A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 16

Marion smiled at Thren from the other side of the bed, her face glowing in the early-morning light that streamed through the stained glass of their room. Their blankets were bunched around her waist, revealing her full breasts and even fuller belly. Thren put a hand atop her belly, feeling the movement of the little life within.

“I say we name her Mary, after you,” Thren said, his fingertips circling Marion’s navel.

“Seems a bit prideful,” Marion said. “You’re the one wanting a legacy, not me.”

Thren laughed.

“Well, then, what name would you prefer?”

She shrugged.

“Mary is fine. And if it’s a boy?”

He kissed her lips.

“Aaron,” he said. “After my father.”

“I didn’t think you knew your father.”

Thren pressed his forehead to hers.

“He’s but a distant haze in my mind, but it doesn’t matter. He was my father, and it is only right to respect him.”

Marion winced once, then rubbed her belly, a sign Thren had long deciphered as their child turning in the womb fast enough to make her uncomfortable.

“Aaron it is,” she said, staring down at her stomach as if she could see through the layers of skin and right into the face of the life yet to be born. “Tiny little Aaron…”

Thren reached for her face, wishing to kiss her again, to feel her warmth against his body, but she was not there. He paused, confused, for he was in an empty bed. The room was dark. Whatever light had shone through the window moments ago was gone. Frowning, he slid naked off his bed and began to dress. When his breeches were tied, he strapped on his sword belt, then strode shirtless toward the door. Something, or someone, was outside his room. He knew it, deep down he knew it, though the knowledge disturbed him. Where had Marion gone? Why had the day vanished so quickly? Had he fallen asleep again?

He touched the doorknob, found it ice-cold. His frown deepened. With how hot the summer had been, even nightfall shouldn’t have cooled his house so well. Sensing a trap, he put one hand on the hilt of a short sword, then pushed open the door with the other. He rushed on through, meaning to attack whoever laid an ambush, but the scene was too bewildering for him to react beyond gaping.

“Hello, Thren,” said an older man, his hair gray, his skin starting to wrinkle. Around his neck was a silver chain decorated with the emblem of a lion, and it hung before his dark black robes. Instead of being inside his house’s hallway, they stood in a plain field with but a single tree in the distance. The sky was filled with stars, and slowly they moved across the horizon, as if locked in a dance that baffled his reeling mind.

“Who…” Thren asked, trying to make sense of things. The grass was cold and wet beneath his feet, and when he looked behind him, there was no sign of the doorway he’d just entered, only more fields stretching on for hundreds of miles, ending at a deep white fog.

“Come, now,” said the stranger. “You aren’t as slow as this. Where you are, when you are, should be easy enough to decipher.”

When? What did he mean by …

And then the past years came slamming into him. Marion’s murder, Grayson’s arrival in Veldaren, Randith’s death at the hands of Aaron … all of it, he remembered all of it, and in doing so, he knew where he must be.

“I’m dreaming,” he said. “But no normal dream. Who are you who would dare enter a man’s most private sanctuary?”

“A desperate man,” he said. “A man I believe you’ve come looking for. My name is Luther, and I am a priest of Karak.”

At the word Karak, it seemed the sky rumbled, and along the horizon, he watched a red line pierce the hills, signifying the rising of a blood-colored sun.

“Luther,” said Thren, and the name felt heavy on his tongue. “So, you’ve come where you think me vulnerable, is that true? Would you kill me in my sleep, where I have but thoughts and dreams to defend myself?”

Luther smiled, and it was strange, for he seemed so nonthreatening, just an aging man in the crossroads between his middle years and the elderly stage beyond. He still had all his hair, but his smile looked tired, his eyes heavy with many, many years of struggle.

“I’m not here to harm you,” he said. “Hard as it may be to believe, I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” Thren swallowed, and he wished that the stars above him would vanish. He felt too exposed, a vulnerable speck atop a thousand miles of grass. Deeper grew the red horizon, and with it, he heard the sound of screams.

“Do you hear that?” asked Luther, and he joined him in watching the sunrise. “That sound is the wailing of those yet to die. But they will die. Their souls cry out in the void, for they know what comes for them. What I’ve tried to stop.”

The leaves atop the lone tree turned yellow, then black, and as they began to fall, Thren heard the softest of snaps from each and every one.

