Old Broken Road

by Alexander, K. M.

  I felt sorry Wensem was going to miss this catchup session. He liked to reminisce.

  I walked over to them. “Afternoon. Mind if I join you?”

  “Wal!” said Agata, rising and embracing me in a big hug. Holding my arms, she looked me up and down, the way my ma does when I step through her front door. I half-expected Agata to tell me I wasn’t eating well enough and I needed to relax more. “How’ve you been?”

  “Good. Good,” I said, nodding as I slid into the booth next to her and smiled at Berkus.

  “Wal,” said Berkus, his voice impassive. He extended a hand to me, which I shook.

  Apparently Agata and Berk were a couple, which was hard to imagine. They were rarely seen together outside taverns and worked different companies. A mutual acquaintance said they had a son together, but I hadn’t ever seen or heard mention of the boy, and I wasn’t going to ask. People’s personal business is their business, and I wasn’t sure how much truth was in the stories. Caravaneers are a gossipy lot. I always figured if it was important enough, they’d let me know.

  Agata was always warm and friendly, bubbling over with laughter. Berk, on the other hand, was cold and quiet, staring down unruly men with his heavy-lidded eyes and permanent sneer. Wensem called him “Smiler” as a joke.

  “Odd seeing you in Meyer's Falls,” noted Berk, taking a drink from a pale beer. I waved for the bartender.

  “You trapped on the east side as well?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’m here for client work,” I said, hoping they didn’t press it. I was tired of talking about Shaler and the Broken Road.

  “Wensem still with you?” asked Berk.

  “Yep. He’s with the laager,” I said. “What brings you two here? You still running the eastern circuit, Agata?”

  “Indeed I am,” said Agata, drawing a circle in the air with her index finger, as if tracing the route. “It’s my twelfth year. Finished up here yesterday; heading east tomorrow. The normal load, sundries mostly. A few antiques I was hoping to pawn off on a caravan heading west.”

  “Good luck with that,” Berk growled, burying curses in his glass.

  “Indeed,” I said. “You might find buyers in larger cities. I just came from Syringa.”

  “I haven’t been there in months,” Agata said. “How is it with the—you know—the news.”

  “Never seen the city so crowded,” I admitted. “A lot of companies are trapped on this side of the Grovedare. The roaders are getting bored….” I let the sentence trail off.

  “Now that you mention it, I’ve never seen the circuit so busy,” said Agata. “I can’t remember the last time Meyer's Falls had more than one caravan at laager, let alone five.”

  “Six,” I said, tapping my chest.

  We were interrupted by the bartender, who nodded quietly when I placed my order for vermouth on ice and ordered a second round for Agata and Berk.

  “You still drink that vile stuff?” asked Berk. I nodded, and he shook his head and sighed.

  Agata pulled the conversation back. “Usually in autumn the circuit trade drops, caravans return to their home cities for the winter. With so many folk trapped on this side, and with this late summer heat, we’re still pulling a decent trade. Caravans are crawling over each other.”

  “I wouldn’t be displeased with good business. Better than a lot of folk these days.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining,” said Agata. “Just surprised. Pleasantly surprised.”

  “How about you, Berk?” He liked rough jobs that required gunfire. He could keep ’em.

  Berk grunted. “The First’s writhing carcasses, damn this town, damn all these towns. They all seem to have more caravans than clients. I haven’t found work in weeks! Hit all the northern towns, and now we’re casting our eyes south. My crew's getting quarrelsome.” He motioned to the two bufo’anur at the bar, now more than halfway into their bottle.

  “You running a circuit, Wal?” asked Agata.

  I shook my head, almost too embarrassed to answer. “No. Just the typical fare.”

  “Not Victory then?” joked Agata.

  I shook my head again and laughed. “No. It’s boring work. I’ll probably run into you again.”

  Agata smiled.

  “Carter’s cross,” Berk swore, suddenly slapping the table. “You hear about Seven Wains?”

  I shook my head. “Should I have?”

  “You probably didn’t know them. They were a Hellgate outfit. Mastered by… what’s his name?” Berk looked at Agata.

