The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  No one walked with them any longer. The last of their curious onlookers had faded away with the last of the cabins. Verdan was gone, and with it, any trace of the life he once had known. No one offered him their tears. A few offered their laughter, and most their whispers. Nothing more. He thought back bitterly on the moment of exodus, when their escort had rooted in beneath the storm, and remained, still as statues, until they had rounded the bend and vanished into the trees forever.

  He had known them since he was young enough to remember. Both of them. At a time, they would have done anything for him. No more.

  A week had passed, maybe more. The Ulneberg thinned, but its canopies stretched on. Branches rustled at their backs. An animal, he thought, though he knew and he told himself it was no animal. Footsteps crept between the trees, disturbing a flock of birds that had sheltered from the rain. Alviss twisted and called them out, a hand reaching for the bardiche still slung across his back. At first there was nothing, and the boy feared they might have been mistaken—though he knew now they were not—only to face rude awakenings as a hatchet twisted out of the dark.

  Then he was running from something. He was always running from something. But he was a boy, starved and frightened and hollow, and the mud tripped him up and clung to his clothes where he fell, threatening to swallow him whole.

  Alviss stood behind him, shouting for him to run. The bearded northman stood anchored in the soil, pulling his long axe free, scattering the rain as it arced. Someone was coming. Steel flashed in the dark, and then he knew true terror.

  A branch caught him as he fled, and he tripped and fell face first into the muck. On the way down, he twisted his leg and the pain began to flow, and the bones throbbed beneath his skin. It quickly flowed into blissful agony.

  The throbbing in his leg drew Rurik back from the restless dreamscape.

  He blinked through the waking haze, touching a hand to his cheek though he knew from experience the wetness would already be gone. He still sat stretched out from the chair, tempting the looming flames. Flexing his leg drew an immediate spark of pain, but he clenched his teeth against it and shook the annoying limb until most of the sharpness to it had gone. It was stiff, was all. Too long had he allowed himself the lethargy of slumber.

  Essa was still sprawled out on the floor at his feet, but she rolled to face him as he came around. Even before she spoke, he could see the toll of the night was evident on her. She looked like a wisp of herself: pale, haggard, quiet. Some of the light had gone from her eyes and all he could think was how tired she looked.

  A mousy whisper welcomed him back. She sat upright and pulled her legs under her. “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “How long was I…?” They could not afford for him to drift like that.

  She shrugged. “An hour, or thereabouts. I had hoped it would be longer.”

  He winced away from that. Perhaps he read too much into it, perhaps not. There was hurt in it. Instead, he cast about for any sign of Voren. A faint scent of stew hung in the otherwise dry air, but they were alone in the cabin. The baker was nowhere to be had. Rurik’s eyes settled on the far door, pondering if he hadn’t taken to bed.

  How long has he been out of sight? He didn’t like to think of the implications of that. Trusting Essa to watch the baker was a mistake. Not that it had been a conscious decision. Had he kept his wits, he would have kept an eye on the wily creature himself, lest he find opportunity for their undoing. Or an opportunity for anything at all, really.

  “Where is Voren?”

  “Out, for the moment.”

  “Out?” The breath caught in his lungs as the word spilled out. No. Surely not. Surely she had not just said that. He must have been making a face, because Essa stared back at him quizzically. “What do you mean out?”

  She hesitated. “To fetch medicine.” She seemed to roll over the words in her own mind, considering them. Was she uncertain? “He should be back soon.”

  “Essa. I do not need medicine, and surely you do not either. My leg is a touch tender, that is all. You said so yourself. See?” He stretched his leg again for show and did his best not to wince as it flexed. “Why on earth did you let him go? Where did he go?”

  “To Rendes. The herbalist. That smelly lout with the bad knee.”

  “Yes, I remember Rendes. But why? Why did you let him go alone?” Or at all.

