Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (12 page)

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Taisle lay comfortably in bed, held in the grip of a deep dream where he was galloping atop his horse, crossing the vast distance of the Rislind Meadow, heading for home, trailed by a slippery ghost—he could not seem to outpace the ghost, nor could he evade it in the wide-open expanse. Pursaiones was in the dream too, galloping on her steed just ahead of him, somehow beating him to the Rislind gate. Taisle looked back, still angry that the rest of the village had been right, and he’d been wrong. He recoiled in fear at the sight of the speeding ghoul—it did not look like it ran with feet, as it somehow glided above the blades of grass. No energy was spent by the ghost in its flight, and it seemed the chase would be endless.

Suddenly, Pursaiones fell from atop her horse, which whinnied loud, and she blurred past him as his horse continued on at full speed. “No!” Taisle thought to himself, seeing her left behind on the ground—her horse must have tripped, I have to turn around and save her, he thought. Quickly, he pulled on his reins, slowing his horse, turning it around to start toward his fallen friend. There in the meadow in front of him stood the ghost, standing over Pursaiones—her horse had abandoned her, fleeing back toward the foothills that encircled the meadow. The watery form hunched over her in the twilight of an eternal dusk. Pursaiones looked directly at Taisle as she cried for mercy:

“Taisle!” she yelped, and he paced on faster trying to reach her in time. “Taisle!” again she screamed, but he did not seem to be getting any closer even with his steed at full gallop—no ground was cut between him and his helpless love. He watched in terror; he could do nothing to help as the ghost leaned in close to her. Taisle seethed with jealousy as the wobbly spirit bent in close and forced a sensual kiss on her mouth:

“Taisle!” she screamed for a third time, and Taisle woke from his nightmare, sweating, looking all around—he was inside his house, but the scream had been real. He threw on crimson underpants, grabbed his sword from a nearby shelf, and ran out the door in the direction of the noise. His dream slowly dissolved, revealing reality again. As his consciousness stubbornly returned, a new state of panic overtook him. Running down a thin alley between two small houses Taisle felt sure his mind had not tricked him, and so he called out:

“Pursaiones!” he yelled, uncaring as to whether he woke his neighbors. As he cut through a neat lawn, trampling a small orchard and almost slipping on its dew-glossed petals, Pursaiones’s house came into view.

Lying on the ground, helpless, just as in his dream, was Pursaiones. Naked, she turned to see Taisle closing in, her only hope of escape. Taisle realized it was unlike his dream in that the apparition hovering over Pursaiones was not a ghost—he was not the liquid, half-visible apparition from the meadow; he was a real man, appearing overly withered, famished and dirty.

“Just bread!” cried the haggard man, appearing as if he’d been wondering many long days in the forest without a shower, a change of clothes, or food.

“Get away!” Pursaiones replied in shock, digging into the earth with her fists and heels, crawling back from the man on all fours. Taisle rushed up and noticed Pursaiones’s sword lying on the ground near the feet of the scraggly man; she was unarmed, and so he raised his own sword overhead, preparing to strike.

“Don’t move. Back away from the blade!” Taisle commanded, feeling his fears subside; this is no ghost, but a frail old man, he thought.

“It’s just for bread, I am sorry,” replied the whimpering voice of the savage.

“What sort of monster are you?” Taisle asked. Pursaiones regained her feet and came to his side—Taisle had almost failed to notice that she was completely naked. “Come to rape our women?” he accused the rag-clothed man.

“No! I was hungry, I am no hunter of women,” cried the poor man, now falling to his knees next to the sword and throwing his hands to his face in misery.

“Away from the sword!” Taisle commanded, stepping up and knocking the man back with a swift kick to his head. In a fit of tears the tired looking creature, a tangled mess of mud and earth, flew back onto a patch of grass. They waited, but he had been knocked out by the blow. Taisle came in close to inspect the man and be sure he wouldn’t get back up; there was no sign of movement, and a slow trickle of blood ran from the man’s forehead down into his hair.

“He was in Crumpet’s house. I saw him before I went to bed, and I caught him trying to escape—” came Pursaiones from behind, out of breath from her struggle. Several footsteps sounded, coming nearer from the lane between the two closest cottages.

“Get inside—put some clothes on!” shot Taisle protectively, covetous of her naked beauty. She ran away at once.

