It was a strange time to be a foreigner among the Brennai, Hunter found out, a time of fear and distrust and xenophobia. Men looked at Fawkes and him and whispered as they walked by. Women pulled small children closer and made strange gestures at them, as if to ward off evil. As far as he knew, neither him nor Fawkes had done anything to provoke that kind of treatment, but superstition was still superstition.
“Ignore them,” Fawkes whispered. “Don’t even look at them.”
“Can they tell I’m transient?” asked Hunter. “Is that why they’re so unfriendly?”
“Them? No. It’s enough that we’re foreigners, and I a… a black-hearted witch, I think some call me. Gods forbid that a woman has knowledge and skill they don’t, lad. She must be a witch, must she not?”
The two of them headed straight back in the tent, away from the suspicious looks the night watchmen gave them. Fawkes was in no mood for chitchat–even less than usual, that is–so Hunter just disconnected, grabbed a bite at the cafeteria, and turned in early.
When he logged in again the next morning, she was already up and about.
“Get this,” she told Hunter and handed him an old, weather-beaten leather backpack. “You’ll need it.”
“And a good morning to you too, Fawkes. Sleep well?”
“Like the dead. If you’re done with the pointless pleasantries, grab the backpack and follow me.”
“Thanks, I got my own. Look, transient magic! It’s bigger on the inside!”
Fawkes scoffed, unimpressed.
“Suit yourself. Just make haste. We have supplies to purchase, and a long day ahead of us.”
“Uh… doing what, exactly?”
“Getting to the Ghostbarrows.”
Hunter didn’t have the slightest idea what those were, but they didn’t exactly sound like a place where he’d be able to kick back and spend the day in peace. In fact, it sounded exactly like the kind of place ghost-things would probably hand him his ass on a platter–an experience he wasn’t keen on revisiting.
“I think I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind. I kind of like this place.”
Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“But this place does not kind-of-like you back, lad," she said. “Have you not been paying attention? Not really big on foreigners, the Brennai–and much less so on… your kind. Or mine, for that matter. Save yourself the trouble of finding that out firsthand.”
Hunter knew Fawkes was right. The cold shoulder they’d been given the previous night was proof enough. And with all the mysterious killings going, well… impromptu lynchings of strangers had happened for less, if history was any indication.
“Alright, so, Ghostbarrows it is,” he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and following Fawkes out of the tent. “What is a Ghostbarrow, anyway?”
“Ancestral tombs of the Ghost Nation.”
“Yeah, that explains a lot. And what’s a Ghost Nation?”
“Some kind of Brennai tribe that supposedly up and vanished in the mist a couple centuries ago. They are the local boogeymen, or so I gather.”
“And why do we want to go to their tombs?”
“Cause that’s where Reiner was headed last I heard from him.”
“And who did you say that was?”
“Grimnir’s beard, lad, enough!” Fawkes snapped at him. “If I wanted some clueless toddler clinging to my skirts and asking silly questions, I’d have given birth to one myself.”
“Okay, okay!” Hunter moaned. “Back to ‘see everything, hear everything, say nothing.’ Got it!”
Fawkes was in an exceptionally foul mood, so he wisely opted to keep the rest of his questions to himself. They made their way through the other side of the encampment, to what seemed like a great tent made of stitched-together animal hides and surrounded by large and bulky ox carts. Outside it stood the man who had picked a fight with the alderman the previous night, Tego. He was talking to a couple other folken, probably making some kind of business deal. Furs, tools, and some kind of peculiar seafoam-green pearls changed hands, the men clasped each other’s arms in a gesture of agreement, and the transaction was apparently complete.
“Friends!” Tego turned to Fawkes and Hunter as the other folken walked off. “A good morn to you. How may this humble merchant serve you?”
Not being treated like vagrants was a nice surprise, but Hunter couldn’t decide whether all that warmth and smiles were genuine or a façade. This was the same man that had shouted at the alderman before the gathering of their whole tribe, after all, all fire and brimstone.
