The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  “Voren,” Essa called, “we need a sheet. Something. We’re both freezing.”

  “I—yes, of course. Y-you-you’re d-drenched. Why-why are you so wet?” The baker hesitated, but when she twisted one of her looks on him, Voren scurried off and began rooting through the home. A moment later he returned with a long white sheet, which Essa promptly took and began rubbing Rurik down with.

  At another time, perhaps, Rurik might have tried to ward her off, play the strongman card and weather the rest. Now, there was no resistance left in him. His body ached and his wretched cough would not abate. His blood rush was spent. It seeped away into the chair and left him on the edge of exhaustion.

  As Essa peeled off his chains, cloak and boots, and rubbed some semblance of warmth back into his skin, she gradually explained their situation to the confused baker. Rurik watched him for any signs of treachery, but if the man knew more than he let on, then he was a good player. He gasped at all the right moments, interrupted with frantic questions, and glanced nervously about like a good little peasant, fearing the steel of his lord’s enforcers.

  Once she had finished rubbing him down, Essa sat back on her haunches and eyed Rurik warily. “Give me a hand with him,” she said to Voren, and the two of them lifted him up by the shoulders. “Set him by the fire. We could both use the warmth, and we need to look at that leg.” They carried him to the fireplace, which crackled invitingly and offered out its flickering tongues for a soothed embrace. Voren ran back to grab the chair for him. Once they had all settled in again, Essa returned to her story and her work. It was an abridged version, but it did nicely. The baker was appropriately mortified.

  “In the Jurree? You jumped in the Jurree this time of year?”

  “Unless you wanted the dogs to follow us here…” She let it trail off at that. Voren wisely let it go.

  “And what of you, Essa? Are you alright? Were you harmed in this?”

  Essa shrugged. “I feel like a walking block of ice and I’ve been rattled pretty fierce. Beyond that…” She rolled up Rurik’s pant leg and wrinkled her nose. “…no.”

  “And your cousin? Your friends? Did they—are they…alright?”

  She hesitated as she pressed against the imprint of the wolfhound’s jaw. Rurik watched her close her eyes and breathe deep, steadying herself. Hurt welled in her, but she was fighting it. Voren was asking her the very question she dreaded asking herself.

  “They are fine,” she responded curtly. Then more cautiously: “I am sure.”

  Prodding around the bite wound, she began to pick out bits of cloth that had dipped inside. It didn’t hurt so dreadfully, nor did it look in particularly bad order. Once Essa was satisfied with the wound’s condition, she tore off a length of the sheet—much to Voren’s chagrin and Rurik’s amusement—and used it as a dressing for the wound. Then she sat back and wiped her hands off on her sleeves.

  “The leg should be fine. That hound’s a little monster, but he didn’t go too deep. Plus, the river seems to have already cleaned it out for me, so we don’t need to worry about that. Sprained, probably. Maybe just twisted’s all. Should get some nasty bruising setting in, but be thankful, Ru. It will hurt, but you’ll be able to walk. Just need some rest.”

  “No time for that,” and he started to push himself up.

  She pushed him right back down. “Sit. Stay. Enjoy the fire while you can. We can’t stay long anyway.”

  Reluctantly, Rurik stretched out in the chair and inched his leg closer to the fire. Essa laid out beneath him, running her hands through her hair, muttering something to herself. The baker circled, asking if there was anything he could get for either of them, but neither of them were very talkative of the moment. Still, he persisted, and Essa eventually handed him her bow and quiver. Voren scampered off and Essa turned to the fire, kicking off her boots alongside Rurik’s and dropping his bundle of clothes before the warmth. Then she lay on her side, facing away from him, and said no more.

  The fire felt like heaven on his skin, warming away the pins and needles that had haunted him through the forest. Blood flowed, muscles eased, and though his hands and his feet grew red as beets, it was good just to feel something real again. But as the warmth rushed in, it gradually gobbled up whatever barriers his mind had set against the in-roads of fatigue.

