Ghostfire

by Christopher Golden

  I’ll just rest for a moment, he told himself, laying his head back against the seat. But it wasn’t long before he was asleep, pulled into the realm of dream as if caught in the current of Patience’s emerald green ocean.

  He dreamed of his father’s embrace.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he told his father, running to him across the beach of his interdimensional hideaway, burying his face in the thickness of his father’s robes. Timothy felt his father’s arms around him, and could even smell the scent of him—a pleasing aroma, equal parts old books and parchments and the spicy aroma of the Maddis leaves Argus Cade had often smoked in his pipe. The smell immediately put Timothy at ease, making him feel safe and secure. Here in his father’s arms, nothing could harm him.

  But the air around him grew suddenly cold and damp, and Timothy looked up to see that he was no longer upon the beach on Patience, but somewhere else entirely. The place was poorly lit and made of stone, and all around him he could hear the moans of those who had been jailed for crimes against the Parliament of Mages—for crimes against the world.

  Timothy knew this place well.

  Abaddon.

  Arcanum was the capital city of Sunderland, which was still a country in its own right, though such boundaries no longer meant very much with the worldwide Parliament of Mages having become so powerful.

  Even so, there was still a certain amount of local government, and that included the imprisonment of criminals. Sunderland’s major prison was Abaddon, located deep beneath the Sunnis Ocean. It was where Verlis had been briefly imprisoned by Parliament, not for any crime, but for what he was. Timothy had broken him out of there. Abaddon was one of the most horrible places Timothy had ever visited. He had wished never to see the inside of Abaddon again, but here he was.

  “Why are we here?” he asked.

  “It’s where you belong,” said a cruel, cold voice. Not his father’s voice at all. Timothy looked up into the face seething with hate.

  Constable Grimshaw smiled, his teeth incredibly sharp. The Constable’s grip upon Timothy’s arm tightened as he struggled to get free.

  “What’s the matter, boy?” Grimshaw asked. “Haven’t you missed me as well?” The Constable started to laugh; one of the most horrible of sounds he had ever heard.

  Timothy awoke with a gasp to find Leander and Verlis watching him with cautious eyes.

  “Dreams?” the Wurm asked, shifting in the seat across from the boy, still not comfortable with the flying arrangements.

  “More like a nightmare,” Tim replied. He wiped cool drops of sweat from his brow and leaned his head back with a sigh. “I dreamt of my father.”

  “And that is a nightmare?” Verlis asked, confused.

  “He didn’t stay my father; he turned into Constable Grimshaw, and we were in Abaddon.”

  The Wurm nodded his horned head. “I see. That is a nightmare.”

  Timothy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced over to see Leander busily writing in an oversize journal. It was unusual to find the Grandmaster actually using a writing instrument, magic being the typical means by which words were put to parchment. But Timothy was seated right beside the mage, and the strange magic-negating aura that surrounded him could sometimes wreak havoc with writing spells. In close quarters, particularly traveling together, Leander had found it much wiser to use a pen.

  Leander looked up from his scribbling. “You needn’t worry about Grimshaw. In dream or reality.” The Grandmaster closed his book. “It appears that the Constable has joined the ranks of the missing.”

  Timothy felt a cold finger of dread touch his neck. Mages were still disappearing in the city, and no one could figure out what fate had befallen them. It was one of Parliament’s chief concerns, along with the impending Wurm invasion. But Constable Grimshaw was an evil man, and whatever happened to him was deserved as far as he was concerned. If he shared the fate of the other missing mages, Timothy had no sympathy for him.

  He gazed out the window of the carriage to see that they were now traveling over a densely wooded area, the forests of Yarrith. He had read that the forest stretched for miles, and had always wanted to see it. It was like a blanket of green, extending for as far as the eye could see. It was considered one of the last truly untamed regions in Sunderland.

  “Not long now,” Verlis said, also gazing out at the thick green below. “I sense that we are close.”

  “You sense it?” Timothy asked.

  The Wurm nodded. “In here,” he said, placing a clawed hand against his chest. The scales there were thicker, almost like armored plating. “As the spirits of your dead live on in the blazing energy that is ghostfire, the spirits of the Wurm continue to exist as well, leaving a piece of themselves behind before soaring on to a land beyond.”

  Timothy was fascinated; there was still so much that he did not know about Verlis and his people, their customs and beliefs, and he hoped that someday he would have the chance to learn all there was.

  “Tora’nah is a special place,” Verlis said as they flew above the forested land. “A spiritual place. Hopefully there we will find the answers we seek.”

  Timothy looked away from the window and placed his hand upon his satchel. Inside were his notes and plans for the construction of the larger Burrower machine they would need for mining in Tora’nah. The Parliament believed that under the ground there they might find a solution to their current predicament.

  “So all the materials needed to construct the full-size Burrower are already at Tora’nah?” he asked.

  “Everything to your specifications,” Leander confirmed.

  Timothy stared at his sketches and notes again. “Do you really think this will work?”

  Leander gestured for the boy to hand over his papers, and he did so willingly. It was the Grandmaster’s turn to peruse the intricate drawings and designs.

