Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  “You weren’t a farmer?” Cho asked.

  “No, my lord. A barkeep, at The Wicked Beard. It was my father’s before he died,” Erik lied, “killed trying to break up a fight. His family hailed from the north. I don’t know if it was Venton or where. He didn’t speak of them much. But, no, until now I’ve lived my whole life in Waterton, working in our family’s tavern.”

  “The Wicked Beard. That name rings a bell. I don’t think I ever had a drink there,” Cho said. “There was this place—The Green Dancer—I settled there a few times, with its owner, Flemming. He had the most beautiful girls, and considerably skilled.”

  Erik remembered that place. Did he? Yes, but it wasn’t The Green Dancer. No, it was The Blue Dancer.

  “You must be referring to The Blue Dancer, my lord,” Erik said. “But you could not have been there.”

  “Oh,” Cho said, sitting back in his chair with one raised eyebrow and the fingers of both hands pressed together just under his chin, “and why is that?”

  “Because Flemming detested whores,” Erik replied. “And to say a woman in Waterton is beautiful, well, you must not have seen many women in your lifetime to say that.”

  Cho let out a thunderous laugh and slapped his knee so hard, Erik flinched.

  “Truly. Truly. You have yourself a restful night, Erik Eleodum of Waterton,” Cho offered.

  The master of the camp took another drink from his jeweled cup and continued to laugh as the three men left the house. Erik sighed, his head in a daze. He hadn’t grown up in Waterton, but he had certainly lived there long enough to know most of its citizens. It was, as Cho said, a small town.

  Chapter 18

  WROTHGARD SAT SLOUCHED IN HIS chair, elbow propped against the arm, chin resting on his fist. His other hand lay loosely on the table, index finger picking at a splintered hole. His cup of beer had lost its frothiness, and the suds that had spilled over the rim and down to the wood were now just a small puddle collecting around the mug’s base.

  He sat and listened. He listened to Switch and Bryon argue about anything they could. He listened to the dwarves speak in their native language and couldn’t help thinking they were always arguing too, with the way their language sounded, and yet the smiles on their faces said they were not. He listened to some of the other customers and their talk of this woman, that backstabbing bastard, why the hell there would be dwarves in their bar.

  Another sip, and a drink, and then another sip, and his beer was gone. He signaled for the waitress, a pudgy, yet pretty, woman shorter than Wrothgard normally found desirable but not so short that he wouldn’t bed her down for a night of company. She came over, somewhat slowly as if she didn’t much care for him or the rest of his party. She had a little button nose and rosy cheeks with dimples, but she didn’t smile.

  She barely paid him a glance as she filled his mug from a large jug, carelessly spilling some beer on the table. At first, that irritated him, angered him even. But that secondary, sidelong glance she gave him with her piercing blue eyes made him smile, and he grabbed her wrist as she turned away. She let out a grunt as she spilled some of her pitcher on the floor and turned to face him full on, cheeks now red, eyes squinted, and a strand of sandy hair escaping the bun that held the rest of her hair so tightly. The strand whisked across her face.

  “You know, if you smiled, I might give you an extra coin for your service,” Wrothgard said.

  She pulled her arm away. She was strong.

  “My service demands more than an extra coin,” she replied.

  Her voice was hard and sharp.

  “You are a bold one, with so many hardened men drinking your beer,” Wrothgard said. “You think you’d be a little nicer.”

  “I don’t do nice. And believe me,” she said, “I’ve been around men harder than you. And bigger.”

  She cracked him a tiny smile, one no one else could’ve seen. There she was, opening up to him, if only a little.

  “Really,” Wrothgard said. “We’ll see.”

  “Oh, will we?” she replied, turning and walking away.

  Wrothgard took a drink. This mug tasted a little better.

  Sitting back and savoring his drink, Wrothgard saw Vander Bim walk over to his table. He took a seat across from the soldier, his own mug of beer in his hand, and leaned forward.

  This looks like it’s going to turn into a conversation I don’t want to have right now, Wrothgard thought.

  “What’s going on here, soldier?” Vander Bim said, his voice as cold as his stare.

