“He is,” Demik replied. “And stubborn and unyielding. He thinks we are spies and collaborators of trolls.”
Erik paused a moment as the elder Arynin stopped interrogating Turk and the younger one picked up.
“But, you’re dwarves,” Erik said.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Demik said with a smile. “They are accusing the Southern Dwarves of being distant, discourteous. They are accusing us of breaking an ages-old pact between Stone’s Throw and Drüum Balmdüukr.”
“A pact?” Erik asked.
“Who knows?” Demik replied. “Certainly, these men had, at one time, traded with dwarves. Their language tells us that much. But a pact . . . it is doubtful. And if there was one, it is long passed, before this fat one’s great grandfather. They are angry and, even more importantly, scared.”
“Of what?” Erik asked.
“Trolls. Men. Dwarves. Thunderstorms,” Demik replied. “This is a small village, and these are small folk with big superstitions.”
Stone Throw’s chieftain cut off his son as Arynin the Second grew loud and animated. This time, as the chieftain spoke, his voice was softer and calmer.
“The chief doesn’t believe we are spies. He even apologized for the accusation,” Demik explained as Turk bowed several times.
“He says that, despite Stone’s Throw being a small village, An has blessed them with many young ones, so they are hopeful for the future. But his people are scared,” Demik added. “The survivors from Aga Kona have depleted their stores of food and fresh water, and they do not have the ability to care for all the injured and sick.”
“Does the Chieftain want us to help with the injured and sick?” Erik asked.
“Aye,” Demik replied. “And he wants to make sure that all of the village’s virgins remain virgins while we are here.”
“They’d never know.” Switch’s whispered response caught Erik by surprise. The ever-eavesdropping thief had sneaked up behind them.
Turk nodded several times and bowed low again to the Elder. Arynin scratched his bearded chin and stood, speaking.
“Formalities,” Demik said with a shrug. “He is saying that we can only stay here tonight and that we must help the sick and injured. He is making sure that his people know this is his command.”
Turk bowed low again, and Vander Bim followed suit. As the Elder and his son left the hall, an older, gray-haired woman began serving a meal to the mercenaries—hard bread and vegetables that were undercooked, but they were hungry and ate it despite Bryon’s grumblings.
“Well, shall we go see these survivors and see what we might do for them?” Turk asked as they finished their hurried meal.
Arynin’s son met them at the door of the mead hall, the rain coming down at a steady pace as the thunder and lightning passed them over and traveled north. He led them to a large longhouse outside which, two men, little more than villagers armed with boar spears, stood guard.
“By the Almighty, what is that?” Erik put his arm to his nose.
“Sickness. Death. Fear.” Demik looked at the young man and gently grabbed his wrist, lowering his arm from his nose.
Erik didn’t understand at first, but then he saw him—a little boy of no more than five. His face was covered in dirt and blood. The boy looked numb and ignored the dwarves and men as they walked into the room. He just stared into space. His clothes hung in tatters from his shoulders, and he looked skinny, sickly. His right hand clutched his left close to his body, only . . . there was no left hand. Just a stump wrapped in what once was white cloth, now brown with the color of dried blood.
The longhouse was relatively quiet, despite thirty or forty women and children crowding its floor, sleeping on tables covered in straw and in makeshift cots. Erik heard only the whimpers of children, a baby crying, and a mother quietly singing what was perhaps a lullaby.
Turk turned to Arynin and spoke to him in Dwarvish. Erik looked to Demik.
“He is asking for some supplies,” Demik said. “Herbs, village medicines, and the like. Your cousin needs to go with Arynin to help gather what Turk needs. You and your brother will gather water and bread. You will feed and give water to these people. Only water and bread, nothing more.”
Erik heard Bryon sigh and groan, but as Arynin left the longhouse, he followed. Erik found two water pails sitting in the corner of the building. He handed one to his brother.
“Sailor, you will help us with the bandages,” Turk said. “Miner, help the sailor. Thief . . . where did the thief go?”
It didn’t surprise Erik that Switch was nowhere to be found.
