Ghostwalker (Book 1)
Read Ghostwalker (Book 1) Online
Authors: Ben Cassidy
The Chronicles of Zanthora: Book One
Ghostwalker
By
Ben Cassidy
Copyright © 2012 by Ben Cassidy
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2012
Books in the Chronicles of Zanthora:
Redemption (Coming Soon)
Tales of the Two Rings:
Daughter of Llathe: A Tale of the Two Rings
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 1
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 2
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 3 (Coming Soon)
To join an email update listserv for future releases, contact:
Dedicated to my wife Rachel;
my greatest supporter, encourager, and friend
Contents
Chapter 1
Simon was pouting, and frankly Kendril just didn’t care.
It was raining, and they were both soaked and miserable. Kendril had struggled to keep them on the forest path, if you could even call what they were currently on a path. It was more like a track. For squirrels.
“Do you want me to say you were right?” Kendril called back over his shoulder. “Is that what you want?”
Simon gave no response. Still pouting.
“Fine,” Kendril said. He slipped on a particular muddy section of the trail. “You were right. We should have gone left and not right. Are you happy now?”
Simon gave a loud snort.
All in all, Kendril had to admit, it was turning into a fairly rotten day. It had started about two hours before, when he had turned them off the main forest path onto what had looked like a promising shortcut. Simon had voiced his objection at the time, but Kendril had ignored him.
The promising shortcut, however, had quickly revealed itself to be a little less than what Kendril had hoped for. To make matters worse, it had started raining, and for the last hour and a half the two unfortunate travelers had been stumbling, slipping, and sliding down an increasingly muddy and rock-strewn trail.
And Simon wasn’t letting him hear the end of it.
“Look, I already
said
I was sorry,” Kendril said. “What more do you want from me?”
Simon brayed loudly, and dug his hooves into the mud.
Kendril yanked on the mule’s bridle. “We can’t turn around now, for Eru’s sake.”
The mule brayed again, and snorted angrily.
Kendril bit back a nasty response.
Stupid animal.
The real problem was that Kendril was no woodsman. He never had been, and probably never would be. He felt out of place here in the wild, with deer and wolves the only company for miles. A good-sized town or village was far more to his liking. At least a town had inns, with warm food and cold ale.
And beds. Feather beds, even. Kendril couldn’t remember the last time he had slept on a genuine feather bed. The last few days he had been forced to sleep out in the open, with a rock for a pillow and a mule for a fireside companion. It was enough to drive any normal person insane.
So now Kendril was soaking wet, chilled to the bone, and plagued by the knowledge that his mule was a better woodsman than he was.
Things couldn’t get much worse.
Simon brayed again. He nipped at Kendril’s back.
“
Another
break?” Kendril looked back at the beast. “Simon, it’s pouring out here. The sooner we’re off this trail the better. Let’s just keep--”
The mule stamped his legs, and tossed his head back and forth.
Kendril frowned, then gave a defeated sigh. “Alright. Five minutes, no more. I mean it.”
The mule gave a happy swish of his tail. Kendril ignored him.
They moved off to one side of the trail, trying as best they could to shelter under the overhang of the tree branches above them.
It didn’t do much good.
Simon nudged Kendril again, pushing him hard with his nose.
“What now?” Kendril said irritably. “You’ve got your break. Don’t push your luck.” He pulled his black cloak around him. Rain dripped from the rim of the dark hood that covered his head.
Simon whined, then pushed Kendril again.
“Stop it,” Kendril snapped. “I’m not giving you a carrot, so don’t—”
There was a crack of gunfire, and a tree about three feet away from them exploded into a flurry of bark and splinters.
For a moment Kendril just stared at it blankly, too surprised to move.
The next instant he threw himself off the forest path. He drew a pistol from his belt as he rolled into a patch of ferns.
Simon lurched back a few steps, but didn’t bolt. He settled instead on giving a loud bray.
Kendril ripped the hood back from his head, then snapped back the firing pan cover on his flintlock pistol.
He waited for a moment, listening to the sounds of the forest around them. There was nothing but the steady patter of rain falling on foliage and Simon’s soft braying.
With careful, deliberate movements, Kendril peered out of the fern bushes he was in, his pistol at the ready.
He couldn’t see very far through the falling rain. A rocky outcropping about ten feet high bordered the muddy trail ahead on the right. To the left the dark forest beckoned menacingly. A mist clung to the trees up ahead, and looked like it was slowly spreading in his direction.
Years of experience told him that the shot had come from a musket, but the accursed fog was making it hard to see the telltale smoke.
He lowered himself down again, then shifted carefully over to his left and hid behind a moss-covered stone amidst the underbrush.
Simon continued to stamp the ground anxiously.
Kendril had been wrong. He was being shot at. The day had just gotten worse.