“A good morn to you too, Tego,” Fawkes said. “We’re about to go on the road again, and the lad here is in need of some supplies. A whole list of them, in fact.”
“Splendid, splendid. Give me a moment to fetch my nephew, and we’ll get right to it. Parit! Parit! Blazes, where has that boy vanished again? Parit!”
He was a bulky man, Hunter noticed, but surprisingly light on his feet. His garments were new and rich-looking and adorned with numerous beads and trinkets, a far cry from the furs and hide breeches and simple tunics the other folken wore. He was clean-shaven, had heavy cheeks that would one day become jowls, and lines carving their courses from the sides of his nose down to his chin. “I-want” lines, Hunter thought. He’d read that term somewhere, though he couldn’t remember where, not exactly. They were the telltale sign of a man who was used to getting his way.
Parit finally showed up–a teenage boy who, judging from his sleepy look, must have been napping in some corner or other–and Fawkes started reading her shopping list to the merchant.
“One bedroll. One blanket. One poncho, the sturdy kind, no bright colors. One mess kit–you know, a plate and a spoon and a fork, plus a mug or something. A tinderbox. A torch or three. Rations for a week. A waterskin. Oh, and rope, too. A good length, fifty feet or so.”
“What do we need so much rope for?” Hunter asked.
“In case I need to tie you to a tree and leave you for low-dweller bait. Shush now.”
Parit started darting in and out of the tent, gathering the supplies. Tego did some elaborate calculations and announced to Fawkes she only owed him sixty-three Qiwunats, probably overcharging her by a respectable margin. She offered him an even sixty, to which he agreed all too eagerly, and handed him six strings of those same seafoam-green pearls Hunter had seen the folken use as currency earlier.
“Terrible tragedy, those deaths,” Fawkes commented in an artfully off-hand manner as she was stuffing the supplies in her saddlebags. The jolly merchant’s face turned dark in an instant. She’d obviously hit a nerve.
“Killings,” Tego corrected her. “Murders. You saw the bodies yourself. There’s something out there hunting us, butchering us.”
“The alderman says it’s the Ghost Nation,” she added–another poignant comment meant to stoke the fires of the merchant’s ire. “Raiders, maybe, or even a skin witch.”
“Ghost Nation, my foot," Tego grumbled. “A ghost story to tell children around the campfire. The alderman has always been fond of using it as a scapegoat. It’s his fault, this curse that’s befallen us, I know it. He has lost sight of the ways of the ancestors, and we’re all paying the price with the blood of our kin.”
“I wouldn’t presume to know about any of that, being just the humble foreigner that I am," Fawkes went on. “The folken, though–they don’t seem to share your concerns.”
“Some do, some do. The rest…” Tego spat at the ground. “The rest are either fools, or bought-and-paid-for by Vanchik.”
Stolen story; please report.
“So who do you think lurks in the forest, if not the Ghost Nation?”
“What, not who.”
“What, then?”
Tego’s face grew even darker. His shrewd eyes were just pinpoints of worry now, and he turned away from Fawkes–and, quite incidentally, towards the general direction of the forest.
“What’s always been lurking there," he shrugged, and shook as if a chill ran down his spine. “Hungering. Watching. Waiting for us to lose our way and stray away from the light of the ancestors, so it can prey on us. Feast on us. I won’t say its name out loud, outlander. Only a fool would. It’s bad luck.”
Fawkes didn’t push the subject further. Parit showed up with the last of the items, and Hunter started stuffing them in his backpack.
“So, you’re leaving us?” Tego changed the subject, slowly getting back some of his usual, pleasant mirth and friendly demeanor.
“Not for long, one hopes. We’ll venture into the forest again to look for my compatriot. The elders have allowed us entry to the Ghostbarrows, where I believe he was headed last he was seen.”
“May the ancestors be with you, then, friend," the merchant said with a frown. “‘Tis a dreary place, all but fraught with death and danger.”
“I thought you said the Ghost Nation was just a story,” said Hunter, promptly earning a glower from Fawkes.
