The Hollow Hunter

I.

The hunter sights the town of Black Bellows just as a grey dawn crests the rim of the world behind him in the east.  That first corona of somber morning light paints his hunched and saddle-bound form in stark relief, ghoulish and chimeric and rising up from out of the swales of unbroken grassland like a portent of some solitary doom. The narrow meandering streets of the mining town unfurl across the foothills before him, nestled in the shadow of a soaring mountain range whose dark spired peaks swallow up the fading remnant of a silver crescent moon.

The town sits silent and shrouded in veils of wispy fog. Trails of black smoke unscroll from the chimneys and smokestacks and rise to hang over the town in an ashen canopy and the whole town reverberates with the steady hum of the refinery turbines.

The hunter feels eyes watching him as he passes the weathered town sign that creaks faintly on the breeze. He rides down the dusty main avenue casting his eyes about from under the shadow of his hood, but can find no sign of his watcher. He throws the fold of his cloak back over one shoulder and the dull morning light glints off the gunmetal cylinder of the pistol slung to his belt. Suddenly a hunched figure, black as pitch, breaks from the cover of an alley ahead and bolts across the empty street before dissipating back into the mist. The horse tosses her head and skitters against the reins. The hunter stills her with pressure from his knees and puts a hand on the pommel of his weapon. A door to his left creaks open and he half draws his pistol and turns to see an elderly bespectacled man step out onto the porch of the town general store.

The older man stretches briefly before he notices the hunter watching him. If he is perturbed at all by the hunter's stare he does not show it. He looks over the tall dusty newcomer astride a weary black mare, eyeing the hand wrapped around the pistol at his belt before nodding a greeting. "Mornin to ya," he says before grabbing a broom from inside the door and beginning to sweep the dust and soot off the porch plank boards.

The hunter nods back and lets go of the weapon and shrugs his cloak back around his shoulder to hide it from sight. He pulls back his hood to reveal a shock of brown hair above dark eyes and a gaunt youthful face. He watches the man work in silence for a moment. "This your shop?"

The older man looks up from his task and turns from the hunter to study the shoddy timber building behind him, pretending to ponder the question. "Sure as shit hope so," he says. "Otherwise I been dusting some other fool's porch for the past five years."

The hunter smiles slightly as the shopkeep bends and returns to his work.

A cock crows in the distance and all around them the town begins to wake. Lights flare on inside the buildings and folk stomp out of their houses throwing on coats or shawls to guard against the morning chill. A whistle blows off in the direction of the refinery, signaling the conclusion of the night shift.

The shopkeep sweeps for a few more minutes while the hunter waits and watches. When the older man finishes he leans his broom against the wall and looks up at the hunter, pressing his wire-rim glasses up his nose with a forefinger. "Can I help you, sonny, or do you just get yer jollies watching an old man work?"

The hunter smiles again. "Wonderin if I could come inside and buy a few things."

"We ain't open yet, come back in half an hour."

In reply the hunter reaches into the purse on his belt and pulls out a shiny silver coin stamped with the crest of the Argonian Empire. The coin trills through the air from the hunter's fingers into the gnarled palm of the shopkeep. "Consider it a fee for opening your doors a little early for a weary traveler."

The shopkeep looks from coin to man then back to coin again, appraising each skeptically. Finally he grunts an agreement and slips the coin into the front pocket of his smock. He turns around and pushes through the front door. "Come in then."

The hunter hitches his horse to the post outside, running his hand across the beast's flank and whispering thanks in her ear before stomping up the steps after him.

The shop's interior is dim and musty, the only lights come from the two windows that look out on the street and a single yellow cone emitted from a gas lamp placed on the counter by the register. The shopkeep puts the broom back by the door and walks to stand behind the counter. "Grab what ya need and bring it up here when yer done."

The hunter peruses the aisles, stowing items under his arm, and piling them on the counter when he finishes: two red apples, a bottle of bourbon, a sack of sweet tobacco, rolling papers, matches, and three strips of dried beef. The shopkeep looks over the goods, tallying them on a scratchpad and figuring the total.

"Gotcha at twelve bronze pieces."

The hunter rummages in his purse and throws a single silver coin and two bronze ones onto the countertop. The shopkeep slides them into his palm and deposits them into the till beside him. Then the hunter taps another piece onto the counter, this one fat and gold. It's worth a month's wages for a shopkeep working in this shoddy mining town at the edge of the empire. The shopkeep eyes the coin suspiciously. "And what might that be for?"

"Information," the hunter replies.

"Do I look like a tour guide to you?"

"No, but you look like a man with his finger on the town pulse. Answer my questions and it's yours." The hunter pushes the coin closer to the shopkeep and it glimmers seductively in the waxy light of the gas lamp.

"In my experience, a man who trades gold for answers knows that he's askin dangerous questions."

The hunter nods. "What can you tell me about the Baron of Black Bellows?"

At the sound of that title, pale fear draws over the shopkeep's haggard features. He pushes the coin away and it clatters to the floor. "Get out of my shop," he orders.

The hunter's face darkens and he stoops to pick up the coin. "Sir, if you'd just—"

"No. You heard me, take yer shit and get out."

The hunter gathers his items without a word and turns toward the door. Before he leaves the shopkeep speaks. "You'll leave town if you know what's good for ya. The Baron don't take kindly to newcomers, especially those askin after him. He has eyes and ears everywhere, y'know? Chances are he already knows about you."

"I'm counting on it," the hunter replies as he opens the door and steps back out into the gray morning light.