Hollow Road

by Dan Fitzgerald

  “Wait.” Luez appeared on the edge of the pool behind the mashtorul, her sword pointed toward the back of the creature’s neck. Sinnie lowered her bow, blowing out a long, uneven breath. “I have a better idea.” Luez sheathed her sword. She took a step back and motioned for them to do the same. “Come.” She gestured up toward one of the walls, where a long line of puffy orange fungus was growing in a great streak down from the ceiling, ending about eight feet off the ground. The creature turned and followed them with its eyes, staying in the center of the bowl. “See here?” Luez pointed along the line of the fungus, stopping at the point where the fungus ended. Below that, a faint line of something coppery glowed in the lantern light, leading down toward the floor. Tiny dots of fungus clustered along the line, and Luez scraped away a bit with her finger, licked it, and nodded.

  “Sinnie, climb up on Finn’s shoulders and scrape off as much as you can.”

  Sinnie gave Finn a look, shrugged her shoulders, and stepped onto the foot bridge he offered, climbing up with practiced ease. She pulled out her long knife and shaved off a few clumps of the fungus, dropping them down to Luez.

  “That should work. I bet he’s hungry. Now, who wants to do the honors?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Carl lay in the reed hammock Ujenn had set up for him in the bailey garden, pulling the fur tighter around him with his right hand as the sun passed behind a cloud. His left shoulder, bound tightly to his torso, pulsed with pain, dulled somewhat by the concoction Ujenn had given him. His shoulder had been dislocated when the first mashtorul’s claws had stuck in his shield, and a large chunk of muscle had been torn away by the later blow, when he was unable to lift his shield to block it. He had used the last of the medic’s balm, which would help the wound heal and prevent infection, but the damage to his muscle and tendons was so significant he doubted he’d ever be able to raise a shield again.

  He was surprised at how much this bothered him. He’d ended up a soldier by accident, almost to punish himself after his gift had disappeared. Even after discovering he was good at it, he still did not take the same pleasure in the fight as his fellow soldiers. Saving his village from the Maer had felt good, but the violence had not. But after what the Ka-lar had done to him, he’d found a grim joy in wielding his sword, at a time when his heart found solace in nothing else. And though meeting Ujenn had lifted some of the darkness from his heart, he had still leaped at the opportunity to fight the mashtorul. Part of it was leftover aggression from the effects of the Ka-lar’s bite, but there was something deeper at work inside him.

  When Ujenn had asked for his help, when he had seen the truth about the Maer, the simple beauty of the little corner of the world they were trying to carve out for themselves, he had gladly sacrificed his body to face the mashtorul. In that bloody combat, as his arm screamed in pain and his body was battered to the ground, he had felt satisfied, somehow complete. He had no family, no tribe, no nation he truly belonged to. But maybe here with the Maer, with Ujenn, that was about to change.

  He would still have to return to Brocland, to help settle the affairs there. He would need to help put the right spin on their encounter with the Maer, in case the soldiers from the Realm needed placating. And he still had to report to Gerald Leavitt in Wells, to complete the job he had been hired to do. Though he had no special love for Mr. Leavitt, he had given his word, and accepted payment, and he would honor that. He was going to need his word and his reputation to remain intact if he was to help the Maer in the long run. And he had the sense Mr. Leavitt had some larger role to play in all of this, though what that might be was beyond Carl’s station, for the moment at least.

  A long red radish with a white tip dangled in front of his eyes, and he looked over his shoulder to see Jundum, the gardener, smiling at him. Jundum said something in Maer, displaying the radish as if it were made of gold, and offered it to him. Carl had no choice but to accept, as Jundum guarded the fruits of his labor most strictly. It was one of the many tiny gestures of appreciation the Maer had shown him since his return from the tunnels. Carl bit into the crunchy radish, which was fiery and juicy on his tongue, and smiled up at Jundum.

  “Thank you Jundum,” he said in Maer. “Delicious.”

  “You are welcome, Carl,” Jundum said, adding another couple of words Carl did not understand, then returned to his gardening.

