A NIGHT IN THE WITHERLANDS

A NIGHT IN THE WITHERLANDS, by Daniel Stride, artwork by Simon Walpole

 

I sank my teeth into another sour marsh-apple. It’d been that, and little more, since the previous night. Donkey-cart journeys are dull affairs, and while there are worse ways to spend a fortnight – the silver clinked in my purse – I hungered for better food. What I wouldn’t have given for a leg of roast valley mutton. Drenched in gravy. With rosemary and garlic.

“Mmmm. Tasty.”

Marsh-apples look like common apples, but taste like vinegar. Considered a delicacy in these parts, they are found only in swamps, and fetch a decent price at market. Soon enough, I tossed the core. I did not see where it fell, though I imagine the local mud-ants were pleased. For all I knew, they’d been following in our wake, munching on the trail of discarded fruit. Marsh-apples are good for months, if you think they’re good at all.

The cart rolled on, rattling along the dirt track. We were now well into the Witherlands, and still three days away from the nearest inn. No mutton until then, with or without gravy. No beer either. Just a ration of salted pork each night, cold earth to sleep on, and my arse planted on a pine-wood seat while we travelled. At least there had been no rain.

Beside me, my employer sat hunched over the reins. His face was obscured by the hood of his scarlet cloak. Conrad, the man called himself.

“You like the marsh-apples, then?” he asked.

“I’ve had worse.” It was true enough. I’d had better too, though I wasn’t about to tell him that.

He pushed back his hood. A wry smile spread across his bearded face. “Some guard you are. I hire you to protect my stock from brigands, and you eat it all yourself. I swear, you’re the biggest brigand of the lot!”

I shrugged. “I can’t fight if I’m hungry.”

I glanced at the stock. Beneath the cart’s canvas-roof, and well-protected from the winds, stood a dozen wicker-baskets. Packed not quite shoulder-to-shoulder, they jostled every time we ran over a stone. Each was laden with fruit. Mostly marsh-apples, a couple worth’s of leper-pears, and…

“What are the little red things?”

“Knolotigus peppers.”

I frowned. They looked like thin red horns, each tapering off into a point.

“Yes. Not for eating uncooked, I’m afraid. One of my more adventurous speculations…”

The man delighted in his canniness, and the description of his Knolotigus pepper scheme was both self-serving and dull. I nodded along. The silver in my purse entitled him to self-aggrandisement, and, much like the marsh-apples, I’d known worse than him on my travels.

By the time he started on the tale about three barrels of Milvin Ale, the sun was nearing the western horizon. There had been no clouds since yesterday morning. We faced yet another clear and starry night, this time with a full Moon.

“I’ve heard this one,” I said.

Conrad frowned. “Really?”

I swear, he’d told me the tale at least thrice.

“Oh yes,” I said. “Such cleverness gets around.”

To be fair, it was a clever tale. Last month, Conrad had borrowed three barrels of Milvin Ale from a fellow merchant, and sold them at the start of a morning’s trade. The price dropped over the day, allowing him to buy the barrels back cheaply that afternoon, and return them to their original owner. A profitable gamble… though Conrad was less forthcoming about how he knew of the price drop in advance.

He smiled. “It is good to find a man who understands. I swear, most folk think it’s black magic.”

I was the son of a town Shaman, from far-off lands. I had seen my share of black magic. Real black magic, not merely the shenanigans of merchants at a waterfront market, or the conjuring of idle street magicians.

But I only smiled back.

 

***

 

We camped in a wide and barren valley, surrounded on three sides by hills. I had not seen more than a single stunted pine since we entered the Witherlands. This was a place of grass and gorse, with golden flowers dotting the rolling slopes. Old stone glowered down from the flat hilltops.

Once, long ago, there had been folk living here, folk much like us, I guess, with their kings, and greed, and wars. Bloodied swords, and precious coin: it is the way of the world. Now all that was left were these stone ruins, with the shadows lengthening in the twilight.

Myself, I was pleased at the chance to stretch my legs. I let the donkey loose to munch the gorse.

