by Jodi Ralston
TOWER OF TRIALS
Book One of Guardian Spirit
By
Jodi Ralston
Copyright March 2015 Jodi Ralston.
Smashwords Edition.
Published by Chiaroscuro House, LLC. Website: Chiaroscuro House, LLC (Dark).
Cover design by Jodi Ralston. Images: “Fantasy World” by Ellerslie/Shutterstock. Smoke texture by Fotocitizen/Pixabay.
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Summary of Story
In Avalon, half spirits face an ordeal to shed the last of their humanity and become powerful beings that dutifully serve the gods. That won’t be easy for Guard who was abandoned as an infant at the City of the Dead. He doesn’t know his human name or family, just that a part of him is still, ironically, haunted by humankind.
For this twenty-one-year-old half spirit, his ordeal approaches in the form of a young human woman. Lydia seeks the shade of her recently deceased fiancé. To restore her fiancé’s life, she must defeat the Trials of The City’s Tower and summon the shade from The Vault. Failure at any point means she will join the shade in death. For Guard, his prize is won by guiding her, whatever outcome she may earn.
While they struggle with the physical challenges in the Tower, Guard becomes more and more involved in his charge’s plight. This wakens the human emotion of compassion in him, making it difficult for him to become what he was raised to be: a guardian of the home he loves, the City of the Dead.
CHAPTER 1
The ghost seated opposite Guard stopped talking midsentence and slipped through a crack in the broken, white courtyard. Guard, pushing back the hood of his gray duster, saw that she did not act alone. Everywhere white aetheric smoke curled into hiding places; not one ghost lingered to explain.
So he guessed. “Something’s coming to Holm,” he whispered and grabbed his vanilla-like-scented bone-wood bow. His gray-gloved hand tightened. “Or has already come.”
Guard refastened his six-arrow quiver as he rose, thinking, West Arcade, West Entry. Last year a pack of ghouls had attacked from that direction. At that memory, his quiver shivered and merged with his duster, becoming just another part of the armor of magicked gray cloth.
On a nearby building, something white fluttered in the moonlight, resembling a tattered curtain on the white wall. That building had no curtains because it, like his home, had no window, only a doorless entrance. As Guard approached, the smoke retreated. Eyes whiter than the ancient bone-white of Holm stared from a fissure in the brick. Then the black pupils slid toward the covered western road.
“Thanks,” Guard whispered even as his chest tightened. He dashed through shadows, heading for that broad passage. Pressing his back against the crumbling, open archway of the arcade, he held his breath, listening, fingers playing with his bowstring. Ghouls were swift of foot and fast of wing. They liked to leap from heights, like wildcats, down upon prey. They might be snuffling after a shrinking ghost, or they might be perched in a break in the roof, lying in wait. They had done so before.
That was how Guard’s adoptive father, the Guardian Spirit of Holm of Kaskey, had fallen three years ago when Guard was eighteen.
A moment passed. Then another. Guard heard no scuttling claws. No gnashing teeth. No rock dislodged to bounce against stone walls or stone floor. Guard heard . . . silence.
He softly released his breath. To steady his nerves, he raised his gray hood up and over his dark blond hair, willing it to full-armor status. It shivered once; thereafter, it would stay in place until he lowered it. The edges faded to semitransparency from his perspective, allowing a greater range of vision while leaving him protected by its magic. Those looking from the outside would see no change, just a hood. Ready, he ducked into the passage and ran as noiselessly as any full spirit would down the white cobblestones, knowing by heart the gaps and debris that would catch another mortal’s foot. So Guard went, bypassing uncovered side roads, pausing only at the archway that opened onto Western Forecourt. There he listened to . . .
Breathing. In addition to the steady lapping of the river Kaskey at the island upon which this City of the Dead sat, he heard breathing. But he did not detect the rotting odor of weak ghouls: the ones newly made or the starving. Guard crouched, lips pressed tight, and reluctantly reined in his aether-enhanced senses. Stronger ghouls sensed that probing, and they could return the favor, striking that much faster, turning hunter into a meal.
