GHOSTDOG

As I walk along the flagstone road back towards the caravan, I can see the fat moon rising over the mountains around us as the stars begin to lose their fear of the sun and warily begin to appear. My senses remain alert, my eyes watching the slopes above for moving shadows among the trees as my ears listen for strange sounds…or even stranger silence. But the crickets carry on their chorus beyond the campsite, and the only moving shadow I see is a herd of several deer, warily moving around the ruined way-station but otherwise appearing unconcerned.

The wind is caressing my face, bringing with it the scent of wood smoke and of bubbling hot stew, along with the drone of men’s voices and a young woman’s laugh like a flash of silver in the midst of steel. Not Lady Sword-son, of course; she hasn’t laughed in a long time, unless I miss my guess. No, men bring all sorts of comforts with them when they travel.

On my right, the ruined temple’s easily seen standing out from the darkness, moonbeams shining through the dozen or more rounded arches that make up its walls, while on my left the aqueduct has torches set up around it, both on dead tree limbs set upright into the ground, and on the wagons set in defensive positions around it. One of the wagons is sideways with its harness empty, blocking the road. As I approach, a driver in rawhide armor sitting in the seat calls out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s your dead father, moaning because he can’t taste any of the wine in the barrels you’re guarding.”

The driver, a man about my age, points the light crossbow away from me as he chuckles. “Neither can I since the cheap piss-pot merchant won’t turn loose any of his stock to those working for him.” I walk up to where he’s sitting as a troubled look comes over his weathered face. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if my father did show up tonight. This is a haunted place.”

He spits over the side away from me as I smile. “All the places where the walls between the Shadowlands and the real world are thin usually are. Be of good cheer, though; if you see a ghost tonight, it’ll most likely walk on by you and find me, since I’m the only one who can help it.”

“Oh, that’s comforting,” the driver replies. I grin at him and walk on past his wagon, continuing down the road until I reach the point in front of the temple where the old healer is speaking with the wine merchant, while Lady Sword-son and her two squires look on, Blood-archer between them. Everyone stops talking and looks at me as I stride up. “I’ve finished scouting. I found trail sign of the imperial patrol that placed the Caimos in the basin, but it’s weeks old. Otherwise nothing.”

I see relief on the face of the merchant while the old healer looks satisfied, as if he knew I’d be reporting just that. The two squires look like they’re not going to drop their guard for a minute while Lady Sword-son…doesn’t this lady knight ever smile? “Ghostdog,” she snaps, “why did you go off without mentioning the dead, grey tree in the rear of this abandoned temple? Grandfather says it marks the weakest point between Earth and the Shadowlands, and,” her voice lingering on the word, “if you touch even a branch, you find yourself in the Shadowlands without any way of getting back.”

For a moment I stare at her in disbelief. “Don’t you know the legend of the sorcerer’s son and the Rainbow dragon?”

“Of course I know the legend, but I am talking about the real world, not fables.”

I bite back my next words as the old man cuts in smooth and sweet as vanilla mango. “The legends of our people have some basis in truth, though much should be weighed on the balance scales rather than trusting every word. However, the lore concerning the Shadowlands themselves is accurate. That was the reason the temple of the True God was built here, and the way-station built around it: so the warrior-monks could keep watch over the Shadowlands and guard against its creatures causing death and destruction in our world, especially during the last five days of the year.”

“The belief in this so-called ‘True God’ was a cult of the decadent old empire,” the wine merchant says with a sniff.

I give him a sardonic smile. “You’d rather put your faith in dead emperor’s becoming living gods?”

“Are you saying you believe in this absurd notion that One being created everything?”

I shrug, leaning up against the vine covered front wall of the temple, or at least what’s left of it, dislodging a couple stones which clatter as they fall down the opposite side. “Let’s just say I’m not a disbeliever anymore.” Behind the merchant I see Blood-archer whispering to the young squire; he nods, and they walk away together, probably to let Lady Sword-son’s younger brother make water off in the woods.

Then I focus my attention on the wine merchant as he opens his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Ghostdog, you intrigue me; I would enjoy hearing more of your experiences.”

“Maybe after he has a bath,” Lady Sword-son mutters.

The old Summer-mage smiles at her as he speaks, “I think a bath would do all of us a wealth of good. Now that the stock has been watered and the stew is simmering, I can heat the water in the basin until it is comfortable, and maintain it until all who wish to bathe have done so. I can even provide a chunk of soap.”

“Mother gave me clothes she made for you,” Tinados says.

My son smiles as I laugh in pure delight. “A bath, the promise of hot food and clean clothes made by the hands of the person I love most in this world. Master Vintner, throw in a skin of wine and I will tell you whatever tales of my life from whatever time strikes your fancy…”

Well past our group I see a flash of movement and stop speaking as I look past the merchant. Blood-archer has grabbed a rock from the loose stones on the wall and now strikes the young squire’s head, who gives a cry as he falls.