Ghost and Guardian: Part One: Lord

by Sanan Kolva

  Ghost and Guardian

  Part 1: Lord

  Sanan Kolva

  Copyright © 2021 by Sanan Kolva

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Lord

  Interlude 1: Awakening

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Lord

  “Hold still, Cylin. I’ll make this quick.” Pryor crouched on the hard, barren dirt. His smile was almost sympathetic. “We all have to make sacrifices sometimes.”

  “No! Let go of me!” Cylin struggled against the hands pinning her on the ground.

  Jael caught her short blond hair, his thick fingers scraping her scalp. “She has lovely skin. Shame to slice it to shreds,” he mourned. “Bone men pay good coin for young skin like that.”

  Cylin bared her teeth and tried to bite his hand, but couldn’t get the right angle. “Let go of me!” she shouted again. She couldn’t break free of Pryor’s thugs. Alger sat on her legs while Hakon pinned her arms and Jael held her head still. Each of them outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.

  “Consider it a payment toward your debt. You’re lucky. I could be selling a lot more, but we just need a piece,” Pryor said. “You know I’ll patch you up right after, just like I did for Alger.”

  Alger grunted in agreement, glancing to his left hand and the two missing fingers.

  “The bone men are waiting, and they aren’t the sorts to wait forever.” Pryor’s head jerked toward the road. Somewhere hidden by the night, the bone men waited for their piece of flesh as payment for safe passage. “You won’t miss an ear,” he promised, drawing his knife and wiping it clean on his pant leg.

  The knife flashed toward her face. Cylin shrieked and jerked her head aside. The blade opened a gash on her right cheek and nicked her ear. She shrieked again. Hot blood ran down her skin.

  Pryor cursed. “Hold her still, you fall-brained oaf!” He glared first at Jael, then at Cylin. His eyes narrowed. The flickering light of the campfire gave his features deeper menace than usual, and his voice grew hard. “I can sell a piece to the bone men now, or I can give you to them whole. I promise you they will take far more than I will when they skin you. Now hold still, girl, while I still think you’re worth more to my team alive.”

  Her heart raced. Fear shook her.

  Gods of my father’s hearth, if I’ve ever found favor with you, don’t let Pryor do this.

  Cylin squeezed her eyes shut as the knife cut toward her face again. She felt a sting as the blade broke skin, then it was gone. Pryor shouted in surprise and pain. Cylin’s eyes snapped open to see the knife spin out of his hand, glinting in the firelight. Pryor jumped to his feet, grabbing his pistol. The hands holding Cylin relaxed as the other men searched for the source of danger.

  She sucked in a deep gulp of air. Had her family’s hearth gods actually answered her desperate prayer?

  “Release the girl.” The low voice came from the darkness, cold with promise of dire consequences.

  “Who in a scavenger’s bones are you?” Pryor demanded, aiming into the night.

  “Release her,” the voice repeated. It sounded male, but Cylin didn’t recognize it. Who is this? A drifter? We would have heard a vehicle miles away. Why would anyone be walking the wasteland this late? There’s no shelter for hours.

  “She’s mine,” Pryor growled. “And if I want to sell her piece by piece to the bone men, that’s my business, not yours. Who do you think you are, some would-be lawman? A hero?” He spat the last word with scorn.

  “A ghost.”

  Steps crunched on the ground, scattering pebbles across the bare dirt. Pryor aimed toward the sound. As if pulled by a string, his hands jerked up and the bullet fired harmlessly into the sky.

  “What the--,” Pryor began, but he got no further. A figure rushed into the light, slamming into Pryor and sending the muscular man sprawling to the dirt.

  The three holding Cylin sprang to their feet, grabbing weapons. Cylin scrambled back, eyes wide. She pushed to her feet as the men focused on the intruder.

  “Ah, there you go. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” A flash of white as the intruder grinned, his tone mocking. “Now we can all go about our business.”

  Alger yelled in fury and lunged. The stranger sprang aside with lithe grace. He was shorter than Alger, barely as tall as Cylin, easily ducking under Alger’s grab. Cylin’s gaze darted around the camp. Pryor climbed to his feet, face twisted with rage. Jael and Hakon moved to flank the stranger.

  I could run while they’re focused on him. No one’s watching me. She cast a look into the darkness, then back at the camp. I might be able to grab my pack, but food and water are in the truck, and Pryor has the key. She wouldn’t get far without water, and her bag contained only enough purification tablets for a day. Pryor didn’t trust her with more than that.

  The dancing fire cast light onto the stranger’s face. His hair was black as night, and his skin so smooth that any bone man would pay twice a standard rate for it—though what bone men did with skin, Cylin didn’t want to know. He held no visible weapon. His mouth curled in a feral, confident grin, fearless even when unarmed and surrounded.

  He’s crazy. He’s got to be crazy. Pryor’s going to carve him to bits. She swallowed hard. I guess a hearth god doesn’t have much power these days. But if one unarmed lunatic is all the rescue I get, I’d better use it.

