Hollow Road

by Dan Fitzgerald

  “Sinn, it’s been too long! You are looking well, quite well indeed!” He touched her face, a gesture she never would have accepted from Carl, not that he would have tried.

  “Well, apparently that makes three of us. Who knew a few years would make such a difference? Say, nice tattoo.” Sinnie put her hand on Finn’s, her fingers sliding down to his wrist, which was covered in swirling lines and dots. He quickly slid his hand under the table.

  “It’s their way of marking their property, I guess. But what’s this I hear about you running off with the circus?”

  “It’s a traveling show, Hertle’s Amazing Variety Theater. You might have heard of it, if you hadn’t spent the last three years in study.”

  “Well, we did hear a thing or two about the outside world, none of it good, to be sure.”

  They sat in smiling silence for a moment, then Carl signaled the barkeep. “Are you hungry?” he asked Sinnie. “The drabbath is...well, it’s not the very worst thing I’ve eaten.”

  Sinnie smiled and nodded. Living on the Isle for the last year, she’d become accustomed to it.

  The tavern boy brought her drabbath and three ales, and Carl dropped a handful of pennies on his tray. The boy bowed and disappeared.

  “To Theo,” Carl said, and they clonked their wooden cups together. Carl’s face showed genuine sadness, masked though it was behind his soldier’s façade. Finn stared thoughtfully at the tavern wall, his expression impossible to read, but Sinnie knew Finn had a special respect for Theo. Perhaps they knew each other better than she was aware. Sinnie hadn’t known Theo very well herself, as he’d spent half the year in study from the age of eight, but his death at such a young age touched her nonetheless. They drank, then sat in silence.

  “Do they...I mean, what exactly...” Sinnie looked at Carl, then back at Finn.

  Carl shook his head. “Mr. Leavitt only said he was killed on mission. What that means...” he stared down into his drink, then raised it to his lips. “Theo and I hadn’t really kept in touch of late. Right before he moved on from study, he wrote me a letter. Said he would be in training somewhere on the Isle’s north coast, and after that, who knows?”

  “Sounds like he might have been with the Ward,” Finn chimed in.

  “Is that really even a thing?” Sinnie asked, her head cocked to one side. “I heard it doesn’t exist, that it was a brilliant piece of propaganda invented by one of those ministers to keep people off guard.”

  “It exists.” Finn looked down into his drabbath for a moment.

  “Look at you, privy to all the little dark secrets of the world,” Sinnie said, glancing again at his wrist, which he left on the table this time. His tattoo might have been some kind of writing, but there weren’t any letters she could recognize.

  “I’m just an adept; they don’t tell us anything. But I’ve heard it mentioned by those who would know. And Theo would have been the perfect candidate. Even as a kid, he...could do things.”

  Carl nodded, frowning into his cup. “I believe it. It’s the only thing that really makes sense, based on what Mr. Leavitt said. Theo wasn’t a diplomat, as far as I know, and he wasn’t in the service, so what else could ‘on mission’ mean?”

  “Well, speaking of which, I guess we’re all about to be ‘on mission’ come tomorrow morning, no?” Sinnie felt suddenly giddy, and not just with the ale. “What’s the story there?”

  Carl filled them in on the details in his methodical way. They were to pick up a cart containing Theo’s body and some supplies, along with horses for each of them, in the morning. From there it was a little over a week to Brocland. They were to see Theo buried in the family plot, then bring back news from the village, and the fee was a thousand denri, split evenly between them.

  “A thousand denri, for three weeks’ work? That’s...” Sinnie was at a loss. A person could live comfortably on half that amount for a year, even on the Isle.

  “Indeed,” Carl said. “Mr. Leavitt seems to think there may be some risk.” He looked Sinnie in the eyes as he said it.

  “In traveling to Brocland?” Sinnie asked, half incredulous, half nervous.

  “I know,” Carl said again. “But still...Have you heard any news from the village?”

  Sinnie shook her head, turned her cup in a circle on the table. She hadn’t had a letter in close to two months, and her mother was a faithful letter writer. Hertle’s troupe was well known, so there was no way she would miss two in a row.

