by Tim Waggoner
"Use your arrowhead, Diran! Thrust it toward the creature!"
Excellent advice. Unfortunately, Diran couldn't move. Whatever foul power the invisible creature possessed, it had rendered him immobile. But then again, perhaps not entirely. He tried to wiggle the fingers of his right hand-the hand holding the flint-and though his fingers were too numb for him to tell whether or not he succeeded, Diran was rewarded with the sound of the flint hitting the floor. Marshalling all the strength remaining to him, Diran concentrated on speaking a single word.
"F… fffff… Fire…"
Leontis understood. He dropped his bow and ran forward to snatch up Diran's flint. He moved quickly away from Diran lest he be caught by whatever force had taken hold of his companion and then drew a fresh arrow from the quiver slung over his shoulder. Holding the arrow near the metal tip, Leontis knelt down close the floor and began using his makeshift striker on Diran's flint. Sparks leapt forth from the flint, arcing into the air and landing on the mill's wooden floor, only to fizzle out in the layer of dust covering the planks.
Diran felt vertigo wash over him, and his vision was starting to go gray. As consciousness began to desert him, he prayed that Leontis would be able to get a fire started before their unseen attacker finished draining the rest of his lifeforce. If not… well, then Diran would just have to experience his reunion with the Silver Flame a bit earlier than he'd expected, wouldn't he?
Diran heard the spectral voice whisper mournfully once more.
No… fire…
And then the voice spoke a word that startled the young acolyte.
Please…
A spark hit the floor and ignited into flame, causing Leontis to let out a shout of triumph. The flame grew quickly, and Diran knew that within moments the mill would be beyond saving.
Though he had virtually no strength remaining, Diran somehow managed to speak three more words. "Put… it… out…"
They were little more than whispered exhalations, and Diran wasn't sure that Leontis had even heard them, let alone that he would understand and heed them. But the other acolyte looked at Diran for a long moment before finally rising to his feet and stomping out the fire he'd just made. It took several tries, but Leontis managed to extinguish the flames.
"I sure hope you know what you're doing, Diran Bastiaan."
Diran wanted to say, So do I, but he couldn't force out any more words. If he'd guessed wrong, he was dead, and perhaps Leontis was too. But if he'd guessed right…
Diran felt the icy fingers let go of his wrist, and the cold that gripped his body began to recede. He was weak as a newborn, but he no longer felt dizzy and in danger of passing out. He looked to Leontis and gave his friend a reassuring, if somewhat shaky, smile.
Before either acolyte could speak again, the air between them began to shimmer as strands of white mist appeared. The strands grew thicker, joined together, and coalesced into the ghostly apparition of a young woman in her late teens. She appeared solid enough, but her flesh and clothing-a simple dress with an apron tied over it, a cloth wrapped around her head to keep her hair in place-were both marble-white.
She looked at the two acolytes and gave them what was unmistakably a grateful smile.
"I take it we're looking at a ghost," Leontis said. He sounded oddly calm, given that a specter had just manifested before them, but then the priesthood did run in his family, and he'd been training with Tusya for a while now-long enough for strange sights not to seem so strange anymore.
"That would be my guess," Diran said. "I've seen a few in my time." Caused more than a few as well, he thought wryly.
"And she evidently would prefer that we don't burn down the mill," Leontis added.
My mill… the ghost's voice sounded clearer and more distinct now, though still very ethereal. But when she spoke, the movements of her lips lagged behind the sound of the words themselves, adding to the unearthly effect.
Keeping his gaze firmly on the ghost-girl, Leontis tucked Diran's flint into one of his pockets then retrieved his bow and silverburn-coated arrow. The spectral girl watched him, but made no move to stop him. Why would she? Diran thought. Silver had no effect on ghosts.
"Why do you think she's haunting this place?" Leontis asked, his arrow trained on the ghost-girl's heart-or rather, where her heart used to be. Diran was certain Leontis knew the arrow would prove little more than an annoyance to the girl, but he supposed his friend felt a need to do something other than just stand there while they talked.
