The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  “Afternoon, goodman.”

  The old man squinted up at her as though she was far away. “Afternoon, mum.”

  “A few pences for your troubles.” Rifling through one of the pouches at her belt, she tugged two copper pence out and dropped them into his bowl with a clang. The man looked slightly startled, but his smile grew from cheek to cheek.

  “Heaven’s best to you, fair lady. Would that these old legs could walk, I’d give ya a jig for such bounty.”

  “That would never be necessary. Pretty hound.”

  “Aye, that he be.” The old man scratched behind the mutt’s head, and its tongue lolled and panted in response. “Nothin’ like a good hound’n dog. Keeps ya by and by, even at yer worst.”

  “Essa!” Rowan shouted from across the way. She turned and hissed at him, waving him off.

  “My apologies. I fear I must be off.”

  “Missus? I hope you dun minds me askins but…you’re not no man’s whore, be you?”

  From anyone else, she might have taken offense. She could not bring herself to so begrudge a blind man. “No. Never.”

  The beggar smiled again, nodding to himself. “Good. I can’t see’s well’s I used to. But I can says a girl’s pretty as you’s got better things she ought be doin. And war taint your place, neither. Barbarians here, if’n you don’t mind my sayins.”

  “No, you are quite right. But war takes young and old alike, and much as any king might try to hold it back, even we of the fairer gender find our way to it.” She reached a hand under the dog’s jowls. His ears perked slightly as her fingers curled in against his skin, then lowered again as she began to scratch him. He licked at her arm, and his master’s smile made a haggard return.

  “May there come a time where you may get fars away from it as you may, mum. Get yerself a man, and get yerself to a hearthfire. Life’s too short to spend makin’ it any shorter.”

  She left him at that, returning to Rowan, who was tapping his foot impatiently.

  “You know it's booze for him. Or some tawdry family. Such men as that ne’er come alone. Someone’s put him up to have him here, mind you me. Looking to make some coins at the side.”

  That earned him a disgusted scowl. “You always assume the worst when money’s involved. You know you’re a rather pleasant person otherwise.”

  “I’m always a charmer. I merely sees the truth of things. And look at what your work’s wrought anyhow.”

  He pointed behind her and she half-turned, dreading what she might see. A couple of soldiers had appeared before the man, nearly as tattered as he, but bearing arms. One accused him of accosting the camp women. Shoved him a bit. The dog rose to growl, but the other man kicked it down, and snarled at it in turn. The first picked up his bowl of coins, laughed at the amount, and poured it regardless into his pocket.

  Essa started back toward them, but Rowan held her firm. His look told her it was neither time, nor place, gently reminding her of the flogging they had seen just earlier. Besides, as they looked on, another monk was walking by. The man stopped, silently observing the scuffle before proceeding on toward them.

  Hands extended as if to call out to Lord Assal Himself, he said, “Brothers, peace be upon you. Must you trouble so the weary and the broken?”

  The figures turned, scowling at the priest. They told him they were defending a lady’s honor, defending the honor of the camp. Scabs like the beggar didn’t deserve the air they breathed. The monk asked them for kindness for lesser men, and they went on, laughing, tossing the empty bowl at the beggar’s feet. The beggar started to crawl forward, whispering thank yous to the priest. Essa expected a kindness in turn, whether words or coin or food.

  But the priest turned his back on him and walked away, all the while calling on his god to help the souls in need. The beggar settled in the muck and clutched at his whimpering dog, lying still. He did not stretch his hands again for coin.

  Rowan shook his head and tugged her away. Would that he would tug her away from his vaunted civilization. For if this was what it entailed, she would never wish any part of it. Cities. Castles. Politics. Religion. All of it led to the same end. Man sowed discord amongst himself, made war on himself as much as nations. For all the good that came of them, there could never be peace. Give her the woods. Give her the trees.

  At least the wolves killed you before they ate you.