  “You?” Carl glanced up at Finn, who shook his head. “Nor have I,” Carl said. “So I think we have reason to be wary.”

  “I’m sure it’s just...” Sinnie gave a weak smile before continuing. “Well, in her last letter, my mother did mention people acting strange, saying they had seen things.”

  “What kind of things?” Carl asked, his face dark, serious.

  “She didn’t really say, but she said people were...spooked, somehow.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But you know people in the village can be a superstitious lot.”

  “Well, if there’s any risk, I have no doubt we’ll be up to the task.” Finn was always one to try to lighten the mood. “After all, we’ve got a real-life circus performer, a fledgling mage with two or three piddling tricks up his sleeve, and a young soldier who spent the better part of the past year camping out in the mud. We’re ready for anything!”

  Carl’s face broke into a grin, and he raised his cup. “Seekers of the South, go forth!”

  They toasted, and the conversation quickly turned to their many childhood adventures playing Seekers in the woods around Brocland, where they faced bandits, pirates, zombies, dragons, ogres, and their favorite enemy, the man-beasts of legend known as the Maer, armed with only their imagination and a few sharp sticks. Before she knew what was happening, Sinnie had a second, then a third ale, swept away as she was in the giddiness of the moment.

  THE WEATHER WAS FINE as they set off for Marshport early the next morning, the sun quickly warming them as it soared up in the sky. They spent the trip catching up; Sinnie regaled them with stories of her life on the road with Hertle’s troupe, Finn told of the strict regime of his life in study, and Carl produced a few stories from his days in the service clearing bandits from Silver Road.

  They talked of the weather, and of the village, and of the many adventures they had together as children. They spoke of what had become of the other kids they had known, some of whom had made their way north to the Isle, while the rest had presumably stayed. They pieced together information from letters they had received and things they had heard from travelers, and this gave them plenty to discuss for the bulk of the morning. One thing they did not discuss was the wooden box that lay, silent and ominous, in their cart. Sinnie noticed that the closer anyone got to the cart, the quieter they became; conversations paused while one of them retrieved something from their packs, resuming in subtler tones once they were well clear of it. Even when they rode without talking, it seemed to amplify their silence.

  They took a cargo ship across the strait to Northport, whose docks handled most of the ships traveling to and from the Isle. They unloaded their cargo and quickly escaped the chaotic port area, stopping at a tavern on the way out of town known for its spicy fish stew, which did not disappoint. They set out in the dwindling hours of daylight to put a few miles between themselves and civilization. The South Road was well-traveled and wide, and as night approached, they made camp in one of the trampled-down areas along the roadside.

  They rode down the South Road for the next day through scrubby farms and pastureland, which eventually gave way to grasslands interspersed with forested areas as they got farther from Northport. Sinnie took her cues from Carl, who seemed relaxed enough, though his eyes were always scanning the horizon. He had asked her and Finn to keep an eye out behind them, but the rhythm of the horse and the squeaking of the cart wheels lulled her into daydreaming. When she remembered, she swiveled her head around to look behind her, but there was never anything there. The S
outh Road, which was called the North Road to those traveling from the south, allowed for easy travels, with the occasional caravan or smaller group of travelers punctuating the pleasantly empty countryside.

  On the following day, as the South Road headed into hillier, more forested terrain, they passed through the town of Pontival, where a wide bridge crossed the Little Low River, a branch of the larger Low River to the east. Sinnie smiled when she saw a trio of entertainers surrounded by a small crowd in the town square. There was a singer, a lute player, and a juggler, and they looked to be doing a version of the Seven Sins of Belthus, a favorite of Hertle’s troupe as well. She wished she could stop and enjoy their little show, all the more endearing for its amateurish nature. But Carl showed no signs of slowing, and she knew how he felt about spending money unnecessarily. So they continued through the town, past the point where Plains Road headed off to the east.

