The fairy dust rained over Erik as he played, alighting him almost as brightly as the fairies, and he looked to Balzarak. The dwarf just sat, smiling as he watched the fairy sitting in his hand. What was he thinking about? Home. It had to be home. With that smile, it was the only thing he could have been thinking about.
Suddenly, Erik thought of home as well, but it wasn’t thoughts of his parents hanging from a tree, or his sisters’ imprisonment, or of Simone’s disgrace. He thought of his mother’s roses, and his sisters’ giggling, and his father smiling, and Simone’s lips. He thought of Befel and Bryon rough housing, and his Uncle Brent coming over for a visit, not drunk on orange brandy, but happy, his wife and five daughters trailing behind him singing songs.
Erik eventually stopped playing, and his companions—all save for Balzarak—had fallen asleep. He looked to the dark forest, beyond the campfire and the light of the moon fairies and remembered the undead and the evil that awaited there. Would they be waiting in his dreams as well? Would he find his tree and hill and the man whom he knew but couldn’t remember? He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Do not worry. You will not dream tonight. You will sleep, and you will rest, and you will wake renewed.
The voice wasn’t his dagger, but soft and calm and feminine. He opened his eyes again to see the moon fairy that had been sitting on his knee. She now stood on his chest, although he didn’t feel a thing. She tilted her head and smiled.
Sleep, Erik Eleodum. Sleep.
When Erik opened his eyes, brief arrows of sunlight sought to push through the roof of the forest. It was morning, and there had been no dreams. He stood and yawned and rubbed his face.
“Are you all right, brother?” Befel asked.
“Yes,” Erik replied with a nod. “In fact, I feel great. I haven’t felt this good in a while.”
“Probably because you slept in while the rest of us packed up,” Bryon huffed as he passed by.
“My back is loose. My arms and legs feel strong. My head is clear,” Erik continued, ignoring his cousin. “Yes, I feel excellent.”
Erik rolled up his bed blanket and stuffed it into his haversack. As he opened the pack, he saw a pouch, one that might hold coin or berries or nuts, closed tightly by a drawstring and bulging. It sat atop a change of clothes. He picked it up. It might as well had been filled with air. He squeezed it.
“Sand?” he whispered to himself.
When all hope seems lost, when darkness closes in, when your dreams whisper to you in the dead of the night, and you have nowhere to turn, you will know what to do with our gift.
Erik looked to the forest and saw the faintest glow of white behind a tree.
“Is that . . .” he leaned forward and squinted, tilted his head towards the glow, “giggling?”
“Come,” Balzarak said as he passed Erik, “we must move.”
Erik nodded and stood, slinging his shield and his haversack over his shoulders.
“I trust you had a restful sleep last night,” Balzarak added, looking at Erik over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Erik said. “How would you . . .?”
Balzarak winked at him.
Chapter 59
ERIK SHOOK HIS HEAD, SCRAPING away bits of thick moss and flicking it to the ground. The green stuff seemed to cover everything, any space not invaded by green creepers or yellow flowered vines. He looked up, trying to peer at the sky through the cracks made by the tallest branches of the red-barked pines. The dimness of dusk began to settle in the distant sky, and the forest darkened once more.
“No moon fairies to protect us this time,” Erik muttered.
“There should be something,” Balzarak muttered. “Some sign.”
“He’s been wandering around, from tree to tree, for . . . well, I don’t know how long,” Bryon said.
“A long time,” Erik replied. “He’s frustrated. The entrance should be here.”
“Should we split up, maybe,” Befel said. “Go in groups of two, look for signs, cover more ground?”
“No,” Turk said. “Not here. We are safe together.”
“As safe as we can be,” Dwain added.
“This place worries me,” Threhof said. “I’d prefer not camp here another night.”
“That’s concerning,” Befel said.
“What?” Erik asked.
“When he says worries,” Befel replied, “I hear scared. Threhof being scared of something is concerning.”
