Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  “He holds back more than most realize,” Dirk said.

  “I believe this,” Aban said. “Do you know why he came this far north?”

  “I was told by Banys that he seeks something,” Dirk said. “He spoke of a road of black stone, and the place it leads.”

  It was Aban's turn to be quiet. The lines in his face deepened, and the trader took on a weight of years he had not worn before, even in the earliest hours of the dawn. He turned his face toward the horses, and took a keen interest in where they were going. Dirk didn't interrupt Aban's silence, and for a mile or more there were no sounds but the creak of the axles, and the birds in the brush.

  “You know for certain he seeks this road?” Aban asked.

  “I did not hear the words from his own mouth,” Dirk said. “But his steps seem bent toward it. Why, does it have some meaning to you?”

  “And what does he know of these black roads?” Aban asked.

  Dirk shrugged. “I know not.”

  “And what do you know?” Aban pressed.

  “All I know, I just told.”

  “Where did he hear of them?” Aban asked.

  “In dreams,” Dirk said.

  Aban's frown deepened. He was quiet for several moments, chewing on the ends of his mustache. “That is little enough.”

  “Teller has gone hunting for treasure with less, and come back with tales to tell.”

  “Only tales?” Aban asked.

  “Sometimes tales are all there is,” Dirk said. “But sometimes there is more. This Barrow Fields, tell me of it.”

  Aban uncorked his jug, and took another drink. He settled the water in its place at his feet, and leaned back on his bench. When he spoke again, some of his humor had returned. “What is there to tell? It is a small place, with only a few dozen tradesmen in the town proper. There are perhaps twice as many homesteads around the town itself, and several more in the next glen over. Farmers, mostly, though one or two raise goats and sheep.”

  “And the black road?” Dirk asked.

  “Would it be pointless to deny I know anything of what you speak?” Aban asked. Dirk nodded. “Very well. You do not happen to have anything stronger than water in your saddlebags, do you?”

  “Not any longer,” Dirk said.

  “I thought that would be the case,” Aban said, sighing. He reached beneath the driver's seat, fiddling with a nearly invisible seam in the wood. A cabinet door, cleverly hidden between his feet, popped open. Aban fished out a bottle full of cloudy liquid. “I always keep something on hand for emergencies.”

  Aban pried the cork from the bottle with his teeth, dropped it into his palm, and took a long sip of the contents. The wine smelled thick and swampy; a world away from the clear, fruity spirits Dirk was used to. Aban held the bottle out, and when Dirk made no move to take it, re-corked it.

  “I have been to many places in my life,” Aban said. “No few of them very old. I have walked the souks of the Eld Fatar, where a hundred generations of spice merchants have gathered since the dawn of the desert folk. I have seen the festival of the Stone Kings, and gazed upon the carved faces of emperors so old none living know their names. I have been to the floating market in the Sea of Salt, and I have walked the paves on the Street of the Gods. In each of these places, and many more, I have heard tales of strange black roads. These tales are like you, and your blood. Not the same, but close enough there is no mistaking what they share.”

  Dirk nodded. The places Aban spoke of were a mystery to him, but the gravity of their names told him all he needed to know. The trader tugged the reins, and followed a curve in the road. They crossed a bridge, and the horses' hooves rang hollow on the old, heavy beams. Aban trailed off, and shook himself; a man trying to push away a dream that had no business haunting him in the daylight. The wagon's wheels groaned as they rocked slightly in the road ruts. The bays swung their hooves, nimbly avoiding every dip and duck. Sunset tried to approach the other horses a time or two, but Dirk kept her in place. The sun continued its journey across the heavens, and around them the world minded its own affairs. After several minutes passed, Aban took another swig from the corked bottle. He hefted it, contemplated a third, then stowed it back beneath his seat.

  “They have different names in different lands, and each name has its own story,” Aban said. “In the deserts of Karafel, the Badawi call them the Haraki Mai. They say that when sandstorms rage, and the lords of fire ride out from the underworld, that they call forth these dark roads to cross the boundary between the living and the dead. Someone who finds such a road, and follows it, will find themselves in a city of ashen treasures. It is possible to escape with great wealth, but clever thieves will bring trinkets they can carry before the blowing winds bury the road once more, and trap them in a sandy tomb.”

