Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  Erik heard a low groan come from Wrothgard.

  “That is a death sentence,” Wrothgard muttered. “Should I give him a quick death to subside his pain?”

  “You mean to kill your own friend?” Erik asked, exasperated.

  “It is because he is my friend,” Wrothgard replied. Erik noticed the glimmer of tears in the man’s eyes. “My best of friends, that I would do this for him. A punctured lung is incurable—certain death—and I could not stand to have my brother in arms linger for a few more days in agony. I will give him a quick and honorable death.” Erik saw Wrothgard’s hand go to the handle of his dagger.

  “Not necessarily,” Turk said, putting up a hand to stay Wrothgard. “A punctured lung is no small thing, but not certain death. If we were in Thorakest, our surgeons could heal him. I can too, but out here? We must seek to immobilize his broken ribs. Ideally, he should stay still and rest, but that cannot happen if you wish to join us.”

  “So, he may yet live?” Wrothgard asked.

  “Aye, despite his lung. And his cuts are infected,” Turk added. He poured the blue liquid over the lacerations on Samus’ ribs. The wounds hissed and bubbled as the liquid spilled over his skin. “Surely, this humid weather is partially to blame. Erik, get me the yellow salve in the short, fat jar.”

  Erik did as he was asked. Turk scooped a healthy portion of the salve onto two fingers and spread it over Samus’ many wounds, taking the strips of cloth and bandaging them as best he could.

  “He has a fever,” Turk said.

  “Will he last the night?” Wrothgard asked.

  “Tonight will be the test, I think,” Turk replied. “I will tend to his wounds once more before we stop for the evening, and I will give him a tincture that should quell his fever and relieve some of his pain.”

  “Please, master dwarf,” Wrothgard said, “if his fate looks certain, you must tell me. I must end his suffering if there is no hope.”

  Erik couldn’t help thinking the look on Turk’s face was one of disapproval, but nonetheless, he nodded.

  “I will tell you if I believe there is no hope,” Turk said. “Now, let’s have a look at you.”

  Turk tended to Wrothgard’s cuts, Erik helping him by fetching this vial of liquid and that cream, along with bandages. The soldier’s wounds seemed simple in comparison to those of Samus.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Erik said.

  “Thank you,” Wrothgard replied with a smile. “He is a good man. Tedish was a good man too.”

  “I will pray for him,” Erik said. “Him and Samus.”

  “To which god will you pray?” Wrothgard asked. “I have prayed to Ga’an Yû, the god of war, Ner’Wu Ta’Shin, the goddess of healing. I even prayed to Chago and Tugo, our brother gods of wealth and prosperity. None seem to answer.”

  “I will pray to An,” Erik replied.

  “I don’t know that god,” Wrothgard replied with a smile, “but I do appreciate the prayers.”

  “He is the one dwarves believe in,” Erik said. “We Westerners too, although we simply call him the Creator.”

  “I see,” Wrothgard said, that smile still on his face, although, Erik wondered if it was authentic. “Well, I will cherish those prayers.”

  “What route have you chosen?” Wrothgard said after a few moments of silence. He drank some water Turk had given him after the dwarf had finished bandaging a wound along his chest.

  “Which route had you chosen?” Turk asked in return.

  “Ecfast,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Ecfast?” Turk said with surprise.

  “What is Ecfast?” Erik asked.

  “An outpost,” Turk replied, “that sits along the feet of the Southern Mountains and towards the easternmost reaches of Drüum Balmdüukr.”

  “Aye,” Wrothgard agreed.

  “And how would you pass through a dwarvish outpost?” Turk asked.

  “Tedish, our fallen brother, knew a southern dwarf working as a silver and goldsmith in Goldum,” Wrothgard explained. “He had given Tedish a token—a gift for his friendship in an otherwise unfriendly land—saying that if he ever needed passage into dwarvish lands, he was to present that token, and he would travel unharmed.”

  “Do you have the token?” Turk asked. “They usually bear the family name of the dwarf. Do you know the dwarf ’s name?”

  “I do not remember the dwarf ’s name,” Wrothgard replied, “and, unfortunately, the token was lost with Tedish.”

  “That is too bad,” Turk said.