Erik gathered rainwater while Befel retrieved bread from the mead hall and then they went about the longhouse giving some to each person. One little boy who spoke Westernese asked for butter.
“I’m sorry my little fellow,” Erik said, patting the little boy on the head.
“But bread always tastes better with butter.” His whine was piteous.
“I know, but there isn’t enough for everyone, and if you’re to get any better, you can’t have butter. Just plain bread and water. And Turk and Demik and Nafer over there will make you right as rain, and after that, you can have butter on your bread.”
“Will they make Davey better too?”
When the boy said that, the woman on whose lap he sat—a spitting image of the boy—started to whimper, tears running down her cheeks.
“And where is Davey?” Erik smiled at the boy and gave him another piece of bread.
“He’s back in the camp. He told us to run. He was well when we left, but I’m sure he’s hurt. He’s big and strong, he is. He’s eight, you know. But even so, I’m sure he needs some tending.”
Erik’s stomach knotted. The dried bread and water he had eaten and drunk rose in his throat. The boy’s mother clutched him tight to her, fully weeping now. He didn’t know what to say. He just smiled at the boy and gave him another piece of bread.
It seemed that most of the women and children in the longhouse needed just simple attention—a healing salve on this cut, a cooling ointment on that bruise—and Turk advised Arynin and his father to move the less injured survivors to another place, other homes perhaps if the citizens of Stone’s Throw were willing.
“You can go,” Turk said, walking up to Erik. “Get some rest, young Erik.”
Erik tried protesting, but Turk put up a hand.
The Elder had all the men housed in different huts. Erik figured that was for the safety of the village. They still didn’t trust them. Erik walked into a hut with an older man and woman and, much to his surprise, the little boy crying for Davey and his mother. The man, gray-haired and wrinkled, watched Erik with weary eyes. The woman, presumably his wife, brought the boy and his mother soup. Erik smiled, bowed, and shook his head when she tried to offer him some.
“Do you speak their language?”
“No, sir.” The boy’s mother shook her head.
“Please, you don’t have to call me sir.”
“You’re very kind.” She wouldn’t look at him, just slurped her soup and, when that was gone, patted the bowl with a piece of bread.
She was barely older than Erik. With an eight-year-old boy, she must’ve been married and pregnant by the age of twelve. Erik’s mother would have killed his father if he had allowed his sisters to marry at twelve.
With dark, curly hair and a slight body, she reminded Erik of Marcus’ daughter without some of the curves most gypsy women had. Her face was dirty and her hair a mess. Her clothes lay in almost tattered rags, but despite that, she looked pretty.
Erik cursed himself for thinking such a thing. Here, this woman sat, son dead, husband dead too, presumably, and he was thinking about how pretty she looked, how even prettier she could look.
“What’s your name?”
“Mari, sir.” She looked up from her bowl and bread, and when she met Erik’s eyes, she looked down again. “Sorry. Mari.”
“And your boy?”
“Willy.” Her son
chimed in before his mother could answer.
“Willy,” Erik repeated. “That’s a good name.”
The boy smiled at that.
Erik looked at the old wife. “Do you have a place where I can bathe?”
She just looked at him blankly, gray eyes and a kind, weathered face.
He tried to motion himself washing, under his arms and on his chest. The woman understood then and with a smile, brought Erik to the kitchen where a black cauldron sat over the glowing embers of the day’s fire. Water sat in the iron bowl, and she handed Erik a piece of cloth that might serve as a washing rag.
The water was hot, but it felt good. Erik only spent a few minutes wiping under his arms and on his neck and chest. As he walked from the kitchen, Mari and Willy walked in. She stared at him as he passed by her, his chest naked. His cheeks burned, and he hurried by.
From what he gathered, they were to sleep in the dining area. Beside a bedroom and a kitchen, it was the only other room in the small hut. As Erik sat down on a makeshift bed of straw, Willy ran into the room, face cleared of most the soot and grime and dirt that had collected there. Erik thought that maybe the young boy would keep him up all night with talking and questions, but as soon as the boy hit his bed, he started snoring gently.
