As he scrambled to get out, severed heads snapped at him, cracking their teeth as their jaws crashed together. Teeth dug into his sides, into his legs. Blood poured from his body, teeth sticking into his flesh. The hot breath of the dead men flooded over him, but he continued to push himself through the blood; it was as if he were running on the spot. Finally, he reached the edge, almost jumping from the tub.
He felt the scratch of a bony finger on the back of his leg but did not look back as he heard the wicked laugh of the dead.
“You can never escape us.”
He burst through the bathroom’s door, but it was not the hallway that he ran into. Rather, it was a mountain ledge, the underground ledge on which they traveled in order to get to Thorakest. Before he could stop himself, he flew off the edge and into the dark ravine below. Down he fell, into the dark, falling, darkness, falling, darkness, falling . . . laughing, hissing, behind him.
Chapter 38
“WITH SUMMER CLOSE AT HAND, we have seen little movement in the Plains of Güdal, sir,” Captain Kan explained, “and not a single ship has sailed east from Finlo this month.”
“Why?” Patûk stood, his back popping as he leaned left and then right. He looked as stout as any young man, any soldier under his command, but many times, his body said otherwise. He could no longer stoop over maps and battle plans for hours on end and not feel it in his bones.
“Our sources tell us the usurper’s efforts across the Giant’s Vein have slowed as of late, sir,” Kan expounded.
“And what have you learned, Lieutenant?” the General asked.
“Our spies,” Lieutenant Bu replied, “have informed me that the resources in Antolika have been diverted. They tell me the garrisons along Golgolithul’s northern borders have been strengthened, almost doubled, sir. The usurper is even strengthening his lands that border Gol-Nornor. He has also sent advisors to Hámon. I haven’t found out why yet; nonetheless, he is giving the Dukes and the King of Hámon council on something, sir.”
“If he sways Hámon to his banner, he could take the rest of the west.” Kan poked at an outstretched map of Háthgolthane, almost jabbing his finger through the cloth.
“What could that fool be up to?” Patûk’s utterances were only for him but loud enough for the Captain and Lieutenant to hear. They replied with a shrug. “Have you heard from General Abashar?”
General Pavin Abashar—Patûk was less than enthusiastic when he said his name. The taking over of the council by the Lord of the East—the title left the taste of sour milk in Patûk’s mouth—left a number of resistance movements throughout the eastern kingdom and beyond. Patûk Al’Banan’s proved the largest and most organized. Another deposed general, not from the Eastern Guard like General Al’Banan but from the regular army, named Pavin Abashar, led the second largest resistance movement—an army two-thirds the size of Patûk’s. Patûk found him petty and disorganized, prone to misappropriation of resources for the simple show of strength and desire for battle. On more than one occasion, General Abashar had razed a town that could have easily been swayed to the cause just because they had entertained a Stévockian. Or, he might kill a noble prisoner because he didn’t like the way he spoke, or the way he walked, when that noble’s family could readily pay a hefty ransom.
Nonetheless, Patûk Al’Banan found himself in a position where he thought it advantageous to join forces. He had concentrated his men in the Southern Mountains and southwestern Háthgolthane. Pavin Abashar had concentrated his along the Yeryman Straits and southeastern Háthgolthane, even into Antolika and the Shadow Marshes. How many men did Pavin have under his command? He asked the question.
“Ten thousand in total, sir.” Bu seemed unsure of his answer. His hesitation to the question, his crinkled eyebrows, his tight jaw all spoke to that. He was a man of integrity, however, so Patûk would trust his answer, even if it proved a best guess.
“Aye, General, I would agree with that—at least close to it,” Kan said.
If Kan and Bu both said it, it must be close to true. That was a lot of men. Of course, they would be spread over a thousand miles. But still.
“And how many do we have?” Patûk asked.
“Just over thirteen thousand, sir.” Bu seemed surer of that answer.
That proved less than Patûk Al’Banan had thought, less than what he had hoped.
“Your men are certainly better trained, more prepared for battle and combat, more willing to take your commands to the death, sir,” Kan said.
