Page 21 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Bah! I don’t want his restoration. All I want is the small life I’ve carved out of my exile. I want to watch the early morning mists drift over my fields, spend my afternoons with my knuckles deep in the soil, and build my community with the neighbors who see me not as a disgraced First Knight, but as a man who can be relied upon to show up when the well runs dry, or the pigs break out of the pen and need to be rounded up again.

But there’s no telling how long I have until the blight makes its way to my exiled land, and begins to touch even my fields. More will die—especially the old and the young, the least deserving of nature’s cruelty. Arden’s words haunt me as much as the damned specters in this cursed forest. What happens when my wheat comes up thick and glossy and completely indigestible? When my apple trees bear fruit that won’t yield juice or cider? What good will an abundant farm of inedible crops be, then?

After all the blood I’ve spilled, after swearing my oath to spill no more needlessly, how could I live with myself if I didn’t do all I could? I won’t watch any more children stagger up to my gate, bearing the grayish cast from this curse that hollows from within, leaving the eyes dull and the pulse too quick before it gutters out entirely.

The only woman I’ve ever loved died with her bright green eyes dulled by hunger—her fingers locked around mine as though I could anchor her to a body that had already found passage to the spirit realm. I was young enough, foolish enough then, that I believed my strength would suffice—that if I fought hard enough, rode far enough, found the right healer or herb or hidden court of magic, spent enough time on my knees begging the lofty gods for more time, I could wrest her back from whatever shadow claimed her.

Yet my strength did not—could not—suffice, and I have never been the same man since it failed so spectacularly.

The memories echo in my hollow chest like a stone dropped in a dry well, and for a moment the forest tilts unpleasantly.

A branch snaps behind us, startling me out of my sour manner and my melancholy.

It wasn’t the light crack of settling wood, but a deliberate break, close enough that Magnar surges forward without waiting for command. I barely manage to stay seated, my knee throbbing in protest where the old wound pulls against badly mended bone and stiffened muscle.

“Stand,” I bark, hauling him in with more force than is kind. He dances beneath me, foam flecking his bit, and my soft burn of guilt is quickly swallowed by irritation. We are both twitchy, and I have no right to expect him to be steadier than I am.

The undergrowth to our right shivers, branches bending on the saplings and ferns dancing with the movement as something reasonably large approaches. It is too late for us to bolt, I think—neither of us wants to excite the instincts of something that desires chase. Resigned, I draw my sword slowly, the blade whispering free in a sound that still sets my heart racing—only now, it is from dread rather than the thrill of battle.

The thing that steps onto the path is… is like looking into a mirror. It looks like me, but a poor approximation of me, as if it is a portrait of me rendered by a child. Its limbs are too long, its joints occasionally bending backwards in uneven rhythms as it slowly stands and staggers forward. Its face—my face—is unsettlingly similar, from the yellow gold hair shot through with gray, to the thick brown and silver beard. Its eyes are not my blue, however—they are cavernous black hollows that swallow the meager light around us. The me-shaped thing’s mouth twitches, uncertain, before splitting open unnaturally wide to reveal a wet, red interior lined not with teeth but with something like pale, questing tendrils.

It tilts its head, considering me. The longer it stares, the more it seems to settle into its form of me. Its mimic armor ripples softly—not metal, but obviously some sort of fleshy protuberance.

Staring in horror at this wrong version of me, I am struck by the absurd thought that I look older than the last time I crossed into these woods.

“Come on, then,” I say quietly, and the words are not bravado but invitation, because there is no retreating now without admitting that I should never have come.

It launches forward with terrible speed and a manic grin.

I barely get my sword up in time to catch the first strike, which lands with a force that jars my shoulders and sends a bright flare of pain down my spine. The impact drives Magnar sideways, but his battle training takes hold and he waits for my command before he makes another move. Gritting my teeth against all my legion discomforts, I release the reins and drop from the saddle rather than risk being pulled under him, landing hard enough that my knees buckle and I exhale a reflexive grunt.

The creature’s seam-mouth opens wider, the tendrils inside wiggling and snapping forward like worms crawling up from the soil after a rainstorm. It reaches for my face—my helm unhelpfully tied to my saddle—and I just manage to dodge as its claws kiss my cheek.

I lunge, aiming for its throat—my throat?—and the blade finds purchase in its wet, clay-dense flesh, sinking in with some resistance. The creature recoils, with a horrible screech, setting my teeth on edge and almost emptying my bowels.

It swipes again, catching my shoulder and spinning me half around. I feel something tear beneath my armor—cloth, skin, pride—and stagger, vision narrowing at the edges. The old reflex to stand taller, to meet force with greater force, flares instinctively, but my body does not answer as it once did. My breath comes ragged—my arms shake. And gods, my damned knee nearly undoes my resolve with pain.

For a heartbeat, humiliatingly, I think of my bed. Of morning loaves of fresh bread on the kitchen table, next to a pot of pineberry preserves and fresh butter. Of a life where my greatest battle was coaxing reluctant seedlings from stubborn earth.

Then the creature makes a soft clicking noise from deep in its chest, its empty-eyed gaze searching for my many and varied weaknesses, and something harder and more determined settles into place beneath the weariness.

I am here because the people I swore a blood oath to protect are starving beneath a curse that no one understands, or deserves. I am here to honor my old quest, and set my guilty memories and the troubled souls of my comrades to rest. I am here because a king I loved trusted me to guard his realm, and I failed him once. I will not fail twice.

I rush forward with a shout that scrapes my throat raw, bracing my boot against the crouched creature’s bent leg and wrenching the blade sideways with all the strength I have left. My sword cleaves the creature in two, and its unseeing eyes blink at me for a single, horrifying second before it sinks to its knees. Viscous black fluid seeps from its prone, ravaged form—reeking of bile and putrefying flesh. The thing shudders violently, limbs thrashing in grotesque grace, before it finally sighs and stills.

I stand over it, swaying, chest heaving as the forest absorbs the sound of my breathing. Staring down at the body—my body—I cannot help the thought that this is where I should be lying. This should have been me all those years ago. Perhaps the gods would have spared my family—and my men—as penance for my death, if I’d succumbed then.

Nothing else moves through the bushes or the trees, and it’s long moments before I’m able to come back to myself and check on Magnar. He presses his muzzle briefly against my shoulder as though confirming I remain solid. I rest my forehead against his for a moment longer than pride would prefer, drawing steadiness from the simple warmth of him.

There’s another sudden noise behind me and I whirl around, sword still sticky with this creature’s ichor, but there are no new threats. The sound is the body sinking—not into a visible pit, but into the earth itself, as though the soil has opened unseen jaws. Within minutes, there is no sign it stood there at all. There is only our combat circle of churned leaves, and syrupy trails of my own blood darkening the path.

“I’m too old for this, my friend,” I mutter to Magnar, though we both know that isn’t the truth. I’m exactly the right age to understand what is at stake, and old enough to feel the cost of it in every bone, every sinew, every scar. Every pain a form of penance for all my failures.

The Verge stretches on ahead, deeper and darker, and somewhere beyond it the bog waits with its slow waters, living nightmares, and treacherous ground. Beyond that lies Hollowmire, where time slips sideways and men vanish without leaving even armor behind.

I wipe my blade clean, bind my shoulder as best I can, and gather what remains of my diminished supplies. I do not—I cannot—look back.

If something follows, it is welcome to try its hand again.