The answer made no sense, and Rigan felt certain he had missed something. “Anger who? Did this happen before, to your flock? What’s going on?”
A woman in her middle years came around from behind the butcher’s table. She held a bloody cleaver in her hand, and at first, Rigan thought she meant to threaten him, but she made no move to cause him harm. “You’re a hunter, aren’t you? One of them outlaws that goes around killing monsters and setting ghosts to rest.”
After drawing attention to himself, he could hardly deny it. “Yes. That’s why I’m asking. We can help.”
“There’s nothing to be done,” a thin woman spoke up from where she sat, spinning carded wool into yarn. “We angered him, and now he’s going to punish us until he thinks we’ve learned our lesson.”
“Who’s going to punish you? Is your Merchant Prince doing this? A landholder?” Rigan asked, aghast.
All of the merchants in the market were staring at him now, and they chuckled nervously. “No, lad. Not anyone living,” another farmer replied, a burly man behind a table stacked high with cabbages. “The Woodsman is angry at us. He’s been our protector, our guardian spirit, for as long as anyone remembers. And now, we’ve done something to make him turn on us. If you can figure out how we can set things right, we’d be in your debt.”
The answer surprised Rigan, and he blinked for a moment as he gathered his wits. “Your village has a guardian spirit, and it’s gotten angry and killed your herds?” he repeated, not believing what he heard.
The cabbage farmer nodded. “Aye. The stories say that he came through these parts and fell sick, and the people who lived here back then took him in and cared for him. He stayed on, after he was well, in a cabin out in the forest. He showed his gratitude by leaving firewood for the villagers in the middle of the night, without taking pay for it. When he died, his spirit remained here, watching over the town. He’s saved us from wolves and storms, returned lost children, protected our crops from blight. He even drove away the monsters a fortnight ago. But then—”
“We didn’t do right by him,” the woman with the spinning wheel interrupted. “Weren’t thankful enough for his help. People used to leave him offerings—a meal, some cakes, tobacco, whiskey. At the shrine where his cabin was. Folks don’t do like they used to, don’t show their thanks. And now look what’s happened.”
“We’d like to have a look,” Rigan said. Finding a hunt on their way to meet with Brock and Mina was not in their plans, and he had hoped Corran would have longer to recuperate. With luck, the spirit could be easily appeased, and they would be on their way without incident.
A few of the merchants whispered among themselves. Finally, the cabbage farmer nodded. “Go ahead. We haven’t been able to put it right, maybe you can. We ain’t got money to pay you, but we can give you all the food you can carry.”
“Let’s see if we can fix the problem, and worry about that later,” Rigan replied. He got directions to the Woodsman’s cabin and returned to where the others were waiting. They listened incredulously as he recounted what he had learned.
“Is that even possible?” Ross asked. “I mean, I’ve heard about places that claimed to have a guardian spirit. Shit, my granny swore that her great-grandmam stayed around the house helping cakes rise and keeping the milk from spoiling. So having a ghost around to help out isn’t the strange part. I’ve never heard about one turning on its people.”
“Didn’t he tell you that the Woodsman turned away monsters right before things went wrong?” Trent questioned.
Rigan nodded. “I don’t know how long ‘right before’ was, whether that was days or candlemarks, but it sounded as if this all went wrong in the last fortnight.”
Aiden met his gaze. “I think we need to go look at that shrine, and then have another look at the cows.”
The directions led them to the stone foundation of what had once been a small house. By the look of it, the dwelling had been gone for a long time, with trees growing up among the stones. Outside the footprint of the foundation lay the remains of offerings brought to the Woodsman from the villagers. Food, trinkets, a jug of whiskey, and other items lay carefully positioned as if given to the gods. Some had been there for a long time, while others looked much more recent.
“Maybe he wanted better bribes,” Corran said, looking at the moldering gifts.
Rigan elbowed him. “Show some respect,” he murmured, mindful that the Woodsman’s spirit might not be in the most charitable of moods.
