The Harbinger of Change

by Matthew Travagline

“Yes, I gave Gnochi the cloak.” Skuddy managed to steady his nerves despite the cold sweat trickling down his spine. He hoped his expression would support the lie he was about to tell. “But I certainly did not expect him to be on an out for Lord Providence. The circumstance of his appearance in Nimbus that evening was odd, but he claimed to need work and he is one of our finest entertainers. He would have made for a fine advisor to the king.”

  “But he didn’t. Instead, he killed the king.”

  “Such is true,” Skuddy admitted.

  “So, you want us to lay off your group, is it?” The councilor’s voice exuded disdain. “I say we throw the lot of you into the dungeon to rot with your assassin.”

  Skuddy saw a smug smile touch the lips of Dorothea. He swallowed a lump of fear, hoping that his last line of defense would hold. “Oh, I wouldn’t even dare to do that. Not if I were you lot.” Skuddy allowed a similar smile to part his wrinkled face. He hoped that his fraying nerves would hold and not peek through like a crack. The king’s expression scrunched up as though he had swallowed a lime. “No, imprisoning us is the absolute worst action you can take right now. For you see, my esteemed councilors, you must realize your position on the calendar.

  “We are at the cusp of a year of prolonged snow and frigid temperatures. As a country, morale plummets during a winteryear, especially after the women have their fill. How do people relax when their everyday lives consist solely of staying warm? Why, entertainers of course. We keep inns merry. We make music to cheer the most sullen soul. Frankly, we keep the pence flowing. Now imagine what would happen if every entertainer were gone. Imprisoned, killed, or, perhaps we up and move our wagons elsewhere. I hear Imuny is riveting this time of the decade.

  “Now you esteemed councilors, see my hand. Meet my demands or face a winteryear without your entertainers keeping the mirth alive.”

  “You dare insult the council and your king by making such remarks? Threats and blackmail!” A councilor had risen and marched over toward Skuddy. Two guards blocked the man from touching the entertainer. They smiled at the small act of defiance against the snobbish councilor. “We could have your head on a spit for such heresy. Every entertainer will—”

  “Silence!” Dorothea’s voice bellowed, filling the chamber as easily as he would fill a horn. “Skuddy…Skuddy. Who knew you entertainers were such good negotiators?” Dorothea drummed his fingers along his throne’s wooden armrest. “I suppose I should have expected as much after dealing with Gnochi for as long as I did. He has a peculiar way with words.” He paused, looking up to the ceiling rafters. “I’ll hear your offer and counter it with my own. I’ll cease the harassment of your people. Think nothing of that. But I want something more from you.”

  After a moment that dragged a breath too long, Skuddy replied, “Yes?”

  “I want you on my council. Move into the castle and advise me.” Dorothea had barely finished voicing his offer before an uproar filled the grand room, the councilors each shouting their own obscenities and objections. Even those in the galley-crowd, who were not familiar with class dynamics in the council, seemed to realize that a major move had been made. They chattered noisily amongst themselves. Dorothea sat back on his throne with a wolfish grin painted on his face.

  A long minute of chaos dragged on before the page restored order. One of the councilors was first to speak. “Your highness, with all due respect, I would not advise this move at all. In fact, I believe it could leave a harmful impression on your rule.”

  “Your objection is noted, but not needed. I traveled with my brother’s assassin and never felt fear for my own life. And this man is hardly in his prime. I doubt he could lift a guitar, let alone bore me to death with his stories. Besides, I know quite well how morale can change things in the general population.” Dorothea silenced a pair of his advisors who made motion to speak. “My decision is final. Do you accept?”

  Skuddy opened his mouth to speak when the councilor who had moved to assault him earlier spoke up. “But, my liege, your council has no empty seats.”

  Dorothea nodded, seeming to mule over a thought for a moment. “Except my council has two empty seats. Well one, once Skuddy confirms his role.” Dorothea beamed his toothy smile. “You,” Dorothea pointed to the councilor on the ground standing before Skuddy, “and you,” he pointed to the Floyd, the Luddite councilor, “cannot very well serve as council members while you are imprisoned, so your seats are relinquished. Both men gasped; one clutched at his chest. The two guards separating Skuddy from the councilor before him, restrained the old man, dragging him out of the chamber.