“Aye,” Erik agreed.
The forest darkened further, and the sounds of nighttime began to fill the air. Erik heard them, in the distance, a faint echo. The undead were there again. He was nervous and didn’t want to spend another night there either.
“By the . . .” Switch said. Standing in between two giant roots of a large tree, he picked his foot up, something sticky and gooey clinging to his boot.
“What is that?” Bryon asked.
“Probably troll shit,” Switch said, crouching down. But he quickly covered his nose with his arm and fell backwards. The thief gagged. “Blood and guts and . . .”
“Yes, it is,” Demik said, walking to where the thief lay. “It is the intestines of something . . . someone. Here is their sword.”
Demik picked up a long sword and threw it towards Balzarak, the blade landing at the General’s feet.
“This was a man,” Demik said, “once.”
“One of Patûk’s men?” Wrothgard asked.
“I thought no one ever ventured into these parts of the mountains,” Bryon said.
“He doesn’t look—at least what is left of him—like one of those soldiers we fought,” Demik said. “I think his skin is dark, perhaps a Samanian.”
“There was an ebony-skinned man at the meeting in Finlo,” Erik said. “Maybe he’s a mercenary.”
“They made it this far?” Threhof asked, surprised. “And without the help of dwarves.”
“I wonder . . .” Turk began to say and then joined Demik.
He ignored the remains of the man, lying between the roots of the tree. Rather, Turk began feeling about the tree trunk, under the roots, among the tall grass and creepers and bushes that grew about the base of the gigantic pine.
“What are you doing?” Erik asked.
“Ha!” Turk yelled. “I found it.”
“Praise An!” Balzarak exclaimed.
“Help me,” Turk said.
It took four dwarves to lift the door, a piece of thick iron and oak covered by years of soil and foliage. Stairs, covered by ancient dust, descended from the opening.
“It has been years since anyone has used this tunnel,” Turk said, a small smile on his face.
“And yet,” Demik said, “there’s a speck of blood.”
Looking at the first step, a single red drop lay there.
“Maybe it seeped through a crack,” Switch said, “from this poor bastard.”
“There are no cracks in this door,” Turk said, “and it was covered by years of soil.”
“Maybe it’s old blood,” Bryon said.
“No,” Demik replied, “it’s fresh.”
“What do we do?” Erik asked, standing next to Balzarak.
“Tread carefully,” the General replied.
“What magic is this?” Switch asked.
“A deep, dark magic,” Turk replied, daring to move onto the first step.
“Like the Messenger?” Befel asked.
“Deeper,” Balzarak replied, giving Turk and the rest of the dwarves a concerned look. “Darker.”
The torch flame licked at the ceiling, so low they had to stoop as they descended the steps. Finally, at the bottom, they gathered around another body, a man armored in mail, his throat slit.
“Seems very odd in a tunnel that hasn’t been traveled for a thousand years,” Wrothgard said.
“Odd indeed,” Balzarak said.
The hallway at the bottom was barely wider and taller than the stairway, and when Erik looked behind them, he saw only a wall. The stairs w
ere gone, yet the body remained.
“By the Creator,” he gasped.
“What the bloody Shadow is this?” Switch asked. “More dwarvish tricks?”
“I fear not,” Balzarak replied. “No. This is some other magic.”
“What do we do, General?” Threhof asked.
“Keep going,” Balzarak said. “It’s the only thing we can do.”
They walked only a short distance when they came to another wall. Two more men lay in front of the wall, both dead, both recently disemboweled, their corpses putrid.
“From Finlo?” Erik asked as Turk knelt next to one of the bodies to inspect it.
“What’s it bloody matter?” Switch replied. “We are trapped underground with nowhere to go.”
“I don’t know,” Turk said, picking up a broken sword, “but they certainly were fighters, adventurers.”
“It’s the only explanation,” Demik added. “It’s the only way they could have found this place.
