The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  But there her interest ceased and peeled away. The scheming minds of the nobility were well enough beyond her, and she rather liked it that way. There was something to be said for simplicity. Never could she bring herself to understand why everyone strove to get away from it. Even Rowan, her own cousin, would not be placated as such.

  She smiled at that. Rowan had always been the fussy sort. She always said the gods had done him wrong, when they brought him into the world. Too many trees, too little silk. He was meant to have been born within the glamour of the city. Fashion should have been his mistress. The idle chatter of the court, perhaps. Art and sculpture and all the excess glories of civilization should have been his birthright. He was a good man, but the simple beauties of nature had been lost on him.

  Had been? When had she started thinking of him so? Had been, as though he were already gone. She shifted nervously against the stone, chiding herself for her stupidity. She cast about, peeking back at Rurik. He seemed to be settling into the low-light, and he was slowly moving down the stairs toward her.

  Had been. She tried not to think of it. She could not think of it. Too much else clung to it.

  “What do you think that was about,” Rurik said as he took a seat alongside her.

  She shrugged, glad enough for the distraction. “Chi-chi, I’d wager. Big praise, that one.”

  “Aye.” The boy nodded, slowly, staring off into the dark. As she watched him, his thoughts seemed to teeter between solemn and thoughtful. After a time, he ventured, “Do you suppose it was to Cullick? We saw his man here before…”

  “No. I don’t.” She closed her eyes and drew deep, savoring the musky mix of alcohol and sweat. It made her head spin a little. “We should go.” She started to rise and pull away from him.

  “Essa,” he whispered hesitantly. She stopped and turned back. His eyes were on the floor, not meeting her own. “When we get upstairs—”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be in and out before they ever know we’ve been about.”

  “No,” Rurik returned, a little more forcefully. “I mean to say…when we’re upstairs, you remember where the cells are, don’t you?” She nodded. “Do you think you can do them on your own? The guards, I mean.”

  “Can I…? What? What are you talking about?”

  Rurik rubbed his hands together. Glanced away. “I think I may have a chance here.”

  The reality of his meaning stripped her voice of its usual warmth. “Absolutely not.”

  “But Es—”

  “If you’re caught, they’ll string you up for sure. Ru, please, let’s focus on what we can do.”

  “I’ll never have another chance at this.”

  “Fine,” she said between grating teeth. “Do what you have to.”

  The boy hesitated. “N-no. Never mind. It was foolish. I shouldn’t—”

  “There’s a lot of things you shouldn’t, Ru, but you still do. Just get us to the cells. From there, at least, you’ll be a fine distraction.” She winced at that. It came out harsher than she had intended.

  The boy grew still for a time, and she dared not look at him. Stupid, she kept repeating over in her head. Whether it was for him, or for her, she could not say. Dust stirred from the cracks above as someone moved through the room beyond.

  Rurik stood up and moved toward her. She kept facing away, even as he slipped his arms around her. She wanted to hit him, or kiss him, or yell at him some more. Nothing happened. She was discomfited by her own sense of quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I’m selfish. I didn’t mean—I’ll help. I’ll take you there. If I see a chance, I’ll take it, but otherwise…” He let the words trail deliberately, and she could feel the disappointment in them. Selfish, yes, but it was the entire reason they had come here. She sighed, feeling her own resistance failing.

  Their friends were all that mattered, but in this one thing, she could not deny him. Nor could he deny himself, she knew, if he saw the chance. The words were little more than show.

  She struck his hands from her belly and started forward without him.

  “We’ll worry of such things when the moment comes.”

  Easing their way into the hall beyond, they found an empty home to greet them. The hall was dark, the paths to left or right silent as a tomb. Essa went first, picking her way carefully toward the nearest door on their right—the chapel. Pressing herself against it, she waited for a sound. There was none.

