by Dan Fish
“Hollow Man. That is what you are called, is it not?”
“Where did you hear that name? Who told you to call me that?”
“No one told me anything. I hear what I hear. Are you intimidated by my knowledge?”
“Should I be? I’ve been around a long time. I’ve met more than my fair share of orcs. I’m sure I met one or two smarter than you. I left most lying on the ground like your friends. Others weren’t as fortunate.”
The orc laughed. Unexpected. An orc rarely laughed. And when one did, it was a cacophony of grunts and choking clucks, as though the spasmodic bursts of air passing through its mouth caused its thick purple tongue to flap like a banner. But the female orc’s laugh was nearly musical, like the fluttering notes of a low flute.
“They are not my friends, Hollow Man. But I am your friend, though I doubt you would see it that way,” she said. “Not at first. Perhaps not ever.”
“I don’t have friends. Certainly not orc friends. And stop calling me that name.”
Sorrows took another step forward. The orc took another step back. Expected. She had moved into a pool of moonlight and Sorrows studied her. Really studied her. Her skin was gray. He had noticed that in the tavern. Her muscles were lean and toned, but she looked smooth and that was wrong. Orcs are all veins running over sinew. A mesh of lines carrying oily blue blood from heart to head to fingers and feet. The pale orc’s skin was flat. No veins. Wrong. Her leathers hung loose on her body. Loose meant chafing. Loose meant the armor might catch on things. Branches or bramble while travelling through the forest. Or an arm when swinging a sword. Loose armor was bad. Near as bad as tight armor. His eyes travelled from her legs up her hips to her stomach, shoulders, neck. His gaze found her hair, and he spotted it. Wondered how he hadn’t spotted it before. Wondered why the other orcs agreed to travel with her.
“You’re missing a bead,” he said.
“Am I?” Her hand wandered to her head. She touched her hair with clumsy, stiff fingers. “How can you tell, Hollow Man?”
The big orc was stirring. His arms and legs were moving in the grass. A low groan rumbled in his throat. Sorrows slid a foot under the discarded blade of the second orc and flung it at the first with a quick flip of his boot. The hilt hit the big orc in the side of the head, and the creature stopped moving. He’d be like a sack of wheat on the pale orc’s shoulders now. The second orc would need to walk, which meant no more steel against skull. Which meant Sorrows was near out of time.
He closed his eyes. He took the amulet against his chest, grasped it in one hand, and thought of a man and then another. And another. He thought of a dozen men, reciting their names under his breath. Thomas Pine, Dariell Frost... Everett Veld, Oshu Sam. With each name came a face. With each face came a voice. He always made sure they said his name. He had to. It was the job. And something about hearing his name helped him remember the voice. Each voice awoke more memory. The same way the smell of bread reminded Sorrows of his mother, or the sound of rain reminded him of Julia. With each memory, a light rose to the surface of the amulet and fell to the ground. Where the light fell, a silhouette appeared, darker than night and thicker than shadow.
The summoning took three seconds. Four at the most. He had held his breath during and exhaled easily after. He stood with six dark shapes to his left and six to his right. He chose big men. Tall men. Men who would stand beside him and intimidate. Men who would lend menace to his message. He opened his eyes and stepped forward to face the pale orc.
She had moved right in front of him. She gripped his shoulders with her hands. Strong hands. Her yellow-green eyes were wide. Her mouth was alive and moving in the moonlight, tusks gleaming.
“You fool!” she hissed. Her breath smelled of rotten meat. “Put them away. Quickly. It is not their time. They are yours to protect.”
As a child, Sorrows would wander into the fields and lie in the long grass while his father worked. During one such outing, he spotted a grasshopper chewing at leaves. He watched it, fascinated at the way its mouth changed from something solid and simple into a shifting, churning collection of tiny arms and teeth, tearing at its food. The grasshopper would pause, and the arms would disappear, the mouth would seem round and solid. The grasshopper would resume feeding, and the mouth would break apart again.
