A snort, a growl, and another jab. He leaned to one side, then to the other, stepped forward, crouched, put his broken sword up over his head as if it were a shield, and then jabbed. This one bit deeper into the troll’s leg, just above the knee. The beast howled and stood to its full height as it flexed its massive chest, bared its blackened teeth, and slammed the butt of its spear hard into the ground. Wrothgard braced himself for the onslaught about to come, caring little for the outcome, only caring that his steel would bite the whole time.
Then he heard four boots slapping the earth, driven by stout, well-muscled legs, and the slapping of iron-shod hooves on hard-packed earth. He saw them from the corner of his eye—Demik and Nafer and Befel, broadsword and mace and rusted sword ready. The troll turned and saw them too. At that instant, Wrothgard attacked, driving his sword deep into the beast’s thick side. It twisted hard, ripping the blade from its flesh, and swung the back of its hand. The soldier ducked. At the same time, the troll swung its spear at Demik. The dwarf rolled forward, bringing his sword up into the underbelly of the troll’s arm as he found his feet again.
Wrothgard saw the exposed chest and raked his sword across it, cutting from shoulder to hip. Nafer’s mace crashed into the troll’s knee, and the soldier heard the crunching of meat and bone. Any other creature would have collapsed, but the troll still stood. Despite another blow from Demik’s broadsword, it brought the spear shaft down hard, cracking the dwarf on the side of the head and sending him rolling sideways. It then kicked out at Nafer and the dwarf, though nimble, caught a boot to the chest and landed on his back.
Wrothgard brought his good blade down on the extended leg and scratched the broken blade along the monster’s ribs. A bronze blade sailed just above his head as he ducked another attack, and then he jumped as the troll brought its weapon low. Demik was up again, blood reddening his hair and beard from a lesion just above his ear. Demik’s blade bit again. He deflected a spear attack with his shield and struck once more. The soldier brought his sword up along the monster’s hamstring and then down along the back of its ribs. Nafer, woozy but on his feet, jabbed with his mace, the spike at the top of the steel ball digging into the troll’s thigh.
The beast stepped back, and for a moment, Wrothgard thought it didn’t know what to do. It seemed confused. Maybe even . . . scared. No. It was evil. It had killed his friend and then eaten him. It killed innocent men and women and children. It deserved to die.
He saw Befel leaning forward, hard, in his saddle. He raced at the troll, sword high above his head.
“No!” Wrothgard shouted. “You fool! No!”
The injured beast swung up with its weapon, taking Befel from his saddle. He fell hard to the ground. The young man jumped to his feet quickly, ducking one attack as Nafer and Demik and Wrothgard moved around the troll, but then another hard swing caught Befel’s shoulder. Wrothgard saw the shoulder drop from its socket. The next attack was a grazing blow along the top of his shoulder, skin and flesh erupting in blood from the brute force of the strike. Befel went down, unconscious. He would have been dead but for the two dwarves stepping over him, jabbing and prodding the troll backwards a few steps.
Wrothgard looked to the troll. Blood covered its skin, wounds exposing muscle and tissue. He looked into its eyes, those black, beady pupils. Was it fear, determination, sorrow he saw there? No. Rage. Pure, malicious, wicked rage.
It charged. Wrothgard ducked out of the way. He saw two arrows sail into its chest. It barreled past Demik, knocking him to the side and ignored Nafer as he swung at the beast with his mace again. The soldier chased after the troll. It howled when two more arrows thumped into its chest. Wrothgard wondered how the beast still stood.
Wrothgard leapt onto the troll’s back. He gagged at its stench. Holding his breath, he plunged his broken sword into the troll’s flesh just at the base of its neck. The creature howled and screamed as the broken blade dug in cross-guard deep. It dropped its spear and reached back, digging its nails into its own flesh as it grabbed for Wrothgard. Its exposed chest lay bare for several more volleys of arrows as well as a half-moon bladed battle-axe, sailing shaft-overhead through the air until its steel sunk to the troll’s sternum.