  “Gilman,” Agata said.

  “Right, Gilman.” Berk snapped his fingers. “Gilman… it’s probably for the best, the guy was an asshole. Anyway—” He took a sip from his beer.

  “What did he do?” I asked. Berk swallowed three times, almost draining the glass.

  “Took the North Road,” Berk said, his voice flat, eerie. According to some superstitions, calling the Broken Road by its rightful name can conjure up curses or raise demons. It’s nonsense, but Berk is as superstitious as they come.

  After a beat, he snorted. “I met up with him in a small town east of here. We were having drinks, a bunch of us talking about the lost routes. The Chubbuck, Blue Star, the old Sweetgrass Highway to the east, and the Meriwether Trail to the west. Of course, some shamblebait decided to sour the mood and pipe up about the North Road. Gilman stood up and announced he was going to blaze the trail, prove the stories were nonsense, and wire us when he got to the other side. We all told him to stay, wasn’t worth it, said he was crazy. Nope, even the next morning when he had sobered up, he had made up his mind. He was going to brave it. Show us all how it’s done.”

  “You know the stories,” said Agata, her tone ominous.

  “Starry Wisdom freaks wandering the hills, bloody hauntings, the ghost company,” Berk said.

  “I don’t believe any of that shit,” I said as the vermouth on ice appeared before me. “It’s all trail talk. Lies. Superstitions. That’s it.”

  “Cannibals,” added Agata, ignoring me. “The forest of dead.”

  That was a new one.

  “I beg pardon?” I said, taking a sip.

  “Forest of the dead,” said Agata. Her voice had a brittle sound to it. She was scared. “You haven’t heard of it?”

  “No,” I laughed. “What in the name of the Firsts is that? Sounds like a monochrome serial.”

  “I don’t know much more myself. Overheard a roader talk about it. Said it went on as far as the eyes could see, and it smelled like rot.”

  “What went on?”

  Agata shrugged. “The… dead, I suppose.”

  I snickered.

  “Would expect Gilman is there now,” Berk said blackly. “We never heard from him. He never registered the route. Never sent the messenger he promised. What a fool.”

  “We told him to call off the stupid bet,” said Agata. “He had nothing to prove to us. Why risk it?”

  All this talk about the Broken Road was beginning to bother me. My stomach was churning. The heat in the tavern felt oppressive. It was probably the vermouth. Wasn’t autumn supposed to be cooler?

  I was tired of talking about this. Somewhere in the miles between Syringa and Meyer's Falls, I had made my peace with it. I’m a rational man. I don’t go for these stories. I don’t believe in ghosts, hauntings, gods, or the Firsts. I wasn’t raised that way. The rules of the trail were simple: use all five of your senses. Stay alert. Keep a distance between yourself and other travelers. Never stop moving. Trust only your company. Rest only for short periods.

  We’d keep to the rules and emerge at the other end.

  At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

  SIX

  THE NOISE BEGAN ABOUT A WEEK DOWN THE BROKEN ROAD.

  We had lingered at Meyer's Falls for a few days. Shaler’s luck had been poor and she had sold nothing. Agata and Berkus left, leading separate caravans away from the town. I wished them well, but their story sat heavy on my mind. The tale of the fool who
went missing while trying disprove the superstitious stories. Probably got himself killed. Would they be telling the same story about my company? Would the name Bell replace the name Gilman?

  The heat lingered in spite of the blanket of clouds that settled over us and threatened rain. I worried that we’d be facing thunderstorms. We broke laager and began the hike westward. The Rediviva’s level was what I expected—barely a trickle this far north—and the caravan crossed easily enough.

  The road itself was rough, but manageable. Weeds had broken through its ancient crust and generations of weather had turned it to a scratch of gravel mingled with large broken chunks of crumbling asphalt. The chunks almost seemed magnetically attracted to the cargowain wheels for as many times as they smashed against them.

  The road condition had slowed down the caravan, and we began taking shifts in pairs, walking in front of the column to push aside any chunks that could damage the wains. A broken wheel or a broken axel could set us back days, and with the perishable cargo, I wanted to make the best time possible.