He had thought of the grasshopper years later when he met his first Seph. He thought of it again as the pale orc gripped his shoulders. She had moved within arm’s reach of Sorrows. She had been urgent. She had been frightened. And in that moment of raw emotion, she had slipped. And lines had shone in the skin around her mouth. And those lines had broken into slender tentacles, like the mouth of a grasshopper but a hundredfold more complex. And beneath the complexity, her gums and teeth remained solid and unmoving. As though the tentacles formed a loose shell over the bones and tissue beneath. Some might dismiss it as a trick of the eyes, but Sorrows could see well enough in moonlight. And he had seen enough Seph to know what they looked like.
“Get back, Seph,” Sorrows said, and shoved the pale figure. It looked at him a moment, eyes fixed, orc lips reformed and pursed.
“Put them away,” the Seph said. “They deserve better than to be used in some parlor trick, Hollow Man. You place them in danger.”
The sword flashed faster than the snap of a bowstring. A line of notched steel, silver in the moonlight, connecting Sorrows to Seph. Hand to throat.
“I told you not to call me that,” Sorrows said. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here because Ashra sent me to find you after you banished her,” the Seph said, leaning away from the blade. “She worries about you.”
Ashra, Sorrows thought. Another problem. One he had dealt with countless times in the past. One that always found a way of returning.
“I don’t need her concern,” Sorrows said. “I need her to stay banished. I’m tired of seeing whatever hideous form she cobbles together. You Seph are all the same: stolen skin, borrowed time, and bad breath.”
“If she stayed away, who would give you your pretty weapons? Those precious souls you keep on a chain?”
“I’ll find another way. I never asked for her help. As a general rule, I don’t ask Seph for anything.”
The Seph looked past Sorrows. “Yet, you keep the bow and the soul within it. You’ve had it for some time now. Longer than any of Ashra’s previous gifts.”
“They weren’t gifts. They held trapped souls. And what does it matter how long I’ve had the bow?”
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter at all. Perhaps it does. Perhaps she knows what you like, Hollow Man.”
“She can burn in all hells,” Sorrows said. The conversation was wandering. He pressed his blade hard against the Seph’s gray flesh. “How are you doing this? How are you in an orc?”
The Seph inhabit the void left behind when a soul leaves a body. Something to do with the gods-touch and planar beings. Sorrows had been told about it once by a Seph as he drove a dagger into the heart of its host. Orcs, despite their white beads, had no soul. The same could be said of all mortal species, save one. Without a soul void, a Seph couldn’t inhabit a body. Or so Sorrows thought.
“Through no small effort, I assure you,” the Seph replied. “This body has little time left, but before I find another, I bring a message.”
Sorrows had his own message to worry about. The second orc had found his feet again. He was searching the moonlit grass for his blade. He still moved slowly, with one hand on his head and the other held out for balance. He was too groggy to notice the dark silhouettes standing around him. He would never remember a story about orc-eating humans. Too complicated.
“Hey, handsome,” Sorrows called out, looking past the Seph.
The second orc turned to the noise. Yellow-green eyes blinking. Brow furrowing. He looked angry. As though his head hurt where some guy had hit him with a sword.
“You know about the Seph?” Sorrows asked.
“What are you playing at, Hollow Man?” t
he Seph asked. “I need to tell you—”
The orc nodded, and Sorrows wasted no time. He pulled the big orc’s blade down, one-handed, and because a single arm has greater range of motion than two locked together, and because orcs notched the edge of their blades with wild swings but not the tip, Sorrows thrust the sword through leather and orc and leather again. He returned his gaze to the Seph’s wide eyes and leaned in close enough that he could feel the rotting warmth of the dead orc.
“I told you not to call me that,” Sorrows said.
“Don’t trust the elf,” the Seph said. Strained, quiet.
Sorrows staggered back, left the sword stuck in the orc’s body. Time slowed, his limbs grew heavy. The second orc shouted, but the sound was muted, distant. An eternity away. Don’t trust the elf, Sorrows thought, then the night turned to chaos.
