“Thank you,” Erik said. “You’ve been a good friend in a strange place.”
“Just watch yourself, Erik. The world can be a crazy place.”
Chapter 6
“FLAMING GYPSIES!” BRYON YELLED. HIS voiced echoed off the large elm and oak trees of the Blue Forest. “Leave it to Erik to buy our way into a gypsy caravan!”
“I haven’t paid them anything yet,” Erik replied with more patience than he felt.
He sat on a hollow log, staring at the ground, as Bryon paced back and forth. They were in the little clearing that had become the place where the Eleodums would escape to when they had matters they didn’t want to discuss around other people.
“What does it matter?” Bryon spat. “They’ll just steal our money while we sleep.”
“You want to go east,” Erik said, looking up at his cousin. “They are a way east.”
“Why can’t we just travel on our own?” Befel asked.
“It’s dangerous,” Erik replied. “Supposedly, there are bandits in the Blue Forest. And wolves and cougars.”
“Then how did we make it to Waterton unscathed by forest thieves and wolves?” Bryon asked, throwing his hands up.
Erik shrugged. “Luck, I guess.”
Erik looked around the clearing. It was peaceful, save for Bryon’s voice, and it reminded him of home.
“Look,” Erik added, “it’s a safe, quick way to make it to the Southland Gap.”
“Safe except for gypsies,” Bryon sneered.
“There will be other people,” Erik said. “Other younger men going to Finlo. Miners going to Aga Kona.”
Bryon huffed.
“And when we get to the Southland Gap,” Befel said, “where do we go from there?”
“I don’t know,” Erik said. “We’re not miners, and we’re not soldiers.”
“We weren’t pig farmers or cutters, either,” Bryon argued, “but we’ve shoveled enough pig shit and cut down enough trees!”
“Del Alzon says we’d be better off going to Finlo,” Erik said, “and joining the army of Golgolithul.”
“What would that fat pig fart know?” Bryon hissed.
“We know how to work,” Befel said. “I say we go to Aga Kona.”
Bryon shook his head.
“I don’t want to go with any damn gypsies, but I say we go to Finlo,” Bryon said. “I say we learn to fight. That is where the glory is—the sword.”
Yet again, Befel and Bryon started to argue. They accused one another of this and that, cursed one another, and then threatened one another.
We do know how to work, Erik thought, but we’ve wasted two years working for other men. Two years away from home, away from Mother and Father. Two years away from Simone.
The vision of his betrothed popped into his head. When he wasn’t dreaming of his parents dying at the hands of Hámonian lords, Simone—her blue eyes, her curves, her soft skin, her pouting lips, her calming smile—filled his unconscious thoughts.
We would have been married by now, Erik thought. I would have my own plot of land, and her father would have added to it. She might even have my child in her belly.
“This is your damn fault!” Bryon yelled, shoving Befel. “You think you’re the boss, the leader. You think you’re your father, but you’re anything but.”
Erik could see his brother balling up his fists.
“I’m the oldest,” Befel replied through gritted teeth, “that makes me the leader.”
“But we’re not back home!” Bryon yelled, his face turning red. “I don’t care what you want to do. You and Erik can go mine in some camp and die under tons of rock. I’m going to Finlo to become a soldier.”
“You won’t last a day,” Befel scoffed.
“I’m not going to either place,” Erik announced loudly, and his brother and cousin stopped and stared at him, their brows now furled into looks of confusion.
“What are you talking about?” Befel asked.
“You’re an idiot,” Bryon added.
Erik got to his feet, standing face to face with his cousin. He felt his face grow hot, felt his knuckles pop as he balled his hands into fists. He saw the tension in Bryon’s face, that look when he was about to fight. He might have been leaner than Erik, but he was strong—and he never fought fair. Fights with Bryon never ended well. Then his cousin stepped back and shrugged.
“Maybe,” Erik said, the tension in his body dropping. “Maybe I am an idiot, but this was a mistake. I never should have come with you two. I don’t know how to mine. I don’t know how to fight. I’m going back home. I’ll travel with you until we reach the edge of the Blue Forest, then I’m heading back north.”
“By yourself?” Befel asked.
Erik nodded.
“Why?” Befel asked. “This is more foolishness.”
Now Bryon’s face was red again, and he started pacing, faster and faster.
“You come all this way. You take the money that was just for us, and now you want to go back! If you had never come, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. We are here because of you!” he added, pointing an accusatory finger at Erik. “Damn you, you little shit!”
With that, Bryon began to charge Erik, but Befel stepped in front of him.
“Get out of my way,” Bryon hissed, but Befel pushed him back.
“Stop!” he demanded, and then he turned to Erik. “You can’t do this.”
