by Scott Zamek
Filby was suddenly aware that he was still holding the fire iron over his head, frozen in a very unfriendly position. He lowered his arm. “What do you want? What are you doing here this late? This is quite irregular.” He held the lantern above his head, the dim glow casting shadows on the folds of the merchant’s damp cloak. Filby was taken aback to see the glint of a scabbard.
“Do you mind?” asked Hawkins, motioning toward the chair next to the hearth.
“Uh, n–no. Of course.”
Hawkins tossed a few logs into the cold fireplace and struck a match. Filby lit another lantern and hung it over the door. A fire crackled to life, adding orange shapes to the room. Filby felt more at ease—this was clearly the Trader Hawkins from town, and he didn’t seem to pose a threat. He even seemed a bit nervous. “Are you in trouble?” asked Filby, still eyeing his guest with some suspicion.
Hawkins poked the fire, the warmth reflecting off his face. “What do you know of your grandfather’s death?”
“My grandfather’s death?” Filby was irritated again. What improper questions, he thought, and an improper visit. “I’m not in the habit of discussing such matters with near strangers, Mr. Hawkins. And not at this hour of the night either.”
“I knew your grandfather.”
“You knew him? I didn’t know that.” Suddenly Filby felt a bit guilty for being so rude. Perhaps Hawkins had merely come to pay his respects. “I only know there was a struggle, and they found him dead. Burglars they said.”
“It was no burglar that killed your grandfather, nor would one be capable. He was found in a pool of blood with a sword by his side, and wounds enough to account for many foes.”
“But Constable Morton . . .”
“The constable fears what he does not understand. I spoke to the town doctor, who viewed the scene but fears speaking his mind in public. He reckons there was enough blood to drain three people on that floor.” Hawkins pointed to the floor below Filby’s chair, and a cold shiver ran up Filby’s legs. “Which means your grandfather killed two before he died, and someone carried the bodies away. The doctor thinks your grandfather fought six attackers, and killed or wounded all of them. And he was almost seventy years and three. In his younger days, his enemies would not have been victorious, no matter the number.”
A wavering gloom held the room, the glimmer from the fire reaching in vain toward the outer walls of the cabin. Filby could not speak. He did not know what to say. These things were too unbelievable, too far outside his realm of experience.
“He left you something,” said Trader, looking up from the fire. “Some papers.”
“He kept a chest of documents locked in the town safe, but there was nothing of importance. I went through it all with the town fathers. We found nothing.”
Trader rolled another log onto the fire, sending shadows fluttering against the floor. “Do you have the chest?”
How rude to impose, Filby thought. He hardly knew Hawkins. Why was he asking for dusty old papers? Filby only let him in to be neighborly, seeing as Hawkins was a merchant in good standing, odd travel behavior aside. But there he was, sitting by the fire. What to do but continue being polite? “All right—if you must. If you think it’s important.” Filby snatched the lantern from above the door, a bit of irritation welling up in his face. He hadn’t looked at the chest in three months—wasn’t even sure where it was. He opened the utility closet, where gardening tools stacked at odd angles rose almost to the ceiling, then poked his lantern inside. The faint glimmer of gold caught the light, way back in a dark corner.
Filby slid the chest out from beneath a broken shovel and a pair of dull pruning shears. “Visitors at all hours . . .” His words became muddled and quiet as he continued to mutter under his breath, slowly dragging the chest in front of the hearth. The smoldering embers reflected warmly off brown leather casing bordered by tarnished gold straps, a rusty old lock set securely against the lid. Filby put his back to the fire and turned the lock, creaking the lid open. He coughed; turned his head slightly. “All the fuss . . .” Rising dust mingled with the light of gently crackling logs, and he reached in and began methodically piling papers on the table next to the hearth.
“Just papers,” said Filby, glancing up at Hawkins. “See?” He waved his hand over the piles. “Financial documents, an original deed to the land, I think . . . and a bunch of building permits and contracts.” A few items deep inside the chest were much older than the rest: a rolled-up parchment that looked weather-stained and antique, a leather pouch holding a few worm-eaten letters, as well as several folded, worn documents that Filby guessed were made of vellum.