Erik closed his eyes, but when he heard the gentle trickle of water, he opened them halfway. Mari, her naked back to him, was running a clean rag along her arms. Her skin looked soft. She wasn’t curvy at all, but Erik had been in the company of men for so long . . .
She turned around. She didn’t see him watching her. He saw her, her breasts. His eyes met hers.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Mari stood over him. She watched him. She didn’t look angry. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t look like she felt any emotion.
“I saw you,” she said in almost a whisper.
Erik sat up. “I’m sorry.”
She put a hand on his chest. She sat, slowly, in his lap. She ran a finger down the side of his face, across his forehead, along his lips. She kissed him.
He had kissed Simone, the woman from the farmstead next to his whom he knew he would marry—had thought he would marry—the woman who held his heart. She was the only woman, up until this point, that he had kissed. Mari’s lips were thin. They weren’t bad, just thin, and cold. She pressed them hard against his. She straddled him and rubbed hard against him. He groaned and felt his manhood stiffen. Her hands brushed his chest again, then down to his stomach, then . . .
Erik grabbed her shoulders and gently pulled her away. Simone’s kisses were always gentle, warm, welcoming. Mari’s were forced.
“You don’t have to do this,” Erik said.
“It’s all right. I want to,” she replied.
No, she didn’t. Erik wasn’t as good with women as Bryon was. He was never the smooth talker, the flirter, the flashing hero who would make their hearts flutter. But he could tell that Mari, given a different circumstance, wouldn’t have paid Erik a moment’s thought.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting Mari kiss his neck. She started to play with the tie at his pants. His eyes shot open. He pulled her away again.
“No, you don’t. You don’t really want to do this,” Erik said.
Maybe she thought Erik could protect them, her and little Willy. Perhaps she thought they could go with him. Maybe she was simply grieving so badly that she just needed to be with someone, feel something. He had heard of that before. A grieving mother or wife running to the arms of a man, a grieving husband or father running to the arms of a whore—all simply to feel something familiar, something natural, something normal.
“Be with your son, Mari. Be with Willy,” Erik said softly.
Erik half expected her to slap him. The other half expected her to cry. She simply stood and smiled. Her smile seemed odd, a blank smile. Was it gratitude, thanks for not sticking her when she really didn’t want to? Or was it just a look of numbness? Whatever it was, she went to lie next to her son. Erik lay back, closed his eyes, and, thank the Creator, dreamt of nothing.
Chapter 5
“WE SHOULD JUST WAIT HERE,” Maktus said. “We should wait for him to return.”
“No. We can’t just wait for him to come to us,” Del Alzon replied. “I’m not some sneaky slaver. We’ll find him and his group of dogs, call them out, and fight him like men.”
He had looked to Yager, the Nordethian huntsman.
“Do you think you can track them?”
“Fer sure,” the simple hunter replied.
“Then where to, my friend?” Del Alzon asked.
Yager walked around the slaver camp, almost sniffing as he went. He would bend down here and there, touch the ground, taste the dirt. Finally, after a few moments, Yager stood and pointed his bow to the east. “This way.”
Del Alzon looked to Danitus, looked back to the other dozen or so men who were still with him, shrugged, and jerked his head in the direction Yager pointed.
Even leading their horses most of the way, with such a small force of men, it had taken only a day to reach the eastern edges of the Blue Forest and the Southland Gap. After another day, Yager’s tracking had led them to the outskirts of Finlo.
It had been years since Del Alzon had smelled that pungent smell of sea salt, heard the squawking of seagulls and the splashing of waves against a beach. Too long, perhaps since he felt the salt and sand in every gust of ocean wind beat against his face.
“Gypsies and Samanians?” one sailor replied as Del Alzon began his inquiries around the coastal city. “So many people come through here but sure, I’ve probably seen some gypsies and Samanians. Also seen dwarves and gnomes. Ogres too. By the Shadow, I’ve probably even seen an elf or two.”
“If I was looking for a particular gypsy or Samanian, who would I ask?” Del Alzon queried.
