by S A Maus
“It certainly does,” Omer said. “Come, the thought of pie is tempting and we still have a few hours between us. If we make it before nightfall we might taste some this evening.”
Tahr raised a brow at that. “Nightfall? Hold your tongue, Omer! We have a few hours walking, yes, but you are En’shen now.”
“And?” Omer said.
Tahr waved a hand towards Omer’s feet. “Those are not walking legs! You have the wind inside you, Hunter. Let it free!” Then without another word he broke into a run, bounding off with a splash of earth and speed no mere Man could match.
***
The race to Appledor was the first time Omer truly felt the change in his Tested body. His legs, which had not been pressed since leaving Shalim, felt suddenly foreign beneath him. Every muscle was in its familiar, proper place, but his stride ground out the miles with speed he had never known, clearing meters at a time without difficulty. The easterly wind, which had been a nice breeze on the slope, was now a streaming current, a gale of his own making that strained against his clothes. Appledor was coming up fast.
Trees came and went, at first oak and fir, but soon sprinkled with apple trees that had wandered away from the orchards and found a place to grow in the wild. A surprised worker in the field looked up just in time to see a green-gray blur fly by and become a shadow in the trees, unsure what he had just witnessed. Then the wood homes and thatch roofs of Appledor were before them, rimmed with streets of earth and rock and bustling with citizens going about the end of day work. Tahr got there first. Omer swore it was because he had cheated, but the truth was Omer was not yet adjusted to his legs and had been lagging far behind. They both pulled up before a standing line of people outside a small bakery. The people waiting in line looked shocked and confused, and a couple uttered curses unfit for common company. A group of children playing in the clearing beside the line shouted and squealed with glee.
One of the nearest young children suddenly shouted out and ran up to Tahr. “Big Man!” she cried.
“Analise!” Tahr cried, sweeping the girl up into his massive arms as if she were no more than a stalk of wheat. “Look at you. So much bigger than last time I was here. You must have had a birthday.”
The young girl nodded, her blonde locks falling down to hide her beaming smile and rose-tinged cheeks. “I’m six!” she yelled far too loudly.
“Six?” Tahr said. He lowered her to the ground and then knelt beside her. “That is very old. I think I owe you a present then.” He reached behind into his coat and pulled out what Omer surmised was a Byrgryph tooth set in a rope necklace. Analise took it with wide eyes and held it in her hands. “Now back to playing with you. Can’t be missing whatever treat your mother has planned.” He laughed and patted her head, then shooed her back to her mother who was standing with an appraising gaze off to the side of the line. When she had gone he turned to Omer.
“Analise was one of the kids out in the field when I arrived for my last contract here,” Tahr said. “She was hiding behind a tree when the Byrgryph attacked. Poor girl was screaming something crazy, but I arrived in time, thankfully.”
“You have won a friend, then,” Omer said.
“Won? I suppose. She remembers me now, at least, but who can say if she will smile at my coming in fifty years, or a hundred, if she even lives. But I will still be here, barely changed, still Hunting,” Tahr’s face fell. “Sometimes the burdens and the joys are too closely entwined.” Then his eyes raised and he smiled. “Of course, I could die tomorrow and all that would be for nothing,” he laughed, though Omer did not find it funny.
“She will remember,” Omer said. “She will remember and she will remind her children, and their children, that Hunters still do good for the world. You will be a story by candlelight. The Big Man who saved the princess. We need more memories like that. The people forget Hunters too quickly these days. I doubt Timmelan will even know what we are. Most have never seen a Hunter so far north. We’ll just be a Walker to them, even if Gaul was born there.”
Tahr nodded his head as he watched the fleeting blonde locks that disappeared into the line of hungry Appleins. He smiled, the late sun seeming to shine brighter on him for just a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Hunters will be remembered in Appledor, even if only for another generation. But after that, who will remember us?”
“There are always monsters to Hunt, and people to remember our Hunting,” Omer said.
