Osgar was fighting for his life, and he was losing. His face was bleeding in several places where the impact of bare knucklebones had cut him, and one of them was over his eye, which was making it hard to keep an eye on his assailant. That damned witch! If I get out of this, she won’t live another five minutes!
He blocked a punch coming toward his face with the shovel head, then spat blood from his lips towards his opponents face. It was an instinctive move he’d picked up in a lifetime of brawls, and had served him well many times in the past. This time it did nothing, the blood and saliva splattered against an empty eye socket. None of his dirty tricks had gotten him anything; it was too quick for him to knock its ankle out from underneath it, and a kick to the pelvis had only hurt his toe. Biting it wouldn’t help, and he didn’t want to give it ideas. It wasn’t wearing a tunic or coat for him pull over its head. A shot at the liver or kidneys was also a nonstarter.
It was like someone had it out for him, and had chosen an opponent he wouldn’t have a chance against. And I know exactly who, that filthy wretch!
He swung the shovel horizontally, trying to catch the skeleton in the ribs, but it was faster than him. He made a mental note to strangle the next bard who tried to pass off a line about the “shambling undead”.
The creature bent over backwards to avoid the hit, reaching out to catch itself with an extended arm. Osgar kicked at its shins, but it vaulted over backwards, pivoting over the hand planted on the ground, and landing on its feet facing him. It wasn’t as clumsy as it had been a few minutes ago. Is it learning?! Despite his superstitious nature, Osgar was exactly the sort of person who did business with shady necromancers hiding out in a ruin somewhere, and he’d seen a few skeletons raised. They weren’t smart, and they definitely didn’t get smarter! What had that witch done? What had Jens done? Were they in this together? He’d have to kill them both to be safe.
So I can perform acrobatic back-flips with ease, but can’t simply dodge backwards or duck without knocking myself over or falling to pieces? Basil was extremely annoyed. The important thing was that he didn’t let this ruffian hurt that unfortunate woman, but he’d been dreaming of being a hero for decades, and he didn’t like how silly this whole episode made him look. At least he didn’t have a face anyone would recognize. He’d have to get a bit of practice with his new “body” before he tried to impress anyone with any sort of daring feats. I didn’t spend all that time in the mists for people to think I’m a clown. He felt a shiver run through him as he remembered some of the things in there.
The skeleton gave a little shudder, and Osgar felt hope rise in his chest. Was it afraid now? He gave a defiant roar in an attempt to intimidate the creature further. Determined to capitalize on his perceived advantage, he stepped forward to attack.
The undead monster stepped forward to meet him, grabbing onto the shovel handle with both of its skeletal hands. They struggled over it. Osgar felt like he had the upper hand, the skeleton didn’t really weigh very much, and he was able to shove it around.
“You should have stayed dead! What were you hoping to do here?!” he growled.
The monster’s jaw opened up, then closed, then opened again, as if it was trying to remember how to speak. A chill ran down Osgar’s spine as it made a sound.
“Yaaaaaa” it groaned. It dug its heels into the ground and pushed against the shovel handle. “Yaaoooo” the skeleton moaned and then shook its head. Osgar’s eyes were the size of wagon wheels and he was covered in a cold sweat. It turned its face directly towards Osgar’s, and if it had been a living man, Osgar knew the thing would have been looking him dead in the eye.
“Yooooouuuurrrr motheeerrr.”
Osgar lost his focus as dread was suddenly replaced with shock and indignation. The skeleton wrenched the shovel from his grasp and stomped on his foot. He winced and bent over, shouting another curse. He didn’t see the shovel coming, he just heard the sound of it striking his head, and then nothing.
Basil straightened up, swaying slightly on his feet. His perspective was coming closer to what it had been as a living person, or a spirit trying to cross the wastes. It probably just took a bit of practice to settle into his old bones again. He was still aware of things behind or above him, if they were close enough, but now he felt like he had a face again.
The body of the bandit lay before him, splayed out on the ground. He wasn’t sure how to feel. He’d fought with a number of things since leaving the Twilight Shore all those years ago now, but nothing had really died in any meaningful way; things got a little strange in the mists. He’d never killed anyone.
