Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  Bu nodded to Ban Chu. The two moved silently, followed by ten other men. It would take them over an hour to reach the dwarves, but stealth required precision and patience.

  Bu took a breath, held it, and slid forward a hair’s length, body pressed into the ground. The close proximity of the dwarves was given away by their repugnant smell, one of bear fat and muskiness. He wanted to gag, and if he hadn’t been a man of strong constitution—Sorben Phurnan—he would have, giving their position away. One of the dwarves shifted and whispered something to another one, speaking in their harsh, backwards language. Bu had never bothered to learn it but cursed himself for not doing so at that moment.

  He waited, breathing quietly, holding his breath for many moments before slowly exhaling. Then, in the flutter of a fly’s wings, he reached up, grabbed one of the dwarves’ long braids, pulled his head back, and jammed a dagger into the side of the dwarf ’s neck. At the same time, Ban Chu jerked another dwarf ’s chin up and slid his own dagger across his neck. Another one of Bu’s men thrust his short sword down into the back of yet another dwarf ’s neck.

  They were fortuitous kills. Bu had told his men they would kill four dwarves before they knew what happened, but he didn’t believe it. He thought they would be lucky to sneak up on one. Any other scout would have surely given up their position, or at least would have alerted the dwarves to some movement. But he was Bu, the best of all Patûk’s scouts.

  Three dwarves fell before the other three knew what had happened. As one of the living bearded midgets turned, Bu slammed his dagger into his neck. The dwarf ’s eyes went wide and blood burst from his mouth, splattering Bu across the face.

  Bu felt that all too familiar excitement, staring at a victim’s face while he breathed his last moments, feeling his blood on his own face, even tasting his blood, although dwarf blood always tasted foul. His heart raced, his breath quickened. It was a feeling he coveted even more than being with a woman.

  The last two dwarves finally knew what was happening. One raised a broadsword, ready to swing at Bu, but Ban Chu jammed his thin, long sword into the dwarf ’s armpit. Bu would have easily dodged the dwarf ’s attack, but Ban Chu was loyal to him. It was a curse as the one living dwarf tackled Ban Chu, both of them bursting from the cover of the forest trees and rolling into the clearing where the mercenaries camped.

  “Damn it,” Bu hissed as the mercenaries, who looked to be falling asleep, immediately snapped to attention. “Attack.”

  A throwing knife thudded into the dwarf ’s chest, but that was clearly not enough to stop him. He came at Ban Chu hard, his broadsword dragging across the man’s chest. One of Bu’s other men charged the dwarf, tearing his attention away from the Lieutenant’s corporal. The dwarf ran his blade through the soldier’s belly but didn’t see one of the mercenaries charging him with a spear. The spearhead sunk deep into the dwarf ’s side.

  Ban Chu made quick work of the mercenary. It seemed like, as the mercenary stared at Ban Chu in disbelief, he thought they were allies.

  “They think we are here to help them,” Bu said with a growing smile on his face.

  Bu drew his sword, drawing it across the dwarf ’s throat and removing his head from his neck.

  The three remaining mercenaries backed up, almost into their campfire.

  “Mercy,” one of them yelled.

  Bu growled as the man spoke the language of the far west, Gongoreth or beyond.

  “What did he say?” Ban Chu asked.

  “He wants mercy,” Bu replied.

  “Mercy,” the man said again, this time in Westernese. “Please. We are outnumbered, and over our heads. We mean you no harm.”

  Bu laughed.

  “Did he make a joke?” Ban Chu asked.

  Bu shook his head.

  “They are just fools,” Bu replied. “They are right. They are in something that is far over their heads. It will cost them their lives.”

  Bu lowered his sword and stepped forward, raising a hand.

  “As soon as I drop my hand,” Bu said to Ban Chu, “kill them.”

  A quick pretense would help avoid any more casualties on Bu’s side. He extended a hand and, in Westernese, said, “Peace.”

  The man who had been speaking nodded and smiled.

  “Peace.”