  Advancing further, she cautiously drew herself toward the wide entrance of the main hall, where light still flickered. There, sound beckoned: hushed tones, too low for others, the softest of mutters to her own ears. It was a conversation, but she cared little for the words—it was the number of participants that mattered. From between the voices she strained out one, then two. She thought she heard a third, stepped a little closer despite a strained beckoning from Rurik, and affirmed it. Then she scurried back to the cellar.

  She wriggled three fingers for him and jutted a thumb out toward the main hall. Nodding, he motioned around behind them, to the hall under the stairs. The jail lay at the other end of the manor, occupying the space opposite the cellar. Utilizing the manor’s hallways, they could evade the main hall entirely, but in those shallow spaces, if a guard saw them, then they were done.

  They headed the other way, passing the manor’s washroom and proceeding left down the servants’ hall. Quiet pervaded the manor all the while. Only a whisper here or there wafted out from beneath a crack. One rumbled with the guttural moanings of a rather pleased pair. Twice a stray footfall set them still as stone, but both times the sound went on, and so did they. Every now and then they stopped to listen to the creaking of boards above their heads, but they did not tarry long.

  Many doors beckoned here, but they led to beds, not cells. Those servants that did not have homes in town kept rooms within these halls, where they might sleep, eat, and live their lives when they were not attending to the family’s needs. Yet the late hour of their calling was a boon here. Matair might have been an owl, but his servants were not, nor did he ask it of them. The household servants were all tucked away within their beds, awaiting the light of the dawning and the aggravating taps of the mother matron.

  All the young pair had to fear were the guards and their steel, and most of them seemed to have been taken by Isaak, or lay slumbering in the town barracks. Verdan had a garrison of more than two hundred souls, but the force en large was kept to the town, to serve as law and order alongside the appointed magistrate, and to act as a deterrent against the already unlikely possibility of invasion from Surin. As best Essa could remember, Rurik’s father kept thirty or so about the manor itself, which was good enough to hold the walls until the garrison could be summoned. A single bell atop the manor could rouse them all at a simple pulling of a string.

  Good for the garrison, bad for them.

  As they neared the bend leading to the cells, a single snort perked her ears and threw her back against the wall. With a sudden lash of her arms, Essa drew Rurik right beside her. There they waited, inching slowly toward the joining of the halls. At the juncture, Essa pressed a finger to her lips as instruction to the boy, and eased her way out into the open.

  A single guard stood about half-way down the long hall, facing away from them. He stretched and yawned, oblivious to their presence. Raising a single finger to Rurik, she inclined her head toward the guard. He peered past her, then back. She nodded toward the man again, and Rurik caught her meaning. He shook his head in protest, repeatedly mouthing the word “no.”

  Seeing her opportunity slipping, she pressed the skittish male back against the wall and ordered him to stay with a look. Then, steeling herself for the pounce, Essa put two fingers to her lips and let the hall ring with a high-pitched whistle. She slid back alongside Rurik, waiting. He met her with a puzzled stare, her plan apparently not aligning with his expectations. She always liked the thought of that. Made her feel accomplished.

  “Your sword
,” she murmured, as the footsteps padded closer.

  The guard called out softly, asking who it was. Traces of expectation lined the contours of his voice, however, softening it up. He knew it was a woman at least. Probably thought it was one of the maids. He would regret that soon.

  Steel did not make for the best of lovers. It was cold and sharp-witted, never laughed at a single joke, and always lusted for any ripe git with a pair of hands to stroke her. Good enough for some people, but Essa was no whore. Rurik? Well…not any more, perhaps.

  As the man rounded the bend, Rurik drove the hilt of his sword straight into the side of his head. Even as the man drew breath to cry out, the steel crumpled him like a pile of stone and laid him out along the floorboards. The floor creaked and heaved as he went, eliciting a glance over her shoulder for signs of trouble, but Rurik was right on the man, straddling him. The tip of his blade swung round and pressed to the man’s throat, just enough to draw a drop of blood.