The troll finally fell to one knee, and Demik’s broadsword crashed into its shoulder twice. It shuddered, still trying to grab at Wrothgard, the soldier twisting his broken blade back and forth. He heard his teeth grinding, echoing through his pounding head. His face felt so hot that perhaps the tears streaming from his eyes might have evaporated as they touched his cheeks. He felt wetness on his lips—spit and blood.
“Die, you son of a bitch.” His curses hissed through his teeth. “Die. Die. Die!”
It began to oblige. The troll fell to the other knee, its hands now falling to its side. It lurched sideways when Nafer’s mace smacked its ribs, bone crushing under the force. Wrothgard jumped from the troll’s back, leaving his broken sword in its place. He gripped his other sword in both hands, lifted it high over his head, and swung, repeatedly, creating a red mess of the troll’s back. The creature barely flinched.
“Oh, no. You are not going to lose your senses before this ends.” Wrothgard spat as he walked to the troll’s front.
He bent down to look the creature in the face. The troll didn’t look up. It simply stared at the ground, shoulders lifting slowly as it took long, labored breaths.
“Hey!” Wrothgard yelled in the troll’s face. It didn’t move. He spat at it. It still did not move. He punched it in its head. Still nothing. He stood up, sheathed his sword, and removed the glove on his right hand. He eyed a deep wound on the beast’s shoulder and jabbed his index finger in, knuckle deep. He heard it, then—a growl. It lifted its head, eyed the soldier, and snapped at him. He leaned back, out of the way, and smiled.
“Do not torture it.” Wrothgard caught a glimpse of Turk walking up behind him.
“Did he give my man, Tedish, the same courtesy?” Wrothgard asked.
“Probably not,” Turk replied. “But it is a wicked thing. A creature of the Shadow. Lawless. Foul. It is evil. We are soldiers. We fight by a code.”
“An easterner’s code is as good as no code at all,” Demik muttered, and Wrothgard heard him.
Turk said something to his companion in Dwarvish, but Wrothgard could tell it was an admonishment.
“He is right, my dwarvish friend. What weight does an easterner’s code carry?” Wrothgard asked.
Wrothgard drew his sword again and held it loosely, so that its tip touched the ground. The troll slouched in front of him, slow, short breaths. It was near death. Something was wet on his cheek. He wiped away the tear with his left hand.
“I am sorry, my friend, my poor Tedish. I have let my anger defame you. I am sorry,” Wrothgard said. “You would have done better.”
The troll moved, putting both its fists on the ground, its breaths even slower.
Wrothgard gripped his sword in both hands again and moved to the troll’s side, the blade hovering just above the beast’s neck.
“Wait,” Turk said. He walked in front of the soldier, reached under the troll, and, with one hand, retrieved his battle-axe from the monster’s chest. He stood and looked to the easterner, handing him the weapon.
“It will be cleaner, quicker,” Turk said.
Wrothgard paused for what seemed to him a long while. He nodded, sheathed his sword, and took the half-moon bladed battle-axe. Gripping it in two hands, he eyed his mark, lifted the weapon over his head, and brought it down. He repeated that same motion four times before the head rolled from the troll’s shoulders.
Wrothgard smirked, looking at the pool of blood collecting under the still unconscious Befel.
“At what cost?” Wrothgard asked.
“What was that?” Turk asked.
“Our victory. At what cost did it come?” Wrothgard repeated.
He looked to Befel again. Then he saw the young man named Erik also lying unconscious and the tall one—Bryon—kneeling
next to him. He saw Vander Bim holding Drake, cradling the man’s head in his lap. Wrothgard knew how that felt all too well. He knew what it was like to watch a friend die, to hold him in your arms as he breathed his last, to hear the pain in his voice as he cried out to his mother or his wife or his children or whatever god he thought might forgive his last sin. That was a feeling like no other, a helpless feeling that twists the heart and stomach. Suddenly, that feeling struck him once more. He looked about. He saw the dwarves, the young men. He saw Switch and Vander Bim and the dying Drake.
“Where is Samus?”
Chapter 16
ERIK PRESSED THE PALMS OF his hands against his temples. The harder he pressed, the more it hurt, but at least it seemed to help his headache go away. The ground was hard and hot, but every time he stood, his vision blurred, and he felt like throwing up. Even sitting down, he was woozy.