“Hey, that’s me! I’m...”
Basil looked up to see the spirit of the dead bandit looking at his body. The bandit looked confused at the words, as they’d been in the Grave Speech. He turned his gaze to Basil.
“You killed me,” he said , “you killed me and... and you’re just some old man!”
So I do look like my old self, at least to other spirits. “I did,” he answered in the same language, “I’m sorry it came to that, I didn’t really have anything against you.”
“How could you kill me? I never did anything to you!” the bandit’s brow furrowed as he got angry.
Basil gave him a look. It was purely a reflexive action, but it seemed to work. “Oh, come off it. You’ve spent the last ten minutes or so openly plotting the murder of some poor woman you have locked up in that mausoleum over there. If you juggle knives, you can’t complain when you cut your fingertips.”
“If you think you can kill me and then give me a lecture with some trite old saying my grandmother liked to use, you can think again! Do you have anything you want to get off your chest before I beat you to death?!”
Basil felt it approaching, pushing its way through the veil. You developed a sense for those things in the mists, or you got too close and went completely insane.
“Yeah, have fun rowing.”
“Rowing?! Don’t give me that old temple school story about-” His assertion about the fictional nature of the entire pantheon of gods, demigods, and assorted other supernatural beings was cut off by a giant black beak that emerged from nowhere, (well not really nowhere, Basil had just come from where the beak was reaching through from) and plucked him out of the world.
Press ganged, Basil thought, hope you like boats, you’ll be working on that one for a long time. Beating me to death, what a ludicrous thing to say! Basil suspected he’d been dead for the better part of that fellow’s life. Young people were always so sure they knew everything, but Basil was certain about less and less with each passing year. He supposed that was the luxury of perspective.
It was probably time to see about the captive that bandit had been talking about. Basil took a couple of steps toward the mausoleum, then stopped. His appearance at the moment wasn’t likely to inspire much more than fear. On top of that, he was as naked as the day he was born. No, naked-er even, he’d been born with flesh over his bones at least!
He went through the dead man’s pockets; a couple of sliver and copper coins, a small folding knife, a sewing needle, and a bit of twine. Basil’s arms and legs were too long for the bandit’s clothes, but he did take his boots. He put his loot in one for safe keeping, picked up the knife the drunk man had dropped, and walked in a quick circle to see if they’d left anything else that might be useful lying around.
“Well, is it everything you hoped for?”
Basil turned to face Hecate, who was sitting on his headstone. She wore the same vestments and mysterious smile he remembered. Her pale skin and robes glowed softly in the moonlight, and she bounced the heels of her bare feet against the flat granite, reminding Basil slightly of his daughter and granddaughter when they were little and sat on a tall stool.
“Great deeds can have humble beginnings,” he answered, “How can I be of service?”
“I just came to ask if wanted to call this off and move on? It’s common enough for those who have died recently to need some time to come to terms with it, and you’ve spent twenty-five years wandering through a foggy wasteland inhabited by spirits, demons, and great eldritch beings beyond your comprehension. This isn’t a punishment, and you don’t have to be here, so I thought I would check in and see how you were feeling about it.”
Basil considered the question. It certainly had been a while now since he’d sat on that sand dune. He took a couple of rattling steps and stood before the grave next to his, staring at the marker. Elisanna Floren Holladay. It had been a long time since he’d held her hand, heard her laugh, or woken up next to her in the morning.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She’s doing well. She has that little cottage you two always wanted, with the garden and a brook you can hear babbling from the kitchen when the window is open. Proper glass windows that let the light in, and a brick oven. Adalni and Theo come to visit all the time. She just needs one last thing for it to be perfect.”
Basil knew who that last thing was. He had to admit, it really did sound perfect. Well, almost... That was it though, Elsie wasn’t just a collection of beautiful moments that he remembered from days long gone. She was a real person, the person Basil had spent most of his life with, the person he knew better than anyone. And I know what she’d want me to say.