  “If we’re careful,” Leander said. “And if your machine works as well as we hope.”

  The ancient Wurm had mined a rare mineral from the soil at Tora’nah. A Wurm scientist called Malleus had discovered natural deposits of a metal ore that was unusually soft and pliable … until it was touched by magic. Once it came into contact with magic, the metal—called Malleum after its discoverer—was the hardest substance on the planet. Unbreakable. Impenetrable. All of which meant that it had to be removed from the ground by physical rather than magical means. If they tried to use magic to unearth it, the metal would harden instantly and be useless. It could not be made into weapons or armor then.

  No, the Malleum had to be dug up without the use of magic, forged in fire, and hammered into whatever form it would eventually take. Only then would it be touched by magic … which would transform it from soft to unbreakable.

  “The Burrower will save a great deal of time,” Verlis said. “We do not know when Raptus will break through the barrier, so there is no time to spare. The sooner the Malleum can be forged into weapons and armor, the better for all of us. The time for war has come to Terra again.”

  Verlis turned away, gazing out the window of the sky carriage.

  Timothy took the plans back from Leander and studied them with a new eye, already thinking of revisions to the machine that could smooth the process. “You know,” he said, mostly to himself, “I think we could do this better—make it more efficient.”

  He borrowed the pen that Leander had been using and started to draw.

  Hours passed and many miles passed beneath them before Timothy Cade again lifted his head from his work.

  They called it Alhazred’s Divide, the wall of magical energy that had been erected to seal the breach between the other-dimensional world of Draconae from Terra, keeping the Wurm race away from the world of the mages forever. It extended as far as the eye could see to the north and south, and from the ground to the sky. The barrier distorted the air so that it shimmered. Timothy Cade had been to that world and back with Verlis, and sometimes still had nightmares about the Wurms’ volcanic city a
nd about Raptus, the cruel general who commanded them all. He had seen with his own eyes the Wurm sorcerers who worked with fierce determination to tear down that barrier from the other side. The very thought made him shudder. From the window of the carriage Timothy could see the other sky craft that had been journeying with them as they prepared to set down at the Tora’nah encampment. The land around them was bleak, rocky, and foreboding, not at all like the rich and fertile regions they had traveled over on their way here. He could see the small village that the workers at Tora’nah had set up for their mining operation. One of the buildings was a large rectangular structure with tall chimneys.

  “What is that? Not living quarters?” Timothy asked, pointing.

  “No. That is the Forge,” Leander replied. “Where the Malleum will be fashioned into tools for war. Other than your Burrower, it is the most important part of the operation.”

  “We are descending,” Caiaphas called from his seat, and Timothy felt the craft’s downward motion in the hollow of his belly.

  He had learned to love the sensation of flying in a sky carriage, but was still always a little nervous when it came to landing. Since he was not able to do it himself, he had never learned to trust the power of magic. Timothy looked over at the powerful form of Verlis. The Wurm was still gazing out the window as the cold gray landscape came up to meet them.

  “I was but a young hatchling when last I was here,” Verlis said quietly. “But the memories of what it once was—before the conflict with the mages—are still incredibly clear.”

  The sky carriage gently touched down upon the uneven ground, a testament to Caiaphas’s skill.

  Leander opened the door. “That was the past, friend Verlis,” the Grandmaster said, stepping from the craft. “Let us see what we can do about forging a far better future—for both our races.”

  Timothy followed Leander, waiting as Verlis carefully extracted himself from the carriage. It was much colder at Tora’nah, thick gray clouds blotting out the sun. Timothy shivered, pulling the collar of his tunic up around his throat, but he wasn’t sure if the reaction was entirely from the cold. There was something truly foreboding about this place, something that filled the boy with unease.

  “What was it like before?” Timothy asked his friend. “Before the war with the mages?”

  Verlis stretched his wings and glanced around, plumes of smoke rising from his snout. “There was life here then—in the sky, in the dirt and rock—but the fighting, the amount of combat magic released … it has left the land spiritless.”

  Leander had gone to speak with the other members of the expedition force, but in the midst of their conversation, the men and women sent by Parliament were all staring at Timothy and Verlis. Grandmaster Maddox noticed that the others of his group were not listening especially closely to him, and Timothy watched as Leander realized how rude they were behaving. Yet in that moment when he ought to have chided his fellow mages, he instead shot an angry glance at Timothy and Verlis.

  “Is something wrong?” the mage asked, an edge in his voice.

  Timothy glanced at Verlis, who still seemed distracted by this return to the ruins of his once great society. The boy was about to reply for both of them when Verlis spoke up.

  “Much is wrong here,” said the Wurm, turning toward the Grandmaster and the other representatives of Parliament. “Much has … changed, since I last walked this ground.”

  A sudden, cool gust of wind arose, and the way it whipped across the desolate landscape seemed to cry out in a mournful voice. The entire gathering seemed affected by the sorrowful wind of Tora’nah. The mages ended their conversation, and the tension evaporated. With the sad song of the wind in his ears. Timothy remembered what Verlis had said earlier about the spirits of his people, and wondered if this might be the voice of their loss.

