Old Broken Road

by Alexander, K. M.

  “Our orders were to wait until dark and sneak close to the barracks. We were given these big grenades, size of a pinecone. We were to throw them inside the buildings, and they were supposed to crack open and begin spilling this white cloud—flood the garrison with gas.

  “It was nasty stuff, and it took a few minutes to work right. I can’t remember what it was called… but it smelled awful, like swamp water and rot. Knocked you right out, though. Once the majority of the garrison keeled over, Company F would rush in and mop up the remaining forces.”

  “Chemicals? Bowles used chemical weapons on an enemy?” Samantha eyes were wide and her mouth hung open.

  “He did, or at least tried to. Two hundred of us in Company A, bit less in Company B. When the majority of the garrison put in for the night, we snuck in. There was one problem, though,” Taft grunted a bitter laugh. “Victory had made masks! They could filter out the chemicals! They’d built them using some old mining equipment. Impressive pieces of equipment and hard to come by, even now.

  “So when the grenades crashed through and began to hiss, the soldiers woke and reacted, donning their masks as they were trained.

  “Our strategy crumbled after that. Gas hadn’t stopped ’em and they knew we were close. It was like kicking a hornet’s nest. There was six hundred of them. They swarmed out of the barracks, wildly pissed.”

  “By the Firsts,” said Rousseau, leaning in.

  Taft took another swig before continuing. “We fled! Bowles at the head of the retreat. He didn’t even issue an order, just hightailed it on his ugly ol’ mare.

  “Company B saw this all happen and off they were, too,” Taft snapped her fingers. “Disappeared into the woods, and we didn’t see them again. The Victory garrison ran us down. Killed more than half of the company.”

  Taft frowned. Charron gasped and covered her mouth with a hand.

  “How’d you escape?” I asked.

  Taft picked up a stick and poked at the embers of the fire. In the distance, coyotes howled. It was an oddly pleasant sound. She looked up at the group and finally shook her head.

  “Let’s just leave it as ‘I got away.’ I didn’t return to the militia after that. A lot of soldiers didn’t. Not that it mattered much. Syringa was lucky and they knew it. Those of us who ran weren’t hunted down as deserters or anything. They knew Victory could’ve steamrolled them, and most of their militia was dismantled.

  “Instead of all-out war, though, Victory went the opposite way. Began to withdraw. The caravan routes were cut off, then their army set up defenses all along the border and began building that wall. Only took them three years, if you can believe it. Thousands of them, crawling along the border. Pouring cement under guard by a legion of soldiers day and night.”

  “So did Syringa just pull back and lick its wounds?” asked Samantha.

  “Pretty much. They sued for peace. Begged for forgiveness. Which Victory gave them, though any chance at an allegiance was impossible. Not sure what happened to Bowles. I heard he might’ve gone to Lovat, but who knows? It was a long time ago. If Bowles is still around, he’d be pushing eighty-five, maybe ninety.” Taft shrugged and took a final swig before handing it back to Hannah.

  “That’s a hell of a story,” Samantha said, leaning back.

  “It was a long time ago,” Taft smiled and looked at me. “I’m beat. I’m going to turn in, we have a lot of miles ahead and a peaceful night’s sleep is too rare to pass up these days.”

  TEN

  “SOMEONE’S COMING,” Hannah hissed, jerking me from sleep.

  I bolted upright. Sleep cleared from my head almost instantly. My scout stood at the foot of my bedroll, the light of morning silhouetting her against the sky.

  “Let’s go,” I said, rising and pulling the Judge from its holster. I padded barefoot and shirtless following Hannah.

  We stopped a few paces outside the circle. She pointed. In the distance I saw a shadow. Large, black, a pointed hood that swayed as it moved. A chill ran down my back and I shivered in the early morning warmth. Was this one of the gargoyles? It had to be.

  “Where’s your spyglass?” I asked, knowing Hannah kept the contraption close at hand at all times.

  She handed it over.

  “Hard to see details in this light, but it's moving in this direction.”

  I stuffed the Judge into my waistband and brought the spyglass to my eye.