No trees for leagues around, but we had ample tinder and firewood in the cart. I unpacked the supplies, while Conrad lit a fire. In another time, I might have warned him against it, but after a fortnight on the road I feared cold more than brigands. The autumn frosts are cruel in the Witherlands, beneath the stars.

The stars were shining as we finished supper, and as often happens at such times, men find things to natter about. Hopes, and dreams, and idle musings: it brightens days and nights alike. Sure enough, I found myself asking Conrad about his beloved Milvin Ale. Something had occurred to me.

“Suppose,” I began. A half-chewed marsh-apple was in my hand, and my fingers were chill and sticky with the sour juice. “The price of the ale had increased. You would have lost money buying the barrels back.”

Conrad’s eyes gleamed in the firelight, merry as the flames themselves. “Indeed. I see you have a head for such things. Maybe you should turn merchant yourself.”

I had a head for cheating at cards and spending other people’s money. If that qualified me for trading, that said little for merchants. I tossed the apple-core over my shoulder and wished the mud-ants well.

“So… do you take the loss, or do you hold onto the barrel, hoping the price will come back down?”

“If truth be told,” said Conrad, “I only had the barrels for a day, so I had little choice. But if you want my advice… cut your losses when you realise you’ve lost. If something is burning a hole in your pocket, don’t let it burn down your house.”

I decided to remember his advice if I ever had funds to gamble on Milvin Ale barrels. For my part, I planned to spend my earnings on drinking ale, rather than trading it. Oh, and a mutton dinner, and a feather bed at the next inn. Preferably with a cheerful wench or two. After that… who knew? I have never lacked for ways to spend coin.

Soon, Conrad was talking about how Knolotigus peppers were the first step to a fortune. I nodded along, ere I excused myself for a piss. Some excuses have the advantage of being true.

I picked my way through the gorse thorns. Away from our camp, the valley was bathed only in silver moonlight. My father, the man who knew everything, had always warned me of the Full Moon. He held it an ill time to venture out of doors. I did not doubt him, but a man needs to piss.

I was lacing up my breeches when I saw something gleaming on the grass. A small, silver gleam, catching the light of the Moon. Stray and strange, but such is fate.

A coin.

If you ever find yourself in the Witherlands beneath a Full Moon, leave well enough alone. My father would have had stern words to say… but that night I knew little better. I thought I had earned myself a mug at the next inn, or a keepsake to build a fireside yarn around. It would not have been the first time. With a shrug, I took the coin back to Conrad. If anyone ought to know about currency, it was he.

Conrad chewed his cheek, as he looked the coin over.

“Interesting,” he said. “Will you keep it?”

“Why not?” I grabbed the coin back and dropped it into my leather purse. Clink.

Conrad nodded. “You would fetch a fair price indeed. It is an ancient coin, of a barely-remembered dynasty. I have dealt with a few such as these in my time.”

“For an ancient coin, it has not lain there long,” I said. “It is untarnished.”

Conrad looked over his shoulder, as though he had heard something. “This is not my first journey in these parts, and I have spoken to many a man in my life. There are old burial mounds in the Witherlands. Perhaps it came from a lost treasure hoard?”

I narrowed my eyes. I was a foreigner to these lands and had heard no such stories. Conrad himself had told me nothing of corpse treasure.

Conrad saw my expression and waved his hand. “Stories. They need not concern us. But…” A shadow passed over his face. “Some fools think to rob the graves. There are stories about that too. Few end well, though I myself am not entirely without guilt. Many things come into the hands of a merchant.”

I clenched my fists but checked my anger in time. Punching one’s employer seldom ends well either.

I had not been entirely deaf to my father and held little interest in prying into the old burial mounds, trinkets or no trinkets. Sapphires and gold, emerald necklaces and encrusted goblets, ancient daggers and three-tiered crowns, are a poor trade for one’s life and sanity. But if such mounds lurked in the Witherlands, grave-robbers lurked too, and that meant brigands. No wonder Conrad had paid me so well for guard-duty, and tolerated me eating his marsh-apples.

