Ampheus

by Jonathan Forth

  When gambling was outlawed in Celestina, dice still flourished in the back rooms of taverns. But when a game was discovered by the authorities, those present often faced severe punishment, floggings and imprisonment. Time was running out for Daylon. Bitter losers that owed him money saw a way to forgo their debts, and in no time he became the face of these illicit games and the authorities’ most wanted.

  Under this cloud he evaded a last-minute attempt to apprehend him by climbing out of an inn’s attic and sliding down its roof. He stowed away with a trading caravan on its way to Terramis and paid his passage by playing dice along the way. That the head of the caravan was pleased to see the back of him when they arrived at Ampheus was an understatement. Daylon rode off with a horse, fine clothes on his back, and a chest of coins and jewellery with which he’d start his own business and go straight. He’d always wanted to be a cook or an innkeeper. He’d find a small place just for him to manage, serve fantastic hedgehog and squirrel, and settle down to a comfortable life.

  But it was not to be. As he visited the taverns looking for one that was suitable, he’d hear the dice dancing across the tables in the back rooms. Perhaps just catch a glimpse of eager gamblers as they rolled their coins in their fingers before placing them on the table. He would glance over, distracted from the voice of the tavern owner as he described the merits of his establishment. Lick his lips. Perhaps once more, just one more roll of the dice; what harm could it do?

  Daylon gently touched the forearm of the innkeeper, “Begging your pardon, sir. Hold that thought. Just give me a moment.”

  He would step away from the table and, as if in a trance, slowly make his way towards the cacophony of sounds. This was his home, the one that drew him in. He held the dice in his hands, blew into his cupped palms and tossed them across the table. “Seven!” he cried.

  *

  Two months later he was once again cornered in the back room of a tavern by a crude oaf of a thief advancing on him with a dagger. Just at the point he thought his number was up, the castle guard stepped through the door. They’d perhaps saved his life but weren’t about to be forgiving of either of them. They dragged both of them to the castle dungeons until the matter could be cleared up.

  He’d sat in the cells of Ampheus for three days without a bath. He scratched his skin that itched against his sweat stained clothes. He was sure he stank. Barely had anybody spoken to him. Twice a day a metal plate was thrust under the door with a watery broth that slopped over the sides. He was chilled to the bone and his body ached from sleeping on the floor.

  He’d lost track of time, when he heard footsteps approaching from the outside. A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. He was initially surprised to see a dark-skinned soldier standing in front of him. He assumed he must be from the southern lands across the Aquamuran Sea.

  He nodded at Daylon, scanned the room and picked up a wooden stool that sat against the wall and placed it in the centre of the room in front of Daylon.

  “What happens to you next very much depends on your answers to the questions that I am going to ask you. Is that clear? And be wary, this is not a discussion. Answer my questions, nothing more.” Daylon looked into the man’s face. It was firm, intelligent and no-nonsense. He knew this was a man not to be trifled with. He nodded again.

  The man pulled two dice from the front pocket of his tunic. “When I roll these I want you to call the number.” He sent them bounding and skipping against the cell wall.

  “Six,” said Daylon. They settled. The man glanced at them momentarily. It was a four and a two.

  “Do you often see things hidden from others or feel you can predict the future?”

  Daylon hesitated and shook his head. “No.”

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  The man nodded and paused in thought. He placed his hand inside his tunic and pulled out a leather purse, which he opened to reveal an emerald crystal. He looked at it, holding it in his palm as if weighing up his next move. He looked up at Daylon and without warning tossed it in Daylon’s direction.

  Daylon was caught by surprise and juggled the gem before finally grasping it. He felt the power course through him, a binding of his spirit and the world around him. The stone floor, the walls, an understanding of the essence of everything within his grasp. The crystal glowed stronger. He was immersed in an emerald incandescence.

  He dropped the crystal in shock. “What the hell is that?”

  Before the man answered, a second man entered the room and spoke.

  “What is that? is not the question you need to ask yourself. It is What am I?” He let his words sink in.

  “Do you know what a seer is?” said the second man.

  Daylon looked at him blankly.

  “A seer can see things hidden from others and also has the ability to predict the future or speak for the gods. A seer perceives the spirit realm and the world and acts as a guide or conduit between the two.”

  “But I said I couldn’t see the future,” protested Daylon.

  “I could tell you were lying,” said the soldier. “You hesitated. You nodded when you said no. You gulped and fidgeted with your ear… shall I go on?”

  Daylon looked down at his feet and shook his head.

  “We have a proposal for you,” added the second man. “But first some introductions. I am King Armanar.”

  *

  They had pushed the horses hard and walked to give them some rest. At night they made camp in the open under the stars and then only to get enough sleep to sustain them. They were packed and under way again before sun up. They reached the parish of St Martin’s on the morning of the third day.

  “Keep your eyes and ears keen,” said Logar. “Daylon, do you sense anything?”

  He didn’t. “No.”

  They passed the outer border of the parish and headed down the lane to the chapel. Daylon could tell the knights felt uneasy and even the horses seemed to pick up on this. They were restless and fidgety, flicking their noses in the air and straining at the bridle.

