Chương 59: Chapter 37: Greenhollow - Part I

Three miles prove considerably shorter than they appear upon a milestone. The road gradually descends from the bridge into gentler country where the woodland retreats just enough to reveal scattered fields stretching between clusters of weathered cottages. The farms here bear little resemblance to those surrounding Fallowspire.

Every fence has been repaired countless times rather than replaced, every barn expanded in whatever direction proved cheapest and every stone wall assembled from rock gathered painstakingly from the surrounding fields. Nothing appears neglected. Merely practical. The sort of place built by generations of people more interested in making things last than making them beautiful. Before long, the first signs of Greenhollow come into view.

A modest palisade of sharpened logs encircles much of the village, more suited to discouraging wolves than withstanding an army. Time has weathered the timber to a dull grey while climbing ivy has claimed sections of the outer wall wherever the watchmen have allowed it. Beyond the gate, smoke rises lazily above slate rooftops clustered around a broad village green. An ancient oak shades the village well, its stone rim worn smooth by generations of hands drawing water. The gate itself stands open.

Two villagers occupy the small watch platform overlooking the entrance. Neither wears matching armor. One carries an old hunting spear while the other leans upon a woodcutter's axe that appears to have been pressed into service for reasons other than chopping timber. They notice me well before I reach the gate. One climbs down to meet me.

His hair has long since surrendered to grey, though the shoulders beneath his worn leather jerkin remain broad enough to suggest years of honest labor rather than military training. His gaze settles first upon the staff resting across my shoulder before drifting toward the leather wallet clipped to my belt.

"You're not from around here."

"No." His eyes narrow slightly.

"Passing through?"

"I accepted a contract from the Adventurer's Guild." I immediately see some of the tension leaves his face.

"The guild finally sent someone."

"Yes." He lets out a slow breath before extending a calloused hand.

"Edric." I clasp it briefly.

"Kaelen." He glances once toward the road behind me as though expecting another traveler to appear.

"Just you?"

"Just me." Something unreadable crosses his expression before he nods to himself.

"I suppose one experienced adventurer is worth more than half a dozen fools with pitchforks."

"I'd rather not test that comparison." A tired smile touches his face.

"So would I." He steps aside, allowing me through the gate. Greenhollow feels busy in the way villages often do. Children carry buckets from the well while several women sort vegetables beneath an open-sided shelter near the square. A cooper works patiently outside his workshop, driving iron hoops onto a newly finished barrel with measured strikes of a wooden mallet. Ordinary sounds of ordinary lives. Yet something feels different. Conversations pause as I pass. People look toward the staff.

Toward the guild wallet. Toward the satchel crossing my shoulder, with expectation. The feeling follows me almost all the way across the square before Edric speaks again.

"The headman will want to meet you."

"I expected as much."

"He'll be at the meeting hall." Edric points toward a sturdy stone building overlooking the village green. Larger than the surrounding cottages but built with the same practical simplicity, it bears none of the ornamentation common to noble estates or city guilds. A carved oak tree hangs above the doorway, faded by years of wind and rain until only its outline remains.

"The villagers have been waiting for someone from the guild." His voice grows quieter.

"They've been waiting longer than they should have." I study the building for a moment before turning back toward him.

"Before I speak with the headman..." Edric raises an eyebrow.

"I'd like to ask you a question." He nods once.

"When was the first attack?" Edric studies me for a moment before lowering the hand resting upon his spear.

"I could tell you." He glances toward the stone building overlooking the square.

"But Headman Rowan has been keeping track of everything since this began the dates, farms and livestock. The whole miserable business." He lets out a quiet breath.

"You'll get a better answer from him than from me." That is reasonable enough. I incline my head before following him across the village square. Greenhollow appears even smaller once I am walking through it. The buildings stand close together, not because anyone planned them that way but because every new generation simply built beside the last one. Workshops occupy the ground floors of several homes while neat vegetable gardens fill whatever space remains between fences and stone walls.

The village possesses none of Fallowspire's constant movement. Here, every face gradually becomes familiar simply because there are not many strangers to replace them. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. The villagers notice us passing and conversations quieten. Just enough that I become aware of them. A blacksmith pauses with his hammer resting against the anvil. Two women drawing water from the well stop speaking until we have walked beyond them.

A young boy carrying a basket of eggs openly stares at the guild wallet hanging from my belt before his mother gently encourages him onward. Edric keeps his voice low enough that only I hear it.

"They've been expecting the guild."

"I gathered as much."

"They thought you'd come sooner."

"I accepted the commission just yesterday."

"I understand." His answer carries no accusation.

"The delay wasn't your fault." We continue another several paces before he speaks again.

"People start making up explanations when they wait too long."

"What sort of explanations?" He exhales slowly.

"Goblins. Wolves. Curses. You name it and we probably will have a story for it. The old woman near the mill insists the forest has become haunted."

"And you?"

"I think something is killing my neighbors' livestock." A practical answer. I find myself liking him a little more. The meeting hall overlooks the village green from a gentle rise. It is a sturdy stone building with a slate roof and broad oak doors polished smooth by generations of hands. Unlike the grand halls of noble estates, this one has clearly been built for work rather than ceremony.

A long notice board stands beneath the front awning bearing requests for repairs, notices of upcoming markets and names written beside harvest duties. Edric pushes open one of the doors without knocking. The room inside is pleasantly cool after the afternoon sun. A broad table dominates the center, surrounded by sturdy chairs that have undoubtedly hosted more arguments than celebrations. Shelves along one wall hold rolled maps, ledgers and bundles of parchment tied neatly with twine. None of it appears decorative.