  Two other guards, in a similar fashion, dragged the Luddite from his seat. He screamed as they pulled him to his feet. “You cannot do this. I have protections. My superiors will hear of this. They’ll have you dethroned!”

  “I’d like to see them try,” Dorothea sneered. “So, Skuddy, what say you? Will you join my council?”

  Skuddy rocked on the balls of his feet to show contemplation. He finally looked up to the squat king and said, “Yes, I accept.”

  Chapter 6

  The rhythmic descent of footsteps roused Gnochi from his dreamless sleep. The sound echoed through the hollow dungeon until shuffling feet stopped before his cell.

  He removed the trident pendant from around his neck and placed it in his mouth, readying his tongue to swallow the item that had become the anchor to his sanity. The familiar clang of keys rattling together stirred his nerves. He took deep breaths and rhythmically tensed his muscles to prepare for the coming beatings.

  A low thunk announced the door unlocking, but when the cry of unoiled hinges met his ears, it was not his cell door that had opened. He inched closer, and, risking further punishment, peered out through the small porthole into a darkened hallway.

  The quaint light provided by a small lantern gave him a receding view of his new neighbor, a man with dirty light skin and pale hair marred with blood. The guard unceremoniously closed the cell door, locked it, then proceeded to return to the surface without offering as much as a sideways glance. Darkness returned to fill his eyes, offering its cool embrace. He spit the pendant from his mouth and laid it to dry on his hay mattress.

  A long hour dragged past before his curiosity forced him back to the door’s porthole window. He looked out across the hall, only seeing the outline of the door in the darkness. “Hello, friend?” His unused voice rubbed against his parched throat, feeling rough as bark. “What are you in for?” It was not his intention to bond with the criminal over bemoaned tales of injustice, but he so longed for companionship that he risked speaking with this unknown criminal just to hear a friendly voice.

  In the time since he had been captured, he had only seen his guards, who came twice a day to deliver a beating and a cup of brackish water. Bread had come but only once, so Gnochi took savoring bites each day. That morning, he had nibbled on a corner of the crust, enjoying the speckle of oatmeal and nuts that adorned the edge. Still, pangs of hunger shook his core every waking moment, and scores of food-filled nightmares plagued his dreams.

  As if roused by the sound of Gnochi’s voice, the man in the cell across from him began laughing, his tone, hysteric. “Now my mind truly is playing tricks upon me.” When he spoke, his voice reminded Gnochi of every voice he had ever heard. “It seems I’ll be ever haunted by your ghost, Gnochi Gleeman,” the voice announced. “I know that you should have been killed. I mean, the man’s brother was your target. He could have killed you himself and no one would have looked twice at him. So, I suppose then, that it makes sense for your spirit to be trapped within these walls. Who would have guessed I’d end up in here with you? This is a punishment worse than any Dorothea could inflict upon me.”

  Gnochi wracked his brain to piece the man’s identity together, but his mind worked at a sluggish pace with hunger strikes halting productivity.

  “Had one shot to plead my case to the council,” the other man said. “Didn’t think he’d be so quick to ascend to t
he throne.”

  At once, Gnochi knew the voice, his mind clicking together in perfect harmony for a moment of clarity. A name formed on his lips. “Ren?” His voice came out no louder than a whisper. He swallowed a lump, then clutched at where the trident pendant usually rested against his skin. He rushed back to the mattress and drew the pendant over his head, tucking it under his shirt. It felt unusually warm against his chest.

  “They’re all afraid to speak out against him. They’re spineless.”

  “Ren.” Gnochi heard anger in his voice.

  “So, you’ve made me, Sir Ghost.” Ren’s voice sounded defeated. “And now you plan to haunt me until my final days. Maybe I’ll expire before the morn.”

  “Why’d you shoot me? I spared your life!”

  “I knew then that Jackal had betrayed me. He hired out the girl to steal my pendant. Then he sends his man after me nigh on a decade later to kill me.”

  “You weren’t my target.”

  “Easy to say now. I’m still imprisoned because of you and Jackal. I never should’ve trusted Jackal that night on the boat. This is what I get for going against Gideon.”

