Mordon was used to waiting long minutes before entering a new area of the ruins. Being a ghost precluded any quick movements from point to point within the crumbling city. But standing here next to the doorway seemed like the wrong thing to do. Instead of striding to the foyer with his back to the library, he shuffled sideways trying to keep both ends of the hallway in sight. Even moving sideways, he was soon at the stairs leading to the second level. He had not heard or seen a thing. This man he had seen was just as effective a ghost as was he; more so perhaps.
Mordon knew the man he had seen was an efficient killer. Anyone bringing fear to the rugged lot of men left in Widley deserved any respect and precaution Mordon could provide.
A strange feeling began drifting through Mordon’s mind. It was not fear he felt. He was extremely confident of his abilities. Arrogance was not part of his mind set. But he was self-assured of his skill to ward off any man of flesh and blood. As he paused at the foot of the stairs, Mordon wondered if the man he had seen was connected to the presence he had felt twice now.
Turning to ascend the wide stairs, Mordon began to contemplate setting his own traps. If he could construct a dead fall in the tower to the roof, it might give him some measure of safety from this direction. He would have to build it so its appearance gave the impression of rubble from the two-year-old attack. If he could do that, then it might have a modicum of success. If Mordon was going to fill the lower portion of the tower with rubble it would be a herculean task, but one he eagerly anticipated.
As he made his way back across the length of the upper hallway, another thought came to mind. Blocking the lower tower would give him free access to the locked chamber above his head. Mordon was equally as impatient to open that door as he was about learning from the maps.
Before entering the tight winding confines of the spiral stairway Mordon sheathed his sword. Taking the tower steps two at a time, he was soon standing next to the door. Mordon was shocked beyond belief to find the padlock had been removed. What was going on in the castle? The hasp was unbroken, meaning whoever had opened the door had had a key or a good file. He looked at the base of the door, unable to detect fillings on the flagging. The light was dim but the fillings should stand out as fresh glittering bits of metal. Mordon stood in the center of the small area of flagging in front of the door, so intrigued now that his maps were completely forgotten. Should he push open the door and look within the chamber he knew was there, or hasten back to the cistern chamber?
Dilemmas were not situations in which he frequently found himself. His life had been fairly straightforward ever since the despoilment of Widley. His survival had been paramount, comfort had come next. Mordon had learned to play the game of life and death with Scatley, and was far in the lead in that score. What was happening around him now was causing the fighting floor to tilt and weave.
Mordon reached out his right hand to the rusted latch of the door. He instantly felt a rush of presence on the other side, causing him to push his back against the stone wall of the tower. The roll of maps quickly reentered his mind, and kept him closer to the door than he desired. The hand that had nearly touched the latch was hovering over the pommel of his sword. Excitement and a little fear surged through his body. Was this going to be the moment of his death?
Mordon smiled. A confrontation was just what he needed. His skills with sword lay dormant for far too long. Now was the time to find out if he deserved the Wilson blade. He drew his sword in the confining space of the door stoop. Whoever the man was on the other side of the door had to have heard the extraction of his weapon. Instead of hesitating, Mordon lifted his right foot and with a powerful surge of strength drove it into the door next to the latch. The latch crushed the jamb. The tremendous thrust of his leg and foot caused the splintering of wood and slammed the door against the interior wall with a loud BOOM. Motes of dust settled through the air, some catching the dim light within the stairwell.
It was pitch black inside the chamber at his front. The presence was still there, but invisible in the dim light of the tower. There was nothing available for him to create light. Taking the time to light even a single map to flame was repugnant to him. Mordon did not enter the darkness of the chamber, nor did the man inside come forward in the dim light . . . stalemate. He was not certain this presence and the figure of the man he had seen below were one and the same.
The presence he was feeling offered no resistance, nor did it offer acceptance, so Mordon initiated an interaction. “We need to meet in the light of day.” When there was no answer Mordon tried a different tack, “There are men in this city who would harm you if they could . . . I am not one of them.” Curiosity pricked at the back of his mind as he continued, “I have been living a ghost’s life in Widley for two years. I think you are better at it than am I.”
There was no response forthcoming from the darkness. He was well balanced and ready for an attack, but none came. If the presence was as skilled as he, then the one standing in darkness could see it had no advantage. No advantage other than coming from the dark at an undisclosed direction. His reflexes could adjust quickly to any sound indicating direction.
Mordon was becoming impatient, “You do not fear me and I do not fear you . . . I sense we are equally skilled with weapons.”
“You should fear me, soldier.”
Mordon nearly dropped the point of his sword from the black doorway. It was a woman’s voice; silky and soft with no overtones of fear. Not in the least did the sound of her voice betray any semblance of discomfort of being found. The voice of the woman sounded as if she faced away from him, perhaps talking from behind something he could not see.
The thought of being with a woman again . . . . Mordon dropped the point of his sword and sheathed the blade, being intentionally audible so she could hear his movements. He relaxed his voice as much as he could to equal her tone, “I meant what I said, and you have nothing to fear from me. I learned a long time ago to respect a lady.” He let his gaze drop for an instant in memory, “Was it you I saw passing the library a few moments ago?”