  Wrothgard cocked an eyebrow.

  “I have been a sell-sword,” Vander Bim lowered on the word, “for long enough to know that this is turning out to be something far more complicated than just finding a simple treasure for some lord.” “To truly understand this,” Wrothgard set his mug down and opened his hands as if offering up something, “one must understand the history of Golgolithul.”

  Wrothgard had hoped his answer was complicated enough that Vander Bim would stop asking, but the continually questioning look on the man’s face said otherwise. The eastern soldier sighed and took another drink of his beer. Somehow, it didn’t taste as good anymore.

  “The Lord of the East’s father—Mörken—was the first Stévockian to rule Golgolithul in almost three hundred years, since the peace treaty at the Battle of Bethuliam. Like any other kingdom or country, Golgolithul has several ruling families that are very powerful, always vying for power and position. And as one takes more power, the others plot against them. It’s all very complicated to me. I am a simple soldier after all.”

  Vander Bim continued to stare at Wrothgard, and he knew the sailor would not let that answer suffice.

  “The Aztûkians and the Stévockians are the two most powerful families in Golgolithul, each controlling their own cities—Fen-Stévock and Fen-Aztûk. All the other citizens align themselves to these two families,” Wrothgard said. “Like any change in power, when Mörken Stévock became High Lord Chancellor, the opposition claimed treachery and deceit. And truth be told, there always is. However, this last change in power—especially after three hundred years of the same family ruling—was messier and bloodier than usual. Many in the east know our history, when the Stévockians last ruled, and know the tales of black magic and constant war. But, then again, others consider the Aztûkians weak and blame them for Golgolithul’s dwindling power.”

  “What does this have to do with us?” Vander Bim asked.

  “Like I said,” Wrothgard replied, “I am only a simple soldier. Political espionage and secret civil wars are beyond me. I would prefer a head on fight to any of that. But ever since the Lord of the East’s father took power, the Aztûkians have secretly worked to overthrow him and his family. It seems our simple mission is wrapped up in this feud, much more than I would like it to be.”

  “So, do you support the Lord of the East?” Vander Bim asked.

  “He fills my purse with coin,” Wrothgard said with a smile. “That is what concerns me most these days. Truth be told, I supported his father. High Lord Chancellor Mörken started raising Golgolithul to its former glory. Háthgolthane began to remember the strength that lives in the east. We had become weak under Aztûkian rule. But what is the price of such power? The Aztûkians could be brutal, but the cruelty of the Stévockians is legendary. Mörken all but crushed any family that openly opposed him. And the Lord of the East—whose name only his inner circle knows—is becoming the most ruthless Stévockian in all the ages.”

  Wrothgard shuddered as he thought of some of the Lord of the East’s brutal tactics, memories he didn’t dare share with his companions.

  “I don’t know,” Wrothgard said, lifting his cup and hoping that young beer maiden would hurry over so he might flirt with her some more. “Perhaps, it was when the Lord of the East did away with the Senate Council and the title of High Lord Chancellor that I began to question my loyalties. Like I said, this is greater than me. I serve gold now and try to care little for which fool
rules over other fools. Patûk Al’Banan and the Lord of the East and anyone else will wage their wars, and we are just unfortunate enough to have been caught in the middle of some of it.”

  The serving girl came by again and filled Wrothgard’s cup. He slid a hand around the back of her thigh and winked. She gave him a hard look at first, but then, she smiled.

  “Enough about the history of our homeland, eh Vander Bim,” Wrothgard said, lifting his cup of beer towards the sailor, Switch, and the others, “Gentlemen, to more gold than we can imagine and pretty beer maidens.”

  Chapter 19

  BRYON HAD NEVER SEEN A tavern with so much light coming in, and the bright noon sun that spilled through the many windows of The Golden Miner revealed the golden hue in the wood that gave the inn its name. The innkeeper knew his establishment’s worth, that was certain, for he watched everyone with an eagle’s eye and was quick to scold anyone banging on his tables or scratching their chairs across the floor.