  Essa crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “To fetch medicine,” she repeated in a grated tone. It was the same wearied tone she always took when she felt attacked. “Because he wanted to help and there’s nasty men with torches looking for us. He seems to have evaded that little hitch thus far.” When she locked down like this it was nearly impossible to get through to her. Ever. “Why?” She stared him into a standoff.

  Because he’s a traitorous swine, he might have said. There was the matter of stealth as well. Soldiers might have known her, but they were as likely to question anyone rushing through the woods alone at night now. Voren might not have been the one they were looking for, but if they questioned him all the same, he would snap beneath the pressure. No new facade of self-confidence could convince Rurik otherwise.

  Or he might have reminded her of the fact that Verdan was a small town. In small towns, if the guards determined to go door to door, it was not only possible to achieve in a relatively short time—barring the outlying ranches and loggers’ cabins—but there would be no one between their task except for a cooperative citizen or Assal Himself. Without Voren, they had no one to check the door. In his absence, the guards could simply force their way in for a look around, and in the hunt for a fugitive, it was just the course they were likely to take.

  Instead, all he gave her was the seemingly childish assertion that he did not think she should trust so easily.

  “Because I don’t like him.”

  Even as the words came tumbling out, he kicked himself for uttering them. He watched her nostrils flare and her shoulders tense as she coaxed a long, exasperated exhale. If there was one thing Essa could not stand, it was excessive cases of male bravado. Perhaps it stemmed from her own boyish tendencies, but few things pulled one down quicker in her eyes than a flare-up of possessiveness, and in his words he knew that was exactly what she would read.

  Not concern. Not worry for the logical. Not even exhaustion from a night of distress. She would look right through his words and see nothing more than a jealous boy, seeking to possess her. It might have been true. In a sense. Maybe. He did not think of it in such terms, but so what if he was a little defensive? After all, he did…that was to say…

  But now was not the time for that.

  She sat unmoved.

  “Is that all?” Answering would only pull him further down. “Well thank the Maker it is my decision to make. I would not wish to insult you by so wretchedly mucking one of your brilliant decisions.”

  “Essa, I did not mean—”

  “Wait,” and she looked away, following something unseen around and to the door.

  “This is not the time, Essa. Please. I merely meant—”

  “Hush!”

  She held a hand to him and stared off toward the door. Rurik craned his head, trying to hear whatever it was that held her so, but he heard nothing beyond the rattle of shutters and the howls of the breeze. Still, Essa persisted, and her face scrunched in consternation.

  Soldiers? He fretted. She flitted back to him, the look on her face caught somewhere between grave concern and honest confusion. He mouthed a simple what, and met her bemused stare with one of his own.

  “Not sure. Listen. Do you hear that?”

  At first there was nothing but the wind. Only slowly did another sound edge into being. It was faint, lower than a whisper in the storm, but it was there, and it sounded frantic. Words remained a guessing game, but as it neared it became apparent they were not listening for the descending cries of exasperated guardsmen. What they heard were shouts, yet they were not uttered in any sense of tension—but with pr
ide and practice, put to repetition. Whoever spoke was howling out an announcement to any that would hear.

  When it was close enough that they could make out certain words, Essa crept forward.

  “What are you doing?” Rurik asked. Essa ignored him. She pressed a finger to her lips, then headed for the door. He reluctantly followed, but held back as the girl cracked it.

  One never knew who might be lurking just outside.

  From between the houses on the street, the voice spilt in sudden, unobstructed clarity.

  “…and let all mark it! On this day, our Lord Matair doth declare the villainous devil Chigenda to be bound by his hand beneath his walls. The Scourge of the West, rapist of wives, slayer of children and men alike, is to be no more. By his own admission, he has been put to the hands of our Lord Matair and the Lord Assal—the Lightbringer, his lordship on high. Mark it!”

  As the voice rang high on the wind, Essa squeaked and pulled back, slamming the door shut with her back slapped against it. Wide-eyed and panicked, she looked to him.

  “He saw me,” she said. “The messenger caught me staring.”

  “He what?”

  “He saw me standing here. Looking at him. Me!”