  Bu returned the gesture with a nod. A small smile creased the corner of his mouth, and the other two men seemed to relax as well.

  “Thank you,” the mercenary said, lowering his own sword.

  Bu winked and dropped his hand.

  Chapter 31

  ERIK LOOKED UP, AND THE night sky was black. No moon, no clouds, and no sounds. He reached his hands out to either side. Nothing. The floor felt cold, hard, and rocky. Barefoot, he walked to the side and finally felt a wall. Rock. It was wet and cold. A cave. He stepped forward and then turned, and as he did so, felt the skin of his hip brush the damp wall. He was naked.

  As Erik walked, all he heard were the echoes of the slap of his footsteps. He walked far, loosing track of time. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, his chest, his back, down his arms and legs. His heart pounded in his chest, the arteries in his neck thumped against his skin. His breath quickened.

  Finally, he saw a pinhole, a single dot of light. He ran, his feet plodding against the uneven stone, and the light grew wider and wider as it got closer. He reached a small opening partially blocked by piled rocks. He reached out, and they were cold and wet, covered in moss. Branches and leaves and roots grew in front of the small opening that was perhaps no bigger than his head.

  Erik pushed the branches and roots out of the way and stuck his hand through the hole. He gasped at the feel of the night’s breeze. He tore away at the rocks, and as they tumbled to the ground, he expected them to bounce against his legs and fall upon his feet, but as they fell away from the opening, they seemed to disappear. The hole grew bigger, and now he saw moonlight. As he ripped rock away faster, a cool breeze blew against his face. Faster. He heard crickets. Faster. The hooting of an owl. Faster. He pushed through the opening, tumbled down a mound of rock, and found himself sitting on wet grass.

  When Erik looked up now, a large, pale moon stared back amidst high tree branches. He felt his hands, his knees, his elbows where they had scratched against the rock. Nothing. No scratches. No blood. He stood and looked back. Dark forest. No tunnel. No rocks. Just forest. The cave was gone.

  The forest was thick. He looked up as he walked and, most of the time, tall trees blocked the moon. Pine needles and twigs crunched under his bare feet. He felt nothing. They should have poked and cut and scratched, but he felt nothing. The wind whistled through tree branches as dead leaves and fallen needles rustled about his ankles. Erik wrapped his arms around his naked body. He should have felt cold, but . . . he felt nothing. And heard nothing.

  The sounds he heard before were gone. Everything that should have been there was gone except the darkness. No noises, no chill in the air, no pain from his scratched skin . . . No breathing. He touched a finger to his wrist, but his pulse was gone. He tried to speak, but his voice was gone. He started to panic.

  He saw movement, a flicker of red and gold. Fire. He walked to it, pushed through trees, and the darkness. He stepped into a clearing, a ring of trees encircling a flat space centered by a large fire. He looked up again. No stars. No moon. No clouds. Just a solid wall of black. A single log, perfectly round with no knotholes, no bumps, no imperfections, sat next to the fire, and on it, sat a hooded man, all cloaked in black.

  He called to the man. No voice. No sound. He tried again. Nothing.

  Where am I? Help me, please.

  The hooded head turned to face Erik, reading his thoughts. Now Erik heard the wind whistling again and felt the blast of a cold, nighttime forest breeze. Goosepimples raced up his arms, his legs, his spine. The sounds of the forest exploded through the trees in an eruption of howling and hooting and scurrying and singing. His hands, his knees, his elbows, his chest, they all stung. He looked down.
Scratches covered his body. Blood smeared his chest.

  “What is this place? Who are you?” he said out loud as he felt his heartbeat hammer in his chest.

  A gloved hand, with black leather that creaked as it moved, put a finger up to the cowled head where a mouth might be.

  “This is a place of silence.” The voice was soft, and Erik strained to listen. He stepped forward, and his foot crushed leaves and needles.

  “Silence!” The voice was thunder. Erik closed his eyes, covered his ears, turned away.

  “You do not belong here,” the cloaked man said, standing.

  Erik started to say something, but then stopped. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why?” Erik whispered.