“Can you sense anything?” Ross asked, looking from Rigan to Corran, counting on their grave magic.
Rigan closed his eyes and concentrated. A moment later, he opened them and shook his head. “There’s no one here now.”
They poked carefully around the ruins but found nothing to reveal what might have made the ghost change from guardian to persecutor. “Let’s go have another look at that pasture,” Aiden said finally. “There’s got to be a reason for the change.”
They rode back the way they came, and the rotting stench met them before the killing field came into view. After they tied their horses to trees near the fence, they cut through the swarms of flies, picking their way among the gutted and dismembered carcasses.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Trent muttered, staring down at one of the savaged cows. “Why stay behind to protect the village for so long, and then suddenly turn on them?”
While Corran and Ross examined the remains, Trent stood guard. Aiden and Rigan ranged farther afield, spreading out across the pasture in hopes of finding an answer. “I think I’ve got something,” Aiden called out, and the others hurried to him.
“What does that look like?” He pointed to a large circle of dead grass toward one end of the clearing. A strange black mold spread across the area but stopped at the edge of the dead zone. Even at a distance of several feet, Rigan fought the urge to recoil from the sense of wrongness that the circle gave off.
“A Rift opened here,” Ross replied, his voice grim.
“And the taint is getting stronger,” Corran added, with a nod toward the foul black mold.
“You think that the Woodsman’s ghost somehow got corrupted by the taint?” Rigan asked.
Aiden nodded. “It’s possible. In fact, I’d say it’s our best explanation.” He began to pace the perimeter of the circle.
“Imagine that the guardian spirit senses that something bad is about to happen. He’s been fighting off threats for decades, maybe longer. So he goes to see what’s wrong, and a Rift is open, with monsters spilling out and taint fouling the ground. He drives off the monsters, but somehow his energy gets tangled up either with whatever kills the plants around a Rift or by the black slop that oozes out when a Rift opens. Maybe since he’s a ghost, he didn’t worry about going close to it because he’s dead and he figured nothing can hurt him.”
“Except this is twisted magic, and he’s energy, and bad things happened,” Rigan finished his thought.
“Exactly.” Aiden stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the ruined field. “We know the Woodsman has killed twice—the sheep, and now the cows. What’s to stop him from turning on the villagers next?”
Much as Rigan hated to lose the time on their journey to meet up with Brock and his team of hunters, he knew they could not leave the villagers at the mercy of the twisted guardian spirit.
Corran hesitated. “Do you think it’s a trap?”
Rigan stretched out his magic, sensing the touch of the Rift. “No.”
Aiden shook his head. “Me, neither.”
“Maybe this Woodsman is angry that something with magic is stomping around his territory,” Corran suggested.
Rigan shook his head. “No. The power’s darker than just anger. It won’t go away on its own.”
“All right then,” Corran concurred. “Let’s do it,” he said, jittery the longer they stood near the tainted field. “We have what we need in our saddlebags. No need to wait until dark. Send the Woodsman to his rest, and at
least the farmers are safe. Maybe Brock and the others will have word for us on how to seal Rifts. If so, we can come back this way.”
They tethered their horses at a safe distance. By now, the sun hung low in the sky, and the shadows stretched long. Rigan flinched as the wind rustled in the branches overhead. He tensed at every forest sound, fearful that the guardian spirit knew they were coming. But neither he nor Corran sensed the presence of the spirit, which made him nervous for entirely different reasons. Is he going to jump us here, or has he gone after the villagers? Are we too late?
“Do you think he’s buried here? Do we need to worry about a grave or just his cabin?” Corran mused.
Aiden and Ross poked around in the thick leaves as the brothers set a circle of the salt-aconite-amanita mixture around the broken stones and rotted wood. “I don’t see anything that looks like a grave,” Ross said. “Of course, it’s been long enough the ground might not show it anymore. If he was up here alone, he might not have had anyone to bury him. Or if someone did, there isn’t a marker.”