  “Can we not still take that course?” Wrothgard asked. “After all, you are dwarves.”

  “Simply being a dwarf does not allow you into all dwarf lands,” Demik answered, sitting only a few paces away and obviously overhearing their conversation. “Does simply being a man allow you into Fen-Stévock?”

  “An outpost will not allow anyone, even a dwarf, through its doors without a writ of passage or token,” Turk explained. “I was hoping you still had that token. It would have made our journey a bit easier. We will stop in Aga Min and enter the mountain from there.”

  “I would be careful in Aga Min,” Wrothgard said.

  “Why’s that?” Vander Bim came to join them as well, sipping on rum and biting into half a loaf of stale bread that looked to have spots of mold.

  “Master Cho, the Chief Miner of Aga Min, is not known for his hospitality, that is all,” Wrothgard explained. “He is far less hospitable than Arnif.”

  “Arnif?” Erik asked.

  “Aye. Master Arnif, the Chief Miner of Aga Kona. Did you not meet him when you passed through?” Wrothgard asked. “I am assuming you passed through Aga Kona.”

  “It was . . . is gone,” Vander Bim replied softly.

  Wrothgard looked to Turk, and the dwarf nodded, as did Erik.

  “Gone?” The bewildered look on Wrothgard’s face was one of both misunderstanding and mirth as if he believed Vander Bim was playing some cruel jest.

  “Aye. Gone,” Demik added.

  “I don’t understand,” Wrothgard said.

  “The camp was gone when we got there. Destroyed,” Vander Bim explained. “It looked like . . .”

  Vander Bim paused as if the word was too much. It stuck in his throat, refusing to leave his lips.

  “Mountain trolls,” Turk finished.

  “That saddens my heart,” Wrothgard said softly. “And the people who lived there?”

  “Many of them dead,” Vander Bim replied. “Some had escaped—to a small village a day’s ride east of Aga Kona.”

  “That is terrible,” Wrothgard said. “The things that one man can do to another.”

  “But it wasn’t men,” Erik said. “It was mountain trolls.”

  “Led by men,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Do you think these were the same trolls that attacked you?” Vander Bim asked.

  “Undoubtedly,” Wrothgard replied without hesitation. “We meant to stay a night, Samus, Tedish, and I. I waited outside Arnif ’s tent, as he engaged another man in conversation. He had, as usual, guards posted outside his tent, but one of those men did not belong. He bore the look of a true soldier—a clean face, well-groomed hair, the lean body of disciplined training. He wore a heavy, cowled cloak to cover his armor, but when he moved, I saw, only for a glimmer of a moment, something I had not seen in years emblazoned on his steel breastplate.”

  He paused a moment, took a bite of jerky and a drink of water.

  “What was it?” Erik asked.

  Wrothgard smiled. “The conversation inside Arnif ’s tent became heated. Anyone within twenty paces could’ve heard that. A tall man with gray hair exited, visibly frustrated. He had the same look as the soldier guarding the entrance. And then I recognized him. Like the emblem on the soldier’s breastplate, I had not seen this man in many years and thought I would never see him again. Those cold, gray eyes. They were unmistakable.”

  “Who was it?” Vander Bim asked. Erik, the sailor, and both dwarves had now stoppe
d to listen to Wrothgard’s story.

  “I had the honor of receiving a commission in the Eastern Guard—an elite company of soldiers only bettered by the Soldiers of the Eye and the personal guard of the Lord of the East—at a young age,” Wrothgard explained. “In fact, I was one of the youngest lieutenants ever in the Guard’s ranks. My commander, perhaps one of the greatest generals in all of Háthgolthane in a century, was Patûk Al’Banan. General Patûk Al’Banan exited that tent in Aga Kona.”

  “The bloody Shadow take us all,” Switch cursed. He had walked by just as Wrothgard had said the General’s name.

  “Who?” Vander Bim asked.

  “Who?” Switch said with exasperation. “Patûk bloody Al’Banan, that’s who. Only one of the greatest generals to ever serve Golgolithul.”

  “I thought you might recognize the name,” Wrothgard said with a mirthless smile.

