Unseen in the night, Erik discovered the village’s farmlands and orchards, sprawling lands of fruit trees, wheat, and cotton. Erik suspected his father would be planting wheat right now, and the thought made him want to help.
Erik picked up a hoe and tilled in front of a man spreading seed. The villager—an older man—looked at Erik just once, but when he did, he smiled and nodded. Hours must’ve passed as Erik helped, and the sun hung at its zenith in the sky as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. A young girl came around with a bucket of water, and Erik cupped his hands, sipped some, and splashed the rest on his face.
It felt good to work. Erik knelt down and touched the earth which was moist and rich. He scooped a healthy amount into his hand and smelled it before he let it fall through his fingers. The old man he worked with saw him and smiled.
“It’s good soil,” Erik said and then remembered the man couldn’t understand him.
“Yes, good soil,” the man replied to Erik’s surprise.
“You understand me?”
“A little,” the villager said. “I am old. Have met many people. I learn language of west.”
“I envy your soil,” Erik said, smelling it again.
“An has blessed us for many seasons now.”
Erik nodded.
“Indeed.”
They went back to work. Erik looked to a nearby orchard and saw Mari. She worked diligently with the other women, picking nuts from the trees. Erik recognized them as pistazi trees, little nuts with hard, poisonous shells, but the greenish fruit inside was sweet. Even though they grew plentiful around Rikard Eleodum’s farmstead, Erik learned that the people of Hámon were willing to pay quite a price for just a handful.
Mari didn’t see him, and he watched her for a while. Something inside of him longed for her. He now suspected she had kissed him, had offered herself to him, because she wanted to feel normal, wanted to do something that felt normal. Maybe that’s what he wanted? Simone’s face flashed through his memory, the feeling of her soft lips and the warmth of her body against his.
When Erik went back to the hut in which he had slept the night before, the old wife was there. He knew she couldn’t understand him, but he remembered the word of thanks Turk had taught him.
“Yethan.”
She seemed surprised by that. She hadn’t really paid him much attention, but to the word of gratitude, she smiled and poured the young man a glass of goat’s milk. He drank it graciously, although he would have preferred another piece of that bacon.
Erik woke before sunrise and, with the help of his brother and cousin, readied the horses. Arynin and his son met them with supplies, gifts of bread, goat’s cheese, dried fruit and goat meat, and extra food for their horses, rewards for their honesty and help.
“Yethan,” Erik said.
Arynin laughed, slapped his belly hard, and started speaking to Erik as if the young man understood.
Erik shook his head. Arynin understood and replied with a simple bow and said, “Yethan.”
Switch finally returned. Erik didn’t bother to ask the thief where he had been. He didn’t really care.
“Are we off yet? This place bloody stinks.”
“It smells like home,” Erik said quietly to himself.
Just as the cock began to crow, the company mounted up, and Erik watched as Vander Bim looked over the party, counting heads. He watched Drake look to the mass of sleeping huts, hurt and sadness in his eyes. He watched Befel and Bryon stare at the farm fields. While they would never admit it, they missed home also, the smell, the feeling of soil between their fingers. Erik could see the longing in their eyes.
Turk bowed his head before they left, his lips moving silently. Erik bowed his head and said silent prayers as well.
“Are we ready?” the sailor asked.
“By the bloody gods, I’ve been ready for an age,” Switch muttered and spat in the earth.
The sun began to peak over the eastern horizon just as they passed the last tree in Stone’s Throw’s orchards.
“An olive tree,” Erik said. He had seen them in Hamon.
He looked over his shoulder, and she was nowhere in sight, but the image of Mari stuck in his head. It was not of her body or her naked breasts, but her face, those thin lips and gray, numb eyes.
Chapter 7
LIEUTENANT BU EYED THE THREE men. Mercenaries. The word left a bitter taste in Bu’s mouth. These three had left Finlo with the Messenger’s task in hand, along with all the other fools who had met the Black Mage in that dung-heap of an inn. Patûk’s orders were simple. Find out why the Lord of the East had them hired and then kill them all. This group of three were some of the only ones left.
