Dark Winds Read online

  Dark Winds

  DARK WINDS

  Book Two of the Shadow’s Fire Trilogy

  Christopher Patterson

  Dark Winds

  Copyright © 2019 Christopher Patterson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Rabbit Hole Publishing

  Tucson, Arizona 85710 USA

  ISBN: 978-0-578-43854-2 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-578-43855-9 (ebook)

  LCCN: 2018968230

  Dark Winds

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 1

  ERIK HEARD THEIR BREATHING; DEEP and heavy. He knew they were there, standing over him, but he wouldn’t open his eyes. Finally, he stared out, and there they were, just standing, swaying. They stared back, with white, lifeless eyes. They were beaten and twisted and burnt . . . and eaten.

  What’s happening? Erik felt his mouth move, but there was no sound, only thought.

  They inched closer to him. He could feel cold toes touch his legs and arms, and he shuddered.

  It’s just another dream. Another stupid dream.

  Their mouths began to move.

  Why? Why? Why?

  He could hear their thoughts, voices that screamed through his head like pigs going to slaughter. So many different voices with so much pain. He shook his head to rid it of the sound, but to no avail.

  Why? Why? Why?

  What are you talking about? replied Erik in his mind.

  Why? Why didn’t you save us?

  Who are you? How was I supposed to save you?

  He felt a tear at the corner of his eye, and as he wiped it away, he saw her standing before him, an accusing finger outstretched. He was the one. The guilty one suggested this little girl, her skin and hair as pale as her white, blank eyes. Tia? Was it Tia?

  Why, Erik?

  Another voice was whispering next to him. Deeper and the sound was much closer.

  He looked to his right, and a gypsy man lay next to him. A gaping wound on his forehead seeped blood; he could see the bone beneath.

  Why, Erik?

  When the man spoke, his breath—hot and putrid—hit Erik’s face. He wretched and felt vomit rise in his throat, but he could only swallow, and acid burned in his chest.

  Why did you let me die?

  The gypsy man’s words crashed through Erik’s head.

  What was I supposed to do? he replied.

  He continued to gag at the man’s breath but then realized the gypsy’s flesh was rotting, adding to the stench. Maggots crawled across the man’s face, in and out of his flesh, his eye sockets were a squirming mass.

  You let me die, the gypsy said.

  Erik shook his head. He tried screaming, but the sound caught in his throat.

  You let me die! This time, it wasn’t just the gypsy, but a whole chorus of voices, echoing through his head and getting louder and louder.

  You let me die! You let me die! You let me die! Why? Why? Why?

  Erik felt something touch his foot followed by a strong tug at his pants. He felt strong claws dig into the skin of his leg and tried to lift his head, but it was too heavy. Finally, he looked down and saw him, his pale skin even lighter, his red hair a sickly pallid pinkish-white. Fox. The dead slaver’s neck was twisted, all purple and blue.

  Fox crawled up Erik’s legs, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh and drawing blood where his pants had been ripped. He reached for Erik’s belt, grabbed it, and pulled himself closer. The slaver’s cheeks were gone, exposing bone, but still, Erik could see a smile that revealed black, rotten teeth. Fox was a slight man, but as he pulled himself onto Erik, he felt like a pallet full of stone. The dead slaver’s skin was cold, sending a freezing chill through Erik’s body.

  The others—the ones standing—moved in, shuffling closer, and their presence suffocated him. He couldn’t move. He felt Fox’s head resting on his chest, then the bony, sharp fingers grasped at his neck, burning his skin like hot irons as Fox moaned low.

  Then, suddenly, the fingers stopped moving, wrapped around his throat, and squeezed. Fox’s face met his. His eye sockets were empty, but if Erik looked closely, he saw a faint, reddish glow amidst the darkness. Fox’s mouth turned up into a rotten smile.

  I will kill you, just like your cousin killed me.

  It’s a dream, Erik thought. I can’t die here.

  Fox laughed, a deep, raspy croaking laugh, and the others joined in, even the little girl who still pointed her finger at him.

  Fool, Fox said.

  Suddenly, the air was filled with the musk of incense, the perfume of rose buds. Erik looked up, and Marcus stood over him, Nadya next to him. Erik tried to plead for help, to reach for his friend, but his voice was silent, and his arms too heavy. The gypsy couple just stared at him as Marcus’ face went from a pale, moonlit color to red as blood poured from every pore in his body. The same happened to Nadya as more gypsies stood around the couple. Then, as one, they moved in until their feet touched his body and they stared—just stared.

  More slavers appeared, crawling on the ground like human-sized insects, and they clawed at the gypsies’ legs and pushed them aside. They howled and hissed and spat and cackled. They ripped Erik’s clothes and tore his skin as Fox squeezed even harder. He felt pain, unbearable pain. He had never felt pain in a dream before and opened his mouth to try and scream but as his lips and teeth parted, cold fingers shoved into his mouth and down his throat.