Everything has been used. A man looks up from one of those ledgers as we enter. His hair has retreated almost entirely from the top of his head while what remains has turned the color of fresh snowfall. Reading spectacles rest low upon his nose, forcing him to peer over them rather than through them.

"So." He closes the ledger carefully.

"The guild finally decided we were worth remembering." There is no bitterness in the remark. Only the dry humor of someone who has spent too many sleepless nights waiting. Edric gestures toward me.

"This is Kaelen." The older man rises from his chair before extending a hand.

"Rowan." I return the handshake. His grip remains firm despite his age.

"I appreciate you coming."

"I appreciate detailed reports." A faint smile appears.

"Then we should get along." He gestures toward the chair opposite his own.

"Sit." I do. Without another word, Rowan opens the ledger once more and turns it around so it faces me. Carefully written dates fill the pages. Beside each date rests a short description. Missing chickens; two sheep; damaged fence; three goats; another damaged fence. The entries continue, ordered and methodical. Weeks of someone's worry reduced to neat lines of ink. I glance back up at him.

"You've been keeping records from the beginning."

"I keep records of everything." His fingers rest lightly upon the first page.

"I learned long ago that memory argues." He taps the ledger.

"Ink doesn't." I nod once.

"When did this begin?" Rowan turns back to the earliest entry.

"Twenty-seven days ago." Rowan turns another page of the ledger, his finger stopping beside an entry written in the same careful hand as every page before it.

"Twenty-seven days ago," he repeats.

"Old Harlan lost three hens." I wait.

"They disappeared overnight. No blood. No feathers. Just... gone."

"And before that?"

"Nothing." His answer comes without hesitation.

"No missing livestock. No strange sightings. No complaints from the farmers beyond the ordinary." I nod slowly. Twenty-seven days is recent enough that people would remember details accurately. Long enough for a pattern to emerge.

"What happened next?" Rowan's finger moves down the page.

"Three nights later, the Weaver family lost two sheep."

"Were they found?" He shakes his head.

"Only blood. Something dragged the carcasses away before sunrise."

"Any tracks?"

"We found some."

"What did they look like?" The headman lets out a quiet sigh.

"Like tracks." I cannot help smiling faintly.

"A fair answer."

"I assume so as well." The headman spreads his hands apologetically.

"I keep records, not hunting journals. They were footprints in the mud. Beyond that, I couldn't tell you whether they belonged to a goblin, a wolf or my neighbour's cow."

"Reasonable." Rowan continues turning pages.

"The attacks kept moving." His finger pauses beside another entry.

"Then the Millers." Another.

"The farms." Another.

"Finally, Highcrest." He closes the ledger halfway.

"Every farm north of the village has been hit at least once."

"And the southern farms?"

"Nothing." That earns my full attention.

"Nothing at all?"

"Not a single missing animal." Interesting. I lean forward slightly.

"The attacks are spreading in one direction." Rowan nods.

"South." The answer arrives immediately.

"They began near Northwood." He points toward the final entries filling the most recent pages.

"Now they're almost reaching the village itself." The room falls quiet for a moment, patterns matter. Beasts rarely kill without reason. Hunger follows territory and territory follows shelter. Even creatures driven largely by instinct obey habits, whether they realize it or not. I study the pages once more.

"No attacks during the day?"

"Never."

"Anyone actually see the creature?"

"No."

"Hear it?"

"Sometimes."

"What did they hear?" Rowan exchanges a glance with Edric.

"Depends who you ask."

"What are the likely answers?" Rowan scratches thoughtfully at his beard.

"Growling; whistling; scratching. One man insists he heard laughter." Edric snorts.

"That was after he'd emptied half a bottle of cider."

"I thought as much." The headman smiles briefly before the expression fades.

"The hunters concern me more." I look up.

"The contract mentioned two."

"It should have mentioned three." Silence settles over the room. Rowan reopens the ledger before turning several pages farther back.

"The first two disappeared together." His finger moves lower.

"The third returned."

"Alive?"

"Barely." The answer leaves the room noticeably quieter.

"He reached the village shortly before dawn." Edric folds his arms.

"Couldn't tell us much."

"Shock?" I ask.

"Partly." Rowan nods.

"And fever. Merra did what she could."

"The village healer?"

"Yes."

"He survived?"

"He did. But he hasn't entered Northwood since." That tells me considerably more than any description of wounds could. Fear leaves marks that rarely appear upon the body. I close the ledger gently.

"I'd like to speak with him." Rowan's expression becomes apologetic.

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"He left yesterday." I frown.

"Where?"

"Fallowspire." The headman exhales slowly.

"His wife finally convinced him to stay with their daughter until this is over." I cannot blame either of them. Losing one's courage is unfortunate. Losing one's life proving it unnecessary is considerably worse. My gaze returns to the ledger.

"If the attacks began near Northwood..." I tap the most recent entry.

"... then I don't need to start here." Rowan follows my finger immediately.

"No." He already understands.

"You need Highcrest Farm but that will come first thing in the morning." The room grows quiet once more. This time, none of us speaks. We have spent the better part of an hour discussing missing livestock, frightened villagers and neat lines of ink written across aging parchment. At last, the investigation has reached the point where words alone can take it no farther. It is time to examine the ground for myself.