  We covered maybe ten miles a day, twelve if we were lucky. Shaler was annoyed, but there wasn’t much she could do but sulk in her prariewain and make snide comments whenever I passed. At least we were moving.

  Five days into our trip Hannah had returned, boots muddy, pants stained with road dirt. She wore her keff pulled up and around her head as a close-fitting turban. She met Wensem and I at the head of the column as we took our shift clearing debris. She had left a few days before the caravan, heading into the Broken Road to scout ahead. Her report started as expected. The road would continue to be rough, a few downed trees cross the trail, and then she mentioned something else. Something strange.

  “I keep seeing figures in the distance,” she explained.

  “Bandits?” asked Wensem, shouldering his rifle.

  “Not sure. If they are, they’re strange-looking bandits. They wear these long robes that billow around them, and on their heads are these tall pointed hoods. All black. Haven’t been close enough to see them real clear. They’re like a shadow.”

  Shadow. I shuddered, thinking of my run-ins with Zilla—an umbra, one of the race of living shadows—back in Lovat. Her wicked straight razor, her murderous glowing gaze. All the people dead by her hands, so much bloodshed. Samantha had killed the damn thing, blasting a bullet into her head with the Judge that now hung at my hip.

  “Could it be road priests?” I asked, pushing a chunk of asphalt off the trail with the toe of my bad leg. It hurt, but it was easier pushing with the bad leg and putting weight on the good one.

  “I’ve never seen a road priest dressed like that,” Wensem said. “At least not from any faith I know.”

  “Think they’re from something new?” I asked. His anger had eased as the trail proved quiet. Wensem didn’t meet my eyes for very long. Though our conversations were still short, I was glad that Wensem and I were talking again.

  Wensem shrugged. “Maybe we ask Samantha.”

  Hannah continued, chewing on a strip of jerky as she spoke. “I’ve seen ’em five times now. Always in the distance. Always just… standing there. It’s unnerving. Whatever they are, they were watching me, crouching along the ridges like some kind of gargoyles. It’s best we stay on our guard.”

  “I’ll tell the Lytle twins,” said Wensem with a sigh.

  “I’ll talk to Sam. See if she knows anything about these… gargoyles. Hannah, thanks. You go get yourself a bowl of Taft’s chili and take a load off.”

  Wensem nodded, patting the scout on the shoulder with a massive seven-fingered hand. She turned and began walking down the column towards the chuckwain.

  “Think it’s trouble?” I asked Wensem after Hannah had disappeared.

  He shrugged, his eyes scanning the hills around us. “Could be.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Could just be locals wondering what in the hell Hannah was doing by herself on the Broken Road. A woman alone like that can make backwood farmers nervous.”

  “You think there’s farmers out here?”

  Wensem shrugged and rubbed his crooked jaw. “Ground is ground. Just because caravans are scared of this trail, doesn’t mean farmers are.”

  “Could be Victory as well, I suppose,” I added, casting a glance northward toward Victory’s wall. It was thirty-five miles north, give or take. Thirty-five miles, but you could feel its presence looming like a monolith.

  “If it’s Victory I’ll eat my hat,” said Wensem. “Unless their patrols have had some serious uniform changes over the years, it’s most likely a local. What did Berk say?”

  “More like what didn’t he say. ‘Starry Wisdom freaks, bloody hauntings, and a ghost company.’” I did my best Berkus Matthison impersonation, allowing my voice to go deep and gravelly. Wensem cracked a grin. It was the first smile I had seen on his face in days and it disappeared quickly.

  “The road looks to be clearing for a spot. I’ll go talk with Sam. You tell your troops and send them up here. It’s about time for someone else to take over the debris for a spell.”

  Wensem frowned. “This is a partnership, Wal.”

  “Sorry… what did—”

  He cut me off. “You keep throwing around orders. Yeah, I’ll go tell my crew, but let’s do less commanding and more asking. Might be your name on the wains, but I am just as responsible for the outcome of this caravan as you are.”

  He turned and walked away before I could respond.