“Story or not, there are things lurking in the ruins and the mists,” Tego shook his head. “Bad things. I will pray for your safe return.” He pushed himself to smile and look jolly again, something he’d obviously practiced a lot. “It’d be a shame for me to lose such a good customer, yes? A good friend too, if I may be so bold.”
“Thank you, Tego,” Fawkes said. “If only the rest of the folken shared your sentiment.”
Again, that hit a nerve.
“If only indeed. They’d rather blame their trouble on anyone foreign or different than take a good hard look at themselves. I should now. Greedy, intolerant curs, the lot of them. One could only hope you don’t judge us all by those standards, too.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment or two, then the merchant spoke again, this time more composed.
“Pardon me, I’ve said too much. Here, let me help you with those saddlebags.”
Fawkes helped Hunter to pack, bid the merchant goodbye, then started back towards their tent.
“Interesting man, this Tego,” Hunter said, if only to break the silence.
“More than he lets on.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Not yet. Sometimes you have to just trust your gut, lad, and I’ve found that mine’s rarely wrong.”
“Well, what my gut’s telling me is that-”
“Blazes, forgot the sausages!” Fawkes cut him off. “Wait here. I’ll only be a minute. Don’t move a muscle!”
She rushed back towards Tego’s tent, leaving him with two saddlebags and a backpack full of supplies, all too conscious of the dozen pairs of Brennai eyes watching him from the surrounding tents.
It didn’t take long for one of the folken to approach him. He was a man roughly his own age, tall and broad and haughty-looking. He was dressed in rich furs and leathers and had hawk feathers braided in his long, dark hair. He carried a staff of polished wood in his hands, long as he was tall.
He didn’t have to say a single word; Hunter already knew what he wanted. He’d seen that look a thousand times. A few of his friends, men his age, were watching from a nearby tent, curious to see how the scene would unfold.
Trouble–that was what the man was looking for, clear as day. Hunter tried to look away, ignore him, not give him no excuse to engage.
No such luck.
“A rich haul, outlander,” the man said as he approached. “Tego must have taken a liking to you. Where are you off to, carrying so many supplies?”
“Away,” Hunter said, trying to look busy. “I’m waiting for my friend to return any minute now. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
The man’s smile broadened, but his eyes hardened.
“Yes, of course, you must be very busy. I was just curious. That glaive of yours… a fine-looking weapon, it is. I wonder where you might have gotten it. It’s Brennai, you know. I recognize the craftsmanship.”
“Yes, it’s nice,” said Hunter and slung Fawkes’s saddlebags over his shoulder, along with his own two packs. “Look, I’m going to have to leave now, my friend is probably waiting-”
“Give it up,” the man said. “The glaive. I don’t know where you got it, but it belongs with the Brennai, not some foreigner.”
Hunter ignored him and turned to leave, wishing the man would leave him alone.
“Are you deaf, then? Face me when I address you!”
More folken were gathering around them, their eyes fixed on Hunter and the man. This could get ugly. Hunter started for Tego’s tent. The faster he got away from that growing crowd, the better.
Again, no such luck.
“You will face me when I address you, worm!” the man suddenly exploded and swept Hunter’s feet with his staff.
Hunter leaned on his glaive and managed to stay on his feet, but he had to drop all the supplies he was carrying. He twisted to face the man, his face red with fury. He couldn’t take this lying down. Enough was enough.
“I was told the Brennai were stern but fair, Yuma of Clan Ashari,” he spat at the man. “Yet here you are, trying to mug a stranger. Your folken must be very proud of you.”
That must have struck a chord, because Hunter heard a handful of the onlookers gasp.
“You dare speak to me like that?” the Ashari man roared, throwing a quick glance at the other folken. They had heard Hunter, too, and looked all too eager to watch how the scene unfolded.
“I said what I said,” Hunter stood his ground.
“Raise your weapon, then, worm. Let us see if your worthy of it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Hunter started to say, but the Ashari man had already closed the distance between then, staff ready to strike.