  Hannah was right. The brightness of the late morning cast the stranger as a black smudge on the horizon. Difficult to make out—a dark pointed shape, nothing more. It wasn’t moving quickly, but it was growing larger and coming this way.

  “Check the camp,” I said. “Count the company. Make sure we’re all here, and get everyone armed.”

  Hannah said nothing, but moved off to follow my orders. After a few beats I could hear her rousing the laager.

  Shaler appeared beside me like a specter. I was so intent on watching the approaching figure that I jumped. If Shaler noticed, she didn’t say anything.

  “What’s going on?” she said, her voice heavy with sleep.

  “Maybe trouble, hopefully nothing.”

  I pointed with the spyglass towards the figure moving in our direction. “Someone’s coming.”

  Shaler raised a hand to shield her eyes from the light and squinted. “A gargoyle?”

  “Not sure, it’s tough to see. From this distance a man can look wain-sized. Its shape does match Hannah’s description. It could be one of the strangers or it could be nothing.”

  “Do we stay here?” she asked.

  “Yes. It’s easier to defend ourselves up on this hill if there’s trouble.”

  Shaler looked over her shoulder at the camp, her blonde hair whipping around and catching the light. My old man liked to say that time mends all wounds, and it seems he was right. Tensions had eased between Shaler and myself, at least for the time being. Sometime in the past week and a half, since Tin's disappearance, something between us had settled. We began to tolerate one another. There was some unspoken understanding. It had almost become pleasant.

  “I’ll have the Lytles arm my drivers,” said Shaler, her icy blue eyes meeting my own briefly. She tucked a loose strand of hair over her ear as she glanced away. “Let me know if I can do anything else.”

  “You have enough weapons for that?”

  “No.”

  “Wensem might have a few extra. Talk to him. Tell him I said to hand over anything we can spare, he can come find me if he has questions.”

  She nodded, turned, and left. No argument.

  Hannah reappeared, filling the spot Shaler had just abandoned. We stood in silence, watching the swaying point of the hood.

  “Everyone safe?”

  “Don’t know about safe, but we’re all here. Word is spreading. Wensem is moving to that hill over yonder with his rifle.” Hannah pointed to another shorter hill to the north and west of where we stood. A patch of raspberry bushes clung to the base of a stand of lodgepole pines. It was a good hiding spot. I handed back her spyglass.

  We watched the approaching shape. After a while Hannah said, “Way I see it, this can go one of two ways. If it’s just another traveler, you’ll follow custom and be curt and quiet. If it’s one of them hooded gargoyles, I reckon there might be a world of trouble.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Hannah said after a couple more minutes of silence. “Go get your boots and a shirt on, boss. No one will take you seriously half-naked, even with that gun. Whoever that is, they’re still an hour or so out. Grab some food. You’ve got time.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and walked back into the center of the laager to my bedroll along the north edge of the camp. I found my boots and gun belt beside it; next to my undershirt, my faded black flannel, and my old jacket. I slipped the Judge back in its holster, then pulled on my shirt, stuck my feet in my boots, and pulled up my suspenders before draping my gun belt about my waist.

  The nightma
res had returned the previous night. I could still feel them as foggy, distant memories. But, unlike the days before, I hadn’t woken up. Either I was growing used to the dreams, or exhaustion had overwhelmed any fear I had felt.

  Sleep, good or not, had been needed. That morning, under the bright gray sky, my head felt clearer than it had in almost two weeks. I was nervous, but I was thinking straight.

  Samantha approached me with a plate of bacon, beans, and runny eggs. She was wearing her brown trousers and a light jacket. Her keff was pulled up, covering most of her hair, stopping just shy of covering the horns that grew from her temples.

  She greeted me with a nod. Samantha slept opposite from me at laager, on the far southern side near Taft’s chuckwain and the mountainous woman herself. I wanted to suggest that she move camp nearer me, but couldn’t figure out a decent excuse.

  “That for me?” I asked as the scent of breakfast filled my nose and made my stomach grumble. I knew I should eat, but all I could think about was the approaching figure. My stomach, however, felt otherwise

  “Taft said you’d be hungry.”