It was almost time to make his move. But he would wait until the last possible moment to draw an arrow, for the vanilla-like-scented bone-wood quiver would shortly replace a loosed arrow with another. A ghoul might lift its head to sniff that trace of magic, getting struck in the process—or it might just lunge without the hesitation, dodging. The group that had taken his foster-father had done worse. It had ripped Fuller apart before Fuller could reach for an arrow. He died bow unused and sword unsheathed. They had devoured his midsection before Guard’s first arrow cracked a thick, misshapen skull. He picked off two more before grabbing his father’s sword and slicing through the eyes and mouths on the last one’s reaching limbs.
But this time Guard had no sword, always forgetting it. He just had his favored weapon, the bow, which never left his side.
Guard closed his eyes. Pushed aside the memories and the fear. Took in one last deep breath. Then he thought, Now. Now. Pulling an arrow and nocking it, he lunged from cover.
Then he relaxed his draw.
A mortal man, not a ghoul, sat beside one of several headless statues, which crouched where green grass met bone-white cobblestone. This man had brought gear, a lantern, and a shrouded corpse on a travois. It, like all dead humans, cast no shadow.
Guard had been among human mortals for an hour last year, in Camlann, Holm’s nearest mortal town. Every year he borrowed his adoptive mother’s bayard horse, but this time, upon his return home, she announced that now he was twenty she would no longer so bless the anniversary of his adoption. Then she swung up on Susurrus, who had already shrunk to fit her slighter form. Mother’s guardian spirit barely paused to nod at him as she rode in her charge’s wake.
Now Guard found himself studying this human as he did those in Camlann’s main marketplace. This mortal faced the statue, his back to the corpse. Though bundled against the cold winter night, his profile could not hide his youth. Early twenties? Guard was no great judge of living flesh. A spirit’s age froze on the day he or she was made, except in the case of shades and ghosts. Those types of spirit determined their own humanlike form, which could be vague and any age. Even so, no ghost looked perfectly human, so alive, so healthy as this mortal whose skin was ruddy with cold. Beneath his knit cap, straight, light blond hair brushed stubbly cheeks. Guard rubbed his own skin but didn’t need to remove his gray gloves to know nothing would catch. Lately it took three months to grow any facial hair. A good sign. Spirits did not have beards and mustaches. Though they did have a head of hair, a leftover from their mortal shell. When this man dug in his bag and extracted something iron smelling, Guard shook himself and remembered his duty.
Holm was like all of Purgatory’s Cities of the Dead, hidden, coexisting in the same space as mortal properties or landforms. Rare were the mortals who could sense or find one, but that did not mean these mortals were welcome at City entrances; neither were the corpses they dragged behind them on litters. Iron especially was forbidden. The man was a fool, something Guard needed no arrow to frighten away. Guard replaced it in the quiver. Simpler methods would suffice. Just a little scare, but not so much he would forget to take his corpse with him.
Guard closed his duster without buttoning it with his free hand and shut his eyes. He pictured h
is body as smoke. Gray smoke. What came easy to all spirits, sometimes fought one not yet fully of their number. Heat filled his body and then stabbed like a hundred burning needles, but he ignored that, unraveling himself thread by thread, between one breath and the next, until he was breathing himself out into the crisp night air. Finally, the last of his form gave away, much like the reverberation of a bowstring pulled taut and then loosed. Aetherized, Guard formed two baleful eyes and several tendrils—and whipped toward the man, unleashing his most terrible growl. He reached for the startled face.
Movement. From behind the statute.
Before he could counter, a net was thrown. It dragged him down to the stones, forced him back into mortal form, which felt like it had too few and too many limbs all at once. His vision blazed white, and he heard his bow clatter to the ground. He grunted in pain; louder when someone threw him- or herself upon his shoulders and head, pinning him down.
The young man; it came from that direction, and the shout confirmed it: “Now, Lydia, now! The collar!”
