The Maer Cycle Deluxe Illustrated Omnibus: The Maer Cycle, #0

By Dani Finn

Some Legends are true. Others have been twisted.

Legends describe the Maer as savage man-beasts haunting the mountains, their bodies and faces covered with hair. Creatures of unimaginable strength, cunning, and cruelty. Bedtime stories to keep children indoors at night. Soldiers' tales to frighten new recruits.

It is said the Maer once ruled the Silver Hills, but they have long since passed into oblivion.

This is the story of their return.

In Hollow Road, Carl, Sinnie and Finn, three companions since childhood, are tasked with bringing a friend's body home for burial. Along the way, they find there is more to the stories than they ever imagined, and the mountains hold threats even deadlier than the Maer.

In The Archive, an expedition of humans and Maer seek out the legendary lost library of the Maer. A mystical surrogacy may bridge the gap between two peoples, and many hearts entwine as their adventure hurtles toward its bloody conclusion.

In The Place Below, a young scholar and unwitting necromancer is drawn to an ancient mind felt deep beneath the earth. Her journey takes her to a place dark beyond her imagining where the long-lost secrets of humans and Maer are finally revealed.

The Maer Cycle is a classic adventure fantasy trilogy with LGBTQ characters, perfect for fans of Dungeons and Dragons who want action, friendship, and empathy in equal measure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dani Finn
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223788652

Book preview

The Maer Cycle

Hollow Road

The Archive

The Place Below

Dani Finn

Dragonheart Press

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Copyright © 2023 by Dani Finn

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

Hollow Road

The Archive

The Place Below

Hollow Road

The Maer Cycle #1

Dani Finn

Dragonheart Press

Copyright © 2022 by Dani Finn.

This book was previously published by Shadow Spark Publishing in September 2020 and rights reverted to the author in December 2022.

Cover art © Fiona West

Very minor changes have been made to the manuscript in this version.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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Content warnings

This book is intended for adult audiences and should not be read by anyone under the age of 18.

It contains violence, death, child death (off page), and mild sexual content.

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1

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Carl cradled the contract in his left hand, careful not to crush or wrinkle it as he circled the empty streets of Wells. The bells had just rung seven and he wasn’t due at Gerald Leavitt’s compound until eight, but his nerves had awoken him before dawn, and so he wandered.

Wells was slowly waking up as the sun struggled to break through the gray mist obscuring the sky. The aroma of chicory tea and fresh-baked bread filled the air, and he was sorely tempted. But he had a stubbornness about opening his purse when it wasn’t strictly necessary, so he strode past the smells, making a large circle around the Gold Quarter, where sleepy guards stood outside buildings with painted shutters bracketing actual glass windows.

When the bell tolled seven-thirty, he gave in to his hunger and spent a few pennies on a cup of scalding hot tea and a fresh roll, which he ate leaning against an unoccupied hitching post next to the bakery. The morning air was cool and fresh, with a light breeze keeping the city’s many odors from becoming the stifling fog they could be on a hot afternoon. Summer was on the wane, but the leaves had not started to change, not that there were many trees in Wells proper. The sky was slowly clearing, the sun playing peek-a-boo with the clouds, which boded well for his journey the next day.

He timed his walk to arrive at Leavitt’s compound just as the bell tolled eight. A guard stood before the carved wooden door, rubbing his eyes.

Well met. Carl used his best military voice, and the guard stood up straight. Carl, of Brocland.

Well met, Carl. Mr. Leavitt is expecting you. Go straight up the stairs to the second floor. The guard opened the door. Carl nodded and walked into the foyer. To his right was a sumptuous parlor, with velvet couches, burnished wood tables, and shiny brass lamps. To the left was a closed door, which he knew led to the office of Leavitt’s right-hand man, Geoffrey. Carl mounted the stairs, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves.

He had known Leavitt from childhood, as the mostly absent father to his friend Theo, whose death had brought him to Leavitt’s doorstep. Leavitt had long ago moved from Brocland to Wells, and it was said that he never left his apartment, that he ran his mercenary empire and strewed death across the continent from these dark, velvety confines. Carl stood before the door and had raised his hand to knock when the door swung open. Leavitt’s boy stood aside, his eyes down, and held his arm out for Carl to enter.

You’re looking well, Carl. War suits you. Gerald Leavitt rotated his wine glass in his pink fingers, his eyes twinkling.

With respect, Mr. Leavitt, it does not. Leavitt was one of the more powerful men on the Isle, but Carl knew he liked people who stood up to him.

Please, call me Gerald. You’re no longer a village urchin.

Very well, Gerald. It was difficult to say after a lifetime of Mister. As I was saying, war most definitely does not suit me. It’s a poor use of resources.

Leavitt’s chuckle was more like a hiccup than a laugh. His face, which had always seemed ageless, looked faded now, stretched over thinning features into a forced smile.

You’re not wrong, though it does pay the bills. If you’re on the right side, of course. But come, you must be thirsty. Leavitt gestured toward his boy, who stirred from his corner and brought over a silver carafe and cup on a leathered silver tray.

Carl waved away the boy and the suggestion. Thank you, but I never drink on the job.

Quite right. But since we haven’t yet signed the contract, I must insist. Leavitt nodded toward his boy, who handed Carl a glass of wine.

Thank you, sir. Gerald. Carl raised his glass and took a sip, closing his eyes for a moment as the wine’s light, fruity flavor flooded his mouth. Leavitt downed his own glass and held it out toward his boy.

Tell me, Leavitt said, looking at Carl as the boy filled his glass, did you ever hear anything, while you were in the service, any stories about soldiers who had encountered the Maer?

Carl dead-eyed Leavitt, whose face was unusually animated for someone who had just lost his only son. The Maer had haunted Carl’s childhood in stories and as bogeymen during their games of Seekers of the South, but no one saw them as anything but fairy tales. He’d heard a few soldiers’ stories of course, told around the campfire to frighten the new recruits.

Nothing I took seriously. Why?