But it could not be helped. We were still three days away from the nearest town, and I needed Conrad and his cart as much as he needed me and my sword. Nor was I helpless. I have skill with a blade and had slain men in fights. I had expected to find myself warding off an outlaw or two, ere this journey was over, if not an entire armed band. But as I glanced up at the Moon, so bright and round, I felt the first hint of sweat. Something was coming, and yet I still thought only of mortal threats. Fool that I was.

I took First Watch. Flat and smooth, a boulder stood not ten yards from the embers of the camp-fire, and there I sat. Wrapped in my rabbit-fur coat, I stewed over my discontent. On the other side, comfortably far from gorse thorns, Conrad snored from within his bedroll and blankets. He had swiftly dropped off, and now lay like a dark smudge among the valley grasses.

If only I had shaken him from his slumber. We could have whipped the donkey through the night, and fled far from here. Would even that have saved us? I do not know. But such thoughts crossed my mind, as the unclouded Moon shone down upon the Witherlands. The longer I sat upon my boulder, the more fearful I felt. There was no wind that night. Only Conrad’s snoring broke the silence. The very stillness suffocated me.

I was not the least bit tired – if anything my senses became sharper as my dread grew. I went to fetch another marsh-apple, finding my hand creeping to the hilt of my longsword. My eyes studied the valley slopes for any sign. There was none, and yet…

Something stirred behind a gorse-bush. I drew my blade.

“Oy!” I called. “Show yourself!”

I felt the silence deepen. But something was there, I swore by the ancestors. I rushed to Conrad and shook him.

He did not awake.

Conrad was not dead. But he snored on, try though I might to raise him.

“Wake, you bastard!”

Then a chill shiver ran up my spine. I straightened. Sword in hand, I slowly turned.

They waited, pale beneath the Moon. The moonlight shone through them, and through their cloaks and hoods. They had swords too, clear yet visible, gleaming like spikes of frosted glass.

The common folk call them ghosts. As the son of a Shaman, I knew a dozen other names, and, more importantly, what they were. These were creatures trapped by dark and forgotten magics between this plane and the next, hungering for mortal life, and feeding like leeches upon our souls. Victims grow drained and drowsy, as the soul essence leaves, until mighty men are reduced to shrivelled husks. I would have sooner faced a score of armed brigands than this…

“Away!” I commanded. I wracked my brain for ways to ward them off. My father had told me much, but I was not him, and in my youth I had preferred a tavern fireside over dry study. I cursed those ill-spent days. “Away!”

The phantoms did not stir but hung before me in silence. That these pale and hungry shadows of a bygone age had ventured forth from the burial mounds, I did not doubt. Yet neither I nor Conrad had interfered with their dark houses…

Conrad.

I was a fool. They feasted on his soul, and I was helpless to wake him.

A ghost’s greatest power is its control over the mind. Icy claws of fear and despair gripped my heart. Soon they would feast on me too. Never again would I feel the Sun’s rays upon my face on a bright spring morning. Never again would I make sweet and sweaty love in the soft candlelight of a roadside tavern. I would be food for phantoms, lost among the wilds of the Witherlands.

Yet, I fought back against the spell. I gritted my teeth, recalling all the times I had faced death or worse. I would not cower now, and I swear that from that day to this, no man has called me a coward. Screaming fragments of ancient curses, I charged the nearest phantom. I fancy my sword shone in the moonlight, and for a moment, the ghostly figure shifted.

It raised its translucent blade to block mine. The swords clanged as they met, and a tremor ran through my arm. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I heard soft laughter. I swung again. Another block. Another swing. Another block. The phantom did not counter-attack but contented itself with parrying at every turn. My cheeks burned with shame, as I tried to purge the laughter from my head. I failed.

At last, I backed away, humiliated. If only I had listened to my father. By the ancestors, if only he were here. But he was not here, and all I had was a useless sword and half-remembered lore. And a sleeping companion whose life seeped away every moment.

I edged back to Conrad and allowed myself a downwards glance.