The girl shook her head emphatically, the motion making her ghostly features blur a bit. Home… she said.
Diran thought he was beginning to understand. "From the way she's dressed, I'd say she used to work here. Perhaps she died here as well."
The girl nodded, the action again making her features blur.
"All right, so this is her home," Leontis said. "But what does that matter? She's a creature of evil! You can feel it all around us! We shouldn't be standing around here having a conversation with her. We should be destroying her!"
"You said it yourself: evil is all around us. But do you sense any evil emanating from her?" Diran gestured at the ghostly mill girl.
Leontis looked at her and frowned. "Actually… no, I don't."
"She didn't manifest when we first entered," Diran pointed out. "And she didn't appear when I attempted to summon her. She had ample opportunity to attack us if she wished to harm us, but she only acted when we attempted to burn down the mill… her home."
"That may be," Leontis said, "but then where is the evil coming from? Is there another creature of some sort lurking here?"
Though he'd had no formal training in how to do so, Diran attempted to stretch his senses outward, to feel what could not be seen. "I don't think so. I think the mill itself is the source of the evil. Something wrong happened here… something that bound this girl's spirit to this place and infused the structure itself with the echoes of the evil that was done here."
Leontis looked at the girl once more. "You mean she was… killed here?"
"I believe so," Diran said. "Remember what you said earlier, about tearing up the floorboards to see if any bodies were hidden under them?"
The two acolytes lowered their gazes to the floor beneath their feet.
Diran and Leontis sat atop the unmoving waterwheel, legs dangling over the side. The ghost-girl hovered in the air beside them, her malleable features contorted in an exaggerated mask of fear, her terrified eyes larger than a human's could ever be, her mouth a grotesque slash of a grimace. Diran wondered how many ghosts assumed a hideous appearance not to frighten others, but simply because they were themselves afraid. The Thrane River rushed by less than thirty feet below them, moonlight sliding across the surface of the water like a liquid silver sheen. The river smelled clean and pure, but another scent hung in the air, growing stronger by the moment: the scent of smoke.
"How did I let you talk me into this?" Leontis grumbled.
"I believe all I had to do was ask," Diran replied.
It hadn't taken the two acolytes long to find the girl's skeleton hidden beneath the floorboards, along with the remains of a half dozen other unfortunates. Why hers should be the only spirit bound to the mill, Diran couldn't say. Perhaps of all those who had died here-or at least been buried here-she was the one whose death had been traumatic. Dying in great grief, fear, or rage was often the cause of spirits becoming earthbound. At least the number of skeletons explained why the mill itself reeked of evil. Deeds of great wickedness had been performed here, and their spiritual taint had seeped into the wood and stonework of the mill, turning it into a Bad Place.
Diran and Leontis had spent a couple hours digging graves well away from the mill and then transporting the skeletons as carefully and respectfully as they could to their new resting places. They'd attempted to lay the girl-ghost to rest first, but after they'd finished burying her and returned to the mill, they found her ivory-white form waiting for them. So they finished with the ot
hers and, after Diran had convinced the girl there was no other way, they'd set a fire inside the mill. But in order to get the girl to agree to let them start the fire, they had to acquiesce to one request: she didn't want to be left alone while her home burned.
The girl couldn't leave the mill, and Diran and Leontis could hardly remain inside. But they could sit atop the waterwheel for as long as it was safe, and the girl could manifest outside the mill, as long as she remained close enough to reach out and touch it.
Diran looked at the girl's almost comically distorted features and reminded himself that he was looking not at a monster, but rather at the soul of a person who was afraid to die for a second time.
"Don't be afraid," Diran said. "The destruction of the mill will not mean the destruction of your spirit. Instead, you will be released from your earthly prison. You will be free at last."
The smell of smoke was much stronger now, the wood beneath them began to feel hot, and a new sound joined that of rushing river water: the crackle of hungry flames.
Phantom tears streamed down the girl's face, wearing channels in her insubstantial flesh, as if her fear would literally be her undoing.
