by Chris Ward
Four seasons under a spell he thought. This is a long time to live in such a manner and I do not know what I can do. And then he looked upon Rayven and saw she wore but a most flimsy gown and in that moment he knew he could not leave them there at all. ‘I will not go to KingsLoss despite what I agreed,’ he said into the still air of the tomb. ‘I cannot leave you here in this strange and haunted place without protection. Who knows what mischief the ghosts of this valley will get up to...’He nodded as if to convince himself that he had decided truly. ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I will stay...come what may.’ And then he went to Rayven and with a piece of twine from the pocket of his tunic he measured her, remembering easily for his mind stored such things without the slightest loss. ‘You will need some clothes when you wake Rayven daughter of My Lady,’ he whispered again. I will see what I can do for you.’
And then the sudden sound of stone crashing upon stone came to him, echoing down into the tomb, and Orcxyl smiled. ‘Ah ghost you tried to trap me,’ he said, and within a moment he had returned to the door of the tomb which indeed had swung shut but was blocked by the stone he had placed there for that very purpose. He chuckled to himself. ‘This will be most interesting,’ he said, and went out into the night, and having called the horses to him he settled by the fire and soon fell fast asleep.
The strange kingly ghost watched for a while from a distance and then came and sat by the dying fire and looked about. It peered intently at the sleeping figure and then went to the horses which knew it was there but could not see it. The ghost seemed most impressed by the mighty steeds and walked around and around them. The horses whinnied to each other and kept close but they were only a little unsettled, and indeed the ghost made no move to upset them at all. Then it returned to where Orcxyl lay and sat by him for the rest of the night until with the new day it faded and walked off up the Valley.
Orcxyl woke to find his camp rearranged for things had been moved in the night.
Indeed we will have some fun, Orcxyl thought, as he replaced the things where they had been before. And then he went to see to the horses that came at his call and he looked to their needs which were not great for everywhere the grass was long and lush and a small clear stream of the most wonderful water ran through the valley. Orcxyl then looked about him at the Valley of the Kings lying still in the early morning sun and thought it a most beautiful place. And having eaten a simple meal from what remained of their supplies he took his hunting knife and went to the tomb. On the outside of the great stone door he inscribed a mark, a single vertical groove, and having done this he returned to his camp fire and sat for a while enjoying the fresh morning, the smell of smoke and the peace which surrounded him.
And from a distance all the while the faded ghost watched everything.
Orcxyl rested till the noon for he too was greatly wearied by the efforts of the past days. Despite Tyron’s assurances the wolves had come, and he had fought them alone upon the slopes of Svalbard, and with the horses had defeated them, slaying five. He had kept watch without rest until the others had returned and all the while the bravest of the wolves prowled nearby. Only when he killed their huge leader did they howl mournfully and disappear into the night. He lay now beneath the sloping stone and saw above him the ancient runes of another time. He did not know what they said, but the evenness of the carvings upon the stone was beautiful to him and he wondered who had taken such care and what great things were spoken of. He thought then of his own people far off by the edge of the Gnabi desert and his beloved grasslands and the sea that swalloed the land. He thought of Freya and her death and the great grief he had carried always like a mighty tear in his heart; a wound which had never healed.
There is nothing to go back to, he thought sadly. And the great hunter wept.
The ghost came closer at the sound of his weeping for Orcxyl was now overcome with a great sadness which he had always kept locked away and denied any expression. Until now, when all alone in a far land under a ancient stone bearing the runes of a lost time and its forgotten people, and with his companions enchanted and cast into a nether world beyond any intervention. And Orcxyl felt then the sweet sorrow of his grief and he at last allowed it to rule him, safe in the knowledge that none knew or saw or would demand why.
Save the ghost of the Valley of the Kings who sat close by and watched in puzzlement as the great hunter wept like a child.