  * *

  In his dreams, Rurik was as an eagle to flight, soaring high and away from the camp and into the blue sky above. The sun beat down on him, scorching the wings on his back and tearing at his clothes. Farther still shone the twin moons, Havreth and Ganra, twisting before their solar master, attempting to shield him with their pale, purplish luminescence. Like some great celestial drama they rounded about him in abstract battle as he flew on in notionless agony.

  Higher he soared, and higher. He twisted around, reaching for the stars, and scarcely felt the fingers burning from his hand. One of the moons cried out to him, begging him to flight, but still he stretched himself higher, and in the fires of his own arrogant strain burned.

  The stars were so close he could almost touch them, but the stubs of his fingers could not find them as the smell of scorched flesh flooded his nostrils. Desperately he flailed, trying to leap for that crystal embrace, but his skin cracked and peeled and he was suddenly diving through a waterfall of feathers and blood and ash, and he was choking on the sulfur as the air went rushing past.

  He flew too high, and he burned for it.

  The world raced to greet him, locked in a nauseating freefall spin. Faces and places far removed were in the sky and in his mind, like glittering demons battling for his soul.

  Far below him he could see a boy running, for fear and confusion. His left arm sagged and he clung to it desperately. A tavern loomed, flickering in the night rain as a beckoning lighthouse. The boy ran on and on, and at his back the sound of steel rang out its bitter song.

  He was racing down and there were many eyes on him. He felt a cry rise through his broken body and he saw his mother, young and vibrant and perfect as his child-eyes had made her, reaching out to catch him. Come to me, her eyes said. Come to me and everything will be alright. But he broke through her arms and plummeted past, chilled by the intensity of her weeping.

  Then the moons became eyes, and the sky their storm, and there was nothing but the sorceress, reaching out to grasp him with their hands of mountains.

  “Everything burns.”

  The voice was hollow, but it shook through him as he plunged into her mouth and was lost.

  Then he was the boy at the inn and he was no longer merely dreaming. He burst through the door, a soggy, sodden mess. Sullen eyes twisted on him in the shadows of the torchlight and he was frozen, a shivering youth at an unfamiliar hearth. He must have looked a ghoul. His skin was clammy, his clothes a tattered wreck of blood and mud and rainwater. His left arm hung, limp. It was numb from where a dagger had struck. He thought he might lose it.

  Regardless, most turned away, back to the musical joy of the light. A few whispered. One pointed. He staggered forward. “Please,” he pleaded to any that would listen, “you have to help…on the road…” But no one moved and no one looked at him anymore. He was a novelty that had already lost its freshness. Music swam around him and everyone was consumed.

  A leg jutted out. He tripped, fell, was swallowed in the laughter. The tempo faltered, swam, stretched out across the tables and the space. The chords drew themselves out, and he stared up into the light—and there he saw her. Her and only her.

  The Angel of the Woods.

  She was a veritable blur of linen and spice, a whirling dervish of grace and majesty unsurpassed. Hips swayed sensuously as her arms rolled and her back arched. Perfect poise. Leg swung free, she held herself on tip-toes, curving and leaping through the notes, poising at the precipice, barefoot, uncaring or unknowing of the leering world below. A few coins clattered on her altar-stage.

  Her hair swung and
swished with each motion, like earth raining down. Green flashed between the cascade—emerald fire, seducing the world with its passing.

  Every curve, every swell cried woman. But the face had not changed. The eyes had not dulled. In them he saw a girl. It had been the better part of a decade since he had looked into those eyes and he had known, but now, here, it was her. He had no doubts.

  “Essa.”

  He started to rise, but a colorfully-garbed man stretched out in front of him, reclining to bar his path. “Eyes only, friend.” Red hair. Eyes of amber. The man watched him from beneath the shadow of his cap, hiding with it the threat behind his words. Rurik did not know him, but for the face. He had her face. But the man’s hand brushed against the hilt of a sword. Move on, his eyes said.

  “Essa!”

  He called out, ignoring the man. He started forward, but the man was already on his feet, and on him. “Easy, friend.” The music played on, but the girl twisted back, roused by the scuffle.

  “Rurik?”