“I haven’t answered the question yet. Despite the time it took me to make the journey, I only just arrived. I’m older, maybe even a little wiser, but nothing has really changed. I didn’t turn back in the mists because the answer really matters to me. I can’t stop now, and she wouldn’t want me to. As much as she means to me, I mean that much to her, and she wouldn’t want me to abandon my dream on her account.”
For a moment, the moonlight intensified as it beamed down on them, and its glow was the smile on the Pale Lady’s face. “She told me that’s what you would say, and you’re right. Still, it is your choice, and I had to ask.”
“Give her my love, will you?”
“Of course, Basil Holladay.”
“That might be a problem though, now that you mention it. I can’t really go around using a dead man’s name. Even if he was alive, Basil Holladay would be too old for protecting the innocent and fighting for justice.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
The goddess giggled and shook her head. “A mere century, and too old. Mortals are funny sometimes. Even making allowances for prudence, it would be a shame to leave it completely behind, I think. It did serve you well for this long.” She tapped her chin with a delicate finger, considering the problem.
Basil let his curiosity get the better of him. “If a century is so little, can I ask how old you are?”
“I am the moon, child, and before I was the moon I was the night. I am ancient beyond your concept of time.”
As he tried to comprehend her answer, Basil lost his concentration and one of his arms fell off. Better just let that one go, he decided.
“Perhaps your middle name? I don’t think anyone who knows it is still alive,” the Pale Lady suggested.
“Erasmus Holladay? I don’t know...”
“It’s your name; it doesn’t sound interesting to you. B. Erasmus Holladay has a suitably jaunty air to it for your purposes.”
“It’s going to take a while for me to become accustomed to it. I only ever got ‘Erasmus’ from my mother, and that was when I was in trouble,” he confessed. Hecate chuckled good-naturedly.
“Any other advice?” Erasmus asked.
“You’ll find those bandit’s supplies behind the mausoleum, there should be enough there to conceal your true nature from casual inquiry. There are several women locked in inside said mausoleum, they are bound for an Agathocletian slave market without intervention. One of them managed to conceal a knife, and they’re planning to ambush whoever opens that door and then make a run for it. You’ll have to be careful,” the Pale Lady informed him. Erasmus nodded in acknowledgment. “Few learn to traverse the wasteland between worlds, you have joined the ranks of the spirits known as 'mistwalkers'. You are not immortal, if your bones are destroyed you'll be unable to maintain your presence on the material plane. Furthermore, they will degrade, keeping you here damages them over time. Like most undead, you'll need to take vitality from the living to repair the damage, consuming bones from a being that was recently alive is enough in your case, you won't need to prey on people like some sort of vampire."
That was a lot, but Erasmus thought he had the general idea.
“Now, you don’t have all night, the rest of those cutthroats are on their way,” she concluded, “You’re one of mine now. Make me proud.”
Erasmus felt his heart swell with excitement at the challenge implied in her words, and he bowed deeply. When he rose again, she was gone.
There was a noise outside the door, and Elke slapped her palm on the cold stone floor to signal the others. Time slowed to a crawl, and her heartbeat pounded in her ears like the marching drum she’d seen soldiers carry on patrol. Her palms began to sweat, and the little paring knife wrapped up in her fist shook, but not so much she couldn’t still do what she needed to do. What the others needed her to do. The padlock outside snapped open, then thudded against the ground. The links of the chain rattled against one another as it was drawn out of the door handle.
Elke kicked the door open with her heel and leaped out, knife blade first, her eyes wide as she searched for the fool who’d pay for kidnapping them with his life. The doors flew open and smashed against the walls of the structure. Four other women leaped from the shadows screaming and wielding table legs as makeshift clubs. Aynur followed them, her arm drawn back and prepared to hurl the vase she held in her hand.
A pair of very confused horses stared at them from a few yards away, where their reins had been tied to a decorative bush. Elke spun around with her paring knife at the ready, but she couldn’t see anyone to fight.