  “What do you mean? Jackal isn’t working for Gideon? I thought he was the head of Silentore.”

  “Aye, he is. I’ll tell you and in exchange, you admit that you’re Gleeman’s ghost and not some imposter.”

  After a long moment, Gnochi eased the air from his lungs. “Yes, I am.”

  “You’ll tell me a story then. Just like you could’ve when you were alive. Do that, and I’ll tell you about Jackal and Gideon. Yeah, I’ll tell you about those two scamps.”

  Chapter 7

  Gnochi sat with his back against the worn wood of his cell door. A chill seeped through the crack between the door and the slate floor, but its sharp sting on his lower back kept his mind focused on the first age, and off his hunger. The finger-length morsel of bread called out, beckoning to be swallowed whole.

  Half of his mind actively stood adamant to ensure that the primal hunger lurking in his stomach remained at bay. With effort, he managed to push all thoughts of food from his mind.

  “In the first age.” Gnochi spoke aloud to his empty cell, hoping that enough of his voice carried. “Many manner of specter struck fear into the hearts and minds of the masses.” He knew that across the hall, the man who had shot him held the vital information which might reveal why he had the misfortune of dealing with Silentore.

  “They, like most facets of first age life, came and went in fads. Classical first age lore introduced the vampire, the werewolf, the troll, and many of their ilk. Factions and sects of each exploded. Gargoyles, fair folk, orcs; each gained its own notoriety, but ultimately all were lost to the sands of time.

  “One specter, however, dominated over all others. This one remained rooted deep in first age life until long after the others had crumbled to the ashes of myth. So why did this live where others died? Partly because there was simply never enough evidence to prove that they did not exist.” Gnochi knew that he was speaking in long circles around his topic, but he found the process refreshing. A warmth sprung from his chest as he continued to delve into story. Despite the hellish conditions, his mind felt at ease for the first time since the night he had embarked to Providence’s keep, weeks prior.

  “Yes, I’m talking about the ghost. The very being you believe I to be. A spectral apparition embodying a soul lost after its corporeal demise. What makes the ghost so intriguing is that it appears in nearly every culture. Often as a vengeful, sorrowful spirit, and seen as a tool or teacher in others, the ghost is a versatile being. First age peoples even celebrated their ghosts. In one particular holiday, the youth would dress as ghosts and travel from home to home scaring others in an attempt to procure sweets. Other cultures would offer sweets or sacrifice animals to appease the spirits of their deceased relatives and ancestors.”

  Gnochi paused for a moment to sip from his cup of chilled water. It tasted faintly of vinegar, but the liquid soothed his parched throat, lubricating his stiff vocal cords. “Some ghosts remained invisible to mortal eyes, but let themselves be known in other ways. There was a class of ghosts that shrieked like cats. Others yet, shifted furniture. More still simply inflicted night terrors on those of their haunt.”

  Gnochi sat for a moment, listening to Ren to ensure the man was still present. A sound that pitched like a snore, tickled his ear. He frowned, then said, “And yet more still prey on souls like ours. They train onto people lost to the world, barely retaining life in their bodies. These ghosts may come in the form of a scurrying rat, or a glimmer of light in an otherwise bottomless abyss of night. Or, maybe they come in the form of a human voice from a person you had wronged. They claim to be alive, yet they want nothing more than to drag you into the depths of their own personal—”

  Ren’s scream cut Gnochi from his haunt. He realized that the sailor must have been listening all along. Standing, he looked out his window at Ren’s door. Darkness met his eyes.

  The feral scream evidently echoed up the dungeon, as not even a minute passed before a guard and his light descended. Gnochi slipped the trident pendant from his head.

  The vicious sound of flesh hitting flesh made their way through the cell door and wormed into Gnochi’s ears. After nearly half an hour, only whimpers came from in Ren’s cell. Before returning to the overworld, the guard opened Gnochi’s and glared in. “No more talking between you two, or I’ll put the same hurting on you.”

  Gnochi nodded, though the light from the lantern blinded his eyes. The guard retreated back through the corridor leading away from the cells.

  “You owe me,” Gnochi hissed. “Spill.” Frustration edged his voice.