Leavitt waved him off, taking a large sip of his wine. It’s just...a little hobby of mine, collecting Maer stories. I’m thinking of writing a book.

Something in his tone didn’t ring true, but Carl decided to play along. Well, there was one fellow who said he’d seen them, watching a southbound caravan from the hills. He said they just sat on top of this cliff, staring down, not attacking or anything. And their faces were covered with hair, like a beard going all the way up. I don’t know how he could tell from such a distance, but anyway, that’s what he said.

Fascinating, yes, very interesting. Leavitt leaned on a bookshelf, then stood up again, switching his cup to his other hand. And that would have been near Paston?

Carl nodded. That’s right. A day’s journey south of Paston, as it was told. As far as he knew, it was the only place a caravan could travel to the South, and only with special permission from the Realm.

Excellent. Another piece of the puzzle. There are so many. So many… Leavitt’s voice trailed off and his eyes drifted toward the doorway to the next room, where Carl could make out a white shroud on a table, surrounded by candles dancing in the breeze blowing in through the open window. Carl wished he could have a moment alone with Theo’s body, to lay a hand on his forehead and speak his mind, but he felt he could not impose on the father’s grief, and he would have his chance once they were on the road.

Carl cleared his throat to pull Leavitt from his reverie. Theo was always very good to me. I swear to you, I will bring him home.

Leavitt turned back to Carl, his eyes dark, his face drawn. Yes, you will. But you will need a little help, I should think. It’s a long and dangerous road to travel alone. Carl nodded, though he’d never thought of the road to Brocland as dangerous. I expect you have a few…choice companions in mind?

Indeed, Carl answered. A couple of the other ‘village urchins,’ as you put it, who have grown up. You may recall Sinnie, the shepherdess’ daughter, and Finn, who I believe knew Theo from the village watch.

Sinnie, that little monkey girl? Are you planning on climbing many trees while you take my son’s body to be buried? Leavitt’s face tinged red and his voice quavered with sudden anger.

Nothing like that, Carl managed. Sinnie had, in fact, been known for climbing trees even the strongest, boldest boy wouldn’t dare attempt. Sinnie has become quite the athlete, and she’s the best with a bow I have ever seen. She can handle herself. He would always remember seeing her skewer an apple glued to the head of a puppy when his regiment had been lucky enough to be stationed in a town where she was performing.

Leavitt smiled and shook his head. Forgive me. I am not so much myself these days. Very well, Sinnie, the archer. And Finn, as I recall, was thought to have the gift, and went to study, yes?

Carl nodded, looking down for a moment. Carl had been in study for six months, but even before his gift faded, he had known he would never approach what his friends were capable of. Finn had learned to harden his skin so a knife would bounce off it if dropped from a few inches above. And Theo, who was in a more advanced level of study, had been able to work wonders with light and shadow. Carl recalled the time in study when Theo had shown him something, ‘a trick,’ as he had put it, that Carl would never forget.

Theo had come to his room after evening lessons, closed the door, and put a finger over his mouth. He held out his fingers, and a glowing bubble appeared in the air, as tall as a man, faint blue-green, suspended just inches off the floor. Carl felt the air vibrate in his bones, in his jaw, in his heart, which felt like it was flashing in and out of sync with the rest of his body. Theo held out his cupped hands, and the ball floated toward him, shrinking as it moved with a sinuous smoothness through the air, until it came to rest in his hands, and the light went out.

Leavitt’s slipper scuffled on the floor, and Carl looked up. Leavitt was studying him, a faint smile hovering on his lips. Carl took a sip of his wine to steady his nerves.

Sorry. Yes. Finn went to study at Holston, and just finished his apprenticeship. I believe his discipline is called Bodily Control.

Well, it seems you have everything in hand, then. I have arranged a mule and a cart for you, as well as horses, and of course your fee. It’s a thousand denri, to share amongst your companions as you see fit. Geoffrey will attend to the details. You have the contract? Leavitt dipped a quill in a brass inkpot, clearing space on his desk.

Carl’s heart fluttered, hearing the sum spoken out loud, though he had read the contract a dozen times. It was surely well above market value, especially considering that Gerald Leavitt was known for his frugality in business matters.

I will see it done. he managed, unrolling the paper and leaning over the desk, where they both signed.

Very well then. Leavitt blotted the paper and slid the inkpot out of the way, staring out the window into the gray half-light of the morning. Carl, I do want you to be careful. There has been no word from Brocland for some time. And while that is hardly surprising, given how little of note happens there, I should dearly like to hear good news from the village. But if such tidings are lacking, I will need to hear whatever truth you can find.

Carl nodded. I haven’t had any word myself, not since my mother passed. I will return with news, whatever it may be.

Very well. Thank you, and...be safe. Leavitt raised his glass, an odd, somber twinkle in his eye.

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Geoffrey’s office was on the ground floor, behind a door at the bottom of the staircase, and was bursting at the seams with papers, books, tools, and weapons. There was a wide window open to the street.

Carl! Back from the Blockade, I see. I heard that was a tedious affair. Geoffrey stood up from a desk, where he had been writing in a ledger.

I would have rather been hacked to bits than camp out in that mud and stench for six months, Carl replied. But they didn’t ask my preference.

Geoffrey’s smile was as robust as his handshake. He had been in the service, so they shared an easy camaraderie.

You can pick up the mule and cart tomorrow morning down at the stable, Geoffrey said, and however many horses you’ll need. Here’s your slip, signed and sealed, so they won’t give you any trouble. We’ll have the, em, body loaded on the cart and ready to go when you get there.

Thank you. Carl pictured several stable hands sweating their way down the stairs with their awkward cargo, terrified of all the ways it could go wrong. Geoffrey dropped a fat pouch of coins into his hand.

There’s a thousand denri in there. I had my boy count it twice.

Carl hefted the pouch, nodding. Not that I’m complaining, but doesn’t that seem a little high?

