The Hollow: At The Edge by Andrew Day

at weaving as
the average toadstool. And toadstools at least had other qualities
that made them useful. Gorundil had been regarded by his teachers,
his friends, even his family to be, and this was putting it as
kindly as possible, a lump.
    Then came Vharaes and
the rebellion. Then came the Ferine. Now all of those people would
have been hard pressed to recognise the elf they had once known and
looked down on.
    Now he went by the name
Ghoraes. All the elves of the Ferine changed their names, to
distance themselves from what they had been, the weakness that they
had embodied. All of his life he had wanted power, and now he was
power and strength personified.
    As he watched the
Imperials stomping about the beach, he could smell their sweat and
blood on the air. He could smell their fear. He dragged his long
black claws through the sand in excitement.
    “Can we?” came a
hopeful voice behind him.
    He turned back to
another elf waiting at the base of the hill.
    “Not yet,” he grunted.
“Wait. Watch.”
    In truth, he was
beginning to speak proper elvish less and less. The words were
becoming harder and harder to use. It was happening to most of the
Ferine. They regarded it as a minor issue. Most of them had hardly
been erudite before the ritual. Communication was actually easier
now. Words were just wasted breath, but a snarl, a flash of yellow
teeth, an exposed belly, the delicious scent of blood in the air,
that said more than words ever could.
    Ghoraes smiled,
revealing long wolf-like fangs.
    Let there be blood.
     
    The fear didn’t go
away, not completely. But as it lessened, Serrel finally
acknowledged the thought that he was currently walking in the
Faelands . Apart from one eccentric uncle that had run off to
join the merchant navy, Serrel’s entire family for the last three
generations had never travelled further than the village of Sad
Weasel, and that was only half a day’s travel from his own home
town. But here he was, possibly the first Hawthorne in history, to
walk upon the soil of the Faelands.
    He might have enjoyed
the moment more if he hadn’t been so on edge, waiting for someone
to pop up and try to kill him. After krakens, he would not have
been that surprised if the ground opened up and started spewing
death worms.
    “I wouldn’t worry,”
Brant told him. “Death worms are vegetarians.”
    “Then why are they
called death worms?”
    “Oh, they’ll still kill
you. They just won’t eat you afterwards.”
    “What a waste,” added
Dogbreath.
    When they followed a
wide track up from the beach, they soon came to the first
settlement. It was a small fishing village proclaiming itself to be
Martin’s Rest on a sign made out of driftwood. The Hounds watched
the village for a while, taking in the empty streets, and the
closed doors. The locals had either abandoned it, or were hiding.
Either way, it seemed obvious that they were aware a large army was
walking down the road towards them.
    Snow sent a runner back
to the main body of the Legion, then took the Hounds into Martin’s
Rest to investigate.
    To Serrel, the town
could have looked like any town from the Empire. It was obviously
not a particularly rich town, and there were only a few different
ways a person could build a hovel. The fishing must have been good
though, as there was a long line of large smokehouses where fish
were being preserved, and every house had a rack of drying fish in
front of it.
    There were only two
streets, and they met at a small T-junction at the north end of the
village. At the junction, sat the village’s largest building, an
old wooden longhouse shaped like an inverted boat.
    When no one made
themselves present, Snow shrugged, and called out, “Hello?”
    Serrel heard a few
faint whispers, then the sound of wooden shutters slamming
closed.
    “These people are
clearly glad to see us,” noted Brant drily.
    “It’s not as if we’re
coming to save them from a gods damn civil war or anything,”
muttered