Robert Salvatore - The Ghost King

Rorick brightened a bit at that, but when he looked up at his brother and sister, an expression of confusion came over him. “What happened?” he asked, noting that Temberle had his greatsword in hand and was examining the blade.

“You left Spirit Soaring late yesterday?” Temberle asked.

“Midday, yes,” Rorick answered. “Uncle Pikel wanted to use the tree roots to move us down from the mountains, but father overruled that, fearing the unpredictability and instability of magic, even druidic.”

“Doo-dad,” Pikel said with a giggle.

“I wouldn’t be traveling magically either,” said Hanaleisa. “Not now.”

Pikel folded his arm and stump over his chest and glared at her.

“So you camped in the forest last night?” Temberle went on.

Rorick answered with a nod, not really understanding where his brother might be going, but Pikel apparently caught on a bit, and the dwarf issued an “Ooooh.”

“There’s something wrong in those woods,” said Temberle. “Yup, yup,” Pikel agreed.

“What are you talking about?” Rorick asked, looking from one to the other.

“Brr,” Pikel said, and hugged himself tightly.

“I slept right through the night,” said Rorick. “But it wasn’t that cold.”

“We fought a zombie,” Hanaleisa explained. “A zombie bear. And there was something else out there, haunting the forest.”

“Yup, yup,” Pikel agreed.

Rorick looked at the dwarf, curious. “You didn’t say anything was amiss.” Pikel shrugged.

“But you felt it?” Temberle asked. The dwarf gave another, “Yup, yup.”

“So you did battle—real battle?” Rorick asked his siblings, his intrigue obvious. The three had grown up in the shadow of a great library, surrounded by mighty priests and veteran wizards. They had heard stories of great battles, most notably the fight their parents had waged against the dreaded chaos curse and against their own grandfather, but other than the few times when their parents had been called away for battle, or their dwarf uncles had gone to serve King Bruenor of Mithral Hall, the lives of the Bonaduce children had been soft and peaceful. They had trained vigorously in martial arts—hand-fighting and sword-fighting—and in the ways of the priest, the wizard, and the monk. With Cadderly and Danica as their parents, the three had been blessed with as comprehensive and exhaustive an education as any in Faerûn could ever hope for, but in practical applications of their lessons, particularly fighting, the three were neophytes indeed, completely untested until the previous night.

Hanaleisa and Temberle exchanged concerned looks.

“Tell me!” Rorick pressed.

“It was terrifying,” his sister admitted. “I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.”

“But it was exciting,” Temberle added. “And as soon as the fight began, you couldn’t think about being afraid.”

“You couldn’t think about anything,” said Hanaleisa. “Hee hee hee,” Pikel agreed with a nod. “Our training,” said Rorick.

“We are fortunate that our parents, and our uncles,” said Hanaleisa, looking at the beaming Pikel, “didn’t take the peace we’ve known for granted, and taught us—”

“To fight,” Temberle interrupted.

“And to react,” said Hanaleisa, who was always a bit more philosophical about battle and the role that martial training played in a wider world view. She was much more akin to her mother in that matter, and that was why she had foregone extensive training with the sword or the mace in favor of the more disciplined and intimate open-hand techniques employed by Danica’s order. “Even one who knew how to use a sword well would have been killed in the forest last night if his mind didn’t know how to tuck away his fears.”

“So you felt the presence in the forest, too,” Temberle said to Pikel. “Yup.”

“It’s still there.”

“Yup.”

“We have to warn the townsfolk, and get word to Spirit Soaring,” Hanaleisa added.

“Yup, yup.” Pikel lifted his good arm before him and straightened his fingers, pointing forward. He began swaying that hand back and forth, as if gliding like a fish under the waters of Impresk Lake. The others understood that the dwarf was talking about his plant-walking, even before he added with a grin, “Doo-dad.”

“You cannot do that,” Hanaleisa said, and Temberle, too, shook his head.

“We can go out tomorrow, at the break of dawn,” he said. “Whatever it is out there, it’s closer to Carradoon than to Spirit Soaring. We can get horses to take us the first part of the way—I’m certain the stable masters will accompany us along the lower trails.”

“Moving fast, we can arrive before sunset,” Hanaleisa agreed.

“But right now, we’ve got to get the town prepared for whatever might come,” said Temberle. He looked at Hanaleisa and shrugged. “Though we don’t really know what is out there, or even if it’s still there. Maybe it was just that one bear we killed, a wayward malevolent spirit, and now it’s gone.”

“Maybe it wasn’t,” said Rorick, and his tone made it clear that he hoped he was right. In his youthful enthusiasm, he was more than a little jealous of his siblings at that moment—a misplaced desire that would soon enough be corrected.

“Probably wandering around for a hundred years,” muttered one old water-dog—a Carradoon term for the many wrinkled fishermen who lived in town. The man waved his hand as if the story was nothing to fret about.

“Eh, but the world’s gone softer,” another in the tavern lamented.

“Nay, not the world,” yet another explained. “Just our part of it, living in the shadow of them three’s parents. We’ve been civilized, I’m thinking!”

That brought a cheer, half mocking, half in good will, from the many gathered patrons.

“The rest of the world’s grown tougher,” the man continued. “It’ll get to us, and don’t you doubt it.”

“And us older folk remember the fights well,” said the first old water-dog. “But I’m wondering if the younger ones, grown up under the time of Cadderly, will be ready for any fights that might come.”

“His kids did well, eh?” came the reply, and all in the tavern cheered and lifted tankards in honor of the twins, who stood at the bar.

“We survived,” Hanaleisa said loudly, drawing the attention of all. “But likely, some sort of evil is still out there.”

That didn’t foster the feeling of dread the young woman had hoped for, but elicited a rather mixed reaction of clanking mugs and even laughter. Hanaleisa looked at Temberle, and they both glanced back when Pikel bemoaned the lack of seriousness in the crowd with a profound, “Ooooh.”

“Carradoon should post sentries at every gate, and along the walls,” Temberle shouted. “Start patrols through the streets, armed and with torches. Light up the town, I beg you!”

Though his outburst attracted some attention, all eyes turned to the tavern door as it banged open. A man stumbled in, crying out, “Attack! Attack!” More than his shouts jarred them all, though, for filtering in behind the stranger came cries and screams, terrified and agonized.

Tables upended as the water-dogs leaped to their feet.

“Uh-oh,” said Pikel, and he grabbed Temberle’s arm with his hand and tapped Hanaleisa with his stump before they could intervene. They had come to the tavern to warn people and to organize them, but Pikel was astute enough to realize the folly of the latter intention.

Temberle tried to speak anyway, but already the various crews of the many Carradden fishing boats were organizing, calling for groups to go to the docks to retrieve weapons, putting together gangs to head into the streets.