The Hollow

Aerie

Something wet touched his cheek, then daylight crept under his eyelids. He smelled smoke and firewood mixed with something acrid. Nom tried to wipe his face and eyes, but his arms were caught up behind him. Another wet touch on his face brought him to full consciousness, and he tried to rise and flail out, but came up short and smacked back to the ground. A goat was licking his face. He and the goat were both tied up and attached to a small lean-to structure. He found enough slack on the rope to kneel, and tried to nudge the goat away with his shoulder. They were close to the trench he had crossed, which now poured forth mounds of smoke. At the bottom, an undulating mass of flame unsuccessfully tried to roll up the embankment at him.

"Ma-aa-aa," the goat bleated.

Nom followed the creature's gaze, and saw the man from last night emerging from a wooden structure. He wore a mixture of chain mail and plates that left his arms free for archery, and an open-faced helmet. The man's older bearded face looked grim as he approached the lean-to, bare sword in hand. He stopped ten feet away and tossed the Mule onto the dirt and straw in front of Nom.

"This piece of junk should have melted in the fire," the man said. The grip was burned away, but the tang was intact, and it otherwise looked fine.

"It's a stubborn blade," Nom replied, looking him in the eye. The man either trusted him to be friendly, or trusted in himself to quell any rebellion. Nom strongly suspected the latter.

"Hm," the man gruffly huffed. He pulled from his belt the sheathed spear blade that had been in Nom's bag. "And this old warhorse is very far from home." He waggled it before putting it back in his belt. He looked at Nom sternly and expectantly.

Nom looked away and said, "It has no home."

"Hm. I suppose not." He gave Nom another appraising stare before adding, "But it's welcome here, for a time." The man turned and went back into the structure, toeing aside some chickens on the way.

Nom looked at the goat. "I don't suppose you like eating ropes?"

"Ma-aa-aa," the goat said, and chewed on nothing in particular.

"That's why you're still tied up, my friend." Nom was tired of his body hitting the ground, but he flopped backward and stretched his leg out to snag the Mule. He maneuvered it back into the lean-to. After trying various positions, he ended up sitting on the hilt to prop up the blade, which enabled him to slice the rope behind his back. He stood, rubbed his wrists and walked to the shelter.

Despite the bright morning sun, it was dark inside. There were a couple of shuttered windows, but the only light came from the doorway and an old oil lantern sitting on a table covered with tools, schematic papers, and unknown parts. A thin man sat hunched over the table, absorbed in lashing sticks together into small models, oblivious to Nom's presence and everything else in the room.

The archer sat at another table, his helmet and weapons neatly organized on a rack near the door. He picked at a plate of food, and upon seeing Nom enter, pointed his fork at a bowl across from him, filled with a sausage and berries.

"It's Cracky's, but he often forgets to eat," said the gruff man.

"Cracky?" Nom said.

The man shrugged. "He's never gotten around to telling me his name, and I got tired of calling him crackpot." He forked a small potato into his mouth. "So what do I call you? Scorchy? Scratchy?"

Nom wiped his face with his hand, and it came back bloody and sooty. "Nōm," he said, rubbing the mess off onto his pants, then shoveled in some berries with his other hand. "You?"

"Casowari. But he calls me General," he said, gesturing at Cracky, then shrugged with his hands. "It'll do." He chewed his meal. "Nōm. A bit vague, isn't it?"