The Spirit Well

by Charles E Yallowitz

  Natalie takes a seat on the chair and drapes her leg over the arm, one of the crows landing on the bobbing foot. A series of whistles causes the flock to take flight and disappear into the shadows, their wings echoing throughout the tunnels. The scurrying of mice can be heard as the vermin retreat from the loud and hungry birds. Before the sound dies, an old crow returns with a leathery scroll in its dented beak. The animal drops its bundle into the guildmaster’s hand and she turns it over to let a gathering of dust fall out of the center. The sound of a magical hiss can be heard as she presses Dariana’s map to her belt, which fuses to the parchment.

  “That message from your telepathic friend may have been intercepted by me and I went looking for this before you arrived,” Natalie explains before kissing an emerald ring. She frowns when the object activates and she hears several magical messages in her ears until the artifact is turned off. “I’ll take your offer, but if I win then Sari pledges her loyalty to the Rodillen guild and gives us a cut of all loot that she finds during her travels. I’ll even supply a special bag for her to send our share through. In return, I give you this map that will remain on my personage as insurance. Now I’d like to issue a fun burglary challenge. Not my specialty, but you being out of shape puts us on even ground. The target will be the Wonder Museum and anything out of their vault will do.”

  “Do you really think it’s wise to steal inventions from gnomes?” Luke asks, his words drawing the guildmaster closer. He shakes his head when a cool finger runs along his neck and down his spine. “I mean, those things tend to explode. Even the creations that aren’t supposed to blow up seem to do so. In fact, I think those cause fires more often than the ones built for destruction.”

  “This is merely a test of skill among thieves. I’ll bring the loot back in the morning,” the were-crow promises, her dark red eyes glinting in the torchlight. Taking a sniff of the faint griffin scent, her hair rustles like feathers at the thought of the open sky. “We would normally do Rodil darts, but Sari has too big an advantage. I felt all of those daggers, which means she is very experienced with aiming and throwing sharp objects. This challenge is fair, even, and entirely her idea. I’m sure the map is more important than her pride and future spoils.”

  “I accept your challenge,” Sari replies, reaching out to forcefully shake the guildmaster’s hand. A sharp pain runs up her arm and she glances down to see a pin in the other woman’s palm. “You poisoned me?”

  Natalie shrugs and returns to her chair, a sharp whistle calling for the other thieves to return to their games. “I’ll give you the antidote when this is over. Nothing lethal or inhibiting, so don’t worry about tonight’s contest. The only thing that will happen if you don’t get cured is all of your hair will fall out. I mean every single one and you won’t be able to reverse the effects for at least a year. That’s if it doesn’t do something funny with one of your abilities. Never know what fae blood will do when it combines with magic poison.”

  “I’m going to pluck you like a chicken.”

  “I’ll filet you like a fish.”

  “How about a small contest now for the antidote?”

  An impish smile plays across the were-crow’s face, which appears more avian than a second ago. “Name your challenge, minnow. We’ve got all day for fun.”

  4

  The dark room and paralysis chair drop away as Dariana lets most of her psyche drift away from Rodillen. Streaks of red and black race by her, the colors eventually shifting to white with vivid patches of gold. She can still hear Pazel and her body talking, the gnome unaware that his prisoner is focused on a location many miles away. The astral travel is difficult since the champion has left some of her power behind and another part is being used by her captor. For a terrifying moment, Dariana fears that the shimmering tether connecting her mind and body will snap from the stress. It would not be the first time she has been cast adrift in the psychic plane, but it could take years for her to recover. Gabriel would never allow such a delay, which means her friends would have to enter her temple and the final battle with a comatose ally. The telepath cannot stop herself from chuckling at the thought of Timoran charging into battle with her useless carcass strapped to his back. A surge of black cuts across her path, forcing her to leap over a ghostly version of the amusing scene that drifts through the ether.