  Carl savored the radish, slicing off one thin, spicy bite at a time with his teeth, pausing when he was halfway done. He heard children playing on the obstacle course, whacking sticks together, singing little songs. Across the bailey, he could hear grunting and chopping, and he knew some of the Maer were shaping logs with rough stone axes. He hoped to bring back some proper tools when he returned, hopefully before winter struck, and some arrowheads, and perhaps a few steel spear tips and swords.

  He felt Ujenn’s warm hand on his cheek, and his heart lifted in his chest.

  “I see Jundum has offered you a kingly reward,” she said in his ear, pulling her face around to touch foreheads with him for a moment. Carl held the radish out to her, but she shook her head, smiling. “You have surely earned it,” she murmured. “That and so much more.” She slid her hand down to his heart, her eyes fixed on his, pulling him into their depths.

  “I will come back for you,” he said, his heart swelling as he stared into her eyes. “If you’ll have me.”

  Ujenn’s eyes did not blink, or waver, as she closed in for a kiss. Carl almost flinched as the soft hair on her face tangled with his beard, but as their lips touched, heat flowed between them for too brief a moment before she pulled back. Carl tried to lean toward her, but the shift in position brought a shocking wave of pain through his shoulder, and he sank again into the hammock with a groan.

  “So eager,” Ujenn said, her fingers running across his face, over his eyelids, through his beard. “So impatient. So much the soldier hot for the kill.” She put one hand on his forehead and slid the other inside his fur blanket, giving the lightest touch to his injured shoulder, which immediately fell numb, and his face relaxed, all his pain and worry melting away.

  “I’m in no condition for battle at the moment,” he murmured, running his fingers up her arm, over her shoulder, down her neck, tracing lightly over her breasts before returning to her hand. “But it will take a more grievous wound than this to keep me down for long.”

  “So I hope.” She squeezed his fingers in hers. “You will return to me. I can feel it, and there is nothing I want more. But...” She stood up, and the expression in her eyes shifted. “There are things about our customs you need to know. Things that may seem strange, things you may not like. We will be together, of this there can be no doubt,” she said, seeming to sense his worry. “But I am beyond the age of easy fertility, and I may or may not bear children. I might require you to lay with another, that we may ensure our parentage.”

  Carl looked up into her eyes, bewildered. He had never seriously considered having a child, let alone with a Maer, if that was even possible. He had long ceased being afraid of death, but creating a life, nurturing it, protecting it—he wasn’t sure if he was built for that. But Ujenn’s gaze was so steady, her demeanor so calm, that these thoughts vanished from his mind. “I will do,” he said, “whatever it is that you require.”

  She pressed his face in both of her hands, leaned in, and dealt him a long, slow kiss, the memory of which would keep him warm on many cold nights until his return to Castle Maer.

  When at last she pulled away, her eyes were soft and her voice thick. “I have to go check in on the Spore,” she said, using the nickname the Maer had given to the baby mashtorul. “He gets lonely down there, and he can be a little rough with his babysitters when he’s bored.”

  “Mind those claws,” Carl said, gesturing toward his shoulder. Ujenn smiled as she touched him once more on the face and disappeared.

  IT WAS A WEEK BEFORE Carl was able to do any work, and though he only had full use of one arm, he pushed himself to pitch
in any way he could. He carried wood, gave Karul pointers on wielding a sword, and even spoke a little Islish with Dunil, who pestered him to practice whenever they met. Dunil’s mother Grisol watched during one of their interchanges, and though her expression was hard to read, she no longer scowled when she looked at him. Ujenn sidled up to the conversation, and Carl became distracted as he watched her looking from Carl to Dunil, and then to Grisol, a smile growing on her face.

  “I have need of Carl,” Ujenn said. Grisol put her hand on Dunil’s shoulder and made brief eye contact with Carl, then gave Ujenn a longer look before leading her son away.

  “I see you around, Carl!” Dunil chirped.