  “You should not be here,” the cloaked voice whispered.

  “Why?” Erik whispered back.

  “This is a place for those who are lost.”

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered, looking at the ground.

  When he raised his eyes again, the man was gone. He looked to his left, and there he stood.

  “This is the way.” The voice was almost inaudible. “The path.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Erik replied.

  “I burn my fire so the lost can see,” the figure said as if Erik hadn’t asked a single question.

  “Who? Who are the lost?” Erik asked, moving closer.

  “The wanderers. Those who wander the dark. Those who are lost to the dark. Those who have been stolen by the night.”

  Erik shivered as the cloaked man prodded the fire with a long stick.

  “Night has stolen them, and they wander the dark,” the cloaked figure said. “They search for the light and the way home.”

  The fire flared and blazed high into the darkness overhead, and Erik began to feel warmth in his body as his eyes followed the flames up into the darkness. The sky was no longer black but blazed with thousands of twinkling stars, and a moon, both pale and brilliant, seemed to dance through the wispy clouds passing silently overhead. The stars looked so close, and he poked at them with his index finger as if they were tiny bubbles and he could pop them. Then his stomach knotted and cramped.

  “They come for the caravan,” the cloaked man said, “the way home.”

  “What?” Erik asked.

  “Don’t you understand? They are lost in the darkness of night. They have wandered, their souls have been weighed, and now they seek the sun.”

  “Who?” Erik asked.

  “Them.” The cloaked man pointed to the encircling forest, to a section of heavy trees where the woods stood especially dark.

  A man stepped into the clearing. He stood naked, his skin pale, his lips blue, his hair white, his fingernails and toenails purple. He walked towards Erik who felt his heart quicken again. The man walked right past Erik, and when he was close enough, Erik could see he had no pupils, just the whites of eyes sitting on an expressionless face. Erik could feel a chill from the man as if he brought winter with him wherever he went. Just as he had emerged from the forest, he disappeared back into the trees.

  “Where is he going?” Erik asked.

  “To the caravan,” the cloaked man answered. “To the carriage that awaits him.”

  More men emerged from the woods, passing Erik and the man clad in black, and then disappeared back into the forest.

  “Where is the caravan?” Erik asked.

  “There.” The mysterious man pointed.

  It was as if the trees, the forest where he pointed, had never been there, and instead, stood a clearing. Another fire centered the clearing. Next to the fire stood a caravan of simple carriages. There must have been twenty or more, but as far as Erik could see, there were no horses.

  “What kind of magic is this?” Erik whispered.

  “No magic,” the cloaked man said. “Or maybe the greatest magic there is.”

  A breeze blew through the dark forest, and the trees fluttered and bent and waved to and fro. Men, and now women and children, continued to flood from the woods. He saw a face he thought he recognized. Whose face? Yes, William, from the lumber mill just south of Waterton. What was he doing here? He saw another face. One of the young men that traveled in the Ion Gypsies’ caravan.

  “I thought they were all killed or captured,” Erik muttered.

  And then he saw him. That man was unmistakable. In his nakedness, he looked smooth, no hair on his body, no definition in his muscles. He still looked huge compared to anyone else, but in a way, he had been diminished, softened. His shoulders seemed less broad, his chest narrower, his arms smaller. He lumbered through the first clearing, his long hair—now white—bouncing on his broad shoulders.

  “But, no,” Erik said, his voice wavering, cracking, “you’re dead.”

  Marcus walked past Erik without saying a word, without looking at him, without even hinting to the fact that the young man was there. His wife, Nadya, followed. Then he looked to the cloaked man.

  “What is this?” he hissed. “They are dead.”

  “Are they?”

  Erik thought he heard a chuckle escape from underneath the black cowl. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth. He squared up to the cloaked man.

  “What evil is this?” Erik spat.

