Ghosts
When Norris Shamfeld bought Grazehill Farm two seasons ago, no one had told him about the ghost.
The large farmhouse sat perched atop a hillside ridge like a small raft caught on the crest of a tall wave. In spring, some sheep, pigs and a handful of cows grazed the plains below, their trodding turning the topsoil and impregnating the air with the overpowering scent of earth and manure. In years of shearing, milking, and butchering, not one of his cattle had gone missing.
Norris kneaded the arms of his rocking chair and slowly set his gaze on the pale, oily face of a young man edging into his twenties. Truly the Queendom's finest, him and his red-faced, third-rate superior. "How many goats did you lose?"
"Sheep," remarked Norris stiffly. "And I didn't lose them."
The soldier cleared his throat, penned something down in that book of his, and looked back up. His hair circled around his head like a priestly crown, and splotches of ink from his incessant note-keeping spoiled the cuffs of his sleeves and stained fingers that had never held a sword.
"Aren't there wolves in the area, that you're aware of?" asked the bookish one. Norris dug his dirtied nails into the wood of the chair and decided that the man-child had skipped the library section on wild animals, or he would've known that the only wild thing within miles was seated opposite him.
"No wolves," said Norris, gritting his teeth. "Did you talk with Myleton?"
"The miller?"
"The potato farmer."
"Ah- yes, I believe," the young soldier fired an anxious glance at the sergeant, "yes, I believe we have-"
"Did you ask him the same?" grumbled Norris as his darkening features receded ever further into pillows.
"Begging your pardon?"
"The wolves," snarled Norris, "did you ask him about wolves too?" The rocking chair growled like some ancient beast as Norris shifted his weight in it. "Tell me, do wolves eat potatoes?"
At this point, the sergeant leaned forward, smiled a vague smile and waved his hands dismissively. "My good man," he started, his heavy-lidded eyes blinking slowly. "It's only standard procedure for us to ask such questions. We must be thorough in our investigation after all, wouldn't you agree?"
Norris boiled in his chair and nearly matched the sergeant's face in redness. "Damn standard procedure, there's something out there that took 'em, I says, and it ain't no wolf."
At that very moment a tangle of gangly limbs came barging through the front door. At once all three heads turned, two red and one growing ever paler. The girls skirts were stained with mud and her bushy hair was wild like her gaze. Norris had never seen his Aline like that before, she was fierce like her mother and fought with half the boys from town. "F-father," the young girl gasped between ragged breaths. "T-tracks… that-a-way!" she gestured out the door toward a path snaking down the bare hillside.
Norris jumped up and rushed over to her. "Tracks? What kind of tracks?"
Aline sagged down the height of the door, her face shining with cold sweat as though she'd fled from a fever dream. "Big. Bigger than a boar's, and four claw marks like- like so." She spread her fingers in the shape of the mark.
The sergeant shifted in his chair. "Child, you must be imagining things, there's nothing with claws like that in existence, it must've been the wind and the rain that made it seem so."
Alina shook her head. "I saw it with my own eyes, see for yourself if you don't believe me. "
In Thallas stood an abandoned wicker roof house of no import, flanked by a grove smelling of damp earth on one side and wide cold plains on the other. The fields, like the silence, stretched out into the horizon where red sunlight rippled shy tones through the winter air.
Muello dragged his aching bones up the shallow incline, his walking stick piercing dew frozen crisp between every step. Half the village thought him mad for making the track to Raul's pastoral home, but as long as his legs could carry him he insisted on the ritual. Rumour had it the house was tainted by some curse, that all wildlife avoided the home and that not even nature dared reclaim it. It was true that nothing but a plain weed grew around the house, but Muello didn't mind as it was easy to maintain.
He halted at the door. Years ago the paint had chipped off and left only a flat, lifeless color on the wood while the brass knocker had turned black and green and dull. He fidgeted with a keychain on his belt for a moment when a fleeting breeze caressed his cheek, pulling an ancient memory from the crevices of his mind. Fourteen years ago, on the night of Winterwyst, he'd stood on the very same spot. Little Jason had answered the door, a stunned look about him as though the Kimblekree had come knocking. Wallace had appeared behind his half-brother a moment later, sulking and morose as usual, chiding Jason for not letting poor Muello in.
Wallace had always been odd. Raul had tried his hardest to treat him no different from little Jason and Emile but could never quite give him the same depth of affection. Sometimes Muello wondered if perhaps that was why-
A sigh of wind, a flicker of motion, and then something hard prodded between his shoulder blades.