Geoffrey chuckled. No doubt in honor of your long friendship. Or maybe he’s grooming you.

For what?

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders, scratching his beard. Well, Mr. Leavitt always has a few pet projects in his pocket, besides the big merc jobs, which pay the bills and then some. I stopped trying to figure him out long ago. I guess that’s why he’s sitting up there drinking wine all day and we’re down here doing the work.

True enough, Carl said. Well thanks, and I guess I’ll see you in a month’s time.

Geoffrey held up a finger to stop Carl from leaving, opened a desk drawer, and handed him a small ceramic jar. Leavitt asked me to give you this, he said, closing Carl’s fingers around it. With any luck, you won’t need it.

Carl uncorked it and took a sniff. Medic’s balm, he said, amazed. But that’s worth—

Indeed. Like I said, I think he’s grooming you.

Carl didn’t like the sound of that, but he wasn’t going to turn down such a gift. Between the balm and the sack of coins, he now had in his possession many times as much wealth as he had ever seen in one place. He shook Geoffrey’s hand, nodded farewell, and left.

2

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Sinnie walked at a brisk pace down to the riverside, past the cobbled area where the merchants were setting up their stalls, to the muddy path running down toward the bay. It was the only place in Wells where she could run at full speed, with no one but a few fishermen to gawk at her. Some of them ignored her, others gave her confused looks, and one whistled as she ran by. The path veered up a hill as the mud gave into rock, then down again to the water’s edge, where the path was broken by smaller rocks and roots. It was difficult terrain to run on, but that was the point. Since leaving Hertle’s troupe, she could feel her body weakening without the daily routines of practice, performance, loading and unloading, not to mention the countless miles of walking between towns, so she had taken to running as a way to slow the decline. It seemed absurd to run without a destination, but it was a good antidote for the restless feeling she got whenever she was in the city.

She ran to the end of the path, her sandals pounding the softening earth where the river fed into the bay and the muddy sands lay exposed by the low tide. She did a few standing backflips, which she had learned from Hertle’s son Guy, then took off in a sprint back along the path, feeling her strength return. When the path veered up the hill, she instead picked her way along the sharp rocks of the shore, leaping from stone to stone, then finally climbing the rocky outcropping when she ran out of places to land. At the top, she jumped up, just reaching the lowest branch of a tree, pulled herself up, and quickly scaled the twenty feet or so to the highest stand-able branch, where she stood to catch her breath and look out across the strait.

On a clear day she could just make out the black cliffs of Gheil, but today they were invisible in the sea mist, which the increasing sun had yet to clear completely. She longed for the wild nature of the continent: the stretches of unbroken forest, the rivers and streams unsullied by human waste, the sense of wonder, and danger, and freedom.

Sinnie dallied in the market on her way back to the inn. Farmers hawked heaps of vegetables next to smiths with rows of gleaming weapons spread out on red velvet. Stalls offering colorful silk scarves, jewelry of silver and gold, used tools, maps, scrolls, books, and nearly anything else imaginable, lined the riverbanks, and the morning crowd swelled to a river of humanity. The wealthy examined necklaces, fine clothes, and paintings while soldiers and workmen took hard looks at weapons and tools. Cooks haggled with the farmers over the quality, freshness, and price of the vegetables. Small groups of giggling children darted between the towering adults. A cluster of four monks studied wool blankets as a wizened merchant eyed them shrewdly. And here and there, lone individuals with their heads down scanned the crowd for easy marks. She had known a few thieves in her day, and though the penalty was losing a finger or even a hand, there were always those who saw no other way to make ends meet.

After a dizzying half-hour, she made her way to the relative calm of the inn, where she found Carl and Finn sitting over a bowl of drabbath, porridge with dried fish flakes, the rank but filling concoction that was a staple on the Isle.

Carl rose with a smile, grasped her by both arms to get a look at her, then pulled her in for a gentle hug.

War suits you, my friend, Sinnie said, squeezing Carl's now broad shoulders.

I wish people would stop saying that, Carl muttered, his smile breaking for a moment.

Sinnie was about to respond when Finn lifted her in the air and spun her around, then

released her and held her at arm’s length. He had been a skinny thing when she’d last seen him, but he looked lean and strong now.

Sinn, it’s been too long! You are looking well, quite well indeed! He touched her face, a gesture she never would have accepted from Carl, not that he would have tried.

Well, apparently that makes three of us. Who knew a few years would make such a difference? Say, nice tattoo. Sinnie put her hand on Finn’s, her fingers sliding down to his wrist, which was covered in swirling lines and dots. He quickly slid his hand under the table.

It’s their way of marking their property, I guess. But what’s this I hear about you running off with the circus?

It’s a traveling show, Hertle’s Amazing Variety Theater. You might have heard of it, if you hadn’t spent the last three years in study.

Well, we did hear a thing or two about the outside world, none of it good, to be sure.

They sat in smiling silence for a moment, then Carl signaled the barkeep. Are you hungry? he asked Sinnie. "The drabbath is…well, it’s not the very worst thing I’ve eaten."

Sinnie smiled and nodded. Living on the Isle for the last year, she’d become accustomed to it.

The tavern boy brought her drabbath and three ales, and Carl dropped a handful of pennies on his tray. The boy bowed and disappeared.

To Theo, Carl said, and they clonked their wooden cups together. Carl’s face showed genuine sadness, masked though it was behind his soldier’s façade. Finn stared thoughtfully at the tavern wall, his expression impossible to read, but Sinnie knew Finn had a special respect for Theo. Perhaps they knew each other better than she was aware. Sinnie hadn’t known Theo very well herself, as he’d spent half the year in study from the age of eight, but his death at such a young age touched her nonetheless. They drank, then sat in silence.

Do they…I mean, what exactly… Sinnie looked at Carl, then back at Finn.

Carl shook his head. Mr. Leavitt only said he was killed on mission. What that means… he stared down into his drink, then raised it to his lips. Theo and I hadn’t really kept in touch of late. Right before he moved on from study, he wrote me a letter. Said he would be in training somewhere on the Isle’s north coast, and after that, who knows?