  “S-so? Are you sure? What if he didn’t—”

  The thought was cut off by the abrupt rattling of the door by a foreign fist. “Goodwoman, open this door. I speak as messenger to my lord Matair himself. Do not bar me, woman!”

  Essa cast about and back to him, her terror well-apparent. She was looking at him for something to say or do, but when he offered none, all the girl said was “Hide.” Without question, he hastened to one of the straw piles in the corner and buried himself in it, despite the itching ache it elicited along every inch of exposed skin. From the pile, he peered out at Essa, who cracked the door just enough to seem inviting.

  “How may I help you this morning, milord?” she said, letting a touch of confusion play into her voice. “I wish no ill.”

  “And no ill done, goodwoman. Where is Messar Bäcker, if I might inquire? I would have word with him if he is about.” That man’s voice was hearty, thickened with years of practice.

  The lordling knew the voice for Porselt’s immediately. One of his father’s heralds. It was his solemn job to take the day’s news and make it known, day in and day out, come rain or shine. The man also had the personality of a grape, with all the pomp of a blooded prince. It was a terrible mix.

  “I’m afraid he is about for the evening. Left me to tend a stew till he returns. Might I ask what you are about?”

  “I see. Pity. And lately risen.” The whinnying of a horse overran the man’s voice, and there was a pause as he lectured the beast, somewhere out of Rurik’s sight. “Excusing my manners. I do not mean to trouble you, but I saw you watching, and I wish to be sure all are made known, by whatever means.” He paused there for breath, gathering himself like a soldier for the long march ahead. “My master dispatches me with news. Let the baker and all about you know, goodwoman, that one of the world’s true evils is to be snuffed by our most noble lord. Three days hence the deed shall be done before the crowds, by noose and by knife. He—”

  “So I heard. What is this of—some sorts, a devil? And…execution didst you say?”

  The man stammered, unaccustomed to being interrupted. “I—Chigenda. The Black Devil. Scourge of the West, the terror of Zutam, the…” If he had lost anything to the interruption, he was picking up steam from it now. Rurik rolled his eyes hopelessly. “…I know not why he may have come so far, but whatever the reason, the steel of our soldiers has laid him low, and he has been lain down, clasped in irons.

  “Three days hence, he shall be taken before you all, that you might bear witness to his final judgment. Therewith he will be chastened, for his crimes against your fairer flesh, fair maiden, and he will be offered to the noose, to stand judgment for his crimes against man. Our lord will judge his body, and offer his soul for judgment to great Assal. Lord be praised. And he will be left to hang until the crows peck his flesh aside and bare the fullness of his crimes to the world.”

  Essa swooned, visibly sickened by the description. She pressed a hand to her lips as any fair lady might. “Oh, oh I see. Oh dear. That is good news. Lord be praised. I just—oh goodness…was he alone? Might there be more of them? I…” She looked as though she might faint. Even the herald took a step toward her, intending to catch her. At the last second she caught herself, though, and leaned against a chair. “I dread the thought of even one more Zuti.”

  “Fear not, fair lady. He is the lowliest of souls. None walk with him. None walk for him. He is forsaken, even by his own. He walked alone, and now he shall walk no more. The devil he may be, but even the devil burns.” Even hidden in his itchy pile, Rurik could hear the smug satisfaction in the man’s voice.

  At that, Essa bid the man well and saw him off. Were he someone else looking in, Rurik might have thought her such a sincere soul in her eagerly restated urge to see the Zuti burn. He could imagine the messenger smiling as he swung back on his horse and informed the fair maiden that Assal wills what Assal wills, but their lord would see justice done. Then he was off and away, the clop of his horse’s hooves belittled only by the roar of his voice.

  “HEAR YE! Let all hear and let know…”

  As soon as the door had shut again, Rurik burst from the hay and spent the next several moments picking bits of it from his clothes and hair. Essa smiled faintly as she watched him. “He did not even inquire as to who I was,” she said after a moment, amusement mingling with uncertainty. She remained against the wall, waiting for the man to knock again.