"Who are you?" demanded a voice from behind. It sounded high, thin, uncertain, and too refined to be that of a pilfering bandit roaming the wilds for easy prey.
Muello froze. There were few things in the world that startled the old soldier, and lame threats weren't among them. Still, he sensed the tip of the blade all too well and somehow knew it to be sharp, castle-forged steel. He turned around slowly, unsure what his eyes would find.
A lone boy dressed in high travelling boots and boiled leather armour over a dull silver of heavy chainmail stared him down. His face was bright and clean and from his shoulders hung a woolen cloak frayed at the edges, reaching just below the hollow of his knees. The muted red of his windswept hair barely touched his furrowed brow - thin lines pressed into a sharp, questioning frown. Could it be? He lacked the tallness of his father and the breadth too, but the face was just as straight and his voice carried the same touchy pride.
The boy held a sword in his left hand, the tip of the cruel steel gleamed in the fading light as it hovered an inch from Muello's collarbone. For a moment they stood in stunned silence, eyes roving over each other trying to latch onto something, something true and certain. Perhaps the rumours were true after all. Perhaps Raul's old home was haunted by a ghost of the past.
The red faced sergeant lead the company, the great plume on his ill-fitting helmet swaying back and forth with every clattering step. At his side his literary companion struggled to keep up with short, quick steps, book clutched under one arm, quill held in the other and alert to any wise utterance the sergeant might make that ought to be recorded for the annals. Close behind was the farmer who'd armed himself with a scythe, prophesying the unpleasant fates he'd bestow on the monster that had killed his cattle, and at the very back the eldest sheep Belle followed with senile curiosity.
Every so often the company would halt, the sergeant would reach for his waterskin, uncork it and take a mighty swig. It seemed to emboldened him. "We'll have this nonsense dealt with in short order. You'll soon see it's nothing but a common wolf and a girl's flighty imagination." They hadn't come upon the tracks yet, but it was only a small distance until they would enter the wilds. "No damage to the fencing?" asked the sergeant without truly asking. Norris clenched his jaw and shook his head. "Must be something small then, creeping through," said the sergeant gleefully.
"I'm telling you, there's no wolves here, and I've yet to see a fox kill and drag a sheep without a trace."
The sergeant bobbed his shoulders, took another swig, then regarded the farmer with feigned pity. "My dear man, if there's any rivalry between you and that Myleton-"
"There isn't."
"-it would explain the-"
"There isn't," insisted Norris.
"-he could've smuggled them, people will eat anything."
"I know these folk. They ain't thieves."
They passed through an unhinged gate drawing scars into the soil as it swung open. Norris felt a quickening in his chest. Something brooded in the shadows of the forest beyond the summerhills and butterflower plains. In the old days the town's people had tended the forest as they tended their lands, but now the Willowroad had fallen into disarray. Some townsfolk said a wise old shae lived in the heart of woods who traded her counsel for gemstones, goat's milk and sweet pipeweed from the east. Now, nothing but hunters and poachers went there and if any woodwhisperer ever lived there, it would've been wise to move.
For a while they marched on in silence, the damp earth swallowing the sound of their footsteps and the pale winter light flashing through a speckled ceiling. Norris gripped his scythe tightly. Either they'd missed the tracks Aline had found or she'd ventured outside the farmlands and explored the forbidden depths of the forest. He'd have to speak to her about it when he got back.
They came upon a clearing and again the sergeant halted. Norris expected him to turn around and announce the end of the expedition, to say something about his daughter's imagination and that there was nothing with claws larger than a bear's stalking these woods. But as he stepped closer, the sergeant lifted his hand as if to silence him and started to take slow, measured steps backward.
He could see why.
Upon the clearing lay the charred bones of his missing sheep, the remains of uneaten intestines carelessly strewn about the grass, blood seeping into the ground. Snaked around it lay a hulking form, impossible to miss, its wings folded inward, its eyes closed and its chest heaving slowly. An acrid smell plumed from its nostrils on every exhalation.
"Fates have mercy-" muttered the younger soldier.
The Dragon stirred. One of its lazy eyes blinked open.
Olsten had hiked a little ways out of the house earlier that day and found a ridge that overlooked vast stretches of distant farmland. He'd hoped to see a familiar silhouette appear against the grey skies but when it didn't, he had at least found solace in the knowledge that he was still in Thallas. Nowhere else was the soil so ripe for farming that the scent of earth permeated the air even in winter. There was no sign of Rosenfall anywhere on the horizon and unless Lisella's magic had transported him through time as well, he reasoned that news of the Dragon Warden's innocence may not have traveled far yet. He'd have to keep his wits about him.