  Ujenn did not speak as she led Carl through the warren of passages in the keep, through a reed curtain into her room. She grabbed him by his vest and pulled him close, drawing him in with her eyes but keeping their bodies inches apart. She put a hand on the back of his head, and as she slid her fingers around to his cheek, he fell deeper into her gaze. The noises of the castle faded, and he heard only her breathing, and the thudding of his own heart. She pulled her hand back and let it hover in the air, and he gasped for breath as their connection was lost. He lifted his good hand to her face, caressing her hair with his fingers as he felt the closeness growing again. She grabbed his hand and lowered it to his side, slowly but with some force, then leaned her face in so slowly he was afraid the kiss would never come.

  When their lips met, his hearing and vision failed as his mind filled with her taste, her smell, the urgency flowing between them. She pushed him back a little, running her hands over his chest and shoulders, and as she peeled the clothes from his body, the pain of his wound flew away. She slipped out of her robe and stood naked before him, all hairy curves and big, big eyes. She grabbed him by his beard and lowered him to the bed, walking her fingers from his knees up his body, crawling on top of him, pressing her body against him with gentleness, then unexpected strength. He kept his eyes open, his mind buzzing with the stark reality of the hair covering her face and body, and the rising heat between them.

  “You will come back to me,” she whispered as she chewed his ear and ground her body against his.

  “I will,” he managed, before all speech left him, and as he stared up at her, he saw only her eyes, glistening in the shadows of the room, locked on his, forever.

  WITHIN A FEW DAYS, Carl was ready to ride, and Finn and Sinnie had grown restless. The Maer treated them as honored guests, and they wanted for nothing, but it was not their home, as Sinnie pointed out on their last night, as they sat watching the fire beneath the stars.

  “Not that I really have one at this point,” she said. “I mean, I couldn’t just live in Brocland and help my mother raise sheep and marry some nice boy from the village and have more useless children with no money, no job, and no prospects. And I don’t think I could go back to the circus again; it would be, I don’t know, too boring for me. Maybe I’ll do some caravan guarding down south, see if I can get into a little action. What about you, Finn?”

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to study, share what I’ve learned, train up a bit. I figure I’ll be due for some new ink before too long.” He held up his wrist and gestured up his arm. “Beyond that, I haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe I’ll join you on that caravan, Sinnie. I’ve always wanted to see the South. Plus, we’d make a pretty good team, don’t you think?”

  “Or we could go freelance.” Sinnie took a swig of the mushroom wine Fabaris had given them, which was surprisingly quaffable. “Go off in search of one of those old castles in the mountains to the east. Kind of like this one, only, you know, unoccupied, except by terrible creatures hoarding untold treasures. What do you say, Carl; you in?”

  Carl raised his left arm halfway, grimaced, and shook his head. “I’m not sure what value there is in a one-armed fighting man, but it can’t be much. No, I figure, once we go back to Brocland and straighten things up there, I’ll return to Wells and give Leavitt his report, then I’ll take a bit of a break. As should you, I might add, with the money we’ve all earned. Take a few months off, savor the life you have, rather than go jump right into the next adventure.”

  “So, where do you see yourself spending those ‘few months off,’ as you put it?” Sinnie asked. “Perhaps at some sort of mountain retreat, where you can rest and heal under the expert touch of someone older and wiser than yourself?” The twinkle in her eye was unmistakable, and Finn was clearly in on the joke as well. He was glad they were coming around to his budding relationship with Ujenn.

  “Is it that obvious?” Carl asked. “Okay, fine, I’m coming back here. I don’t know what kind of future I might have with Ujenn, but I know I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t find out. And the Maer, you have to admit, they’re every bit as civilized as we are, if not more so. And who knows? There might be something to their claims of sovereignty. At the very least, I owe it to them to help find out.”

  “They could probably use your help,” Sinnie said, her face thoughtful. “You know a few things about the Realm from your time in the service, how they operate, how they think. Do you think the Realm will just let this whole thing go? What happened in Brocland, that is?”

  Carl shook his head. He’d been turning this question over and over in his head for the past week, and he hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.

  “It might depend on how the folks in Brocland want to handle it,” he offered. “I think we have Gummache and Massey on our side, and your mom, Sinnie, seemed to like the Maer children, right?”