“Maybe, but will there always be a Hunter to Hunt?” Tahr said. Then he brightened up suddenly, as if he had thrown off a dark coat, and slapped Omer on his shoulder. “We are being too gloomy. Look, the bakery is still open and the run has made me hungry. We should get in line.”
So they did, stepping to the back of the line outside the bakery, which had a sign that read ‘Applefarms Cook’ and had a symbol of an apple pierced by a knife beneath it. There were many whispers exchanged by the line-waiters, but the general attitude seemed pleasant and no one gave them an evil look or sneered. Hunters were welcome in Appledor, even if the people were wary. After all, Hunters rarely appeared unless danger was near.
They had been waiting in line for a few minutes when an elderly man a few places up turned about. He was a homely fellow with a long scar over his right eye hidden behind drooping gray hair, smiling and friendly, with a mouth that had too few teeth. “Danger round comin’?” the man asked. A few of the other Appleins turned with him and leaned in for the answer.
“No, nothing dangerous!” Tahr declared, much to their relief. “Only passing through. Omer here is a newly sewn Hunter, and new heroes need the best pie in the North.”
“Bite me, for real?” the man said. “Congratulations on order, good sir,” he bowed to Omer. “I’ll put’n a good word fer ya. Get the best pie put side, if ya know me.”
“Thank you, sir,” Omer said.
Another head popped out suddenly, this one of a younger woman, perhaps thirty years of age, with dark hair and grim eyes set on a pretty face that was weighed down by lingering sadness. She looked straight at Omer as if she knew him, though Omer was certain he had never met her before. “Are you Omer of Shalim?” she asked.
“I am,” Omer nodded with a frown. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, miss, for I do not know you. Have we met before?”
The lady stepped out of line then, a shocking thing to hungry bystanders who could not imagine giving up so precious a place, and she walked up to Omer. It was then he saw she was wearing a dress of green and gray, much like the cloth that Hunters wore, and that it had been stitched recently. She stopped only a few inches from Omer, thrusting her chin up towards the Hunter, her eyes locking on his own. She inhaled deeply before she spoke. “Did you know the Hunter Gaul?”
Omer frowned. He looked once more to her dress, which seemed more familiar with every glance, and then back to her. “I did,” he said, unwilling to reveal his friendship to a stranger. “He was a Hunter somewhat older than I. Why do you ask of him?”
The lady swallowed and clenched her jaw. Her hands wrapped in fists at the edge of her dress. “Does he speak of me?” she asked.
“Speak of you?” Omer said with a frown. “Apologies, fair lady, but I do not even know your name; how could I know if he speaks of you?”
“Benahia,” she said firmly. “Benahia Minfellow.”
“I have heard no such name,” Omer said.
Immediately Benahia’s face fell. She let out a soft “Oh,” and began to turn about.
Omer raised his hand quickly. “I have not spoken to him for a very long while,” he said. “No one has, in fact. He died some time ago.”
Benahia halted suddenly. A wide, blank stare drew over her face. “Dead,” she whispered. Her hands tightened around the cloth upon her dress, an act that did not escape Omer’s attention. Her lip began to quiver.
“Yes, he fell fighting a distant foe,” Omer said. “Why do you speak of him? Did you know Gaul?”
Benahia did not answer. She stood trem
bling, her hands gripping at her skirt. Finally, she seemed to gather her courage, or so Omer thought, but instead of speaking, she turned on her heel and walked off to the east, passing through a small line of trees and into the village proper, becoming lost amidst the high wood homes and the wandering folk of Appledor.
“That was strange,” Omer said. “Who was that?”
Tahr shrugged, but the old man that had first greeted them spoke up. “There was Gaul’s gal,” he said. “Wedding coming, I think; but he off and gone away, leave her all waited in the home.” He shook his head and pursed his lips up into a sad frown. “Shame and all. She done loved him something fierce. Kept standin’ by the edge of town every night, what til’ recent. Gave up, thinkin’. Done made that dress outta his coat or something. Poor gal.” Then he turned back around and resumed his place in line, whistling as if nothing odd had happened.
“Wedding?” Omer whispered. “Gaul was going to marry?”