  Dirk listened as Aban told him a dozen different campfire legends. Of the Burdun Shen that led travelers into forgotten redoubts in snowy peaks, or the Grussveil that wound their way through black marshes and into empty, crystalline caverns. In some tales children walked the roads, fleeing the cruelties of their homes. In others, aged scholars and old women dared the paths, using their wits and wisdom to overcome trials. In some tales the heroes escaped, either with empty pockets, or with a great treasures. In others they failed, finding they'd waited too long to leave, and the way out had vanished. For all their differences, though, there was always a road of smooth, black stone, a fantastical city, and a dire warning to those who would seek the treasures within.

  “And Barrow Fields has a tale of its own?” Dirk asked.

  “I first laid eyes on Barrow Fields perhaps fifteen years ago,” Aban said. “I was a young man, and like all young men there was nothing I wanted more than the favor of a lovely woman. More than gilt or spice, more than song or praise, that is what drove me. It was in Black Oak, a village to the east of here, that I found the woman I had sought without even knowing I sought her.”

  Aban took his pipe from his pocket, and carefully packed the bowl with his dark, sweet leaf. He struck sparks into the bowl, and puffed until they were smoldering just the way he liked them. He clamped his teeth around the stem, idly chewing at it while he smoked.

  “I came to the town with paper fans, and kites from the eastern sea hamlets. I had made good bargains for my trouble, and the soaring toys were always a welcome gift during the summer celebrations. I set my cart up at the town square, and had been doing brisk business when she came to me. Her hair was dark, and curled down her shoulders like a black river-fall. Her eyes were the clear blue of an untroubled sky, and her smile made me feel a man bewitched. Her feet and shoulders were both bare, and she asked me if I had any kites left. I made a show of it, at first, but I saw in her face that she knew what lurked in the back of my wagon. So I revealed the last of the kites, a fine fire bird that would outshine all the others I had brought with. The bird was lacquered and hand-painted, with silk ribbons on its tail, each a different shade of sunset.”

  Aban smiled. It was a young man's smile, full of pride, and absent the self-consciousness that came with maturity. The expression lit his face from within, but did not linger long. “It took her breath away. She said she had nothing to trade for it, but wondered if I would teach her to fly it. I told her I would, but that she would need to follow me in word and deed alike. She promised she would, and so she did. That bird ducked and swooped above the village green for hours, chasing the lesser toys that had deigned to rise near it. Once or twice it dipped, but it always rose again.”

  The trader took another drink, this time of water, and swallowed loudly. “As the sun set, she tried to bring the soaring bird back down. Rather than glide gracefully, though, it dove into a stack of grass bundles. At first it seemed unharmed, but several of the folds had been broken, and the frame was cracked. She was heartbroken, and swore she would make it up to me. I was untroubled, for the day had been reward enough in itself, but I let her lead me on into the night revelry. She gave me her name, a dance, and a ki
ss that night. Delyth she was, and the only thing prettier than the sound of it on my lips was the feel of hers on mine.”

  “That was all she gave you?” Dirk asked, caught up in the trader's tale despite himself.

  “On the first night, yes. But there were more nights after that,” Aban said, grinning. “When that festival was over, we traveled together to the next. She sold charms and music makers she had brought from the hills of her home, and the two of us made quite the pair. One night on the road we were caught by the rain, and I was soaked to the bone by the time I set up the tent. Of course, warmth was not a problem that night, nor any other night of our journey together.”

  Dirk's lips quirked. He couldn't help it. “And after that journey?”

  “We returned to the place she called home,” Aban said, gesturing toward the road before them. “Her father had been a goatherd, and her mother a tea maker. They were startled at my arrival, though after a few tense nights they began to warm to me. When the snows drew close, and Delyth's monthly blood ceased flowing, they insisted I stay. Gently, though there was iron wrapped in their urging. So I stayed, and was glad of it.”

