Trimble stepped back. He once saw a man do just what Elena Minx did to Bonn. He was a foreigner, a man from somewhere in Antolika trying to make his way through to Finlo. Trimble couldn’t remember what the two argued about, but the argument turned sour, and that foreign fellow, a man half Bonn’s age, hit the old guard so squarely in the jaw, the young guard thought his head might fall off. Bonn had just stood there, unflinching. The next thing Trimble remembered was that Antolikan riding away, half hunched over the horn of his saddle, cradling a broken arm, with a piece of cloth stuffed up both nostrils to stem the bleeding.
Bonn just shrugged at Elena Minx.
“You’re a fool,” she spat.
“My love,” he said, his cold, hard voice seasoned over a lifetime of fighting and drinking softened to a cloudy basket of soft down and rose petals, “you’re so callous sometimes.”
The old guard’s wife glared through a squinted eye, but then, as the old man pouted, lost her glower and rubbed his chest where she had punched him.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, so no one else might hear the apology.
“You didn’t tell them, did you?” Bonn’s face looked worried.
“Of course not.”
Bonn nodded with a smile.
The old guard knocked on Dûrn Tor’s gate with the butt of his spear. The slender covering of a small window in the tall, wide, thick door slid open. A pair of blue eyes peered at Bonn, and the window slid shut with a quick snap. Trimble heard the iron latches and locks of the city’s gate and wood creak in thunderous form as the doors opened. Two other guards stood on the other side. Behind them was Bo.
“They’re gone,” Bonn said.
“My thanks, old friend,” Bo replied. He always had a smile on his face. Trimble found that interesting. Every time he saw the gypsy, he smiled—and it was a genuine smile, not one of pretense.
“No thanks are needed.” Bonn put up his hand while Elena and Dika embraced, tears in the latter woman’s eyes. “Your people have been friends to us here in Dûrn Tor for many years, long enough that you deserve the same protection we would give our own citizens.”
Chapter 49
THE SUN HAD RISEN A hand’s span and then half again into the morning sky when Erik, Befel, and Bryon finally finished packing the camp and gave a nod to Vander Bim to let him know they were ready to go.
“A late start,” Drake said.
“Aye.” Turk had been up before the sun even broke the eastern horizon. “A late start.”
“I’m glad we’re getting to a late start this morning,” Erik muttered to Befel. “I slept well last night.”
“Enough sleep when you’re dead, lad.” Vander Bim walked past the young man, saddle in hand. He threw the heavy leather onto his mount’s back, the horse snorting and twitching as it felt the weight. Vander Bim winked at him with a smile on his face.
“You’ll get a tongue lashing from Switch if he sees you letting Vander Bim saddle his own horse,” Bryon said, on his knees stuffing a blanket into his pack.
“Where is Switch?” Erik asked.
“I haven’t seen him at all this morning.” Befel scratched his chin.
“I haven’t seen him either,” Vander Bim said.
“Nor have I,” Turk added, also saddling his horse.
“He’s an odd fellow,” Erik said.
“I don’t like him,” Bryon said softly.
“He’s a thief,” stated Turk as he brushed some dirt from the side of the wicked, half-moon blade of his battle-ax and then slapped the steel hard against the palm of his hand with an approving grunt and a satisfactory smile. “He’s unreliable and unpredictable. But, he is also deadly. I would be careful around him.”
“He’ll have to catch up,” Vander Bim said from his saddle. “We can’t afford to delay any longer.”
Erik could tell they rode slower than they had the day before, and that they took more breaks than usual as well.
He’s worried about Switch, Erik thought, watching Vander Bim scan the western horizon during one of their breaks.
He heard the dwarves speaking in their own language. It sounded like they were arguing, but their faces showed otherwise. It must’ve just been their language.
“Nafer hears hoof steps,” Turk said.
“Is it Switch?” Drake asked.
“I see something,” Turk said, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand.
Only a moment later, the shaggy, gray-haired head of Switch creased the horizon.
“Where have you been, damn it?” Vander Bim asked as Switch got closer.
“Scouting,” Switch said, waiting a moment to get a little closer. “And it’s a good thing, too.”
He pulled hard on his horse’s reins, the animal jerking its head and neighing loudly.
“What do you mean?” Vander Bim asked.
“We’re being followed,” Switch replied.
“Followed? By who?” Vander Bim asked.
“A group of men—a score that I counted,” Switch replied.
“How do you know they are following us?” Turk asked.
“I just do,” Switch replied. “I saw them sifting through the ashes of our camp from a day ago.”
“What did they look like?” Vander Bim asked.