I was no stranger to horror. Already in my travels I had seen enough to keep many a man awake at night. By rights my hair should be snow, not gold. But even so I shuddered. What lay within the bedroll and blankets was something that had been a man. What it was now…

The healthy bearded face had become folds of parchment-like skin. In the moonlight I saw the skull beneath the flesh, the hollow eye-sockets and the lipless grinning mouth. But that was not the worst. Far from it. For, despite all appearances, Conrad was not yet a corpse.

He still snored. I reached my hand towards that terrible face and felt his soft breath upon my palm.

Cutting through the mists of memory, I recalled my father’s words. I had paid them little heed then, yet now… his warning was truth. The phantoms between the planes did not slay those they feasted upon. They were not that merciful. No. They enslaved.

Sweat beaded on my forehead. It was too late for Conrad. Soon he would awaken to their command. Soon, he would come for me. I drove my sword through the blankets, into his body. In my heart, I knew it would do little good. Conrad’s soul was theirs.

I had to escape.

The phantoms had not moved. Maybe I could escape, ere they finished devouring the merchant. Maybe I could find aid, someone to hide me…

I darted across to the cart and stuffed two marsh-apples into my coat pocket. Every moment, I imagined an unearthly blade in my back. But the phantoms spared me, for now. Maybe they toyed with me.

Sword in hand, gorse thorns grasping at my garb, I ran out onto the dirt road, and thence into the night.

 

***

 

I do not know how long I ran. It felt many hours, though as I stopped to catch my breath and wipe sweat from my forehead, I noticed that the Moon had barely moved. I cursed whatever dark enchantments lay upon the Witherlands. Behind me, I could see no pursuit, though I did not dare raise my hopes. Not yet. One cannot presume to know the minds of phantoms.

Silver moonlight bathed the hills, and now and again I saw an old stone ruin jutting out of the earth, the reminder of a bygone age, or – my brain conjured terrible imaginings – yet more haunted tombs. I resumed my run, this time at a steadier pace, sword sheathed at my side. Chill and distant stars glimmered above, carrying only ill-omen. But, as my boots thudded over dirt and stone, hour after hour, my fears ebbed away. Mile after long mile, I silently promised defiance. Never mind the stars, I have always held that a man makes his own choices in this life.

I do not love running. I am, at heart, a creature of the fireside and the alehouse. But my spirits rose as the night drew on, and I finally wondered if I had escaped altogether. The first inklings of hope rose within me, quite the heady draught for a desperate fugitive.

Then I rounded a hill and saw the cottage.

 

***

 

 

I had not known that anyone still dwelt in the Witherlands. These barren and hilly wastes offered only poor soils and hard stone, barely suitable for wheat and sheep. And the Witherlands held worse than grass and gorse. I would have given every coin I possessed to arrive safe and whole at the gates of Rerman Newtown upon the river.

Soon I stood at the cottage door. The walls were stone, the roof turf. Blacker than the sky, chimney smoke blotted out the baleful stars. Candlelight glinted behind the shutters. Someone lived here, someone who might shelter me from dark phantasms.

I pounded on the door until my fists ached.

Let me in!” I cried. “Let me in!”

Footsteps. I swore I heard footsteps, on the other side of the door. I looked over my shoulder.       Still no pursuit.

At last, the door opened. A wizened man clutched a lantern, which cast shadows over his linen tunic and hairless head.

“Who are you?” he snapped. He prodded my chest with a claw-like finger. There was sharpness here. “You don’t look like a ghost. Don’t feel like one neither.”

“A traveller.” Another glance over my shoulder. “A traveller in need.”

“Indeed. And you shall obey the ancient laws of hospitality?”

I swear, the air grew chill. The fear in my heart rose again like a choking cloud, though there was yet no sign of my accursed pursuers.

I moved to push past him. I would tell my tale behind the safety of his walls, not out here, in the darkness of the Witherlands. Why, he was but an old fool, and I had my sword…
Something held me fast. Though I felt nothing, I found myself rooted to the ground, as if chained and manacled with thrice-forged steel.
“I asked you a question, Master Traveller,” said the man. His face betrayed no sign of annoyance, but I knew now not to push my chances.

“I shall obey the laws,” I said. “I swear by my ancestors.”
“We shall see.”

