“Fool . . . how can anyone such as me ever be normal? I have done my master’s bidding so often I feel my very bones awash with gore rather than my own flesh. I was not like this two years ago, but now I find myself awaiting the next victim with relish. To see my knives do their work with such efficiency . . . my body responds in near climax as must surely does my master’s. I have no control of my own body. I am tormented by the evil things he has me do, simply for his pleasure. Even my degradation is honey to his desires. There is no normalcy in my life . . . if life is what I have.”
Mordon sat staring into the darkness in the direction the voice had emanated. How was he to respond to the likes of this wraith? There had to be a shared connection between them. Within the pitch-black darkness of the tower, and her chamber, she still maintained control of her will. She must not want his death as the others she had slaughtered. But how tenuous was the thread of his life across the blade of her knife? Mordon did not fear the voice he heard coming from the darkness. “You see . . . we are talking. Consider me a real ghost, something other than flesh and blood, for that is what I have become. As a soldier, do you not think I have committed atrocities making me sick remembering what I have done to others? My master was a king.” The woman shrieked and just as suddenly he felt the blade of a knife at his throat. Warm breath washed across his face. Her words came as thick cream filled with rage.
“Do not equate your dead king in the same breath as my master. They are not akin in any manner. Your king was kind and loving . . . filled with compassion for those under his gentle hands. My master is evil, so twisted with hatred of all others it pains him to see the slightest drop of compassion. To him love is as an acid.”
Mordon tried to swallow, but felt if he did the blade of her knife would penetrate his throat. He was surprised to find the sensation of the blade against his skin did not evoke the slightest bit of fear. With resolve, Mordon reached up slowly to where he guessed her hand to be. She had admonished him never to touch her, but it did not stop him from gently grasping the cold hand gripping the knife at his throat. With only a slight pressure, he pushed the hand away. “If we are to become good friends we both must remain among the living.”
The voice cracked into maniacal laughter and seemed to come from every direction around Mordon. Just as the crazed laughter had commenced it ended; somewhere near the roof. When her voice came again it was to his front under the cistern roof.
“Did the touch of my hand bring you waves of passion, Mordon of Widley? Do you intend crushing my body beneath yours at your first opportunity?”
What Mordon felt was compassion. Her master must have been forcing her to do his will in ways that would crush anyone’s spirit. How long had she been hanging on to her thread of sanity? It must feel as if she was clinging to only a mote of what she had been. Anger filled his every pore. The creature that had done this to her deserved to have a sword twisted in its belly, for a lifetime. It was clear she still needed something of what he offered her. “Your body is your own lady of darkness. Come and go as you desire . . . linger and talk whenever you wish. I plan not to leave this tower until the maps on this table are etched in memory.” Mordon considered lighting a candle without her leave but hesitated. He had already broken one of her rules by touching her hand. He didn’t want to push her even further over the edge. “You and I can do without more killing. But listen to me now . . . even if you come here with fresh blood on your hands, this tower is open to you because I want you here.”
Her voice came from just across the table. It suddenly seemed a different person was speaking to him. The timbre of her voice was the same, but the wildness had left. Her soft words flooded him with longing Mordon knew would always be unrequited.
“When I first saw you in the city, crawling from your hole beneath the rubble, you felt . . . different. Different in a way I have not known for some time.”
At this moment, Mordon realized she sounded as sane as Tracy had been. This was the voice he had been listening to in his head for the last two years. When he did not respond, she continued.
“I . . . I know your name, Mordon of Widley, because you know me.”
Mordon slumped forward from the chair, falling to his knees in shock. What was this, some new trick? Was she playing games with his mind by trying to lure him in some direction that would bring more pleasure to her and her master? She was definitely, none of the women he had known in the past. He could remember each woman and voice he had spent time in the company of, with clarity. Two years alone had dredged up their voices many times. “Who are you?”
“You bring strength back to my soul. I will leave you now . . . do not follow me this time. My master’s appetites are better filled in the light of day. If he sees you through me, you will die.”
Mordon heard footfalls climbing the black stairs to the door above. When the door was pushed outward, the figure he saw was the same he had seen in the hallway outside the library. The hood of the black cape concealed her features, but the morning light shown from armored legs and feet. He wanted desperately to follow as he had earlier, to run after her until confronting the real figure he had seen then and just now.
For a second, Mordon considered his sanity. The powder Scatley had dumped in the wells could be causing these visions. The words exchanged may only be figments of his crumbling reality. His mind could be creating the voice he longed to hear and so desperately needed. But it was so vividly real, he just couldn’t accept that it wasn’t really happening.
Mordon lit a candle and then another. The colorful maps rested in silence at his front. These maps were real. The information he was managing to garner must be accurate. There was a world out there he wished to explore.
He suddenly realized how much affect the maps were having upon him. The ruins of Widley were becoming a dungeon chamber to his new awareness. He had only thought he lived a life of comfort in this tower. But in reality, he had shrank his life to its barest form. This was not living, this was just surviving. Surviving in a life so limiting as his . . . the thought made him cringe. Mordon completely accepted as fact the necessity of leaving Widley.