  Bryon sat with his sell-sword companions, eating a midday meal when a boy—maybe two seasons from having his first hair on his chin—walked into the bar and directly to Wrothgard at the other end of the table. Bryon didn’t recognize the lad, but the soldier seemed to as the boy leaned towards him intently. The boy whispered something into the easterner’s ear, and when he had finished, Wrothgard placed a coin in his hand. The boy bowed and ran out of the inn, and Switch came over next and the two men talked. Bryon squinted and leaned forward as if that would help him hear what they had to say. It didn’t.

  Finally, once Switch and Wrothgard finished talking, the soldier motioned for everyone to come closer to him.

  “That boy is a servant in Cho’s house,” Wrothgard explained. “Late last night, many hours after we entered Aga Min, another party of three men came requesting a night’s stay in the camp. Apparently, the hour was so late that the camp’s guard would not take them to Cho, so they camped just outside Aga Min’s perimeter and went to see the camp’s master this morning.”

  “What does this have to do with us?” Bryon asked.

  “They are sell-swords. They were at the Messenger’s meeting,” Wrothgard explained.

  Demik groaned, Switch ground his teeth, and Vander Bim cursed under his breath.

  “They told Cho why they were here. They told him they were mercenaries and for whom they worked,” Wrothgard said. “Now, it is in Cho’s best interest to let them stay for a day, since Golgolithul owns this camp, but the boy said Cho despises sell-swords and cares little for the Lord of the East.”

  “And we should be concerned by this?” Befel asked.

  “Yes,” Wrothgard replied. “First, we are too close to our competition. In this game, when the competition is too close, there is only one solution.”

  “I think I can guess what that solution is,” Bryon said, to which Switch smiled.

  “Secondly,” Wrothgard continued, “it is rather suspicious that two groups of men enter a camp within hours of one another, both seeking entrance to the mountain. Cho already does not like mercenaries. Now, he knows he has one party of sell-swords dwelling within his camp and is probably, at this moment, suspecting that we have lied to him about the nature of our journey. He may be no warrior, and he may not have what one might call a garrison or a guard, but nonetheless, he is a powerful man with enough men willing to fight for him. Our skill in battle would matter little to the numbers that would come to kill us.” “So, what do we do now?” Bryon asked.

  “Leave before dawn tomorrow morning. Avoid Cho. Take care of our competition,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Dawn,” Bryon muttered. He had slept well, his bed comfortable, the whore from Madame Ary’s rather pretty. A few more nights would have been welcomed. He looked at Wrothgard. “Why did that boy come and tell you all this?”

  “I gave him a gold coin and told him if he hears anything that I might find interesting, to come tell me,” Wrothgard replied.

  “Always have your eyes to the horizon and ears to the ground,” Switch added.

  Bryon felt sweat trickle down his cheek. As the sun dipped west into the afternoon—the hour of the snake, Bryon guessed—it grew hot and uncomfortable. The dwarves sat behind him, whispering in their native language. Vander Bim and Wrothgard also spoke quietly to one another. And Befel and Erik sat beside Bryon, talking here and there. But Switch just sat and stared, his eyes unblinking and body unmoving save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Bryon’s collar was already damp, and by the end of the day, it would be soaked. Even the innkeeper and serving girl stood, just behind the bar, still and quiet, staring. Watching. Waiting.

  The three other men sat, just as still, although they rarely looked to Bryon’s companions, especially Switch, and when they did, they turned away quickly. Whenever that happened, Bryon thought he saw Switch smile just a bit.

  “They have been sipping on their ale for over an hour now,” Bryon whispered to the thief. “They wish to stay sober.”

  One man with a bushy, black beard mouthed something to another, this one with long, spiked hair running down the middle of his head. The third nodded before turning to face Switch. His face looked crooked, and by the curvature in his nose and scarring on his jaw, Bryon suspected he had broken both at some point.

  “What the bloody ’ell do you keep looking at?” Crooked Nose said.

  His voice reminded Bryon of an old farmer named Benji, several leagues from his father’s farm. It was low and gruff and almost unintelligible.

  Switch said nothing. Wrothgard, who sat just to the side of the thief, put his hand on the thief ’s shoulder and whispered. He could just hear what he said.

