---Chapter 6

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” the hermit stoutly averred.

“You would if you had been one for twenty years,” his cloaked companion returned. —

Translations of the ancient writings from the Twick marshes: Yi old tayls of a Hyrmit call’d Cynog.

I sat up and grasped my knife, trying to decide what I was hearing. But the moaning faded away to nothing as soon as I moved, leaving only the sound of wind in the trees. For a long moment, everything was silent. Like a breath of cold air, a new sound stole through the woods.

Unearthly laughter and the light tinkling of bells.

“No!”

A voice cracked through the laughter, tormented and strangled but still from a man’s mouth. Shyven’s voice. It fell silent again after the one outburst, while laughter like a song wove through the midnight branches.

I struggled to my feet with a sigh. “Now the fool has gone and got himself haunted. And I have to get him out.”

With the moonlight slanting through the thick trees, everything felt unreal. I could have just left Shyven to his fate, as I had warned him fairly of what might be ahead. It was a temping thought, especially as there was no guarantee of what would happen to me when I walked into the fairy circle beyond the marker. But Shyven had helped me in my sore need and I would not leave him to his fate. We were partners now.

Cramming my feet back into their boots, I started stealthily towards the marker stone. It gleamed like a bare bone in the night, runes dark on its face. My fingers picked the symbols out as I leaned against it for a moment, on the edge of forbidden territory. Then I took a deep breath and strode past it.

At first all was thick brush and tangled branches. The trees opened up gradually into a low, clear valley with only a few shrubby, twisted weeping willows sprouting in the center. Old stones, cut and planted with a technology long passed, stood at crazy angles in the weedy soil between the willows and me. But there was one patch of ground in the middle of this space which was strangely clear. No grass or flowers grew there, not even a dandelion.

A figure in black knelt there, hands clasped in his hair and head bowed. It was Shyven. He seemed to be sobbing, hi shoulders twitching rhythmically. All around him, standing on the stones or dancing around the open patch of dirt, was a collection of ethereal spirits. Silvery gray, thin as mist and small as children, they moved around him, a constant song and laughter proceeding from their mouths. Tiny wings fluttered at their backs, lifting them up on tiptoe. Bells hung from their hands, clanging dolefully or ringing with spiteful joy. Something like the mist they were made of seemed to cover Shyven in thin strands, a shimmering web that clung rather than captured.

At first, none of the creatures saw me. But as I moved down into the valley, walking quietly and purposefully between the gravestones, they slowed their dancing and the song petered out.

Silently, they parted as I came forward. It was only when I was a few paces away that I could make out what Shyven was moaning, “not that. Take it away...make it go away. Anything, poor creatures, anything for that to go away!”

Before I could reach him, there was a movement among the spirits, as if to block me off.

I came to a halt and spoke to them, “do not hinder me, residue of the dead. I come in peace and with serenity in my heart, only to remove the living from the dead.”

There were a few gasps and a collection of malicious chuckles from the little beings. One jumped up onto a stone marker a few yards away. He was a little bigger than the others, stouter and taller, but his face was like that of a baby. A wrinkled, ugly baby. His voice echoed through my mind more than vibrating the air.

“Who are you to come among the Left-thens of Hammot? Or to claim our rightful prey in the time of the moon? Your spirit glows with strength, stranger, but what is that to us, who are only spirit?”

“I have a claim among your folk,” I returned simply.

“Speak it!” A hundred voices all up and down the scale called back to me.

“It is an ancient claim of blood-right, a favor given to yours by mine,” I told them impressively, hoping that the tales my people repeated were true. “My name and my lineage will prove it.”

“Then give us your name and that of your people!”

I told them, in my own tongue, the name that I and my people bore. All the time, I expected to end up next to Shyven on the ground in the next instant. But half of me knew, instinctively, that my people’s name would prove to be as strong a charm to them as it was to many who heard it in this tongue or any other. This instinctive knowledge proved right.

There was another small gasp among the specters as I spoke the name, and they retreated a half-step away from me. All except for the leader, who jumped down and came in front of me with a particular gleam in his eye.

“You have made an honest claim. So we will play an honest game. We owe your people for a favor long ago. In return, you may take the living from the hands of the dead. But the thing in his mind is not so easy to remove...if you wish to do so, you must fight it yourself. We will not help you.”

A single bell clanged as a signal among them and every one of the spirits fluttered into the air, swirling around like a flock of disturbed pigeons until they faded into the night sky.

I was alone in the burial grounds with Shyven, who still crouched on the ground, sobbing soundlessly now, his hands in his hair. The hat that he had always worn lay in the grass not far off, unhurt. All the cobwebby strands that had covered him were gone.

