The Ossard Series (Books 1-3): The Fall of Ossard, Ossard's Hope, and Ossard's Shadow.

by Colin Taber

  He looked to me with a pleased gaze, it coming straight from Maria’s sleeping form. A smile was on him, one that I hadn’t seen him wear before, but that sat comfortable and easy. “The last days have been hard, but we’ve come so far.” His voice softened, “I’m glad we’re here.”

  I returned his smile and took his hand, lifting it to spread his fingers on my belly. “I’m also glad, and think we’ve more family on the way.”

  He began to laugh as he stroked my belly, surprise coming to his eyes. “That’s wonderful!”

  “Time will tell, but I think we made something in the coach.”

  Taking me into his arms, he hushed my words, smothering them with kisses. Soon enough, such affections fell into a wilder passion.

  I revelled in it, not just for its lustful warmth and loving sensation, but for the way it eased an inner tension within me; the persistent ache caused by my longing deep hunger.

  Yes, it was still there, lurking and growing.

  The more we touched, the harder he caressed, the more his presence soothed my aches. Now, with the distraction of the day’s duties gone, I needed such attentions, for it was the only salve I had.

  Some time later, long after we were both spent and taken by sleep, I awoke to find a chill haze in the room aglow in blue wisps. I started at the sight, for it reminded me of my grandmother, but that couldn’t be.

  Or could it?

  For a moment, I wondered if it was just moonlight on a sea mist, yet our windows were stuffed with sacks of clothes in an effort to shut out the worst of the night’s drafts. Pedro didn’t stir beside me, except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Beyond him, on her cot, Maria also seemed unmoved.

  I turned back to the apparition, while clinging to my husband, afraid of this entity woven of the celestial’s icy breath. Staring at it, I watched it shift as it tried to take on a form. That’s when I realised it wasn’t my grandmother, for it didn’t wear robes of frozen flame – but there was something familiar about it.

  Something about its flavour...

  The mist swirled and twisted, at times almost coming into shape. Yet, every time it began to settle, it would again break apart as if some phantom wind tore at its delicate weave. Finally, it faded away.

  Had it actually been something – or just my imagination?

  I eased myself out of bed, trying not to stir Pedro to wake. The air was cold on my skin, and as I crossed nearer to where it’d been, as I sought a robe, I could also feel a slick chill on the floor.

  Ice!

  I knew that ice marked the crossing points between worlds, where power leaked from one to the other.

  Something had been there, something of the celestial!

  Pulling on a robe, I felt my way through the dark until I stepped into the cool corridor, seeking the apparition or some lingering sign. There was no hint, no wisp or glow, nor sparkle of frost. I moved down the passage, past the draped doorway of Baruna’s room from where Kurt softly snored, past Angela and Silva’s chamber, and then that of my own parents.

  I kept going until I found myself at another doorway; it was the small room I’d saved for Sef. It’d been my intention to just look in and check that all was in order, but my eyes caught on the view through the window.

  Outside, the night was aglow, the moonlight cutting down through the clouds. The light painted the vista in blues and silvers, seeing everything hold a simple beauty, so much so that I was drawn in.

  I walked past the stacked chests and sacks we’d stored there, and came to put my hands on the window’s sill. Once there, I looked out into the sound, spying the lone tower and the dark waters that surrounded it.

  The tower loomed tall and magnificent in the silver-blue light. Atop it I could see a figure, someone tall, broad and impressive, all aglow in the celestial’s vivid blue. He was a marooned soul, a ghost, and looked to be armed under a cloak that billowed about his giant frame. He also stood with something worn upon his brow, a circlet of silver woven from the night’s very mists. Above him, hung from a pole held in one of his big meaty hands, rose a banner of silk bearing the image of a wintering tree.

  I knew then that this was our host; the custodian of Marco’s Ruin.

  As amazing a sight as he was, I also felt certain that he wasn’t what had awoken me, though he came from a similar mould. Nonetheless, there he stood staring at me.

