by Scott Zamek
At last the faint pinprick of lights appeared on the horizon like distant fireflies; Filby squinted across the dark valley and could now scarcely recognize the far-off glimmer of lanterns piercing the black hills to the east. Dew clung to the cool night as they climbed down from high ground, the lights disappearing behind curling fog to become dreamlike glimpses, then reappearing again in the wavering distance. The awkward tune of crickets vibrated through wet grass, slowly rising against the seamless night, and Filby could no longer see the plodding of his feet as he hiked across the valley floor, along a thin and grainy dirt path, then up a rising hillside.
“The lights of Bordertown,” called Trader, pointing onward. Filby raised his eyes to a view of the far plateau topped by a thick stone wall, and as they neared, he could make out the lights more clearly. Two lanterns stood atop massive pillars flanking a large wooden gate, the wall now rising gray-green and covered with moss in a dim veil of hills and mist and moon. He followed Trader and bent his back against the steepening grade, finally becoming bathed by the yellow glow cast off from the city walls. But Filby shivered and could see his breath in the lantern light, and in the darkness beyond, night clung to the land like a dense vapor. Trader approached the wooden gate and pounded with his closed fist, sending an eerie, muffled boom echoing through the valley.
A small window hatch flipped open, and a raised hand holding a lantern appeared in the opening. A wrinkled face followed. “What’s yer business this late, mister? We don’t let no strangers in after dark.”
“I’m no stranger, Perkins. It’s Hawkins—Trader Hawkins.”
“Hawkins? My, my.” The door edged open to reveal gray hair and an old, beleaguered face. “Didn’t recognize yeh in the dark. What brings a merchant so late?”
“Have you become interested in my doings since I’ve been gone, Perkins?”
“You always were a strange one, Mr. Hawkins. Always travelin’ at the oddest hours.”
Filby could see the streets of Bordertown as the gate closed behind him. It was not like Meadowkeep at all—dirtier, with muddy cobblestone streets and a dozen taverns within sight of the city gate. Storefronts cast a dreary light onto the narrow main road, and the sound of evening revelry wafted on the cool night air. A few placards creaked back and forth on chains, dangling in front of various shops: The Dusty Road Tavern, The Night Owl Inn, Bardhead’s Room and Pub.
Trader led the way, along tight, dark streets. Periodically, a lantern or storefront cast its thin warmth onto the cobblestones, where Filby noticed shadowy figures leaning against alley walls. Finally, they came upon a small window of thick glass, where a dripping candle flickered behind the warped panes. A placard swayed in the night air, The Old Bay and Bed, creaking back and forth on rusty chains, barely illuminated one moment then inching back into shadows the next. Trader opened the door and the sound of mingling pub talk filled the bar, a few smoky lanterns reaching unsteadily toward the far corners of the room.
Hawkins walked up to the bar rail and leaned into the shadows, nudging between two thick-armed men who looked angry and disheveled and clenched giant mugs of splashing ale in their fists. “Barkeep,” he called, holding out a handful of coins. “A room and some food.”
The barkeep took the coins and turned them over in his fingers. A greedy smile came to his face. “Follow me,” he said, and flipped up the bar gate. He led them up a thin stairway to a door at the far end of a dark hall, then creaked the door open and motioned inside. Filby was depressed by the room, the cold gloominess of the close walls, until Trader lit a lantern and started a fire in the small hearth. A tiny window faced the street, where the glow of storefronts and clip-clop of passing carriages filtered up through the warped window glass and into the room. Soon the barkeep returned and began placing platters on the wooden table next to the fireplace: roast mutton and potatoes; cheese and brown bread; turnip greens and a pitcher of ale.
The two ate their fill in front of the bending firelight, draining their mugs and remembering the cold night. Filby had so many questions, but he was too hungry and too tired to ask. He was content, for the moment, to enjoy food and warmth and safety, and relieved that he didn’t have to worry about attackers beating down his door at any moment. His thoughts turned to the peaceful fields of home, until Trader tipped back the last of his ale and stood. “I have to go see about securing some horses. We cannot continue on foot.”
“Continue? I’m going back to Meadowkeep in the morning, and the first thing I’m going to do when I get there is talk to Constable Morton about this whole improper affair.”