Bu hid behind a large white-barked pine tree. The three riders had been traveling swiftly but had recently slowed. They looked different than the other mercenaries—more formidable and dangerous.
“Are these the ones that speak Shengu?” Bu asked.
“Yes sir,” Corporal Ban Chu replied, standing behind Bu.
“They are soldiers,” Lieutenant Bu said. “At least, they used to be.”
“Eastern soldiers?” Ban Chu asked.
Bu nodded.
Most mercenaries looked little better than dogs, finding the rigidity and discipline of a real army too much. They fought little better than dogs, too.
“How do you know, sir?” Ban Chu asked.
“Watch them,” Bu replied, “the way they carry themselves and move. They are disciplined, well-kept, well-fed. There is order to them. This will not be easy.”
“But, sir,” Ban Chu said. Bu could see the Corporal giving a quick bow from the corner of his eye. “We outnumber them. And we have the . . .”
“I know our forces,” Bu replied, cutting his corporal off. “Never underestimate an opponent, Chu.”
“Yes, sir,” Ban Chu said.
“It can be a fatal mistake,” Bu added, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth.
It was a lesson General Patûk Al’Banan taught all of his officers—a truly important lesson. But it was a lesson Bu had learned even before being graced with the title of officer in the service to Patûk Al’Banan. Bu remembered too many times, as a young boy growing up on the streets of Fen-Stévock, being small. He remembered older, bigger boys thinking he would be an easy target. He remembered smiling over those bigger boys as they cradled broken arms and held broken noses and cried over lost coin. That coin would buy Bu and his mother supper.
When his mother sent him off to fight for Patûk Al’Banan, many men underestimated him. Many men found themselves with knives in their backs, throats slit, and necks stretched—crimes committed that would have normally gone unnoticed but somehow reached the ears and attention of commanding officers.
“Sorben Phurnan,” Bu muttered, the name tasting sour in his mouth. His lip curled. “That entitled, self-righteous prig. He underestimates me. It will be to his demise.”
“Lieutenant Phurnan, sir?” Ban Chu asked.
Bu’s head snapped to the side. He glared at the Corporal.
“What did you hear?” Bu asked.
“Just the Lieutenant’s name, sir,” Ban Chu replied, backing up a few steps and bowing low.
Bu smiled, but then caught himself. That was what Phurnan did—frighten his men, make them feel worthless, degrade them and berate them. He was not Sorben Phurnan.
“Just thinking aloud, Corporal,” Bu said, trying to soften his face as much as possible. “Nothing with which to concern yourself.”
Ban Chu simply bowed.
“Let’s move,” Bu said. He jerked his head to the side and, silently, eleven men followed him down the mountain slope.
“Should I signal the . . .” Ban Chu began to ask, but Bu put up a hand.
“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
They tracked the horsemen for a while, slowly descending the slope until they were within striking distance. Bu crept closer, hiding underneath a bushy shrub. He
slowed his breath, closed his eyes, and began counting. When he reached twenty, he would signal an attack. It was his way of calming himself before a fight. He reached eighteen when he heard the snapping of a twig.
Bu looked back and saw one of his soldiers standing still, face pale with fright. The Lieutenant didn’t have time to say anything. A heavy snort said the mercenaries heard them. Already, the mercenary leading the group of three had turned his horse to face the mountains.
“There’s something there,” the mercenary said.
Bu could hear the mercenaries speak, as they turned their attention to the mountains, to him and his men. They were speaking Shengu, the language of the east.
“What do we do?” Ban Chu whispered.
The hand signal Bu responded with said “bowman.”
“What do you see, Tedish?” Bu heard one of the other mercenaries ask.
“Nothing yet,” Bu heard the man he named Tedish reply. “But there’s something there.”
“Be ready,” the third mercenary said.