  Wondering...

  I didn’t feel threatened, not quite, but I also sensed great power.

  For a long time I stood there looking at him while he gazed back. He made no move to come for me or to communicate. He just watched. The moment was mesmerising, until I again felt a chill, this time behind me.

  The air cooled, as the crack and snap of a thickening frost sounded as something behind attempted to become manifest.

  The presence on the tower remained watchful as I tensed in reaction to what was happening at my back.

  I braced myself, ready to turn.

  Finally, I spun about.

  A mist had gathered, aglow above a patch of frost that sparkled on the floor. It wasn’t a complete form, not even close, not at all like the spectre out there across the water.

  Now, with my back to the window, I asked, “Who are you?”

  There was a presence there, somehow familiar, but I couldn’t make it out. It was trying to manifest itself, to make itself whole. I could feel it strain as it struggled, seemingly lost between worlds.

  “Who are you?” I repeated.

  The mist persisted, trying to take shape. It fought hard. I could feel its efforts, them becoming frantic.

  Sensing the intensity of the struggle reminded me of the way Marco’s soul had held on to this world so desperately after his death.

  But Marco was gone, claimed by my grandmother – or could he have somehow escaped?

  Thinking of him, I sensed the mist in front of me; it was different, neither a soul, nor a person, but in another kind of state. I whispered, my breath icing up in front of me, “Marco?”

  And the mist shifted again, redoubling its efforts.

  I called out, “Marco!” and now it was my voice that strained.

  What remained of the mist shifted again and tried to coalesce. For a moment, I glimpsed his face and a hand, as his ghost almost gathered, before breaking up and fading away.

  I turned back to the sound.

  The tower loomed empty.

  The unnatural chill left the room, leaving me alone.

  -

  Morning saw people again make comments of moved belongings and other strange things. A frightened few had heard voices, felt presences in their rooms, or glimpsed phantoms, tall and broad, that had passed through walls after marching along corridors.

  It was undeniable; Marco’s Ruin was haunted.

  -

  Our first days of fair weather were followed by no more. There was drizzle and showers, then rain and sleet, and finally the first of winter’s storms.

  Winter’s dark heart was coming.

  The storms blasted us with cold winds laced with ice and saw our days become a time of toiling as best we could. All of it gradually wore down our spirits as some of us gave into fatigue and others to illness. Some of that grief came as a mournful thing, a homesickness suffered because of what we’d left behind, but for others it came as a dull and simple hopelessness.

  It made me wonder, as I secretly nursed my own growing sickness; what was I birthing at the ruin?

  The aches and pains of my divine hunger rose through every day to be quelled at night in Pedro’s arms. The close contact of our loving seemed to soothe me, but a little less each time, as the residue of my celestial healing of him faded. Before sleep and after, I would take such medicine so that I could work through the day. It was an intense change in our relationship, one Pedro enjoyed, but left me worried as I noticed his soothing touch failing.

  After rising each morning and taking the salve of Pedro’s love it would only take until noon before my crampin
g aches began to stiffen the muscles around my stomach and midriff. By late afternoon, such cramps would spread to strike my arms, neck and legs. Nausea and fever would come for me after dusk.

  I noticed that if I retired to take some time for myself – because of my deep hunger – I would eventually emerge to find more of my people downcast and drained. It became plain that the more time I spent away from them, the worse off they were.

  I hadn’t just sparked their hope, but fuelled it, like the oil of a lit lantern.

  The realisation forced me to spend more time with them, but that only added to my own burden.

  During that time, my dark appetite never ceased to deepen, and that’s when I began to understand its truth: It wasn’t going to take me in one terrible moment, but instead work at me for as long as it took, coming in subtle waves, nagging and persistent. At first it’d been something I could fend off with quiet determination, or by losing myself in Pedro, yet, day by day, it continued to wear at me.

  My deep hunger, unlike me, would never grow tired.