Mordon’s thoughts rushed back to the wraith-woman-creature who had just left his tower. Was this female something he was just creating? Perhaps he should have never ensconced himself within these stone walls. Being out in the forests would have placed him in an unenviable position, or so he had thought. He was obviously self-reliant and could have learned to survive out there as well. At least there he would have been outside, and would feel more confident about his sanity. He had expended a great deal of effort trying to feel safe within Widley when perhaps he could have been living a more gratifying life beyond the rubble.
This wraith had said he knew her, but he did not know how that was possible. If she was indeed insane, the game she was playing may be for her amusement, or perhaps her master’s. If she was fiercely clinging to her sanity as he suspected, then she was making a massive effort to gain back the parts of her that mattered most.
Mordon had mired himself in a very questionable relationship . . . why? Was he doing this from some sense of self-preservation? Did he think he could reverse whatever had been done to her? He searched his motives without satisfaction.
Mordon looked down at the map he had been studying. He placed the palms of both hands on its surface. This was his way out from beneath the fallen stones of Widley. What he needed to accomplish was absorb everything he could from the map of Duratia and the surrounding kingdoms. The others could be taken with him and studied later. With renewed energy and determination, Mordon began mentally devouring every nuance he could acquire from the drawings.
Hunger finally tore him from the map, so he satisfied his needs and then continued the searching of depicted information. By the time he finished memorizing the map he knew where every river, stream, and brook was located within the four kingdoms. Mordon could ride to the small
hamlet of Garner in Mothport without asking how to get there. There was a large forest in central Sothpern with the name Wenholme Forest that intrigued him. He felt as if he could walk or ride the four kingdoms as if he had lived within each kingdom all his life. Haverid was north of Sothpern, with fewer villages in its more mountainous lands, but its convoluted shoreline was nearly solid with cities separated by smaller villages. The Pict territory must be an unknown as all illustrations and delineations upon the map faded away into blankness.
Mordon knew he would have to steal a horse from Scatley if he intended to ride anywhere. The aspect of stealing something as substantial as a horse brought a smile to his face. He had been an invisible thorn in the man’s side since Scatley and his men had been left in Widley to scour the remains of the city of any life. One thing for certain, he knew horses. Until he became a soldier, much of his time had been spent giving them care.
Mordon’s thoughts left the tower and centered on Scatley’s encampment. If the man had not moved his supplies to a new location, he was even more of an idiot than he thought. Supplies Mordon had aplenty, thanks to Scatley’s brainlessness. But the location of the man’s horses was unknown. He had an idea where they might be kept, but was not certain.
This woman had warned him not to let her see him in the daylight. But during the light of day was his choice for movement about the city. Should he venture out at night and hazard the wraith’s fury, and choose to be hindered by his lack of sight? Whatever she saw in him had kept her knives from his heart. With her admonishment in memory, it may be safer to change his mode of operation within the city. At least in the dark he might attain even ghostlier attributes. He knew this city better than the palm of his callused hand. The thought occurred to him that he would have more light from the stars above than he had in this tower. His use of shadows would be no different at night than in the daylight.
It was this wraith that confounded everything. His vision would be hindered, but it was the vision of the wraith’s master with which he needed be concerned. The implied threat of demise was a tool used by the wraith to help keep him safe from her knives. If she was real, and he tended to believe she was, then he must make the same effort as her. He must relegate and pace his actions to correspond with the help she was trying to give.
Mordon’s head fell back in his laughter. He did not care if anyone heard him from outside the grate. So simple had been his life before meeting this wraith, woman, or whatever she was and the discovery of the maps. His laughter continued in honest gaiety until he made his decision. It would be tonight he ventured out unto the city and all its new hazards.
With determination, Mordon stood, scraping the foot of the chair legs on the stone flagging. Almost running to his stack of clothing he had brought back to the tower, he selected a grey woolen cloak. It was hooded and nearly touched the flagging, even upon his tall frame. He wrapped two pieces of salted pork in some cloth and placed them within the pocket inside the cloak, just in case he found himself in a position of necessary hiding like he had the last time he was out. Mordon filled a small mason jug with water from the cistern and corked its neck with an old cork from an ale bottle he had found in the ruins. He tied the jug to his breast plate at the waist. Mordon removed his sheath and sword and wrapped the sheath with a strip of rough cloth, binding the cloth securely with twine. He did not want any chance of the sheath striking a broken stone in his sojourn to Scatley’s camp.
What else would he need? Mordon tried to think of the possibilities or situations he might find himself. This time he slid a sheathed knife into his waist band. He had been wrong about a lot of things, maybe a knife used in the darkness was better than a sword. He intended to remain a ghost, and the cloak he now wore would aid him in doing so. Without hesitation, Mordon blew out the two candles and walked in the darkness to the head of the interior ladder and descended into the narrow ally. His sword sheath thudded against the stone wall in his excitement and haste. The sound was dulled to a barely discernible level; acceptable to him.