Bu clicked his tongue. He didn’t think it would work, but perhaps a volley of arrows would at least make up for the lost element of surprise.
Two arrows flew from the trees of the mountain slope. One bounced off the breastplate of the man in front and the other thudded into a shield quickly raised.
“Run or fight, Wrothgard?” the third mercenary asked.
“I don’t much like running,” the man named Wrothgard replied.
“That’s what I like to hear,” called Tedish.
That’s what Bu wanted to hear as well. He and his men burst from the cover of the shrubbery, six to the front and Bu and five to the back.
These men were soldiers, their movements precise and calculated. Rather than race out to meet Bu and his men, they backed their horses up so that they were flank to flank, then backing their horses away from the slope.
“Attack the horses!” Bu cried.
“Shengu. An Easterner,” the one named Wrothgard said. “Let me guess, Patûk Al’Banan’s lackeys.”
Bu didn’t reply, but the accusation made his blood boil. One of his men lashed out at the legs of that mercenary’s horse, but the animal was as much of a weapon as the man’s two swords. The horse kicked out, catching the soldier in the face, and leaving a bloody mess where his left cheek and eye used to be. Both swords then came down, crossed towards their tips, easily slicing into the soldier’s neck and removing his head. A high-pitched scream came from another one of Bu’s men as he turned, a gash exposing ribs and lungs slashed into his torso from his chest to his navel.
Bu realized these men were fools and ill-trained. Most of them—all except for Ban Chu and Da—were Sorben Phurnan’s. Bu whistled quickly, catching the attention of his two men, and they knew what he wanted. They pressed their attack on the lead mercenary, seemingly acting recklessly, jumping in and out, stabbing and dodging. The other soldiers followed suit, another two meeting their end at the tip of a sword. Bu didn’t care.
Bu crept behind the horse of the mercenary named Wrothgard. He was so consumed with the pressing attack, Bu thought for sure he could take him by surprise. The Lieutenant flicked his wrist twice, but Wrothgard saw him, leaning backwards as Bu’s two thin-bladed daggers flew past his face. One flew some ways away, hitting nothing, but the other, as it missed this mercenary, found a mark in the armpit of the mercenary in the middle.
The man screamed as Bu’s poison, although not fatal, worked quickly. A burning sensation would be coursing through the man’s veins. He would feel feverish; his skin would crawl, and he would sweat profusely.
“Samus!” the man named Wrothgard yelled as the other mercenary fell from his horse. He hit the ground with a thud, and the two remaining horsemen closed in around him, guarding him.
These truly weren’t mercenaries. Mercenaries cared little for anything, especially other mercenaries. These men—Tedish, their leader, Samus, the one poisoned, and Wrothgard—had been soldiers . . . once.
Another one of Bu’s soldiers fell, his jaw hanging slack from the rest of his face.
“We are going to lose this fight,” Bu spat.
“Sir,” Ban Chu said, “should I call them?”
Bu scowled. They disgusted him. The very fact that they used them made his stomach turn. But without them, they would lose this little skirmish. He nodded.
Ban Chu turned and whistled loud. A growl and a thud came from the dense brush and trees of the mountain slope, and with a great howl, a mountain troll burst from the foliage. It raced towards the horsed men on all fours, knuckles slamming into the ground as its massive legs pumped and propelled the beast four times farther in one leap than any man.
The troll took Wrothgard by surprise. The beast slammed its shoulder into the mercenary’s horse. The mount crumpled to the ground, taking Wrothgard with it. Falling from his horse, he landed atop Samus, who in turn screamed. The poison must have been in full effect now.
Samus’ horse reared up, but the troll grabbed it by its neck and, with both hands, wrestled the animal to the ground before he twisted hard and broke the animal’s neck.
Another troll burst from the mountain forest, this one carrying a large club—a thick branch the size of a man’s thigh with the smaller branches trimmed and fashioned into spikes. It lumbered towards Tedish, the leader of the three mercenaries and still on his horse. Bu hated these creatures, but their size and muscularity amazed him. They looked like giant men, but then they didn’t.