  “Curiosity is not in the man’s nature. He exists merely for the regurgitation of others’ commands. Beyond that, he finds little interest or gain.”

  “Odd fellow.” She said plainly, and waited for Rurik to finish his grooming. Once he had settled, she began a slow circle of the nearest table. “Curious he didn’t mention you.”

  Curious indeed. “I suppose so. Though the Zuti’s a lure.”

  “Just so. Three days is quite a dangle, though.”

  Not for him. Not when he thinks there is no risk. The thought soured him. His father knew him well enough. He knew he would not leave the others. Alviss and Rowan, at the least. Chigenda he would have to play by ear. Do you think me so predictable, father? But it was so, and he knew it. All his urges had him scrambling for just that: a headlong rush into the heart of his opposition, in some vain hope for justice and salvation.

  Even if he managed to fight off the urge, Essa wouldn’t. Perhaps that was what his father banked on. If he remembered her at all, he would know she would not let such offenses go unanswered, and she would lead them both, unplanned and uncoordinated, into a hopeless charge.

  When it came down to it, they were children after all, playing at being heroes. There was literally an army between them and their goal. Rurik could not help but ask himself what he had ever thought to accomplish here.

  Yet he did not understand why his father would withhold word of his presence. Perhaps his lordship did not wish to scare him off.

  Maybe there was more to it. If people knew, then people talked. Perhaps Kasimir did not want it to get out that his son had returned at all. He had already shamed the family once.

  The more Rurik thought on it, the more it made sense.

  He had not been evicted by his father’s whim. When the steel of Kasimir’s sword had turned him out, it had been at the beck and call of Imperial edict. Or ducal edict, though they were much the same. When his supposed crimes had been put before Duke Rusthöffen, it had been that crusty old devil that had cast him out. Not satisfactory enough for the offended Count Cullick, of course, but for everyone else it had seemed more than fair.

  After all, none but the royal family stood higher than the dukes. Their word was final.

  In coming back, Rurik spit in the face of the law, as well as decency, and risked not only his own neck, but the precious honor of
his family as well. Already he had dragged their names through the muck with his indiscretion. This would be salt in the wounds, an irredeemable mark against the blood. His father would not suffer that. He would sooner die than suffer disgrace. If it was true on the battlefield, it was doubly so in his dealings with the intricate squabblings of the court.

  And if Cullick learned the truth, heaven help the man. The count believed an eye for an eye was but a launching point. Whatever the two men meant to one another, as soon as there was any indication of Matair’s defiance of Imperial decree, the man would jump from his seat and wave his fat finger in their faces, crying bloody murder.

  Title could be at stake. Even land.

  The bad blood between Cullick and Witold, to whom Rurik’s father held his banner, was no secret . In the serpentine back-and-forth of the court, it would not be so strange to see Cullick press for Matair’s land as recompense, both to punish their insolence and to pain his rival lord. Witold would fight it, and vigorously, but Cullick held more sway. He was a palatine, after all, answerable directly and solely to the crown. That meant if push came to shove, heads would roll.

  With Rurik’s among them.

  “We should go,” he spoke quietly.

  Essa cocked her head to him conspiratorially. “Go where? And what of Voren?” Breathless, she spun away from him again. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “To the manor. For the others.” She started to object, but he pushed forward before she could get a word in. “The sooner we move, the less prepared he’ll be. He’s set the lure, but Isaak and his will still be scouring the woods for us. That may not be so in a day or two.”

  “Ignoring the insanity of that,” she shot back, “how do you intend to get in? There is literally an army between here and there, so I do not believe a few missing soldiers will be so great a difference.” Then she adamantly repeated: “And what of Voren?”

  “I don’t bloody know ‘what of Voren.’ Let him piss himself waiting for all I care.” The look that stirred from her was utterly venomous. Retreating a pace, he stammered: “A note. We’ll leave him a note. You taught him to read, didn’t you?”