Chapter 52
The village to which Andragos had directed Turk and his companions was more of a central meeting place for a small group of famers and their families. It didn’t have an inn, but more of a home that opened as the sun set, the wife cooking, the husband serving sour ale, and their children rushing about bussing two long tables and serving. They had built three small rooms on the back of their little home, but anyone purchasing those spaces for a night would have to share them with a cow, some chickens, two goats, and a small pony.
Erik didn’t much feel like staying in a place with other people, especially as rumors of a dragon slayer would soon become commonplace in these meeting halls and taverns and inns. When he asked Turk if he was okay with camping just outside the village, the dwarf yielded to whatever the young man wanted to do. It just seemed a shame they had found a space that was covered by a sturdy, wooden roof held up by four thick pieces of timber. The hay on the ground said that a farmer once used it as a storage area for his animals’ food, and when they asked the owner of the closest farmhouse if they might use the shelter as a campsite for the night, the old man could have cared less. Wrothgard gave him a gold coin for his troubles, and as they got their fire going, the farmer came to them with several pitchers of spiced wine and a bag full of cheese and fresh bread.
They made quick work of the bread and cheese and took their time on the spiced wine, reveling in the quietness of the night. Where the land south of Fen-Stévock was covered in short, brownish grass, green, tall grass and cedars filled the lands north of Fen-Stévock. A chorus of crickets and night birds filled the air and, as the sun finally disappeared, a welcomed crispness replaced the warmth of summertime.
“This reminds me of home,” Erik said.
“I would like to see your home,” Turk said.
“Truly?” Erik asked.
“Yes, truly,” Turk confirmed.
Turk heard the call of a jaybird and, knowing what it meant, stood and called back. Beldar and Bofim came into view, their forms, at first, ghostly in the shadows of the fire.
“You found us,” Turk said.
“You doubted us?” Beldar asked.
“Of course not,” Erik replied. “Have you been following us this whole time?”
“Aye,” Bofim replied.
“We hung back for a little while,” Beldar added. “I think the Messenger of the East saw us. I don’t know if he would have cared, but we thought it prudent to be cautious.”
The wine lasted only a few more moments once Beldar and Bofim arrived. Turk took the empty pitchers and bag back to the farmhouse and made small talk with the old farmer. The dwarf’s Shengu was rough, but it was enough, and the old man seemed glad for it. His wife had passed two winters past, and his sons had left and created their own families years before. The man gave Turk an extra wheel of cheese and a skin of wine.
“Skull Crusher.”
The voice, speaking in Dwarvish, was a whisper, but in the darkness as Turk walked back to the campsite, it still startled him. He turned, dropping the wheel of cheese and reaching for a hand axe stuck in his belt. He peered into the night, barely making out the silhouette of a dwarf walking towards him.
“Long Spear?” Turk asked, keeping his voice low.
“Aye,” the voice replied.
Belvengar Long Spear came into view, even though his face was still shadowed by the night.
“What are you doing here?” Turk asked.
“I’ve been following you,” Belvengar replied.
“I know,” Turk said. “I saw you … in Fen-Stévock. Why?”
“I need your help,” Belvengar said.
“What is it?” Turk asked. “I didn’t know if I would ever see you again … after you left in Finlo.”
“I was upset, for sure,” Belvengar said, “but we have been through so much together. We are like brothers.”
Turk and Belvengar hugged.
“I missed you,” Turk said. “We could have used your skill as a warrior.”
“We, as in you and the men you travel with?” Belvengar asked.
“Yes,” Turk said. “If you had been with us, Demik might still be alive. He was killed, just a few days ago.”
“I know,” Belvengar said, “by the hands of men, nonetheless.”
“It was a froksman,” Turk said, shaking his head.
“Because of men, though,” Belvengar said. “These men you travel with, it is their fault Demik Iron Thorn is dead. How many more dwarves must die?”
“They’ve lost friends as well,” Turk said. “Drake and Samus. Erik lost his brother, Befel.”