Diran reached out to take the ghost-girl's hand, and though he shouldn't have been able to touch her, though it was more than likely only his imagination, he intertwined his fingers in hers and found them not cold and dead but very much warm and alive.
The girl's features returned to normal, and she gave Diran a grateful smile.
"Uh, Diran…" The usually unflappable Leontis sounded as if he'd edged a step closer to panic. "It's getting rather toasty up here."
Diran could feel sweat beading on his skin despite the coolness of the night air.
"And in case you hadn't noticed, breathing is becoming something of a chore…"
Smoke billowed up around them now, obscuring his vision and making his eyes sting, and he could no longer see the ghost-girl. But he could still feel her hand entwined in his.
Diran had to fight to keep from coughing as he answered. "I promised her we wouldn't leave her until it was over."
Then the smoke parted and the girl's ivory face came toward his. He felt soft lips brush his gently, and then she withdrew back into the smoke and was gone.
Thank you…
Diran tried to tell her she was welcome, but he burst out with a fit of coughing. He felt Leontis grab him by the shoulders and shove him off the waterwheel, and he tumbled down into the waiting waters of the Thrane, Leontis following right after.
They climbed onto the bank many yards downriver, wet, shivering, and chilled to the bone. They flopped exhausted onto the grass and turned to view the bright orange glow of the burning mill set against the black of the night sky.
"You lads might consider getting a bit closer to the mill so you can dry off. It'd be a shame to let a fire like that go to waste."
Only a smoldering pile of ashes and blackened stone remained by the time dawn pinked the eastern sky. When they'd first arrived, Tusya had added the last of his silverburn to the mill fire and spoke a series of prayers, asking the Silver Flame to forgive any impurities in the girl's soul and accept her as part of the divine Flame. Diran and Leontis had prayed along with their teacher, and when the rite was concluded the three men sat in silence and watched the mill burn.
It was Leontis who first broke the silence. "It's too bad we finished the last of the wine, Teacher. I could use a drink right now."
Tusya smiled. "I'm proud of you boys. You served the Flame well tonight. So, though we're all tired and could use some rest, I would be remiss in my duties as your teacher if I didn't ask what you've learned here this night."
Both Diran and Leontis thought for a time before answering.
"There are many kinds of evil in this world," Diran began. "I've known this since I was a child. I once served one of those evils… carried it within me like the blood that flows within my veins. The evil we discovered in the mill tonight wasn't of a supernatural nature. It was the result of someone who long ago could not restrain his own selfish need to wield the ultimate power over others-the power of life and death. I understand now that all evil-natural or not-comes from the same impulse to put one's desires above all else, no matter the cost to others. Evil is the ultimate form of selfishness, and it must be opposed in all its manifestations, whether small or great, mundane or mystical. That is what the Silver Flame asks of us."
Tusya nodded approvingly. "And you, Leontis? What did you learn tonight?"
"That things are not always as they appear on the surface, and in order to combat evil, one must see a situation not as one thinks it is or should be, but rather as it truly is." Leontis looked at Diran then. "You taught that to me tonight, my friend, and I am grateful."
Diran smiled and nodded his acceptance of Leontis's thanks.
Tusya stood, groaning at the stiffness in his joints. "I think it's time we returned to our camp and got some rest don't you? There's a village not far from here, and once our strength is restored, perhaps we'll pay the good folk who live there a visit and see if there's anything three faithful servants of the Silver Flame might be able to do for them."
Diran and Leontis rose to their feet.
"And perhaps we'll see if they have some inexpensive wine for sale?" Diran teased.
Tusya grinned.
Diran walked over to the fountain and sat beside Leontis.
"I thank you for your earlier assistance, my friend. If you hadn't arrived when you did, I'd most likely be one with the Flame right now, and Ghaji would have the burden of my death on his hands. Even though he wasn't in control of his actions at the time, he would still feel responsible."
Leontis didn't look at Diran as he replied. "I was glad to help, but I really didn't do much. You had the situation well in hand before I arrived."
"Remember what Tusya always told us: 'Humble or grand-'"
"'-all good actions brighten the Flame's light in the world.'" A ghost of a smile crossed Leontis's face. "I haven't forgotten."