  “What else did you do?” Dirk asked. “If the town is as small as you say, I reckon there is little need for a traveling trader.”

  “I did what I could, which was a little of all,” Aban said. “Truth told, there was little enough to do by that time, so more days than most my hands remained idle. I spent those days with Delyth, though, and was content for it. We rode over the countryside when the snow was light, and I met the other families in the glen. I got a sense of them, and learned what I could. I grew to know their needs, their wants, and endeared myself to them by finding ways to get them what they wanted, to the benefit of Delyth and her family.”

  “No mean task,” Dirk said.

  “It was not, especially for a man with my experiences,” Aban agreed. “To make matters more difficult, I felt Delyth was embarrassed of her small home. I had my tales of seas and deserts, great cities and sweeping vales, and she had only the simple beauty of the rolling hills, and the tombs lying within them.”

  Aban shook his head slowly, and tipped back his water jug. This time when he offered it, Dirk accepted. The water was flat, and a little tasteless, but clean and cool for all that.

  “There was a snowstorm in the dead of winter, and the drifts had risen near to the eaves of her parents' home,” Aban said, giving the reins a slight tug. “Her mother and father were asleep in their room under a pile of furs, and we were sharing the dregs of a crock of mulled cider out near the fireplace. We were warm and comfortable while the winds howled, lost in each other in that way fresh lovers often are. That was when she gave me one of her mischievous smiles, and asked if I wanted to hear a story. I told her I did, so she drew closer to whisper it in my ear.”

  Aban recounted the story, swigging from his jug as he spoke so his throat never dried. The tale began with a shepherd girl who'd lost her hound. Instead of waiting for him to return, she set out into the darkness after him with her sling and crook, calling the beast's name. She was so distraught that she didn't realize until it was too late that a fog had crept in. Wolves howled across the hills, and she ran into the mist rather than hunkering down to wait for morning. The snarling howls came closer, echoing at her heels as the wolves gave chase. When her feet found a road, she followed it without thinking. It wasn't until she had run for some time that she noticed it was made of strange, black stone that was smooth as glass, and unblemished by time or the elements.

  When she'd run until she couldn't run anymore, she found herself at the foot of a mountain. Upon closer inspection, though, it was a towering structure built from giant slabs of stone. She saw no mortar in the cracks, and when she raised her lantern she saw the remnants of ancient carvings along the walls that had been mostly scoured away by wind, rain, and time. The pursuit continued, with snarling and growling coming from the edge of the fog bank. Gasping for air, she began climbing the slippery stairs.

  The stairs were too small for human feet, and once or twice she nearly fell from the sheer side of the huge ruin. She lost her crook, and her lantern not long after. In the darkness, she heard voices calling to her. Whispers that were close enough to hear, but just far away enough that she couldn't make them out. She climbed on, moving on hands and knees, desperately trying to reach above the fog before the beast caught her. Hoping all the while that whoever belonged to the voice would save her from the thing that followed. The air grew thin in her mouth, and she was too exhausted to scream. Then the shadow that had dogged her steps leaped for her. Her hound, the one she'd been seeking, had been chasing her the whole time. Matted, and with its eyes rolling in terror, it had been trying to shepherd its mistress away from the summit ever since she started her climb. She collapsed against the beast, crying into its fur. It whined, growling at something that lurked at the threshold of the stars above them. The whispers grew louder, pleading, but the hound was having none of it. It pulled at the shepherd girl, and she came willingly back down the child-like stairs. Back into the night's shroud, away from the windswept voices, and their urgent secrets.

  She walked into the night, shuffling along the road. Her hound pushed her this way and that, keeping her on the path. Eventually, she couldn't walk any further, and she collapsed. When she awoke the next morning, the sun was shining, and her hound had pushed under her arm. The black road was gone, as was the massive structure she'd climbed. It was just her, and her wayward sheep dog, in a glade that was many miles away from her home, but less than a day from a stead she knew. No matter how she looked, though, she saw no tracks in the grass from either herself, or from her hound.

  “Quite the tale,” Dirk said, once Aban had finished.

  “I told her as much that night,” Aban said.