  It was already warm that morning, so I skipped my over-shirt. Instead, I wrapped my own gray keff around my neck, wearing it as a scarf for the time being. The light cloth fabric was a staple of most roaders’ wardrobes. On the rolling plains, sunstroke could be as dangerous as lack of water or exhaustion, but just a little fabric kept you cool and the sweat out of your eyes. Even with the thick cloud cover, I was sure I’d use it before the day was out. The heat wasn’t about to break.

  Forcing myself, I took the plate from Samantha and mindlessly began to eat.

  “Thanks,” I said through a mouthful of food.

  “Think it’s trouble?” she asked, looking westward in the space between two cargowains to where Hannah nervously rocked on her heels as she stood watch.

  “Not sure,” I admitted. “Looks like the strangers Hannah’s been seeing.”

  “I find it interesting that after the one night we don’t have that noise rumbling overhead, someone is paying a visit. If it’s Hannah’s gargoyles, it seems weird they’d approach us now. Is it a coincidence?” asked Samantha as she chewed on the nail of her smallest finger.

  “Maybe. Would be an awfully strange one.”

  “I wish I had my books. There’s something here, there has to be. Something we’re missing.”

  I shoveled a spoonful of beans and half a piece of bacon into my mouth and tilted my head. “Something religious?”

  Samantha shrugged. “If not religious, at least historical. Hagen might know without looking it up.”

  Hagen Dubois was Samantha’s wild-haired, single-horned, skinny older brother. He ran a religious curiosity shop back in Lovat. He was a good man and an even better friend.

  “Be nice to at least find some evidence of that noise. It’s so frustrating.”

  “What about the book you have with you now? Does it say anything?”

  Samantha shook her head. “A Treatise on the Writings of Keziah? Very little. It claims to be a commentary on the Aligning, but it’s nothing but spotty drivel. A madwoman's scrawl. It has a few passages on the Firsts, but nothing on strange hooded creatures. Most of her work was focused on ‘the coming change.’ It’s widely believed that is the Aligning, though some Scholars have suggested it could be some future calamity we haven’t seen yet. ”

  “You’ve been hauling it around since Lovat. Why bring it?”

  She smiled weakly and shrugged. “Been wondering that myself. I’ve been doing research on another cult that is believed to be operating in the Territories. It’s strange stuff. At the seminary we’ve been referring to them as the “Nameless.” They’re mentioned a lot in some early pre-Aligning manuscripts, but they don’t have a name. They operate in secret, pulling strings and manipulating the population for some unknown end. Keziah mentions them a few times.”

  “Sounds dark,” I said.

  She shrugged. “It’s all legend and myth. Nothing concrete. They’re not like the Children cultists we faced last year.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a relief,” I said, wondering if it was. Were they really only myths?

  She ignored me. “I am supposed to teach a course on Aligning prophecies next spring, and Keziah’s writings are a good example of pre-Aligning texts. I was hoping it’d do double duty for my research and my course prep.”

  Hannah approached, interrupting our conversation. It couldn’t have been a whole hour already.

  “What is it?” Samantha asked, her tone apprehensive.

  “Good news!” Hannah said, cracking a smile. “It’s not one of the strangers.”

  “It’s not?” Samantha and I said in unison.

  “Nope, you’ll love this. It’s one of yours, Sam. A Reunified. A road priest.”

  The crew huddled together along the western edge of the laager. I looked towards the raspberry bushes where I knew Wensem was hiding. I considered sending someone to fetch him, but figured an insurance policy would be useful. Just in case Hannah was wrong, or if this was some tricky bandit masquerading as a benevolent man of the cloth. I’ve seen crazier things on the road.

  It made sense that Hannah and I had suspected it to be one of the hooded gargoyles. It was a small building built onto a wain with a tall pointed steeple. The cart rolled towards us, pulled by a pair of skinny oxen that looked older than the mountains behind them. As its wheels turned slowly over the uneven ground, the steeple swayed drunkenly, as if stumbling towards us. A haphazard red cross was painted on the front, big and bold.