And just as his vision cleared, something was thrust through the wide spacing of the net, closed around Guard’s neck, and snapped shut. The device was cold and heavy, but not magicked. “I have you now, Spirit!” a woman’s voice crowed. She hopped back from the net, coat and skirts swishing. When Guard did not move, she nodded. “Percy, you can release your hold.” She waved an iron key. “He is bound to me by the iron collar.”
“Good to hear it, dear.” Her male lifted off Guard. “Now, you don’t want to catch a cold.” He moved away, and soon his gloved hand held out a white-furred muff. Then he frowned at it. “What do you have tucked in here? It’s heavy.”
While she urged him to leave it be, to carefully return it to her bag, for she didn’t need it, and besides he had no leave to mess with her possessions in the first place, Guard flexed his hands, his legs. Though it smarted, skin torn between hot prickles and cold numbness, he could move. He clenched a fist. But Guard did not dare move much. The young woman had caught him in an ironweed net—he could see the dried purple flowers here and there. This bane would not harm him in his human form, but if even one fell in the forecourt, he’d have to scrub the stones for a week before weaker spirits could cross it. Dangerous.
How did this woman know how to wield these hateful items?
Why had he not looked for a trap?
This cunning woman, she looked young, younger than her man. And beautiful: black-haired, dark-eyed, with a round face full of color and life, she seemed as sprightly as the loose curls that bounced against the green scarf about her neck, curls freed from fur-lined, green hat.
Guard’s gaze slid to toward their covered corpse. They sought to defy death. To do so, they had captured a spirit. Or so they had thought.
Dangerous, brave trespassers.
But were they foolish?
Likely. They had trapped only a half spirit, a cambion. One they no longer deemed a threat. The woman named Lydia was not watching Guard. Instead, she was smiling down at her companion named Percy, who was smiling stupidly back up at her.
They were so distracted by each other, Guard considered aetherizing and escaping. Then thought better of it. The ironweed would be distracting and painful, but it might react violently to the transition, exploding everywhere, threatening those he guarded. And the iron—he carefully reached up and touched the collar—it would fight him even though he was only a cambion.
No, he’d wait . . . and learn more. Be cautious where he failed to be last time.
The young woman turned to Guard, and her smile fell. “I wonder what sort of spirit he is. He looks rather . . . human. And those eyes, they are rather pretty.” She gazed into her companion’s eyes, but his darker gray color meant nothing. Just a hue some mortals possessed. They did not indicate one touched by death, raised by spirits to become a guardian.
Besides, the man was blushing. Full spirits did not blush.
Weakness, such human emotions. Yet which being, human or cambion, had been tricked?
Lydia looked away from her male, blushing herself now and saying too loudly, “I mean the eyes are not baleful or scary in the least. Nor is his face.”
This unfroze her man. He scrambled for his bag and dragged it back to her side. “D-do you need R-Ravenscar’s journal, dea—Lydia?”
She shook her head, pouting. “No, he is a spirit, which means he is bound by the rules.” She lowered herself before “her captive,” carefully tucking her skirts beneath her knees. “Spirit, you will guide us safely through your frightful City to our . . . to my fiancé’s shade. You will see us three safely from this place after he is alive once more. And I will declare it twice more to bind you to my purpose.” And she did.
When she was done, Guard knew enough, and marveled at it. He had almost failed Holm and its denizens. But he had not because Purgatory smiled on this little City of hers; if he had been the full spirit that he longed to become, the trespassers would not have temporarily impeded him. They would have bound him. Won. Leaving this City of the Dead defenseless.
Ghouls were simple. Guardians killed them. But humans? Rules protected them from too much harm. So his plan hinged on succeeding at his original goal—scaring them. He hoped they would flee The City, but he counted only on delaying a new attack. To forcibly remove them, he needed the ability to safely aetherize. Thus a brief retreat was called for. And iron-cutting tools.
His plan was set: Delay. Retreat. Cut. Return. Remove.