  “Yeah, but not so much Samuel’s and August’s parents,” Finn added. “And everyone else in the town, who were terrorized for weeks. The Maer did a lot of psychological damage, in addition to the deaths. And let’s not forget about the livery boy from Kelsey.”

  “It wasn’t the Maer,” Sinnie said. “Just the six warriors, especially Roubay. Karul and Fabaris and Luez, they said it themselves—he acted alone, against their wishes.”

  “Well, best of luck convincing the townsfolk who lived in fear for their lives, and those who lost their children,” Finn said, his face uncharacteristically grim. “Say it out loud: ‘It wasn’t the Maer; it was just some of the Maer.’ See how that goes over.”

  “There could be a way to make this work,” Carl said as the idea blossomed in his head. “Let me talk to Ujenn, see what she thinks.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sinnie’s mother left the sheep she was combing and ran into her daughter’s arms, holding her tighter than any time in memory. She pulled back, her face streaked with tears, and held Sinnie at arm’s length, looking her up and down, then hugged her again.

  “I see you didn’t get that pretty new armor of yours dirty.” She ran her fingers across the bronze mail shirt. “Let’s get you out of that heavy thing and into something soft and warm.” Sinnie followed her inside and let her mother lift and wrestle the mail off her. “I’ve made something special for you, something that suits your figure better and won’t scare off the boys.” She turned around and opened the big cedar trunk.

  “Mom, you know I’m not interested in what boys think,” she said, then her mouth fell open when she saw the jacket her mother was holding. “Oh gods, mom, it’s gorgeous,” Sinnie said, tears welling up as she held the thigh-length boiled wool jacket, which was dark gray in the chest, with black leather on the shoulders and light gray on the sleeves, with black cuffs and hood. It had a built-in leather belt with spaces on either side wide enough to put a scabbard. She slipped it on, and it fit quite nicely, comfortably loose but cut close enough not to get in her way.

  “I tried to build in enough room so you could wear that armor underneath if you like,” her mother said, “though it would be a shame to blunt your shape like that. When you’re wearing it by itself, you just cinch it like this,” at which point she pulled a little strap on the side tighter. She looked Sinnie up and down, tugged at the bottom of the coat, adjusted the collar. “I guess you’re like your father
, and if you’re going to be out in the world more than inside, you might as well be protected from the elements and, well, whatever else is out there.”

  “Mother, it’s perfect. Beyond perfect.” Sinnie wrapped her arms around her mother and held her for a long time, both of them letting their tears flow freely. Sinnie wondered when her mother would let her hug her like this again.

  “Looks like it fits you just right,” her father said, leaning on the doorway, watching them with wistful eyes. “Your mother really outdid herself.”

  “Well, you had some good suggestions Rolf, I have to admit,” she said. “Like these spots here where the belt shows, which Rolf insisted were absolutely necessary, one for your knife and the other, gods forbid, if you ever decide to take up a sword. And the leather for the shoulders, which I thought a bit severe, he insisted would be best for your pack and quiver. He made it sound like you were going to be out trekking through the wilderness for years on end, which would hardly surprise anyone who knows your father.”

  “But I always come home to you, dear,” he said, pulling her in at the hip. “And I hope my girl won’t wander so far in her fancy new coat that she forgets her way back to Brocland,” he added.

  “Not a chance,” Sinnie assured him, hugging him around the shoulder and taking her mother’s hand. “It might be a while, but I’ll find my way back.”

  “Well,” her mother said, pulling free from the family embrace. “Let me put on some tea for us all. I expect you have a story or two to tell us from your little adventure.”

  ELDER GUMMACHE NODDED as he read the document, which was written in the Maer’s flowing script, though the words were in Islish. It outlined the Maer’s apology for the attack on Brocland and the deaths of Samuel, August, and the livery boy, and promised restitution to the families ‘at such a time as relations between the Maer and the Realm allow for free exchange.’ He sat down, re-reading it, running his finger over several passages, nodding again.