by Greg Curtis
After that it was a slow but steady battle of attrition as piece by piece the great outer wall began to crumble away. But as slow as it seemed to her, she knew it must be devastating inside the castle. Because each of those stones that fell weighed as much as a fully loaded bullock train. Those walls were eight feet thick, fifty feet high and made of the toughest granite available. According to the histories it had taken thousands of workers, years to build the castle.
Over the next few hours the walls came down and damage began to appear on the inner buildings as the cannon balls made it through the gaps and the barrels of black powder came crashing down on them from above. At the same time the men inside the castle finally began to start firing back. With rifles only as they had no cannons. Still, bullets began to pepper the ground around the soldiers. Though the King’s army was at the outer range of the rifles, the bullets were deadly, and a few soldiers were brought down. But only a few. The long range coupled with the fact that smoke covered the entire battlefield and the men were hunkered down behind mounds of earth meant that few shots hit their target. Most of those who fell were only wounded and their places were quickly taken by others.
Four, maybe five hours after the attack had begun, the western corner of the castle walls abruptly crumbled away leaving a good twenty-foot-wide gap through which an army could attack. But that wasn't the plan. The soldiers stayed where they were and the cannons kept on firing. The soldiers had orders not to approach Castle Alldrake until it had been reduced to rubble. The assumption was that anyone who was still alive inside the Castle’s remains by then would be buried alive.
By mid-afternoon the main wall had been reduced to a skeleton of itself and the heart of the castle inside the grounds was starting to collapse. When the first of the towers fell the soldiers cheered some more. Watching twelve stories of leaning tower suddenly fall over was spectacular, though it pained Dariya to think too long on what that meant to those within it. Anyone inside the tower, or underneath it when it fell, would have been crushed. It was a horrible way to die.
Two more of the towers came down in the next hour and the last one an hour after that. By the time early evening rolled around, Castle Alldrake could scarcely be called a castle any longer. It had no walls – at least facing the army – no towers and no crenelations. The keep itself was by now looking less like a building and more like a ruin.
Again Dariya found herself wondering about those still inside the castle. How many of them still breathed? And was one of them her mother? She knew that some still lived – the few people still shooting back at them attested to that. But were there any more? By the time night finally fell even those last few shooters had stopped. But then so had the army. The bombardment had ended for the day.
Dariya was glad about that, even though she knew it would resume in the morning when the sun came back up. As she watched the braziers being pulled out and lit to keep the patrols warm for the night, her thoughts turned to the dead and how many of them she knew. Because when all was said and done, she had truly only ever wanted one man dead – her uncle. Still, this was the right thing to do. She hoped.
As the others left to join the soldiers and get something to eat and drink, Dariya remained on the rise, staring at the hulking black ruin that had once been a castle. Even her home. It was hard to watch and Dariya discovered her own appetite had deserted her. But in the morning, she would continue to do her duty. She would watch as the remains of the castle were finally turned to rubble and then the ruins searched for any survivors. After that she would go home and tell the others of what she'd seen.
How could doing the right thing seem so wrong?
She sat there on the grass for the longest time as the moon slowly traversed the sky, asking herself that single question. Because nothing in what she had witnessed felt right.
Then a soldier unexpectedly screamed somewhere in the darkness, and she forgot her question. No doubt everyone else in the entire camp had also forgotten what they were doing. Because that was the scream of a man in terror. And no one should be afraid. Not on their side.
More men started screaming, and she realised that the soldiers out on the lines, maintaining the perimeter around the castle were under attack. And though they were a great distance away from her, the quiet of the still night air was letting the screams carry.
The soldiers grabbed their weapons and took their places at the earth ramparts, desperately trying to see what was happening out there. But it was night. There was nothing they could see beyond the light of their own torches. They could still hear it though, as man after man suddenly started screaming. A few fired off weapons, but it didn't seem to help. And the screaming just grew louder as more and more men came under attack.
What had her uncle done?! Dariya's heart was racing and her hands were clammy as she gripped her rifle and waited to see whatever was coming. Because she had no doubt that her uncle had set a trap; one that involved some sort of dark magic. But still she could see nothing. Only listen to the terrible sounds of men crying out in terror. Sounds that were slowly drawing closer.
Then the first of the men in the camp cried out and she jumped. It was getting closer.
Dariya turned toward the sound but still saw nothing. Just a man throwing his weapon down on the ground and clutching at his head in obvious pain. But a few moments later she saw something. A shadow in the darkness. A shadow moving about the man as he fell to his knees.
“Gods save us!” She didn't know what that shadow was, but it frightened her as nothing else could.
Soon she saw more shadows and more men screaming. But try as she might, she could make out nothing about them. They were moving too fast. And they seemed almost insubstantial. Soldiers started firing at them, but it didn't seem to help. And it was then that she realised what was attacking them. Ghosts! It had to be! Shooting at them didn’t help. A direct hit passed through them, often taking out another soldier as it did so.