“Anyone see anything?” she asked. She got a chorus of “no’s”, until one woman shrieked. She was pointing at something lying on the ground a little ways away. Elke and one of the women with a table leg ran over, and found the vicious little bandit who had beaten Aynur, lying cold and dead on the ground, with his boots stolen.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she insisted, “somebody had to unlock that chain!” Aynur walked up to the door, where the chain was lying in the grass next to the mausoleum. It was pulled out toward the side of the building, and there was a piece of twine tied to the last link. Aynur pointed at the corner of the building, but waved her hand to indicate they should keep quiet. Elke crept over to join her as fast as she dared while keeping quiet, and the two moved to the corner. Aynur was tense as she ever so slowly peered around the edge of the block with one eye, then her shoulders sagged.
“Nobody,” she whispered to Elke. They circled the building, discovering a couple of ransacked saddlebags behind it, but no people. They returned and joined the other women near the horses.
“Whoever it was didn’t want to stick around and talk,” Aynur said, “but I think we can reasonably conclude they’re trying to let us go, since they left the horses and killed the guard. It could be the other guard had second thoughts, or he might be dead somewhere nearby. Either way, we should leave, right now.” Nobody had an argument with that, and Aynur was put on the draft horse, along with two others. Another two went on the smaller horse, with Elke and the three strongest walking.
They started for the cemetery gate closest to Mason’s Ford, but after a small distance Elke felt like she was being watched. She turned and looked but there was no one. Her eyes swept over the mausoleum one last time, when she noticed a shadow on the roof line that broke up the straight edge. She squinted as she tried to get a look at it, when suddenly it moved!
“Hey!” she shouted, taking a coupled of steps toward it. With an impressive speed, the figure darted to the back of the stone building and leaped off, heedless of the distance to the ground. Elke picked up her skirts and began to sprint after them, watching as they landed awkwardly and rolled. A strange sort of clattering noise reached her ears, and then they were up again and sprinting for the woods.
Elke slowed, then stopped as she watched their rescuer go. They should have broken their legs from that jump, but were running away faster than she had ever seen a person move. Their strides were long and strange looking, sort of sloppy and uneven. Inconsistent, maybe? It was like they hadn’t ever run before, but were still faster than anyone Elke had ever seen. They were wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat that they held on with one gloved hand, and a patchwork quilt tied over their tunic like some sort of armor. The hat cast its shadow over their face, and Elke couldn’t actually see any skin at all; they were covered from head to toe. She turned around and jogged back to the group.
“Maybe he met his evil spirit after all. Let’s get out of here,” she said.
At the edge of the trees, across the cemetery from Erasmus’s retreating figure, Hecate watched as both groups put the place behind them. A magpie landed on the ground next to her, folded its wings and said, “Come now, that’s cheating.”
“He made it through the wastes, found a rift, and crossed back over. I provided him with no assistance beyond what occurs naturally in the course of the lunar cycle, and he did not request to be sent back.”
“He had other assistance!” the magpie insisted, as it transformed into a corvidian in a fine black and white set of clothes.
“I didn’t offer him any, or request it of anyone. The actions other divinities take are outside the scope of my control.” The corvidian crossed his arms, and looked as if he was about to argue the point, but he was cut off.
“You are not cheated, Lorakk. The wager was a secret to myself and the others, and I'd have intervened regardless. The little bastards by the roadside were ruining my harvest festival. Pay your debt.” A gnarled branch fell from a tree behind them and grew into an old woman with tanned, weatherworn skin and gray hair tied behind her head with a holly vine.
"And what of you?" Lorakk demanded of a shadowy figure approaching from the side.
"He spent a lifetime sheltering those who walk the roads, he's more than earned what help I've given," replied The Wayfarer, the gold beads at the end of her many dark braids glimmering softly in the light from her lantern. "And what right have you to question me when I lead a traveler to where he might assist other travelers? I have never commented on how you perform your duties." She hung the lantern from the top of her staff and nodded in greeting to the others. "It is a truly beautiful night, you've outdone yourself," she said to Hecate.
"Thank you, darling," the goddess preened with delight.