“Necessary sacrifices in searching for the lost city,” Belvengar said. “They all would have died if it wasn’t for you, yes?”
“We all would have died if it wasn’t for them,” Turk said, taking a step back. “One of our companions, Vander Bim, died in Thorakest, stabbed in the belly and left in an alley. He was killed by dwarves, Belvengar.”
“And did you think to ask why?” Belvengar replied. “Did you ever ask what he might have done to deserve it?”
“Who deserves a death such as that?” Turk asked, but he knew the answer Belvengar would give. Vander Bim deserved such a death because he was a man. “Even Balzarak Stone Axe and King Skella trusted these men.”
“That’s the problem,” Belvengar said softly, and Turk wondered if he was meant to hear what he had said. “How many dwarves died because they trusted men?”
“What are you saying?” Turk asked. “You’ve been listening to Fréden Fréwin too much.”
“You found the lost city, yes?” Belvengar asked, ignoring Turk’s last point. “What was it like?”
“It was dead,” Turk said flatly.
“Dead?”
“It was a giant tomb,” Turk added. “It’s where we found the dragon.”
“Because of men, no doubt,” Belvengar said.
“Because of … it was because of us,” Turk said. “It was because of our greed.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Belvengar asked.
“Do you hear yourself?” Turk retorted. “How could men have anything to do with the fall of a hidden dwarvish city a thousand years ago?”
Belvengar Long Spear didn’t say anything.
“What are you doing here, Long Spear?” Turk asked.
“We need your help,” Belvengar said.
“Who needs my help?” Turk asked.
“The dwarvish people,” Belvengar replied. “It is time to take back what is ours.”
“Really?” Turk asked, taking another step back.
“We have found refuge in an old dwarvish settlement in the El’Beth-Tordûn. We are preparing to take our cities back. Men will no longer subjugate us and use us and steal from us.”
“And who leads you?”
“Fréden,” Belvengar said.
Turk knew that answer was coming and gave a scoffing laugh.
“Fréden doesn’t want my help, that I can assure you. If you had only come with us, you would see how wrong you are about men.”
“They have clouded your vision,” Belvengar said.
“I follow a man that is as righteous a person as I have ever met,” Turk said. “I would follow him to the Shadow and back if he asked me to.”
“You follow a man?” Belvengar sounded appalled by the notion. “Truly, you are joking?”
“No,” Turk said, and then repeated, “proudly, no. What has happened to you? Come with me to meet Erik. You will see.”
Turk tried to reach for Belvengar, but the dwarf pulled away from him, stepping back into the shadows of the night.
“I hope you come to your senses,” Belvengar said, “before you end up like Demik Iron Thorn. War is coming, and those on the wrong side will all end up like Demik Iron Thorn, thrown to the ground and trampled like rubbish.”
Turk saw Belvengar turn his back and walk away, but then he stopped and faced him once again. Turk barely caught the silhouette of something flying thro
ugh the air and, just in time, caught a sheathed broadsword. Looking at the scabbard, it was covered in an intricate scrollwork of iron, a thorny vine … Demik’s sword.
“I buried his body, Turk,” Belvengar said, his voice farther away, “before they could throw him away like he was nothing. I said rites over him. This is how men treat our kind. Like trash.”
“I hope you come to your senses,” Turk whispered, tears in his eyes as he turned and headed back to the campsite.
“Where did you get that?” Nafer asked as Turk came into view.
Nafer grabbed Demik’s sword out of Turk’s hands and held it close to his chest as if he was holding his dear friend.
“Belvengar,” Turk said in Westernese.
“Really? Where is he?” Nafer asked.
“Gone,” Turk replied.
“Why?”
“He has changed,” Turk said. “As we had heard, he has joined with Fréden Fréwin. They are gathering like-minded dwarves at the El’Beth-Tordûn and preparing for war.”
“El’Beth-Tordûn?” Wrothgard asked.