  She glanced to the truck, into the darkness, and finally back to the stranger. Do I take my chances in the night, hope I don’t run into the bone men or whatever mutated creatures lurk in the dark? Or do I take my chances with a madman who has no reason to defend me?

  Giving herself no time to reconsider, Cylin lunged for the pistol she knew Jael kept tucked in the holster at his back.

  Jael turned when he felt her hands. “Hey! What you think you doin?”

  She was amazed her hands didn’t shake as she pointed the gun at his chest. Not the head, Father always said. Aim for the largest target. Cylin squeezed the trigger. The pistol jumped in her hands. A sharp crack echoed in the night. Jael staggered, then toppled, blood staining his shirt.

  In that moment of distraction, the stranger attacked. Cylin shook her head as her eyes and mind played tricks on her. She could almost have said the man flew, and that he didn’t even touch Alger when he sent the man crashing into the truck. Pryor raised his gun again, and the stranger eyed him.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he warned in a low, calm voice. “Count your losses and leave.”

  Pryor leveled the pistol, eyes locking with the stranger’s. Whatever he saw, he slowly lowered the weapon. “You think you can take what’s mine without consequence?”

  “You can give the bone men their due, pay your passage. Best take him before anything starts to spoil.” The stranger jerked a nod toward Jael’s corpse.

  Pryor glared at Cylin, all calm gone from his face. “You still owe me, Cylin. I will collect.”

  “Carve off someone else’s face, Pryor,” she spat. “I don’t owe you a damned thing.”

  Hakon helped Pryor lift Alger into the truck cab, then they dragged Jael’s body into the back. The stranger watched, silent. Cylin did as well, though her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst. At any moment, she expected Pryor to shoot them both, but he didn’t. The truck rumbled to life and roared down the road, leaving her standing in their camp with only an empty pistol, her pack, and the stranger who’d rescued her.


  Her breath came quick and shallow. Pryor really intended to take my skin. I didn’t think he would. He threatened a few times, but I didn’t believe he’d actually do it. The betrayal stung as fiercely as the cut on her face. He could easily have sold a few trinkets in the last town. They would have covered the bone men’s toll. Instead he did… this.

  The stranger turned, amber eyes fixed on her. “Where’s Chance?”

  Her hands ached from her grip on the pistol. “What?”

  “Chance. Is Chance here?”

  “Mister, I don’t know who or what ‘Chance’ is, so I doubt it. You looking for a person, or a place?”

  “He’s my cousin.” The hard edge in the stranger’s eyes softened, and he stepped toward her. “Are you all right? That cut looks nasty. Come over to the light.”

  The right side of her face burned. Cylin cautiously moved closer to the fire, never taking her eyes off the man and not loosening her grip on the pistol. It was empty, but he didn’t need to know that. She turned so the light hit the long slash. The stranger moved to her side and touched the cut gently. Cylin hissed and jerked back.

  “It doesn’t look deep, but it might scar.”

  “Great, that’ll make one side of my face not fit for the bone men,” she said tightly. “Maybe I should carve up the other cheek myself.”

  The stranger stiffened sharply. “Don’t say that. There’s more to life than avoiding the attention of the bone men.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll let you know when I find out what.”

  The stranger offered her a hand. Now that he stood still, she saw an angular face with high cheekbones and large, slightly slanted amber eyes. Cylin stared into them until she finally blinked and tore her gaze away. In the depth of his eyes she saw deep pain and loss. He didn’t look older than twenty-five, yet at the same time he looked ageless, as if time had forgotten to mark his years. By some trick of the light and shadows, his ears looked elongated and pointed. “You should have someone take a look at that cut,” he said.

  Cylin frowned. “You just did.”

  “Someone like a doctor,” he told her, still offering his hand. “I’ll take you to one. Or you can go your own way, if you prefer.”

  Cylin waited, but no catch followed, no threats, no indication that he expected favors of any sort in return. “Who are you? Why did you attack Pryor and his men?”

  “Because I heard you scream.”

  Cylin’s eyebrows rose. “You attacked them because I screamed?”

  He waved at the barren land. “There’s nothing for miles. No settlements, no one on the road except the bone men. Noises like that are more likely to attract abominations than aid. A scream out here isn’t a plea for help or sympathy, it’s a vocalization of pain that won’t be denied.”

  She eyed him, wary. “And that’s a reason to jump into a fray for someone you don’t know?”

  “I will never stand by when someone is trying to hurt a youth, no matter who they are.”

  She was almost insulted to be called a youth, but Cylin restrained the impulse to take offense. “I… well… thanks.” She accepted his hand.

  “The man who held the knife—was he your father?”

  “Pryor? Oh good gods, no! He bought my debt a couple of years ago, when he needed someone thin and light enough to get into tight spaces to add to his scavenger crew.” The question was oddly gratifying. Most people in her experience assumed she was either Pryor’s plaything or the camp whore. And men who thought that got mad when she refused to let them have a piece of the action.