Sounds like he might have been with the Ward, Finn chimed in.

Is that really even a thing? Sinnie asked, her head cocked to one side. I heard it doesn’t exist, that it was a brilliant piece of propaganda invented by one of those ministers to keep people off guard.

It exists. Finn looked down into his drabbath for a moment.

Look at you, privy to all the little dark secrets of the world, Sinnie said, glancing again at his wrist, which he left on the table this time. His tattoo might have been some kind of writing, but there weren’t any letters she could recognize.

I’m just an adept; they don’t tell us anything. But I’ve heard it mentioned by those who would know. And Theo would have been the perfect candidate. Even as a kid, he…could do things.

Carl nodded, frowning into his cup. I believe it. It’s the only thing that really makes sense, based on what Mr. Leavitt said. Theo wasn’t a diplomat, as far as I know, and he wasn’t in the service, so what else could ‘on mission’ mean?

Well, speaking of which, I guess we’re all about to be ‘on mission’ come tomorrow morning, no? Sinnie felt suddenly giddy, and not just with the ale. What’s the story there?

Carl filled them in on the details in his methodical way. They were to pick up a cart containing Theo’s body and some supplies, along with horses for each of them, in the morning. From there it was a little over a week to Brocland. They were to see Theo buried in the family plot, then bring back news from the village, and the fee was a thousand denri, split evenly between them.

A thousand denri, for three weeks’ work? That’s… Sinnie was at a loss. A person could live comfortably on half that amount for a year, even on the Isle.

Indeed, Carl said. Mr. Leavitt seems to think there may be some risk. He looked Sinnie in the eyes as he said it.

In traveling to Brocland? Sinnie asked, half incredulous, half nervous.

I know, Carl said again. But still...Have you heard any news from the village?

Sinnie shook her head, turned her cup in a circle on the table. She hadn’t had a letter in close to two months, and her mother was a faithful letter writer. Hertle’s troupe was well known, so there was no way she would miss two in a row.

You? Carl glanced up at Finn, who shook his head. Nor have I, Carl said. So I think we have reason to be wary.

I’m sure it’s just… Sinnie gave a weak smile before continuing. Well, in her last letter, my mother did mention people acting strange, saying they had seen things.

What kind of things? Carl asked, his face dark, serious.

She didn’t really say, but she said people were…spooked, somehow. She shrugged her shoulders. But you know people in the village can be a superstitious lot.

Well, if there’s any risk, I have no doubt we’ll be up to the task. Finn was always one to try to lighten the mood. After all, we’ve got a real-life circus performer, a fledgling mage with two or three piddling tricks up his sleeve, and a young soldier who spent the better part of the past year camping out in the mud. We’re ready for anything!

Carl’s face broke into a grin, and he raised his cup. Seekers of the South, go forth!

They toasted, and the conversation quickly turned to their many childhood adventures playing Seekers in the woods around Brocland, where they faced bandits, pirates, zombies, dragons, ogres, and their favorite enemy, the man-beasts of legend known as the Maer, armed with only their imagination and a few sharp sticks. Before she knew what was happening, Sinnie had a second, then a third ale, swept away as she was in the giddiness of the moment.

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The weather was fine as they set off for Marshport early the next morning, the sun quickly warming them as it soared up in the sky. They spent the trip catching up; Sinnie regaled them with stories of her life on the road with Hertle’s troupe, Finn told of the strict regime of his life in study, and Carl produced a few stories from his days in the service clearing bandits from Silver Road.

They talked of the weather, and of the village, and of the many adventures they had together as children. They spoke of what had become of the other kids they had known, some of whom had made their way north to the Isle, while the rest had presumably stayed. They pieced together information from letters they had received and things they had heard from travelers, and this gave them plenty to discuss for the bulk of the morning. One thing they did not discuss was the wooden box that lay, silent and ominous, in their cart. Sinnie noticed that the closer anyone got to the cart, the quieter they became; conversations paused while one of them retrieved something from their packs, resuming in subtler tones once they were well clear of it. Even when they rode without talking, it seemed to amplify their silence.

They took a cargo ship across the strait to Northport, whose docks handled most of the ships traveling to and from the Isle. They unloaded their cargo and quickly escaped the chaotic port area, stopping at a tavern on the way out of town known for its spicy fish stew, which did not disappoint. They set out in the dwindling hours of daylight to put a few miles between themselves and civilization. The South Road was well-traveled and wide, and as night approached, they made camp in one of the trampled-down areas along the roadside.

They rode down the South Road for the next day through scrubby farms and pastureland, which eventually gave way to grasslands interspersed with forested areas as they got farther from Northport. Sinnie took her cues from Carl, who seemed relaxed enough, though his eyes were always scanning the horizon. He had asked her and Finn to keep an eye out behind them, but the rhythm of the horse and the squeaking of the cart wheels lulled her into daydreaming. When she remembered, she swiveled her head around to look behind her, but there was never anything there. The South Road, which was called the North Road to those traveling from the south, allowed for easy travels, with the occasional caravan or smaller group of travelers punctuating the pleasantly empty countryside.

On the following day, as the South Road headed into hillier, more forested terrain, they passed through the town of Pontival, where a wide bridge crossed the Little Low River, a branch of the larger Low River to the east. Sinnie smiled when she saw a trio of entertainers surrounded by a small crowd in the town square. There was a singer, a lute player, and a juggler, and they looked to be doing a version of the Seven Sins of Belthus, a favorite of Hertle’s troupe as well. She wished she could stop and enjoy their little show, all the more endearing for its amateurish nature. But Carl showed no signs of slowing, and she knew how he felt about spending money unnecessarily. So they continued through the town, past the point where Plains Road headed off to the east.

We should reach Silver Road in three days, Carl said, as if they hadn’t all made the journey several times before. From there on out, we’ll have to be more careful.