“Yes, of course, Captain Kan. You need not entertain me with hyperbolic flattery in this tent.”
The Captain bowed.
“Should we send envoys to Hámon?” Patûk Al’Banan rarely asked questions that revealed his uncertainties, even in his private councils.
“Personally, I do not like the men of Hámon.” Kan stiffened as he spoke. His frown lengthened the crow’s feet at the edges of his dark eyes. The thick, furled eyebrows above those eyes created lines along his forehead. His jaw clenched, and the gray hairs at his temple bristled. “I find them untrustworthy and petty.”
“Better to deter them from allying with the usurper, sir,” Bu said to Kan.
The Captain gave Bu a sidelong glance and then nodded.
“Captain Kan, I wish you to lead a small envoy to Hámon and meet with King Cedric,” the General said. “You will explain to the King that if he chooses to ally himself with the usurper, there exists little in terms of eastern influence in the west. You must explain to him that many might be upset by an alliance between Hámon and Golgolithul. You must explain to him that this might create unwanted enemies and that the usurper has little to protect his kingdom in the west.”
“Aye, sir,” Kan replied with a bow.
“And Bu,” Patûk continued, “you will position men across The Crack. Have Lieutenant Phurnan command them—and take the trolls. We will both search for this lost dwarvish city and the remaining mercenaries in the employ of the usurper.”
Bu bowed low and then both he and Captain Kan left Patûk’s tent. The General walked to a simple, wooden chair in the corner of his tent and took a seat. A pewter pitcher waited on a small wooden table next to the chair accompanied by a pewter cup. The General poured some of the pitcher’s contents into the cup. He picked it up, swirled the cup, and the smell of spiced wine made him smile.
He took a drink and leaned back in his chair. Why couldn’t things be as simple as they used to be? When he was a young man, things just seemed so easy. Take your orders, carry them out, and face the consequences. Success meant reward and life. Failure meant punishment and death. Simple.
He looked into his cup of mulled wine, at the streaks of cinnamon and nutmeg as they swirled around the edges of the cup. He sighed.
“The answer is simple. The world is changing. I am changing.”
Chapter 39
CLOUDS ROLLED AWAY TO THE north, casting a shadow, a dark veil of rain below them. To the east, the new sun shooed away the mist that gathered just above the ground, wisps of gray running like scared ghosts. The west remained dark, and to the south, in the great distance, tall, white clouds loomed, speaking of more rains to come.
Bo flicked his reins, and one of his oxen replied with a deep groan and a quick snort as the wooden wheels rolled through wet grass.
“I know, boys.”
He rubbed his face and reached between his legs, grabbing a ceramic bottle. He bit the cork, pulled it loose with a pop, and spit it into his lap. He put the bottle to his lips and took a quick drink. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and he clicked his tongue.
“That good?”
Bo looked to his left with a start. He saw Mardirru riding next to him, looking forward, watching the distant Gray Mountains flicker in and out of vision through the rain and the clouds.
Bo shook his head. “Aye.”
“Are you all right?” Mardirru asked.
“Just tired, my friend,” Bo replied.
“Let Dika drive. Ge
t some rest. Sleep.”
Bo smirked and chuckled under his breath. He looked over his shoulder. Dika slept soundly in the back of their carriage with their children, snoring softly as she always did even though she would never admit it.
“Dika drove all day yesterday. Besides, I can’t sleep even if I try. I see them, Mardirru. Every time I close my eyes, I see them.”
“The children? Those we’ve lost?” Mardirru asked.
“Aye, I see them,” Bo replied. “But, when I close my eyes, I mostly see . . .”
“Erik and Befel. Bryon,” Mardirru said. “That is who you see mostly.”
Bo nodded his head.
“I see them too.”
“I worry.” Bo flicked the reins again and took another drink of the brandy in his ceramic bottle.
“As do I,” Mardirru agreed. “They are safe, for now.”
“How can you know that?” Bo asked. “And what do you mean by for now?”