“The Drunken Fin,” the sailor replied. “One of the largest pubs in the city. Morgan is the main keep. If you are looking for anyone in particular, he might have heard.”
Del Alzon couldn’t help smiling when he walked into The Drunken Fin. It was like any other large inn, and he coveted the smells and sights and sounds, but he didn’t have any time to revel in the familiarity. He made his way to the bar and a younger man standing behind it who he presumed to be Morgan. He pushed one Katokien out of the way—jumping and prancing around while playing his pipes—and raised a hand to a smaller than usual gnome before the little pipsqueak could even get a word out, sending the annoyance running in the other direction. When Del got to the bar, he found Morgan deep in conversation with one of the serving wenches.
“You Morgan?” Del said curtly.
The younger man behind the bar ignored him. Del Alzon cleared his voice.
“Eh, you Morgan?” he asked again, this time a little louder.
The man looked at Del lazily.
“Yeah,” he replied and then turned back to speak with the woman.
“I’ve got a question for you,” Del Alzon said.
Morgan gave an exasperated sigh, which made Del scowl, but when the barkeep looked at the merchant from Waterton, he seemed less annoyed. Perhaps it was Del Alzon’s own look of annoyance, or the fact that Del had placed his dagger on the bar, pointed at the keep, that softened Morgan. It could have been those, or it could have been the sparkling Hamonian pound that Del placed on the bar, along with his dagger.
“Well,” Morgan said, all but ignoring the serving wench, “maybe I have an answer.”
“If you do,” Del Alzon replied, “the pound is yours. If it’s an answer I like, I have another one for you. I’m looking for gypsies and Samanians.”
“Really?” Morgan said, although he seemed less surprised. “This is a large city. We get folk from all over.”
Del Alzon grumbled.
“Not gypsies like these,” Del said, “and not Samanians like these either.”
“Do you see that man over there?” Morgan said, pointing to a table in the corner of the bar occupied by a
single man.
Del nodded.
“He had a run in not too long ago with a Samanian,” Morgan said. “He was a barber. Burned his shop down and cut off one of his fingers.”
Del Alzon slapped another Hamonian pound on the bar and made his way to the man sitting in the corner. He was drunk, halfway asleep, and murmuring incoherencies when Del Alzon sat across from him.
“I hear you had a run in with Samanians,” Del Alzon said.
“Samanians,” the man mumbled, coming out of a stupor for a moment. Then he began talking to himself, drooling over a shirt that looked dirty and soiled.
“Yes,” Del Alzon said. “Samanians. I am looking for Samanians. And Gypsies. And three boys, not that anyone would notice them here in Finlo.”
“Gypsies,” the man said as if the word suddenly sparked some recognition, and he seemed to sober just a little. “And boys.”
He looked down at the table. One cup, toppled over and its contents spilled, lay in front of him, another one on the floor. A broken pair of spectacles lay next to the overturned cup. He then lifted both his hands up, inspecting them. One of his hands was wrapped in cloth, a patch where his pinky finger used to be stained brown with dried blood.
“Samanians burned down my shop, took my finger,” the man said, “took my life.”
“Where’d they go?” Del asked.
“Burn them,” the man said, still clearly drunk.
“Tell me where they went,” Del Alzon said low and clear and deliberately.
“To the Shadow with them,” the man said, and he started to cry.
Del Alzon grabbed the man’s hand, the one with the missing finger. He was about to scream when Del Alzon clamped a big, meaty hand over his mouth.
“Stuff your crying,” Del Alzon said, “and your self-pity. Now, tell me where these Samanians went. I’ll avenge your finger and your shop and your livelihood. By the gods, I’ll even come back here with their heads and their coin so you can build another shop.”
Del Alzon released the man’s wrist. He rubbed it this time, sobered a fraction more and nodded.
“There is an inn,” the man said, “on the outskirts of the eastern part of the city. I don’t know the name. It’s rundown and broken, and no one hardly goes there. You’ll know it by its looks. The Samanian was looking for three boys, just like you. That is where they were staying. Don’t know why. But that is what I told the Samanian—to go there.”
Dark Winds Page 4