Yes, sir, Sinnie said, saluting him. He shot her a scowl, and she stuck her tongue out at him, drawing out a smile this time.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets ambushed and slaughtered by bandits. Finn chipped in. Speaking of which, is that what we’re thinking? Why we haven’t heard from Brocland? Maybe they’ve been robbing people on Hollow Road or something, so the letters aren’t getting through?

Carl squinted into the distance, made as if to spit, then didn’t. Could be. Bandits usually aren’t interested in letters, though I guess if you got enough of them they’d be worth something. Letters generally cost a penny to send and a penny to receive, and travelers would buy, sell, and trade them along the road.

Maybe they’ve just been killing people and dumping their bodies, and their letters, down the valley so no one knows what happened to them. Finn had a way of saying such dark things in an oddly lighthearted way.

When bandits start killing, the Realm gets involved, so it doesn’t happen very often, Carl said, frowning. I was on bandit duty on Plains Road a while back, all because the nephew of someone important was wounded while resisting the bandits there. We swept the whole road, from Kenneton to Altvel, and chased down every lead. Turns out there was one group of about ten men, and I’d rather not say what happened to them, but you can bet every bandit in the whole of the continent has heard about it.

Sinnie chewed on her lip. She had heard about it too, how a contingent of Realm soldiers had tortured the bandits and hung them in the trees to be picked at by crows. She couldn’t imagine Carl doing something like that, but then again, she couldn’t really imagine anyone doing something like that, and she preferred not to try.

Well, maybe there’s been an avalanche or something, that’s blocked the road, she offered.

Sure, Carl replied, but they’d find a way over or around it sooner or later.

"So what, then? Fairies? Maer? Ogres? Giants? A dragon?" Finn’s eyes sparkled.

I guess we’ll find out soon enough, Carl said. I just hope we’re ready. If Mr. Leavitt is worried, we should be too.

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We’ll camp here. There was doubt in Carl’s voice. The forest was thick, and though there was an ample clearing used by many people before, it would be easy for someone to sneak up on them during the night. I’ll take first watch. Finn, if you don’t mind, take second. Finn raised two fingers and smiled. Sinnie, are you good with third?

Sure, she replied. And it’s okay if Finn wants to show off his training by taking a longer shift.

Consider it done. Finn bowed, holding his hands together.

No need to coddle her just because she’s a girl, Carl said.

For the record, I’m a woman, but you’re right. There’s no need to coddle me because of my gender. But there might be a need to coddle me just because I really, really like my sleep. Sinnie blinked her eyes with exaggerated innocence, hoping neither of them would take it as flirtation. She was pretty sure Finn preferred men, and if Carl were still harboring a crush on her after all these years, he would just have to get over it.

Carl left to do a sweep through the woods while Finn and Sinnie set up camp.

Hey, you know what’s weird? Finn’s flint and steel shot sparks onto the dried leaves and pine needles until they came to life. Sinnie tossed a few thin sticks over toward him, waiting for him to continue. I know this is going to sound…gross or whatever, but have you noticed how the coffin doesn’t really stink?

Sinnie continued collecting sticks, thinking about it. She hadn’t noticed any smell, but she might have been unconsciously holding her nose whenever she got close to it. Yeah, I guess, she said, dropping a few more small sticks on the pile and widening her circle to find some bigger ones.

I’m telling you, it barely smells at all. I mean, if you get close, like a foot or two away, you can smell some herbs, and something a little rotten, but not the full stench of a decomposing body. After three days or so, they really start to reek. And this one? He dropped the stick he was holding on the fire and walked over to the cart, holding his nose near the coffin and inhaling deeply. His nose wrinkled, and he held a finger in the air. Okay, it does stink a bit, if you really get in there, but it’s nowhere close to what it should be.

Well, maybe they used some, I don’t know, perfumes and oils and what-not.

Yeah, but they would have to… he crept closer to her, lowering his voice to near a whisper. They would have to eviscerate him, literally take out everything, the heart, the stomach, the—

Sinnie waved him away. Okay, no need to make a list, I get what everything means. So, fine, maybe they did that. She’d vaguely heard of such practices overseas, but they were considered barbaric. Or maybe, she whispered, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him in close, they used magic! She let go with a giggle.

I mean, it’s possible, but either way, that would be incredibly expensive. I mean, astoundingly.

Isn’t Gerald Leavitt one of the richest men on the Isle?

Finn rubbed his beard. I see your point. But still, don’t you think it’s weird, that— He stopped when he saw Carl coming back with an armful of wood and a serious face.

There are no obvious tracks for a hundred yards on either side of the trail, Carl said, dropping the wood near the fire, so I don’t think there’s anyone out there waiting for us. We’ll just have to keep a sharp ear out, maintain a low fire, but get ready to put in this leafy branch if something goes down. It’ll blaze right up, as long as it stays dry. He looked at the darkening horizon, which didn’t look particularly menacing.

Journey cake, anyone? Finn held out the box like a jeweler displaying his merchandise. Unless Sinnie could shoot some game along the way, journey cakes would likely be their only sustenance until they got to Brocland. Carl waited for Sinnie to take one before he picked his up and crammed half of it into his mouth. Sinnie took a small bite, like dipping her toe into cold water; she never got used to the mash of figs, suet, and breadcrumbs. One good thing about traveling with the show was they had a pretty good cook, and they seldom ate the exact same thing two days in a row.

I’ll see if I can shoot something in the morning, she suggested. I’ve seen squirrels; maybe there are rabbits or something out there.

Well, since you’re on third watch, maybe if you sit nice and still you might surprise one at dawn, Carl suggested. I’d be happy to dress it for breakfast if you do. But as much travel as these woods get, you can bet most of the game that hasn’t been eaten has learned to steer clear of the road.

Critter breakfast it is. Count on it.

3

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Finn scrambled to his feet when he heard the squeal, picking up his staff and holding it sideways in front of him with two hands as he tried to blink himself awake.