  “We should reach Silver Road in three days,” Carl said, as if they hadn’t all made the journey several times before. “From there on out, we’ll have to be more careful.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sinnie said, saluting him. He shot her a scowl, and she stuck her tongue out at him, drawing out a smile this time.

  “It’s all fun and games until someone gets ambushed and slaughtered by bandits.” Finn chipped in. “Speaking of which, is that what we’re thinking? Why we haven’t heard from Brocland? Maybe they’ve been robbing people on Hollow Road or something, so the letters aren’t getting through?”

  Carl squinted into the distance, made as if to spit, then didn’t. “Could be. Bandits usually aren’t interested in letters, though I guess if you got enough of them they’d be worth something.” Letters generally cost a penny to send and a penny to receive, and travelers would buy, sell, and trade them along the road.

  “Maybe they’ve just been killing people and dumping their bodies, and their letters, down the valley so no one knows what happened to them.” Finn had a way of saying such dark things in an oddly lighthearted way.

  “When bandits start killing, the Realm gets involved, so it doesn’t happen very often,” Carl said, frowning. “I was on bandit duty on Plains Road a while back, all because the nephew of someone important was wounded while resisting the bandits there. We swept the whole road, from Kenneton to Altvel, and chased down every lead. Turns out there was one group of about ten men, and I’d rather not say what happened to them, but you can bet every bandit in the whole of the continent has heard about it.”

  Sinnie chewed on her lip. She had heard about it too, how a contingent of Realm soldiers had tortured the bandits and hung them in the trees to be picked at by crows. She couldn’t imagine Carl doing something like that, but then again, she couldn’t really imagine anyone doing something like that, and she preferred not to try.

  “Well, maybe there’s been an avalanche or something, that’s blocked the road,” she offered.

  “Sure,” Carl replied, “but they’d find a way over or around it sooner or later.”

  “So what, then? Fairies? Maer? Ogres? Giants? A dragon?” Finn’s eyes sparkled.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Carl said. “I just hope we’re ready. If Mr. Leavitt is worried, we should be too.”

  “WE’LL CAMP HERE.” THERE was doubt in Carl’s voice. The forest was thick, and though there was an ample clearing used by many people before, it would be easy for someone to sneak up on them during the night. “I’ll take first watch. Finn, if you don’t mind, take second.” Finn raised two fingers and smiled. “Sinnie, are you good with third?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “And it’s okay if Finn wants to show off his training by taking a longer shift.”

  “Consider it done.” Finn bowed, holding his hands together.

  “No need to coddle her just because she’s a girl,” Carl said.

  “For the record, I’m a woman, but you’re right. There’s no need to coddle me because of my gender. But there might be a need to coddle me just because I really, really like my sleep.” Sinnie blinked her eyes with exaggerated innocence, hoping neither of them would take it as flirtation. She was pretty sure Finn preferred men, and if Carl were still harboring a crush on her after all these years, he would just have to get over it.

  Carl left to do a sweep through the woods while Finn and Sinnie set up camp.

  “Hey, you know what’s weird?” Finn’s flint and steel shot sparks onto the dried leaves and pine needles until they came to life. Sinnie tossed a few thin sticks over toward him, waiting for him to continue. “I know this is going to sound...gross or whatever, but have you noticed how the coffin doesn’t really stink?”

  Sinnie continued collecting sticks, thinking about it. She hadn’t noticed any smell, but she might have been unconsciously holding her nose whenever she got close to it. “Yeah, I guess,” she said, dropping a few more small sticks on the pile and widening her circle to find some bigger ones.

  “I’m telling you, it barely smells at all. I mean, if you get close, like a foot or two away, you can smell some herbs, and something a little rotten, but not the full stench of a decomposing body. After three days or so, they really start to reek. And this one?” He dropped the stick he was holding on the fire and walked over to the cart, holding his nose near the coffin and inhaling deeply. His nose wrinkled, and he held a finger in the air. “Okay, it does stink a bit, if you really get in there, but it’s nowhere close to what it should be.”

  “Well, maybe they used some, I don’t know, perfumes and oils and what-not.”