  Afraid that she has gotten lost, Dariana grips the tether and stops her momentum with a sudden jolt. Her translucent arms stretch to merge with the ceiling before she kicks a small hole in the surrounding passage. Plucking an eye out of the center of her head, the champion tosses the orb into the outside world to get a look at the area. The landscape is muted and dull due to her being slightly out of synch with the world, a few vivid spots revealing the presence of those with psychic abilities. Curious about her fellow telepaths, Dariana begins to float toward the nearest one, but stops when she hears Pazel rant about her friends escaping his guards. Ashamed of how easily she was distracted, the silver-haired woman focuses on a sour-tasting energy that ebbs from her destination.

  Once she gets her bearings, the extra eye pops like a bubble and Dariana dives toward the forests in the northwest. The startled cries of the local fairies echo throughout the astral passage as they sense the telepath passing by. Waves of tension waft off the invisible traveler, the pressure on her body becoming stronger as she reaches her target. A flexible wall tries to stop the champion’s arrival, bowing out from the impact until tearing with a frightening rip. Dariana’s ears pop, resulting in a flicker of awareness that her physical ears are bleeding. Disoriented and weak, the ghostly woman crashes to the ground and clings to a network of roots to avoid passing completely through the earth.

  Nestled among the oaks and maples, a rusty gate stands with only a few chunks of stone attached to its sides. A polished chain hangs across the bars with a spiked, wolf-shaped lock welded to the middle. Skeletal birds are perched on the top of the entrance, their lifelike appearance giving the illusion of turning heads and twitching feet. Even if a traveler knows they are part of the metalwork, the macabre decorations still create the sensation of being quietly observed. Peering through the bars, one can only see more trees and a murky lake that is partially covered by lily pads. With no walls to prevent travelers from going around the gate, most people continue on to this drab location and never know that there is more to be found.

  Dariana slips her hand into a nearby oak, which shudders and loses the last two pieces of its autumnal foliage. The telepath draws a narrow bone out of the tree and steps back to allow the leaves to gracefully return to their original position. Approaching the gate, she wiggles the small femur like it is a treat meant for an obedient dog. The wolf’s head shakes itself to life and howls at the sight of the snack, metallic drool flowing down its chin. When Dariana puts the bone in the lock’s mouth, the jaws slam shut and the chain falls away, allowing her to push the rusty gate open with an ear-wrenching creak.

  “Let’s pray the locals are friendly today,” the telepath whispers before stepping through the entrance.

  Her surroundings twist and melt to reveal a walled off cemetery that is dotted with perfectly maintained gravestones. Neatly trimmed rosebushes are found at the ends of every row and wide paths have been made to divide the sections by species. Ancient footprints can be found in the roads, their creators having died and claimed their graves long ago. A willow tree can be found at every intersection, their drooping branches covered in white leaves that crinkle like wax paper when touched. Several crypts stand throughout the large graveyard, but a cluster of the gargoyle-studded structures have been built at the base of a hill. The faint silhouette of a shack can be seen on top of the rocky dome, the sun never moving from behind the building.

  “We don’t like you, godling,” hisses a voice as soon as Dariana closes the gate. Ghosts rise from the ground, all of them speaking as one. “You mock our suffering by traveling like one of our kind. None here can return to the flesh and your presence reminds us
of this. Stop flaunting your superiority or we will make you pay.”

  “I apologize for coming in this form, but my body is indisposed,” the telepath explains, knowing that the spirits will not listen. She can already see several of them moving to cut off her escape route, each one with a faint thread that runs from their chests to wherever they have been buried. “All I want is to see my friend. You know him as Tydis the Scourge. I’ve come to ask for his help. Please let me pass and I will no longer plague your senses.”

  “The Scourge has no friends,” the ghosts reply, closing in on the champion.

  “He has one and she is here to pay her respects.”

  “You anger us.”

  “Then I apologize.”

  “Death will end our pain.”