“This is a swindle, who would take a bet that a mortal couldn't navigate the mists if they'd known he'd be receiving divine intervention?!” The corvidian stomped his taloned foot. "I'm happy to negotiate a favor, but I won't be cheated out of it!"
“Out of curiosity, it was his favor against what?” inquired She Who Knows the Ways.
“This,” the Pale Lady replied nonchalantly, producing a key from a pocket in her vestments. She perched herself on a moonbeam, her feet dangling over the ground. “And I’m far older than you are, my dear.”
Grandmother Root raised a brow. "What is it?"
"A key, of course. It will unlock a door, or lock it," Hecate said as she put it back in her pocket, "It will only work once, though."
"A key is a useful thing, but hardly worth a favor from a prince of psychopomps," the Lady of Field & Forest observed. "Unless it's for a particularly interesting door."
"It''s for all of them," replied Hecate. "Any locked door unlocked, any unlocked door locked."
"Hah!" Grandmother Root laughed, "imagine the trouble Camp Robber could get into with that! Something shiny caught your eye again, Lorakk?"
"Don't call me that," the corvidian demigod huffed. "And it doesn't matter what I was going to do with it, since I was obviously never going to get it."
"There's no need to be angry, we could renegotiate the terms," the Pale Lady offered. "Though if I'm giving up my claim to that favor, I want to raise the stakes."
"How do you propose to do that?" Lorakk looked intrigued. "Oh, but first what are the new terms?"
“My little Erasmus is still at it after seven years?”
“So if he gives up before then, I win?” the Scavenger Lord asked. Hecate nodded, but he had a counteroffer. “Make it ten years, and I’ll wager this.” He waved his hand and a coin appeared in it. It was made of bronze, and green with age. On one face, a sun rose over three islands silhouetted against the horizon, and on the other was a throne.
“How did you get that?” breathed The Wayfarer. "A favor from the Dawnbreaker is hard to come by; even I see him only rarely."
“I bet him that the Stygian issue wouldn’t be resolved until he got involved himself,” Lorakk shuddered at the memory. “Looking back, it wasn’t one of my better ideas.”
"I don't know him except by reputation, but he did seem particularly incensed," the nature goddess recalled. "I didn't know he made wagers."
"He doesn't often. I aked him about it once, and he said there wasn't much point in it. He gets everything he wants, eventually," Lorakk told her.
Hecate stepped down from her seat. “I'll take that bet,” she said, "my coin against Malgero's." She held up a silvery coin with a crescent moon on one side, and a closed gate on the other. They shook on it, with the other two as a witnesses, and Larakk's mood brightened considerably.
“It was a pleasure, but duty calls,” the Scavenger Lord said. The goddesses gave him a slight nod of their heads as he transformed back into a magpie and took flight, disappearing into the night.
“Was the other coin your objective the whole time?” Grandmother Root asked.
The Pale Lady covered her smile with a graceful hand. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied. The old woman smirked.
“I remember your mistwalker, didn’t he used to run an inn in that village over there?”
"Indeed he did," said The Wayfarer, "it just hasn't been the same without him."
“He’s a little old for a champion, but I supposed you’ve resolved the problems with an aging human by using one that’s already dead,” Grandmother Root remarked. The Wayfarer looked from her back to Hecate inquisitively.
“A champion?” inquired Hecate innocently, “What would I need one of those for?”
“What indeed,” snorted the crone. “The cycle will begin again soon, I’ve felt Scaeptrius creeping around. Like his followers, he’s never been as clever as he imagines himself to be.”
“Like all of us, he acts in accordance with his nature; to expect otherwise would be foolishness. Still, perhaps this time I can keep his grasping hands off of that which is mine.” The priestess looked pensive, and The Wayfarer frowned thoughtfully.
“I have business to attend to, so I must be going. I wish you luck, my dears.” The old woman began to shrink and change, and was soon just another branch on the ground.
"I too must be going, I have many places to be tonight," The Wayfarer said. "Given the circumstances, I wish you luck as well." She took her lantern in hand again and strode off into the night, vanishing a scant heartbeat later.
“And to you.” The Pale Lady glanced back toward Erasmus once, and then she was gone.