There’s a pretty thing, Sinnie said, fitting an arrow into her bow as she ran off into the forest. Finn’s left leg was half asleep, but he followed her, clumsily. He heard the squeal again, followed by a low grunt that turned into a plaintive wail. He heard Carl crashing through the branches behind him and stepped aside to let him pass; Carl was half-dressed with his sword in hand. He saw Sinnie stop, aim, and fire, and the noise ceased. A brown heap lay quivering on the forest floor, a boar piglet with three arrows in its side, oozing out its life’s blood.

Wait, Carl said, holding up his hand, then pointing farther into the forest. Two more, over there, a sow and another piglet. He crouched, tensed his sword arm. Don’t move. And be ready.

Sinnie notched another arrow and pointed toward the sow, which was the size of a barrel of ale. Finn gripped his staff, slowed his breathing, and shifted his stance until he found his center. The sow emitted a roaring squeal, and Finn had to grasp the staff extra tight to re-center himself. The animal scratched and tramped the ground and let out an extended grunt that sounded like an enormous belch.

Back away slowly, Carl said, keeping low and taking two small steps back. Sinnie followed suit, as did Finn, losing his center with each step but regaining it once he stopped. The sow ran to the piglet, which lay about thirty feet away from them, then turned, raising its bristles to make it look twice its size. Finn heard the creak of Sinnie’s bow as she pulled it back, and the huff of Carl breathing through his teeth.

Without warning, the sow rocketed toward them, its hooves muffled by the forest floor. Sinnie’s arrow to the chest did little to slow it down, and Carl slashed at its neck with his sword, jumping aside to avoid the charge. The beast swerved toward Finn with a guttural bellow, globs of blood flying from its wounds, its tiny eyes shining with rage.

Finn tensed all his muscles, then released the energy he had pulled into his core. It exploded throughout his limbs and filled his head with silence; the sow’s roar, Carl’s cry, and all other sounds of the world simply vanished. He watched the sow hurtling toward him as if he were seeing it through rippled glass. He saw it bounce off the air inches from his body, like it had hit a wall, then tumble backward, dazed, struggling to regain its feet. Sinnie put another arrow into it, in its side this time, and it squealed, turned, and bolted into the forest, the other piglet fleeing in its wake. Finn’s head was spinning and his legs had turned to rubber, so he leaned against a tree for support. He focused on his racing heart, willing it to slow, which it did after a few seconds.

Carl stepped over to the piglet and put his sword through its chest. It did not move. He grabbed it by its hind legs and hauled it back to the camp, his teeth clenched and his face red.

Stupid, stupid, deadly stupid, he muttered, not looking up as he passed Sinnie. Her shoulders slumped and she turned to Finn, her eyes begging for support. He found his legs again, and though he was still a little dizzy, he stepped over to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

Good shooting, he managed. Our days of endless journey cakes are at an end.

But our days of mister know-it-all grumpy-pants have just begun. Sinnie looked back toward Carl, who had dropped the piglet by the fire and was standing there, catching his breath.

He’ll be fine, Finn assured her. Especially once he gets a taste of bacon.

When Finn got back to the camp, Carl was sharpening a large knife with a whetstone, and his face had returned to normal.

That was impressive, Carl said, looking up from his task. I thought you were a goner.

Me too, actually. Finn took a sip from his waterskin and swished it around in his mouth, which had that metallic taste he got after a big energy drain. I wasn’t sure if I could do it in time. I just… he threw up his hands. I guess my training took over.

So was that…some kind of invisible wall or something?

Not exactly. Finn looked at his hands, then back up. I don’t have that kind of power, not yet anyway. Carl had gone through some rudimentary training before he had moved on from study, but Finn wasn’t sure how much he would understand. It’s an extension of my bodily energy called a force shield. If I am fully centered, I can store the energy in my core for a few seconds, then when I release it, it extends beyond my body, just by a few inches, and its power is increased by tenfold or more.

Carl nodded, running the blade across his thumb, then giving it a few more strokes with the whetstone. And how long does it last?

Five seconds, maybe ten, is all I can do before I pass out, Finn said. I’ve only just learned it. I barely got it off in time, and I dropped it right away, or it dropped itself. Everything happened so fast.

Well, I’m thrilled to see the reports of your talent were not exaggerated. Makes me wonder what else you’ve got up your sleeve. Carl’s eyes showed a glint of mischief—or was it ruefulness? Carl had to know Finn would not reveal anything that hadn’t already been shown. Finn couldn’t imagine what Carl had gone through, having had his gift, small though it was, disappear.

I know much less than many, but surely more than some. Finn’s response pulled a smile from Carl. At any rate, I save us on food, since I’m only supposed to eat twice a day, and I require less sleep, so I hope to be of value to our cause. Not to mention, I’ve always been told I’m rather pretty.

Well I’m not the best judge, but you surely aren’t ugly, was Carl’s reply. Finn smiled, glad his friend—and Carl was starting to feel like that again—did not show the same disdain for him that some in the village had. He wasn’t sure if Carl knew about his fling with Theo at study, but he hoped it would make no difference if he found out.

You’re not so pretty. Sinnie plopped down on the log next to him. Maybe a little above average at best. But you do have that tattoo-and-leather thing going on, which I guess would have its appeal, to some. She ran her hands over his leather vest, a gift from Val, one of the masters, who held a not-so-secret crush on him.

I choose to accept your compliment. Finn put his hand on her knee, giggling when she brushed it off.

Yeah, whatever, Sinnie said. Hey Carl, look, I’m really sorry. I just saw that ball of bacon trotting right into my sights, and I guess my instinct took over. I know, you’re not supposed to mess with the babies because the mama is always around, but...I promise it won’t happen again.

Carl looked at her, his eyes softening, and blinked. It’s fine. We all make mistakes. But most of them aren’t quite as delicious. Speaking of which, he said, standing up and grabbing the piglet by its hind legs again, I’ve got a little disemboweling to do. Somebody want to get that fire going? I figure we might as well have a decent bite of breakfast before we hit the road. He turned and walked a short way into the forest. Muffled cutting and tearing sounds ensued.