Silence was her only response.
“Are you responsible for cleaning up the castle?” Questions began to flow into his mind one after the other. Without giving her a chance to respond, “If you are the one killing the others within Widley, why did you not attempt killing me in the ruins yesterday? How did you get into my cistern chamber without my hearing you enter or leave? Did you come from the country or from another city?” It was not a question, but Mordon stated, “You must not come from the conqueror of this ruined city, or you would not lay waste to his men.” Her voice came as sharp as the blade of his Wilson sword.
“Stop blathering, it does not become you. I owe you nothing. The only reason you are alive still is because my master does not know of your existence.”
What was she talking about? How could anyone not know about him as well as the other survivors? Had he been such a successful ghost this master had been unable to detect his presence among the others? He was being faced with a conundrum of epic proportions. This was becoming all too confusing. But if this woman was unwilling to supply answers, he might never understand what was going on around him. It had been so long ago he had talked with a woman, Mordon awkwardly grasped at straws, “I have a supply of food in the cistern chamber.” Fool, she already knows such facts. “I found a cabinet of maps in the library. I know how to read and write but I know nothing about the lands around Duratia.” He somehow could not stop himself from pouring out all his secrets. Mordon touched the cord running across his chest, “I was taking them back to study.” Mordon paused in his rambling with realization creeping into his thoughts that maybe this woman was as starved for companionship as was he. If his assumption was wrong, it would place him at disadvantage. He decided it safer if he made no assumptions and to stay alert.
We stood at an impasse. Whoever she was, she did not want to lose the advanta
ge of darkness. She was apparently at ease with the darkness surrounding her. The dim light in the spiral stairway of the tower allowed her to see him, if only dimly. If she had wanted to attack now was her best opportunity. Having to draw his sword before she was upon him might prove tricky. She was not advancing, at least as far as Mordon could tell. So why wouldn’t she come forward into the light? Maybe caution was as equally ingrained within her as it was in him. What should his next move be, so he could gain a little of her trust?
“I am going to return to the cistern tower and study these maps. I will leave the upper door without bar. If you wish to come and talk, the door will be open to you.” Mordon could hear soft laughter. He could not tell if she had moved back from the doorway. She could be anywhere in the black chamber. Without light, he would never know where she was, or if she was standing or sitting. The thought of her sitting in a chair while he stood out here nearly drove an angry retort of her silence from his throat, but he calmed himself. “If you are using this attic chamber as your retreat, I apologize for damaging the jamb. I can repair it for you, but you need a bar across the inside of the door. Any of the men in Widley could kick the door in as I did.” There was no response. Mordon stood there for only a moment further and turned to climb the remaining steps in the tower. Her voice made him stop and turn back to the darkness.
“If you could see me, you would not like what you saw, Mordon of Widley.”
Again, her words confused him, how did she know his name? Had she been so wounded she was disfigured? Maybe it was revenge that drove her to kill without compassion. “We are what we are, phantom woman. If you do not wish even to talk, I understand. My offer still stands. You are welcome within the cistern tower and the chamber within.”
Mordon could hear the soft laughter filtering through the darkness. She apparently knew she could already come and go as she wished. This time when he turned there was no voice, so he placed his feet upon the stone steps of the tower and climbed steadily upward.
Guilt and fear swept over her as waves upon the distant shore. To hear a human voice not in thrall to the master nearly overwhelmed her desires. Why . . . why had she not killed this one? She did know who he was. Was it his lack of fear? Was the sound of his sane voice so comforting she, for a brief moment, forgot what she was and what she had done? Her mind seethed with conflicting feelings. An idea, no more tenuous than a step of a shrew, entered and fled her tumultuous thoughts. Did she dare conceive a plan to wrench what she was from the master? The briefest consideration of a concept so beyond the realm of possibility left her feeling giddy. Could she possibly keep from killing him as she had so many others? How could she coerce a man of this one’s ability and size? How could someone like her use a man with no fear? She shuddered. She was unable to fathom whether the palsy was caused by hope or dread. The delicate step of the shrew turned into a stampede of elephant.
Back out upon the roof, Mordon conceded he had won nothing. He might never see the woman in the light of day or even by a candle’s light: any more than he had seen of the figure flashing by the library doorway. The silken voice and the armored figure may be two completely different individuals. It still shocked him that he had heard the voice of a woman. In retrospect, he had detected no trace of perfume or anything that would have indicated it was a woman in the dark chamber, aside from her voice. Tracy and others had always used something they felt was alluring. Perhaps this woman of the dark had no such vanity, or wanted her presence to be as elusive as did he. There were more reasons than wanting a clean bed he took nightly showers. Mordon had to admit he did not know if his bodily odors would give away his presence, while out in Widley’s streets. Keeping a clean body couldn’t but help in his ghostly quest.