  “Remember, we don’t want a fight here.”

  “Didn’t you ’ear me, you shit,” Crooked Nose added, his voice growing louder. Switch still said nothing.

  Finally, the man stood, knocking his chair to the ground. He was a giant of a man, larger than anyone in the company with which Bryon traveled. He towered over Switch and must have been three times as heavy.

  The man’s mail shirt clinked as he stood. He rested one hand on the long handle of his hand-and-a-half sword while the other he lifted in front of him, fist clenched, leather gloves creaking.

  “He’s speechless,” said Bushy Beard as he leaned back in his chair, one elbow on the table and his other hand resting in his lap.

  “Maybe he thinks you’re cute,” Mohawk added. He sat as well, leaning on his elbows. His voice sounded muffled and nasally as if he had bread stuffed in both cheeks. “He’s got the look of a woman, all small and skinny.”

  Switch’s face grew red, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t even move.

  “Although, that one looks softer,” Mohawk said. “I bet he would be fun. He would fight a little, but then I bet he would give in. He might like it.”

  Bryon didn’t realize at first that the mohawked mercenary was talking about him, not until the man blew him a kiss.

  Bryon clenched his fists and stood. Mohawk and his two companions only laughed.

  “Sit down you bloody fool.” Switch’s whisper sounded a venomous hiss.

  “Does your boy need a spanking, worm?” Crooked Nose stood tall and cocked his head to one side, a smirk now on his face. His clenched fist had dropped, and he stuck a thumb in his belt, letting it rest there. He joined Mohawk in blowing kisses at Bryon. “I’d be happy to spank your little friend.”

  “Sit down, Bryon. This is what they want,” Wrothgard whispered. “Calm down before you find yourself dead.”

  Bryon looked over at Crooked Nose. His blade was out, held easily in one hand. The other two men were on their feet as well, swords drawn.

  “If this is what they want, why not give it to them?” Bryon asked quietly.

  They outnumbered these three men. They had the dwarves, the soldier, the experienced mercenary sailor; but then he looked at Befel, his left arm in a sling, tied tightly to his body. He looked to Vander Bim, dark circles around his eyes, wearin
ess strewn across his face as plainly as the blond stubble on his chin. He looked to Erik, eyes hard, and yet worry hidden in there as well. He felt his own ribs, still sore, still not wholly healed.

  “What’s the matter, maggot?” Crooked Nose said, looking straight at Switch. “You lose your balls to that young one?”

  Switch spun on his heels and faced the three mercenaries.

  “When I slide my steel across your neck,” Switch hissed, “before you die, I’m going to stick a knife up your ass.”

  “Why not now?” Mohawk incited. He pointed his broadsword at the thief.

  “Enough!” The yell rang through The Golden Miner. The barkeep stood, now in front of his bar, rigid, pale-faced and stern. He gripped a large cudgel in his right hand, its end, an unfinished piece of wood with the stubs of branches still present. There were other men, miners hardened by work, that stood as the barkeep yelled, moving to back the man up.

  “I’ve stood ’ere long enough listening to yer pissin’ contest. I’ll no’ have no fighting in me bar,” yelled the bald man. “Soldiers or no soldiers, I’ll beat your brains out of your skull if ya disrupt me bar anymore. Eat till yer fat. Drink till yer drunk. Go next door to Madame Ary’s and fuck ’til yer cock’s sore. Or get out.”

  Mohawk glared at the bartender with squinted eyes. His face and head turned a pale red, all but the white scars that dotted his face, which stood out like white roses among a blackthorn bush. He let the tip of his blade drop to the floor as he drummed his steel breastplate with the fingers of his left hand. He gave the bartender an exaggerated half bow, glaring at Switch the whole time.

  Bushy Beard jerked his head to the side, and as he left The Golden Miner, his two comrades followed. He stopped at the door and looked to Wrothgard.

  “You best keep your dog on a leash.” He gave Switch a quick smile. “Else he might try to bite a bigger dog.”

  The other two men laughed loudly, and as Mohawk followed the other two mercenaries out the door, he blew Bryon a kiss.