“What is this noise? For Gaigas’s sake!” cried a short, fat troll. Next to his feet trailed two curious children.

“It appears we’ve found our
ghost
,” Taisle answered the man. Several more rushed up to survey the disturbance. Last to arrive was Mayor Doings who strolled up alongside Crumpet Grames. The sun blossomed in the cloudless blue above, a new day dawning upon the growing congregation. Pursaiones returned dressed, and Taisle turned the matter of telling the tale over to her. She quickly explained what had happened up to when Taisle had arrived, and then he finished:

“And so he went on about bread, of all things,” Taisle said.

“And he’s got my bread,
look!
” Crumpet complained as he lumbered close to the unconscious invader. Sure enough, in the still-clenched fists of the pale man were balled up pieces of bread, and fastened on his belt was an open satchel with more matted bread stuffed inside, some of it crumbling out.

“I hate to say it, but our ghost is no more than a common thief,” Pursaiones said.

“A bread thief! And he’ll repay it, and also the milk he’s spilled again on my kitchen floor!” Crumpet wailed in anger. At the climax of Crumpet’s judgment, the strange man began to writhe on the grass, and a moan sounded.

“Shhh, old one—he’s waking up,” came the burly troll. Nearly half the village had assembled now, mystified, watching the man stir to life in Pursaiones’s front garden.

“Be ready, in case he attacks,” Mayor Doings instructed, speaking to all but looking directly at Taisle so he would keep his sword ready.

“We don’t have to be afraid of this sorry beast—we need to question him,” Pursaiones returned, using her common sense in the place of panic. “Look at him. He’s harmless.”

“But when I came you were on the ground, your sword was over there…” Taisle reminded her.

“I tripped, nothing more—I scared myself believing it was a ghost, I didn’t know how to react,” she replied.

“Ughh,” moaned the man and he went for his head with his right hand. The crowd wooed and Mayor Doings called Taisle’s name to take charge of stopping any quick motions the fallen man might attempt. Taisle didn’t move, as all the haggard man did was rub his head where the sword hilt had hit him.

“Let’s allow him to come to first, and then we’ll bring him to speak and try him for the criminal he is, if he is no ghost,” Taisle ordained. Doings didn’t respond, and in his silence he affirmed what Taisle had suggested. The once-thought-to-be ghost opened his eyes, taking in the crowd of gawkers that watched his every movement.

“I’m sorry, I’ve had nothing to eat for days…” moaned the man. “Agh, my head.” Suddenly, he rolled back over, closing his eyes again.

“Maybe you’ve done him in, strong young Taisle! Serves him right too!” came Crumpet, satisfied at the sight of pain on the face of the cornered criminal.

“We’ll have to let him recover before we can start questioning him,” Pursaiones stated.

“Indeed. Taisle, I appoint him captive to you,” Doings ordered. “You’re to hold him in your house until he’s ready to speak.”

“Of course Mayor,” Taisle said, slightly angered at the burden being placed on him.

“I’ll watch him with you,” Pursaiones responded, and she was followed by several others, most of whom were the warriors who’d been out in the forest all night.

“I wish Remtall was still here,” Doings muttered to himself, thinking of the sea captain who’d departed months ago, the resident who would have had the most wisdom to deal with the situation. Taisle called the others to help him hoist the lifeless stranger and together they carried him through the narrow alley and into his house, dropping him on the floor. The room quickly filled with uninvited townsfolk, including Mayor Doings, until finally Pursaiones warned everyone to clear out. She assured them that when the time was ready they would be summoned once again to hear what the thief had to say. Hesitantly, most left the small house and it became once again uncramped. Doings was the last to leave and he instructed Taisle that when the stranger awoke, he was to be immediately summoned. Taisle, Pursaiones, and three others remained, each a member of the night party that had gone searching for the ghost—none had slept much yet. One by one, as the stranger slept soundly on the floor, each of them fell half-asleep themselves, until finally, no one was awake at Taisle’s house, and the new guest, now tightly bound in rope, snored loudly.

