The hunt begins for red-haired ghost
While grief scars deep the castle’s host.
The torch blazed in the darkness, the bright flame twisting and turning in the restless wind, sparks streaming off into the night. Behind it, illuminated by fire was a dark, determined face, eyes sharp, black hide sleek, hooves loud on the cobblestones. Lieutenant-Commander Raemint strode boldly in the centre of the steeply-sloping road, spear in hand, a fearless challenge to anything that lurked in the shadows of her town.
Beside her walked Starshadow Flint – once Bladeshifter, now Freeroamer – large hat flapping in the wind, mighty crossbow loaded and glinting like militarised starlight.
It was an impressive weapon, for sure, but Flint had never fired the Eliminator – it was made for a very specific purpose:
To kill demon-wraiths.
Actually, he had designed it – reluctantly but pragmatically – to put an end to one demon-wraith, in particular.
Flint didn’t expect to use it this night, however. The chances of finding Carmine Vandaris in the darkness and wind were next to nothing. She was trained in stealth and half a wraith, and clad in pitch-black armour to boot. Likely, the woman had fled as far as she could and was long gone by now.
But none of them were taking any chances.
The rest of the crossbow team had spread out through the town, dark shadows amongst the pale stone buildings. Bone-white houses rose up all around them, their windows dark; the ghosts of dead homes, with weed-filled gardens and carts left to rust beside the road. Here and there a few chickens roosted beneath the bushes, and feral cats watched warily from rooftops and alleys, their eyes tiny round coins in the light of Raemint’s torch. One or two gardens were still maintained, buildings that remained inhabited – those fiercely loyal to the Freeroamers, or just too stubborn to leave.
This town ain’t done for yet, Flint thought determinedly.
They reached the bottom of the hill without incident, or encountering any more corpses.
The Hungry Deer Inn sat on the very edge of the town, the last building before the plains, alone in a shady grove of ancient oaks and flowering cherry trees. Not far away was a huge, scarred patch of ground upon which nothing would grow, the dirt charred permanently black.
It was the spot where Lord Requar had died.
The mark was caused by his failed Fatalis spell. But the sorcerer had ultimately succeeded in taking his own life in order to save Ferrian.
Flint didn’t like looking at that spot. He had spent a long time trying to come to terms with what had happened here, and the events leading up to it. After all, it had been one of Flint’s crossbow bolts, inscribed with Requar’s name, that had caused the sorcerer to lose his mind. In an instant, he had undone Arzath’s carefully constructed lie, the falsehood that had kept Requar sane and alive – for a short while, at least.
That ruined patch of ground would not allow Flint to forget.
Fortunately, it was now invisible in the dust and darkness.
Raemint paused, keen eyes watching for anything that moved in the night. After a moment, she leaned down and extinguished her torch on the road. Then she moved to the right, a sleek dark equine shape heading for the looming bulk of the inn. Furtive figures moved into position amongst the bushes surrounding the large, two-storey building.
Flint followed the Centaur cautiously.
It was dark at the back of the inn, almost impossible to see anything, or hear anything either in the rush of wind. Somehow, Raemint made her way forward stealthily; Flint was forced to grope his way with unbearable slowness along a row of empty beer barrels, trying – largely unsuccessfully – not to bump his oversized crossbow on every single unseen obstacle in his path. He gritted his teeth. He hated creeping around in the dark, it made him nervous. He preferred a target he could see clearly. Demon-wraiths made his skin crawl and his stomach twist into knots, and that was just the thought of them. If he didn’t have his wits about him, he could be dead before he even realised what had happened.
They arrived at the dim oblong shape of the back door and stood still for a few moments, listening.
There was little to be heard save a distant banging, like a shutter or door being jostled by the wind. Somehow, that sound punctuated the silence, making them uneasy.
If there’s any chance Carmine’s still hangin’ around town, Flint thought darkly, it’ll be here.
There was a clink as Raemint took an outside lantern off its hook, and a bright flare as she lit it. Then she took hold of the door handle and tried it.
The door swung inwards silently.
They both stood peering in. Nothing appeared to be in disarray in the shadowy kitchen. Pots and utensils hung gleaming dully from hooks; herbs and cured meat from the rafters. Dishes were stacked neatly near the sink. No lights or ovens were lit. A few coins glinted on a large wooden table in the centre of the room, spilling out of a sizable money sack. One of the chairs was pulled out from the table, as though someone had been sitting there recently, probably counting the money.