“Why?” Erik asked.
“We are family,” Befel said.
“We don’t seem like much of a family,” Erik replied.
“I forbid you to go,” Befel said, and Erik could now see his brother’s face was the one twisting into anger.
“What gives you the right to forbid me to do anything?” Erik asked.
“I’m the oldest,” Befel said, “and you’re my little brother.”
“Like Bryon said, we’re not home anymore,” Erik argued. “I am going back.”
Befel shrugged his shoulders in disbelief and shook his head.
“Bryon’s right about another thing.”
“What’s that?” Erik asked.
“We are here because of you.”
“Really?” Erik retorted.
“Of course! We had planned on only two of us, and then you up and want to leave the farm too.”
“And you think all the mishaps—you think a year in the pigsties of Venton, two years of sleeping on the streets, several seasons in the lumberyards of the Blue Forest, being cursed and beaten and scared for our lives—you think all of that is my fault?”
Erik shook his head and stared at the other two before he continued.
“Let me know if you wish me to send your regards to our mother or father when I go home. Or to Beth and Tia.”
With that, Erik turned and walked away toward the Blue River Bridge. He looked up as the wind snapped the two white flags fluttering from poles on the bridge, bearing a crudely painted river—the emblem of Waterton. He could hear his cousin cursing
and his brother trying to command him to stop.
“Fools,” Erik muttered, but then he stopped as goose pimples rose along his skin, and a terrifying thought entered his mind. What if Mother and Father aren’t there?
Chapter 7
DEL ALZON WATCHED AS ERIK walked through the marketplace of Waterton. The young man looked upset, his eyebrows curled into a scowl, and his lips pursed. He never walked through the marketplace without stopping to speak with Del.
A gnome pulled at Erik’s pant leg, but the young farmer pushed the diminutive creature away, causing it to fall backward. Erik didn’t give the gnome a second glance—which was also rare—and the tiny man sprang to his feet, spitting and cursing in a high-pitched voice.
“Little bastards. Little, thieving tinkers,” Del Alzon muttered. “Worse than gypsies.”
They often weaseled their way into homes, purses, and women’s dresses, and the creature could have passed for a child if it wasn’t for the pointed goatee beard. Del Alzon shook his head as he remembered a story Erik had told him of gnomes back on his farmstead.
“How, by the gods of the east, did they get a wagon on top of your father’s barn?” Del Alzon had asked.
“That makes thirty, does it not?” a deep, raspy voice said, dragging him quickly from his reverie.
Not much startled Del Alzon. He had seen terrible things. He had seen terrible people. He had seen terrible creatures. But that voice—that voice startled him every time.
Del Alzon spun to face a pair of dark eyes, half hidden under the cowl of a gray, wool cloak. He looked a slight man, and one would think that amongst the many savvy wolves in a border town like Waterton, a watering hole for adventurers looking to make a fortune from the treasures of the west beyond Gongoreth, he might become prey. But there was something about the way he held himself, however, that removed any suggestion of weakness.
The fat merchant didn’t know if it was the well-oiled, pointed black beard that hung from his chin and the way his dark eyes seemed to pierce a man when he spoke to him. Or, perhaps it was the way his thin lips stretched into a fixed smile when he was both angry and pleased. But this was not a man to be treated with anything but the utmost caution.
“Aye,” Del Alzon replied, turning back to his fruit stand. “Thirty in total, although I am sure there will be some last minute additions by tomorrow.”
The man reached beneath his cloak, and Del Alzon felt his muscles tense. Years of experience, years of practice had taught him to never trust a man, especially one that secretively reaches into his cloak.
“Relax, my friend.”
Friend? Del didn’t like people who threw around that word either, especially toward him. All of his friends had died many years ago, and he’d never trust this man. Man? Del scoffed at the word. Could one call a Samanian a man?
“It is only money,” the cloaked man said.
He retrieved a large cloth bag, heavy with coin, and tossed it to Del Alzon. As the fruit merchant caught it, he realized that his benefactor’s nails were manicured, lacquered with a clear polish. Gold bracelets jingled on his arm.
“Thirty silver crowns, as promised; one for each . . . person.”
“That’s a high price for thirty whelps and vagabonds,” Del Alzon said.
“Trust me,” the man sneered, a wisp of black, thin hair creeping down over one of his eyes, “they will fetch a higher price in Saman, or Tyr even.”
Del Alzon felt his lip curl.
“You don’t approve?” the Samanian asked.
“Slavery,” Del grumbled. “The idea doesn’t sit right with me. That’s all.”