And when he was worn out with his weeping Orcxyl composed himself and went and walked about the Valley. He inspected every tomb and saw they were all alike. They stood perhaps six cubits above the grass, mighty mounds lined with tall narrow stones upon the sides. Each tomb held a stone door sealed shut and Orcxyl marvelled at the closeness of the fit for he took his hunting knife and could not slip it between the cracks. And the doors all faced south down the valley to where the mighty standing stones seemed to point toward them. Upon each of the tombs, high up, Orcxyl found a shaft covered with a thick flat stone. All the shafts on all the tombs were sealed by such stones save one which had no covering at all and so Orcxyl peered down into the depth of the tomb beneath his feet and could see nothing, but he wondered what lay there, and as he did the ghost stood close by with a drawn sword and considered whether to kill the man. But the man turned with a smile and it seemed to the ghost that the smile was at him and so it did not move and watched as the man walked away.
Orcxyl went back to the tomb where his friends lay asleep under Zydor’s spell. To his horror he found the door fast shut and the stone moved away and replaced where he had taken it from.
So you still touch this world ghost, he thought, which means that sword you bear can cut me down. No wonder this place is a horror to any who linger too long. Haunted and deadly. He thought longer on this and then whispered quietly in puzzlement.
‘Then why do I still live, ghost? Why did you not slay me in my sleep?’ He had no answer but instead turned his mind to the sealed door. How do I open this? he thought. And can they breathe, for there is no gap for air around this door?’ Orcxyl remembered the shafts upon the other tombs and quickly climbed up onto the roof. With a mighty effort he slid back the stone cover on the shaft which like the others projected up a cubit from the high point of the burial mound. He felt a small breath of stale warm air brush past his face as he peered down into the darkness.
‘Sleep well my friends,’ Orcxyl whispered down into the hole, ‘I am still here and I will not leave you.’ And his words reverberated around the vault below where in the dark the five slept on without moving, their breathing slowed, and now almost imperceptible. They were cold but not frozen. They were alive and yet dead. Half way between two realms.
And they dreamed Such wonderful dreams.
The ghost was angry now. The man had no right to move the stones. No mortal could be allowed disturb this place. The stone at the door was crime enough but the cover on the shaft was sacred. What if he moved the others? What then? The ghost came up behind the man and swung his sword. He heard the blade whistle through the air as of old, but he knew the man would know nothing. Instant death. Death unseen.
The blade caught Orcxyl on the left side of the neck. He felt a sudden tremor, but it was only for an instant. This was replaced by a mighty cold shiver which ran right throughout his body. He stiffened with the shock and then it was over. The blade passed through his neck and the ghost swung around with the momentum of the swing, almost full circle before it held the blade still once more. Orcxyl knew immediately what had happened but did not react. He was unharmed and still stood, his head upon his shoulders. He smiled and then turned and walked back down off the burial mound without looking back at the ghost which he knew had crept up behind him. But as Orcxyl he went, he wondered why he had not died.
The ghost was fuming and raged about upon the mound for such a thing was not possible. A score of men had he slain in this manner. Grave robbers and fools all, and their headless bodies had been taken over the hill and into the forest where the wolves gladly feas
ted on them. But this man had not so much as flinched and then walked away.
How? raged the ghost. And then it felt fear. I cannot stop him. What power do I have? And then it calmed. I have the others. They sleep by some enchantment but surely I can slay them. And so the ghost followed the man back to his camp and sat close by and watched him. The man called the horses and the ghost watched as they came to him; such beautiful beasts. ‘These are the lost horses of KingsLoss,’ the ghost muttered to itself and did not know that the man heard him. ‘Long did I covet them.’ And the ghost walked about the horses and they did not seem nervous for the man spoke gently to them and reassured them that they were safe. And the ghost marvelled for no horse had ever stood proudly like these when he had been close by them.
‘This man is a wizard,’ the ghost muttered, ‘and yet he has not the aura of such a one.’