The Commander started shouting orders at his men, but it didn't help. He could barely make himself heard over the sound of his men screaming; in any case no one was listening.
Soon hundreds upon hundreds of the King’s men were lying on the ground, covering their ears with their hands and crying out in complete terror. Some of them were crying. Many were begging. And as she crouched there with her rifle in her hands and stared at them, Dariya's blood had turned to ice. These were trained soldiers! They had faced death! They had trained for it!
Then the nearest of the shadows came close enough and Dariya could finally make out enough of what she saw for her heart to leap into her throat.
It really was a ghost!
Dariya froze as she got a good look at her first one close up. It was little more than a wisp of a man floating above one dead soldier, looking for its next prey. What her eyes showed her though was far less significant than what her thoughts showed. She could see the anger and terror in its face. The madness in its ethereal eyes. And she could hear the same scream in its ghostly heart as the one the soldiers were making.
A heartbeat later it was gone and she was left crouching there, frightened, and wondering if the army truly was being attacked by ghosts! She had never heard of such an attack before. It made no sense. But more importantly – how did you fight a ghost?!
In time she saw more of them. Lots more. Flying around the camp and jumping from one soldier to the next. She watched as they seemed to dive into the soldiers, presumably driving them mindless with fear as they were reduced to screaming wretches. But even in her fear she noticed something more. These ghosts weren't dead soldiers. She saw no uniforms or weapons. She saw instead families. Men, women and even children. All dead. All caught in some sort of incorporeal nightmare. And all running for the nearest warm body they could find.
Thankfully, though she was frightened by the sight of them and the effect they had on the soldiers, she herself was protected from an attack on her mind. She was safe – probably. All of the Friends of the Conco
rd wore amulets that protected them against a great many things, death magic being one of them. The fear she felt was only her own, and not something that had been amplified by the incorporeal beings. What she felt was nothing like the terror that was afflicting the fallen soldiers. Terror so great that she saw several of the soldiers shoot themselves just to escape it.
But where had they come from? And how could there be so many? Because soon everywhere she looked she could see more of them. And though they were laying waste to the King’s army, she found she had nothing to shoot at. What good was a rifle if bullets passed harmlessly through her target?
Finally though, a target walked into view.
Her uncle abruptly came out from what was left of the castle, to stand atop the remains of one of the walls, and survey the devastation he'd wrought. It seemed he was smiling – or even worse gloating – at the sight of the bodies of the soldiers writhing beneath him. In that instant Dariya took aim and squeezed the trigger.
She missed! How she didn’t know, because she knew shot had been true. Even at this range. Her weapon was flawless and her aim just as good. But years of training told her it didn't matter. Methodically she pulled the bolt back, ejected the dead shell, slotted a new one in, slammed it home and fired again.
And again she missed! But she was an excellent shot. How could she miss?! It was late. Dark. And the range was extreme. But she still never missed!
Even as she started reloading he saw her. Saw her and immediately made his way toward her, climbing down the ruined battlements and then walking quickly across the battlefield. She shot at him a dozen more times as he marched towards her, and each shot was a miss even though she knew that the shots had been accurate. But after the last shot she knew that there was nothing she could do with her bullets. So instead she stood there, rifle in hand, thinking to cut him to pieces him with the bayonet on its end.
That proved useless too. She lunged at him just as he came within the reach of her bayonet, and again it was a perfect strike, just as she'd been trained to deliver. But instead of skewering him she watched as her weapon was somehow pushed aside, even as it went to bury itself in his gut. He had to have some sort of protective ward she realised. And clearly it was powerful.
“And who are you, soldier, that you should not fall down before me?”
“Piss on you!” Dariya lunged at him again, with the same result. Again the end of the weapon was simply pushed aside no matter how tightly she gripped it. It made him laugh.
“Pathetic!” He threw back his head and laughed even louder. “Let me show you what true power is!”
A second later he waved his hand and she was picked up by something and hurled away into the trees. No amount of chain and leather could soften the impact as she hit one of the trees. Or the next as she fell to the ground. Still she gritted her teeth against the pain and got up again. She even reached for her rifle which had conveniently also been flung into the trees with her and now lay on the grass nearby, and loaded it again. Hatred made her powerful! And she truly hated him then.
“What! Haven't you learned yet girl?!” He laughed some more as she finally sent the bolt home. “You can't touch me!”
But what he didn't realise was that she had learned. And the one thing she'd learned was that no matter how well protected he was, a bullet fired six inches from his throat would have to kill him. There just wouldn't be time to turn it aside.
So she advanced on him, her heart filled with rage, and – once she was close enough – made to fire her weapon. Naturally he waved at her again, and an instant later she was sent flying a second time. But not before she had fired the rifle and sent a bullet screaming at him from no more than a yard away.
Finally she hit him! She heard his scream. And it was a wondrous sound!