“Shyven!” I bent down and pried his hands from his face, making him look up. It was strange to see his usually controlled features, twisted and lined with tears. “Wake up. They are gone.”

His eyes stared blankly, shining wide in the moonlight. His gasp was hoarse with fright. “They may be, but it is not.”

“What is it?” I put my hands on his shoulders, trying to make him look at me. “Tell me!”

“That!” Shyven turned to point a finger towards the clump of willows.

At first I didn’t see anything and thought that he was still under delusions put on him by the spirits. But when I glimpsed some great, dark shape hulking in the branches, I knew it was more than a waking dream. Multiple red eyes gleaming out at us.

“I feel it hunting me...” Shyven whispered, “it’s coming for me...they called it to hunt me.”

The shape seemed to be pulsing faintly, almost as if I could see its heartbeats or breaths shaking it from a distance. But it was not moving towards us.

“I see it,” I said softly, “it looks like a giant spider.”

Shyven squeaked and hid his head. “Spiders! Big, poisonous, drooling spiders!”

And that was how I found out that my traveling companion, an expert swordsman and experienced traveler, was afraid of an eight-legged bug. Though I had to admit that this one was large enough to cause some worry. About the size of Dee, if not Layla.

I stooped down beside Shyven. “Give me your sword.”

He did not move to get it out of the sheath, so I reached down and took it. Shyven moved a little in surprise but did not try to stop me. His sword was a long, light blade with one sharpened edge and a light curve to it. The tip went to a square point, angled only in one direction, rather than a triangular one like a broadsword. I rarely used swords as a weapon. In fact, I had only held such a blade a few times in my life, and it had always belonged to someone else. Often the person I was about to use it on. But Shyven’s was light and agile. Just like a bigger knife, I told myself.

With the sword in hand, I moved towards the clump of willows. As far as I could see, there was only one way for us to leave the graveyard before dawn. The giant spider was Shyven’s fear. Somehow, it was more than a normal creature. Because I guessed he would have faced any size of spider with sword in hand no matter how frightened he was, unless it was a phantom’s apparition. One that was hunting him in his mind.

And as I moved towards the center of the burial grounds, everything shifted around me.

The stones took on a reddish hue, while the moonlit weeds faded to a pale turquoise. Vibrations were passing through everything, making the world around me ripple as if underwater. With a quick glance upward, I saw that the sky was white with black stars in it. And somewhere I heard a sound like a heartbeat drumming, one that was not my own.

In front of me, the shape in the trees emerged from them, tearing away from the shadows in the copse like a spoon pulled from cold honey. A blade of midnight black was clutched in one of its four arms. The creature was no longer a spider. Now it was a tall, broad man dressed in black armor, with strange jags to the elbows and knees. He had four arms, three of them crossed at his chest, and the fourth wielding the weapon. As to his face...all I could see was a hairy head with eight gleaming red eyes.

We closed slowly, as if we were moving through water. His blade was much larger and heavier than mine. Dark and heavy, made of shadows. He swung first, and I blocked it, but Shyven’s sword rang and I knew it would shatter if I let him strike it again.

Everything began moving swiftly as I drew my blade back and swung it in a low arc towards his legs. He moved to block it, and I feinted away, jabbing up at his unprotected head. Dream-like everything moved quicker as he strode at me, scything his blade back and forth, three arms hanging down at his side as he countered my every stroke. Step by step, I was pushed back towards Shyven as our movements became inhumanly swift, everything dancing in a blur. Swing, block, scythe, duck. He almost struck me once, and I barely avoided it, feeling the tip of the blade graze past my cheek, leaving a hairline scratch behind. Everything began to go hot and red in my head.

I’m not sure exactly what happened after that. We were not fighting in any human realm. With my temper snapped, he seemed to shrink in size or me to grow, until I towered above him like some sort of monster. He charged at me, holding his sword like a spear, but I battered it aside easily. Knocking it away, I felt his three free arms wrap around me as far up as he could reach. The world flashed and pulsed. Everything went crazy. Colors like a mad dream swirled around us. I could not tell if he was larger than I and catching me in his grasp, or if he was small and only wrapped around one of my legs.

With a furious shove of my free hand, I got him away, drawing back the sword and plunging it forward straight through his armored chest. The spider-beast roared and exploded into fragments of inky shadows traveling across the graveyard...