A man in charge, Finn mused. I kind of like the new Carl.

Yeah, I think he was wrong, Sinnie said. War really did suit him.

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They set off with bellies full of piglet under a radiant sun that filtered through the forest just enough for light and warmth but no real heat. They ran across several small groups and one large caravan, but they did not stop to talk to anyone, and no one did more than just nod and smile. Maybe it was the coffin? Or it could have been Carl, whose demeanor was not the friendliest. As dark approached, they set up camp at the edge of the forest, where it began to thin out and give way to the scrubland that eventually would become plains before transitioning to pine forests at the foot of the Silver Hills.

When they stopped for lunch the next day, Finn slipped off behind a bush while Sinnie and Carl tucked into the extra pork they had cooked that morning. He had to work hard to quell his stomach’s complaint, but as he sank deeper into his poses it evaporated, leaving him feeling light and airy, but powerful. Though it had drained his physical energy, casting the force shield had given him confidence, which helped him stay focused. He chased away thoughts of what would have happened if he had been a half-second slower, finished his routine, and returned as Sinnie and Carl were saddling up again.

Should be another day or so before we get to Silver Road, Carl said, as if reciting a pre-set travel plan. Then maybe two days to Hollow Road, and another day and a half to Brocland.

Hopefully that weather will move to the south, Sinnie commented, gesturing toward a cluster of dark clouds in the distance. I really hate sleeping wet.

Well, we can always tarp the cart and sleep under it, Carl suggested. Or maybe we can find a good scrub tree and tarp that. At least it’s not likely to be too cold just yet.

It started to drizzle as the afternoon wore on. Finn did not cover up as the others did, embracing the wetness as best he could. He often wondered if he was really cut out for Bodily Control, since he truly despised the deprivations it required. But he did them dutifully, with the occasional indulgence, as per the mantra: nothing to excess, including abstinence. The masters always seemed to embrace the pain, the hunger, the cold, or whatever form of self-torture was at hand. There was even a branch that was into exotic piercings, self-flagellation, and secret rituals involving lots of leather straps, whips, and other implements that defied the imagination. But Finn liked his body the way it was, liked to be comfortable, eat and drink his fill, and find good company when just the right young man came along, which he feared would not be often, now that he’d left study. So he rode in the rain, with stoic Carl ahead of him and suddenly glum Sinnie behind him. He wanted to go back and offer her some comfort, but at the moment he had precious little to give.

Nor did their sleeping arrangements improve his lot. After a meal of journey cake and cold boar, they settled in under a tarp stretched over a bush. And while it wasn’t as wet as he had feared, it was crowded, and it seemed every time he moved an inch, he either ran into another body or poked himself on a branch. He had no sooner fallen asleep than Carl woke him for his shift. To his relief, the rain had passed, and there was enough of a moon to see, more or less. He stayed up longer than he needed to, both because he liked pampering Sinnie for some reason and because the training asked that he always find ways to increase any challenge. After waking Sinnie, he went down hard, waking to the smell of pig roasting.

I gather we’re going to be staying here a little while, Finn said, his stomach growling at him. Carl had cut the rest of the piglet into pieces for faster cooking, but it would still take a couple of hours.

I figure there’s no sense wasting a good kill, was Carl’s reply. And I happen to have brought a nice tin of salt, from East Marsh.

Well, you do know how to live out of doors, Sinnie said, her eyes bright with admiration, but not, Finn thought, with anything more. I guess you’ve had your share of experience.

Far more than I care for, to be frank. But the way I see it, we’re out here, and you have to admit, it’s some beautiful country. Carl gestured vaguely toward the Silver Hills, partially visible between the scrub trees. Finn was surprised to hear Carl wax suddenly poetic. And we’re getting paid—actual silver denri—to travel through here, to go back home, and maybe help out a little. I’ve spent too much time being forced-marched through landscapes I never had time to appreciate. And I don’t think a couple of hours is going to make a difference to anyone. Besides, if we do run into some kind of situation, I’d rather not face it on a diet of journey cakes alone. If that’s okay with you two.

Sinnie jumped up and gave him a big hug, which Carl took as graciously as he could, but still with his trademark stiffness. Finn stepped in and wrapped them both up, mostly because he knew it would bother Carl, and he thought Carl really needed to be bothered.

4

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Carl stopped as the Silver Hills came into full view, majestic and snow-covered in the distance. The South Road ended at Silver Road, which skirted the northern foothills of the mountains. Carl had seen the Silver Hills from this perspective a half-dozen times, but they had never struck him as they did now. When he had left Brocland five years before to join the service, he was not in the right mindset to appreciate their beauty, but now he felt he could stare at them until the sun went down.

They seem so close, Sinnie said. But I bet it would take weeks to reach the foot of one of the snow-covered mountains.

At least, Carl said. And you’d have to be a lot better equipped than we are.

Their eyes remained glued to the hills as they rode west down Silver Road. The hot sun was counterbalanced by a steady cool breeze that seemed to bring puffs from the snow-covered peaks to their faces. Several smaller roads branched off wherever there was a village or a mountain pass, like Hollow Road, which they would reach the next day. They saw relatively few travelers on Silver Road, but horse, foot, and cart tracks were plentiful. They camped in a copse of cedar that night, enjoying a clear, starry night without disturbance.

Early the next afternoon they came to the point where Hollow Road branched south from Silver Road, and Carl studied the crossroads before they continued. Hollow Road led along the Snake River valley, punctuated by smaller valleys, three of them containing villages, the last of which was Brocland. There were only a few recent tracks coming from Hollow Road, which was not a good sign, but it suggested that at least Kelsey, the first village, still had folks coming and going. It would take the better part of two days to reach Brocland, and he knew a blacksmith in Kelsey who could put them up in his work shed for a night. That would mean one night sleeping out of doors past Greenvale, the second village.