“You bitch!” he yelled at her, still alive, but clearly not completely unharmed for once. The bullet might have grazed him – she couldn't be sure in the darkness – but the real damage had been done by the burning gunpowder discharged right into his face. He hadn't been able to protect himself from that it seemed.
That gave her an idea. Even as her uncle was rubbing at his face with his hands and cursing her, she grabbed the torch on its stand and rushed him again. But this time she didn't try to hit him with it. Instead she dodged to get behind him, touched it against the back of his head and let the flames do their work.
Her uncle screamed as his hair caught fire, and immediately started batting at it with his hands. Dariya knew a moment of pure happiness as she watched him reeling away in the darkness. But then the world turned to hell again as a shining silver blade came streaking towards her from out of the darkness; too quickly for her to duck.
She was dead!
But somehow she didn't die. It should have hit – she would have been dead had it struck but it didn’t. Instead a figure came from out of nowhere to knock her aside just as it struck. A heartbeat later Dariya found herself lying on the grass, staring at the woman who had saved her, only to take the blade instead. And the worst of it was that when Dariya saw the woman's face she recognised it instantly.
“Mother!”
Dariya screamed it at the dead woman, unable to truly understand what had happened. What she was seeing. What she was feeling. It was just too much. And as she screamed she heard another man screaming in the distance as he fought the flames burning him and ran away into the darkness. Her uncle was in pain too.
Knowing she had caused him that pain however didn’t help. Not just then. Perhaps not ever. Not when she found herself kneeling over the body of her mother. A mother she had spent nearly a decade hating only to have her save her at the cost of her own life.
As she knelt there, she just couldn't make sense of that. Of her feelings. Love, hate, fury, grief and disbelief. It was just too much. They overwhelmed her. They left her somehow broken.
But there was one that helped. Vengeance. And she knew there would be a time for vengeance. Just not yet. In the meantime she knelt beside her mother, cradling her head in her arms, while tears ran down her cheeks, and ghosts ran out of control all around. While soldiers fell screaming and dying. And she forgot about her uncle as he vanished somewhere into the night.
In the morning she would bury her mother. And then –
Then she would begin the hunt!
Chapter Twelve
The sound of breaking glass woke Baen from his sleep – but not completely. For a moment he was confused, wondering if what he'd heard had actually been real, or still part of a dream. But then he heard a man somewhere below, yelling angrily followed by the sound of feet on the stairs and he was suddenly wide awake. Someone had broken into his home! And that someone was heading his way!
With a hurried gesture he turned on the lights in his bed chamber, grabbed his housecoat lying draped over the foot of the bed, ran out of the bed chamber and rushed to the stairs. On the way he grabbed the night stick he normally left by his door, hoping he could defend himself against whoever was coming.
“Who's there?” he yelled, nerves twitching and blood pumping.
“Who do you think, Boy?! The Faerie Queen?!”
“Grandpapa?” Baen recognised his voice instantly – and his crankiness. But why was his grandfather breaking into his home in the wee hours of the morning? Why couldn't he just knock? Or better yet come at a more civilised hour?
Still, there was nothing to do but find out what he wanted. So he straightened his hastily donned house coat, took a deep breath and walked calmly down the stairs to the main floor of his home where he found his grandfather muttering angrily to himself. He looked flustered as he searched for something on the walls.
“What are you looking for?”
“Where's your damned light switches Boy?!”
Baen could have told him, but it was late and he was tired. Instead he waved in their general direction and a moment later the entire floor was bathed in light.
“So do you want to tell me what you're doing breaking
into my home at this godforsaken hour?”
“I was out of coffee!” His grandfather snapped at him. “What do you think, Boy?! It's an emergency and you wouldn't answer your damned doorbell!”
Baen took another deep breath. His grandfather it seemed was in another of his moods and he knew from long experience that there would be no soothing him. “What kind of emergency?”
“The bad kind of course!”
“Grandpapa!” Baen groaned. Then he tried again. “What's happened?”
“Murder! Lots and lots of murder! Thousands upon thousands of people have been killed. Stolen. Locked away in a dark place. Threatened. Frightened. Tortured. And then blown up. Now they're loose. Their spirits are everywhere! I feel them like a weight in my lungs. And there is no rest for them!”
Baen wasn't sure what to make of that. His grandfather saw ghosts. He talked to them – a lot. But he wasn't mad. Grandfather Nicholas actually did see ghosts – or something anyway. They told him things that he couldn't possibly know. Madness was really more Grandpapa Oliver's nature. Because all he saw were people trying to kill him. At least that was the general consensus of the family. He was the sane grandparent of the family! Still some of the family did think Grandpapa Nicholas was crazed like Great Uncle Mortimer who also spent his days talking to people who weren't there. Madness and magic – the two things weren't that far apart. Especially not in his family. And it was difficult working out which of the invisible people they talked to were real. Were ghosts any more real than assassins?