  Bracing herself for the first wave of attacks, Dariana puts up her arms to block several punches that erupt from the ghosts. She receives several strikes to her back, which sends her stumbling forward. Using the awkward momentum, the telepath rolls and flips onto one of the wider headstones. The owner of the grave screams in anger and charges through his companions, turning their tight formation into a spectral mess. Dariana leaps out of reach and lands among a flower patch, which draws another ghost into a maddening rage. Unable to get away, she focuses on her aura and delivers a spinning kick that sends her flailing attacker bouncing across the cemetery. She feels guilty about hitting the confused creature and does her best to avoid repeating what she feels is a painful insult to those trapped between worlds. As she leaps from one gravesite to another, the tempestuous spirits swiftly become nothing more than a furious mob.

  The swarm of enraged ghosts proves to be extremely dangerous to the weakened telepath, as their phantasmal hands try to draw life from Dariana. Even a scratch makes her feel dizzy, so she tries to jump higher and farther than before. Most of the spirits have trouble keeping up with the champion, but several detach from the group to fly after their prey. Risking the hazy tethers that connect them to the graveyard, these desperate creatures become more ephemeral as they give chase. Without her telepathy, Dariana is unable to calm her pursuers and all attempts to physically return them to the earth results in her energy being siphoned off. The mob finally stops when one of the airborne figures howls in agony and its body is torn to shreds by invisible hands, the creature having gone too far and broken its tether.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Dariana says, stopping her retreat and holding up her hands. Seeing that the ghosts are still advancing, the silver-haired woman takes a few steps back and eyes the more dangerous threats. “Please forgive me for what I am about to do. It is for your own good. Sleep well, spirits of the old years.”

  With streaks of black spreading through her silver hair, Dariana clenches her fists and lets a fraction of her inherited strength free itself from her core. To avoid having the same effects occur on her physical body, she closes her eyes and concentrates on narrowing her tether to the point where it is barely visible. She waits for one of the flying spirits to dive at her and catches its wrists, the creature’s energy-draining ability unable to weaken the unrestrained godling. The old warrior struggles with her until his tether snaps and his body begins to unravel. Refusing to let him suffer the same fate as his friend, Dariana slams the man into the ground where his tether is repaired before violently dragging him into his distant grave. Leaping into the mob, the champion delivers blow after blow to send her attackers back to their resting places. Fearing that their enemy is an exorcist and they are being banished, the fearful ghosts helplessly moan while centuries of rage urge them to continue attacking. Her energy beginning to fade, Dariana jumps into the air to knee a cautious spirit in the jaw and flips to kick another in the face. Spotting where the second ghost will be taken, she grabs the man’s leg and lets herself be dragged away from the mob. To her relief, none of the spirits follow and she drops onto the roof of a solitary crypt that is surrounded by a berry-covered hedge.

  “I am always amazed by your benevolence,” a voice says before coughing violently. A skull appears in the black marble and a pair of skeletal arms creep out of a gargoyle’s mouth to hover near the grinning head. “So much like your mother, but also your father. Curious how both sides of your lineage show such kindness at times. Both have the capacity for brutality too, but only one succumbs to that side of their nature. Products of their time and upbringing? Well, I’m not one to talk considering where I came from.”

  “Are you going to stop me, Uncle Lorvis?” Dariana asks, her hair returning to its natural shade. Knees buckling and arms stiff, the tired woman sits on the corner of a leering gargoyle’s pedestal. “I know this is one of your favorite spots and only your most trusted followers know it exists. If I need to give payment for my intrusion then I will do so as soon as my business is complete. Please know that this is for my friends and I apologize if my presence is an insult to your realm.”

  One of the floating arms scratches the skull’s cheek while the other goes to pat the telepath on the hand. “Apology accepted. Though we both know that your situation would have led you to this place eventually. You need not worry about this rotting Necromancy God stopping you. I merely sensed that someone was in my territory and the spirits were angry. They only do that when the follower of another deity passes through the gate. It appears the same goes for a godling who refuses to pray to anyone.”

  “I pray to my mother.”

  “That is different than how other mortals speak to their chosen gods.”

  “How so?”

  “You talk to Zaria and, at times, the rest of us. There is very little praying in your words.”

  “Do you wish for me to pray now?”