Raemint went inside, leading with her silvertine spear.
They passed quietly through the kitchen, entering the common room. The source of the banging sound became apparent – the front door was wide open, creaking slightly on its hinges. A strong, cold draught blew through the room. Some of the furniture here had been overturned, but there was no one to be seen.
Raemint continued forward, winding about the tables. Flint moved away to the left, first checking behind the bar, then fixing his eyes and weapon upon the staircase at the far side of the room.
“Flint!” Raemint hissed suddenly, her voice low and urgent.
He turned at once to see her kneeling beside something on the floor, in front of the main entrance. He moved quickly, giant crossbow still trained on the stairs, until he could see what she was looking at.
A body lay face down on the floor.
Valeran, the innkeeper.
“Deceased,” Raemint whispered. “No wounds. No blood...”
Strong-willed though she was, Flint saw the Centaur shudder involuntarily and take a step back. She had mentioned before that she could not track trigon the same way she could follow a trail of magic – the foul black substance was essentially invisible to her senses unless in close proximity.
But, Flint thought morbidly, he supposed they didn’t need to be able to sense trigon in order to locate Carmine Vandaris.
They could just follow the trail of corpses…
With that gruesome thought in mind, Flint turned his attention back to the staircase. He didn’t want to know what was lying in wait for him up there… but he had to find out.
Walking over to the stairs, he started up, wincing as the floorboards creaked. The Eliminator filled the entirety of the narrow stairwell, so that he had to angle it awkwardly to proceed. He focused it squarely on the upstairs landing.
If anything leapt out of the shadows at him, it was getting a silvertine bolt in the face…
At the top of the stairs, he paused for a rapid heartbeat, then surged into the corridor, sweeping his crossbow down the hallway.
Nothing.
He checked all of the upstairs rooms, kicking in the doors.
All dark. All empty.
Mekka and the others had escaped… or were gone before Carmine arrived.
Feeling some of the tension ease out of him in relief, Flint headed back down the stairs. He joined Raemint out the front of the inn, staring at the hidden plains beyond, the trees around them whispering to each other like witnesses in the darkness.
They both shared the same dismal, unspoken thought.
Carmine had escaped.
And they had no idea where she had gone.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
* * *
The long dining table gleamed in the warm light of a fire blazing in the huge hearth at the end of the hall. Around it, colourful hanging drapes and banners softened the white walls, many bearing the rising sun emblem of Castle Whiteshadow. The tall windows along one wall were dark, speckled with glittering droplets from a returning mass of rainclouds.
Upon the table lay the remains of a hearty meal, but only two people sat there.
Lady Araynia picked at her food, even though Luca’s cooking was delicious. Opposite her, the boy Ben devoured his with enthusiasm: he was on his third helping already. The comatose… man the strangers had brought with them sat limply and creepily in his battered wheelchair off to one side, near the windows. Over by the kitchen, Everine slouched against the door frame, a glass of red wine in hand, pretty blue eyes on Luca, who was preparing dessert for them out of view.
Araynia turned her attention back to her neglected meal in irritation. Everything about the blonde woman annoyed her – from her blunt manner of speech, to her inappropriate clothing, to the way she had just barged into the castle and sent Ferrian running off to do her bidding…
She sighed. She knew the last accusation was a bit selfish – if one of Ferrian’s friends was in trouble, of course he should go and help, but… Everine just rubbed her the wrong way. The woman had barely said two words to her since arriving, other than her own name and a curt hello. She had spent the whole time instead chatting up Luca.
Noticing her expression, Ben glanced over to his sister, then back at her, rolling his eyes. “She flirts with practically every guy she meets,” he said, shrugging. “Don’t worry about it.”
When Araynia’s look didn’t change, he finished chewing and set down his fork. “She’s worried about Mekka,” he told her quietly. “This is her way of distracting herself.”
By hitting on my servant? Araynia thought in annoyance, stabbing her fork into a finely braised root vegetable.
She was starting to regret her decision to stay at the castle. Ferrian was right, of course; it was foolish to return to Crystaltina, and there was nothing she could hope to accomplish there other than finding out if anyone was still alive.
But they could have chosen to stay somewhere else: one of the Outland towns, perhaps?
She leaned her head on her hand, pushing her uneaten food about her plate, feeling miserable.