  Anyone could brandish steel, Essa had found over the years, but you had to have the willingness to shed blood with it. Not even to kill, necessarily, but to bare a little crimson for the world. It was one thing to show courage before a blade, quite another before the sight of one’s own blood. In a way, it wasn’t just the blood leaking out, it was the real men themselves. All illusion, all pretense left, and they bared their true natures.

  Some turned craven. Others were calm, composed—the picture of graceful defiance. Some frenzied at the sight, cursing or writhing or fighting tooth and nail. This one, luck be praised, had the heart of a craven.

  Rurik pressed his sword a little deeper. “I’ve little time and little patience. Who’s at the cells and who’s with my father? Speak quick.”

  It took the man a moment, apparently, to realize who was threatening him. His eyes ran up his captor in a panic, but when they settled on Rurik’s face, they knew. She could see it in the way his shoulders slackened, lips parted in shock, eyes dulling.

  Hand pressed to his bloody jaw, the man stammered, “Three. Three of us on duty, ‘cluding Sirche. I, tha’s to say your—I know not who guards your father, ser.” The look in Rurik’s eye must have struck him something fierce, because he cowered openly, flitting about, eyes locking with Essa’s as he realized no one was coming for him. Pathetically, he began to blubber. “P-please, master Rurik, I’ve a family, brothers, sisters, l-little…”

  “Up,” his former master commanded.

  The man obeyed, unquestioningly. He kept his hands up, nowhere even close to his blade. For life, he did not even make the effort. All the same, Essa gently lifted the sword from its sheath before Rurik led the man on his merry way. As steel went it was not much, and the balance was off, but it would do. It would have to. They were sorely low on equipment in the wake of the tavern’s raid, so it wasn’t as though she could afford to be picky now.

  They made it perhaps half-way to the door when Rurik cracked the man again with the hilt of his sword. It was a strong-armed blow, planted square across the back of the man’s head. Again he dropped to the floor, but this time when he got there all he managed were a few low moans, a writhing sway, and then he fell away into whatever darkness awaited. He stilled, and Essa had to check him merely to be sure he still breathed. He did, to both their ease.

  Whatever ill befell them, it was neither wish nor intent for either of them to kill. Not here. These were not strangers with bounties of coin bundled up beside their names. They knew most of these men. Grew up with them. They had friends, families, loves, same as any other. There was no disconnect.

  Except, perhaps, for Brickheart, but he was gone anyways.

  “Sirche will have the keys,” Rurik said, stooping over the fallen man’s body. “He’ll be the only one with them.” The name sounded vaguely familiar to her, but she could not match it to a face. “Do you think you can manage?”

  “I believe so. Threats tend to work nicely in deep dank holes like his.”

  “Well he’s trustworthy to a fault, but a more apathetic man you shall not meet. He should give you no trouble.” Still, he hesitated.

  Essa had no wish to drag it out. “Just go. I’ll be fine. Get to your father before the others get back. We’ll meet you, alright?”

  “Alright. Be careful, though. If…” He winced, running over the words in his head. Some outcome he did not want. She smiled at him, for support, and he leaned over to her and kissed her tenderly. She leaned into it, savoring the taste of it, but they broke apart as quickly as they merged, and then he was looking in her eyes, and her heart lurched for what dwelled there.

  Fear, for her? Or fear he would never see her again?

  “Just be careful, yeah?”

  As the boy hastened down the hall, Essa ran her tongue over her lips, and played it over again in her mind. The kiss. Every kiss. The feel of his lips on hers, the slightest caress of his fingers on her arm. She could taste the salty swagger of his breath, cherish the heady smell of him, which was a pleasant war of tastes—of pine and dying flowers, and that little musk he always had. His scent. Her scent. She cherished the images it stirred—her images, and no one else’s. She stored them up as a bulwark against whatever else might come.

  Then, with a flick of her tongue, she wiped the last traces of him away.