It had gotten hot outside while he had spent time in the coolness of the castle. By the time he reached to open the cistern tower door, sweat had thinly covered his chest and face. He immediately removed the roll of maps from his back, as they were just starting to wick the moisture from his soaked leathern armor. Mordon shut the door behind him, but left it unbarred as he said he would. Light from the hole above illuminated the entire interior of the tower with a dusky glow. Everything appeared as he had left it.
The table he had found in the Blue Frog had carefully been taken apart and put back together here. After descending his stairs to this table, he stepped and placed the maps on its clean surface. There was not much to move; another of his mugs. He had forgotten to ask why she had taken the mug. Maybe she had not been in Widley long enough to know the different areas of the city. He had extended an invitation, and it would be up to her what she did.
A sense of wanting to protect her grew in his awareness. He had to openly laugh at such a thought. The thought alone would have to suffice. That woman needed no one’s protection. Maybe he had better warn Simper, if she had not already sent him to his grave. The thought of the possibility of his old friend being killed by her left him swimming in new uneasy concerns. Simper was too canny to be caught unaware by anyone. Mordon chuckled once more. A grave was something no one took the time to do anymore. Vermin took care of any fresh supply of meat in short order. Even most bones disappeared quickly enough if a carcass was left to the elements.
The maps were untied and left to unfurl on the table’s surface. A candle, and then two more were added in holders to provide additional light. His right hand once more softly caressed the face of the top map. Hungry eyes and a deepening longing to learn from these maps engraved their importance in his brain. These maps signified a whole awareness about which he was soon to gain. He leaned over the top map and traced out rivers with a forefinger. Each time he touched something portrayed on the map, he sounded the letters in the word or words accompanying the drawing.
Names like Fonderling and Eastchester, Vaga River and Willow Creek, Swords gap Mountains and Sinhdaly Desert found a home in Mordon’s mind. He consumed the information on the first map and carefully moved the leaf to an open section of the table. The second brought more new names and furthered his awareness of the land depicted on each map. By the time he had absorbed the fourth parchment, his mind was swimming with this new information. Mordon leaned back in the chair he had set himself upon without knowing, and stretched his thick arms and muscular back. What good was all this knowledge if he could not tie them all together and somehow know in what direction they lay? Mordon felt like the king’s jester; a fool indeed. How he wished Wicliff had won the day and had gotten him into the lessons with the children of royalty. There had to have been schools somewhere in the city for the commoners.
Mordon sighed. He had not been a commoner either. His life had existed between the two levels of society. Wicliff had done his best to school the young Mordon. The books he had obtained from his lady friend were varied in their topics. He had read fanciful stories of heroes and maidens, as well as books of philosophy he had had a difficult time understanding, let alone rationalizing.
One by one Mordon quickly searched through the stack of maps. About three quarters down in the stack he came across just what he envisioned. Here was a map of large land masses surrounded by, to his surprise, oceans. Bodies of water the size depicted on the map were difficult to believe as credible. But if the oceans were someone’s imagination, then perhaps so were the other lands.
Mordon stood and stretched once more; it was time for a break. He tapped the ale drum and filled the one mug he had left. The taste reminded him of pleasant times in the few taverns the garrison frequented. Those days could never be retrieved, not with the conqueror and his armies running amok across the land. The thought of getting as far from Widley as he could, sounded more and more inviting as each moment passed. But if he were going to leave this tower, he wanted to know where he was headed.
Returning his gaze to the table, he realized he needed to replenish the candles. Looking overhead at the sky through the hole, he was surprised to find stars in the sky. He had let an entire aftern
oon and early evening slide by in his studies of the maps. He was hungry, so he dug out some of the salt pork from a barrel, scraping the layer of salt back into the barrel. From another barrel, he brought out a handful of crackers. He sliced a thick section of a yellow cheese into his hand. Taking everything to the table, Mordon set down the items on a pewter plate in the small space remaining on its surface.
Everything tasted delicious, more so than he could ever remember food tasting before this moment. Mordon mulled over the why this food tasted so good. He had certainly gone long enough without eating, so no, it had to be for another reason. Perhaps he felt good about meeting the woman. Although it was just as likely the surfacing of the maps and his learning about his world was making the taste of his food more sublime than usual. Now he was thinking about it all, he felt damn good. The prospect of a willing woman and the knowledge held in the maps was making him feel heady. But he laughed just as quickly as the thought of the woman surfaced, it was more likely she would try to finish him as she had the others.
It was intriguing just the same, as unlikely as it seemed the killer was a woman. From the sounds, he remembered, a killer that brought fear into the hearts of those she chose. It did not bother him that she was a murderess with skill. When it came right down to it, he was as guilty of murder as her. The only difference he could see was she went looking for death and he waited for it to come to him.
Mordon moved slightly to gain a little comfort in his one chair. When setting up his refuge, it seemed so extravagant to have needed two chairs. If he had brought two chairs from the wreckage of the city it would have meant he needed company, when he clearly did not. The woman surfaced briefly in his thoughts. A woman like her might not appreciate his motives if he added another chair . . . too presumptive.
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