  He would not be moving now, of his own accord or anyone else’s. That much he could see plainly. He tried to focus on Voren as much as possible, lest the weasel get out of sight too long. Yet his eyes drooped and more than once he let loose a muffled yawn. The ache in his leg became a dulled, distant thrum, and even Essa, he could tell, was not so far from slumber. She was laid out like a cat, curves arched against the warmth. Every now and then she would lift her head and glance back at him expectantly, but she would say nothing, do nothing, and then she would turn back to the flames and lie down.

  His head bobbed and his eyes snapped open—a momentary show of waking. Voren was back, kneeling beside Essa. When did that happen? She had curled her legs up under her, and her hands were wrapped around a mug. A drink. The baker was getting her drunk. He squinted. On second thought, steam rose from the mug, and the baker had one to match. Steamed cider, perhaps.

  The last batch of apples would be coming through soon. Has it? Rurik had not eaten particularly well in some time. He could not say. Essa would know. If they weren’t collected soon, the apples would freeze and wither in the first frost. He tried to say something, but nothing came out. Sweet fire. So relaxing. He shifted slightly, to work a kink out of his back. They didn’t seem to notice.

  “When will you go?” He heard the baker say. His ears burned. He did not like that question, no matter how innocent.

  “On the morrow, I suppose.”

  “So soon?”

  “There is much to do and little time to do it. And even with our river stunt, the dogs will be relentless.”

  “I can hide you here, long as needs be, you know.” He touched her. The little bastard was touching her leg. Voren’s hand stretched out and laid against her thigh, and all she did was smile her innocent little smile. Rurik bristled, trying to rise.

  Get up. Get up. You freaking little…

  “Thank you, Voren. That means much, but there is no…”

  He was slipping. Try as he might to focus, he felt his head bob again, and the fire was so warm, and the conversation distant. He was there and he was not, drifting through the corners of space like a fly upon the wall. Stay awake. Get up. Don’t you dare…

  “…a fine meal.”

  “That would be...”

  “How long till he…?”

  “…I won’t make it…”

  When his head bobbed again, the darkness was absolute. One minute there were voices, then whispers, and then there was nothing. Screaming himself to sleep, he drifted into the land of dreams.

  And nightmares.

  * *

  Voren could not believe his luck. Or his curse, as the fact might be.

  When Brickheart had let him go, he had known the guards would strike that night. As far as he had known, the matter would be over and done, as simple as that. Thank you for playing. So long and farewell. Essa would be free to walk, he could return to his duties, and that upstart lordling would rot in his father’s own jail cells, moping about as he was so wont to do. That’s what happens. You broke the rules. You had your chance. Go away. Don’t come back. You came and you laughed in the face of the law and now look where it gets you. The boy had returned Essa to him, of course, and for that he was grateful—but the sooner he was gone, the better. People like Rurik had no place amongst the civilized.

  He could scarcely hazard a guess as to whether the others would go as well. It would sadden him to lose Rowan. A bit of a dandy, but he was still a fine gentleman, and Essa was thoroughly attached to him. He was like a brother to her. She would be nigh inconsolable if she were to lose him—desolated. Voren didn’t want to see that, but such things might be unavoidable. With any luck, the f
encer wouldn’t raise a blade to Brickheart. That was a sure way to get his head taken off. If he kept a cool head, Lord Kasimir might be merciful. Might.

  When he had returned home, Brickheart promised the guards would be watching. They weren’t, or at least, not as far as he could see. Too distracted to care about little old him. They would come back if they didn’t get Rurik and his lot, though. It was only natural.

  It was a skittish thought, and one his mother hadn’t helped. The woman had been livid about their treatment earlier in the night. She demanded to know what he had done. He was honest with her, to a point, and she had yelled at him about his lack of mind. She cried when she saw the bruises, though. It took some time, but he calmed her down and put her back to bed, promising the tear-ridden woman that everything would be alright. He only hoped she would stay there until all of this was settled.

  What happened next was out of his hands. It was up to Brickheart’s people.