More out of instinct than any kind of combat skill, Hunter raised his glaive to protect himself. He blocked the man’s first strike, if only because it wasn’t meant to hit him in the first place. His opponent was just testing the waters.
Hunter took a couple of steps back, trying to create some distance between himself and his foe. Confident, the Ashari man pushed on. He deflected the raised glaive to the side, then spun around and whacked Hunter on the head with the other end of his staff.
Hunter stabbed blindly at his foe, desperately trying to shake off the blow. Too late. The Ashari man was faster, stronger, and more skilled. With another spin, he swept Hunter’s legs from under him.
Hunter fell flat on his face, humiliated and disoriented, his glaive no longer in his grasp.
“Pitiful,” Yuma Ashari spat and raised his staff for another blow as Hunter was starting to get up on his hands and knees.
Two avian shadows came out of nowhere, each one crashing straight into the man’s face one after the other, eliciting a chorus of gasps from the onlookers.
“Ancestors guard me!” he exclaimed as took a few steps back, raising his arms and his staff to protect his head, leaving his lower body unprotected.
Hunter, who’d done some wrestling in highschool, bull-rushed him and went in for a double leg takedown.
The Ashari man, who apparently hadn’t, crumbled like he was made of wafers. He fell on his back and got the wind knocked out of him. He gripped his staff with both hands and tried to push Hunter away, but this wasn’t Hunter’s first rodeo. He climbed right on top of the man and started pelting him with punches, not giving him an inch.
Biggs and Wedge circled above the fight, cawing excitedly, shouting encouragement in the back of Hunter’s mind. Their voices hardly registered.
One of the onlookers shouted something, but Hunter wasn’t listening. He was burning with rage. He wasn’t about to be bullied by some tribal guy with a stick. He’d had enough. He’d smash his face until it gave in or until he stopped seeing red, whichever came first.
Hands grabbed him, tried to pull him off the Ashari man. He struck blindly at them too, kicked, bit. The sharp sound of gunshot tore the air, sending them all ducking and covering their ears.
“Enough of this!” Fawkes shouted, pushing through the small crowd that had gathered with her gun in her hand. “Enough!”
She went to Hunter’s side and helped him to his feet, never taking her eyes off the closest folken.
“Are you alright?”
Hunter grunted and glared at the other guy. Some of the onlookers had helped him to his feet, too. He was in a bad shape, his face all red and bloody and already swelling. Their weapons lay on the ground, forgotten.
“Friends, friends, there’s nothing to see here,” Tego said with a wide smile, raising his hands to appease the crowd. “Just a small misunderstanding between overeager young men, yes?”
“Witch!” one of the onlookers shouted. “Evil spirits! Dark magic!”
“Look, there!” another piped in. “Birds, black of feather, omen of evil!”
“Grab your gear and walk,” Fawkes hissed through gritted teeth.
Hunter didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed his glaive, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked away in a hurry. Fawkes grabbed her saddlebags and followed him, gun in hand, staring daggers at anyone who came a hair’s breadth too close.
“Foreigner!” Yuma of Clan Ashari shouted at Hunter through torn and bloody lips. “I will learn your name, cur. I will remember it well.”
“Don’t you dare answer,” Fawkes prodded him in the back. “Walk.”
They left the village right away, Biggs and Wedge following them from above. Even as they walked away, Hunter could feel the eyes of the folken watchmen burning holes in his back. Nobody tried to stop them, but the tension was so thick it felt suffocating.
Hunter wasn’t exactly crazy about following Fawkes around like a Stockholm syndrome-fueled puppy, but this silly scrap had forced his hand. Staying with the Brennai was out of the question.
That left him with one other choice; to part ways with the swordswoman and wander off on his own. He had already considered the idea, but had found it was not a very appealing choice at the moment, either.
“He started it,” Hunter offered, brooding.
“Not now, fool,” Fawkes berated him, not even sparing him a look as she was stomping down the trail away from the Brennai village and back into the Weald. “Walk. Just shut up and walk.”