Arlen took an iron-hulled boat to Newshore, imitating the common hull shape and varying only the material. This wasn't the time for major experiments. He came with a few friends and relatives of the exiles, wanting to visit their kin. It was quite a change from before, when the only travel was either one-way or made as supply runs.

He arrived to find the uneasy truce had persisted. Former guards had begun to be trusted to fight, on the assumption that Arlen would come smite them if needed. Besides, those men were the best trained on the island. One prison guard in particular had "met with an accident" and Arlen got told to leave the matter alone. He didn't press. The rest of them had found enough peace for now.

They'd appointed a de facto chief from among the toughest convict warriors. Not the hulking guy with the iron axe who stood nearby, but someone more careful-looking, and taller. He said, "Glad you're here, war-chief. We rescued a razorback from the woods, and we're looking to set it loose again to draw them out."

Nearby, a stone building predating Arlen's arrival had an animal stink and frustrated growling coming from it. Arlen peeked in at something resembling a horse-sized stegosaurus, in a bad mood. He backed off. "Have you done this before?"

"Twice, over the years. We can take the lead. Thin them out for us."

Arlen nodded, then took the leader aside. "I'm not planning to try destroying the source of these ghosts, yet."

The man frowned. "I wasn't expecting it on this trip, but maybe that you'd find a way before you go."

"We'll thin them out, as you say. And make progress toward exploring more safely."

Arlen consulted with the locals. When they talked about landmarks he made them draw everything out as more of a proper map. They already understood the concept a little from their forays over the years, but still needed coaxing. It just wasn't how they understood the shape of the world. With a first-draft sketch in a format he could grasp, he listened to their ideas on what direction to head beyond the wall.

The practical problem of the big monster ended up dictating the route. They let it through the biggest gate into a streambed where it could be kept from turning back to smash the town's barrier. It lumbered onward while fighters harried it with pikes and swords. Just beyond the wall, it began running. Everyone in the dozen-strong hunting party followed. Arlen marked the way by stopping every so often to pull up a temporary spike.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The ghosts closed in within minutes. On this misty, humid day their tortured shapes stood out as stirring currents. Swarms came from above and inland, moaning and snarling. The poor spike-backed beast didn't know where to turn, with the mortals at its back and the ghosts ahead.

Arlen stamped and pointed one fist. The ground stabbed upward into ghost-flesh. Without iron the hits didn't kill them instantly but still tore into them. The fighters went to work with iron arrows first, then dropped their bows and began a slaughter with metal swords. Translucent claws clutched at faces but met blades and shields that stung them. The impacts were solid. Two floating spectres closed in on Arlen. He backpedaled, raised his shield, and gashed the edge of one. His allies managed to kill them and free him up to keep lashing out with stones.

The sheer number of the monsters was more than he'd thought. But many were eager for the blood or warmth of the stegosaur, so that it reared up and lashed its tail in a desperate attempt to escape the swarm. Arlen told himself it was a better sacrifice than his people. He fought on through whirling, howling ghosts that tried to rend every living being.

Something in the distance screeched and hissed, making Arlen's ears flick backward. Someone darted in front of him and jabbed a ghost. That was practically the last in sight. a few more attacked without cunning or numbers and got cut apart in moments. The forest was quiet again.

Two men were down and bleeding, and there was dented armor and dropped weapons, but nobody had died. Arlen and a soldier with magic began applying their healing skills while another man with mundane medical knowledge drafted two men to carry a stretcher. Arlen looked up from tending to the worst-off man, who'd gotten some deep gashes but would recover. "What was that thing out there?"

The local leader said, "We should head back."

"Right. Sorry."

Along the way they told Arlen, "We call it the Walker in Shadow. It never comes close enough to fight, except on dark nights when we can see its great big eyes." The speaker shuddered. "We put a few arrows into it and drove it off, howling."

Arlen took a few brief pauses to place sturdier waypoint stones. "Is it the source of this ongoing haunt?"

Nobody knew, or wanted to deal with it today. But Arlen said, "I want to go looking for it tomorrow. Just to learn."

#

That evening, Arlen shared the company of Newshore and felt that it was a transformed land already.

Some measure of justice or vengeance had happened, and the remaining people who couldn't get along knew they could get away, and in some cases already had. Those who remained were a team taking pride in what they'd accomplished here at great risk. With new firepower to back them up, they had a chance to push toward a lasting victory, and earn it together. The non-fighters even seemed to be working harder at the cooking and cleaning. He made a point of being extra grateful. Someone mentioned iron cooking pots as a recent invention, and he made several.