The strange bonds released me. I eased past him, out of the cold, and into the warm twilight of the cottage.

Behind me, the door clicked shut.

 

***

 

The cottage was small and homely, but I would not have traded it for anything. In the centre of the room, three clay pots sat on a table of ill craftsmanship. On the far side a coal-fire burned cheerily in the grate. A brass kettle hung over the fire and clinked and clanked with the rising steam. The floor was smoothed stone, and bare, save for a hearth rug, where a grey cat curled in sleep.

On either side of the fire stood two chairs, each shrouded in a woollen blanket. I collapsed into the left one and drew a deep breath.

“You have my thanks,” I said.

“Your thanks, but not your name.”

“Manfred,” I said. “ The…”

“Ghosts?”

“Yes, yes. The ghosts took my companion, and I have run far. If you could shelter me until sunrise, I would be greatly in your debt.”

“I’d say you are in my debt already.” The old man put the lantern on the table and attended to the whistling kettle. “Me, a lonely old man, and you a sword-bearing stranger. That’d I’d open the door to the likes of you… tsk, tsk.”

He shook his head, and as if on cue, the cat unfurled. It stared at me with knowing eyes.

“I mean no harm,” I said.

            “I have heard that before.”

“I will pay you in silver,” I added.

This would eat into the wages Conrad had paid me, but it was a small price for a night’s safety in the Witherlands.

“So you say.”

The man lifted the kettle off the fire and carried it into the shadows. Presently, he returned with a small, steaming mug.

“Drink,” he ordered.

I took the offered mug and sipped. Hot and sweet, with a hint of bitterness. I had tasted worse.

“My thanks,” I said.

He brightened, a smile coming to his wrinkled jowls. “Ah, so you are a living man.”

“How…”

“He’s living.”

The man may have talked to himself, but even so I glanced around the room. I saw nothing save the cat. More, I felt nothing. And yet…

The man sat in the other fireside chair. Firelight gleamed on his bald pate. “Now, tell me how you come to these parts, Manfred the traveller.”

I told him of Conrad’s marsh-apples and strange peppers, and of the dullness of the road. I was getting to the phantoms when three loud knocks rattled the cottage door.

I leapt to my feet.

“The phantoms,” I hissed. “They are here!”

My host’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “I shan’t think they will bother us.. But this is a hospitable house, and I’ll check anyway. Sheath your sword, please.”

I blinked. “There are foes at the door!”

“Sheath your sword, or out you go. Take your chances with the ghosts, for all I care.”

There was a hint of steel in his words. My mouth twitched.

“Very well.”

I sheathed my sword. But my hand did not stray from the hilt.

Picking up the lantern, the wizened man hobbled across to the door. I watched him with narrowed eyes. I am no fool. This was no innocent , and I did not doubt his hidden power. More than ghosts lurked tonight, of that I was certain.

The man opened the door and stepped out. I did not stir from the fireside. If only the fire were wood, I thought, rather than coal. Ghosts do not love the flames of a burning brand.

My ears pricked up. The wizened man was talking. In spite of the fire, my blood ran chill.

Something talked back.

“Fair enough,” my host said loudly, at last.

The door swung open. Two figures entered, one the old man, the other a cloaked figure with its hood pushed back…

“Manfred,” said my host. “This is a friend of yours?”

My eyes widened. Just for a moment, I imagined an open grave stretching out, ready to claim me. But this was no ordinary grave. Here there would be no peaceful slumber, no journey to the ancestors. For the phantoms had found me once more, and this time they would finish their dark feast.  My foes had even sent their servant by way of mockery, to show me my fate.

This was no phantom standing before me.

It was Conrad.

 

***

 

My sword was out in a trice.

“Away, you monster!” I cried.

I swear, I would have preferred to look upon a naked skull. Conrad’s face still held flesh, yet it was shrivelled and rotten. His nose had gone, replaced by a pit of festering flesh, and though his eyes remained, they sat bloodshot within deep, dark hollows. His hair and beard had withered away to wisps of white, as if through the sudden passing of immense time.

But I knew it to be Conrad. He wore the same scarlet cloak as ever.