A dying Seph is a thing of true horror. Seph struggle with the complexity of the human mouth. Thus, at times, the lines of power which show the planar being’s tenuous hold on a physical creature are revealed. A grasshopper mouth. Tendrils of flesh separate and flail and the sight, from a human perspective, is unsettling. Wounds can cause a similar effect, though a Seph can re-knit the flesh around minor injuries. But serious wounds create complexity in the structure of the host creature. More lines of power disrupted. More tendrils of flesh left twisting in the air. And the bigger the wound, the greater the complexity. A mortal wound, such as a sword passing through the heart? Horror.
Sorrows stood in a daze as threads of pale, gray flesh whipped through the air, slipping free from beneath loose leather armor. A frenzy of movement and stench with the skeletal husk of an orc at its center. The body dropped to its knees, then fell forward onto its face. Its flesh slithered through the grass, scattering in all directions. Mindless. Like a chicken after the axe falls. The grass rustled as the flesh spread for long seconds while the Seph left the body. Then the grass stilled, and the night grew quiet. The stench of decay filled the air. The second orc vomited. Sorrows approached him and grabbed a fistful of his armor. He pulled the orc to face him.
“The Seph haunt this village,” Sorrows said. “Take your friend and get the hells out of here.”
The orc shuffled sideways, eyes flicking from Sorrows to the big orc to the mess of bones and sinew laying in the moonlight. He touched the white beads braided into his hair. He wouldn’t return. He would convince the big orc to stay away. He would convince his tribe to stay away. He heaved the big orc onto his shoulders and started walking. Sorrows watched him for a moment before taking his amulet and thinking a quick command. Sleep. The silhouettes worked backward, winking into hovering pinpricks of light and returning to the Grimstone.
“I might thank you.”
Sorrows turned to the owner, who stood in the doorway.
“You might.”
“Suppose I’ll clean up those bones in the morning. That’s my part in all of this, right?”
Sorrows said nothing.
The owner shifted. “This village isn’t really haunted by the Seph. Is it?”
“No. Just me.”
“You’re haunted by the Seph, or the tavern is haunted by you?”
“Take your pick.”
The owner flashed a grin, but it wasn’t a night for levity. He cleared his throat. Turned back to the tavern. Called over his shoulder.
“Gods be with you.”
But humans only had one god. And it had died long ago. Sorrows said nothing, picked up his cloak and bow, and walked into the village. He thought about the Seph, the Grimstone, and the danger of lingering in one place for too long. He moved like a ghost through the empty streets, silently brooding on the past. He approached the edge of the forest and stepped out of the moonlight into darkness, then stopped and turned to see the half-born woman from the tavern appear in an alley. She craned her head, studying the forest. Searching. Her gaze passed over Sorrows without stopping. She turned and walked away. He turned and felt suddenly restless. An arrow on the string.
Chapter 3
THE EVONWOOD IS a sliver of forest west of Breaker’s Rapids, in a region known by most as Gods’ Folly, about three days’ travel south by foot from Huvda to the north. Early on a fall morning, the sun is still hidden behind the mountains, and the air is damp and cold. The smell of frost drifts beneath a hardwood patchwork of brown oak, crimson maple, and orange-gold birch and ash. The forest paths are quiet but wide and well-packed. They were established long ago for supply runs to the Edge. The war has moved further north since.
Now, abandoned elf waypoints and dwarf hollows offer plenty of places to stop, rest. The journey to the Evonwood can be one of reflective contemplation or pragmatic haste. Sorrows fell somewhere in between, moving with great, distracted strides and stopping only to piss or pluck leaves. He woke early. He made camp late. He drank sparingly from a flask of dwarf whiskey. He ate sparingly from a store of dried meat and hard bread. He indulged in speculation. The Seph-orc confused him, and he wasn’t used to being confused. It bothered him. He knew things. A great many things. And while he didn’t profess to know everything, he enjoyed knowing the things he knew. So, five days after the night at the tavern he found himself dripping water onto the floor of an elf waypoint, bow in hand, with more questions than answers.