“You probably know it as the Wicked Spire,” Turk replied, “the three peaked mountain that rises from the Plains of Güdal.”
Wrothgard nodded.
“It was once a dwarvish stronghold,” Turk explained, “and many have suggested that tunnels ran from El’Beth-Tordûn to both Thrak Baldüukr and Drüum Balmdüukr. But they were abandoned years ago, around the same time Orvencrest fell.”
“And with whom does Fréden plan to war?” Beldar asked. “Men?”
“No.” Turk shook his head. “Other dwarves. They are radicals.”
“Like the dwomanni,” Erik said.
Nafer hissed as Erik said the name, but Turk nodded.
“Yes, like the dwomanni. We have to warn Skella.”
Turk watched the fire for a moment, fully aware that his companions, in turn, watched him.
“I have to go back to Thorakest,” Turk said. “I am sorry, Erik. I had intended on going to your home with you, but I must warn King Skella of what is happening.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Erik said.
“Yes, I do,” Turk replied. “You see, you are the reason I am here.”
“I don’t understand,” Erik said.
“My father believed that dwarves were not meant to live in isolation, hidden away in their mountain strongholds. I believe that too. It is why I left my home because I thought a part of me could help repair ages old rifts between men and dwarves. And as foolish as that sounds, I believed that men like you and dwarves like me can live and work together. But then I chose to go on this quest because I also realized I cannot do such a thing and turn my back on my people.”
Turk looked at the water skin full of spiced wine the farmer had given him. He threw it to Wrothgard.
“I accepted the Messenger’s task because a part of me felt like I had forgotten who I was, Erik,” Turk explained. “I wasn’t by my father’s side when he died. I watched as dwarves were beaten and robbed and mistreated by men and did nothing. I suppose in some way, I thought that finding a lost city of my people, or at least dying while trying, would ease my guilt. But it hasn’t. I feel empty, and I don’t quite know why.”
Turk looked to Nafer and Beldar and Bofim. Then he looked to Wrothgard and, lastly, Erik.
“I will follow you wherever you go, Erik,” Turk finally said. “I trust you with my life. But I must go tell King Skella about what is happening at El’Beth-Tordûn. I have to warn him.”
“I understand,” Erik said, although his face looked a mixture of sadness and fear. “Will you come back?”
“On my life and my honor,” Turk replied. “I will meet you at your farmstead in four weeks. Not even the Shadow could stop me.”
“Will you bring Bryon with you then?” Erik asked. “I hope the king’s surgeons could heal him.”
“I am sure they did,” Turk said. “Yes, I will bring him with me.”
“And you?” Erik asked, looking at Nafer. “Will you be going with Turk?”
Nafer looked at Turk for a moment and then nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I have to meet with Demik’s father. I have to tell him what happened.”
“We will all come back,” Beldar said, and Bofim nodded and bowed to Erik.
Erik extended his hand to Turk, and the dwarf took it.
“I will wait for you at my father’s farmstead,” Erik said.
“In a month,” Turk said.
“In a month,” Erik repeated.
****
By the time Wrothgard and Erik had their horses packed and ready, the dwarves had disappeared over the horizon.
“Are you going to go home as well?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know where home is,” Wrothgard replied. “I think I might go to Kamdum, in Gol-Durathna. Maybe I’ll travel to Finlo again.”
“One month, yes?” Erik asked.
Wrothgard nodded.
“I’ll see you in a month then,” Erik added.
Wrothgard waited for a long time, staring east. Then he turned in his saddle to face Erik.
“Erik, I have to be honest,” Wrothgard said. “I don’t think I will make it to your farmstead.”
“I don’t understand,” Erik replied.
“My life has been consumed by fighting and violence,” Wrothgard explained, “and I am tired.”
“What will you do?” Erik asked. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” Wrothgard replied with a shrug. “I am wealthier than I have ever been, and I finally have a chance at peace.”
“What about the Lord of the East?” Erik asked.