  The road ahead looked remarkably clear of wheel-smashing chunks, so I stopped and let the gearwain catch up, pulling myself up behind Samantha. She was reading a book with yellowing pages and a wrinkled red leather cover. She brought it with her from Lovat, and had been studying it and scribbling in a notebook.

  “How many times have you read that?” I asked. My stomach growled, and I fished around for a piece of jerky in my coat before remembering I had given it to Hannah. I’d have to make a visit to the chuckwain myself, soon.

  Samantha smiled and turned on the bucket seat to look at me. She was covered in road dust, but it seemed to suit her just fine.

  “About three times since Lovat. Working on my fourth pass right now. How’s the trail looking?”

  We crested a hill and the Broken Road stretched out before us, a gray ribbon winding through jaundiced hills. A line of ponderosa pines began to creep in from the North, and in the distance we could see the hazy mountains on the horizon.

  “It’s smoothing out, actually. Seems the roughest parts are in the valleys, where the rain settled and was able to erode the roadway.” I changed the subject. “Hey, I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot,” Samantha said.

  I glanced at Tin, who was focused on guiding the ox over the road. He was still green, and a bit jumpy, but the whole caravan needed to know. Secrets can be poisonous.

  “Hannah has seen, um… someone watching her.” As I expected, Tin tensed a little and glanced over at me before turning his eyes back to the road.

  “Trouble?” Samantha asked, her voice laced with trepidation of her own.

  “Not sure,” I admitted. “These folk have an odd description. Wensem and I don’t think they’re bandits, or Victory patrols, so I’m not sure if it’s anything to worry about. Might have a religious bent to it; figured we’d ask you.”

  “I told you having a priestess along would prove handy,” said Samantha.

  I chuckled and ran my hands through my hair.

  “What’s the description?” asked Tin, his voice cracking as he studied the land around us.

  “Hannah said they wore black robes, and they had tall pointy hoods. She’s never seen them up close, mind you, always from afar so they’re silhouetted against the sky. They watch her from atop a hill or a ridge, but by the time she gets to where they were standing they’ve disappeared.”

  “Creepy,” said Tin, drawing out the word.

  I nodded and looked at Samantha, who had begun to chew the nail on her smalle
st finger as she thought about it.

  “Well, my first assumption would be Reunified road priests, though they don’t wear pointed hoods. We can rule out Deepers, Curwenites, and Eibonians as well. None of them go for black,” she said. “She’s sure the robes were black?”

  “Yeah, she saw them five times over a period of three days. Always black, always in hoods, always in the distance, watching, and then—poof—gone.” This discussion was even starting to make me a little nervous. Seeing strangers on the road wasn’t uncommon, but the actions of Hannah’s gargoyles seemed deliberate. The weird costumes and our isolation this far down the Broken Road didn’t help.

  “Hasturians maybe?” asked Tin. “I have a cousin who converted. He wears robes all the time. His are yellow, though.”

  “No, it doesn’t sound Hasturian. Not wearing black. Also, no hoods,” said Samantha her voice distant; thinking. “Interesting.”

  I waited, but Samantha didn’t have any more answers in her. At least not right now.

  “Well, if something comes to mind, let me know. I'm gonna pass the word down the caravan. Make sure everyone’s keeping an eye out. Could be scouts. If they’re bandits, they’re funny dressed ones.”

  I moved to slip off the gearwain when the noise began.

  It was a feeling at first. A rumble deep in the earth that quavered up my feet and legs. I could feel it in my knee.

  “B-boss,” said Tin, his voice cracking.

  “What’s that?” I heard Samantha say.

  It came low, like a deep mechanical hum, but rose into a weird undulating chuckle as it filled the air. It was impossible to tell its origin. It echoed across the rolling hills like thunder.

  The sound had a wavery, raspy quality, but several octaves beneath the rasp was a heavier sound, like metal moaning, bending, and then tearing. It rose in waves, growing louder and louder.

  The oxen began to bellow.

  My ears ached.

  It repeated itself over and over, like the beat of some giant chaotic set of drums. I could feel it shaking the ground.