  “No. Not now! Another word and I’ll call the guard down again.” Ren released another laughing whimper. His voice sounded frayed at the edges.

  Gnochi retreated from the door. He sat in a heavy lump on his cot, shivering in the chill which had reformed as the tale’s warmth faded. For the first time, he thought of a face he had not seen in weeks. He imagined a smile, warm and inviting. She wore a colorful poncho that covered her torso, though her name escaped his mind. He laid his head down and closed his eyes, though the girl’s face remained ever branded onto his eyelids. He could not help feeling sick. He knew that he had disappointed her, though her name still escaped his lips.

  More bouts of disjointed laughter trickled out of Ren’s cell. They soon came in a rhythmic pattern that lulled Gnochi close to the border of sleep. The moment before his brain turned off and succumbed to the cold, hungry roar of nightmares, he heard the girl’s voice loud in his ear, her name exploding on his mind.

  Chapter 8

  Cleo hugged the poncho tight to her body to keep her scarce warmth secure. The rhythmic jolting of Perogie’s canter proved to be the only element preventing her from nodding off to sleep. Not even the chilled air could suppress the fatigue she felt. Next to her, riding atop Slipper, a pasty white mare, Aarez trained his eyes on the forest before them.

  The road that cut through the woods remained devoid of life, even after weeks traveling east. The frozen trail retained no evidence of other travelers on the road ahead of them. It was narrow enough that the two horses had but a hand’s length of separation at their flanks, though despite the small gap between them, Aarez insisted that they ride abreast. “We’ve been keeping a slow pace today,” he voiced. “I think we should try to pick up some slack before nightfall.”

  “We can’t go too fast,” Cleo said. “This path isn’t exactly ideal for our horses. We’d be in deep muck if either of them went limp. Besides, we knew that it would be slow going. Eastward travels in the evening typically are.”

  “Oh, because you’re so well-traveled,” Aarez teased.

  Cleo looked away, restraining a breath that, uncontrolled, would have torn through her throat as a curse. She felt a twinge of sorrow prick behind her eyes, the beads of tears blurring along the bottom of her sight. She looked around frantic for
some distraction. When she heard the smooth churning of a nearby stream, she lunged from Perogie’s saddle, announcing, “I need to stop.”

  “Again? We just stopped a few hours ago.”

  “Yeah, well, I want fresh water. Who knows when we’ll pass by a stream again,” she said, supplying the lie. Perogie whickered, bouncing her head as if laughing at the deceit.

  Aarez released an exasperated sigh, then placated. “Fine. We can stop for a few minutes.” Cleo ran toward the stream, taking her quarterstaff and leaving Perogie with Aarez to rest. She heard the beginning of him grumbling about babysitting, but as she took off into the woods at a jog, the wind stole his words from her ears.

  Cold lashes of whipping air tore at her eyes, helping the tears in their daring escape attempt. Once at the stream, she stooped down and peered down at her sad reflection. Clear grey eyes, that over the past weeks had shed all tears in reserve, looked up at her with pity.

  The rush of water altered the reflection, making it appear as though Stream-Cleo was eager to be off. Her lips quivered. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with a harsh hand, then glared at her reflection. “I should be going after him,” she said. “Instead I’m running in the opposite direction.” She slapped at the image of her face, bringing momentary relief, though the stream resumed its rhythm after a mere moment, reforming her disappointment.

  She cupped water in her gloved hands and splashed it on her face, then cried out in shock at the sharp pain. Heavy breaths fogged thick before her eyes. She allowed the chilled water to drip from her skin. “These are the last tears I’ll shed for my own inability. I’m going to figure out a way,” she whispered.

  She was picking her way through the underbrush back toward the horses when she heard Aarez cry out, “No!”

  She rushed forward with her quarterstaff leveled. Plunging through to the clearing where the horses nibbled on grass, she spotted Aarez, hunched on all fours. The ventriloquist exaggerated defeat by punching the ground. A young boy walking a thin pack-horse gasped in alarm at her sudden entrance. She shoved the lead-capped quarterstaff under the boy’s chin, forcing him to stand on his toes to keep his throat obstruction-free.