  “You bet your bollocks I recognize the name,” Switch replied. “The champion of the Aztûkians, going around and earning titles like Scourge of the East and Champion of Death and He Who Makes the Skies Rain Blood. Even a bloody gutter shite knows who he is.”

  “I know of him as well,” Turk said.

  “Aye,” Demik added. “He orchestrated the death of many of our kin.”

  “The emblem I saw on the General’s guard’s armor was that of a cobra, coiled and ready to strike, hood flared, and fangs bared,” Wrothgard said. “If it were on a standard, the cobra would have been black, save for red eyes and white fangs, and it would have been centered on a purple field.”

  “The Aztûkians,” Switch muttered.

  “Aye,” Wrothgard agreed, “the Aztûkians.”

  “Who are they?” Erik asked.

  “The family that held the seat of High Lord Chancellor for three hundred years before the Stévockians regained control,” Wrothgard replied.

  “It was Rimrûk Aztûk who signed the peace treaty with King Agempi I at the Battle of Bethuliam,” Turk added, “ending the Great War.”

  “Aye,” Wrothgard said.

  “Families?” Erik questioned.

  “Feudal politics many of the free folk of the west never have to worry about,” Vander Bim explained. “A wicked and treacherous game of power and family ties.”

  “That it is,” Wrothgard replied, “but much is the way of the developed nations of the world.”

  “Even the dwarves face these political issues,” Turk added.

  “Well, if tunnel diggers experience it,” Switch chided, “then it must be real.”

  Turk ignored Switch, just shaking his head as Demik grumbled.

  “The Lord of the East is a Stévockian,” Wrothgard explained. “They are enemies of the Aztûkians and ruled Golgolithul before the end of the Great War. The Stévockians regained power—the Lord of the East’s father—through treachery and deceit, murder and corruption. It is, unfortunately, the way these political games work.

  “To avoid civil war, he allowed many Aztûkians to remain in his High Council and allowed the Eastern Guard to keep the Aztûkians’ standard as their own—the cobra ready to strike on a purple field. General Patûk Al’Banan was a loyal servant to the Aztûkians, as were most of the high-ranking officers and knights in Golgolithul’s armies and guards. I remember some of them, for they were still allowed to bear their standard when I received my commission.

  “Five years later, the High Lord Chancellor was dead, and his son, the Lord of the East, assumed the title of High Lord Chancellor. Five years after that, he dissolved the title of High Lord Chancellor, crowned himself emperor, and disbanded the High Council. His first order of business as Golgolithul’s despot was to change all military standards, save for the Soldiers of the Eye, to that of his family—a clenched fist, black as pitch, holding an arrow, black fletching and blood red tipped on an ash gray field. He made it illegal to fly any other standard as high as his own, and any noble marching to battle must fly the Stévockian crest above his own or face death as punishment. Needless to say, many dissented, including Patûk Al’Banan, and those who were not executed in the streets for their opposition, fled.”

  “I remember that day,” Turk said with a solemn voice.

  “Aye,” Demik replied, a hint of disgust in his words. “Many dwarves died as well, any who would not fly the Stévockian standard above their shops and homes. They were labeled spies for enemies of the East.”

  Demik spat as Wrothgard nodded.

  “That was twenty years ago,” Wrothgard continued, “and many have suspected that those who did flee have been plotting to overthrow the Lord of the East ever since, fighting some hidden, shadowy civil war, using whatever means necessary, including enlisting trolls into their ranks. Easterners killing innocent easterners. It makes my stomach churn.”

  “So why would they bother with you?” Switch asked.

  “Disrupt the business of Lord of the East? Find the ancient city for themselves and use its wealth to fund their army? Exert their control in Háthgolthane and present themselves as a legitimate force?” Wrothgard said with a shrug. “All of these, probably. Maybe even more. General Al’Banan is smart, cunning, ruthless, and powerful.”

  “And what of Aga Kona?” Vander Bim asked. “Why would they bother with Aga Kona?”

  “It is supposedly the richest mine owned by Golgolithul,” Wrothgard replied. “Copper, iron, and gold like we haven’t seen in years. That’s what people said, at least. I think Patûk wished to buy it, or at least buy the miners and then have them abandon the mine.”

  “Those people were not soldiers, though,” Erik said. “They were women and children?”