“I don’t know how I know.” Mardirru always kept his eyes forward, always watched his people, his caravan, his children. “I just know. But they are about to encounter great danger. I had a dream about it last night. The visions I saw in my sleep were so vivid, so real, I was sure it had happened when I opened my eyes.”
“What did you see?”
“Darkness, Bo, darkness. And in that darkness, I saw yellow eyes and white teeth. I felt fire burn my face and heard something like wings, but it was a hurricane, a tornado, and I felt it pick me up and whip me about like a doll. I heard a growl and a roar that, if I were awake, would have burst my ears and caused me to go deaf. Then I saw him—Erik. He was there, but he didn’t look like himself. He looked as if he had aged ten years. He looked sad, angry, but strong. He—they—are about to be tested. Their faith is about to be tested. Their strength is about to be tested. Their will is about to be tested.”
“I will pray for them,” Bo said, “every day and every night.”
“They will need it.”
Bo noticed a small farm to his right, one that had the green shoots of—what would be growing this time of the year—corn and wheat in neat rows.
“We are near their homeland,” Bo said.
“Who?” Mardirru asked.
“Erik and Bryon and Befel. I believe this is near their farmstead. North and east of Hámon. Land rich for farming. Yes, they are from here.”
Bo saw a cart ahead of their caravan. It looked like a single horse pulled the cart, which looked simple with sides of slatted wood. It looked as if the man next to the cart had stopped his horse and he was on one knee, looking at either a cartwheel or perhaps the horse’s hoof. When the front of the gypsy caravan started passing the man, he stopped what he was doing and stared.
As Bo’s carriage came closer to the cart, he could see more of the man. He looked to be a short and broad-shouldered man, older with graying hair poking out the bottom of a wide-brimmed straw hat. He had no shoes, and his pants looked as if the man had cut them off just below the knee. When Bo was next to the man, he stopped. He could hear Dika stir in the back of the carriage.
“Is everything all right, my sweet?” Dika asked groggily.
“Aye, my dear,” Bo replied. “Everything is fine. Go back to sleep.” The man looked up at Bo, standing straight. When he rubbed his chin, making a rough sound over the stubble as he did, the muscles in his forearms undulated and flexed. Even though his straw hat somewhat shadowed his face, the gypsy could see that the farmer had a rough face, not ugly, but worn from years of hard work. He had a squinty eye, and his chin bore a deep cleft, his mouth curved into a frown, and Bo could see a bulge in the left side of his lower lip.
“Can I help you?” He spit a black, inky stuff on the ground as he spoke.
“Black root,” Bo muttered, then elevated the volume of his voice. “Perhaps.”
“We don’t see gypsies up in these parts much.” The man spit again and then slapped the flank of his horse as the animal snorted and stamped hard.
“What seems to be the problem?” Bo asked, nodding to the horse and the cart.
“None of your business.” The farmer turned to the horse, stamping again, and groaned. “Stop that.”
Bo stared for a while, and the farmer just stared back with that squinty look, spitting every once in a while.
“If there’s something wrong with your horse, or your cart, we can help,” Bo said.
“I don’t much trust gypsies,” the farmer replied. “I let you help and find myself with no seed, no cart, and no horse.”
“I can assure you—”
“I don’t care about your assurances,” the farmer snapped.
“What seems to be the matter?” Mardirru asked, riding back to Bo.
“This farmer needs help of some sort, but he won’t tell me what, so I am inclined to leave him here and let him suffer whatever trouble he is having.”
“Nonsense,” Mardirru replied. He looked to the farmer. “Good sir, what seems to be the matter? See that we do not need anything you have. We don’t need your seed. We don’t need your cart—we have plenty of those. And we don’t need your horse. Let us help.”
The farmer eyed them, spitting several more times.
“There’s something wrong with my horse’s shoe,” he finally relented. “And because my horse started walking off the road, I have a broken wheel on the other side.”
“We will fix them for you, both the shoe and the wheel,” Mardirru said.
“And what do you want in return?” the farmer asked cautiously.
“Nothing,” the gypsy leader replied.
Within moments, gypsy men were either shoeing the man’s horse or working on the cart’s wheel. The farmer eyed them suspiciously as they worked, but after a little while, he seemed to relax.
