Chapter 89 The Road North

  The cart wheels groaned as they pressed north along the river road, iron-bound rims grinding stone and soil alike. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and silt where the sea had tainted the river, and under it all lay the faint sourness Caelen had come to know too well—the leaching breath of Gloamhollow, winding down from its overflow. The men strained against road conditions, but Tib’s steady hand and back kept it moving, his eyes scanning the horizon with a scout’s instinct.

  The road clung to the river’s bend, little more than a track scoured by hooves and rain. The air was heavy with brine and rot, the aroma of the sea carried inland on a wind that whispered of storms yet to come. Caelan walked at the fore, Tib close behind with the cart’s pull rope wrapped in one fist, Kali keeping to the shaded verge, and Petyr lagging just enough to make Tib mutter curses.

  It was Petyr who stilled first. He raised a hand, too playful a man for sudden seriousness, and hissed, “Listen.”

  Voices. Not the call of farmers or the easy chatter of traders—these were harsh, clipped, overlaid with cries that had no joy.

  Caelan lifted his hand. They left the road, hid the cart in a group of bushes, and crept up a rise, the grass tall and rocky, the slope smelling of crushed nettle and clay. From the ridge, they looked down.

  A crowd—forty, fifty souls at least—were being driven across the fields like cattle. There were mostly men with hollow eyes, but also some women clutching children. Old folk staggering on sticks, young ones stumbling in bare feet. Their clothes were little more than rags, some stained with blood, others torn by rope-burn.

  Behind them pressed a pack of pirates—ruffians clad in mismatched leathers, tunics crusted with salt and old blood, blades and cudgels in hand. They shouted, cursed, jeered, and when one of the weak faltered, they struck with the flats of their swords, driving them on.

  The prisoners whimpered, stumbled, huddled together. The children cried, thin wails carrying high over the field.

  Laughter was the only answer.

  It rolled harsh and cruel from the throats of the men behind them, a mockery of mirth. One pirate shoved an old man so hard that he fell face-first into the dirt. Another, younger man, being herded, pulled him to his knees again with an awkward gentleness—only to earn a backhand from the original pirate who shoved the old man, for wasting time.

  And then their leader strode into view.

  He was massive, towering above the rest, shoulders broad as an ox, and arms thick with muscle. His hair blazed like a torch, bright red, wild and tangled, spilling down to his shoulders. A beard of the same fiery hue framed his face, bristling and unkept. His eyes were pale, washed out like seawater, and in them burned no kindness, no mercy—only the satisfaction of power.

  He wore a red leather coat patched with stolen cloth and strips of hide, and across his back was slung a great axe, the blade nicked but deadly. He barked orders in a voice that seemed to split the air itself. The other pirates flinched when he spoke, but the prisoners only shrank deeper into their misery.

  A woman staggered then, half-carrying a boy no older than six. She tripped over a rut, the boy slipping from her grasp, and both tumbled into the dirt. The child screamed, scraping his knees bloody.

  One of the pirates closest to her, a man leaner than the rest, hesitated. His face twisted—not into pity, exactly, but into something less cruel. He bent, reaching down to steady the boy, to help the woman to her feet.

  He never had the chance.

  The red-haired giant crossed the space in three strides. His hand shot out, gripping the would-be helper by the neck. With a roar, he hurled him aside as if he weighed nothing. The man crashed into the mud, coughing, scrambling upright, reaching for his knife, only to meet the butt of the leader’s axe slamming into his gut. He folded, gasping, spittle flying from his lips.

  The giant leaned over him, eyes blazing. “Mercy?” His voice was a growl, thick with contempt. “You shame us. You shame me.”

  The others laughed again, harder this time, eager to hide their own fear by joining in their leader’s cruelty.

  The red-haired brute raised his boot and drove it into the man’s side, once, twice, until the man rolled into the dirt clutching his ribs. Only then did he turn back to the woman and child. He gestured with his axe, a sharp, sweeping motion. “Up. Walk, or you’ll join him.”