I opened my eyes, laying beside Shyven on the cold, hard ground, his blade still clenched in one hand. Darkness stained it from hilt to tip. Sitting up, I saw that he was looking around himself in surprise. His eyes encountered mine, and he said in his normal voice, “you defeated it. I saw you...you were--”

“Never mind.” I stood up and looked around the moonlit grounds, but did not see any trace of the spider-beast’s remains, though he had gone everywhere in the dream. After wiping the sword off on a patch of grass, I turned as Shyven got to his feet. “I hope you’ve learned a lesson tonight?”

“Oh yes.” He smiled wryly. “The lesson is: don’t leave the cities. They don’t have spirits there.”

I gave him back his blade with a flat look. “That’s because in the city there are too many people trampling, talking and living over the top of the past for it to exist. Outside...it waits undisturbed.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He chuckled thinly, and I heard in its tone how shaken he really was, though he tried to pass it off as nothing.

“Come on.” I gestured back the way we had come. “We have to get my things. What happened to your pack?”

Shyven gazed around with a hurried expression, trying to regain his composure. “I dropped it around here...”

But we could not find it in the grass or the open ground. It had been lost beyond reclaiming. I led the way back out past the marker stone to where my blanket, Vhoe and provisions lay. Shyven insisted on carrying the food pack, since he had nothing else to burden him. I hung the Vhoe by a strap around my shoulder and carried the blanket rolled up with a string. Even though it was still the middle of the night and my head was starting to ache again, we started off around the edge of the burial ground. We were careful to circumnavigate the clearing until the whole burial grounds were behind us.

Then we went on for another few hundred yards, before stopping at a place where a group of pines made a hollow filled with dead needles between them. Shyven used his short cape as a blanket and I unfolded mine, both bedding down in the crackling, springy needles. It probably was not the most comfortable camping place I have ever stayed in. But if so, I don’t remember it because I slept like a dead hare until the morning light was pouring full-force down on my face. It was already about an hour past dawn, the sun twinkling through the conifer needles as if they were pure silver.

Shyven was still asleep, his face looking pale and drawn from all he had experienced in the night. I snorted softly at the sight of him and went to start a campfire nearby in a more open patch of earth. Cooking was always more difficult over an open fire than it had been on my stove. The toasted bread was a little charred and the meat a little underdone, but when Shyven awoke we both fell to it hungrily.

When he was done eating, Shyven wiped his hands fastidiously on the needles and looked away. “Er, Gray One?”

“Yes?”

“About last night...thank you.”

I nodded once, and we did not say anything more about it. Once our things were packed up again, and the fire extinguished, we started on northwards. Shyven consulted his pocket-compass frequently to make sure that we were going the right way, setting our course just a little eastwards as well. Around mid-morning we came upon more evidence that we were on the right track, though at first I was doubtful of it.

It was a horse’s skeleton, intact except for where the wild animals had dragged bones apart to gnaw on them or crunched them into slivers. But the skull was there, and three of the hooves, as well as parts of the hips, legs and spine. All gleaming pale and cold under the shade of an oak tree.

Shyven spotted it first and almost pounced on it. “Ah, one of the carriage horses! This one did not make it, but it shows that the Queen has gone this way before.”

“How can you be sure it’s one of hers?” I sauntered up beside him, kicking at one of the leg bones. “Anyone could have lost a horse, and it died out here.”

With a frown, Shyven stooped down to look at the skull. “Who lives out here to lose a horse? We haven’t seen anyone since the village. Besides, a native would come find their horse’s body to make use of it, not leave it for the animals.”

“They would leave it if they couldn’t find it.”

Shyven reached down under the skull and grasped something, pulling it out to display. “And do woodland farmers have jewels on their horses’ headstalls?”

It was a few rotted fragments of leather, a rusted buckle and three dirtied green emeralds. But once he had rubbed them between his fingers, they gleamed like the sun through the leaves.

“You’re right.” I touched one jewel with the tip of my fingers, feeling as if I was brushing up against a link to the past. “But they must have been in a hurry to leave this behind, all the same.”

My friend nodded agreement. “They were still running from something...or at least thought that they were. But this means that they were mounted. There were probably four horses to the carriage at first. One died here. Two men and the queen rode the other three with whatever luggage they had on them.”

I looked at the remaining bones, then walked in an ever-widening circle around them. After a few minutes, I returned. “Wolves might have killed it. Could have kept them running, too. Some pretty big wolf tracks around her.”

“Tracking the Gray Ones, Gray One?” Shyven stood up, pocketing the emeralds while throwing the buckle back down next to the skull. “Well, perhaps you’re right. Let’s keep moving.”

For the rest of the day, we walked and saw no sign of habitation. The woods were dark and silent, seeming more watchful and unfriendly than the Dardec I was used to. Next day we went on through more of the same.