And Orcxyl heard his words for his ears were the ears of the great hunter and he smiled for he knew he had the measure of this ghost. And so he took his bow and quiver of poison arrows and went hunting. He walked up the hill to the west and out of the Valley of the Kings followed by the ghost, which at the crest of the hill sat upon a rock and waited and did not go further although it wanted to most desperately.
Ah, thought Orcxyl, the Valley of the Kings is your prison. And then a familiar feeling returned to him. The anticipation of the hunt. His nostrils flared, he smelt the forest and all it offered, and his ears increased their sensitivity and his eyes sought out the tracks which would lead him to his quarry. He knew there would be no large prey for the abundant wolves hunted by night and would take all deer or similar creatures which could not find shelter underground. Foxes and rabbits and hares he thought. A nice Revel hare for dinner, that is what I desire. And so he found the faint tracks of two and selected the larger, and soon after found its droppings and having smelt them deeply he saw the tracks appear more clearly like beacons through the trees. He walked quietly and enjoyed the moment. He read the message that the tracks revealed. Its left hind leg is damaged...a fox perhaps, he thought, and it stopped there to lick the moss, and there it jumped and kicked, frightened by bird call, or a falling branch...and so he hunted until the hare was seen, resting in a sunny patch, its eyes half shut but its nostrils flaring and scenting the air without ceasing.
‘You cannot smell me hare,’ the great hunter whispered inaudibly. ‘I am sorry hare.’ And with a careful placement of his arrow from twenty paces the hare dropped dead and Orcxyl cradled it and gave thanks for its spirit and the gift of its flesh to his body. He cut the head and feet off and left them for other creatures, which was his custom, for he shared his kill; he knew no other way.
On the way back to the Valley of the Kings he found some wild onions and taters growing in a glade and so with his pockets full and dinner swinging from his belt, he arrived back in his simple camp followed in the last part by the ghost who had waited for him on the edge of his strange kingdom. The hare was well roasted over the flames of a hot and smokeless fire which lit up the underside of the leaning stone so that the runes almost seemed to stand out above the surface into which they had been so carefully cut. Orcxyl used the dripping fat from the hare to cook the vegetables upon a flat rock upon the coals. He sliced them and oiled them and the smell was enough to bring the horses to stand around looking into the firelight, their great bodies unable to fit beneath the leaning stone. The ghost sat quietly beside the fire, unseen by all, or so it thought, and found the smell of the food a torment for it had liked nothing more when once a real king, to eat a well roasted Revel hare and taters.
The ghost watched the man most carefully.
‘You are not a wizard,’ it muttered and Orcxyl heard every word and smiled.
No I am not a wizard he thought. Now that I would not want.
And then the ghost caught sight of the mark upon Orcxyl’s arm. It stood in shock and then with great care it crawled close to him and Orcxyl let it examine the inside of his left forearm where he had long ago carved a cross into his flesh.
You are enthralled by Freya’s mark he thought and remembered the time when full of anger and grief after she had been sacrificed that he had sworn that he would bear her mark upon him til he died. He had taken a knife and cut his flesh over and over and rubbed charcoal from the fire into the wound so that it became inflamed and painfully infected. It healed slowly in two great welts that made the cross, the mark which Freya liked to leave wherever she went so that others would know she had passed by.
The ghost looked hard at the scarring upon Orcxyl’s arm and then sat and seemed to think. Suddenly it went back to where the leaning stone was highest above the ground. It reached up and traced with a finger the runes which covered that place upon the stone. And there sure enough was a cross identical to that which marked Orcxyl’s arm.
‘You bear the mark,’ the ghost muttered. ‘Now I know why you did not die. It protects you here in this place. No violence can befall you here.’ And it slumped down where it stood and watched Orcxyl carefully for a long time as the great hunter ate his food with a pleasure not lost upon his watcher. After he had eaten Orcxyl sat by the fire and waited. The ghost finally came closer and when it thought the man would be most ready for a most unimaginable shock it took Orcxyl’s hunting knife from where it lay by his side, and raised it up slowly before him. Orcxyl watched it all unfold and gave the ghost no pleasure at all by gazing fixedly and without reaction upon the show. The ghost waved the knife about and then brought it close to Orcxyl’s face, point first before his eyes...just hanging there without visible support. But Orcxyl laughed and spoke to the ghost.