“Manfred,” he said. “We meet again.”

He did not sound different. Better if he had. His voice, like the cloak, was a reminder of the man he had been. A man… trapped inside his own corpse, and yet unaware of it. Looking back, I can only feel pity, but at that moment my gut churned with horror and revulsion.

“You are not him.”

“Oh, but I am, Manfred. Your employer and companion.” His voice turned to dry chuckle. “But I do not recall paying you to put a sword through my chest.”

“Is this true, Manfred the traveller?” asked my host. “You never mentioned that.”

“Look, you fool,” I snapped, wishing the bald creature were a mere fool. “He is an abomination. The phantoms have devoured him.”

The wizened man cackled. “Have they now?”

As if by sorcery, another steaming mug appeared in that sharp-nailed hand. He held it out to the living corpse.

“Drink, Master Conrad.”

Conrad took the mug. Opening his mouth – half the teeth were gone – he swallowed the concoction in one fell gulp. He looked at me, triumph in his foul eyes. The heat of the draught had burnt neither tongue nor throat.

“Well,” said my host. “Master Conrad is as living as you are, Manfred the traveller. What do you say to that?”

I acted on instinct. Before either Conrad or the old man could move, I darted forward, and thrust my sword through the merchant a second time.

“Die, you bastard.”

Futile, I know. But instinct and despair are powerful, and I saw no other option. Nor was it entirely foolish. A sword through the stomach will kill a man. But though he lived, Conrad was no longer a man. What he was, I could not say.

He merely stood, staring down at the blade.

I cursed and pulled my sword from his body. No blood splattered the blade, nor did Conrad bleed out. I might have stabbed a haystack for all the good I’d done.

The old man shook his head.

“Goodness gracious,” he said. “Does anyone respect the ancient laws these days?”

“Forgive him,” said Conrad. “He is still young.”

“You might forgive him,” said my host. “But a sworn promise is a sworn promise, just as it was when I was young. I care for this no longer.”

The wizened man looked at me, a strange light growing in his watery eyes. A light that reminded me of nothing so much as the cold and distant stars, and the haunted places between. Places that even my father would only hint at.

The old man reached out a hand, as if to seize my throat with his clawed fingers. I found myself unable to move. But the vein-wrinkled hand did not touch me. Instead, the man clenched his fist, and uttered a word I cannot repeat.

I have never seen the like, before or since. One moment, I stood in the soft glow of a cottage fireside, steeling myself for desperate battle. The next, it had all vanished. Yes, vanished. The room, the table, the cat… all gone, and I knew not where. I stood on the dirt road once more, with the barren hills of the Witherlands all about. I blinked like an owl in the insufferable moonlight. What sorcery had I just witnessed?

“Manfred.”

I had company. No, not the old man – thank the ancestors for that mercy – but Conrad. Standing not five yards away, in that accursed cloak.

“Away,” I snapped. “Or I shall hack that ugly head from your shoulders. See if you survive that.”

Conrad laughed. It was laughter shorn of all joy. It spoke only of living death, of the gloating of the grave.

“I would not recommend that, Manfred.”

And then they were there too, floating in his wake. Ghostly and pale, their cloaks flapped in no earthly breeze. Swords were in the phantoms’ hands, and a strange and baleful thirst was in their eyes. For I could now see their eyes. Eyes that blazed with unnatural power.

The eyes were fixed on me.

At once, a lethargy swept through my body. My sword-arm dipped, and I found myself blinking away the sweet call of sleep. It had been a long day and night. Perhaps I should lie down beside the road and rest my weary head… or so my mind whispered. It is a strange thing to be at once tired and terrified, yet so I was. The malevolent spells of phantasms are many.

“Away,” I yawned, all-too aware of my peril. “Leave me!”

The phantoms drifted closer. Conrad himself did not stir. I remember his foul skull grinning in the moonlight, and the image still haunts my dreams. Many are the times I have woken in a cold sweat with the monster’s name on my lips, expecting to see him standing over me. Maybe, one day, I shall see him again in truth. It would be a reunion for the ages.

But that night, terror warred with stupor in my soul. Thank the ancestors, terror won.