“I still don’t see how they could have found it without the help of dwarves,” Threhof said.
“Bring your light closer to the wall, Erik,” Balzarak said.
Erik did as he was told. His torch revealed script.
“What is it?” Erik asked.
“Blood,” Balzarak replied. “It’s written in blood.”
“Their blood?” Erik asked, pointing to the dead men.
“I suspect so,” Balzarak replied.
“Can you read what it says?” Erik asked.
“It’s in Old Elvish and Old Dwarvish,” Balzarak said, “that much I know.”
“Look at the stone at the foot of the wall,” Dwain said. “It’s clear that this wall was erected after the fact. The tunnel continues.”
“Let’s knock it down then,” Threhof said. “It can’t be a load bearing wall if that’s the case. Beldar.”
Beldar charged the wall, even as Balzarak commanded him to stop. When Beldar’s axe blade struck the stone, the steel exploded into a thousand pieces, and the dwarf flew back a dozen paces, unconscious and breathing shallowly.
“Does anyone here read Old Dwarvish and Old Elvish?” Befel asked.
“Old Dwarvish, yes,” Balzarak replied. “At least a little. Old Elvish?”
The dwarf shook his head.
Befel leaned in closer to look at the script written in blood. When he touched the wall, he stood straight instantly, and his body went stiff.
“Brother are you alright?” Erik asked.
Befel’s eyes turned a bright white, void of any pupils, and his mouth began to move even though no words came out.
“Brother!” Erik yelled, running to Befel, but as soon as he touched him, his skin cold as ice, a force threw him back against the wall.
Erik blacked out for only a moment, but when he came to, his head throbbing and his back aching where he struck the wall, his brother—body still stiff and eyes still glowing white orbs—was speaking, but it wasn’t his voice. It was a low, booming voice, one that shook the walls and caused the floor to move. He spoke a language Erik didn’t recognize, but it sounded like Dwarvish.
“What is he saying?” Wrothgard asked, trying to yell over the din of Befel’s possessed voice.
Balzarak shook his head, but then, as if something had also possessed Erik, he understood what his brother was saying. He said it over and over, the same phrase. Erik felt his heart stop and his stomach churn as he heard his brother’s words. He looked around and, seemingly, no one else understood Befel. He began to voice the words, at first silently, but then louder and louder, until he shouted them in unison with Befel.
“Woe to those who enter here, for their fate will be met with blood and fire! Woe to those who enter here, for their fate will be met with blood and fire! Woe to those who enter here, for their fate will be met with blood and fire!”
Then, suddenly, Befel’s voice stopped, and he collapsed. The hallways stood still, and the air suddenly tasted stale. The torches began to sputter. Erik could see the panic in his companions’ eyes. Turk tried to wake Befel while Switch cursed and Demik began to pray.
“Woe to those who enter here, for their fate will be met with blood and fire,” Erik said to himself, and then he heard them, in the distance, beyond the wall. The dead. Their laughing. Their hissing. He could smell them. Then he heard another voice, a bolder voice, one that cut through the chorus of the undead.
“Your chains of bondage are not made of iron, but of flame,” the voice said, determined and emboldened with a hint of pleasure. “You cannot break the flame.”
Just then the torchlight fluttered out, and complete darkness consumed Erik and his companions. He heard them coming.
CHRISTOPHER PATTERSON LIVES IN TUCSON, Arizona with his wife, Kellie, and children. A Tucson native, Christopher studied literature and creative writing at the University of Arizona and currently teaches in Tucson. He gained a love for adventure and fantasy at a young age and started writing fantasy-adventure stories using his grandmother’s typewriter. She would title all of his stories “The Next Great American Novel.” His family has always been encouraging and supportive of his craft and it was in college when he discovered he desired a career as an author and began seriously writing. He has also played the guitar for over 20 years and is active in both the music and youth ministries at church. Christopher is also involved in sports, coaching both wrestling and football, and competing in power lifting.
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