  Road priest chapels vary greatly. Usually there is enough space for four or five, and a small room at the front that served as bedroom, confessional, and pulpit. Larger, less mobile chapels could seat small congregations and often held normal service hours. Chapelwains such as this one were designed to move from road town to road town, caravan to caravan, spreading rust wine and the message of the Reunified good book.

  “Ho there!” called the lone driver in common Strutten. He raised a gloved hand in greeting. He was a skinny, bent, human man dressed in thick brown robes and a wide-brimmed hat that covered his face in deep shadows; the typical road priest attire.

  “Ho there fellow travelers! Fellow roaders! Caravaneers! Ho there! Saint Christopher’s Blessings! The Lord’s Blessings! Greetings! Greetings! Greetings!” He shouted as he pulled back on the reins to slow his oxen and bring his chapelwain to a stop. His voice had a singsong quality to it, and his Strutten was laced with an accent I couldn’t place.

  “Greetings, road priest,” I said, stepping forward. “Strange road to find a man of the cloth.”

  “Is it?” The little old man frowned and bobbed his head, causing the brim of his hat to flap. It was still difficult to make out his features. He slipped effortlessly from the seat of his wain and walked alongside one of his oxen, patting the animal’s meaty haunches. As he got closer, his face emerged from the shadows. Deep lines broke around his eyes and under his swarthy cheeks. His eyes were dark with large pupils, the whites tinged a slight yellow, an early sign of jaundice.

  “Strange roads are as full of sinners as the unstrange. I’d say every road is worthy of a priest. Wouldn’t you?”

  There was a tension in his voice that made me pause.

  “You come from Colby? Lovat?” I asked.

  “No, no.” The road priest shook his head. “Neither . I was up in the northwest corner, near the wall, then I crossed down towards the south and found this road. I didn’t expect to see another soul for a few weeks.”

  He looked over his shoulder back the way he came, then turned back, his eyes slightly wide, shifting.

  He’s terrified, I realized. His joviality is all an act.

  “Margaret Shaler, Shaler Ranch. Pleased to meet you, father,” Shaler said, interrupting. She stepped forward, offering a slim hand to the road priest. “This is my caravan. We’re from Hellgate, by way of Syringa, and Meyer's Falls. Our final destination is Lovat.”


  It was a breach of trail etiquette. When underway, roaders don’t like shaking hands with strangers. With your hand grasped by someone else, it’s too easy to put yourself at the mercy of a bandit. It’s a very simple way to get yourself stabbed or kidnapped. We bow, wave, size each other up, and share a drink or two before we ever decide to shake hands. We also don’t offer details upfront. As the rules say: Trust no one but your company.

  It was obvious the road priest had ignored most of her rambling. He sighed and studied Shaler’s extended hand, then looked up at her face before sighing again and grasping her hand in a firm shake. “First time on the road, Miss Shaler?”

  His tone was one of chastisement, friendly mockery. Shaler’s skin flushed as she gave him a tight, bitter smile. I wondered if she wasn’t preparing to bite his head off.

  “I’m Jeremiah Norry, Reunified Priest of Saint Christopher’s Road Chapel,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a city I hail from, as I hail from the very road itself. It’s a pleasure to meet someone so friendly for a change. Roaders can be an awful suspicious lot.” He looked at the rest of the crew with mock-mischievousness, and I wondered if they could even see his expression under that big hat of his.

  “What can I do for you fine folks? I can take confession inside Saint Chris’, or if you want, I can offer thirsty souls a taste of my rust wine! Best in the north it’s said, yes, it is!

  “Or if the sintalk isn’t something you’re keen on, you can take a load off in the chapel and we can just straight talk. Though I’m afraid I only have room inside for a handful of you. Less than that if that big lass joins us,” Father Norry said, eyeing Taft, who lingered at the edge of the group.

  “I’ll remain behind,” Taft said, doing little to hide the edge in her voice.

  “I’d like a sip of that wine, boss, but I need to get eyes on our trail,” said Hannah, slapping me on the back.

  I nodded and looked over my crew. “The rest of the caravan has plenty to do as well, so maybe just a cup of wine for the crew, unless someone wants confession.”