Again, I turned and ran.

I pushed myself beyond endurance, my lungs sucking in great masses of air, sweat beading on my brow. My magic-weary limbs fought my will at every step, as mind and muscle struggled for mastery.

I do not know how fast I moved along the dirt road. But moved, I did. Or maybe hobbled. I could not fight these foes, but nor would I lie down and become as one with Conrad. I would not shame my ancestors through abject surrender.

Not once did I look at my pursuit. If I had, I do not think I would have escaped again – my will was like a frail and fraying rope next to this magic. For their part, the phantoms made no sound. Nor did I feel a blade in the back. Maybe my foes found my struggles amusing. Such creatures are cruel, and their whims and wiles are not of this world.

Step after step, I struggled on beneath the Moon. I had scant hope of rescue, of course. Never mind an honourable night-rider patrol, I would have cheered the sight of the ugliest armed brigand this side of the sea.

Then, at last, I heard the burble of flowing water. A stream, off in the distance. A brook perhaps. Or maybe…

As if by magic – and perhaps it was magic – the fog suddenly cleared from my mind and muscles. I recalled what Conrad had told me, ere we set out in the donkey cart with marsh-apples, leper-pears, and foreign peppers.

The layout of the land.

I was hearing one of the western tributaries to the Frelleheen, the great river upon which Rerman Newtown sat. From here, I remembered, the dirt road bent away north for miles, until it came to the Stone Bridge of Rerman. I lacked the fire to make the bridge, but I had life left for something else.

I would swim the river.

I thanked the ancestors for a lesson of my father’s. His lesson was this – no phantom can cross running water. Imbued with ethereal essence, water washes away their form, until they are as nothing. A river is an impassable wall, for both phantoms and all their fell works.

So even if this stream were not the mighty Frelleheen itself – I prayed it were not, for Conrad had called it a deadly river at the best of times – my foes could not pursue me. If I could but make the other bank, I would be safe.

A new madness gripped me. I found myself running heedlessly towards the sound of water. I cared not that I was now off the road, or that foes still trailed at my heels.

Through the gorse – the thorns tore at my coat – and up a slope I went. Not once did I look behind. At the top, I saw it laid out before me in the moonlight: a stream some twenty yards across, dark and fast, shrouded in night-time mist. I made for it, panting in desperation.

As I ran, I tore off my coat, belt, and tunic. I staggered out of my boots, breeches, and thick woollen socks. I left it all lying amid the grasses of the misty riverbank, scattered with wild abandon. Naked as the day of my birth, my mind fevered with dreams of escape, I splashed into the waters.

It was fierce. So cold, I yelped in surprise, and swallowed a mouthful of river-water. Deep too, I realised, as I sank through the murk. My feet could find neither stone nor earthy bed. But though the current pushed me ever right-wards, I was a strong enough swimmer to push myself forward and upwards. At last, my hands grasped the slender grasses of the far bank, and I pulled myself up onto land.

Shivering and chilled to the bone, I collapsed onto the grass. My teeth chattered up a storm. But… and this felt so strange… I was safe. From phantoms anyway. The sensible part of my mind told me I was about to freeze to death. The frosts are cruel in the Witherlands, beneath the stars.

“Manfred.”

I sat up, tensing, grasping for my sword… which was no longer there. I cursed through my chattering teeth. I had left everything on the other bank, through river and mist. My clothes, my belt, my weapons, my money purse…

“Manfred.”

It was Conrad. He stood on the other bank, dim at this distance, but easily recognisable in that accursed cloak. Behind him floated the phantoms, pale and silent in the river-gloom. Hoods hung over their faces, and I could no longer see their eyes. That itself was not just darkness and distance: they no longer drained me with magic.

My mind grew heady with the sweet mead of victory. I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted.

“I have beaten you, monster. I have escaped!”

“No, Manfred.” He did not shout, yet I heard him, clear as crystal glass. “You have learned a lesson.”

My good humour subsided. “What do you mean, monster?”