  The cemetery shudders as Lorvis laughs, plumes of dust erupting from the cracks that run along the roads. Several ghosts join in the noise before they are silenced by a hacking cough from their master. Knuckles snapping with every movement, the hovering arms clap to summon a large basket made from bones and sinew. The disturbing carrier swings around the roof as if it has been waiting on the far side of the central dome and stops in front of Dariana. With a nod of thanks, the champion climbs into the eerie object and makes herself comfortable on a bench made from a troll’s ribcage. Lorvis’s skull separates from the roof and rolls toward the basket, a few teeth falling out as he moves toward the basket. With a bizarre bounce, the god’s head leaves the crypt and fuses itself to the edge of the carrier. No longer needed, the arms wave goodbye before flying off to handle the confused spirits.

  “Always remember that we are family and I would never ask for you to act outside of your nature,” the Necromancy God whispers as the basket sprouts boney feet and travels down the building. Blackened stained glass windows are avoided, so they take a winding path to the ground. “Keep your true self in mind as you continue. We all know what is waiting for you at the end of your road. There will be a temptation to fight fate, but such a thing is impossible. Like the gods and goddesses, you must play a specific role in events and, as such, have less free will than a true mortal. If it helps, understand that Zaria prays every day that you find happiness and forgiveness.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Lorvis. Would you bring her a message?” Dariana asks, her clear cheeks tinted red from blushing. A distant question reveals that her body is mimicking her spirit and Pazel has been confused. “She can stop wasting her prayers on me. I will do whatever I must to reach my goals. Happiness and forgiveness are nice, but maybe they aren’t meant for me. After all, I am the daughter of Baron Arthuru Kernaghan the Ancient Bane of Ambervale. How much of a future could I have with his blood in my veins, especially once the world remembers his crimes?”

  A teeth-grating smile is on Lorvis’s face as he opens a small door and lets Dariana out of the basket. Leaving the champion in front of the crypt’s vine-covered entrance, the Necromancy God sinks into the ground. Eerie silence envelopes the cemetery and the sun plunges beneath the horizon to allow Tavon the Winter Moon to takes its place. The
crypt opens with a cough and the silhouette of a rag-wearing figure can be seen until the dense shadows are pierced by sapphire moonlight.

  “Thank you and again I apologize for my intrusion,” Dariana whispers as she crosses the threshold. She is plunged into darkness as the doors swing shut and come suspiciously close to catching her foot. “Now to call on old debts.”

  *****

  The light of a flickering torch can be seen at the bottom of the staircase, illuminating the twisted remains of a grating. Dariana considers being more cautious, but she is sure her friend is already aware of her arrival. She takes the dust-covered steps by twos and does nothing to hide her echoing footsteps, which make her smirk due to her feet looking like those of a ghost. The groan of a swinging window shutter can be heard from the room above, but it ends in a gentle bump instead of a deafening slam. When Dariana reaches the lower level, the grating springs to life and rolls back into place. A magical sheen covers the mesh and a burst of itchiness runs along the telepath’s arm after she tries to push it open. All the champion can do is take a seat on the cold floor and stare into the chamber.

  Vertical tombs line the walls of the blocked off room, each one depicting the ancient warrior whose body sits behind the cover. Across from the entrance is a cheap, wooden plank that acts as a cover for the last person to be interred in the crypt. Tydis the Scourge sits in front of his remains, his muddy feet on the stone table that takes up half of the floor space. There are no chairs, so the emerald spirit is floating with his arms crossed behind his head. A large moth flutters out from under his two-pronged beard, which he runs an ivory comb through and pats with pride. Tydis watches the insect land on his platemail, but gets bored and becomes intangible to force the creature to fly away.

  “Welcome back, Little Goddess. How’s the family?” asks the ghost with a wide smile that reveals several missing teeth. Reaching toward the ground, he summons a large maul that he taps on the dark stone floor. “I assume your old man is still trapped and your brother is off mutilating a puppy. Don’t get me wrong. I respect your father, but truly wonder why he lets that rabid spawn of his continue to live.”