The mercenary looked to his companions on the ground and spurred his horse forward, barreling towards the club-wielding troll. As the troll swung its club at the horse’s head, striking the animal dead, the mercenary leapt from his saddle. Tedish brought his sword down on the troll’s shoulder. The blade might as well have been a small thorn from a thistle bush.
As Tedish hit the troll, the beast swatted the man away as if he were a fly. The mercenary, hitting the ground hard, gasped as the troll’s club struck him in the chest. Bu watched as the mercenary struggled a bit more, but another strike from the club, and he went limp.
Bu saw two men running—Samus and Wrothgard—out of the corner of his eye. This other man, Tedish, had given his life so that they might escape. How noble. His death would be in vain.
“Go after them,” Bu said.
“Yes, sir,” Ban Chu replied.
“And take our men,” Bu commanded.
“As you wish, sir,” Ban Chu replied with a bow.
“This is why I hate these creatures,” Bu muttered.
“Sir?” Ban Chu asked.
“The mountain trolls,” Bu added. “Look at the devastation. We could have used the horses. They were clearly well-trained. And that mercenary, now destined to become troll shit, might have made a good prisoner.”
“I thought General Al’Banan didn’t take prisoners, sir,” Ban Chu said.
“He would have taken one like that,” Bu said, watching the troll peel away the man’s dented breastplate. “Take them with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Ban Chu said with a bow.
Bu looked at the other troll, chewing on horse flesh, over his shoulder. He turned hard, grunted, and kicked the beast. A collective gasp consumed Bu’s soldiers. That was a death sentence.
The troll growled and stood to its full height, a whole half a man taller than Bu. Blood smeared its face, and entrails matted its black, stringy hair. It glared at the Lieutenant with its yellow, black-pupiled eyes. Any other man would have shitted his pants.
“They are weak,” Patûk had said. “They fear strength, they revere it, and will follow it. Show no fear, and they will obey you.”
“You let them get away!” Bu yelled. He drew his sword and jerked his head sideways. “Go. Get those two. Feast on them.”
The two trolls rushed away, Ban Chu and Da after them. The other soldiers followed and in just a hundred paces, Bu’s other men would join up with them as well. His own men would take care of those mercenaries—his men and
the trolls.
He saw the soldier who had stepped on the twig, alerting the mercenaries to their presence, lagging in the back. Bu flicked his wrist, and another thin blade flew from underneath his sleeve, striking the man in the back of the neck. The soldier collapsed to the ground.
Bu slowly walked to the man. His foolishness had caused six deaths. He groaned and grunted as he squirmed on the ground, trying to reach back and retrieve the knife.
“You are a fool,” Bu hissed, turning the man onto his back with his boot. “Your foolishness killed six soldiers and made me use those wretched beasts.”
“I’m sorry,” the soldier struggled to say as the knife’s poison coursed through his body and as he still tried to pull it from the back of his neck.
“I don’t want your apologies,” Bu replied. He placed the tip of his sword at the base of the man’s throat. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and Bu slowly pushed.
At first, the tip barely broke the skin, but as Bu pushed harder, the soldier’s eyes grew wider. He tried to mouth something, but only gurgled. The Lieutenant made sure to press slowly, very slowly.
“No more mistakes from you,” Bu finally said when the soldier lay dead.
Bu walked into a small clearing bordered by tall, white-barked pines and ironwoods. Only a short distance up the mountainside and the air had a biting chill to it. The Lieutenant pulled his cloak tight around his arms. The remnants of thunderclouds hung overhead, wisps of gray mist twisting through the upper extremities of trees, blocking the sun, and casting eerie, ghostly, hand-shaped shadows in front of Bu. He closed his eyes and sucked in the sweet smell of rain mixed with pine. The sting of sweat and dirt then invaded that sweetness, his eyes opened, and a growl rolled from his throat.
Dark Winds Page 6