  Erik’s vision began to blur as all of the dead around him opened their mouths too. But instead of crying out, blood poured out and washed over him, searing hot and stinking. More blood poured from holes like sword wounds that multiplied rapidly over their bodies until they became walking, groaning mounds of coagulated blood. Now a chorus of agony, screams, and pleas surrounded him, and every note shook his body and rattled his brain around his head like a stone in a metal bucket. Icy fingers pierced his eyes; his vision went black, and his breathing stopped. There was nothing. Only death. Black, icy, cold death.

  The moon blazed as Erik opened his eyes and his body jerked. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he gasped for b
reath and grabbed his throat. Nothing. No blood. No scratches; just sweat and tears. He gave a heavy sigh as he wiped the tears away from his eyes.

  Staring up into the nighttime sky, he could still see remnants of smoke blown in front of the moon by errant winds. They had camped away from the ruins of Aga Kona, for fear that mountain trolls would still be about, watching them, attacking them by the cover of night. Erik was glad to camp away from the tomb. It was, however, a thing of contention. Drake wanted to stay. He wanted to bury the dead, even if it took days. Befel and Bryon couldn’t understand why he was so upset.

  “These were his people,” Erik had said. Miners. Their families.

  They would have known some of the dead, certainly. This was the destination of the miners from Marcus’ gypsy caravan. The smell of burnt flesh . . . the sight of burnt flesh had made Erik vomit, but he did it privately. The last thing he needed was Bryon chiding him for being childish. He wondered if his cousin even cared about the dead.

  He looked to his side and saw Turk, sitting back on his haunches. His axe was gripped in one hand and his other hand touched the ground as if it steadied him. Erik lifted his head and tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but a hand caught his shoulder and pushed him back down. Switch pressed his face close to Erik’s and put an index finger to pursed lips.

  “Roll onto your stomach,” Switch whispered.

  “What . . .” Erik began to say, but Switch covered his mouth with his free hand.

  “Be quiet, you stupid bastard,” Switch hissed. “Roll onto your stomach and crawl next to Turk. Or close your eyes and go back to sleep. But shut your mouth either way.”

  Erik nodded, and Switch removed his hand from his mouth. Erik rolled onto his stomach, and as he was crawling towards Turk, he noticed Switch taking the same stance as the dwarf, a long-bladed dagger held in his left hand.

  As Erik pulled himself next to Turk, the dwarf looked down at him and smiled. His face was clear in the moonlight, although his beard looked almost white; there was no mirth in that smile. The dwarf pointed two fingers at his eyes and then pointed out into the darkness.

  Erik squinted as he sought to focus on whatever was beyond their camp, but despite the bright moonlight of a clear night, he saw nothing. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Nothing. But then, the slightest of movements. A shifting of a subtle shadow like black smoke floating through an unlit room. And he saw it.

  Yellow eyes, like a wolf ’s. The moonlight caught them just right, and they glowed in the darkness. That’s when he sensed the eerie silence. Erik hadn’t noticed it until now, but the typical chirping of nighttime birds, crickets, and the distant yelping of wild dogs had fallen quiet. Then he heard it. A loud sucking sound of air being drawn into a narrow tunnel. Sniffing.

  The yellow eyes closed and, as Erik squinted, he saw the shadow of a large, human-like head tilt skyward. He heard the sound again. It was smelling, searching.

  Erik felt his heartbeat quicken. He ducked low, pressing his face to the ground as if that would help keep him hidden. His hand moved, causing the slightest of sounds as dirt shifted. The sniffing stopped, and the eyes shot open, looking in their direction. Erik heard the crunching of dry grass under a heavy foot as the eyes moved closer. One step. Two steps. Another step.

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” Switch hissed and then began searching on the ground.

  The thief ’s fingertips brushed through small tufts of grass until he stopped and picked something up—a rock the size of an apple. He threw it over to their left, and Erik heard the slightest thud. The yellow eyes swiveled away in the direction of the sound, and the shadow jumped like a cat trying to pounce on a mouse. There was a quick snort and then Erik watched as the shadow slowly moved away until he couldn’t see it anymore.

  Erik heard Turk breathe a sigh of relief.

  “It’s gone,” Turk whispered.

  “Are you sure?” Switch asked, also in a whisper.

  Turk shrugged and then shook his head. Switch nodded, lay on his belly, and started to crawl forward.

  “What is he doing?” Erik asked.

  Switch glared back at him, over his shoulder. Turk put a finger to his lips. The dwarf moved closer to Erik.

  “He is going to go see if it is gone,” Turk said.

  “Was that . . .”

  Turk nodded. He knew what Erik meant.

  “Will Switch be alright?” Erik asked.

  “I think so,” Turk replied. “He’s a sly one, craftier than a troll.”

  “I suppose so,” Erik said.

  “Go back to sleep,” Turk said. “Morning will come soon enough.”