  Tom was up front with Logar directing him forward. The cavalry flanked them. Each gripped his stallion’s reins in one hand but the other hovered over their weapon. Spears, swords and crossbows ready in case of trouble or ambush. But all was still. In fact, the chapel was on the outskirts of the manor’s lands from the direction they were approaching, so they met no one before they pulled up in front of the small church.

  Daylon recognised it immediately. It was the chapel from his vision, no doubt. He was sure of that. They dismounted and walked around the grounds. The wooden archway had collapsed to the ground where the stone wall supporting it had crumbled and mosses now grew on the edges hidden from the sun. Weeds and grasses and small trees smothered the chapel’s gravestones, dragging them deeper into the earth.

  Daylon stepped forward and eased open the wooden door to the chapel. It creaked and hung loose, scraping along the floor where the bottom was now warped. As he stepped inside he was momentarily startled by a couple of pigeons that launched themselves fluttering skywards, and he scanned the room and looked up to see that the roof had collapsed. The few beams that had stayed intact were charred, and scattered on the floor were the remains of the roof that had fallen; skeletal remnants of what had burnt, but not to ash and scattered by the wind.

  Logar stepped past Daylon. He knelt down and lifted up some of the debris but it revealed nothing.

  “This is the place,” said Daylon. “But it looks long abandoned.”

  Logar nodded. “But for once, Seer, I do sense something significant happened here. For the chapel to burn down and not be rebuilt by the lord of the manor, it strikes me as unusual. I suggest we head to the manor and see if we can discover any more about this circumstance.”

  Logar looked around once more and stepped across to one of the remaining walls. He removed his
leather riding glove and rubbed his fingers across deep scars that had been chiselled into the stone. “It looks as if this wall has been hacked crudely by some sort of masonry tool. If I was a suspicious man, which we both know I am not…” He left it hanging for a moment. “…I would think somebody made an effort to cover up whatever markings may have been initially carved on this wall.”

  *

  The soldiers rode into the hamlet. They would have expected to see people milling about or heard the sound of a blacksmith beating metal on his anvil. Perhaps children would be playing pick up sticks or simply scampering through the village dodging between villagers going about their lives. Perhaps chickens would scatter away from the road in a flurry of complaints and feathers as they passed, or pigs would squeal as they were bundled out of the way. But instead the village was lifeless and the dwellings boarded up. Logar dropped from his charger and tried one of the doors. It was firmly bolted. He took a step back and then paced forward and kicked it down, sending it splintering and leaving it dangling and swaying loosely off its hinges.

  He stepped inside and reappeared a few moments later.

  “No one has lived here for a while. Dust and cobwebs. Everything else seems to have been left untouched for many years.”

  “What happened here?” Daylon left the question hanging.

  Logar interrupted their thoughts. “Let’s find the manor house.”

  They continued their search and found the gates that led up an overgrown track up to the manor house. They picked their way through the brambles that pulled at their legs and ducked under unkempt branches that hung down above the path and had not been trimmed.

  Eventually they pulled up in front of the manor. The approach may once have been a tended lawn but was now a lush meadow with tall grass. Bees and butterflies meandered between the flowers that grew in the clumps of grass.

  “Right, sergeant, let’s make camp here for the night,” ordered Logar. “Tom, take a couple of men and sweep the village. Let’s make sure we’ve not missed anything. Daylon, you two, with me, let’s check out the manor.”

  Logar strode up to the house and peered through a window. There was no sign of life. He turned right and wandered around the perimeter of the house. It was the same. At the rear of the house the doors were left open. Daylon stepped inside. Furniture filled the rooms untouched; on the table, plates, glasses and cutlery were still laid as if prepared for a feast, but again everything was covered in dust.

  “Frankly,” said Daylon, “this place sends a shiver down my spine.”

  “It’s just a house,” said Logar. “But you are right; whoever lived here left in a hurry and took nothing with them. What ill fate could cause this?”

  They returned to the rest of the men, who’d corralled, fed and watered the horses. A thick smell of stew filled their nostrils as the men relaxed around their camp. The sun was setting and dusk had fallen, and one by one the stars gradually blinked on as darkness crept upon them. Slowly the only light was cast by the flickering flames of the fire and the torches that they’d planted around their perimeter to keep any curious animals at bay. The only sound that remained was the hissing and crackling of the burning wood and the indistinct murmurings of the men who casually chatted amongst themselves.

  “Sire,” said one of the men. “The horses are restless and I don’t blame them. This place gives me the creeps. Every instinct in my body tells me to flee from this place.”

  Logar nodded. “I feel it, too. But you are a cavalryman of Ampheus, not a child. It is your imagination playing on your nerves. No more.”

  “Actually, Logar,” said Daylon. “Nobody look. It may be my imagination but I swear I can see a pale face and eyes staring at us from the upstairs window of the manor.” Tom was sitting to his right. “Tom, do you see it?”