He hadn't noticed any tracks on his way back to the abandoned house, but the jingle of keys had alerted him to the man at the door.
Olsten tightened his grip on his blade, he hadn't expected the man to turn around so soon. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The man's frame had grown askew with age, his face was old as stone and his skin bore the scars of hardship. Something of a grimace flashed across his face as he rested one hand on his hip and leaned on his walking stick with the other. "I'm Muello, and I could ask you the same."
"Are you alone?" Olsten demanded to know.
"Why, is this a robbery?"
The thought hadn't even passed his mind, though it should have. The shoddy backpack hanging from Muello's shoulders could be stuffed with food, enough to last him weeks until he figured out what to do. He steadied his sword hand with his right one, keeping Muello at bay like a shepherd facing down a prowling wolf with his walking stick. There was something terrifying about the old man remaining so calm under the threat of death. One thrust was all it would take to snuff out his live, it was as easy as breathing and yet-
"A Dragon Warden without his dragon, quaint, don't you think?" Muello said.
"My Dragon's nearby and-"
"-and keeping awfully quiet?"
"He's out scouting and he'll be back soon," Olsten replied hotly.
"I can wait," Muello shrugged. "I'd love to see a Dragon again. Last time I saw one was before you were born, and it was right here, at this very house."
They might just as well have been talking about the weather or discussing what presents Olsten had asked for this year - though he had stopped believing in the Kimblekree years ago.
"There were four of them as I recall, it was the talk of the town." Norris chuckled. "Some folk came all the way from Abradden to see the Dragons, the Emasari."
Olsten pressed his lips together into a fine line, unsure if the images appearing in his mind were a memory or a figment of the imagination.
"It was quite the sight. Seeing four fully grown Dragons leaves an impression. I don't suspect I'll see anything like it again."
For several futile seconds, Olsten remained exactly how he was, then succumbed and lowered his sword. "You can thank your people for that." His voice softened then. "Why were they here?"
Muello cocked his head sideways, disbelieving that the boy still hadn't guessed why Emasari would visit a plain house bordering the wilderness. Raul hadn't always been the brightest either. "Why, they came for you of course!"
The Dragon was all thunder, all tooth and claw, all wild, unbridled beastliness. It was a loveless creature of the wild, its scales red as summer wine and its eyes a merciless gold. It jumped up, roared and whipped its tail at them. Just in time, the sergeant leapt back, his face had lost all color. The barbed appendage cut through the air, crashed into a tree and rained splinters and snow down on them. The anointed soldier struggled to free vicious steel from his scabbard when a roar of flames engulfed him. The plume on his helm became black dust, his face contorted into a noiseless scream, and his skin blistered and boiled until all that remained was a glowing red husk. The other one stumbled, dropped his book and quill and turned to run. Like torches the black trunks of the forest lit up around him as he ran and ran and ran, hounded by fumes of death.
Norris swung his scythe at the dragon. The rusted steel skewered a soft patch of flesh near a wing joint and blood-coated steel emerged on the other side of the wound. Roaring, the creature threw its head sideways and snapped his jaw at thin air. Again its maw opened, this time seizing the wooden shaft and tearing the weapon free before its blazing eyes found the man who'd borne it.
The young Thall soldier found refuge behind a rock and did not dare to look. A harrowing scream ruptured the air, shooting from one side to the other as to being shaken about. Then the screaming ended, cut off by a wet, bone-crunching snap. Two muted thuds followed and he could hear the bloodthirsty beast lumbering around, bristling and sniffing the air.
He tried to calm his breath, to stop futile tears from streaming down his fat cheeks, tried to remain motionless as he begged for the monster to pass. But the smell of ash and fire drew nearer, carrying with it the bitter, iron taste of blood. What little light pierced the canopy was blotted out by the shadow of the dragon. He felt the air warm around him, heard the low rumble in the Dragon's throat as it craned its neck, searching for the last of the three humans.
"I have a brother...
brothers?" Olsten chased after Muello like a pet dog. The old man groaned like the door and stepped inside the house.
"Aye, and a sister too, not much older than yourself," he added. Any thought of Grybil, Raleia, Thannel, Waethrin and all the others vanished. "Jason in particular doted on you," Muello said.
"Jason?"
"Your brother, Emile is your sister, like sides of a coin those two."
"And Raul?" He'd rummaged through the home, spotted the name in a book but hadn't yet pieced together who the name belonged to.