They had laid so many ghosts to rest over the years, but the ones that bothered Rigan most were those who died alone. The Woodsman hadn’t done harm to the village in his lifetime, and it wasn’t his choice to turn against them. Rigan could only hope that making the passage into the After would remove the taint from his spirit and that Doharmu would give him the rest denied in life.
Rigan spoke the words of the summoning spell, as Corran and the others stood ready with iron and salt. They had piled leaves and dry branches inside the footprint of the cabin’s foundation, ready to kindle into flames as soon as the ghost appeared.
Rigan anchored his magic, glad that here near the cabin, the taint had not yet taken hold. He raised his voice in the chant and felt the vengeful spirit fight against the compulsion. Rigan frowned, tightening his concentration, and felt Corran’s hand on his arm, lending him his energy through their shared grave magic. Corran might not know how to confess spirits, but he was ready with the chant to send the Woodsman into the After once he appeared. Given the way the ghost fought Rigan’s call, the banishing might take both undertakers.
No ghost had ever fought him so hard, and Rigan wondered if the Rift and the taint gave the corrupted spirit unnatural strength. Rigan felt a headache bloom behind his eyes, and as he concentrated his power to force the spirit to manifest, a warm trickle of blood ran from his nose.
“Rigan—” Corran protested.
Rigan did not slow his chant, even though the battle of wills took his full concentration. Corran’s presence helped; this wasn’t the first time Rigan had borrowed magical energy from his brother. But he feared that if it drained both of them to get the Woodsman to appear, Aiden, Trent, and Ross would be left to face him without the grave magic needed to send him on.
The temperature plummeted, and a thin film of frost formed on the plants near the foundation stones. Rigan felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle right before ghostly hands shoved him hard, sending him staggering. A moment later, Corran stumbled as well. Where the force had touched him felt like frostbite.
You want me? Come and get me, the ghost taunted.
“What’s going on?” Ross held his iron sword at the ready, but the Woodsman remained invisible.
“The taint’s given the ghost more energy than he should have. This isn’t good,” Rigan called back, regaining his feet and starting the chant again. Corran’s voice joined his, as they both watched the woods around them, wary for another attack.
This is my home. You are not welcome! the ghost roared.
The wind picked up, and overhead, branches creaked and the limbs swayed. Rigan threw an arm up to shield his face from debris, and he saw the others do the same as the wind caught twigs and branches in its fury and turned the debris into shrapnel.
“Do something!” Trent shouted.
The temperature continued to drop. Rigan felt gooseflesh rise, and he shivered. The wind keened, whipping the trees from side to side.
“Watch out!” Aiden yelled as a large tree tipped with the force of the wind and started to fall. Rigan grabbed Corran’s arm and yanked him out of the way as the others scattered. The heavy trunk crashed where they had stood seconds before.
Get out of my forest!
If he had any qualms about banishing the Woodsman’s spirit before, they were gone now. The revenant was far too dangerous to be allowed to remain, and it would only be a matter of time before he turned on the villagers he had once protected.
“Two can play this game,” Rigan muttered and thrust his magic deep into the ground. He had relied mostly on his grave magic before; now, he pulled on the power he had learned from Aiden and the witches Below. Conjuring fire would kill them all here in the forest, with the wind to turn a flame into a wildfire. Water would do no good since they had no choice about burning the ruins. Instead, Rigan sent his power down into the tangle of roots beneath his feet, tracing them, running along them to the trees they supported, skirting around the taint. He sent his magic into the forest itself, countering the ghostly wind, and making a prison of the clearing.
He could not hold this level of power long; he only hoped he could maintain it long enough.
The wind stopped suddenly, and Rigan realized how strong it had been when he stumbled forward, having braced himself against its fury. When he opened his eyes, he saw the image of a stooped man with a gray beard and homespun clothing glaring at him, his mouth twisted in a sneer, eyes alight with madness.
“Take care of the ghost,” Aiden murmured. “I’ll handle the fire.”