But on that day, we found signs of a living place of men. At least, where they had lived long ago. In a slight valley with a stream winding through it, we came across pale gray stones set into the ground with weeds growing up and almost smothering them. These were laid four wide, each stone being a foot and a half square, and many long. It was the remains of a paved road, the paving stones made of a granite only found in the distant Creemonte mountains. They led to the center of the valley, where old pillars and chunks of rock lay scattered in vague squares. Places where buildings had once stood.

“This must be one of the ancient cities of the lost Fehoan people,” Shyven said after looking over the ruins of the town for a few minutes. “Have you heard of them before?”

I shook my head. Though I might have heard the term before, I did not know enough to make a picture of them in my mind.

“Long ago, before the land of Shard was constructed, a colony of a mountain people called the Fehoan moved down here,” Shyven recited from memory. “There are some of their ruins along the base of the Creemonte and into the edge of the Dardec. This is the furthest south and west I’ve heard of one being found. The cities were always built of this granite stone from the Fehoan homeland, with pillars and flagstones all along the roads. A rich, powerful people...”

He trailed off into thought for a long moment, before adding with a shake of his head, “but like all things, they came to an end, eventually. Plague and war destroyed their principal cities and a slow dying off took hold of the outliers. Makes you wonder what our cities will look like in a thousand years, hey?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to think of it. Whether it is a pile of broken stones, or huge towers reaching to the sky. Either way, there will be a lot of pain and power struggles surrounding them.”

Shyven’s dreamy expression evaporated, and he looked at me sharply, but with laughter in his eyes. “You’re a bit of a cynic about the race of men, aren’t you?”

“I’ve learned to be.”

We traveled through the broken ruins, stepping over piles of shattered pots or crumbled statues until we reached the end of the valley. There, the ruins ended except for the road, which wound on for a little way before coming to an abrupt stop at the edge of a landslide. A whole hill had moved once, piling down onto it. Now trees and grass grew over the earth that buried it deep beneath.

The rest of the day, there were no more signs of human life, nor the next, or the one after that. We traveled on for about a week from the burial ground, our provisions getting thinner the whole time. I supplemented them with foraging or hunting when I could, but we were moving too fast to set many snares and neither of us carried a bow. Our belts were tightened to the last notch, and we were feeling hazy with hunger by the seventh day.

I had stopped at a stream to take a drink and try to decide if the plants growing in it were water cress or something poisonous when Shyven’s hand suddenly descended on my shoulder.

“Gray One, look up there!”

Looking up, I followed his pointing finger. There, circling in the sky above us, was the shape of a large black bird. It was a raven, swooping low for a glimpse of us in the trees. But what had drawn Shyven’s attention was the fact that it had a slim red ribbon tied to one of its feet, with a tiny bell jingling from the end.

The raven swooped overhead as we watched, before turning and heading off towards the north once again.

My gaze met that of my partner. A ribbon, fresh and bright, with a bell on it. Someone owned that bird. Someone who would have a house and food in it.

The sun was already starting to slide towards the western horizon. There were only about three hours left until sunset. But we both decided without a word to press on and see what sort of habitation we could find before darkness took the forest in its grip.

It was almost an hour later that we came to the base of a low hill and, looking up it, I saw the outlines of a shape that was not natural. Straight edges, hard and level, the mark of Man’s hand. And the bright twinkle of the sunset light reflecting off glass windows. It was some sort of building. Shyven did not see it until I pointed it out to him, but then he led the way up the hill. The trees were still tall and dark here, but at the top of the rise they had been cut away from a small circle of ground. Standing in the center of this circle was what looked like it could be an Earth wizard’s tower. It was made of old oak beams, cedar sheathing and pine trim, all kept as clean as if polished every day. The windows, too, sparkled with cleanliness. Even the chimney, far at the top, was not stained with soot. This building was made on a square, straight-sided plan, but was very tall, taller than the nearest trees. The windows under the angled eaves would have had a view over the top of the woods.

A tall, wide door painted mellow scarlet stood facing us with a winding path leading up to it from around the hill. Brass knob, knocker and fastenings gleamed on its face. Red light from the sinking sun stained the whole thing in dreamy, rich colors. Nothing stirred except for the raven, who sat on the peak of the roof watching us restlessly.

“Wait.” I stopped Shyven at the edge of the trees. “We don’t know who lives here. We’ll have to go cautiously.”

“I agree.” Shyven nodded impatiently, fingering his sword. “But it is obviously someone civilized enough to have windows and a door. Which means that they will also have something to eat other than leaves and dead animals.”