  Washing the blood off his face, he pampered himself with some of his mother’s powders and touched it off with a bit of flour. No one questioned a messy baker, and there were few better ways to cover a bruise. Or five.

  Then there had come a pounding on his door, and for a moment he feared Brickheart had returned for another round of pummeling. Shuddering at the thought, he had eased open the door, and was promptly stunned by what he saw—Essa, all alone, wet and ragged, turning to him for protection. He could not have asked for more.

  Then he opened the door and there stood her little degenerate as well. Never before had he felt his heart sink so low, so fast. Pitiful creature. That’s all he was. Self-pity and loathing and anger all seeped into his heart and like bile he had to struggle to suppress them as he bid them into his home. How he would have loved to have done away with Rurik there and then, but as haggard as the lordling already looked, he had to wonder if he wouldn’t do himself in.

  Besides, the boy obviously had some skill. There was undoubtedly a reason he and Essa had slipped away, where all others did not. It was probably best not to provoke him. Voren never had been much of a fighter, himself. And a killer? Heavens no.

  Nor was Essa, for that matter. All the more reason to hate the boy for what he had made her. Another mercenary—wandering, flea-bitten sellswords, begging at the street-corners like common whores, hoping for coin to off someone else’s equally miserable life. Lowest of the low, as far as he was concerned. One could fall so far.

  Gradually, he coaxed everything out of her, or as much as she seemed willing to tell. Once they had the little exile settled and tended to, it was easier. A steaming mug of cider, a warm blanket, and kind words tempered with concern. They weren’t tricks. Not really. He meant what he said, mostly, and the intent behind them was genuine, even if he knew more than he let on. It was just using what he knew effectively. Not tricks. He could never trick her. He was just trying to help her.

  Using her, in a way, perhaps, but…

  She had been near tears at that point. She never let herself go, though. Not fully. Tears were to be tempered. Each time she went she caught herself, if only just, for it was difficult for her. She was terrified for Rowan. Sweet man, but if what she said was true, then he was a fool. Thought she saw him charge Brickheart when the grizzled old captain caught sight of them.

  Poor, dead fool.

  He touched her leg and he touched her hand and once he even dared to hold her, when he draped the blanket about her shoulders. She shrugged him off after a moment, but that was his own mistake. She wasn’t ready for that quite yet. After such a day—how much more could she take?

  Glowering at the sleeping exile, he had spun away to tend a small pot of stew. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. The things that boy had brought down on her. He was a plague. Everything he touched turned to ash. How long before you drag me down as well? He nearly was, of course. He resentfully touched the lordling’s bruised cheek. If he didn’t bring Rurik down soon, then it would be curtains for all of them. All of them but for Rurik, probably. The boy would somehow slip away.

  He couldn’t have that. But how to get out? Both were cold, frightened—in shock and pain. The exile was out. That much helped. If he could convince Essa…would she forgive him? That thought unsettled him. Obviously she cared deeply for Rurik, but perhaps it was just a star-crossed thought? Affections can be changed. Not his, of course. In all the years…but no, she couldn’t have so deep an affection for that outcast. Look at what he had done to the countess. Look what he had done to her. Her cousin—her brother at heart—killed for his frivolity.

  Something had to be done. Brickheart said they would be fine if he cooperated.

  He gave her a bowl of the stew and hunkered down next to her. Firelight flickered against her rough skin as she tipped the bowl to her lips. Such sadness and strength, entwined like ribbons in her hair. Such beautiful hair. A bit wild, but so was she. Wild, all the way through. She didn’t belong in the city. If Rurik had his way, she wouldn’t belong anywhere.

  “Essa.” She glanced at him out of curiosity, but she did not lower the bowl. “I need to see the apothecary. He will have some tonics for you both. Help you sleep. Clear your lungs.” She had a terribly nasty cough. He worried what it might develop into, if untreated. He had seen how fast pneumonia could develop. “Probably get some herbs to help Rurik’s leg.”

  Essa stopped slurping down her food. She stared dumbfounded over the rim of the bowl. Then her gaze narrowed uncertainly, flicking to the boy and then back to him. The bowl sank from her lips.