Corran had already begun to chant the banishing ritual once more, their voices growing louder as Rigan joined him. Rigan felt the outlay of power in every muscle and joint. Keeping his knees from buckling required concentration. His head throbbed. He focused on the chant and the magic that thrummed through his blood, pulsing in time with his heart.
His grave magic touched the ghost, and Rigan felt the stain of the taint on its spirit. Rigan called fire to him, sending it coursing through the Woodsman’s ghost and past him into the kindling laid within the foundation’s footprint. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the breath of flames along his skin, singeing the hairs on his arms. The smell of burning leaves and charred hair filled his nostrils, and in his inner sight he saw the Woodsman’s outline limned in flame.
The ghost cried as the flames burned around him, and Aiden lent his power to the cause, as Corran continued to chant the banishing ritual.
Rigan sensed the doorway to the After open beyond the smoke. Then the fire let go of the Woodsman’s spirit, and the ghost shone in Rigan’s inner sight, free from the pollution of the Rift. The old man gave a weary smile, and raised his hand in farewell—and perhaps, in gratitude. Then he vanished, and the portal to the After disappeared.
Rigan and Corran dropped to their knees on the forest loam, spent.
“What in the name of the gods happened?” Ross still had his iron sword upraised, though the Woodsman had given him no opportunity to strike. Trent remained on guard, wary of new dangers. Aiden looked wan and weary, though the magic had not cost him as much as it had the brothers.
“The taint that turned him from a guardian to a threat gave him unnatural power,” Rigan replied, his voice raw from screaming the chant above the wind. “We managed to burn it away and remove the poison, and send him on to Doharmu.”
Corran plunked down on his ass, too tired to care whether it stained the seat of his pants. “I hope we don’t have to do that again,” he said, breathless. Aiden remained standing, eyeing the fire that burned among the foundation stones warily.
“We shouldn’t leave until it’s burned down,” Aiden said. “The village won’t thank us for saving them from a ghost if a forest fire robs them of their homes.”
Ross frowned. “Would fire work against the tainted land?”
Rigan shook his head wearily, then regretted the movement as his temples throbbed. “Doubtful. That wasn’t regular
fire. I sent my magic into it—and I barely had the strength for it with Aiden and Corran lending me their help. The taint where the Rifts open is strong magic, very old, very powerful. There isn’t enough of me to burn it away.” The shadow of a memory teased at the back of his mind, something important and forgotten.
“You know this doesn’t bode well,” Trent said. “How long until the taint juices up the spirits and the monsters so much that we can’t fight them? Or the Rifts rip apart the veil between realms to the point where the gateway doesn’t close, and we’re overrun? If that happens, I doubt the witches who called the damn things will be able to control them. It could wipe out all of Ravenwood—maybe all of Darkhurst.”
Rigan remembered the presence in the realm beyond, the one that haunted his dreams. If it stirred to cross the Rift, he did not know whether there was enough magic in the world to force a First Creature back across the veil.
“Can you walk?” Ross asked, glancing toward the sky to gauge the time. “We still have a ride ahead of us to reach the border by nightfall.”
Rigan and Corran got to their feet with their friends’ help and waved off further assistance as they made their way out of the forest, back to where their horses waited. Rigan leaned heavily against his mount as he dug some hard sausage and water from his saddlebag to replenish him, and he passed both to the others, who accepted it eagerly.
“How many of those do you think are out there?” Trent asked as they swung up to their saddles. “Ghosts, affected by the Rifts?”
Corran shrugged. “No way to tell, except when we run into them.”
“From the number of Rifts I could see opening when we were on the other side?” Rigan replied, “More than we want to think about, probably. It would depend. In this case, the ghost claimed an area to protect, not just a home or grave. If we’re lucky, that would cut down on the number. I hope if we run into them again, it isn’t tonight.”
They ate a cold supper as they rode, unwilling to lose more time with the Sarolinian hunters waiting for them. Night fell, and the few travelers that had shared the road with them gradually dwindled to none. Rigan eyed the warm lights of a roadside inn enviously, imagining the luxury of a hot meal, a glass of whiskey, and an actual bed to sleep in.
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