The night sky greeted him as he looked up through the grate at the stars. Time seemed to flow past him like water in the stream to the west of the castle. It had been a long time since he had drunk and bathed in the waters of the stream. He forcefully tinged his excitement with the caution ingrained in his habits for the last two years. Mordon had a renewed and powerful purpose set forth in his efforts to leave Widley.
His hand was upon the short metal bar wedged into the grate mechanism when he stopped completely. If he left Widley, would this wraith follow him? What life could they have if the only time they had together was in the darkness of a chamber? Mordon climbed back to the ally floor in indecision. What life could they have even if they stayed in the castle? Even if they ever developed some semblance of true friendship, where could it lead? Maybe it was he who was mentally unbalanced to contemplate such a relationship. They both needed verbal companionship, but how long could something like that last? Mordon ran the fingers of both hands through his thick shoulder length hair in annoyance. Both elbows rubbed against the side walls of the narrow space. Were his actions and thoughts to be so fettered by this strange creature he would henceforth be less assertive? Uncertainty was what they had.
Mordon stepped up the first indentation of the ladder and heaved the bar from the grate, pushing its substantial weight up and against the outer tower wall. Laying the short bar in its recess, he climbed up and out until he stood upon the shelf. It was quiet. Even the dried leaves were not disturbed by the slight breeze coming from the south. The bats he had vacated from the tower had not gone far. Several could be seen flitting about the darkened sky. The coolness of the night air made him appreciate the woolen cloak about his shoulders. His nervous excitement caused his muscles to nearly quiver in anticipation.
Mordon quietly returned the grate to the grooves in the stone shelf. He turned and stepped, jumping to hang from the inside of the wide outer wall. He pulled himself up to the wall-walk and approached the battlement to peer over into the street below. There was nothing but silence and shadows beneath where he stood. Mordon searched the dark windows and doorways of the buildings opposite where he stood, but lingered only momentarily before advancing further down the wall walk.
He began moving away from the tower behind him, peering out into the street every few steps. The skeletons that had occupied the wall-walk had been reduced to only a few bones by the vermin. Still, he kept a cautious eye to placement of his booted feet before proceeding along its surface. It took him only a minute or two to complete the slight curve of wide outer wall to the smaller tower on the opposite side of the bailey. Here steps led down into the courtyard. These he took with near silent footfalls until reaching its base. The courtyard and ruined doors of the outer wall were at his front. One of the owls within the castle hooted its presence to its mate; receiving no response.
Mordon let only a minute pass before he moved forward toward the gate. For some strange reason, he felt free to move with less caution. The night was its own cloak. Why had he not ventured out at night? The grey cloak made him blend into the stone of the flagging and massive wall to his right. If he made no sound, the grey cloak made him feel almost invisible. He would have to be seen up close, otherwise the cloak would make him appear as part of the rubble.
Making his way past the only ring of deserted buildings still standing, he negotiated the section of Widley containing the half-destroyed buildings where he had first seen the woman. The moon had not risen as of yet. It was completely dark among the piles of rubble. Though the numbers of stars overhead were many they emitted only enough light to keep his rapid footfalls in the center of the winding path. It was unlikely he would meet any of Simper’s men in this direction. They were no threat to him anyway. Nolton’s crew would stay to the north.
Within half an hour he had covered enough distance to come within a block of where he had stolen Scatley’s merchandise.
> In the darkness Mordon stopped and knelt on his right knee beside a large corner stone of a building he could not remember, its height came to just above his cloaked head. He knew he was close to the mercenaries, he could hear soft laughter and the occasional clatter of metal against metal. Either the cooks were up early starting their preparations for the morning meal, or late night revelers were toasting a tasty snack. It did not take much occasion for a soldier to raise a mug of ale. It was insightful to Mordon. Scatley and his men must feel comfortable in their encampment. They had become as much a citizen of Widley as the rest of the survivors. Mordon wondered just how many men were still alive since their arrival. Their attrition level was higher than those surviving within the shell of what was once a fine city.
There was the slightest sound from the other side of the cornerstone. Mordon raised his eyes to peer over the stone’s surface. A man stood and hoisted his pants back into position, cinching his belt with a satisfied grunt. The soldier scratched his short beard-covered chin and stretched. With a quick movement, he jumped to the top of the cornerstone and stood above Mordon. The man drew a heavy sword and held its hilt in his right hand. The very tip of the blade rested upon the stone.
Mordon tried to melt into the face of the stone the guard was standing upon. If he attacked, he might have a second’s surprise before the soldier cleaved his head from his shoulders. If his killing stroke was only slightly off, the guard could yell his head off in warning. Mordon was almost afraid to breathe so close was the guard’s booted feet to his head.
The cloak was obviously concealing him if he made no movement or sound. He could hear the guard’s feet moving about the flat surface of the stone. It was only a matter of time before the guard looked down and sounded the alarm. Mordon’s reflexes were keen, but could he stand and draw his sword and strike a death-dealing blow before being struck in return? Becoming wounded had not been the plan when starting out this evening from the tower.
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