“Why are you here?” Thren asked.

“As I said, to help you. You seek to find me in the Stronghold, and I would have words with you. You won’t reach me, not through force, nor through stealth. The way is too well-guarded, the paladins too skilled in battle for you to overcome them all.” He took a step closer, and with each step, the world silently shook. “But there is a way. The Stronghold was built atop Ashhur’s fallen Sanctuary, its very construction meant to blaspheme and insult. Because of that, there are many secret ways, gaps between the walls, and places where the new could not fully destroy the old.”

“You mean to trick me,” said Thren. “You’d have me walk into a trap.”

The stars twinkled out one by one, the red growing across the skyline, streaks of yellow starting to poke beyond the hills. The fog that had hidden the horizon began to fade, revealing rows of snow-crested mountains, and with the light shining upon them, they seemed to shimmer as if their tips were made of gold.

“I only seek to spare your life,” said Luther. “I have need of you, if you would only trust me. On the northern wall of the Stronghold, twenty paces in from the eastern corner, you will find a patch where the grass does not grow as deep. Dig to reveal the door. From there, you must climb, always climb, never once descend. You will not like what you find otherwise. Come the top, you will find a false wall, and beyond that, you must follow the stairs to the highest floor of the Stronghold. My room is there, and I wait for you within.”

It seemed too easy, too good to be true. Thren pondered drawing his swords and stabbing the priest through the neck, to see if dying in a dream meant dying in the waking world, but when he moved to do so, his swords were gone. Glancing back up, he saw Luther smiling at him and shaking his head as if Thren were a disobedient child.

“You have no choice in this,” said the priest. “Come speak with me, Thren. Hear what I have to say.”

“You continue to treat me as if I am your puppet,” Thren said. “I will kill you for this, for everything you’ve done.”

“Perhaps you will,” said Luther. “But I forfeited my life long ago…”

The wind picked up, the stabbing spears of light reaching from horizon to horizon. The lone tree in the distance died, its branches collapsing as the earth swallowed it whole. Amid the rising sun, Luther smiled, his body fading away as a terrible rumble overwhelmed it all.

“Oh, and Thren,” shouted the priest to be heard over the noise. “Come alone.”

And then, the dreamworld was gone, the light breaking everything, and it was only when he gasped in a waking breath that Thren realized it was from the steady opening of his eyes.

“I don’t understand the need for secrecy,” Haern said as the three of them traversed the thick wheat fields that grew around the Stronghold. Thren led the way, with Delysia staying at Haern’s side. “Who was the contact that gave you the way inside?”

Thren kept his back to them, a barely visible specter in the deep night.

“It was a contact,” Thren said. “That’s all you need to know.”

Delysia grabbed Haern’s arm, slowing him down so she could brush his ear with her lips.

“He’s lying,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?”

He glanced at her, saw her nod. Taking in a deep breath, Haern let it out with a sigh and decided to press the issue later. The wheat in the fields was tall, but following Thren was easy enough. Several days before, he’d informed them of how he’d learned of a way inside, yet gave no more information beyond that. For all Haern knew, it’d be through another contact, a secret entrance, or a magical bird that would fly down and offer to carry them to the tallest tower in exchange for their souls.

“There it is,” Thren said, and he pointed. Casting aside his thoughts, Haern followed his father’s outstretched hand, and then he saw it: the Stronghold. Even at such a distance, over a mile away, it was an imposing building. In the moonlight, it was a thick, rectangular spire, its walls seeming to be of a black even purer than the darkness. From where they were, he could see faint dots of red and yellow, torches burning around the lower rings. If forced to guess how many floors the building had, Haern would venture at least fifteen. The entire structure had a proud feeling to it, a defiant fortress rising into the dark night sky. The only parts that looked simple and rustic were the stables attached to the side, wood pens covered by a thatched roof.

“I hope your contact was trustworthy,” Haern said as they quickened their pace. “I doubt the people inside will be too forgiving of trespassers.”

“Trustworthy as any other man in this world.”

Haern chuckled.

“And by that, you mean not at all.”

Thren glanced over his shoulder, then grinned.

“Perhaps it’s not a miracle you’ve survived as long as you have.”