  “God,” said Tom, “I do. What can it be? All the hairs on the back of my neck have stood up on end.”

  “Be alert,” said Logar. He used his hand low to the ground to signal the men. “Bennet, take five men and hold the front entrance. Sergeant, grab a torch. You take four men and head to the right. Block each door or window so there is no escape. The rest of us will go left. We’ll sweep the house. If there is someone inside we’ll find them. Now take your weapons. Go, go!” he urged.

  The men all leapt to their feet and scattered round the manor house. Daylon could just see enough by the moon to stumble through the shrubs and bushes that had grown up to the manor house’s walls. He held his arm in front of him to protect himself from the branches that would flick back into his face as the soldiers ahead of him pushed them out of their way and released them, springing back in his direction. As they passed an entranceway, Logar would order a guard to hold his ground. By the time they got to the rear door, Daylon was panting and he could hear the heavy breathing of the knights ahead of him. The sergeant met them by the rear entrance. “We’ve covered every exit.”

  “Right, hold here. Now let’s find our ghost!”

  Logar held a torch, unsheathed his sword with his other hand and stepped into the house. He immediately made his way to the stairs and took the steps in pairs as he bound up to the second floor. The wooden stairs creaked under his weight and dust was thrown up into the air, choking those that followed and stinging their eyes. They turned right on the landing; there were four of them, so Logar and Daylon cleared the rooms in the front of the manor while the two guards cleared the back. Finally, they came to the door of the room where they’d seen the apparition. Logar paused then pushed the door slowly open with the tip of his sword. He held the torch in the room. Its light flickered on the walls. The room was empty.

  Logar walked to the window and knelt down. “Somebody was here, the dust has been disturbed.”

  “What manner of demon are we dealing with?” asked Daylon.

  And then they heard it. It was the sound of a harp both soulful and haunting. It sounded like tears falling from one that is lost, wandering helpless, without hope. The sound seemed to fill every inch of the house. They followed its sad lament only to hear it behind a door, but when they burst inside, the doleful sounds would flow to another part of the house.

  “I can’t stand this any more,” said Daylon. “The tune tears at my very soul.”

  “What damned trickery is this?” cursed Logar. “Stay still everyone. Listen.”

  They did. They held their ground and waited. Daylon could hear the sound of his blood pulsing through his ears. And waited. Nothing, and the music gently faded away into the night.

  Chapter 3

  Leo

  The knights slept fitfully. The next morning they broke camp. They divided the village into quadrants to search for any signs of the previous night’s apparition but found nothing. No sign of life, no record of what befell the manor and the surrounding lands.

  Logar shook his head. “There is nothing here. I suggest we find the next village and see if they have any knowledge of this place, else we return to Ampheus.”

  They paused at the top of the hill overlooking the hamlet and looked back towards the chapel. Its spire still peeked out from the trees.

  Daylon was the first to speak. “Logar,” said Daylon. “It may be my imagination but can I see smoke from the copse to the south of the hamlet?”

  Wisps, tendrils of smoke could just be seen curling out of a knot of trees and being dragged away by the breeze.

  “I see it,” said Logar. “Let’s check it out. Take a bearing; we don’t want to lose sight of it when we are in the woods.

  “Bennet, hold here with two men. We will signal you with the light of the sun on a shield if we get disorientated. Keep it simple: north, east, south, west. We’ll take the direction you indicate.”

  As it was, they found it quickly and stood in front of a tiny dwelling surrounded by trees.

  They had heard it from perhaps a hundred yards away. It was the sound
of the harp once again, and it seemed to reach out to them, surround them, draw them into the small tumbledown thatched cottage.”

  Logar drew up his stallion perhaps forty feet from the cottage, he unsheathed his sword and swung down from his horse.

  “Who is there?” he shouted. “Come out and identify yourself!”

  The music stopped immediately and abruptly.

  After a long moment’s pause, the door swung open and an old crone stepped out from the cottage. She was stooped with the weight of her passing years. She shuffled with some effort towards her guests and looked up uncertainly at the fifteen knights seated on their chargers standing in front of her.

  If she was intimidated or surprised by the sight of the men she did not show it. In fact, she simply smiled, revealing blackened rotten teeth.

  “Sirs, to what do I owe this pleasure? We don’t see many knights around these parts. In fact, we don’t see many people at all.”

  “We were just passing through,” said Logar. “We thought it strange we could not find anybody here. The village seemed abandoned and then we saw the smoke from your cottage.”

  The old lady turned to look at her small chimney, grumbling to herself as if cursing it.

  “Everyone left,” she said. “The village is cursed.”

  “What happened at the chapel?” said Daylon. “It was burnt down.”

  The old lady paused. “Yes, the village is cursed.”

  “Are you here alone?” asked Logar.

  “Of course. I was too old to leave. I was born in this house and here I will die.”

  “But your gardens are tended to and we heard the harp. You play well for someone with such crippling arthritis.” Daylon indicated to her hands. The old women paused and looked at them, their twisted and swollen knuckles betraying her. “Perhaps you could play another tune.”