Simple.
Time to begin.
Guard sat up. Carefully. He tugged at the ironweed net. Gently. With his fingertips, an inch at a time. He left his bow by his side, untouched, non-threatening.
“You are ready to obey? I thought you would . . . protest, lash about a little, or . . . ” She raised her pointed chin. “Good, Spirit. I applaud your compliance. Once you have done your duty, I will free you. I will swear this thrice.” Afterward, in a normal tone, she said, “Help me remove the net, Percy.”
“If you are certain.” They drew it off Guard.
Not a single dry flower fell. Guard sighed and relaxed. Just for a second.
Then, as they were bundling it away, heads so close their puffed breaths mingled, he picked up his bow and stood. He stalked over to their crouched forms. “Mortals, leave and take your corpse with you.” He pointed his bow down the hill, to where he heard something rocking in the fast current, their boat. “You are not welcome here.” He turned on his bootheel and marched back to the archway of the arcade.
“Wait!” There was a scamper of shoes on stone, followed by a shouted “Lydia!” Then the woman was before him, waving her iron key under his nose. She peered up into his hooded face. “You must obey! I have bound you in iron and by the number three. I control you!”
Guard smiled. She clutched her key close to her breast.
By this point, her companion had reached her and thrust her behind himself. Poor protection, given the mortals were of the same height and he was barely broader than she.
Before the one named Lydia could renew her demands or claw her way out from behind the one named Percy, Guard spoke, “You are mistaken. I am not a spirit.”
“No, you must be!” She clutched onto her companion’s shoulder and arm, peering around his slender form. “You must! You can’t be human. You—you were in spirit form.” Her almost shade-black eyes grew wet as she whispered, “And we need you so.”
Her man’s eyes crept back toward the corpse they had left behind. “What are you going to do, Spir—Denizen of Purgatory? I will not let you harm Ly—this woman.”
More misinformation. Names were tools in mortal hands, not spirits’. But Guard did not enlighten the humans. Instead, he broadened his smile and watched them shake under it. Good. “Lydia. Percy.” They clutched each other. Great. “I depart to undo this.” He gestured at his throat. “If I find you lingering, I will not treat you kindly. Rather you will see a guardian’s wrath. You have been warned.”
&
nbsp; With that, Guard marched past their flinching forms into the covered passageway.
Wonderful.
He’d run once out of sight.
CHAPTER 2
In the courtyard outside Guard’s home was company: Mace, his foster-mother’s guardian; Mace’s dapple-gray bayard horse; and Mother’s young bayard horse, Susurrus. Mace walked toward him, holding out a hand and tipping back her gray hood from her long, dark hair. “Reaper Swift awaits you in your home.”
“The mortals . . . ” He pointed back the way he had come.
“They will keep.”
He doubted it.
“That’s an order, Guard.”
Guard nodded. At least, this had been his destination anyway. He stepped over the doorless threshold and heard Susurrus following; his hoofs, shod in bone-wood, rang out like death knells.
Mother’s firm voice emerged, “Not you, Susurrus. I will speak to my foster-son alone.”
Guard looked over his shoulder. The sorrel bayard, who had shrunk himself to pet-pony size, paused with one hoof poised in the air. Then, with a snort of discontent, he turned and fake lipped at dead grass, as if snapping at the brittle forage were his original intention for stepping forward.
“The young,” Mother said with a sigh, “rarely do what they are told. Rarest yet is the youth who obeys without complaint. Son, what are you doing?”
She stood in the middle of his one-room home, a distance Guard covered in two quick strides. She had not bothered to tip back the red hood of her duster, but she did hold out a gloved hand. No sooty darkness stained the red. He took it. She had not been reaping recently; she must have been watching him. He knelt before her red boots, head lowered, still clasping her hand, and set his bow down on the white stones.
“Mother.” She must have disapproved of his handling of the humans and was calling him to task. “I know the trespassers have not fled, but I will succeed there once I remove and dispose of this iron.”