“A steak and salad is just leaves and a dead animal,” I argued, but I knew what he meant. Some fresh-baked bread and grilled chops sounded as good to me as they did to him. Or even just corncakes and venison jerky.

The house was still silent, standing as if staring at us with its bloody windows. But a puff of smoke trickled out of the chimney, carrying scents of roasting meat. The smell decided us.

“I’ll go up and knock,” Shyven whispered to me. “You come behind, prepared for anything.”

The thought crossed my mind that this could be the hideout of the queen’s kidnappers. If so, we would very soon find out all about them. And we were so hungry by now that kidnappers wold have to watch out if there was food on the other side of them.

Something of the same sort must have crossed the mind of my companion, because he whispered when we got to the door. “Remember, anything.”

I nodded while he raised his hand, rapping the knuckles on the red planks. For a minute there was no sound on the other side, before a voice called out, “do come in! It’s not locked.”

It was a man’s voice, genteel and lightly accented with a dialect of times gone by. Shyven gave me a look over his shoulder and I lay a hand on the hilt of my knife before he pushed the door open.

I glimpsed red carpet and a wide room over Shyven’s shoulder as he stepped inside. Following, I looked around in amazement. I had never seen so many books and scrolls in one room before. Not even in the great library in Frizzeen. Or at least, not so many in such a comparatively small space. They lined the walls, stood around the floor in stacks or piles, and were laying opened on a table in the center. One or two balanced on the mantlepiece of a comfortable brick-and-marble hearth. Even the figure in the middle of the room held one open in his left hand.

He was a slight man, with dark hair, a refined face, and glasses. His clothes were patterned on the court dress of an older era, with a many-buckled coat and high collar. There was no one else in the room. He looked up at us with a kindly but pre-occupied smile. “Yes?”

My hand left my knife hilt. Shyven gave him a small bow. “We are travelers struck with misfortune, sir. We lost half our provisions about a week ago and have been unhorsed even longer. Seeing your tower, we, er, hoped to find some hospitality inside...if you would grant us sanctuary?”

I knew now how Shyven must sound talking to the king. I wondered if he knew who this oddly reclusive nobleman must be, if he was a nobleman at all. Feeling a little ruffled by their formal speech, I added, “in other words, we‘re hungry and hoped to drop in for dinner.”

“Of course.” Our host put his book on the table, making sure to keep it open to the same page, before moving towards the fireplace. “You are travelers and travelers always have news. I will give you a good meal in return for any word you can bring me from the outside world. And perhaps a song later on, with your Vhoe? If you know how to play it.”

“I wouldn’t be packing it through the woods on my back, otherwise.”

Moving over to the table, I slung it off and set it down gently. The smell of roasting meat was getting overwhelming, as our host took a large joint from a spit and began carving it onto a platter.

“May I know your names, or at least something to call you by?” the fellow said, turning with a full plate of meat and another of biscuits to come towards the table. “And put some of the books on the floor while you’re at it, would you? Not that one!”

I had been reaching towards the book he just laid aside, but at his words grabbed another and began stacking them onto the floor in a neat pile. “I go by the title of Gray One. The silver-tongued one is Shyven.”

Shyven was helping me with the books and shot me an exasperated look which said, clearly, that there was no excuse for being impolite.

“Gray One, Shyven,” our host rolled the words on his tongue as if tasting them. “Very nice. My name is Anton Minestrone. The Chronicler of Shard.”

“Chronicler of Shard?” Shyven gave him an eager look. “you mean, you collect the land’s history?”

Anton fumbled a little in setting the plates. “Well, yes...both past and present, you see. I may live alone, but I know more and see more than many who live in the thick of it. The only thing is, no one ever comes here, so my manuscripts never get out.”

He looked up to add hastily, “not that I dislike the solitude. In fact, that is why I came here and built Ravenwatch. But it would be nice if others could read my books on history and the path of mankind.”

Shyven helped him fetch some eatingware from the shelf by the mantle. “Perhaps we could help you with that when we leave...if your manuscripts aren’t too bulky.”

Anton simply gave him an uncertain look and settled at the head of the table. After a moment, he folded his hands, looked up at the roof and said, “thank you.”

Then he turned back to us. “Please eat, strangers. There is plenty here and no reason to stint yourselves. It is rare I have the pleasure of company at table, except for Ed.”

“Ed?”

“The raven.”

Just then there was a cawing sound at an open window, and the raven with the bell came hopping in. There was an extra plate, I noticed, set beside Anton’s. The raven hopped over to it as if that was where he belonged.

Our host dished him out a broken biscuit and a few strips of meat before serving the rest of us. Then, with little talk or pause between bites, we started in on the meal.