  Terrified, the woman scrambled to her feet, dragging the boy with her. Her lips moved, perhaps whispering a prayer, perhaps only trying to keep her child calm, but her eyes never left the ground.

  The leader spat into the dirt, then swung his axe onto his shoulder and strode forward, the picture of brutal authority.

  From their ridge, Caelan’s face tightened, the muscles in his jaw hard as stone. His fingers clawed at the dirt, gritty earth building up beneath his nails.

  “Cruel,” he said, voice trembling. “Foul. This isn’t freedom. Just death.”

  Beside him, Kali’s breath came shallow. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the child. Her hands squeezed the rope so tightly that blood seeped where the fibers cut in. Petyr shifted his stance, all the usual charm gone, replaced by a restless tension. Only Tib stayed solid, though his jaw moved like he was grinding down his own fury.

  “Twelve blades. Four of us,” Tib growled, voice rough as stones. “They’ll gut us and claim the cart before we can move. Don’t be foolish, boy. Think.”

  Caelan remained silent, but the quiet felt charged. He fixed his gaze on the giant with the red beard, etching every detail into memory—the swagger, that wild hair, the cruel glimmer in his eyes.

  Below, the ruffians herded their charges onward, toward the ruins of an abandoned farmstead: a roof caved in, fences rotted, fields choked with weeds. The prisoners were shoved toward the wreckage, jeered at as they stumbled inside.

  “This is your home!” the red-haired brute bellowed. His voice carried across the whole field, ragged as the sea in a storm. “You will get no more food, no shelter, no chains from us! Live—or die. Makes no difference. I don’t want to see any of you again, and do not think the city guard will take you in either. Avalon has no use for the weak!”

  The pirates roared with laughter. One tossed away a sack of spoiled grain into the dirt, another stole the shawl from an old woman’s shoulders and waved it overhead like a flag before throwing it into the mud.

  The children wept. The adults stood hollow-eyed, their faces like broken reeds swaying in the wind.

  The red-haired leader raised his axe, slamming its haft into the ground as if striking a seal. The sound echoed like thunder. Then he turned, barking an order, and the pack began to move away, still laughing, still jeering, leaving behind their discarded burden.

  The silence that followed was worse.

  Caelan’s breath came slow, measured, but Tib saw the fire burning in his eyes.

  “One day,” Caelan whispered, voice low as a vow. “Cruelty end. I swear.”

  The others held their tongues. None of them doubted he meant it.

  …

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The four of them remained still in the grass above the fields until the last flicker of red hair vanished down the road, the cruel laughter of the pirates finally swallowed by distance. Even then, Caelen did not move.Caelen’s gaze stayed locked on the tree line, sweeping the uneven trail, the splintered remains in the field where shadowed figures pressed to the margins, too frightened to stir. He didn’t move until the sun sagged low and the light faded soft, almost gray. Then he rose. “Now,” he said.

  Tib shifted, uneasy, but followed. Kali and Petyr exchanged a glance—just a flicker of hesitation—then drifted behind as Caelen headed down toward the deserted captives.

  Midway there, Tib leaned close, his voice barely more than a whisper yet weighted and grave. “Caelen… Hollow can’t feed more mouths. We’re nearly out of food. Still no shelter. The kids need safety. That valley…” His words faltered. “Not now.”

  Caelen halted and turned. He didn’t hurry—he moved like someone accustomed to being heeded. His eyes flashed, brimming with old wounds and fury—chains, jeering voices, all of it smoldering behind his gaze. “Take them. Hollow feeds. Hollow heals. Hollow’s safe.”

  Petyr muttered, “Safe? In that mist-choked place? With sickness in the pools and half a roof over our heads?”

  Kali’s quiet voice added, softer but cutting deeper for its calm. “We may save them today… only to watch them suffer tomorrow.”