Tahr hummed a moment, crossing his arms across his massive chest and furrowing his brow in thought. “No En’shen has been married in over a hundred years,” he said quietly.
“I remember, Taillus told us during a history lesson,” Omer said. “But even the last to do so were both En’shen. When is the last time a Hunter married a commoner?”
Tahr bit his lip and looked to the sky. “Five hundred years, at least,” he said. “Hunter married a lady from Druaith, I believe. Bolligard was his name. But I am not sure if the story is true. Bolligard rarely left the wild and his Cost made him a bit mad. Could have made the whole thing up. Either way, it was before my time and he died long ago.
“Gaul though… Gaul did not strike me as the sort to break tradition. That is a heavy burden for any En’shen to bear. He was young, and youth can make one rash, but still...” He looked at Omer. “You knew him better than I. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know,” Omer said, and it was truth. The contract itself had been a strange and curious thing, but Gaul had never been one for odd behavior. He clenched his fist, his Cost rushing through him suddenly as he dwelled on the odd tidings.
Thankfully, he did not have to dwell on the mystery long. The line was moving swiftly and they were now at the door. A tart scent wafted out and into their noses. It smelled like apple and bread and sweet things, and the laughter of patrons enjoying a meal was atop it. Soon they would have their prize, though Omer had a feeling he would not enjoy it as he should.
“We should find this Benahia in the morning,” Omer said. “She has a story to tell, I am sure. If Gaul really was to be married… then maybe a ghost is not the strangest thing we will find on this journey.”
“Ai, but first: pie!” Tahr declared. They stepped through the door and were staring at a counter of sweets and pastries. Behind the counter was a wide-set woman with curly black hair that fell out from beneath a white bonnet. She was handing out food as fast as the orders came in, and beside her, a thin old man (her husband, they assumed) with a wide-brimmed hat and toothless smile grabbed the coin for payment. She was a blur of smile and food, beckoning everyone to come back for seconds if they could. Business was good tonight.
“What is the special, Mariea?” Tahr asked when they arrived.
“Tahr!” the woman threw her hands up and nearly fell over the counter reaching for the huge Hunter. When she had squeezed him once she rocked back to a stand. “I heard talk of Hunters standing in my line, but gosh on me if I knew it was Tahr a’visitin. What brings ya’ll down from your place? Not another gryph, I hope.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Tahr declared. “We are on a longer journey. To Timmelan, actually. But we could not pass up a chance for pie.” He winked.
“Timmelan?” Mariea said with a scowl. “Them are dark folk. Had one of them here not a few months ago. Kept talkin’ ‘bout his Hill and how great it were; but didn’t sound so special to me. And don’t ya know he took not a single pie with him? Rude!” Then she raised her brow and her smile returned. “But I know my Tahr. You want a whole one, don’t ya?”
Tahr could not hide a wide smile at that. “Two,” he said. Then he waved at Omer beside him. “You have two Hunters tonight, and we eat for four.”
“My pies are made for six,” Mariea frowned.
“Oh,” Tahr said. “Well, we will eat for twelve then.” He laughed, Mariea laughed with him, and Omer stood off to the side in confusion, wondering what exactly Gaul had been doing in the quaint little village of Appledor.
Chapter VI
The Weight of Duty
Hours later, the two Hunters were still sitting in the little bakery. The rest of the patrons had gone home, grumbling a satisfied sound that only full-bellied people make, but Tahr had lingered, and Omer with him, seeing as he had nowhere else to go. Tahr had spent most of the night talking to passersby. He was a bit of a celebrity in Appledor, not least for his saving of local children but also for various works he had done over the years. He was especially well-acquainted with Mariea and her husband Tihm, being a regular patron of their bakery when he was in town, and they spent the rest of the evening by a slowly dimming fire talking occasionally of things Omer understood, such as the quality of the North-South road or the strangeness of the weather lately (though it did not seem strange to Omer), and at other times of things Omer did not know much of, such as the Meelen family and their farm, or the way the apples had been growing that year. Finally, Omer was too bored to continue listening. He stood up, bowed to the gracious hosts, and told Tahr he was going to walk about for a time.