The weather was cooler but still quite pleasant as they followed Hollow Road into the pine forests leading up to the Silver Hills. Legend said these forests were inhabited by woodland spirits, some of them malevolent. He had never put much stock in such things, but the news, or lack of news, from Brocland, had put him on edge. He had asked Sinnie to keep her bow handy just in case, and she seemed eager for action, though her attention tended to wane after a time. Her performance under pressure with the boar had given him confidence, although he wondered if she would be able to shoot at a person, if it came to that. She was no fragile flower, but he knew firsthand it wasn’t easy for anyone, no matter how much training or bravado they possessed.

Finn seemed to alternate between meditation and endless prattle. After riding silently for an hour or more, he would pull up alongside Sinnie, or occasionally Carl, and start conversations on any number of things, no matter how little response he got. Carl appreciated Finn’s energy, but it tended to distract him from watching the road and forests ahead, so he tried to discourage it while they were riding, to little avail.

When they stopped for lunch, Finn slipped off into the woods for his usual routine of odd poses, while Carl and Sinnie shared some of the boar, which had been salted to slow spoilage. It would be good for one more day, then have to be jettisoned, but it had served them well, and they savored it. Sinnie didn’t say much while they ate, her eyes drifting off down the road toward home.

Looking forward to seeing your folks, I imagine? Carl asked.

Sinnie gave a half-nod as she chewed and swallowed. Sure, I mean, yes, kind of, more or less. She nibbled on a bit of journey cake. Carl knew Sinnie’s father had worked in the mine when they were still open, and that he did some prospecting, going off for days at a time to some secret spots he had. Her mother raised sheep, and could often be seen taking her flock off to graze in the meadows near Brocland, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. They were hard-working folk, on the serious side, and they would have been hard-pressed to understand Sinnie’s choice of profession.

For his part, Carl had no family remaining in Brocland now that his mother had passed, but he did have fond feelings for the village, and some of the people in it. He looked forward to seeing Mr. Massey, the retired army captain who ran the Village Guard, who had encouraged him to join the service after he had washed out from study. Massey would be getting up there in years, but he had always seemed ageless, and Carl surely would have heard if he had died. And he looked forward to seeing Elder Gummache, the old priest who sometimes gave the kids bread and sips of mead, and showed them the church relics when they helped him take care of the grounds.

When they started getting ready to saddle up again, Finn still had not returned. Sinnie called out to him, but he did not respond. Carl stood up, drew his sword, and gestured to Sinnie, who quietly retrieved her bow and arrows and followed him. He moved from tree to tree, slow-stepping in the direction Finn had gone. He saw Finn slumped against a tree about fifty yards away, and moved toward him, crouched low, watching the silent forest for movement. As Carl and Sinnie approached, Finn stirred, but his eyes remain closed. His hands were clutching thick tufts of moss that grew along the roots of the trees.

Finn, Sinnie said in a half-whisper. Finn! she said, a little louder. Finn’s eyes fluttered open, though it seemed to take him a moment before he saw them.

Hey, he murmured. Hey, he repeated, turning to Carl. I guess I must have… He sat up, rubbing his face, then putting his hands on his knees.

Maybe your long watches are taking a toll on you. Carl had never seen Finn lose control like this.

No, I’m fine, it’s just…wow. He looked down at his legs, his hands, the roots, and the moss. I feel like I just had a conversation with this tree.

Sinnie looked up at Carl, her face stuck between smiling and disbelief. What, are you a druid now? she asked.

"No, and I can’t really explain it, it’s just…I had this dream, but it was so real. He took a deep breath and shook his head. I was doing a seated skywatch pose, like this— He touched his feet together, his knees sticking out at what looked like a painful angle, leaned his head back until his eyes were facing up. I was looking up the trunk into the branches, and everything got kind of…spinny, narrow somehow, like I was staring into a swirling tunnel, and then I saw this warm green light, kind of pulsing, real slow, and… He stopped, turned his head back to face them. I think the tree was trying to tell me something." His brow furrowed and he stood up, put his hands to the tree, and looked up into the branches, then down at the roots.

Like what? Carl asked. Finn’s mind had always been always sharp, however flippant he might act. Maybe it hadn’t been a dream; maybe the tree had talked to him. It was said those with the gift could sometimes commune with the natural world, though Carl had never felt anything like that with the small gift he had once possessed.

Actually, it was trying to give me some pointers on how to sit up straighter, how to use my legs to anchor me, Finn said, his voice soft. Like roots, he murmured.

Well that’s…kind of creepy, actually, Sinnie said. Maybe this is a sign we need to get our asses out of this forest.

I agree. Carl touched Finn on the shoulder. The sooner we—

Give me a moment. Finn gently removed Carl’s hand as he stood up. I just need to… He put his hands on either side of the tree, closed his eyes, and touched it with his forehead. Carl and Sinnie exchanged puzzled looks, but neither dared to say anything. After a few seconds, Finn released the tree and walked past them back toward their horses without a word.

Should we be worried? Sinnie asked.

I don’t think so, Carl replied. But you’re right. We need to get our asses moving.

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They reached Kelsey about an hour before sunset. The town was alive with the sound of saws, axes, and hammers taking advantage of the last bit of daylight. Carl hadn’t been to Kelsey more than a couple of times, on business with his father, but he found Hoyle’s shop easily enough. He left Finn and Sinnie with the cart and approached the shop. A boy about twelve years old, presumably Hoyle’s son, was scraping coals into a large metal bucket. He wore a leather apron, boots, and long gloves, all of which looked a bit too big for him, but he handled the coals like a pro. He gave Carl an inquisitive look as he poured a little water on the coals, watched them steam, then poured a bit more.

My name is Carl, from Brocland. I’m looking for Hoyle. He and my father knew each other.

The boy said nothing as he walked over to a metal triangle in the corner and hit it three times with a metal rod, then stood watching Carl as they waited. The boy’s gaze was intense but cool, and he did not seem intimidated by Carl, or even particularly interested in