  Caelen’s gaze swept over them, unbending. His voice, though broken, carried the iron that they all have seen in Lady Seraphine, “People… of Avalon.”

  Silence fell. The three looked at one another, and in that glance passed the truth they all knew but rarely spoke aloud: he was not merely a boy with visions, nor a wanderer stitching broken land. He was, blood of Avalon, marked for a burden none of them could refuse.

  Tib bowed his head first. “Yes, my lord.”

  Kali followed, hands tightening on her bindings. “Yes, my lord.”

  Petyr sighed, but even he bent with a crooked grin. “Aye… my lord.”

  The decision made, they walked on.

  …

  Below, the captives saw them coming. Ragged figures clutched children close, some huddling together as if to make themselves smaller targets. A woman lifted her arm as though to shield a boy behind her, though she had no strength left to stand steady. Murmurs rippled—fear sharpened by hunger and exhaustion.

  When the glint of chainmail caught the last of the dying sun, the reaction grew sharper. Men staggered to their feet, fists raised with nothing to hold. A child screamed.

  “Soldiers!” someone hissed.

  “No—pirates again!” another cried.

  The panic spread like wildfire.

  Before it could break, Tib stepped forward, his hand raised in a gesture of peace. His voice carried, warm and steady, wrapping the terror with practiced ease. “Peace, friends! Peace! We are not here to harm you.”

  The ragged crowd hesitated, some trembling, some glaring.

  “We are sons of Avalon,” Tib continued, his tone both noble and plain. “We know of your suffering, and we come with an opportunity. You’ve been cast aside—left to die in fields with nothing. But we would take you to shelter, to food, to work. You will not be slaves again. You will be people again.”

  There was muttering, suspicion, but the panic eased a shade. Children clung to mothers, mothers clung to hope.

  Caelen said nothing, only stood with arms folded, eyes fierce as though daring anyone to doubt. His silence gave Tib’s words weight.

  Slowly, the crowd began to shift—one man lowering his fists, another stepping forward, a woman pulling her boy to her breast with tears burning her cheeks.

  Trust would not come at once, but fear had been blunted. They listened. They did not run.

  And for Caelen, that was enough. The first step had been taken.

  Tib and Petyr were sent back to fetch the cart. Their shadows disappeared into the falling dusk, leaving the field to the murmur of weary voices and the rustle of fear that clung to the abandoned captives.

  Caelen wasted no time. “Wood,” he said, pointing to the tree line as he walked to it, gathering what branches and scrub he could find. While Kali crouched among the people, her gentle eyes soothing the mothers as she pressed a bit of dried bread into the smallest hands and shared her and Caelen's waterskin.

  Soon, a fire was coaxed to life, smoke drifting thin against the purpling sky. The smell of kindling and earth mingled with the sharper, sour stench of hunger and sickness. The captives pressed close, seeking warmth, though their eyes still darted to Caelen as if he were some spirit half-feared, half-hoped.

  Caelen stood apart, arms folded, staring at the flames as though they might answer the questions that pressed against his skull. His voice, when it came, was flat, clipped.

  “Stay here. Rest. Fire warm. Safer night.” He paused, the lines of his face tight. “But Hollow better. Food. Roof. Healing.”

  Tib glanced up from feeding the fire. “We push through tonight, we break them, Caelen. Children too small, too weak. We’ll lose them on the road.”

  Petyr shook his head. “And if those pirates circle back? Leave them sleeping in a field, they’ll wake to chains—or not at all.”

  The fire cracked, and the argument sat between them like a stone.

  Caelen’s eyes narrowed toward the road, toward the dark hills that led north. He weighed it, silent, the way he always did—measuring risk, hunger, distance. Around him, the newly freed clutched at each other, waiting, not understanding that the balance of their fates rested in this one choice.

  Kali’s soft voice broke the quiet. “If they walk tonight, it will hurt them. But hurt may save them. A fire cannot chase all dangers.”