Conrad held up his hand, a dark silhouette in the gloom. I should not have seen anything, of course. Yet, I did. Moon and mist were unnatural that night, and something gleamed. Something small. Suddenly, I remembered: the coin I had found at the camp-site. The ancient coin, of a long-gone dynasty. Such a little thing, yet more than it seemed.

“If something is burning a hole in your pocket, don’t let it burn down your house. Or…” Conrad paused. I imagined his lipless smile. “If you are pursued for a treasure, abandon it before it kills you.”

The coin? This terrible nightmare of a chase was all for that?

I blinked in disbelief. I could have avoided all this, had I but ignored that small hunk of silver. Or had I but thought to throw it away, like a chewed apple-core. I had thrown enough of those… I swore, even as I shivered.

But before I could make a fuller reply, the phantoms vanished into the night. Conrad turned, and disappeared back up the hill.

I was alone with my thoughts, cold and naked beneath the stars.

 

***

 

Dawn came soon after, and I delighted in the light and warmth of the Sun. I swear, I had not been far off freezing to death, though I jogged up and down the riverbank to warm myself. Only once the Sun had fully risen – and the mists dispersed – did I venture back across the stream.

Dripping wet, I clambered up the bank. I half expected Conrad to be standing there, gloved hand outstretched in a parody of greeting, but he was gone indeed. Thank the ancestors.

My garments lay much as I had left them, scattered among the riverside grasses, or impaled on thorn bushes among the flowers. My unsheathed longsword and hunting daggers glinted in the morning light.

I donned the gear and hurried north as swiftly as I could. Warm though the Sun was, I could not tarry. Instead, I munched on the two filched marsh-apples, and thought of what I would tell my father when next I saw him. I knew well enough what he would tell me. The man who knew everything did not approve of my travels.

By the time I reached the Stone Bridge, the Sun was setting. I had been two days awake, but I would not spend another night alone in the Witherlands, much less sleep there.

The Rerman Alderman had erected twin guardhouses on either side of the Bridge. On the near side, a man in padded cloth armour sat on a three-legged stool. Hands on knees, he stared into space. But as I approached, the man leapt to his feet.

“Stop!” he barked, fumbling for a spear. His eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks unshaven. “What business is this?”

I was too tired to speak. I hugged him instead, not caring if he slew me on the spot as a bandit. Or that his breath reeked of ale and garlic. I had escaped the Witherlands, and that was all that mattered.

Fortune smiled on me. He let me past.

Stumbling across the great Stone Bridge – the roar of the river was music to my ears – I came to the guardhouse on the far bank.

I pushed open the door and stumbled inside. Then all went dark.

When next I knew, I felt the chill splash of river-water on my face. I was lying on my back. A second guard stood over me with a pine-wood bucket.

“What in blazes happened to you?” he asked. Stout and bearded, this one had the air of an honest man.

I murmured something. I cannot remember the words, but it worked. He let me sleep on the floor of the guardhouse. He even fetched a blanket, kindly fellow that he was, and so I spent the night safe in dreamless slumber.

Late the next day, after a meal of cold porridge and incredulous questioning, I followed the secure route to Rerman Newtown, keeping only to the company of other travellers. I could count myself lucky, I suppose. I had escaped the Witherlands with life, soul, and possessions intact.

But my money purse, filled with Conrad’s silver, I never did find again.

Nor did I tarry to search for it.

 

________________________________________

 

Daniel Stride has a lifelong love of literature in general, and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his work has previously appeared in Bards and Sages Quarterly, Wild Musette Journal, and the Te Korero Ahi Ka anthology of New Zealand speculative fiction. His first novel, steampunk-flavoured dark fantasy, Wise Phuul, was published in November 2016 by independent UK press, Inspired Quill, and he is currently working on the sequel. Daniel lives in Dunedin, New Zealand, and can be found blogging about Tolkien and other stuff at his website.

Simon Walpole has been drawing for as long as he can remember and is fortunate to spend his freetime working as an illustrator. He primarily use pencils, pens and markers and use a bit of digital for tweaking. As well as doing interior illustrations for various publishing formats he has also drawn a lot of maps for novels. his work can be found at his website HandDrawnHeroes.