Chapter 6: The Long Road East
Lukan had been there the day the raven arrived — its black wings brushing through the morning fog, its voice sharp with urgency. He’d read the letter beside Kalo under the great oak, and they had not spoken much afterward. They both knew what it meant.
That night, Lukan left immediately for his home along the river’s bend. Kalo, ever the caretaker, spent the next few days in gentle preparation. He brewed, gathered, mended. On the fifth morning, he stood before his burrow beneath the oak, shutters drawn and herbs dried in hanging bunches. He tended his vegetable patch one last time, whispering to the roots. Then he made his way to the grove just beyond the hill, where small stones marked his families resting place beneath a crooked birch.
He stood there a long while. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, placing a hand on the earth. “Keep the wind warm for me.”
When he returned, he packed his rucksack — tinctures, tonics, a leaf-wrapped cake of compressed mushrooms and chestnuts — and let Sprig, his green asp, curl into his coat pocket with a chirrup. With a flick of his wrist, he commanded his magical broom to take to the skies. It obeyed, soaring ahead like a watchful bird, sweeping the air itself with an invisible eye.
Down the dirt track he went, soft-footed and resolute.
Lukan, back at his warren beneath the fallen willow tree, had been preparing in his own way. He sharpened his spear along the river rock and strung a length of sling cord across his chest, tucking in polished stones the color of dusk. He packed dried fish, river mint, and a worn oilskin map from the last war. When Kalo arrived, there was no need for greetings. They simply nodded. Lukan locked the round iron door to his burrow and adjusted his cloak.
Together, they stepped into the tall grass — one sage, one scout.
They decided to abandon the main road. It was longer, and too exposed. Instead, they turned eastward and cut across the Crooked Hills, aiming for a shortcut that would shave nearly half a week from their journey. It was not without risk. The hills had a reputation — for vanishing paths, old bones, and stranger things that watched from behind bramble.
But they made good time. The land undulated like the sea, golden-green in the day and blue-purple at night. They slept beneath stars so close it seemed they might pluck them from the sky. Kalo enchanted a small ring of fireflies to form a soft globe of light above their camp each night. Lukan kept watch, his eyes always drawn to the dark outline of Deadman’s Bluff rising ahead like a broken crown.
It was on the third evening, just as the sun sank behind the bluff, that they found they were being followed.
A rustle. A squeak. A thud.
Lukan turned, spear raised.
Out from behind a rock tumbled Little Red — a young squirrel in a too-big coat, his tail sticking up like a banner of pride and foolishness.
“Ah. Well,” said Kalo, lowering his hands. “This is unexpected.”
“I knew you were going somewhere,” Red said breathlessly. “And wherever you’re going, it’s bound to be good. I want to help. I can fight! Look!” He pulled two small daggers from his belt with an unnecessary flourish. “I learned to throw ‘em last spring!”
“You’ll get eaten by the wind out here,” Lukan said flatly, but his voice held no anger.
“I’ll keep up,” said Red, hopping from foot to foot.
Kalo and Lukan shared a glance.
“We can’t send him back now,” Kalo murmured. “Not this deep in the bluff. Too many watching things in the dark.”
“For his own safety,” Lukan said aloud.
Red beamed. “Does that mean I’m in?”
“It means you walk quiet, carry your weight, and do exactly as you're told,” Lukan grunted.
“I can do that!”
And so the three walked on — through stone and wildflower, across winding crests where birds circled high and old trees twisted skyward like questions. At night, the fireflies glowed gently above the tent, and Red curled close to Sprig, who hissed once, then begrudgingly accepted the company.
The broom passed overhead now and then, casting a sweeping shadow across the hills, always watching, always scanning.
Below, the companions continued their path — unaware that with each step eastward, the shadows in Grimthorn Hollow thickened. A scarecrow stirred in its field. A violet light pulsed in a hidden room. And a gnome with a heavy heart was already running out of time.
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Chapter 7: The Second Night Watch
The moon rose fat and yellow behind the ridge, casting its pale gold over the wind-worn fences and fields of Grimthorn Hollow. Every night now felt longer than the last. The air was brittle, sharp with the scent of turned earth and something else — something harder to name.
It had been several nights since the first watch. Since then, the villagers had kept a careful schedule — changing shifts, tightening patrols, and whispering prayers they hadn’t spoken in years.
Tonight, the tailor, a nervous hedgehog with a shaky paw and a nervous tic in one eye, had been chosen to guard the front road near the ancient stone wall. His only weapon was a pair of long tailoring scissors, but he gripped them like they were forged of mythic steel.
Down by the bridge at the back of town, the hamster twins, Bofkin and Flopkin, marched in exaggerated loops — back and forth, boot to boot. They argued constantly.
“Your march sounds like a duck with bad knees,” Flopkin sniffed.
“Oh, and you march like a cart with no wheel,” Bofkin hissed.
Their bickering kept the night lively — until it didn’t.
Out in the heath, past the gnarled hawthorns and whispering reeds of Deadman’s Fork, something stirred.
Two scarecrows emerged from the tangle.
One wore a battered kettle as a helmet, the other a shattered birdcage tied with black twine. Their faces were crude burlap masks, stitched with crooked smiles and button eyes that gleamed like cold embers.
The lantern at the fork flickered, stuttered, then bled red — just for a blink. Then it steadied again.
Back by the bridge, the twins paused mid-argument.
“You saw that?” whispered Flopkin.
“Just the wind,” muttered Bofkin, but his grip tightened on his horn.
The wind didn’t swing shovels.
The scarecrows came out of the grass with a dancer’s rhythm — fast and soundless. Before either hamster could squeak, whack! One went down. Crack! The other followed, their arguments ended mid-word.
Dry laughter rustled the night. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t animal. It was wrong.
The scarecrows each grabbed one limp hamster by the collar and dragged them backward into the field, straw trailing behind like unraveling thread.
At the far wall, the tailor had seen it — the lantern flickering red, then green again. His mouth opened. His courage closed.
He ran.
Scissors flapping in one paw, spectacles bouncing, he darted toward the bridge like a rabbit chased by fire. When he arrived, breath ragged, the road was still — save for the whispering grass.
“Twins?” he called out.
Only silence.
And then he saw it — a loose pile of scattered straw, with a dent in the earth where two small forms had stood just minutes before.
His paws began to shake. He did not stay.
Meanwhile, at the Thorn & Thistle, Mr. Merrit the marten stood alone in the dark tavern. The shutters were closed tight. The hearth had long since burned low. Shadows clung to the corners like sleeping bats.
He moved slowly behind the bar, wiping down empty mugs with a cloth, muttering to himself in Elven — old words, soft and strange. The kind of language that still remembered stars long fallen and cities that had never been built.
The room glowed faintly with candlelight, catching the violet sheen in his eyes.
Then — ting-ting.
A small bell rang at the back tavern door. Just once.
Merrit stilled.
He placed the mug aside and set the cloth down gently. His ears perked. His tail curled upward like a question mark. Without haste, he walked across the tavern floor, each step light as silk.
He reached the door. His paw hovered above the latch.
Then he opened it.
Outside, there was no one.
Only the moor wind, the rustle of the thorn-brush, and two hessian sacks slumped on the doorstep.
Rough burlap. Heavy with weight. One twitched slightly.
Merrit’s smile bloomed slow.
“Oh... you’ve outdone yourselves tonight,” he said.
He reached down with surprising strength and dragged the sacks inside, laughing softly all the while.
SLAM.
The door shut with finality behind him.
The candlelight flickered.
And the tavern returned to shadow.
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