  The man must have heard it, vaguely. Reluctant to release him, but uncertain of the girl’s intent, the man dropped back. Her scream was the first sign something was still amiss. Something coiled in his hair and yanked back—hard. The roots screamed, his body jerked, and everything slowed painfully past.

  The glint of steel curled into a knife, drawing across his throat. The tavern exploded with a sudden flurry of motion, as a roar tore from the doorway. Familiar bestiality. He was dead. He was undeniably dead. A bloody smile. That was what they called it. He had never even seen his killer in his life.

  But just like that, the man that had barred him sprang forward to save him. Rurik hadn’t even seen him grab for his sword, but the thin blade darted past his cheek like an avenging wind. He heard his would-be killer gasp and cry out. The blade danced back and stabbed the hand with the knife, spilling it with a clatter.

  Blood splattered hot against his face, and he could feel the line against his throat. Hot and wet, running down. His life, awash in the dripping rain.

  Yet as the killer fell away, it became apparent it wasn’t his blood. His neck was untouched, the flesh flush red, but unmarred.

  The red-haired man sprang past him, leaving him forgotten in the pursuit, and he sank down to the floor, head reeling. He touched his neck and his hand pulled away scarlet. He had never seen blood before. Not like this.

  He saw them, not felt them—the hands enwrapping his own. Dumbfounded, he stared, only slowly lifting his head. He shook. People were shouting all around him. Nothing.

  “Rowan, Rowan I need you. Come quick. He’s hurt…”

  Essa kneeled before him and for an instant he could not say whether she was fact or figment. There was nothing like her touch, nor the sadness in her eyes. He could feel himself sinking into that stare, and he was losing himself piece by piece. She said something he did not hear, but her hands clutched him tighter and he doubted she would ever let go. He did not ever wish her to.

  He felt himself sinking, and then he was. Down and away.

  It was a night of many firsts, and one often revisited, come night or day.

  When Rurik woke, the camp was still awash with noise, but Essa lay beside him, quiet as a morning dove. The only sound from her was the rustling sift of the blankets to the laboring of her breaths. He elated to find her there, peaceful in slumber, their moment unchecked by any presence but their own. Rowan had left them for the dawn.

  He rolled to face her, sliding his hand down to mold his fingers to the curve of her thigh. There was an electric current in the feel of her beneath his touch, the delicate sensation of her skin pressed against his own. She stirred only lightly, craning her head back toward him with a murmur. He leaned down, delicate as could be, to lay a kiss upon her neck.

  He felt the muscles tense beneath him. Felt the faintest catch of breath. She always had been a light sleeper. So much the hunter. Always ready to spring, but always watching for the moment. She shifted again, pressed her body deeper into his.

  He laid another kiss just behind her ear and whispered, “You’re a terrible actor, love.” She lazily swatted at him, but he eased back and tugged her into him.

  “And it’s terrible luck to wake the sleeping,” she murmured, though she smiled as she said it.

  “My apologies.”

  He started to pull away, but her hand snared his as soon as he tried and tugged him right back. “Don’t get smart.” Lying against her, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her head when she leaned hers back. He slid a leg over hers and stroked up her calf, eliciting a small battle of sorts between their toes. He let her win.

  “No ideas, lover boy,” she said as they finally settled.

  “I wouldn’t dare to dream of it, my love.”

  Though that was more than a bit of a lie.

  They had a few moments, at least. Then their state of half-slumber was riled and broken by the shrill cry of a trumpet. Rurik came around with a start, but Essa had already pulled upright, blanket tumbling across her mostly nude body, a dagger in hand. It might have been more beautiful if it hadn’t been so frightening.

  For a moment, he studied her. The lean texture of muscles. The smooth curves. The way her hair rolled down her back, matted and wild with needles and dirt. Her thighs were powerful, like a mare’s, strong dancer’s haunches. She was a monument—the huntress, like some pagan goddess of old. And of all the creatures in the world, it was to him this goddess had given her heart.

  Putting a hand on her shoulder, he tried to calm her down. “A little early for the morning bells, isn’t it?”