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A knock rattled Taisle’s door, and no one responded. Finally, after knocking three more times to no avail, a crowd of citizens watched as Miss Brewboil walked directly into the house. A concern ran through everyone about why no one was answering. She rounded the hall corner into Taisle’s bedroom and to her amazement she saw each of the Rislind warriors sound asleep. Pursaiones was lying across Taisle on the bed and the others were slumped against the walls, heads sunk into their chests, dreaming deeply. Quickly she looked to the dirty body at the center of the floor, curled into a ball like interlocked twine; the man on the ground was the prisoner, and his eyes were wide open—he lay awake, unsleeping, smiling up at Miss Brewboil.

“Aaaahh!” she screamed, and stumbled backwards. Turning swiftly to run from the room she tripped over the townsfolk who had shoveled in behind her. A crashing thump sounded, and a jumble of limbs formed as Miss Brewboil’s spill resulted in a pileup in the small hallway. More tried to come rushing in to see the scene, but none could make it through the tiny hallway, now smushed full of groaning bodies working to untangle themselves without stepping on each others’ hands and faces. Pursaiones opened her eyes to the tumult. She glanced to the prisoner and saw him twist to meet her gaze; he’d been awake for some time, she realized, and they’d all fallen asleep.

“I want to explain,” he whimpered.

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Mayor Doings assembled the town at noon and, still shackled, the thief was presented before a great throng that awaited a statement from him—the man had pleaded for his chance to explain, to justify his sneaking into the homes of the Rislindians, stealing their food, their milk, and casting a terrorizing spell over the community—this petty thief was their ghost, incarnated as a feeble, haggard man.

“Very well then, say your peace,” the Mayor at last ordered. Taisle and Pursaiones stood by, assuming the roles of guards for the Mayor in case anything out of the ordinary happened. Some were whispering that the man was in fact a ghost, and that his hidden powers lay dormant. Taisle and Pursaiones had long since dismissed any fear of the frail man, sensing him to be harmless—strangely, Pursaiones had even come to pity him.

“I was cast out. A used-up slave after the tendrils of Vesleathren’s evil overtook the farm where I once worked,” cried the man in a rough timbre, sounding hoarse as if with a cold. “Once the evil bastards had no more use for me—once the slave camp was wrecked—I was thrown out, left to wander the Red Forest.” Gasps rang out in the crowd of gawkers.

“You are a liar, and a ghost!” refuted Miss Brewboil. Others joined her accusations and the crowd grew angry until Doings quieted them:

“Let him speak!” urged the Mayor.

“I nearly died. I was without food and water. I don’t know how I survived, everything is too dark. My memory is clouded” trailed the hoarse drone. “I really can’t explain how I made it here… I saw the hills, and traveled many days, eating whatever carcasses I could find. Once I made it to the foothills, I couldn’t think of any fate other than a lonely death in those woods,” the man told, and he pointed to the range of mountains that encircled the fair meadow. “That’s when I broke through onto the meadow, and saw the village.”

“Why then didn’t you approach our gates as a traveler? Why sneak in at night and rob us?” cried Crumpet.

“No, forget that—I want to know how you breached the inner sanctum of Rislind—the secret paths are bound by Vapoury!” cried Brewboil.

“Yes, pitied thief, explain that, lest you cannot, and prove a ghost—how did you gain entrance hither?” asked Doings, coughing up smoke as he puffed contentedly, half-drowsed with the sweet fumes of his pipe-weed.

“I cannot give you such an explanation as to how I came in through these mountains,” answered the prisoner. “I only know I came upon a broken wall of bramble, vines, and thorns, all tangled in piles on the ground. Beyond them I came to the path leading down into your valley.”

“Impossible! That is the
living wall
you speak of, enchanted, ever grown anew!” Taisle retorted in disbelief.

“It was as I said: tangled, a heaping mess, not alive at all,” replied the stranger. “And I merely stepped over it.” More gasps rang through the crowd, and a greater wave of fear ran through the citizens of Rislind than had ever been caused by the idea of a ghost.

“We shall investigate immediately! But it is important to know then why if you didn’t break the magic wall yourself, as you claim, you became a thief in the night, sneaking about, scaring us, and making us believe you to be a specter of evil,” Doings demanded.

“I had to be wary, and though captured I am more relieved than you can imagine—you see, there is nary a friendly place left in Arkenshyr, not one that I am aware of,” choked the man between hacking coughs. “Every place I’ve passed is now under the spell of anarchy, turmoil, slaughterings, executions, revolts—the law of Grelion is ended, and bands of nomads now control the countryside.”