“They looked well taken care of—at least most of them. A couple of them looked Samanian—all brown-skinned and oiled beards,” Switch grumbled.
“What could they want with us?” Drake asked.
“I don’t know,” Switch said with a shrug.
Erik stared at his hands. He looked to his brother and cousin, then back at his hands. They shook. Goose pimples crept along his arms, and despite the warmth of the day, he shivered.
“Who are they?” Turk asked.
“Bandits,” Drake said.
Switch shook his head.
“Other mercenaries, maybe,” Vander Bim offered.
“Twenty of them?” Switch asked with a hint of sarcasm. “I didn’t recognize any of them from Finlo.”
“Slavers,” Erik muttered.
“What was that?” Drake asked.
“Shut up,” Bryon hissed.
“Nothing,” Erik replied. He had said it too loud. “It was nothing.”
“No,” Drake snapped. “It wasn’t nothing. What did you say?”
Erik looked to Bryon and Befel. Both were shaking their heads. Befel closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his finger and thumb. Bryon glared, eyes squinted. Erik dropped his chin to his chest and sighed.
“When we were traveling with the gypsy caravan down to Finlo, we had a fight,” Erik said. “Slavers from the Blue Forest attacked us, and we helped fight them off—killed quite a few.”
“Killed quite a few slavers, did you?” Switch said with exasperation. “But left quite a few alive, as well!”
“We fought for our freedom,” Erik said. “Any man would do the same thing.”
“Aye,” Switch said, “any
man might fight, but slaver—if you don’t kill every last one of them you might as bloody well just slit your own damn throat.”
“What would they care?” Befel asked.
“What would they care!” exclaimed Switch. Then he scratched his chin as if it seemed to be a legitimate question.
“Listen, these aren’t simple thieves or bandits—these are slavers. Most thieves have no loyalties. I bloody well know. Simple, bottom feeder forest thieves even less. But slavers, well, they’re an odd bunch. They have weird allegiances to one another. Their leaders break them, make them believe they’re nothing, and then, build them up again like a bloody army or something like that. After that, they would die for their leaders and their company. They act like brothers.”
“They were a large company, though,” Bryon said. “What would they care if a few of them died?”
“If someone killed your brother, what would you do?” Switch asked with a huff.
“Seek revenge,” Bryon said dejectedly.
Switch just nodded his head with sarcasm.
“Can we outrun them?” Drake asked.
“We could, but we would have to run fast.” Switch took a quick drink from his waterskin and smacked his lips with a satisfied sigh. “What about our mission? If we concentrate on outrunning these fools, we forget about the real goal here. Blood and ashes and pig guts.”
“What about negotiating?” Vander Bim said. “Maybe we could hide the porters.”
Switch laughed.
“First of all, slavers are savvy trackers. If they’ve been trailing us, they’d know we were lying about our numbers. Secondly, slavers don’t negotiate. They enslave or kill. And I tell you, any slave trader would pay a good amount of coin—a flaming good amount of coin—to get his hands on a dwarf, let alone three.” Switch scratched his chin. “Say, I have an idea. Why don’t we sell the tunnel diggers to the slavers, let them kill the porters, and be on our way.”
Demik grumbled, his hand sliding slowly to the handle of his broadsword. The smile on Switch’s face told pretense, but Erik couldn’t be sure. Behind that smile sat a deviousness he didn’t like, a malicious undertone that said if he really thought he could get away with such a plan, he would do it.
“What do we do then?” Vander Bim asked.
“Besides get rid of these three idiots.” Switch glowered at the young men, his smile quickly fading. “I don’t know. But they’re pissed.”
Nafer spoke to Turk in his own language, and Turk nodded.
“We stand and fight.” Turk smacked the broad side of his ax with the palm of his hand. “We should stand and fight.”
“I think we’ll have to,” Switch said. “We’ve got no bloody choice. Damn it. No bloody choice.”
“We will ride up to there.” Switch pointed to a group of tall hills, not quite as big as most of the jutting cliffs but big enough to hide half a dozen men. “That will be a good place to hide until the right moment.”
“Agreed,” Turk said.
“And we will hide the horses farther back,” Vander Bim suggested.
Turk also nodded.
“Should someone stay with the horses, just in case?” Drake asked.
“The commotion will scare any predators off,” Turk said, shaking his head.
Erik stared to the west as if he could see the oncoming slavers. He saw them. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them. He saw the dead eyes. Even the living ones had dead eyes. Void of intention except inflicting more death and misery. Vacant of any normal, human ambition. Dead. He also saw Marcus when he closed his eyes. Why couldn’t he remember Marcus the way he wanted? Instead of playing his flute and laughing, why did he see him bloodied, struggling for breath, and in and out of consciousness.