Ferrian had left already, soaring away over the valley on a magnificent white Dragon. It was the most astonishing thing that Araynia had ever seen. She had never imagined that Dragons could be tamed or have an affinity with Humans, let alone allow themselves to be ridden, but this one seemed to have formed a bond with the young sorcerer. Araynia had always believed that Dragons were nothing more than deadly, angry, fire-breathing beasts penned up on an island because they had come close to destroying civilisation.
She had never seen anything so beautiful.
Tears rose in her eyes, and she blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of strangers. Ferrian and the Dragon made her feel small and insignificant, childish for seeking help at this castle. The sorcerers here were burdened with worries and responsibilities far greater than her own. She was merely a stupid and ignorant girl, spending all of her days in sheltered luxury at her family’s crystal-walled mansion, never travelling further than neighbouring Sunsee until she was forced to flee for her life…
Her despair must have shown on her face, for Ben was staring at her.
“Are you and Luca… together?” he asked honestly.
Taken aback by the unexpected question, she felt her face grow immediately hot. “What? Oh… no!” She shook her head quickly. “No. He is my servant. It would… not be appropriate…”
Ben shrugged. “Why not?”
She opened her mouth to reply, then realised she had no answer to that. She looked over at Everine again. The woman was at least ten years older than she was, more attractive, more knowledgeable about… everything…
Her blush deepened. Am I just jealous?
Taking a deep breath, she changed the subject. “She doesn’t like me,” she stated flatly.
Ben reached across to the fruit bowl, plucking out an apple. “You’re noble born,” he pointed out, as though that explained everything.
Great, Araynia thought, slumping back in her chair.
Ben gazed down at the apple in his hand, turning it around in his fingers. Then he placed it down carefully on the table top, his young expression becoming serious. “My sister hasn’t exactly had great experiences with nobility,” he explained softly. “After our parents died, she had to look after me all by herself. We didn’t have any money, only our little ship, the Blueflower, that father had given her, and she refused to sell that. So we left Enopina and sailed across the ocean to Daroria, where she took up work for a while in wealthy households, as a servant.
“Eventually, she managed to save enough money to start up her own shop in Selvar, and quit being a servant. She became a merchant and sea-trader instead.
“It was great, for awhile; we were pretty happy and doing well. But Everine earned a lot of prestige and respect amongst the nobility, and they started asking her to do illegal stuff for them, like smuggling.”
Ben shook his head. “She couldn’t really say no. Duke Rufus isn’t the kind of guy you say no to if you want your head to stay on your shoulders. She didn’t need the money any more, but she was worried about me and did what the nobles asked.”
Ben played with the apple, looking troubled. “We almost got caught a few times, and Everine got on the wrong side of some bad people – criminals who don’t like competition. Once, we were nearly boarded by pirates, but we got away. I’m pretty sure some of them are still looking for her; that’s why we decided to lay low in the Outlands for awhile.” He shrugged again, and smiled slightly. “Well, that, and she has a thing for Mekka.” He sighed. “We both miss the sea, though.”
He fell silent, and Araynia bit her lip, glancing at the other woman with new understanding. She couldn’t imagine living a life filled with such danger and hardship.
She looked down at her own hands; smooth and brown and dainty, feeling oddly guilty. She had always had everything she needed simply given to her whenever she asked… except, that is, what she actually wanted…
She swallowed. “I always wished to be a nurse,” she admitted quietly. “Like my grandmother.” She stared up at the windows, watching the rain patter and streak across the glass, blown by the wind. “But my mother didn’t approve. She considered it a peasant’s vocation, dirty and common. There is nothing glamorous about caring for ill people.”
She sighed. “She wanted me to behave more like my older sisters; spending time courting rich suitors and gaining favours from those in power.” She closed her eyes. “I have no interest in such things. I wish to be useful to society, to make a difference – not float around in lovely dresses going to dinner parties and balls.”
She brushed away a stray tear. “The night I fled my home, I stayed up late in the parlour, reading an old medical book that had belonged to my grandmother. I dared only read it once everyone else had gone to bed, or else my mother would have confiscated it. Luca was the only other person awake, baking bread for next morning in the kitchen.”
She took a deep, shaky breath. “Then, all of a sudden, he came bounding into the room, grabbing me out of my seat, telling me that we had to go, now. He threw my cloak over me and made me put my boots on right then.
“I did not know what was happening, too frightened to think of doing anything but letting him pull me through the house and out the front door.