  If she remembered correctly, there was a store nearby. One of the doors. Couldn’t tell which. She moved cautiously down the hall, perhaps lingering a moment longer than necessary in the dim hope that Rurik would turn back. She crept to each of the doors nearest her, paused, and listened for a sound. One held breaths, shallow and paced. Another held nothing, but the door was locked. The last she pressed, ever-so-carefully, and was rewarded with an empty room of dust and cleaning supplies.

  She crept back and spent the next several moments struggling with the guard’s body. His dead weight weighed a good deal more than her slight frame, and it was a battle just to drag him down the hall. However, her greatest concern was in how his metal boots scraped at the wood, the trill screech stopping her cold. Horrified, she had to strip his boots and drag him the rest of the way barefoot, and this made his scent nigh unbearable.

  Memory gave momentarily to a vision of the future, and all the grief she would heap on Rurik for this one. Some gentleman. She should have had him drag the body off before she let him go, but so it went. One could not fret over the past. It was better to dwell on how to use it in the future.

  Still, no one heard, at least not that she herself heard, and she pulled him into the storage. She dropped him there and tossed his boots in with him. The guard was already starting to come around, groaning as his head stirred from its resting place against a broom. Turning him over, she snatched up the nearest thing she could find—which happened to be a sodden rag—and shoved it between his parted lips. As the realization of his predicament began to arise, she garnered another short length of rope to bind his hands, much to the same fashion she had used on Isaak’s hound. Because of that dog, however, she did not have enough rope to snare to his legs. Silently cursing her luck, she scrounged through the supplies as the guard began to buck and moan, his eyes rolling as he tried to right himself. She planted a boot on him, but it did not still him.

  At last, she found a length of twine buried in a stack. It wouldn’t long hold, but for the time being, it was the best she could find. The man kicked out at her as she stepped in to tie him, but she got between his legs and caught them both, forcing them down long enough for her to work a solid knot. Then she shut the door and hurried on to the cells.

  Unlike the house itself, which despite a dreadful draft in certain corners was rather comfortable at large, the basement was as chill as ice itself. The cold rushed up to greet her as she eased through the open door and plodded down the steps. Essa shuddered despite herself, brushing at her arm to stir some warmth.

  At the foot of the stairs, a single torch burned toward extinction, the crackle of wood overwritten by the sounds of furious scribbling and a low, conversation
al mumble. She paused, trying to discern if both guards were in the room. However, the mumble was but a single voice, going back and forth with itself. Puzzled, she advanced toward the light.

  A small sitting room spread out from the foot of the stairs, with an equally small table at one end and a portrait of a phoenix hung at the other. A barred door lay directly across from the stairs, but between it and her sat a lone figure hunched over his table, scribbling away at some shielded text.

  She inched closer, brandishing the other guard’s sword as she did. The man did not seem to hear her, lost as he was to his own conversation.

  “Oh, you came for me!” he said, in a slightly higher pitch than before. “No, I came for blood, dear lady,” he replied, voice darkening. “You see the world in chivalry and gold, and for it all, you’ve seen our world cast into the flames…” Chuckling, he dipped his quill again. “Quite good, quite good,” he mused.

  Stepping right behind him, Essa thrust her sword against his throat and put her other hand on his still-sheathed blade. He stiffened up, his scribbles brought to an abrupt halt. Then he looked down at the blade, sighed, and followed its trail back to her. She pressed the blade a little tighter, and scowled at him purposefully. The plain-faced jailor cocked his lips into a wry smirk.

  “The keys, please, or your life. I don’t need both, but I can take them if necessary.”

  Promptly, the guard reached down and plucked his key ring from his belt. Counting them out, he selected three and hoisted the ring up by them. They dangled before her in offering.

  “This one’s to the door there,” he said, wiggling a lumpy grey key. “This one’s to the dandy and the beard, and this here’s to the mud man with the temper.”

  Reaching over, she tugged his sword from his sheath and tossed it by the phoenix portrait. It was a finer blade than the other man’s by far, curved in the eastern style, with a fine poise and a marvelous sheen, as though it had never seen a day’s work in its life. Looking at the guard again, she didn’t doubt it hadn’t.