The night air was crisp and cool when Omer stepped out into it. Pale darkness had settled on the village, sprinkled with cold stars high above and a rising moon that peeked over the horizon. He realized only then that the hour was late and they must have lost track in their niceties with the bakers; Appledor had fallen asleep.
Despite the calmness of the village, Omer’s heightened ears could hear far off the rumblings of a storm and the howl of winds between crack and crevice. He yet had difficulty placing the sound, but it seemed to be coming from the east. How far away, he could only guess.
From the bakery Omer headed north, passing along a tread stone path beneath the cover of apple trees rustling in a slight breeze that smelled faintly of pine. Before long he was out of the trees and beside a lawn of green grass that sidled the village proper, running right up to a flickering stone road. The lamps had been lit and glowed a dim orange against the night, dancing softly off wood homes. Here and there those homes would send out their own light with candles pressed up against window sills or a cozy fire shifting from behind curtain draws, but the greater part of Appledor was dark and quiet, without a soul walking the street save Omer.
Not wishing to disturb the fine people of the village, Omer turned east and out into the surrounding land. Here the village homes gave way to farms of wheat and apple trees that pressed up against the road. A wooden fence gilded either side, simple and sturdy, keeping wandering feet from treading on delicate crops. Omer smiled when he saw it. Hunters rarely enjoyed peace and quiet, even the novices, but Appledor seemed rich with both. He simply stood for a time between the fences, staring into the wavering night as it bent beneath the wind.
His Cost, however, was less concerned with the tranquil life of Appledor and soon rolled up his arms, causing him to wince and clench his fists. He remembered the pipe Polis had given him and pulled it from his jacket to chew on its end. It tasted of smoke and stale air, but the very act brought him some comfort. He left it propped up in his cheek and continued on.
A few hundred feet down the road the fence on his right changed from sturdy wood into a rough stone brick that rose up to Omer’s waist. The trees behind the fence became thicker, with wooly shrubs cropping into a makeshift hedge just out of reach. Omer thought he was coming to the end of Appledor and passing into the farmlands of Hyrotha, but just as he was about to turn about and make for the bakery once more, the hedge suddenly ended and gave way to a gloomy graveyard. The s
tone fence became topped by iron rungs and the soft glow of the moon reflecting off polished stone shone out. A few more steps down the stone wall broke and became two gates of wrought iron in the form of a curving bell, before it rose and continued once more on the opposite side.
Omer paused there at the gate. He enjoyed a good graveyard, morbid though it may have seemed. The Men of Evermoore treated the dead with special honor and care, often making of their graveyards the best land in a city, even to the detriment of its citizens. Not without cause, of course. To treat a graveyard poorly could invite all manner of evil on a town, as Hunters knew all too well. Idle work as simple as failing to bury a body properly could draw forth a Ghoul or awaken Corpseweed on the earth. Only the barbaric peoples of the uncivilized world dared dishonor their dead, and even then only the cruelest and darkest. In Evermoore, Men buried deeply and with respect.
As Omer stood at the entrance, admiring the well-kept lawn and forged steel bracings that lined each grave (to prevent untimely risers), his eyes passed into the midst of the yard. There was a form near the back of the grave rows, shrouded in a black cloak and hunched over the earth. It was likely a mourner and a woman from her frame, but no Hunter, from novice to En’shen, would dare leave alone a presence in a graveyard in the dark of night.
Omer slipped quietly through the iron gate and onto the cobblestone path that crisscrossed the graveyards length, making sure to step heavily so the distant person could hear him coming. He had no intention of frightening an Applein mourning the loss of a loved one. That would be heartless. Yet, despite his noise, the dark figure did not turn about. It moved about in an odd rhythm, arms pushing aside the cloak as they pulled her and there, though what the figure worked on Omer could not see. It was not until he was only a few paces away and almost ready to reach for his sword that the shrouded form turned about, revealing dark hair and baleful eyes; eyes that were red-rimmed and bleary from long hours of crying. In her hands was a jumble of ribbon and wood pieces.