“As we ran out into the yard, I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of something… black filling the whole house. Darkness deeper than the night sky. And…” she wavered, but went on, “something else lurked in the shadows. Something grey and flowing, like smoke. It poured over the furniture and around corners and underneath the doors. Shapes formed in it – Human limbs and… faces…”
She stopped, shuddering. “I… felt as though I would be sick, but Luca kept me from collapsing.
“And then… we were running frantically through the streets.
“We kept encountering walls of black darkness, turning us aside, forcing us to find another way. We were desperate. There were wraiths all around us, consuming the houses, filling the roads and alleyways and even the sky…”
She paused, pulling the pendant out of her shirt. “But… then I noticed that my pendant was glowing bright blue, and somehow, we managed to find a way through the patches of darkness. We made it out of the city.” She stared at the clear blue stone forlornly. “I assumed that the pendant was protecting us, in some way guiding us to safety. I do not know why the magic suddenly came to life, at that time and place, as we feared for our lives. And–” she hesitated. “Afterwards, as we were travelling through the countryside, I had strange dreams. Dreams of a tall, pale man with long hair flowing like mist. He did not speak, and I could not make him out very well. He was hazy, like a ghost, hardly even there. But still, I felt that the man was guiding me, somehow. When I woke, I… just knew the direction we needed to go to reach this castle.”
She looked up at Ben. “That was why I thought that Lord Requar was still alive. But I was mistaken. They were nothing but dreams, born of imagination and wishful thinking and fading magic, and our escape from the city merely luck.”
She fell silent, closing her eyes once more.
In the sombre hush that followed, Everine gave a tinkling laugh. Ben shot her a fierce glare.
The blonde-haired woman caught her brother’s look, and her smile faded. With a huff, she flounced over to the chair beside the fire, plonking herself down and sipping her wine.
A minute later, Luca emerged from the kitchen bearing a steaming dish of rice pudding.
It was so good that for awhile at least, it commanded everyone’s attention, and all disheartening thoughts slunk from the room.
In a distant part of the castle, at the top of one of the new black towers, Lord Arzath stood at his chamber window. His room was richly appointed in crimson and gold, but the colours were muted now in darkness. No candles or lanterns were lit; the hearth was lifeless.
A deep chill filled the room; a penetrating coldness that no amount of velvet drapery could soften.
There was nothing to be seen before his eyes, either: the view was hidden in all-encompassing shadow. Heavy clouds smothered the feeble light of stars, and the moon was new – that dark phase in which the everlasting orb was reduced to a mere sliver of its usual self.
Though he could not see the valley, he knew it so well that it was visible in his mind’s eye as clearly as if he beheld it in broad daylight. The bluff directly opposite him, on the western side of the valley, had once held his own magnificent, multi-spired ebony keep. Now, almost nothing remained of it save a few weed-choked blocks and the Muron’s eerie, abandoned tower. The mountain rock beneath the ruin was a labyrinth of dungeons and secret passageways, but he no longer had any use for them.
It was all part of another world, a distant era, built by a version of himself that had ceased to exist.
He didn’t know who he was any more.
Once, he had been a mighty sorcerer, filled with fire and burning energy, basking in the bright hatred that had sustained him over nearly two centuries of life. His single-minded obsession with destroying his brother had formed the blazing foundation upon which his entire character was built. Now, his fury had spent itself, dwindled into damp ashes that he could not, no matter how hard he tried, reignite.
He was hollowed out, a Human-shaped shell of a creature. But the cavern inside him was not empty.
It was filled with pain, a constant ache that neither lessened nor grew, but remained with him throughout the long, lonely days and nights. He felt ill with it, exhausted from the effort of simply moving around – much as he had when he had been infected with trigon.
But grief, it seemed, was an even more difficult ailment to cure.
He gritted his teeth bitterly. Ferrian had mourned Requar’s passing as well, but the boy had recovered, had picked himself up and moved on with his life.
Why could he not do the same??
Requar’s death had ripped the world out from under him… and he had been falling ever since.
Finding a flickering remnant of the old anger, Arzath seized it, slamming his fist against the window. But he could not hold onto it, the rage slipping away like the rain trickling down the glass.
Leaning forward, he rested his forehead on his closed fist, his long fingers biting hard into his palm, and tears spilt down his face, dripping off his chin onto the obsidian stone of the window sill.
“I have fulfilled my promise,” he whispered aloud. “It is done.”
Slowly, he lifted his head and moved back from the window, melting into the darkness as he walked towards the door of his chamber.
He didn’t bother to close it behind him.