The entire time he'd been in the courtyard, Diran had felt uneasy, as if evil were present nearby, though for some reason it seemed muted and restrained. He'd put the feeling down to the lingering aftereffects of the Fury, but now that he sat close to Leontis, he could tell the evil he felt was centered on his fellow priest. Something was seriously wrong, and Diran felt confident that was the reason Leontis had kept himself apart from the others while they talked in the courtyard.
"It is good to see you, my brother," Diran said. "It's been too many years since last we saw one another. I would like to think you sought me out for old times' sake, but I suspect otherwise. Something is clearly troubling you. Tell me what it is."
Diran reached out to put his hand on Leontis's shoulder, but the other priest jerked away, as if he feared Diran's touch.
"I… I would prefer that you do not lay hands on me," Leontis said.
Diran frowned, but he withdrew his hand. "Of course." He waited several moments for Leontis to continue speaking, but his fellow priest remained silent, and Diran knew that whatever matter was plaguing his friend was so serious that Leontis couldn't bring himself to discuss it, even though that was surely why he had come to Diran.
"May I see your arrowhead?"
Diran was puzzled by Leontis's request, but he removed the holy symbol from the pocket where he kept it and held it out for his fellow priest to take. But instead of reaching out for the arrowhead, Leontis turned his palm up and waited. Even before he dropped the silver symbol into his friend's hand, Diran had a bad feeling, and once the metal touched Leontis's flesh that feeling was confirmed by the sound and smell of sizzling meat. Diran quickly snatched back the arrowhead, but the damage was done: a blackened scorch mark in the shape of the holy symbol had been seared onto Leontis's palm.
As Diran stared at the mark in horror, Leontis gave him a sad, grim smile.
"I've come to ask you to kill me, my friend… for old times' sake."
CH
APTER TEN
The setting sun cast an orange sheen on the gray water of Kolbyr's port, creating an illusion of warmth. A poor illusion, Ghaji thought, considering the wind felt as if it were blowing down from the top of a glacier. The half-orc, Yvka, Tresslar, Hinto, Solus, and Asenka were walking down Kolbyr's dock back toward the wharf, their destination a tavern called the Ill Wind.
Asenka had already spoken with the harbormaster about hiring a ship, and since they had a letter of credit from Baroness Calida, the man was only too happy to make recommendations-especially since the letter promised him a substantial finder's fee if he could find them transport as quickly as possible. He'd given Asenka several names, but he'd told her that if it what she was looking for was a swift vessel, the Turnabout was their best bet.
"She's a galleon," Asenka explained to the others when she rejoined them. "A fast one, too. Faster than she should be given her size, according to the harbormaster. He suspects magical enhancement of some sort, though there's nothing obvious about the ship to indicate what kind. She's anchored not far offshore. The harbormaster is going to send the captain a message to let him know we'd like to hire his vessel and how much we're willing to pay. The harbormaster seems to think the captain will at least want to talk with us, and he suggested we wait for him at a nearby tavern."
After that, they walked to the end of the dock to take a look at the Turnabout. She lay at anchor a quarter mile from the port-a bit farther than convenient, Ghaji thought. Almost as if the captain wanted to keep people from getting a close look at his vessel. Or perhaps so the ship was far enough out to sea in case there was a sudden need for hasty departure. A pirate ship, he decided, though in the Principalities any vessel might suddenly fly raider's colors if the need-or for that matter, the whim-arose. Lhazaarites were nothing if not pragmatic, and given the harsh environment in which they lived, Ghaji supposed he couldn't blame them.
Despite the harbormaster's words, the Turnabout didn't look like anything special, just a typical three-masted galleon. She didn't leave the shipyard yesterday, but she wasn't ready to be scuttled and sent to her final rest at the bottom of Lhazaar, either. Ghaji figured it likely that the harbormaster had made up the ship's mysterious reputation for speed in the hope that they'd book passage and he'd get his finder's fee before they discovered the vessel was slower than a leaky tugboat with a broken rudder and a hold full of lead ingots.