Trader picked up each document, analyzing them one by one. He rolled out the parchment, studied it for a moment, then placed it to the side. He thumbed through the leather pouch, placing a few letters on the edge of the table next to the firelight. One of the older documents seemed as if it was folded into a square about twelve inches wide. Trader carefully unfolded the vellum, and it grew to the size of a large poster. “Bring that lantern,” he said to Filby. Trader spread the document out on the table and slowly moved the lantern over the vellum. The surface was brown, almost tanned, with weather marks creating odd stains throughout. But it was blank, aside from perhaps a dozen odd symbols resembling no known language of Meadowkeep.
“I’ve looked at that,” said Filby impatiently. “So have the town fathers. There’s nothing on it but some foreign symbols no one can translate.”
Trader moved the lantern closer, illuminating the page with a dim orange light. “These are the Runes of Dunhelm, conceived before the dawn of the Five Lands.” He tilted the document off the table and held the lantern underneath. “I can’t dare to think . . .” Trader leaned toward the fire and put the document close to the flame, almost close enough to burn the vellum.
“There! “
Slowly, something began to appear. Filby could just make out the shape of a line, then a semicircle etched in black. More brown lines began to appear. After a few minutes, the entire manuscript was filled with an image. Trader spread the vellum out on the table before the fire. Shadows mingled with the black and brown lines on the page. “It is a map,” Trader said softly, “to the lands beyond the Far Mountains. I dare not say it—I think it to be the Map of Dunhelm.”
“There is no land beyond the Far Mountains,” said Filby, feeling a bit confused and a bit imposed upon. “Everyone knows that.”
“How do we truly know? Do you hold to the wisdom that if you travel beyond the Far Mountains you fall off the edge of the world?”
“Who doesn’t believe that?” A snap from the fire sent an ember to the floor. One of the lanterns dimmed and faded to nothing; the other cast its thin light over their small corner of the cabin.
“No. There is land on the far side of the known realm,” said Trader. “This map proves it—and your grandfather was there. This map hails from beyond the Far Mountains.”
Filby reached for the lantern and turned up the flame. He didn’t believe in such fairy tales, and felt himself in the position of humoring his guest. “Even if it does exist, why would anyone want to go there?”
“For this,” replied Trader, pointing to the map. His finger fell on an odd symbol, looking like a flame surrounded by stone walls. “Have you not noticed the days getting darker—the nights longer? It is because of this. The Light of Endura is fading.”
“The . . .”
“You in Meadowkeep know it as the Eternal Flame.”
Filby shook his head and smirked, then straightened up, hoping Hawkins did not see him. He was beginning to think his late guest was not rational. “The Eternal Flame is a myth—a story for children.”
“It is real, and it lies beyond the Far Mountains. And your myth is correct—if the Flame expires, darkness encompasses the land as it was before the dawn of man.”
Fire curled around half-spent logs, forming apparitions upon the floor. Filby could not turn away from the map, even though he was
ready to put on a kettle of tea and turn in. Despite all the fiction and fairy tales, the map was interesting—almost a work of art. “What is that writing?” Filby asked softly, pointing to the center of the map. “It looks different from the rest. More faded.”
“You see symbols?”
“Right there, the writing,” answered Filby, touching the map with his finger.
“Describe it to me. Better yet, write it down—write down what you see.” Trader urgently scrambled through the papers on the table for something to write with, flinging documents to the floor in his haste.
Filby was a bit confused. “You can’t see that—the symbols, right there.”
“None left alive in these Five Lands can see the hidden Runes of Dunhelm, or so it was thought.”
Filby reluctantly reproduced the symbols onto a clean sheet of paper, and he wondered when this would be over and he could return to his book and his kettle of cardamom tea. At this point, he was at a loss how to get rid of his unwanted visitor.
Trader held the paper in his hand. “It is an ancient script.”