  Worse still, I also realised as each new bout came for me, buffeting my will like a growing swell, that my own moods and strength were suffering. In that came my greatest fear; eventually the hunger would grab me at the high tide of my own fatigue, when I might not just be swamped by its demands, but swallowed by them. If I lost my footing and was given to its dark currents, I’d drown in it.

  Then what of my people?

  -

  When feeling well, I threw myself into the work waiting to be done. Aside from the stonework on the walls, roofs and the filling of windows, there was also much other labour waiting to be completed. Tasks included the preparing of fields for spring and the dailies of caring for our livestock, fishing and distributing our rationed food. There were also unexpected jobs, one of the oddest being the urgent need to clear the ruins’ drains as the weather turned.

  As to the matter of the drains – such lost and tired things – they were plentiful, but often flooded with centuries of silt burying their original obstructions. One by one we discovered and fixed them, sometimes revealing stunning results: Most notably, receding waters uncovered an access tunnel leading to a series of caves that extended back into the hillside behind us. Whilst dark and stale of air, the caves were large enough to liberate a lot of space given over to storage in the terraces. The freed-up room added to our people’s living space, something that helped counter winter’s gathering gloom.

  Two particular chores were done whenever the weather allowed; the gathering of wood – oleander canes cut from the surrounding hills – and fishing.

  Early on, we also discovered that the ruin housed another gift: The fountains running from the two halls on the highest level weren’t just spouting water, but heated water sourced from hot springs. The water was far from scalding, but as the grey of winter rolled in, people were quick to begin to use those buildings as places to meet. Better still, those waters ran into a set of drains that seemed to trace a path about some of the main building’s central walls. The flow kept the stone heated, which in turn warmed the air. In all it was a blessing.

  People continued to work on the ancient ruin, putting up gates on the external entrances and the like. Amongst all this toil and the exploration of the remaining ruins in the hills about, a coal-store was found. So, one night, to the roar of cheers, we lit the four biggest hearth fires in the ruins.

  The fireplaces stood as tall as a common man and yawned twice as wide. They were positioned in central locations, in common areas, but also backed onto the rooms we used as dormitories. Having found the coal – and in fair supply, hopefully to last through the worst of winter – we now set to keep those hearths burning, if but in a meagre way.

  Yet, for all this gathering comfort, we were still haunted by our unseen hosts. They seemed all too ready to make their presence known in the quiet of the night, but their lack of friendship was unnerving.

  We needed to make peace with them.

  -

  Often, across the waters of the sound, travellers could be seen on the road that ran along the foot of the southern ridge. Many followed it as it swung towards us, before heading up the valley and on to the first of the distant inland villages.

  Ossard’s refugees, still moving.

  We offered those who’d take them bread and fish to help them on their way, but some of them shunned us. Others asked about us, but then would continue on, and then there were those who came to our oleander cane gate asking if the increasing number of rose-flags flying from our walls meant that this was where Ossard’s Lady of Hope dwelt, and if so, could they stay.

  Crowded as we were – for even our ruin had its limits, as did our stores of food – we accepted them. Deep down, I felt we’d be alright, perhaps not in the sense that there’d be plenty to eat, but because there’d always be at least fish and water. As it turned out, taking them in was the right thing to do, for with them came a steady trickle of news.

  Those who shunned us on that increasingly well-trodden road left me to fear. It seemed a harsh judgement on their part, based solely on their prejudices, but I wondered; should I have tried harder to offer them comfort?

  That was when, as nightmares began to plague my sleep of lone travellers dying in despair alongside icy trails, I again felt not just the stir, but maturing of my deep hunger.

  It’d settled in, taken my measure, and now prepared to move against me.

  I’d been trying to smother it in my lovemaking with Pedro, but now that soothing distraction had begun to fail. The consequence was that my aches grew stronger, the cramps harder and the fevers deeper.

  Soon, I’d need to feed again – or find another way to sate my hunger!

