik in shackles and force him to watch me kill everyone he loves. And then I am going to Golgolithul, and I am going to command that dragon to finish what it started. I am going to watch it burn Fen-Stévock to the ground, Bao Zi. I’m going to watch every last soul in that city burn.”

  Bu stared east as if he could see Golgolithul through the inn’s wall, the shadows of distant flames spreading across his face.

  Chapter 51

  Del Alzon dipped his wooden cup into the bucket of water. After sitting in the sun all day, it wasn’t that refreshing, but still welcomed. He wiped the sweat away from his brow and tugged at his pants. All the hard work on the new wall around Waterton, and Del had lost even more weight. All his pants were far too big now and he had poked so many holes in his belt, it had lost its integrity. He drank the contents of his cup in one gulp and refilled it, repeating the process three times.

  The wall looked solid, two rows of thick timber sharpened to a point, two stories high and a gatehouse made of mortared river rock. The men working on the gatehouse were finishing the portcullis, gingerly hanging the iron gate—a gift from Gongoreth—from its chains. It would have taken a year for the blacksmiths of Waterton, led by the dwarf Tank, to finish such a thing, so Lady Elaine donated it. There was space for soldiers to walk along the wall, and at regular intervals, Del had commanded that the workers build guard houses and storage rooms.

  Del Alzon smiled at the feat, but a part of him felt saddened by it. Without a wall, someone could always look out at the Blue Forest, which practically surrounded the whole of Waterton and had supplied the wood for the wall. It was beautiful and, until now, Del had never taken the time to appreciate it. Now, it was too late. And for what? Because men wanted more power. Truth be told, if whichever rat turd ruled Hámon, or Golgolithul, or Gongoreth for that matter, decided to march an army through Waterton, their new wall would prove little more than a nuisance, a thorn in the foot. A true army’s battering ram would make short work of the gate and portcullis, and a bolt from a catapult or trebuchet would demolish the wall in a single strike. It would have to be replaced with stone eventually.

  “Why the sour face?” Maktus asked.

  “No reason,” Del replied.

  “Well, you’re looking at the wall with that look,” Maktus said, “and it makes me think that there’s something you’re not pleased with.”

  “No,” Del Alzon said. “It is good. Our men have worked hard. It’s just …”

  Del paused.

  “Just what?”

  “You know its little more than a deterrent,” Del said. “If an army really wanted to march through here …”

  “Sometimes that’s all you need, Del,” Maktus said. “Just make it enough of a hassle to dissuade someone from marching that army through here.”

  “I am surprised,” Del added.

  “By what?” Maktus asked.

  “At how quickly the wall went up,” Del replied, “and how hard the men worked.”

  “It happens when they have a cause they believe in,” Maktus said, and then looked at Del Alzon with a smile, “and when they have a leader they believe in.”

  “Agh,” Del Alzon said with a waving swat of his hand. “Hog’s piss.”

  “Truly Del,” Maktus said, “these people trust you and believe in you. I think we have lived in Waterton about the same amount of time, and you cannot tell me you have ever seen its citizens more together. The thieving and fighting have lessened. We have had less issues with traveling adventurers and yet, it seems more men wishing to travel west stay a little longer than they used to. Even the whoring and drinking has lessened a little, although I don’t know if that’s necessarily a good thing.”

  “It’s not me,” Del said. “It’s us.”

  “And who leads us?” Maktus asked.

  Del shook his head and grumbled but couldn’t help smiling a little.

  “Have you heard?”

  Yager’s bucolic voice stifled whatever comment Maktus was about to make next, and Del was glad for it.

  “Heard?” Maktus asked.

  “Aye,” Yager said, walking up next to Del and Maktus, his elvish wife right behind him.

  She didn’t bother to cover her ears anymore. Everyone in Waterton either accepted her for her contribution to the victory of what was being termed The Battle at Blue Water or they were simply too afraid to say anything, or they just didn’t care.

  “What’s happened?” Del Alzon asked.

  “Fen-Stévock is in flames,” Yager replied.

  “What?” Del asked, turning hard on the blond Northman.

  “Well, at least one of its suburbs along its southern walls,” Yager added.

  “South Gate?” Del Alzon muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Yager confirmed.

  “How?” Maktus asked.

  “A dragon,” Yager said, a simple answer for a simple man.

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Del asked, furling his brows. “We are busy here, Yager, and you come around telling jokes that aren’t funny.”

  “It’s true,” Arlayna, Yager’s elvish wife, said.

  Her voice was soft and mesmerizing. She wrapped her strong arms around Yager’s, pulling herself close to him as if the news scared her.

  “A dragon?” Maktus gasped. “They’re a myth.”

  “No,” Arlayna said with a slight shake of her head, “but they’ve been gone for many centuries. One hasn’t flown the world’s skies since I have been born.”

  “And how old are you?” Maktus asked.

  “Don’t you know that’s no question to ask a lady?” Yager said, and Del Alzon couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking.

  “Just know I have been on this world far longer than any of you,” Arlayna said, squeezing her husband’s arm with a small smile on her face. “My people know well the terrors that a dragon can bring, but they were thought extinct a thousand years ago. What’s more, a dragon is almost impossible to kill or stop without powerful magic. It is a miracle that the whole of Fen-Stévock is not burnt to the ground.”

  Where Yager’s speech was simple and bucolic, Arlayna’s was sophisticated and complex.

  “And why isn’t it?” Del Alzon asked.

  “One man,” Yager replied, holding up a single finger.

 
; “Supposedly a single man, accompanied by a single dwarf, drove the dragon away. He purportedly wielded a golden sword, and rumors are spreading that he cast powerful magic,” Arlayna said. “People are calling him a mighty warrior, tall and broad and strong, and he was but a boy from the west.”

  “A boy?” Del asked.

  “Yes,” Arlayna said, “a young man named Erik.”

  “Erik,” Del Alzon said, his eyes growing wide. “It couldn’t be.”

  Del reached out and grabbed Yager by the shoulder, pulling him closer.

  “What’re you …”

  “Erik Eleodum?” Del Alzon asked.

  “I don’t know,” Yager replied with a shrug. “He’s being called Erik Dragon Slayer.”

  “It must be him,” Del said, looking down at his feet and speaking to himself.

  “He has a strong name,” Arlayna said, “that I know. And his sword … it makes me wonder and remember a fairytale much older than me.”

  “I know this man,” Del said, looking at the she-elf.

  “Del, there could be thousands of Eriks out there,” Maktus said. “You think it’s one all the way from Waterton?”

  “Not from Waterton,” Del said with a smile growing on his face. “No, from up north. He’s a farmer. Dwarves? Mighty swords? Magic? You son of a goat.”

  Del Alzon started laughing.

  “Are you all right?” Yager asked.

  “I knew you would be something,” Del said, turning and looking east.

  “Del, it could be anyone,” Yager said.

  Del Alzon turned and looked the woodsman in the eyes.

  “No, it’s Erik Eleodum,” Del Alzon said. He could feel a single tear collecting at the corner of his eye. “That idealistic bastard. I knew he would be something.”

  “Eleodum is an old name,” Arlayna said. “He has noble blood flowing through his veins. We will pray to El that he is safe.”

  Del turned again and faced east. His smile was so wide … he hadn’t smiled that wide in a long time.

  “Erik,” Del muttered. “You’ve defied all odds. Keep following your heart, my friend. Keep following your heart.”