“Maybe I’ll go somewhere far away,” Wrothgard said. “Maybe I’ll go to Wüsten Sahil or to the Isuta Isles. Or maybe I’ll go west, to Gongoreth. I’ll go somewhere the Lord of the East has no influence. But if his assassins do find me, then I will die knowing I was a free man, beholden to no one.”
“This is goodbye then,” Erik said.
“This is goodbye,” Wrothgard said.
“I wish I could train with you a little more,” Erik said.
“You are the best student I have ever had,” Wrothgard replied. “In the short time I have known you and have had the pleasure of helping you, you have become a truly competent swordsman, and you will only get better. Not only that, you have become a trustworthy leader of men—and dwarves—who will willingly follow. Practice your movements, and when you reconvene with Turk, make sure he continues your training.”
“Thank you,” Erik said. “You have been both a mentor and a friend.”
“Thank you,” Wrothgard said. “You are an amazing young man. I wish I could watch as you become the warrior and leader I know fate means for you to be.”
Erik watched as Wrothgard rode away. Then, he turned his horse to the west. He patted the handle of Ilken’s Blade and then rubbed the gold scabbard of his dagger.
“What will I find, my friend?” Erik asked.
He knew his dagger was listening when he felt a tickle at his hip.
“Will I find my family,” he asked, “or will I find my farm in ruins and my family dead?”
Sometimes we forget that it is the things outside of battle that require the most bravery. Whatever you find, I will be with you.
He looked down at his dagger and smiled.
“All right, then,” he said to the space in front of him, “it’s time to go home.”
Chapter 53
Turk breathed deep. It felt like he had been away from Thorakest for so long he had forgotten what it smelled like. Now, having come back only a short while before, he coveted that smell, and his stomach knotted when he thought of the reality that he would have to leave once again, and so soon. The city looked the same, but he could feel the difference—something was off. He and Nafer and Beldar and Bofim approached the castle, and the guards stepped aside and bowed as they passed them.
“Turk!” cried a voice, as they walked thr
ough the king’s rose garden. “It’s good to see you!”
The voice was clearly a man’s voice, and one he recognized, but the words were spoken in Dwarvish. Turk looked up to see Bryon running from the castle keep to greet them. The man looked well, his skin back to its original color, and the way he ran spoke to his strength returning.
Bryon practically scooped Turk off his feet, hugging the dwarf tightly and then doing the same to Nafer and Beldar and Bofim.
“Where is Erik?” Bryon asked. “Or should I say, where is the dragon slayer? Word of the dragon attacking Fen-Stévock has reached Thorakest, and I know it was Erik. I just know it.”
“He is hopefully home by now,” Turk replied. “We are to meet up with him at your farmstead in two weeks. We will take you with us if you would go with us.”
“Of course,” Bryon said with a wide smile on his face. “Fantastic. Where is Demik? Did he stay with Erik so my little cousin wouldn’t be all alone?”
“He’s dead,” Turk said.
Bryon’s smile disappeared.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“It is one of the reasons we returned,” Turk said. “Your Dwarvish has improved quite a bit.”
“Yes,” Bryon said, a small smile cracking his lips. “It had to get better if I were to make something of my stay in Thorakest.”
“Does King Skella know we are here?” Turk asked.
“Of course,” Bryon said. “Let me take you to him.”
Turk was impressed as Bryon led them to King Skella’s quarters. He greeted all the guards by their first names, and the dwarvish soldiers returned the man’s greetings with bows and smiles and greetings of their own. And then he remembered why he had ventured into the lands of men and his reason for leaving. This was it. A man and a dwarf acting as brothers. A man living freely in the lands of dwarves, sharing cultures and languages.
“Turk,” Nafer said as they stood in front of the door that led to the king’s private quarters, “I must go speak with Demik’s father, and we won’t have much time if we are to meet up with Erik in only two weeks.”
“Of course,” Turk said.
“Bofim and I are going to see our families,” Beldar said. “Who knows when, or if, we will ever come home?”
Breaking the Flame Page 38
