David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

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.