  “Did you tell her any of the other stories?” Dirk asked.

  Aban shook his head. “There was a desperation in her face when she spun her yarn. She wanted to believe that, no matter how small her town might seem, that it still held a secret she could surprise me with. That night, curled up before the hearth with her in my arms, it was easy to play the dutiful husband. To shiver, and to let her give me a reassuring kiss. To promise me that no one truly knew of the black road, or where it might lead. That everyone she had ever known who swore to have seen it had never been able to show it to another person when pressed.”

  They rode in silence for several moments. Dirk took another swallow from the jug, sloshed the water over his teeth, and spat into the grass. He held the jug out, and Aban drank as well.

  “There is more to the story,” Dirk said. It was not a question.

  “The winter ebbed, as they always do. Spring came, and Delyth was great with child by then,” Aban said. “She walked every day, but when it became a chore for her to cross the room, I would take her out for rides in the sun. The fresh air did her good, or so she said, but her mother warned me to keep her close in case the baby should come. On a day where the clouds were low, and rain spat in short bursts, I hitched the team to go see the Farrums in the next glen. Delyth insisted on coming with, and nothing I said persuaded her. Finally, caught between a pregnant wife and her worrying mother, I helped her onto the bench, and promised her mother we would not be long.”

  Aban trailed off. The horses slowed, and then began to meander toward the edge of the path. It wasn't until the wheels jounced over a rock that Aban stirred himself, cursed the horses, and snapped his whip over their heads. He dragged them, and himself, back on course with a visible effort.

  “My business was simple that day. All I had to do was bring some supplies along the north road, and put them into the hands of Lynal Farrum. The journey there was long, but not unpleasant.” Aban drew a deep breath, then blew it out, fluttering the ends of his mustache. “Lynal is an old man, and he likes to talk. Talk was, mark me, most of the reason why he would rather dicker with me on his stead than go to town himself. I knew this, and so I was patient. Del
yth was, too, allowing him to nod and touch her belly as if he were the grandsire-to-be. The rain came and went, and we were prepared to leave twice before it came down too hard for traveling in an open wagon. It was near dusk when the rain finally ceased for certain. We said our goodbyes for the last time, and trotted out onto the road.”

  “And?” Dirk asked after too much silence had passed.

  “I lost my way,” Aban said. “I knew the roads well enough, even after no more than a few seasons, but we were miles away from anywhere when a fog overtook us. It was just a wisp on the road at first, but soon we were adrift on a sea of it. I could scarce see the feet of my own team, and everything was quiet. Delyth was asleep, at first, but in time she woke. We talked, and she leaned against me, and that made everything seem fine. There were no wolves, she felt no pain, and soon or late we would find our way home.”

  Aban laughed. It was a rueful sound, absent mirth, and harsh even after all the years between then and now. He shook his head slowly, as if he still couldn't believe he'd even been the man he was remembering.

  “The sky was spitting sleet for a time, but it stopped as we topped a rise. A wind came out of the night, and above us, clouds parted. We stood at the summit of a hill, staring down into a silver sea of mist. Then, as we watched, the mists parted. Below us was a road built of black stone.”

  “How could you be sure?” Dirk asked. “In the dark the eye sees movement first, shape second, and color not at all. Even on a full moon, how do you know the stones were black?”

  “I have never been more sure of anything in my life, my friend. Each stone was perfectly placed, seated alongside its brethren, and maintained by a soldier course down each side. It was wide enough for two wagons abreast, and it stretched off down the gully without so much as a hitch or a bulge.” Aban opened his mouth to keep speaking, but no words passed his lips. He coughed, and tried again, but it wasn't until his third effort that his throat relaxed enough to let his wind blow free. “There was more to it than the stones, though. The road emerged from beneath the hill, and marched on into the distance. The thickets grew away from the black stone, as if they feared to embrace it. No roots dug beneath it, and no branches would cast their shadows over it. The grass grew away from it, as well. As if it were afraid to even approach the stones. It gave back no light, and the shadows it cast were thick. Like the stones were lying in pools of their own blood.”