  She tensed, then slowly relaxed, sliding back down beside him. Men were shouting, some cursing. Many put to groans their own very silent concerns. No one seemed to actively disobey, though.

  “They want us up. Something special.”

  Rurik looked at her queerly, but he had learned as a child it was best not to second guess her. Ears like a wolf. Eyes like a hawk. It was the blood in her, he knew. Her mother’s. The only thing she ever got from her father was a stomach for alcohol and a few black eyes. Not that he could imagine her mother was any better. One would have to be, to leave a girl so young. Especially with a man like Pescha.

  He waited for her to explain, but she urged him to wait. After a time, a voice rose over the rest of the rabble outside, coinciding with another blast from the nearing trumpet.

  “Up you dogs, up! The Emperor’s hereabouts to see his souls, and that means you mangy mutts are his reward. Up! I catch any of you slouching and I’ll string you up by the thumbs my very self…”

  Rurik didn’t recognize the voice, but from the open threats, his guess lay with the Gorjes. Ever a pleasure.

  “Damn. I wish I had your ears.”

  She smiled faintly. “You’re welcome to take them.”

  He might have said something to that, but they were interrupted by the timely arrival of Rowan. The swordsman took one look at the both of them, he wrapped around Essa, she twisted in the sheets, bare feet prodding out and body covered only with a thin sift. At first her cousin frowned, then he grinned and shook his head.

  “Heavens to bits, now he’s plundered the maidenwood.”

  “Rowan!”

  “Oh, mind yourself, love. You’re flush as a ripe tomato. At least the lordling looks innocent. Now if you wouldn’t mind peeling yourself from beneath my darling cousin’s frock, thank you, thank you, I’ll have you know there’s royalty on the way. So you best as rise and get yourselves to dress. I shan’t think we’ve long. And supposing the smell of those bloody Gorjes don’t as drive him off, I dare say this could be rather interesting.”

  Someone yelled something from beyond the tent and Rowan leaned out again long enough to nod. “Alviss says to get your finest abouts you. Your brother’s riding with him, by and by. The Brickheart, too. Nine good fingers and everything.” Still grinning, he let the tent flap slip, and was gone.

  “Well.” Essa turned, wielding the word before her
like a sword. Their time was over. She leaned over, grabbed for her pants. “It is feeling a might bit chilly, anyhow.”

  “There are other ways to warm ourselves than clothes.”

  “But not such healthy ways to honor an emperor.” She reached out and slapped at his thigh. “Up, now. And be sure you don’t send him the same salute.”

  They dressed dutifully, much to Rurik’s chagrin, and stumbled out the flap of the tent as the first of the Emperor’s entourage rode into one of the communal areas of Witold’s camp. They made for it at a jog, Essa quickly outpacing him, and he all the while trying to fiddle her hair into something less resembling chaos. One only met the Emperor once, after all, and if the Emperor didn’t take offense, Ivon damn well might.

  To either side of the Emperor moved twenty soldiers in full armor, with pistols and pikes. Wedged between them were a host of other attendants and noblemen, dressed more for dinner than for war, but Matthias himself was shadowed by the white cloaks of the Imperial Guard. There were three in all. The rest would be back at Anscharde, with his heirs. Recalling childhood stories of the men, Rurik tried to see beneath their open helms, and to name them, but their faces turned away from him.

  At the head of the procession, two soldiers carried horns, which they blew in quick succession, as the rest of the palace guard fanned out amongst the crowd. It was a diverse gathering, to be sure. The Gorjes, among whom the Company regrettably stood, were a disorganized mob leisurely pressing at the outskirts of the grounds. The men from Verdan, as well as the rest of Witold’s bannermen, stood in columns, neat and orderly, pressed five and ten abreast and silent as statues, their captains rigid at their sides.

  Alviss found them quickly enough and dragged them over to where Rowan and Chigenda stood watching. Rowan fawned over the horses and the men and the glitter of their pampered clothes as surely as a prepubescent girl, whilst Chigenda looked on in only guarded interest, eyes for the Emperor alone. The rest, to him, would be as so many cattle.