“The road west may not be safe,” cautioned Trader. “And even if it is, riding would be better than walking, would it not?”
Filby clanked a bare shank bone onto his plate. “Then I’m going with you. I don’t want to be left here alone.” He took a swig of ale and stood, the fire warm at his back.
“Stay,” insisted Trader. “Tend the fire—keep the map safe. You will just slow me down, and I will be back in mere minutes.” Filby had to admit, the fire was comforting, and he dreaded the prospect of venturing out at night yet again, and in a strange town at that. He agreed to stay, while Trader slipped through the door into the hall, leaving Filby alone with his warm fire and his tan ale. The smell of hops and barley and mutton mingled with charred oak logs.
A fog rose from the cobblestones as Trader shifted onto the darkened back street behind the tavern. Light rain added halos to the few lanterns left burning along the alleys and little-traveled byways Trader made use of on his way to the stables. Macleary’s—that was the place in Bordertown to buy a sturdy mount; there were others, to be sure, but they tended to board swaybacks and nags that were well overdue for pasture, and Trader wished to take no chances on the road ahead.
A few stalls on the outskirts of town, backed by the outer stone wall, served as Macleary’s main boarding area for fresh horses. Trader walked slowly along the dark stalls, guided only by the lantern dangling from the boarding master’s hut. Mud clung to his boots; rain had turned the road into an ankle-deep quagmire. He could hear the horses nicker in the blackness, the stalls hidden in shadow, the mist seeming to usher forth as if from the breath of the horses within. But he knew the stable master, and remembered that a warm jar and steady fire probably awaited within.
Trader stopped. The sound of splashing feet echoed from the stables. Dark shapes moved in the shadows, and he quickened his pace. Two men sprang from behind the night. The way was blocked. A glint of steel flickered in the mist. “You’re a Watcher aint’che,” one of the men said, pointing his sword.
Trader drew his blade. “It is my business alone.”
The second man stepped forward, raising his sword. “Many a people’s lookin’ for such as you. And the young one too. A righteous reward they says.”
Trader glanced behind for an escape—too late. The two men sprang forward. Steel on steel, Trader slashed the first across the chest. The second was too quick, knocking Trader’s sword to the ground. Trader stood, disarmed, and the thief advanced. He pointed his blade at Trader’s throat. “Where is the other?” he hissed. “Tell or die.”
It happened fast, in one motion, and it was over in a glimpse. Trader flung off his outer cloak toward the thief, then disappeared into the darkened stalls. And he was gone. Rain pelted the mud-soaked ground, diluting blood into a thin, scarlet pool.
FILBY was worried. The fire had long since burned to ashes and Trader was nowhere to be seen. Two o’clock . . . three o’clock in the morning. The lanterns on the street below had gone out one by one, and his view from the window revealed nothing but wet cobblestones reflecting a waning moon. He wanted to ask around town, or at least the barkeep if he’d seen Trader, but the tavern had already closed its doors and the town was asleep. Filby could do nothing but wait until morning.
Time moved by slowly. Filby kept peering through the window waiting for the sun. He crept out of the room, down the hallway, and peeked downstairs to see if any
one was about, but was met with a silent and cavernous room. Five o’clock . . . six o’clock. “Doesn’t anyone awaken early around here?” he wondered. Finally, he sat at the bar and waited, watching the streets slowly brighten through the front window.
The barkeep from the previous night jingled some keys at the front door at eight o’clock. Filby, anxious for information, greeted him as he walked through the threshold. The barkeep was a bit startled with the early morning questions. Had he seen Trader? Did he see Hawkins leave? Did he return?
“One moment, one moment, just hold on and let me set these bags down.” The barkeep struggled with an armful of groceries as he made his way past Filby. He walked behind the bar and began putting limes and oranges and celery into cupboards below the counter, then he pulled out a folded piece of paper from one of the drawers. “Your friend gave me this. Said not to give it to you ’til this morning. Said he was bein’ followed and didn’t want anyone to know where you were.” He pulled out a white cloth from below the bar and began wiping down the rail. “All very strange if you ask me—very strange. But he paid me enough to make it worth my while.”
Filby unfolded the paper.