Moving as carefully as he could, Kendril began to crawl through the undergrowth to Simon, who was still standing uncertainly in the middle of the path. Every so often Kendril stopped and peered out at the trail ahead, but he still couldn’t see a thing. Tendrils of mist began to waft in across the path, blocking his sight.
So who was ambushing him? Bandits? They usually hunted in groups. So far there had only been one shot, and fortunately for him that had been poorly aimed.
Kendril scowled, rain dripping off the leaves onto his face. It seemed rather unlikely that bandits would stake out a path like this, one that obviously hadn’t been used in some time.
Then again, maybe it made it easier for them to hide the bodies.
Simon brayed nervously.
“Steady, boy,” Kendril whispered. He pulled himself forward another foot, holding the pistol tightly in his hand. “Steady.” He glanced up the trail again.
For a moment he thought he saw movement in the trees towards the top of the rocky outcropping, off to the right of the trail.
He blinked and rubbed the rain from his eyes. At least one ambusher was up there, then.
Kendril threw a glance at the mule. The animal hadn’t bolted, at least not yet. That was a good thing, because the beast was carrying all of Kendril’s supplies on his back, including his long rifle, which jutted out from underneath one of the packs.
Kendril carefully lowered the cover for the firing pan on his pistol back down, then whipped back his black cloak and shoved the gun into his belt. His eyes never left his rifle, which swayed unsteadily on Simon’s back.
Kendril took a deep breath, tensed himself for a moment, and then sprang to his feet.
Surprised by his sudden appearance from the bushes, Simon almost started away, but Kendril was too quick.
He grabbed hold of the rifle and yanked it free of the pack, then dove for the bushes again.
There was another sharp crack, and a cloud of dirt and mud exploded two feet away from Simon’s left leg.
This time the mule reared, then bolted back up the path.
Kendril tumbled down the gentle incline to the left of the trail, wet branches slapping his face. He ripped the leather cover off the flintlock, then snapped back the hammer on the rifle.
He always kept his guns loaded and dry, even if everything else on him was soaking wet. A man’s life, especially in a place like the Howling Woods, was only as good as his gun.
Fortunately, Kendril’s rifle was the best money could buy. Bringing the firearm up to his shoulder, he sighted along the barrel, crouching in the shadows of the bushes for cover.
The mist was already beginning to flood into the forest around him, blocking his view of the outcropping.
Kendril cursed under his breath, then crouched low. He dashed off a few feet to his right and leaned against the wet bark of a nearby tree. The rifle never left his shoulder. He brought the barrel up once more and scanned the tree line on the other side of the trail.
Nothing.
He was beginning to suspect that there was only one person ambushing him. He would have seen others by now, if there had been any to see. Two or three men would have little to fear from a lone traveler in the woods. They certainly wouldn’t have stayed hidden for this long. But one man would likely stay low, reloading his musket and taking a shot when he could.
Kendril moved his gloved hand back to the stock of his rifle, his eyes never leaving the trees on the other side of the trail. He wasn’t too worried about Simon. The mule was easily startled, but he should wander back eventually. Besides, it wasn’t safe to go after the beast while there was still a sniper lurking in the undergrowth.
He waited, rain pattering softly on his mud-stained cloak and dripping off his elbows. The slimy bark of the tree pressed into the side of his face, but he never took his eyes away from the notch on the end of his rifle barrel. He remained crouched in the semi-darkness of the rain and bushes, waiting and watching.
For several minutes Kendril remained almost motionless, the long barrel of his rifle as steady as a tree branch. Rain dribbled down his face and neck. He could feel the cold drops slide underneath his collar.
Just as he was wondering if his ambusher had crept off, he saw something move.
Kendril shifted the rifle as he saw the distinct shape of someone’s head lift itself out of the bushes in the undergrowth on top of the outcropping. Through the rising mist Kendril could just make out a musket or rifle of some sort in the person’s hand.
Kendril’s finger dropped to the trigger of his rifle as he lined up the barrel. He waited two more heartbeats.
The man began to stand up cautiously, his musket at the ready.
Kendril fired.
The flint sparked and the rifle kicked back into his shoulder with a roar. Kendril’s vision was instantly obscured by a flash of flame, followed a split-second later by a blossoming cloud of smoke.
It was a good rifle, and even through the growing mist and spitting rain it was a hard shot for a marksman like Kendril to miss.
There was a shriek of pain, followed by a strangled curse that echoed down the trail.
Kendril leapt out onto the trail and slung the rifle onto his back by its strap. He dashed through several growing puddles on the path as he drew two pistols from beneath his cloak, holding one in each hand.
As he reached the start of the trees by the outcropping safely, he dodged into the undergrowth for cover. His breath panted out in white wisps in the cold air as he knelt down in the wet ferns, pistols at the ready. He scanned the trees and bushes around him for a moment, then re-holstered his pistols, took the rifle off his back and carefully began the process of reloading it. As he did so he continued to watch the forest in front of him carefully.