They said nothing as they crossed the distance, pushing through what seemed like a never-ending field of wheat. Closer and closer loomed the Stronghold, and as they neared, Haern better saw the slender windows outlined by the torches hanging just above, saw the crenelated top, the sharply curved supports along the bottom, making it seem almost as if the building itself were a long-buried weapon wielded by men the size of mountains.

No wonder everyone thought we were mad to sneak inside, thought Haern. The structure itself was frighteningly imposing, and then there was the matter of the dangerous and skilled residents within. And apparently, their secret method for scaling those walls had come from a source Thren was either too embarrassed or mistrustful to reveal to him and Delysia. Not exactly something to inspire confidence in the heart, thought Haern.

At last, the field came to an end, leaving a hundred-yard stretch of smooth, short grass between them and the building. After pausing momentarily to ensure no patrols walked the area, Thren stepped out and gestured for them to follow.

“Close enough,” said Haern. “I’m not leaving this field until I know what I’m getting into.”

Thren turned about, a frown on his face and impatience in his blue eyes.

“There’s a hidden entrance,” he said. “A tunnel dug beneath the grass we can use to climb near to the top. After that, we’ll find Luther in the highest room of the Stronghold. Will that suffice?”

“How did you find out?” Haern asked.

“A contact of Muzien’s. Now let’s go.”

“You’re lying,” Delysia said, stepping out from the wheat. “And you should know better than to do so in my presence. What are you hiding, Thren?”

Thren crossed his arms and his frown deepened.

“A dream,” he said at last.

Haern blinked.

“A dream.”

“Yes, a dream,” Thren said. “Luther used a spell of some sort to come to me while we slept. He knew of our approach, and he claimed he wished for a meeting.”

Haern rubbed his eyes, tried to think.

“A meeting?” he said. “Did he say why? And why not come to us?”

Thren shrugged.

“He’s being held prisoner,” he said. “At least, that is what he told me. Now, is that enough, or must I go alone?”

“This is insane,” Delysia said, turning to Haern to plead her case. “It’s a trap of some sort; it has to be. Don’t go in there, either of you. No good will come of it.”

“I’m going,” Thren said, and it was clear there’d be no debate, not with him. “Question is, is either of you willing to follow?”

With that, he turned and sprinted toward the towering spire and the shadowed recesses that swelled around its base. Haern watched him, pulled from his thoughts only by Delysia taking his hand in hers.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

“Then why else have we come all this way?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Because you thought it was the right thing to do, or that maybe you could salvage something good in your father. But I’m telling you, whatever you find in there will not be worth the risk. Please, stay with me. For once, just this once, will you trust me?”

Haern ran a hand through her fiery red hair, felt the strands slipping smoothly through his fingers.

“I won’t make him go alone,” he said. “I won’t abandon him now.”

“He’s abandoned you your whole life,” Delysia said, her voice a whisper, the words a serrated blade. “He’s done nothing but leave you alone. Don’t follow him, Haern. You won’t find any answers in that horrible place.”

He kissed her forehead, and she let out a sigh. Reaching down his shirt, she pulled out the pendant of the golden mountain that had belonged to Senke. Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer over it. The metal shone briefly, a reassuring glow in the darkness, and then faded.

“Should something go wrong,” she said, “should you find yourself at your lowest, clutch it and say Ashhur’s name, and the magic will release. It’s the best I can do.”

“I won’t need it,” he said, slipping the pendant beneath his shirt. “I promise. Just wait here until I come back, and you’ll see, I’ll be just fine.”

She squeezed his hand, he squeezed back, and then he was running. With each step, he wanted to look back, to see her, to find comfort in her presence in the fields, yet he refused. The Stronghold was ahead, and on his knees his father dug, hands into the green earth. By the time Haern reached his side, he’d already uncovered a small set of wooden planks, which he pulled up one by one.

“And to think I always believed dreams were worthless,” said Thren, grinning up at Haern as he gestured to the circular tunnel leading deep underground. “We should be able to crawl through it just fine.”

“Sounds pleasant,” said Haern, fighting another stolen glance to see if Delysia watched. Looking back to the tunnel, he shuddered. Years before, his father had taken him into the temple of Karak, seeking to cure him of his fledgling belief in Ashhur. Now here he was, following the same man into the fortress of Karak’s paladins. He prayed he might escape as unscathed as he had from the temple.

“Lead the way,” Haern said, gesturing to the pit entrance.