Filby looked curiously at Hawkins, then let out a sigh and began putting the documents back into the chest. “This all means nothing to me. It will not water my garden or harvest my crops.” He paused and looked into the slackening fire and exaggerated a yawn. “I think it’s time to turn in.”
Trader was not listening; he spoke almost to himself as he turned the paper over in his hands. “I cannot read it, but I know someone who may.”
Filby was growing impatient. He could hear the old oak trees creaking along the road, next to the border of Mack’s farm. The wind hummed through the fence line, rattling one of the rotted boards that was loose and had been on Filby’s fix list for many months. Way off in the distance, he thought he heard an eerie cry, a shrill call in the night. Farmer Mack’s dogs began to howl again. Trader jumped to his feet, grasping the hilt of his sword. “Dim that light!” He moved to the window and edged the shutter open a slim crack. “They have followed me here!”
Filby peered out through the crack into the darkness. Shapes, dark shapes, many of them, were creeping quietly and slowly along the fence, barely visible in the waning moonlight. “We must get the constable!” whispered Filby.
“The constable cannot protect you here, and there is no time. You must come with me.” Trader closed the shutter and fixed the bar. “Douse that fire, quickly.”
Filby stood motionless by the fire, a look of fear glazed in his eyes.
“Those are the ones that killed your grandfather—and if you do not come with me, they will kill you as well.” Trader stuffed the map into the folds of his cloak and moved to the back door. He opened a thin gap and peered out. “They have not yet reached the far fence. We can still escape to the east.”
Filby’s voice quivered, “and you can protect me?”
“I can try, but I know those who can.” He drew his sword and clutched the door, ready to spring. “Hesitate now and suffer the fate of your grandfather.”
Filby did not want to go, but he also knew that he couldn’t stay. And there was no way he would be able to make it into town with those thieves blocking the road. “I’ll go with you as far as Bordertown, and that’s it.” Filby could not stop his hands from shaking as he buttoned up his shirt. “Then I’m moving back into town for good and talking to Constable Morton about all this.”
Trader peered through the open crack into the night. He could see the back fence bordering farmer Mack’s land, dimly lit by the moon. “Do as you may but now is the time to decide. Those shutters will not protect you, nor will that bar on the door.” He edged the door slightly wider and scanned the far fence. Gripping his sword tighter, “stay close.”
Trader slipped through the door, arched over at the waist, then moved along the hedgerow next to the cabin. Filby followed closely behind, then, from behind, he heard the cabin door break, and a loud cry. He looked back—dark shapes were converging on the front porch. “Stay low,” whispered Trader, and they made their way to the old oak trees bordering farmer Mack’s land, slipped over the fence, and became lost in the high corn.
HAWKINS knew his way around the back country, Filby had to admit, even in the dark. They stopped at a small stream, well hidden, where thickets rose on either bank and the moon glanced off trickling water. Trader wanted to wait out the night before striking out toward Bordertown. “We are safe for the moment,” he told Filby, “but you can’t risk returning to Meadowkeep. The road will surely be watched.” Filby was desperate to seek out the protection of the constable, but deep down he knew Hawkins was right. Whoever broke into his cabin was sure to be on the road. The only safe route was east.
Trader hunched down lower below the bushes, reached into his cloak, and pulled out the map. “You carry the map—it’s safer with you. Those who pursue it know my mission.”
“Are they after you?” Filby looked around him at the shadows and the night, wondering how he ever got himself into such a position.
“If something happens to me, take the map to the bridgetender at the Old Mill and Way Tavern, on the Meltwater. He will know what to do.”
“The mill–the way–what are you talking about. I’m not going to any tavern. That’s a hundred miles from here. I don’t even know the road . . . I don’t even–w–what’s between here and there?” The moon seemed to get brighter, but Filby realized it was the coming of dawn. The eastern sky grew pale, and their dark hiding place next to the stream revealed itself in a shrouded light.