  Erik shuffled back to where he lay before but had no desire for more sleep and found himself still awake as the sun rose and Switch returned.

  “It was one of them alright.” Switch spat, kicking a rock.

  “A troll?” Befel asked from behind Erik.

  “Blood and guts and ashes,” Switch said, turning on Erik’s brother hard. “What else would it be?”

  “I saw it,” Erik said, standing up again.

  “You saw . . .” Switch began to say but then stopped as his face grew red and he walked so close to Erik that their noses almost touched and Erik could smell the thief ’s foul breath. “You saw it? You stupid shite. You almost alerted it to our presence. You nearly brought that thing down on us in the middle of the night. It and probably several more. You cause more trouble than you’re bloody worth; you know that?”

  Switch turned on his heels and looked straight at Vander Bim, holding two fingers in the air.

  “This is twice these young rat turds have almost gotten us killed,” Switch said. “I don’t care what you say. The moment we have a chance, we’re getting rid of them.”

  “That’s not your choice . . .” Vander Bim began to say.

  “You best keep your eyes on them,” Switch said, stepping a little closer to Vander Bim. Erik could see Turk and Nafer walking behind Switch. “Things happen out here in the wild. People go missing at night. And don’t think I don’t know you two furry tunnel rats are behind me.”

  Switch turned to face Turk and Nafer and, as he walked by them, made sure to bump Turk.

  “Were there more than one?” Vander Bim asked.

  “We only saw one,” Turk replied. “If it was a scout, I doubt there were more. But still, one troll would have been more than a handful in the middle of the night, even for us. They need but a small sliver of light to see as if it was midday.”

  “What do we do?” Drake asked. His eyes were red, and his face looked tired.

  “Do we have a chance?” Vander Bim asked. “Are we going to find ourselves attacked in the middle of the night tonight? Or tomorrow?”

  Turk just shrugged and turned to the other dwarves, Demik and Nafer.

  “Even in the employ of men,” Demik said, “they won’t want to be away from the mountains for long. Trolls working for men. Disgusting.”

  “That worries you?” Vander Bim asked.

  “Trolls are primitive, tribal,” Turk replied. “They attack out of necessity. They ambush in groups of two or three at the most. And they never leave the mountains. Five or six trolls, working together in a coordinated attack, under the guidance of men . . .well; we have seen the devastation that can cause.”

  “These men,” Erik said, “they would have to be powerful.”

  “Indeed,” Turk replied.

  “The Lord of the East?” Erik asked.

  “Why would the bloody Lord of the East hire trolls to destroy his own mining camp?” Switch yelled. “Why are you talking anyways? Shut your trap.”

  “Relax, Switch,” Vander Bim said, although Erik could see the gathering annoyance in the sailor’s face as well. “What do we do now?”

  “I would say we travel a league north of the mountains for a while,” said Turk who didn’t look annoyed at all. “It’ll be hotter, but I doubt the mountain trolls will venture this far from the slopes again. What do y
ou think, Vander Bim?”

  “I suppose,” the sailor replied, “if that is our only option.”

  “I think so,” Turk said.

  They broke camp, and as they continued east, Erik watched the Southern Mountains pass by, seemingly doing so more quickly now that they weren’t right next to them.

  “It’s funny,” Erik said, “how they look so simple, so much less intimidating.”

  “What?” Befel asked.

  “The mountains,” Erik explained.

  “They still look intimidating to me,” Befel replied, making arm circles and trying to work out the soreness in his wounded shoulder.

  “I don’t think so,” Erik said with a smile. He knew that the hurt in Befel’s shoulder made him grumpy, and he did his best to ignore it. “You can’t see the large peaks and shadows, the rocky crags.”

  “Are you scared of shadows?” Befel asked. He certainly sounded irritated, and Erik could sense the chiding in his brother’s voice.

  “Now?” Erik replied, stopping to think for a moment. “Yes. After seeing one last night with its yellow eyes, I think it’s smart to be afraid of shadows.”

  Towards noon, both the temperature and humidity of the Plains of Güdal rose. Erik felt the stickiness of sweat on his back, under his arms, and in between his legs and the horse’s saddle. A salty droplet here and there would even sneak from the tip of his nose to his mouth and, through tiredness, it annoyed him more than usual. He just wanted to sleep . . . but then again, no. He wondered if he would ever look forward to sleep again.

  Erik looked over his shoulder to find billowing gray clouds and thunderheads forming behind them, a chorus of chirping and crackling and clicking rising with them, the insects of the plains reveling in the high temperatures. Buzzing gnats were annoying, but flying stingers and ants were even more so, and Erik felt the red bumps rise along his arms and on the back of his neck as they began to itch.

  “When we stop,” Turk said, “I have a salve that will calm the itching of those bites.”

  “Thanks,” Erik replied. “I try not to scratch them, but it’s almost impossible.”

  “Well, until we stop,” Turk said, “try not to. Open them up and make them bleed out here, and you’ll find yourself with an infection.”