Could not return to the room. Was being followed. Meet at the Old Mill and Way Tavern, on the Meltwater. Do not travel west under any circumstances. The road is being watched.
— Trader
Filby wasn’t sure what to do. He felt as if a big pile of bricks had just buried him neck deep, and he was afraid—even a little angry. His first instinct was simply to walk back to Meadowkeep and forget about Trader and all this irregular business. But he had seen those strangers break into his cabin; he knew someone was after him. He motioned to the barkeep, still unsure. “How . . . how far to the Mill and Way Tavern?”
“Are ya headed there?” The barkeep grinned. “It’s not far really—forty miles or so. Less than a day by horse. Maybe . . . two days on foot.” He began washing glassware behind the bar. “It’s the oddest thing, though. Two men came in a few minutes after your friend—thievin’ looking characters they were. Never seen ’em before—that’s why I noticed ’em right off. Odd thing though, they left not one minute after your friend left.”
Filby decided—although he didn’t like it, and felt as if he had been trapped into all this somehow—it would be safer to follow Trader’s advice. “Uh . . .” He felt a little awkward. “Can you give me directions?”
“Surely . . . surely now.” The barkeep began drawing a map on the back of Trader’s note.
“Quiet roads if you don’t mind.”
“Quiet, let’s see—there’s the old wagon track that used to bring supplies from the Meltwater ferry, before the road west opened up to the ports on the Sanguine Sea.” He drew a line on the map. “Head out of Bordertown by the east gate, then turn left at the first farmhouse—that’s where the wagon track begins. It starts out north but eventually swings east. That will take you all the way to the Meltwater, and quiet too—not many travelers use that way nowadays.”
Filby took the map and folded it into his pocket and stood. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Nonsense,” said the barkeep, waving a hand in the air. “What your friend paid me, it’s the least I could do.”
THE EAST gate arched over a cobbled lane, where carts and wagon loads of crops and supplies clip-clopped in and out of Bordertown. The barkeep had packed some food, and offered Filby a small knapsack for the road. “Your friend’s purse covered it, and then some,” he had said. Filby followed the road east from the town gate, walking slowly along a waist-high stone wall, nothing but loose, hand-stacked stone piled in jigsaw fashion with no mortar or cement. Village houses dotted the road, with manicured gardens and painted gates where the driveways passed through the stone wall. A few farm fields checkered a descending valley to the south, and the first farmhouse on the left marked the turn mentioned by the barkeep, where the wagon track veered north from the main country road.
Filby took the left fork, past a thatched-roof cottage and over a rise. A field of corn rolled away to the west as far as Filby could see, over land gently rising and falling, bordered by a rickety wooden fence that stretched along the green hills and disappeared beyond sight. The forty-mile walk seemed an impossible task. He had never been this far from Meadowkeep, and all he had was a hand-drawn map to guide him. But there was nothing to do but press on, and Filby pressed on, dwelling on his shortcomings as the sun rode high in a deep sky. He saw no sign of any unsavory strangers on the small wagon track—no sign of anyone in fact, but he still found himself looking over his shoulder. “No one is following you,” he blurted aloud, angry at himself for letting his fears take hold so easily.
The road crooked northeast, a grassy line running down the middle, where clover and white phlox swayed with a west wind and bees and butterflies hovered from one flower to the next in a calm rhythm. Filby fixed his eyes on the ground while watching his feet swish along the wet grass and feeling the dew soak through to his socks. Around midday, an open cart creaked and tottered south along the track, forcing Filby aside into the weeds. Huge oak barrels filled with ale momentarily blocked out the sun, adding the scent of barley to the air, and Filby began to feel a bit more at ease.
He stopped for lunch under a crooked oak tree, the only tree he had seen for miles in a land filled with farm fields and pasture. The sun gradually inched past its peak, and Filby was determined to reach the Meltwater within two days, so he made quick work of his two cheese sandwiches. But he found it difficult to rise to his feet again. “I’m already tired,” he thought, “after only one day.” Sitting under the shade of the old oak, he slowly realized how ill-prepared he was for a long road trip. Aside from the small knapsack, he carried nothing of use—no proper cloak against the rain, no hat or change of clothes, not even proper walking shoes. Leaving the cabin in such haste, he did not have time to pack a single item.
