by Ben Cassidy
Ghostwalker
The Chronicles of Zanthora: Book One
By Ben Cassidy
Copyright 2013 Ben Cassidy
Books in the Chronicles of Zanthora:
Ghostwalker
Throne of Llewyllan
Soulbinder
Demonbane
Oracle (Coming Soon)
Tales of the Two Rings
Daughter of Llathe: A Tale of the Two Rings
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 1 (August 2013)
Tales of the Two Rings Volume 2 (September 2013)
Dedicated to my wife Rachel;
my greatest supporter, encourager, and friend
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.
He had hit the man, there was no doubt of that. And now he was on the same side of the trail as his attacker, though he couldn’t see him anymore through the trees and mist.
Kendril jammed his ramrod down the length of the rifle barrel, pushing the bullet and the cloth that held it snugly in place along the metal grooves. His eyes never left the forest in front of him.
To his left was the muddy trail, just a few feet away. Ahead of him the forest began to slope upwards, and somewhere beyond the crest was where his attacker had emerged from the bushes. The hill before him ended abruptly to the left in the steep rocky outcropping. It was an ideal spot to wait in ambush for travelers coming up the trail. Kendril had no doubt that that was why his attacker had chosen it.
After a minute and a half, Kendril slapped the ramrod back into its slot on the undercarriage of the rifle. The weapon was fully loaded once more. The complicated reloading process for a rifle generally took much longer than for a smoothbore musket, but it was far more accurate at a much greater distance. It was times like this that made Kendril glad he had it.
Still, in this heavy undergrowth a rifle wouldn’t be of much good. Kendril slung the long arm onto his back, and pulled out one of his pistols. Taking another deep breath, he began to creep forwards. His eyes scanned the woods around him alertly.
Moving slowly and cautiously, Kendril made it to the top of the forested hill. Gently moving a fern out of his way, he saw the sudden drop-off to his left, and the trail ten feet below.
Before him was some blood on the tangled grass.
Kendril gave a wolfish grin, then followed the red trail, trying to move as quietly as possible through the undergrowth.
It was not a difficult track to follow. The man was bleeding badly. It was hard to go more than five or six feet without seeing another few spots of blood.
Kendril wasn’t a skilled pathfinder by any means, but even a half-blind child could follow a trail like this one.
He was just starting to consider whether he should break off the pursuit and find his mule again when he emerged into a small clearing.
Kendril instantly dropped to one knee and scanned the open space before him with his weapon at the ready.
There was what looked like a campsite on one side next to a couple tall trees, a log that had obviously been used for a bench, and a smoldering campfire. Some pots and pans lay strewn around the ashes of the fire.
Kendril bit his lip, grimacing. It was a small clearing, but large enough if his attacker was waiting for him to come into the open so he could ambush him again.
Then again, Kendril doubted that the man was any kind of condition to fire his musket at this point.
Kendril ducked out into the open clearing, his pistol ready for quick action. The trail of blood led to the campfire, and Kendril dashed through the tall grass until he was next to the log. He glanced down at the fire pit.
It had been put out hurriedly, and not too long ago.
A soft moan to his left caught his attention. Kendril spun around instantly, his pistol leveled and ready to fire.
He almost dropped his weapon in surprise.
Tied against one of the trees by the remains of the campfire, her back to the wet bark, was a young woman. She wore a tattered green dress, her blonde hair hanging in disarray around her face. Her head hung to one side, and her eyes were closed. Her face was pale, almost white, and the side of her head was stained with dried blood from a wound to her right temple, where a large purple bruise still lingered.
For a moment Kendril hesitated, unsure of what to do. This hadn’t exactly been what he had expected to find.
A twig snapped behind him, and Kendril turned swiftly, his pistol again at the ready.
A man dressed in a simple hunter’s clothes emerged from the forest twenty feet away. One hand clutched his bloody side, the other held a sword. His eyes were wild, with an almost crazed look to them.
He started to come forward.
Kendril pulled the trigger of his pistol. There was a brief spark, then a flash, but nothing else.
The gun, damp from the rain, had misfired.
The bandit came at him, swinging his heavy sword at Kendril�
��s head.
Cursing, Kendril tossed his pistol away and ducked back from the blow.
The blade swiped through the air where his head had been moments before, and the man staggered off-balance from the missed swing.
Kendril turned and drew his own short sword with his free hand.
The man recovered, bringing his sword down once again in a clumsy attack.
Kendril blocked the blow with little effort, then slashed in with his own sword and caught the man in the neck with a well-aimed thrust.
With a strange gargling noise, the bandit collapsed to the ground, then rolled over onto his back. He didn’t move.
Kendril took a step back, then quickly wiped his blade clean on the grass before returning it to his scabbard. He picked up his pistol from where he had tossed it on the ground and glanced back towards the girl.
She was still lying unconscious against the tree.
Turning back to the man he had killed, he searched him, but found nothing on him save some musket balls, powder, and a small knife.
Kendril turned away in disgust, and raised his hood again against the falling rain. He looked back at the young woman.
If it hadn’t been for the dried blood on her face, she would have looked almost peaceful. She certainly was beautiful, even despite her wretched condition.
He sighed and stuck his pistol back in his belt. One thing was sure.
He was through taking shortcuts.