The waypoint was clean because it was elf-made, and elves would sweep the dirt from snow if it would tolerate a brush. The tavern in Huvda had better suited his taste. Probably because goblins better suited his taste. Probably because goblins better suited everyone’s taste. Rain streaked the windows. The afternoon was gray, and the clouds let little light in, but lamps fueled by magic burned endlessly. Sorrows threw a boot at a tapestry of some elf Forestwalker, leaving a muddy smudge on an impossibly perfect face with a plausibly haughty smirk. The mark faded as more magic eliminated dirt, restored thread and weave. The scent of sandalwood wafted in the air. He placed his bow on a table in the corner and stared at it for a long moment.
“Wish you could join me,” he said. “You have no idea.”
He stripped off his clothes, padded across a mosaic of pale stone, and looked up at the tapestry.
“I won’t enjoy this any more than you, swear to the gods.”
He tore the weave off the wall and wrapped it around his body. Magic coursed over his skin like ice water. He kept the tapestry moving until the dust and sweat of the road was removed, until sandalwood replaced the stench of the Seph-orc, until the filth of humanity had been swept away by the magic of the elves. It wasn’t exactly a respectful thing to do with a piece of elf art, but he didn’t exactly respect elves. He spread the tapestry on the floor, threw his clothes and boots into the center, and sat down, skin to thread to stone.
“Maybe I did enjoy it,” he said, flipping a boot onto the Forestwalker’s nose. “What? Don’t look at me like that.”
The door to the waypoint burst open and figures rushed in. Seven. A squad. They moved fast. Organized. One after another they swept into the room until Sorrows found himself surrounded and somewhat exposed. Elves. Each wearing the same gray cloak and skirt. Each with black leather boots, bright and crisp. Each with a black leather jerkin that dropped a handspan past his or her waist. Each with bright steel hanging at his or her hip.
“What’s the Mage Guard doing this far out?” Sorrows asked, turning his head to survey the room. “You lost?”
A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. Held it firmly. He looked. The half-born woman from the tavern. Her elf companion stood beside her, sword raised, eyes roaming. She released her hold on Sorrows, stepped back.
“On your knees,” she said.
“There some law against being handsome and naked?” he asked.
She said nothing, glanced at her elf companion, nodded.
The sword tracked Sorrows. He held up his hands, palms facing outward. Worked his way up onto one knee, then both. The tapestry wasn’t thick. The floor was hard. It hurt his knees. He saw a shape pass in front of a window. There were seven elves
inside, there would be as many surrounding the waypoint. There would be others, maintaining a perimeter in the woods. There would be others patrolling the paths.
“What are you doing here?” the half-born asked, glancing from Sorrows to his clothes.
“Hygiene,” he replied. “Mortal races tend to stink when we’re not clean.”
“Doesn’t justify vandalizing a waypoint,” the elf counterpart offered. “Besides, mortal races tend to stink regardless.”
Low chuckles around the room. Sorrows turned his head, and they fell quiet. He caught a female elf studying him a little too closely. She met his gaze. Frowned. No shame. No guilty blush. All elf.
Sorrows winked at her. “It’s cold in here. Don’t hold it against me.”
The half-born kicked at his clothes with her boot. Turned and approached his bow.
“Elf-crafted?” she asked in a tone that said she already knew the answer.
She reached for the bow. He tensed. The point of her elf companion’s sword drifted closer.
“Touch it and we’ve got a problem,” Sorrows said.
She stopped, glanced at him, let her gaze drift down below his waist. “You say that to all the girls?”
“Just the ugly ones.”
She flushed but turned away. She pointed at the Grimstone.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Family heirloom.”
She nodded to herself, kicked some more at his cloak. Bent down, counted the arrows in his quiver. The door was open. The air was cold. He shivered. She noticed.
“You uncomfortable?”
“No. You?”
She ignored the question. “You want to put your clothes back on?”
“Would you rather I keep them off?”
It was the wrong thing to ask. Elves had no sense of humor. And it was a strong enough trait that it overwhelmed the half-born’s dwarf side. Her jaw clenched, her nostrils flared. But she didn’t take the bait. She looked from Sorrows to her elf companion and nodded again. Hands took his arms and hoisted him to his feet. Shoved him off the tapestry.