“What is your name?” Bo asked, who stayed up in his carriage.
“Jovek,” the man replied.
“Are you familiar with all the farmsteads in these lands?” Bo asked.
“Aye,” Jovek replied. “I’ve lived here my whole life. My family’s farmed here for more than a hundred years. Why?”
“Do you know the Eleodums?” Bo asked again.
Jovek looked at Bo with a hard, steely look. The gypsy thought that perhaps this wasn’t the land of the Eleodums. Or, perhaps their name struck a negative chord with Jovek.
“Aye, I know them,” Jovek replied. “Rikard’s got the largest farmstead ’round here, next to mine. His brother, Brant, not as big, but still decent.”
“Rikard,” Bo said to himself more than Jovek. “He must be the father of Erik and Befel.”
“Aye,” Jovek said. “He was . . . is.”
“Can you show me where they live?” Bo asked.
Jovek just stared at Bo.
Chapter 40
“I THOUGHT WE WERE GOING to Waterton.”
Kehl had grown weary of Len’s questioning. He looked to A’Uthma. His Lieutenant seemed to understand what Kehl wanted.
“Shut your mouth, you worthless pig,” A’Uthma said, “before I gut you.”
Kehl hoped no one else could see his smile.
“Im’Ka’Da.” A’Uthma spoke in Samanian. He always did when he didn’t want the others to know, didn’t want to question Kehl in front of the others. “Why are we going to Finlo?”
“As backwards a town as it is, we cannot attack Waterton with only six men. We must recruit more, and I know just the place in Finlo.”
“Ah, I see, Im’Ka’Da. My apologies for questioning you.”
Kehl, again, hoped none of his men saw his smile. “No apologies needed.”
Kehl stuck to the western streets of Finlo for two reasons. Firstly, it hadn’t been long since he and his men had burned down some fool’s barbershop and left that fool in the street with one less finger. Finlo tolerated no crime—none. The crows’ cages lining the road leading into the seaside city proved that. Most of the men that filled those cages were petty thieves, starving boys stealing bread. Secondly, th
e western streets of Finlo were the residence of Toth.
“Who be this Toth?” Albin asked.
Kehl turned sharply. He hated Albin’s face. It was too thin, with a pointy chin and a thin nose that wheezed when he breathed hard. And in the shadows of the buildings of West Finlo, his sunken eyes looked almost black. Truth be told, he should have sacrificed Albin instead of Pierce. Not a day passed when Len didn’t ask about the man. Truly, he had to have figured it out by now. What did he think, he just disappeared with four other men, just left? They all had to have figured it out.
“Hush. All of you. Shut your mouths. Look at no one and say nothing, especially his name.”
Kehl turned and continued to walk.
“He is the guild master of the largest thieves’ guild in Finlo. When I still lived in Saman, he was my smuggling contact. And when I moved to Háthgolthane with my brothers . . .” Kehl stopped for a moment. Something caught in his throat as if a piece of bread was stuck there. “When I moved to Háthgolthane, it was he who was the only one brave enough to receive and ship slaves.”
He stopped at a windowless, two-story building whose frontage belied its depth complexity. A single, wooden door stood in the center of the building. It looked thick and worn, splintered and cracked. It was dark with moisture, and Kehl’s nose curled at the smell of mold and stale wetness. He really hated the ocean and its scents.
Kehl’s knock sounded muffled. He would have to hit that door with a mallet to make any significant noise. However, the sound of iron scratching iron resonated from behind the door, and it cracked open, just enough for the whisper of a voice to escape.
“Tehel klun?”
“Kehl, the Samanian.”
“Tehel fen?” said the voice from within the darkness behind the thick, wooden door.
“What do you mean, who do I want to speak with?” Kehl hissed. “Who else would I want to bloody speak with?”
A hiss escaped the darkness, and the door quickly shut. Perhaps he should have been a little more cordial. These thieves did have a rather inflated view of themselves, being the largest guild in southwestern Háthgolthane.
Dark Winds Page 27