  Movement off to his right caught Timothy’s attention, and he moved away from the sky carriage to get a better look. Atop a small hill, Timothy saw a village of huts, an encampment set up by the first of Parliament’s workers to arrive. The workers were coming out from their shelters to welcome them.

  “Greetings!” called a tall gentleman with a thick head of graying hair. “You must be Timothy Cade,” he said, bowing at the waist in greeting. “I am Walter Telford, the project manager, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard some amazing things about your skill as an inventor.”

  Timothy liked the man almost immediately due to his friendly demeanor as well as the fact that Walter Telford didn’t seem at all put off by the knowledge of his … handicap. He bowed back. “Pleased to meet you as well.”

  “Walter,” Leander called, striding ahead of the other members of the expedition. “It’s good to see you again.”

  The two men embraced warmly.

  “Are you well?” Telford asked. “You look so pale, my friend. Don’t tell me that the comfortable life of a grandmaster is too much work for you.”

  Telford laughed and hugged the burly mage again. It was reassuring for Timothy to hear that others were concerned for Leander’s health.

  “A by-product of the job, I’m afraid to say,” Leander replied quickly, waving away Walter’s concerns. He quickly changed the subject. “Imagine my surprise and elation when I heard you would be supervising this operation. I’d thought they would have put you out to pasture years ago.”

  Telford laughed aloud again. It was a cheerful sound and one that seemed a bit out of place in the grim landscape of Tora’nah.

  Timothy looked around for Verlis and saw the Wurm standing alone in front of Alhazred’s Divide. He approached, but did not get too close, so that his aura of negation would not affect the ancient spell.

  “Verlis?”

  “Raptus is on the other side,” the Wurm said. He reached out a clawed hand and placed it upon the shimmering wall of magic. “I can feel his anger—his rage. He will do everything in his power to tear this barrier asunder.”

  Timothy started to move closer, but thought better of it, remaining where he was. “Don’t worry. We’ll stop him.”

  The Wurm lowered his horned head and sighed, small jets of fire shooting from his nostrils. “I wish that I felt your confidence. But I sense impending disaster.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of someone walking toward them across the rock-covered ground. The boy turned to find Walter Telford approaching.

  “Timothy?” Telford called. “We’re about to show everyone to their quarters. Would you and your friend like to come?”

  The boy smiled, liking the man even more. Telford treated both him and Verlis as true members of the expedition team, not as freaks. He glanced back at Verlis, still standing before Alhazred’s Divide, and guessed that the Wurm might like some time alone.

  “I’ll show him later, if that would be all right,” he said. “But I’d like to go.”

  Walter responded with a smile, gesturing for him to follow, and Timothy did just that, accompanying the man back to the encampment. Each hut was small but cozy, consisting of a cot and a small desk to work on. Verlis’s quarters were located right next door to Timothy’s.

  The project manager left Timothy to settle in, recommending that he take a short nap to refresh himself after his long journey.

  Walter had laughed heartily, saying that the boy was going to need his rest, for they planned on working him quite hard. The cot did look thin and lumpy but turned out to be surprisingly comfortable, and he soon found himself drifting off.

  Timothy wasn’t sure what it was that awakened him, but as his eyes opened, he sensed that something was wrong. It was dark now, and as he got up from his bed he wondered how long he had been asleep. He removed from his satchel a small lantern capable of containing hungry fire. Using a match from his tool kit, he lit the lantern. Hoping to dispel his uneasiness, he shone the light about his quarters, throwing flickering firelight into the inky pools of shadow.

  Something moved in a gloomy corner, swiftly scurrying from one patch of da
rkness to the next in an attempt to remain unseen. Timothy gasped, nearly dropping the lantern. It was an animal of some kind, large for something that could move with such speed and stealth. From the quick glimpses he got, it seemed almost furless, its skin a sickly pale hue.

  The unknown animal darted beneath his cot, and Timothy stumbled back away from it. He was tempted to cry out for help, but he knew that the representatives from Parliament and many other members of the expedition were probably watching him, waiting for him to do something foolish. If this was just some local wildlife, he didn’t want to cause an unnecessary ruckus. No, unless he was sure he was in danger, he would deal with the matter on his own.

  He quickly hauled the rumpled blanket from the bed and then leaped up onto it. Standing in the center of the cot, he crouched tensely, ready to use the heavy cover as a net to trap his unwanted visitor the moment it attempted to escape. When it did not immediately race out from its hiding place, Timothy began to jump up and down on the cot, trying to drive it out. For a moment he thought he would have to find something to poke it with, but then the pale-skinned creature shot out from beneath the bed.

  Timothy sprang from his perch, a scream equal parts excitement and fear escaping his lips. He landed on the floor in a crouch, throwing the woven blanket over the scurrying intruder, then leaped atop it in an attempt to restrain the beast.

  The animal was far stronger than Timothy expected, and it thrashed, growled, and hissed, trying to escape the blanket. Timothy was thrown aside and before he could regain control, the creature escaped, moving with incredible speed toward the door. Timothy was up in an instant and tried to pursue it, but such was its speed that it was already gone. He stared dumbfounded as the door to his hut swung back and forth in the evening breeze.