Turk walked by him. He seemed busy, but Erik spoke anyways.
“I thought I wouldn’t wake up,” Erik said. “As I passed out, I thought that was it.”
Turk stopped and turned. Erik looked up and met eyes with the dwarf. Turk smiled.
“Do not worry, my young friend,” he said. “You would have woken up. It may have not been here. It may have been that, praise An, you would have woken up in the halls of the Almighty, but you would have awoken nonetheless.”
Erik held back the tears as best he could, but something inside him wouldn’t let him stop. He felt foolish, childish, and tried to cover his face but then felt the strong hands of Turk rest on his shoulders.
“It is all right to cry, Erik,” Turk said. “It is all right to show emotion. We had a hard fight. Men died. Men we know are dying.”
Erik followed Turk’s eyes as the dwarf stared at Vander Bim, sitting on the ground and cradling Drake’s head, face broken and bloody, in his lap.
Erik looked over at Drake and then up at Turk. The dwarf looked down at him and shook his head.
“You will rest here while Turk comes with his healing salve,” Vander Bim said. “Then we will forget this treasure map nonsense. We will pack your horse and send you to your wife and children.”
“My boys,” Drake whispered. “Where are my boys? Where are they?”
“They are here. Close by. On their way to see . . .”
Vander Bim’s voice cracked, and he began to sob.
Drake coughed, and when he did, his whole body cramped as he let out a silent scream.
“My wife.” Drake turned, resting his face against Vander Bim’s thigh and hugging the sailor’s knee. I want my wife.”
Vander Bim leaned down, putting his forehead to Drake’s temple. He kissed his friend’s blood-wet hair.
The miner reached out as if his wife was there, reaching back. Then, he shuddered once more. His body went slack in the sailor’s arms, and he slid from Vander Bim’s lap to the ground in a bloody heap, lifeless.
“Should we do something for Vander Bim?” Erik asked.
Turk shook his head. “Let him grieve. He needs time to grieve, time to mourn and remember the life of his friend. Are you all right?”
“My head hurts,” Erik replied. “But I’m sure there are worse than me.”
“I would imagine so. Here.” Turk pulled a small vial from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Erik. “Drink this and find a quiet spot. Your head will feel better soon.”
“Thank you,” Erik said.
“I have to help our friends now,” Turk said. “If your head doesn’t clear, let me know.”
Erik had found a spot away from the rest of his companions where he could drink the contents of Turk’s vial. It tasted like nothing, like water, and shortly after he drank it, he felt tired, and he was soon in a deep, dreamless sleep.
His headache gone, his body feeling refreshed, his mind clear, and his spirits much higher than before, the first person Erik saw when he walked back into the midst of his companions was Wrothgard. He stood quietly over the body of his friend, Samus. He then crouched, sitting back on his heels. Erik put his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. It’s what Turk had done for him.
“Are you well?” Wrothgard asked.
“Yes,” Erik said. “Turk gave me something that cleared my head and took away my pain.”
“He was like my brother, you know.” Wrothgard stroked the blood-soaked hair and beard of Samus. “We served in the Eastern Guard together, with Tedish. We traveled into the wilds of the east and battled the men of Mek-Ba’Dune, side by side. And for what? To die by the hands of simple mountain trolls commanded by the very men to whom we paid allegiance. Samus and Tedish were as strong and skilled warriors as I have ever seen. Their skills were far beyond mine. It should be me lying here, dead. It should be me.”
“I am truly sorry,” Erik comforted. “Perhaps the Almighty has something else in store for you.”
Wrothgard waved him off with a little, mirthless chuckle, one filled with derision.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Erik said, removing his hand from the soldier’s shoulder.
Wrothgard shook his head. “No, I am sorry. Continue to believe in your god if that is what brings you comfort. I have lost all faith in any gods, or religion. To me, it is naught but misplaced hope. I have lost two brothers in a matter of days, and countless more in all my years. What god would allow this? What god would allow such death?”
Erik didn’t know what to say. The soldier stood and bowed his head. Wrothgard said something in his eastern tongue and put his right fist to his left breast.