  Erik felt the air around him whirl and then vanish. It became stale, and he choked as he tried to breathe. In a moment’s breath, a gloved hand had wrapped around his throat, squeezing so hard, his neck surely should have broken, but it didn’t. The hand just kept squeezing, gripping harder and harder. He looked up to see the cloaked man, the space underneath his cowl black. He pulled Erik’s face close, so that it also was hidden under the cowl.

  Erik saw no face. He only saw two flames where eyes should have been, and they blazed with a heat like he had never felt, a heat that surely should have melted his skin off his bones, but it didn’t. The flames grew brighter and brighter, so bright that surely, he should have gone blind, but he didn’t.

  The hand gripped his neck, the flames burned his face and pierced his eyes. Then something—a hand—reached into his chest and grabbed his heart. Erik cried out, his screams so loud he should have gone deaf, but he didn’t.

  Then, the hands released, the flames dissipated, the screaming stopped. He was sitting, leaning back on his elbows, breathless, and looking up at the cloaked man.

  “That is evil,” the cloaked figure said. “That and much more.”

  “But they are dead,” Erik said.

  “Are they dead?” the cloaked man asked.

  Then he turned and walked to the caravan. Erik followed him. The people—so many Erik couldn’t count them all—were loading into carts.

  “Marcus,” Erik said as the large man stepped onto one of the carts.

  “He does not remember you,” the cloaked man finally said.

  “Will he never remember me, then?” Erik asked.

  In that moment, Erik did not see a cloaked man all in black standing before him, but he saw another, this one clad in a robe of brilliant silver and gold. He saw his face, but he could not describe it, for it was all the faces that Erik had ever seen—his mother and father, his sisters, every man that had ever walked past the sties of Venton, even his own—all at once.

  “He will remember you, young Erik Eleodum, and you must remember him and the lessons he taught you.” The man’s voice was as gentle as a cooing dove.

  Marcus stepped into a carriage with Nadya. Erik saw them sit there, motionless and emotionless. And then, the paleness of the gypsy’s skin washed away, the white hair turned black, and he turned his head and saw Erik. Marcus smiled and winked at the young man.

  Erik heard more men approaching the caravan. He stood and turned and saw a man that at one time may have been Fox. The cloaked man was clad in black once more as a score or more men walked to the carriages. A gloved hand stiffly pushed Fox in the chest and drove him backwards. Inside the hood, Erik sensed a shake of his head.

  “You are heavy with sin, and it will consume you
in darkness for all eternity,” he said. “You are not welcome here.”

  The cloaked man then turned, walked past Erik, and stepped into the last carriage of the caravan.

  “We will meet again, Erik Eleodum,” he said.

  With that, the caravan rolled towards the forest, and one by one, each carriage disappeared. As they did, Erik could see the pale purples and pinks of a dawning sun to the east. He saw that Fox still stood there, and what he now recognized as other dead slavers among the two score of men, pale and white-headed, looking dumb. As the last carriage entered the darkness of the forest, Fox fell to his knees, looking to the sky and screaming. His scream keened like the high screech of a hawk, and it pierced Erik’s ears worse than nails on slate.

  Fox’s face went from pale to blue to a putrid color of yellow. His hair turned a dull red and clumps began to fall out. His blank eyes disappeared into their sockets. His teeth cracked and broke. His nose ripped away, leaving an open nasal cavity. His skin dried and peeled away from muscle, which peeled away from bone. Decay overcame his body as if he had been dead and in the ground for a week.

  The same thing happened to the others. Some had necks that wrenched to the side. Others had limbs that disappeared or twisted in unnatural ways. Gaping wounds appeared in sunken stomachs—slit throats, cracked skulls, stabs, cuts, and slashes.

  Then, Fox turned his decaying, eyeless face to Erik.

  “You,” he hissed.

  Erik could smell his breath, the stench, the warmth.

  “You,” he hissed again. He pointed a bony finger at the young man.

  Erik backed away until his heels hit the trunk of a tree.

  Another one looked to Erik.

  “Yes, you,” he hissed as well.

  They all lumbered towards him, jerky and clumsy. And then, as fast as a striking viper, Fox was in front of Erik, his face as close to the young man’s as possible.