"That'd be your father, we served together, had a few close calls, wouldn't be standing here without him," Muello grinned. Olsten cursed himself. It seemed so obvious now. How many red-haired, bright-eyed boys carried his name? And how many of those had their portrait gazing into the living room from above a mantelpiece? A day, maybe two had passed since Lisella's spell, and he'd begun to suspect he was trapped in a labyrinth of illusions, until now.
He glanced at the oil-painting, all red cheeks and bright, shining eyes, completely oblivious that he would smile down on himself fourteen years later.
Olsten listened breathlessly as Muello spoke of his father and the many adventures they'd shared. On the old man's invitation he sat down at an old, rickety table near the kitchen. It had seen better days, but if he closed his eyes he could just imagine his father sitting at the head of it, sweet Victoria at his side cradling the newborn, listening to the muted noises of Jason and Emile Dragon and Warden in the backyard.
Muello lit the stove and soon a cosy warmth blanketed them both. His backpack consisted mostly of cleaning materials and other odds and ends he'd brought to make repairs, but from the bottom a loaf of bread, some goat cheese and a bundle tea herbs emerged.
"They don't live here anymore, do they?" Olsten inquired. Scratch had found its way back into its scabbard a while ago. "Why do you come here?" Who in their right mind spent their time cleaning, let alone someone else's home?
"Just passing the time," Muello answered, but Olsten did not believe him and noticed Muello had evaded the first question.
"So where are they now?" he insisted.
"Who?"
Olsten sighed. "You know who."
Muello took the kettle off the heat, added the herbs, stirred the mixture and poured them both a large glass. It smelled strange, not quite sweet, not quite bitter.
"It's not a cheerful story."
"Trust me, I'm used to sad stories," Olsten replied.
Muello sat down opposite him. He looked even older now, his face contorting into a painful grimace before he spoke. "Some years ago when your mother- when she-" The old man stared into his cup for a moment, sipped the tea and seemed caught up in some distant memory.
"When what?"
Muello blew hot steam from his cup, took another sip and pretended it was wine. This was the domain of a woman's courage and he much preferred the simple rules of a fight to navigating the murky waters that were feelings. He sighed and decided to speak plainly. "Your mother passed away some years ago and your brother didn't take well to it."
"Jason?"
Muello shook his head. His features darkened. "Wallace. He blamed your father, it tore him apart you know, he'd always done what he could for Wallace but- I'm not sure I should be the one to tell you this..."
Olsten forgot all about his tea and the bit of bread he'd been wolving down. "You have to tell me. Please."
"Jason is your sibling through-and-through, and so is Emile but Wallace, Wallace only shares a mother with you."
Olsten frowned. Why was Muello so cautious to tell him? Having half a brother was better than having no brother at all, and though it pained him to hear his mother was already dead, he still had a father, two brothers and a sister at least. It was more than he'd ever dreamed of.
"I don't remember ever seeing Wallace happy," Muello recalled. "It troubled your father a great deal. There wasn't much he feared, a trait we share, but that half-breed scared him witless."
Olsten recalled the picture of the handsome, smiling Thall soldier he'd seen in one of the bedrooms. Pride swelled in his chest. That man was his father. It was difficult to imagine fear on the man's face. "Why? What was he afraid of?"
"Magic," Muello answered plainly. "Wallace dabbled in the forbidden magic-"
Olsten recoiled and nearly spilled his tea. "Shadow magic?"
"Is that what they call it? I'm afraid I don't know much about it. Raul didn't speak much of it, only mentioned it once to me and me swear never to tell a soul, and I've kept my promise, even now." Something seemed to amuse him before his face grew serious again. "The townsfolk would've come marching up the hill with a thick rope and violent intent if they ever found out, so he kept it quiet, for as long as he could anyway. Then one day, I came here, and when no one answered the door I feared for the worst. I was younger then, kicked the door wide-open, thankfully didn't find anything mutilated inside."
"So they're...gone?" Dread wormed its way into the pit of his stomach and he felt his hopes slide off him like a silk. Muello nodded stiffly. "I told you it wasn't a happy story."
Olsten became a statue except for his eyes that shot left and right, desperately searching for an explanation, something to hold on to before the last pillar crumbled away underneath him.
"I believe they're alive still, if it's any consolation."
"You don't know that…" Olsten said feebly.
"Aye, and you don't know where you dragon is."
"That's different," he rested his head in his hands and combed his hair with slender fingers. "Thanks for reminding me," he added in a low voice.
Muello had the wisdom to remain silent, he'd only held the boy once when he had still been a babe and cried bitter tears at being held in such rough, violent hands.
His mother's temper indeed….