“Do not mourn them,” Wrothgard said, turning to face Erik. “Applaud them as warriors. Let their memory live on in our lives as we fight, eventually, to glorious deaths. Tonight, I will drink to their lives, and tomorrow, we will continue on.”
They buried the two men, and Erik was glad for it. They deserved at least that.
“Is that for the pain?” Erik asked Turk as he gave Befel, who leaned against his saddle, some liquid from a hollowed gourd.
Turk gave Erik a quick nod.
“I don’t think it’s working,” Erik added as Befel groaned loudly and visibly shook.
“He is in a lot of pain,” Turk replied. “I don’t know if I have enough to dull all of it. And then if I did, he would be in a stupor greater than any rum could cause.”
“What about what you gave me?” Erik asked.
Turk shook his head.
“That is a very different medicine and not suited for your brother,” Turk explained.
Befel dug his heels into the dirt and gritted his teeth as the dwarf prodded and probed about his wound.
“You must relax, Befel,” the dwarf said. Befel replied with a yelp.
“Brother,” Erik said, “you must listen.”
A groan and then a long moan of pain escaped Befel’s mouth as a reply.
His left arm lay limp, his shoulder drooping low, farther than what was natural.
“It is out of socket,” Turk explained. Erik didn’t know if the dwarf spoke to him or his brother, or to himself. “And before I can continue to work, I must set it. This will hurt.”
He tried feeding Befel more of his numbing liquid, but the young man spit it out with another groan. Turk placed both hands on Befel’s shoulder, one in front and one behind. Then he waited, head stooped, chin to chest.
“What are you doing?” Erik asked. “Why are you waiting?”
Turk didn’t reply. Then, without a word, he lifted his head, gripped Befel’s arm firmly with both hands, pulled, pushed, pulled, and then pushed again. Erik heard a clicking sound, followed by a subtle pop, and Befel screamed while his face went paler than before. He clutched at his pant leg and jerked sideways.
“Hold him, Erik,” Turk commanded.
Erik complied while Turk hushed Befel like a mother trying to sooth a crying baby.
“You will be all right, brother,” Erik said, holding him tightly and pressing his head into his chest. Befel began to cry.
The dwarf cleaned the wound. He smear
ed his cooling salve on the wound and then stitched it as best he could; Erik held his brother the whole time, preventing him from jerking and writhing about.
“Will he be okay?” Erik asked when Turk finished and Befel had fallen asleep.
“We will see,” Turk replied. “It was bad before. Now it is even worse. Now, he may definitely not use his arm again.”
“But there must be something you can do?” Erik said.
“I am sorry, my young friend,” Turk said. “I hate to say such a thing. And I certainly would not say that to Befel, at least for now. I will do everything I can, use all the gifts and skills of healing with which An has favored me with—that I can promise you—but the best surgeons live in Thorakest. When we reach my city, An willing, they may be able to look at his shoulder and save his arm. Meanwhile, when we reach Aga Min, I will redress the wound with clean cloth. That is most important right now. The quicker we can do that, the surer I am that we will stem any infection.”
Erik gave him a blank look.
“If it gets infected, he may not only lose the use of his arm, but he may lose his life.”
As they finally mounted and readied themselves for the road again, Vander Bim moved over to where Erik was settling Befel on his horse, as Bryon looked on.
“I haven’t discussed this with any of the others,” Vander Bim said, loudly enough so that everyone could hear him, “and they may not like what I am going to say, but if they don’t, then they can just piss off. I don’t give a troll shit if they don’t like it. You three proved yourselves today, to be more than just servants. I believe you saved my life, at least, and that’s good enough for me. I am making you full partners. Whatever riches we find, whatever commission the Lord of the East pays us, we will split with you. Evenly. And you too, Wrothgard.”
Erik looked at the dwarves. They were nodding, and he saw Wrothgard nod as well. And then he saw Switch. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, a wry smile barely breaking the corners of his mouth. When he saw Erik staring at him, the thief gave him a single wink, and for once, Bryon seemed speechless.
Dark Winds Page 12