  Caelen met her gaze. For a moment, the hardness in his eyes softened, though his answer was still his own. “Hollow. Tonight.”

  Tib groaned under his breath, but he did not argue. Petyr muttered something about broken feet and sore backs, but his hands were already tightening the ropes that would lash the firewood to the cart.

  Caelen stepped closer to the captives, his shadow long in the firelight. His broken cadence cut through their murmur: “We walk. Not far. Safe place. Avalon people.”

  Caelen then removed another water skin from his bag and gave it to Kali, saying, “Children, exhausted, sick, must drink!” They did not understand all the words, but they understood the promise. And for many, that was enough. It was in the darkening night that Kali noticed the luminous reflection of the water she poured into the cup for the people and wondered where the water came from.

  The cart wheels creaked back into the firelight. They shifted some supplies to be carried by Petyr and Caelen to give room for the weakest children on the cart. The choice was made. Tonight, the Hollow would grow.

  …

  The Hollow was dark and still, save for the low hiss of wind along the ridges and the faint, steady flow of water toward the Hollow's mouth. Most of the fires had burned low. Only a few embers glowed near the lower hearths where the night-watch dwarves dozed, cloaks pulled tight.

  Then came the sound—wheels, squealing and dragging, uneven over stone. A lantern bobbed in the distance, pale gold against the black mouth of the pass.

  Pit was the first to stir. He blinked, rubbed his beard, and squinted into the dark. “What in the smoky belly o’ the Deep is that?” he muttered, and then louder, “Who in their right mind brings a cart here at this hour?”

  The cart shuddered into view—a hand-drawn thing, taller than a man, piled high with bundles, blankets, and the vague shapes of people. A child’s cough broke the silence, then another, smaller cry muffled under a wool cover. Caelen, gaunt and gray with exhaustion, leaned into the cart’s pole with Tib beside him, both half-dead on their feet. Behind them, shadowed figures trudged—dozens of them.

  Pit’s jaw dropped. “By the Maker’s hairy toes,” he said, stumbling forward. “Ye went out for a bit o’ grain and came back with half a village! What’d ye do, raid a town and its church?”

  Tib didn’t answer—he only gave a ghost of a grin before collapsing onto a barrel.

  The camp stirred fast. Lanterns flared to life as the dwarves emerged from their row homes and tents, bleary-eyed, muttering. When they saw the column of ragged, starved souls trailing behind Caelen, their grumbling turned to hushed awe.

  Brother Renn came running, cloak half-fastened, his hair in wild tufts. “Sweet Veils,” he breathed. “How many?”

  “Many,” Caelen rasped, his voice breaking.

  Renn’s gaze swept over them—thin men, stooped elders, frightened mothers clutching infants, wide-eyed children who stared at the Hollow’s torchlight as if it were a dream. “Get them inside,” he said quickly. “All of them.”

  He turned to one of the dwarves, a broad-shouldered woman with soot on her cheek. “Freya, clear your row home. We’ll use it for the sick.”

  Without hesitation, she nodded and ran to fetch her kin.

  Caelen gestured to the women with the youngest children. “Cave,” he said. “Dry place, hearth. Keep warm.”

  The dwarves moved swiftly—fires were stoked, what little blankets they had were dragged from bunks, kettles set to boil. The Hollow that had slept in silence became alive with motion and murmurs, the scrape of boots, the soft sobs of relief.

  And through it all, Tamsan took command. Her voice cut through the chaos like a bell. “You—bring water. You—set up bedding there. These little ones go near the fire. The rest, follow me.” She moved with purpose, calm but fierce, guiding each weary soul to warmth or shelter.

  When one of the younger dwarves hesitated about where to sleep, she only said, “Tonight, the Hollow belongs to them. We can bear the cold.”

  And so it was. The night deepened, cold and moonless, but within the Hollow, lights burned bright and steady. The rescued lay wrapped in blankets, murmuring thanks between sips of broth.