Erik saw his brother jerk his head sideways. The others began leading their horses into the hills.
“There’s a small hill dotted with ash,” Switch said, about an hour later, “just another hundred, maybe hundred and fifty paces away. That’s where we’ll hide the horses.”
Turk and the others nodded.
“Come help me with the horses,” the thief said to Befel.
While the others prepared for a fight, picking out good hiding places behind tall hillocks and boulders, Switch and Befel led the horses to the southern side of a shallow mound covered in thin, short, sparse white ashes. They tied the horses to the trees. While Befel worked on the last horse, Switch grabbed his shoulder hard and spun him around. Even though the thief stood a good head shorter than Befel, the farmer felt tiny next to him, felt like he looked up to the Goldumarian.
“If it were just you and me, my son, I would tie you up and leave you for those bloody cutthroats. I have half a mind to do it, but the sailor and miner wouldn’t be none too pleased with me. Count your blessings it’s not my decision because if it was you and me.”
He then turned and ran back to their companions. Befel let him get several paces ahead before he let out a loud sigh. He shivered and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. How could such a small man intimidate him so? He envisioned himself punching Switch in the face, cracking that already crooked nose. The farmer shook his head and cursed himself silently. It would never happen.
“What’s the plan, dwarf?” Vander Bim asked. He knelt next to Turk, broadsword in hand, head ducked low.
“The thief will be with me,” Turk replied. “As the enemy closes in, he will strike with his bow. You should be able to take two, maybe three, before they reach us, yes?”
Switch nodded. Turk shivered at the thief ’s smile. Evil. Demonic. Malicious at best. Did death and killing truly excite him that much?
Turk pointed to a slightly smaller hill several paces away. “Drake and Demik will hide behind there and then attack the rear when he fires his second shot. This will confuse the slavers. When they have stopped and begin to turn and fight, I will lead the thief and Bryon. On the first swing of my ax, Nafer will lead the rest to strike the middle. An willing, our skill will overcome numbers.”
Turk looked to the sky, then to Befel and Erik, the young men that served them as porters. They looked scared—not shivering or shaking, but unnerved.
“Are you ready to earn your pay?” Turk called to them with a smile.
Erik nodded, and Befel sighed.
“I hope so,” Turk muttered. “I truly hope so.”
Chapter 50
“THEY ARE COMING,” DRAKE CALLED.
“Are you ready, thief?” Switch gave Turk a half smile and responded with a nocked arrow and a bowstring pulled tight. Turk nodded. “Remember, two to three arrows and then wait for Demik and the others to attack.”
Switch gave a yellow-toothed smile. Turk wished he could trust the man, wished he gave him comfort, but all he did was worry him.
Turk slid a mail shirt over his brightly colored tunic. He patted his chest with the sound of clinking steel. He felt a small smile creeping underneath his beard and couldn’t help but feel a bit childish.
“Suddenly, I feel naked,” Bryon said. Turk saw him eyeing his mail shirt. “Here I am, just in a shirt and a leather jerkin.”
Turk watched as Bryon looked down at the jacket of soft leather, its sleeves tied to the jerkin by sun-stiffened laces.
“Perhaps I will make you such a shirt, one day,” Turk said.
“Really?” Bryon asked. “You would do such a thing for me?”
“Sure,” Turk said with a shrug. “I feel An has brought our paths together. If so, it would be an honor to give you such a gift.”
“An?” Bryon asked.
“Aye. The Creator. It means The One, in our language.”
“Oh no, not you too.” Bryon shook his head.
“What do you mean by that?” Turk asked.
“My cousins,” Bryon replied. “They always try to talk to me about a Creator. My uncle tried talking to me about a Creator. My father—even when he was drunk on brandy—tried talking to me about a Creator. I’m not interested in someone or something else running my life.”
Turk tried to force out a smile. He hoped his glare didn’t look too hard. He had heard Bryon’s argument before.
“Ah, many men I have met have said the same thing.”
“And that upsets you?” Bryon asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“And you dwarves, you are so sure of the existence of this . . . An?”
Turk felt his head move slowly from side to side. “No. Many of my own kin have the same doubts. My own father struggled with the belief of An. I only hope . . .”
Bryon stared intently, and Turk hadn’t realized his pause had lasted so long.
“You only hope what?” Bryon asked.
“Nothing,” Turk said. “Nothing.”
I should’ve been there, father. I should’ve been there, to say prayers with you. I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.
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