“And no one even to talk to.” Filby began whistling an old Meadowkeep tune, then stopped and sat with his head in his hands bemoaning his predicament—he even thought about turning around and returning home—until the lowering sun reminded him of the late hour. Reluctantly, he stretched out his sore legs and began slowly walking down the long road north. Storm clouds in the western sky hastened his decision, and made him even more depressed, until the road bent from northeast to true east around late afternoon, just as the barkeep had promised. Filby quickened his pace into a dale of scattered woodland, the trees occasionally giving way to farm fields and pasture to offer glimpses of the horizon. Dark clouds obscured the sky in the west, and the wind freshened to a stiff breeze. Filby turned up his collar and thought about the weatherproof cloak that was still hanging on the hook next to his cabin door.
Rain drizzled down, light at first, but a low rumble off in the distance and the trees at the edge of the valley arched over to the west with the coming of thunder. Storm clouds blotted out the sun. Filby swung the knapsack over his opposite shoulder and bent against the wind. “Just my luck,” he muttered to himself as he trudged through mud puddles, rain soaking his inner layer of clothes through to the skin. The road rose up where a small stone bridge arched over a trickling stream, and Filby crawled underneath, wishing for a fire to dry his clothes. But he carried no matches or flint, and he knew a fire would be useless anyway; the bridge offered little protection against wind and rain blowing sideways. Filby wrapped his arms around his chest and bent his head down. “Why did I listen to a complete stranger?” he thought. The only thing Filby knew for sure was that thieves had broken into his cabin—nothing Constable Morton couldn’t handle in the normal way of law enforcement. But he also knew the inn was now closer than Meadowkeep or even Bordertown. At least there he could find a proper meal and a warm fire.
Filby took to the road again when the storm slowed to a steady drizzle. It was already late in the day, almost dusk, and rain pattered against his bare face as he slogged east through ankle-deep mud puddles, out of the wooded valley, then a
long a thin dirt road bordered by an overgrown apple orchard. Scattered light in a turbulent sky and glimpses of lightning strikes held sway over the lowering sun, and Filby could not tell how late the hour or when night would be upon him. “Where do I sleep?” he muttered under his breath as he trudged along. “How do I get out of this rain?” A hollow beneath a cluster of thin birch trees offered some shelter, forming a canopy thick enough to block at least some of the rain. Still, Filby spent a miserable night. He put the remaining cheese sandwiches in his pockets and unraveled the knapsack, forming a small blanket that barely covered his shoulders. Since it was made of canvas, it kept the rain out to some small degree.
The morning sun found Filby damp and shivering, but warm air was rising from the south. Red skies and a southern breeze melted away the dew as Filby set to the road once again. His feet were sore; he had never walked more than a few miles in a day before Trader Hawkins had knocked on his door. His back hurt. He wrestled with a cramp in his side. His shoulders were numb. He plodded along the muddy track and reached into his pocket and put his hand on the map, feeling the rough vellum surface. “Is this what the fuss is all about?” he muttered aloud. “Is this what drove me from my cabin and a warm bed, this decrepit old rotting piece of cowhide?” He wished he had never set eyes on the thing. He wished he could burn it or throw it in the river and forget about the entire matter. But how to explain it to Hawkins? “I fell in the river and . . . thieves on the road . . . it fell out of my pocket . . .” Filby could think of no good excuses, but that was as far as his musings would go. His mind was a fog: a numbness that came from lack of sleep, not enough food—too much information bombarding the thoughts all at once.
The sun dried his clothes a bit by midday; the fact that he would reach the Meltwater around nightfall cheered his spirits slightly. But Filby still wondered what had happened to Trader, and if the merchant would even be at the tavern when he arrived. A dozen thoughts mingled in his mind while the road east became a bit more hilly, and the hills a bit more steep. The sun was warm, but the day became humid, adding another layer of dampness to Filby’s clothes. Silver maples and birch gave way to black ash and speckled alder trees where the road pressed thin between stone walls. A tumbling river followed the route, disappearing into the thickets as the road rose over a hillock then reappearing again along the next swale. Filby stopped to drink many times from the clear stream, kneeling in thick brakes of clover while watching the water form white peaks over hidden rocks.