‘You should be careful ghost; you might cut yourself with that.’
The knife clattered to the ground as the ghost fell back in shock. Orcxyl, unperturbed, picked it up and placed it carefully back from where it had been taken. The ghost stood off in the shadows and muttered.
‘He sees me...’
‘And not just that, I hear every word you say,’ Orcxyl said...he paused. ‘You mistake me for a wizard ghost.’ The ghost gave a mournful frustrated howl and vanished. The horses jumped at the sound but Orcxyl soon calmed them and then he built up the fire and waited for he knew the ghost would return. It came slowly and sat opposite Orcxyl who smiled and nodded in as friendly a manner as he could to a ghost.
‘Why are you here?’ the ghost demanded trying anger as a new approach.
‘We did not choose this place ghost,’ Orcxyl replied, ‘it was chosen for us.’
‘Who dared chose this place, it was not theirs to choose for you,’ the ghost replied indignantly.
Orcxyl nodded at the horses. ‘It was them.’ The ghost shook it head.
‘The horses chose?’
Orcxyl nodded but did not speak.
‘Why?’ the ghost continued, its voice a hollow strange mixture of sounds.
‘Well’ Orcxyl said slowly, ‘we have come from Svalbard where we slew the evil Zydor, who cast a sleeping spell upon my companions and with the forest full of wolves we needed a safe place to rest. The horses know the forest and they brought us here.’
‘You are mad,’ the ghost said. ‘You cannot fool a ghost with such nonsense. Svalbard, slaying Zydor. Nonsense. Zydor cannot be slain by men.’
‘Well it was a woman...in part,’ Orcxyl replied quietly with a smile and now enjoying himself. ‘You know this Zydor?’
The ghost then stood and stamped about in a mighty rage. ‘I was king in Svalbard, the last king, King Svalbard the eight, and Zydor murdered me, betrayed me. He took my throne, my kingdom and brought my body here in a mighty show of grief which fooled no one. I would give great honour to any who could slay Zydor, so do not play games with me man.’
‘But you did not die? Or at least not completely,’ Orcxyl said quietly. The ghost quietened.
‘I could not rest, I vowed to remain until Zydor was slain... I too was servant to Ungarit through foolishness and greed, and Zydor my advisor. I served Ungarit as I wa
s required and perhaps because of this he granted my vow. But I did not know I would be trapped here in this Valley, forever roaming but powerless against the one who deceived me.’ The ghost sat down by the fire and stared off into some other place which was beyond Orcxyl’s senses, and as it did so it became more an apparition than of its normal form, and quite transparent so that Orcxyl could see right through it, and yet it was there sure enough.
After some time Orcxyl went to his bed, a thick layer of fresh grasses pulled from around the standing stones that morning and lay upon it. He let the fire burn down and all the while the apparition sat silently and did not speak further. Orcxyl finally fell asleep, and then the ghost stood and walked over to the burial mound where the sleepers lay. It paused for a moment before walking right through the sealed stone door and disappeared down into the tomb. The ghost could see well in the dark. The five lay motionless, but it knew they were alive for there was a warmth in the vault found in no normal tomb. The ghost looked at each figure in turn trying carefully to decide what it should do. It resented their presence and yet the man had said they had slain Zydor. A woman too. Which one? The one with the sword, surely. Still they were not welcome. The ghost drew its sword and held it up above its head ready to deal a lethal blow, but then it lowered it quickly for the blade by the woman glowed suddenly and the ghost felt a new power in the vault which brought it only fear and trembling.
The ghost fled. It went and sat alone upon another mound, and thought to placate itself by yet another futile attempt to measure its many bitter regrets.