“Stay close,” said Thren, falling to his stomach and beginning to crawl. “The way will be dark, and I would hate to lose you.”

With that, he vanished within, sliding and squirming over the dirt and into the harder stone. Taking in a deep breath, Haern looked to Delysia, who remained at the edge of the field of wheat.

I’ll be fine, he whispered, blew her a kiss, and then dropped to his belly. Headfirst, he followed Thren into the darkness.

The way was tight at first, but after twenty feet or so of crawling, it expanded so that his shoulders needn’t be scrunched so tightly. The stone was wet and cold beneath his hands, the angle sharply downward for much of the way. The sound of his crawling seemed thunderous in the confined space, equally so the noise of Thren scraping along ahead of him. Haern felt his heartbeat beginning to increase, felt the early tickle of panic poking around the edges of his mind. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the sound of his breath, the rustling of his clothes, and the scrape of his sheaths against the stone. How long did the tunnel go? What if Thren had been lied to, and they’d soon be trapped down there forever? Every sliding step he took, he felt loose stones, and he told himself not to imagine what it’d be like if the tunnel caved in, trapping but not killing him.

“Wait,” said Thren, and his voice sounded like a roar in the silence.

“What?” Haern whispered. He knew it was foolish whispering, given how deep beneath the earth they were, but he did so anyway. In that darkness, he felt painfully vulnerable, and it was a feeling he’d be glad to be rid of. Facing off against dozens of dark paladins felt preferable to another twenty minutes in that deep passageway.

“I’ve found a gap just ahead,” said Thren. “I can feel it with my hands. The tunnel’s shifted vertically, and just over the gap I can feel a sort of ladder. Climb carefully. I don’t know how far down that tunnel goes…”

“Will do,” said Haern. He waited until he heard movement, then continued on ahead. Thren grunted, there was the sound of rocks clacking and falling against one another, and then silence. Haern made sure to check every movement carefully, sliding his hands along the stone before advancing. Sure enough, within another ten feet, he felt his hand move right off the stone, feeling only open air. Pulling back, he felt for the exact edge, then slowly advanced toward it. Now closer, he reached out again, and the inability to see what he was reaching for, yet knowing he leaned out over an unknown pit, made his stomach twist and dance. When he touched a wall, followed by a steel rung just beneath it, he let out a sigh.

“I’m just above,” he heard Thren say. “Tell me when you’re safely across.”

“I will.”

Haern grabbed the rung, braced himself, then extended his other hand. The weight pulled him over the chasm, and he felt himself hanging, feet on the edge, hands on the rung. By his guess, the pit beneath him was only a few feet wide, but being unable to see, he felt like it was a thousand. Another breath, and then he took a blind step. He dropped, pivoting along the rung so that he swung toward the wall of stone. He expected to find more rungs, but instead, his feet hit smooth stone, and he dangled there, clutching the steel with both hands. He was on the bottom rung of a ladder, he realized, and if he planned on getting anywhere, he needed to stop panicking. It was just darkness, he told himself. Darkness was his friend. Something about the confined spaces messed with his mind, and again he wished he could see, if only the tiniest of light, so he could find his bearings.

Planting a foot against the wall, he pushed off it as best he could and reached up for a second rung. He found it, and telling himself to not even think of letting his grip slip, he pulled himself up higher. A grunt, another kick, and he ascended again. The fourth time, he was able to put a knee on the rung, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you across?” he heard Thren ask from up above.

“Yes,” Haern said, pressing his forehead against one of the rungs, immensely comforted by its smooth, cold feel. “Yes, I’m on the ladder.”

“Good.”

He heard a rustle of movement, and Haern shifted so instead of his knee, his foot was on the bottom rung, and he was eager to begin his climb up through whatever unknown shaft they’d found themselves in. He reached up to grab another rung, then felt his heart leap into his throat as a hand clasped his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” said Thren.

His father flung out Haern’s wrist, and at the same time, he felt a heavy weight crash against his right arm. Before he could even brace himself, another kick hit him in the face, then his left hand. Balance lost, he fell, still reaching for a rung. Twisting, reaching for the other side of the tunnel they’d come from, he scraped his fingernails against smooth stone, and then he was falling, falling. So stung by the betrayal, so frightened of the unbreakable darkness, Haern never screamed as he plummeted into the unknown.