  “Voren. They’re looking for us. If you go, if anyone realizes you were about town with me…” The concern touched him, and he felt his heart lifting to her. Easy, boy.

  “If someone had realized that, the guards would have come for me by now.” Too true. As if on cue, he felt his black eye begin its painful hum. “And they look for him. Not you. Not me. No one would think twice of the baker going about. Please. Let me do this for you. If you were to take ill, what could either of you do for the others?”

  That seemed to hook her. Though she wrestled with the thought a moment longer, the look in her eyes told him he had already won. Easy. Far too easy. She trusted him, and he supposed there was something to that. He felt a pang of guilt, then. Would she trust him once this was done? Was there some way he could wriggle out of this?

  “How long will you be?”

  “An hour or so, at most. It’s Rendes. You remember Rendes? He’s on the outskirts, and I would take care to evade his lordship’s men.”

  She sighed and glanced at the sleeping exile. “An hour?”

  “An hour.”

  “Do not tarry. I intend us to be off as soon as you’ve returned.”

  “Do not be brash, Essa. Blundering about ill-prepared will only put you in the same place as your friends.” The hurt on her face was palpable. Too blunt, perhaps, but she needed to hear it. He could not have her wandering off while he was gone. “I do not mean to be cruel my friend—” How he hated the taste of that word! “—but it is as it is. If they live, Kasimir will keep them till he gets hands on Rurik. Wait. Rest. You can do nothing for them without it.”

  She said no more to him, after that. Only nodded and turned away. With a final check on his mother, Voren sucked up the traces of his pride and plunged out into the cold.

  It was still dark outside when he began his trek through the silent streets. Dark and wet. Shadows stretched long across his path. He could feel the heaviness to the air. He quickened his pace, lest he be caught out in the storm when the chill took form.

  At the outskirts of town, he cast about for any sign of guardsmen. A soldier. A hunter. Anything. He spied one sheltering under the walls of a home, but when he crept near enough to see him, he turned away as quick. It was one of the new recruits—Melnir, the blacksmith’s boy. His father was a man, but Melnir was nothing of his sort. Melnir was just an arrogant braggart. Rurik may have been sleeping, but he still did not trust his capture to that sort. Steel was ste
el, but he had to trust a man’s arm to use it, and Melnir was still a boy in far too many ways.

  There was no one else about. In the distance, Voren could hear the hunters’ hounds, but he shied away from their approach. They would be quick, if he could find them, but for that he would have to stumble blindly through the dark, on the dim hope of a torch to light his way. Even if he found them there was no guarantee they would listen to him. Brickheart, maybe, but even if he had the luck to find him, the man was as likely to beat him as reward him.

  Though he dreaded the walk, he started for the lights glittering in the distance. There would be any number of soldiers there, but he would have to hurry. An hour, no more. Any moment’s delay could see his wards away into the night, and any hope of life with Essa gone with them.

  Torches glittered all around the camp gathered at its base. With any luck, he could reach Matair’s manse and be back before the first snowflake fell.

  As he crossed the field before the camp, though, another figure galloped away from it, trumpeting a message to any that would listen. Curiosity getting the better of him, he strained to hear it, but the man was past him soon enough, and all he could catch were a smattering of words that he did not quite understand, but which left him unsettled all the same. He had distinctly heard the word “devil” among them, along with some reference to execution.

  Shifting his weight to his unbruised hip, Voren resumed his walk toward the manor. Behind him, the hounds were baying.

  * *

  Even as he roamed the halls, he knew that he was dreaming. Consciously, he tried to jar himself awake, to force lucidity, but no matter how he tried, he could not seem to pull his mind away.

  How many times had he replayed that night? By now he knew it by heart, whether waking or sleeping.

  Rain beat them down, swamping the paths and warping them to muddy sink holes sucking at their boots. They sludged on, but the branches drooped and nipped at them with every labored step. Wind bit through both cloth and fur, scattering tufts of leaves and razored raindrops across their cheeks.