  “Yeah, but they would have to...” he crept closer to her, lowering his voice to near a whisper. “They would have to eviscerate him, literally take out everything, the heart, the stomach, the—”

  Sinnie waved him away. “Okay, no need to make a list, I get what everything means. So, fine, maybe they did that.” She’d vaguely heard of such practices overseas, but they were considered barbaric. “Or maybe,” she whispered, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him in close, “they used magic!” She let go with a giggle.

  “I mean, it’s possible, but either way, that would be incredibly expensive. I mean, astoundingly.”

  “Isn’t Gerald Leavitt one of the richest men on the Isle?”

  Finn rubbed his beard. “I see your point. But still, don’t you think it’s weird, that—” He stopped when he saw Carl coming back with an armful of wood and a serious face.

  “There are no obvious tracks for a hundred yards on either side of the trail,” Carl said, dropping the wood near the fire, “so I don’t think there’s anyone out there waiting for us. We’ll just have to keep a sharp ear out, maintain a low fire, but get ready to put in this leafy branch if something goes down. It’ll blaze right up, as long as it stays dry.” He looked at the darkening horizon, which didn’t look particularly menacing.

  “Journey cake, anyone?” Finn held out the box like a jeweler displaying his merchandise. Unless Sinnie could shoot some game along the way, journey cakes would likely be their only sustenance until they got to Brocland. Carl waited for Sinnie to take one before he picked his up and crammed half of it into his mouth. Sinnie took a small bite, like dipping her toe into cold water; she never got used to the mash of figs, suet, and breadcrumbs. One good thing about traveling with the show was they had a pretty good cook, and they seldom ate the exact same thing two days in a row.

  “I’ll see if I can shoot something in the morning,” she suggested. “I’ve seen squirrels; maybe there are rabbits or something out there.”

  “Well, since you’re on third watch, maybe if you sit nice and still you might surprise one at dawn,” Carl suggested. “I’d be happy to dress it for breakfast if you do. But as much travel as these woods get, you can bet most of the game that hasn’t been eaten has learned to steer clear of the road.”

  “Critter breakfast it is. Count on it.”

  Chapter Three

  Finn scrambled to his feet when he heard the squeal, picking up his staff and holding it sideways i
n front of him with two hands as he tried to blink himself awake.

  “There’s a pretty thing,” Sinnie said, fitting an arrow into her bow as she ran off into the forest. Finn’s left leg was half asleep, but he followed her, clumsily. He heard the squeal again, followed by a low grunt that turned into a plaintive wail. He heard Carl crashing through the branches behind him and stepped aside to let him pass; Carl was half-dressed with his sword in hand. He saw Sinnie stop, aim, and fire, and the noise ceased. A brown heap lay quivering on the forest floor, a boar piglet with three arrows in its side, oozing out its life’s blood.

  “Wait,” Carl said, holding up his hand, then pointing farther into the forest. “Two more, over there, a sow and another piglet.” He crouched, tensed his sword arm. “Don’t move. And be ready.”

  Sinnie notched another arrow and pointed toward the sow, which was the size of a barrel of ale. Finn gripped his staff, slowed his breathing, and shifted his stance until he found his center. The sow emitted a roaring squeal, and Finn had to grasp the staff extra tight to re-center himself. The animal scratched and tramped the ground and let out an extended grunt that sounded like an enormous belch.

  “Back away slowly,” Carl said, keeping low and taking two small steps back. Sinnie followed suit, as did Finn, losing his center with each step but regaining it once he stopped. The sow ran to the piglet, which lay about thirty feet away from them, then turned, raising its bristles to make it look twice its size. Finn heard the creak of Sinnie’s bow as she pulled it back, and the huff of Carl breathing through his teeth.

  Without warning, the sow rocketed toward them, its hooves muffled by the forest floor. Sinnie’s arrow to the chest did little to slow it down, and Carl slashed at its neck with his sword, jumping aside to avoid the charge. The beast swerved toward Finn with a guttural bellow, globs of blood flying from its wounds, its tiny eyes shining with rage.