  I fought it as well as I could, trying to maintain control and hide my pain. Each night, as the sun set and our world was swallowed up by the rain and dark, all I could do as I waited for Pedro’s loving was look for options: How else might I deal with my deepening appetite?

  I needed help. I needed guidance.

  Such thoughts led me to wonder about the ruin’s hauntings and Marco.

  At first I began searching for him and my grandmother, scrying the celestial and setting my perception there to soar through its cold and empty void. But I couldn’t find them. Not a trace.

  I refused to linger in that black and blue world, my pain exacerbated as my addiction fought back, taunted by the scent of souls. In the limited time I did spend searching, I came to the conclusion that Marco was no longer there, and that my grandmother had somehow broken her link to me. Perhaps, after her own soul feeding in Ossard, she no longer needed my soul as a lair.

  Seemingly, she was free of me – and I of her.

  The thought delivered its own kind of relief. It also offered up a question; what had happened to those enslaved by her, were they free like Marco or had they been consumed?

  Sometimes, when feeling strong, I searched that other world determined to find at least a hint. On occasion, I felt like I’d caught the essence of something, as if she was just beyond my sensing, or had just been where I went. Being so close was maddening.

  Between those frustrating searches and the overwhelming presence of souls – which only roused my hunger more and more – I found that I was less able to bear such a thing. In answer I began avoiding the celestial, first as much as possible, and finally altogether.

  Shutting it off was hard, but it was the only way for me to control my aching cravings.

  And they were still building!

  The pain of it saw me use the last of my will to numb myself to those senses or anything that stirred my deepening appetite. It was a stupid move, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. There I was, Schoperde’s last hope, a figure so much depended upon, who should be learning and experimenting with the celestial and all that I might do, but instead I chose to cripple my awakening.

  My failure wasn’t yet final, but coming.

  -

  A few nights later, after
taking Pedro’s loving, I lay restless in bed. I tried to fool myself that it wasn’t my hunger, but instead an impending visit from Marco’s shade that left me tense and discomforted. Deep down I knew the truth: My growing fever, aches and cramps had nothing to do with the dead. Simply, our loving hadn’t been enough.

  I tried to drown my misery with a goblet or two of wine, hoping that in a more relaxed state I’d find some sleep. It didn’t work. Instead, it just provided a distraction. Eventually, I had to face the truth:

  I wanted souls! It was time to feed! I wanted the high they’d bring!

  Once, Pedro’s love had helped stifle my need, but not take it away. Now, as I lay there, envious as I watched him slumber by the light of a lone candle, I accepted that his loving was no longer enough.

  My dark appetite needed to be sated!

  On that long night, stretching on as my aches grew stronger and my fever more intense, I sensed the power of the souls about me: Pedro beside me asleep, Maria nearby, and our new babe growing within my own body, a boy, and still so little, yet his soul already gifted.

  So innocent and sweet!

  Just sensing those souls, without even passing fully into the celestial, was enough to make my heart race. Beads of sweat ran off me, rolling down the sides of my face, neck, chest and belly.

  A babe’s soul, so small and pure...

  I shivered as a new wave of cramps wracked my body.

  A celestial dollop of glorious power...

  I shook my head in anger, raising my hand to slap my own face.

  A soul so fresh and petite!

  The blow came hard, but mis-aimed, seeing me hit my nose.

  I gasped and made to sit up, moving awkwardly as my muscles knotted. Desperately, I tried to ignore my seductive hunger and focus on my much more mundane pain.

  And there came my saving grace!

  Blood began to flood from my throbbing nose, coming warm and thick over my lips and onto my chin. I grabbed for a cloth and wiped my face, pressing at my nose.

  The bleeding grabbed all of my attention.

  Thank Schoperde for my clumsiness!

  Once the blood stopped, I wiped again at my face. Putting the cloth down, I ignored my cramping and took some wine from the goblet I’d left beside our bed.