“Do not fear—no one knows who you are. They will never suspect you carry the map.” The reassurances did nothing to calm Filby’s fears as they set out to the east. Trader thought it safe to use the Westing Road; it was little traveled, and the sun had driven away the shadows of the night. They made their way along the very dirt road that had caused Filby so much consternation, and carried so much riffraff past his fence and his cabin. Now, he was adding himself to that flow of unsavory drifters who lacked the good sense to stay home.
Trader’s hood drooped heavily over his face as they walked, and Filby wondered why anyone would recognize a merchant from Meadowkeep, or why anyone would care. Aside from his dark cloak, and the sword, there was nothing that even stood out about Trader. He was older than Filby, to be sure, medium height and medium build. Even his face—although dark and hardened, as if subjected to long exposure to the elements—bore more the features of a banker or a clerk than a backwoods guide or a traveling merchant. He looked to Filby, more and more, like the last person in the land likely to have a scabbard tied to his waist.
The rising sun made Filby feel safer, and he thought about turning around—returning to Meadowkeep. Then he remembered the cry in the night, the dark figures, the shattered front door. It all seemed like a distant nightmare. “Bordertown will be safer,” he thought. They followed the road a short way east, where it arched over a small rise of broken forest and pines. Flat country appeared below, the last of the farmland bordering Meadowkeep, where a few scattered houses stood on tilled fields, and fallow pasture stretched over the horizon. Witch hazel and thornscrub bordered the road, and trees became scarce, dotting the fields like solitary sentries or clustered together in small patches next to a stream or watering hole.
Trader stayed wary, constantly scanning the horizon as he moved his head from side to side checking thickets and patches of trees. They passed only one traveler by midday, a cartload of turnips heading west toward Meadowkeep or the ports on the Sanguin Sea. The path forked where a huge meadow appeared on the north side of the road and forest pressed in from the south. Filby paused, looking down each road. “You’ve never been that way before, have you?” asked Trader, motioning down the right fork toward Bordertown.
“I’ve only ever taken the left fork around Fallow Meadows, and then only twice.”
“Well, that way leads back to Meadowkeep, as you know,” explained Trader, trying to calm Filby’s fears. “The right fork goes to Bordertown, tw
enty miles through broken country and meadow, much like you see here. A few small hills but nothing too strenuous.”
“How do you know so much about the land beyond Meadowkeep?” Filby realized Hawkins was a traveling merchant, but to know the back country as he did when they fled the cabin, and to be familiar with every bend in the road on the way to Bordertown. It made Filby nervous.
“It is my job to know.” Trader would say no more; he began down the right fork, and did not look back. They walked in single file for a while, crossing a small bridge over a trickling trout stream and through a thicket of alderberry and snapdragon. Small houses dotted the fields where the forest gave way to open plain, home to a few hearty farmers who saw fit to live outside the fences of Meadowkeep but not quite within the limits of Bordertown. The road bent north for a short stretch, where silver maples swayed with the afternoon breeze and the track squeezed thin like a footpath. The sun hid behind some distant oaks as they entered a rye-scented valley that fell away below them, even as the road arched over a set of rolling hills on the far horizon and shadows grew long across wildflowers and green pastures.
“I hope they have food in Bordertown,” complained Filby, reaching a hand around to a cramp in his back. “I don’t think I can make it another step.”
“Not far now,” urged Trader. “Best not to stop—I don’t want to get caught out too late. The sun deserts us as we speak.” A chill ran up Filby’s neck. He hated the idea of being away from home in the dark—away from his fire and his hearth and his boiling kettle. It was a terrible fate to be cast out on the road with no supplies, no food, not even proper shoes. “We must move,” Trader called and quickened his pace. Filby struggled to keep up as the western sky dimmed and a watchful moon slowly rose above the meadows and tall grass in the east. The night air sharpened formless and silent, gradually deepening until Filby could barely make out the way ahead. He could see the sky glare down like glitter upon the wild fields; he could see a chill mist mingling with starlight to reveal an unsure haze along the path. All else seemed a fearful void, empty of everything common to civilized towns like Meadowkeep: empty of painted fences and manicured lawns, or lamp posts, or hedgerows—even lacking a proper cobblestone lane to guide the way.