“And what are the fools that fill Golgolithul’s armies?” the cloaked man asked. “Can they leave as they wish? Are they masters of their own destiny? What of the men that mine the deep places of the Southern or Gray Mountains? Or the farmers that tend the vast fields of the nations of Háthgolthane? You call them miners, serfs, and peasants, but I call them slaves. They are all the same.”
Del Alzon shrugged. He looked at the sack of coin that rested in his hand. It was heavy.
“What do I care?” Del Alzon said as he felt his stomach knot.
Chapter 8
ERIK’S EYES SHOT OPEN, AND he shook his head in frustration. Damn dreams. As the sound of wooden wheels rolling over a well-traveled road rang in his ears, he watched a dark sea of stars twinkle overhead, wisps of clouds and celestial anomalies snaking through the sky like small waves.
Bumps seemed far and few between, but just as he was drifting off again, a wagon wheel hit a hard rock, and he was jolted awake. Giving up on the idea of more sleep—he’d avoid the dreams anyway—he sat up and ran his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. Beside him, Befel and Bryon slept soundly, his cousin snoring loudly.
“Did my driving wake you?”
Erik looked over his shoulder to see Bo, the driver of the gypsy carriage in which they were traveling, looking back at him.
“No, no,” Erik replied, shaking his head and returning the smile. “I just had a bad dream.”
“Bad dreams often come from worried minds,” Bo offered. “What worries your mind this night?”
“Nothing,” Erik said.
“That’s okay. I know the assumptions people have of my people.”
“What assumptions?” Erik asked, shrugging his shoulders.
“You’re a bad liar. You don’t have to tell me about your nightmares, but if you’re going to be awake, come sit with me. I could use the company.”
Erik thought for a moment and then nodded, gingerly climbing over the baggage piled in the back of Bo’s wagon.
“Do you want any?” Bo asked, handing Erik a hollowed gourd with a cork stuck in the top.
“What is it?” Erik asked, looking at the gourd.
“Grain whiskey,” Bo replied. “Mostly rice, flavored with cinnamon and ginger—spices from the Isuta Isles.”
“No. Thank you,” Erik said, shaking his head.
“I have mead as well.”
“Mead,” Erik said, almost to himself. “Honey wine?”
“Aye,” Bo replied.
Erik smiled. “I’ll have . . .” he began to say but stopped himself.
“Come now,” Bo said with a quick laugh. “It’s not poisoned. It’s not drugged. It’s not even that strong. I don’t want to steal from you; I’m just trying to make good company.”
“Sorry,” Erik said, with an embarrassed smile. “That was rude of me. Yes, I would like some honey wine.”
“Yes, a little rude,” Bo replied with a wide smile, “but I think I’ll forgive you!”
Bo reached between his legs and retrieved a clay jar from the floor of the carriage. Just before he handed it to Erik, he jerked the bottle away from the farmer’s grasp.
“I’ll forgive you if you tell me what worries your mind.”
Erik stared at Bo for a moment, trying to read his face. He was never the best at reading people and knew he had a tendency to be too trusting. Finally, he nodded in agreement.
�
�All right. I agree,” Erik said, taking the clay bottle, uncorking it, and pouring some of its contents into his mouth. It was much sweeter than the honey wine from the farmsteads of his people.
“It’s good.”
“Sweet, yes?” Bo asked.
Erik nodded his head.
“So, what is on your mind, young man?” Bo asked.
Erik waited a moment, suspicion still hanging in the back of his head. Could gypsies be trusted? Bryon had called them cheats and liars. Their grandmother had called them similar names, referring to them as kalifadah—a word given to foreigners not to be trusted in the north—and penges—a word given to whores in the east. But, then again, his grandmother was a superstitious old woman, and his cousin was an idiot.
“Don’t milk a cow that has a black tail,” Erik muttered.
“What was that?” Bo asked.
“Nothing.” Erik shook his head. “Just superstitious nonsense my grandmother used to spout.”
“Ah, yes.” Bo smiled kindly. “Grandmothers are good at that. And were any of these superstitions in regards to gypsies?”
Erik gave Bo a sidelong glance. Then, he nodded slowly.
Bo shrugged. “I would expect as much. Now, what’s on your mind?”
Erik sighed deeply. Above the rumble of wagon wheels, he listened to crickets sing and night birds chirp from the safety of the Blue Forest. He looked up to the sky and his constant, the stars.
“I keep having the same dream, over and over again.”
“That could be rather annoying. What is this dream about?”
Erik waited a moment before answering, taking another draught of honey wine and collecting his thoughts.
“I keep having this dream of home—of my parents and my sisters.”
“And does home—your parents and sisters—hold so many bad memories that it gives you nightmares?” Bo asked as he flicked the reins of the cart. One of the oxen that pulled the carriage retorted with an irritated moan.
A Chance Beginning Page 4
