19

Fawkes was in no mood for chitchat–even less than usually, that is–so Hunter just disconnected, grabbed a bite, and turned in early. When he logged in again 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. 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 reliving.

“I think I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind. I kind of like the village.”

Fawkes raised an eyebrow.

“But the village does not kind of like you back, lad”, she said. “Not really big on foreigners, the Brennai–and much less so on… your kind. Save yourself the trouble of finding that out firsthand.”

Hunter suspected Fawkes was right; they had gotten funny looks the previous night. They didn’t look like bad folk, the folken, but they were deeply superstitious–that much was obvious. And with all the mysterious killings going on lately, well… impromptu lynchings of strangers had happened for less, if history was any indication.

“Alright, so, Ghostbarrows it is,” he said, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and following Fawkes out of the tent. “What is a ghostbarrow, anyway?”

“Ancestral tombs of the Ghost Nation.”

“Yeah, figures. And what is that?”

“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 say nothing, hear everything. Got it!”

He had at least a dozen more questions, but wisely opted to shut up and follow Fawkes, wherever she was taking him. 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 were walking away. “A good morn to you. How may this humble merchant serve you?”

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–at least compared to the furs and hide breeches and simple tunics the other folken wore, that is–and adorned with numerous beads and trinkets. 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, these disappearances,” Fawkes commented in an artfully off-hand manner, and 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”, he grumbled. “They are but a ghost story we say to scare the children–a story the alderman has always been fond of using 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.”

“You’d be surprised how many do. They’re just afraid, or complacent, or bought-and-paid-for by Vanchik.”

“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 and 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, hopefully. We’ll brave 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 were just a story.”

“Story or not, there are other things lurking in the mists, too. I will pray for your safe return.” He pushed himself to smile and look jolly again–something he must have practiced a thousand times, Hunter thought. “It’d be a shame for me to lose such a good customer, yes?”

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.”

Hunter knew all about gut feelings. In fact, he his own gut was telling him that this Ghostbarrow business was a bad, bad idea. He would later find out he was right, too–but then it would be already too late.