  “General Patûk Al’Banan is known for many things, my friend,” Wrothgard said. “Compassion is not one of them.”

  Chapter 13

  “WHEN WILL WE BE AT Aga Min?” Befel asked.

  “Three days,” Vander Bim said.

  “Not soon enough,” Erik said. Befel couldn’t agree more, but, of course, their cousin took the opportunity to scold his brother for complaining and whining like a little boy.

  The look Erik returned Bryon said that he was more than willing to have it out. The last time they fought, Bryon could have killed Erik if he had wanted to. He certainly beat him silly. Befel didn’t think that would happen again. He wasn’t even sure Bryon would best his brother. Muscles had started to show clearly in his brother’s arms and legs and shoulders and back. He suspected Erik was now taller than him by a good hand’s width, and their time away from home had hardened him. It saddened Befel, just a little. Erik had always been gentle and kind, and now there were moments when Befel only saw a toughened traveler, a mercenary in the making.

  As they settled down for the night, Befel could see shadows in the mountains; large shadows, troll-shaped shadows.

  “Are they really there?” Befel whispered. “Does anyone else see them?”

  They must. Befel looked to the faces of Drake and Demik, Turk and Switch as they too stared into the mountains. It now seemed that this was all everyone did at night as if sleep were a thing of the past.

  “You see what you want to see,” his father once told him, “especially when you are acting out of fear rather than faith.”

  “I don’t even know what a troll looks like,” Befel muttered.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Erik asked.

  Befel knew he had been tossing and turning, despite the quietness of the night. His shoulder, the suffocating humidity, his homesickness the hot, wet ground—they were all contributors along with the nagging sense that some monster stared at him—just him—from behind a rock.

  “My shoulder,” Befel replied. “My skin. Under my arms and in between my legs are raw and red from the rain. I’m just uncomfortable.”

  Befel pulled a blanket given to him by the gypsies up to his waist as he spread a cooling cream Turk had given him on the skin of his inner thighs. He looked to his right and saw no one. Then to his left, just at the edge of the firelight and mostly hidden by the shadows o
f the night, stood a man. Drake. He held something in his hand—a jar. Rum. He swayed back and forth. Drunk. The miner looked up to the mountains. Befel followed the man’s gaze but saw nothing in the darkness.

  “I’ll follow you up there. I’ll bloody kill you all.” Sobs interrupted his slurred words. “Bloody bastards. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Befel asked softly.

  “Trolls,” Drake muttered. He looked at Befel then looked away, swaying so far to one side, Befel thought he might fall. “Trolls. I’m talking to trolls. Don’t you see them? Don’t you? Up there. Watching. Waiting.”

  Drake looked back to the mountains and pointed. Shadows flickered across Drake’s face. He ran the back of his right hand across his nose and then across his cheek. He snuffled.

  “We must kill them,” Drake said. Befel thought Drake looked at him now, but the miner’s gaze looked unsteady. “Those people. Poor people. They deserve it. They deserve more. They deserve vengeance.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “No one cares what you think!” Drake’s voice was a slurred hiss, but Befel noticed that it caused the rest of the mercenaries to look their way.

  “Oi!” Switch shouted. “Shut your bloody mouth.”

  “Come over here, Drake,” Vander Bim said. “Come near the fire and away from the lad. Let him rest.”

  Drake seemed reluctant, still looking at Befel, but he eventually took another draught of his rum and huffed.

  “No one cares what you think,” he muttered as he passed the young man. “No one cares. They have to die. All of them ...”

  His voice trailed off, and Befel sighed, glad for the sailor’s intervention.

  Befel’s stomach twisted as he watched Drake stumble to the fire, crying. The sailor put a hand on the miner’s shoulder, helping him sit. He heard the miner say something about haunted dreams and dark memories. Befel had suffered his own dark dreams of late, visions of his grandfather, dead in a box made of oak and pine. His face was pale, and he looked like he had lost weight, his normal, stout face drawn and gaunt. Befel had seen plenty of animals, dead and rotting, maggot-infested with ribs and cheekbones exposed, but nothing could compare with what he had seen in the last two months. Burned bodies, eviscerated corpses, women and children slaughtered, chewed upon. It was no wonder they haunted his dreams.