  Maybe the hearth gods knew what they were doing after all. Or they got lucky. Probably just got lucky.

  She changed the subject. “You know a doctor?” What am I thinking? I can’t pay a doctor. I have nothing to offer.

  “In my village. It’s a bit of a walk, if you’re up for it.”

  “Anywhere is a bit of a walk from here,” she countered. That was why the bone men ruled this area of wasteland, demanding tribute from those who passed through. There was no one to drive them off, no one to enforce what passed for laws. “Who are you?”

  The stranger laughed. “It’s not as far as you might think. My name’s Lucian. You?” He picked up scattered bits of gear around the camp, quickly and efficiently looting anything of worth.

  “Cylin.” She snatched up her pack before Lucian could.

  He offered her a rag. “Hold that to your face, Cylin. It’ll stop the bleeding.” Lucian considered the campfire. “Let it burn out. Nothing out here to catch fire.” He started walking. Cylin followed, with only the triplet moons lighting their way. “Cylin…” Lucian murmured, repeating her name as if to taste it. “That’s pretty. My wife’s name was Cilvi.”

  “Your wife? You’re married?” Cylin asked. That was encouraging. A wife meant someone who might object if Lucian took an unwanted interest in her.

  “I was,” Lucian answered, voice distant. “She died.”

  “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know anything else to say. People died. They died from starvation, they died from raiders and thieves, they died from the toxins seeping from the poisoned ground.

  Lucian’s head jerked in a nod. He fell silent, and Cylin didn’t ask any more questions. The only sounds were their feet crunching over the barren ground.

  They walked through the night. Lucian didn’t seem to tire, and Cylin’s feet kept moving, one after the other. As morning brought light, though, she asked, “What in poison rain is that?” Her arm shook wearily as she pointed toward the vast wall of green ahead of them.

  “That,” Lucian told her, “is a forest. My home. My village is there.”

  A chill ran down her spine. She’d heard of a forest somewhere in the wastes. Rumors said the trees were tainted and corrupt, that they could move on their own and attack people. Those who dared enter the shadow of its boughs never left. She turned a hard look on Lucian. “You have to be kidding me. No one goes in there.”

  “Oh? Then I must be no one,” Lucian said.

  “Well, you did call yourself a ghost when you attacked Pryor. So maybe you don’t have to worry about poisoned, corrupted forests that eat people.”

  “The forest won’t harm you, Cylin,” Lucian promised. “If people don’t leave, it’s because they chose not to. Oh, and bandits don’t leave either, but you’re not a bandit. Unlike this waste, the land within the forest is fertile. No toxins, no poisons.” He rested a hand on her arm. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Cylin flinched from the touch, and Lucian withdrew his hand immediately. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, just, please don’t.” Usually she could suppress the reaction, but she was exhausted and hurting. “I’m sorry. I need to rest. Just a couple of hours. Then I’ll be ready to keep going and find your village.”

  When Lucian didn’t argue, Cylin sat down. She didn’t have a coat, and her blanket had been in Pryor’s truck, so she curled up on the bare ground. Lucian sat beside her, a presence she could sense, but that didn’t feel threatening. She closed her eyes and let sleep come. As she slid into dreams, Cylin’s last memory was a feeling like she was floating, rocking gently back and forth.

  She woke expecting the stink of diesel mixed with sweat. Instead, she breathed in the lingering smell of bleach, and beyond it, a sneaking scent of bacon. Cylin lay on a mattress, covered by a blanket. Her eyes fluttered open, and her confusion increased, bordering on panic. She lay in a small, unfamiliar room with simple furnishings. The bed frame was metal, and the chair and side table were wood. A wash basin sat on the side table, and a hazy mirror hung on the wall over it. Shelves on the far wall held boxes with bottles and what looked like rolls of gauze. She found her bag on the floor beside the bed, still laced shut. The mattress sagged as Cylin sat. Under the blanket, she was fully clothed, which reassured her a little. She pulled her bag onto the bed beside her.

  The right side of her face itched. Cylin reached for the spot and found cloth. She stopped short, then stumbled over to the mi
rror above the water basin. A strip of gauze covered the gash, a light crust of dried blood holding it in place. Someone had washed her face; she saw no dried blood down her cheek or neck, though the collar of her shirt sported stains. She started to peel the gauze back, but hissed in pain at the pull on her scabs, and left the gauze alone.

  A knock sounded on her door. “Young lady? If you are awake, breakfast is ready.”

  Cylin jumped. “Who are you and where am I?” She cautiously opened the door.

  The man on the other side was sixty-five if he was a day. His gray hair was cut short, and he sported a trimmed beard streaked with silver. He stood with an air of dignity, as if he expected respect as his due. “I am Doctor Kinnel, and you are in my infirmary. Lord Lucian brought you here yesterday and asked me to tend to your injury.”

  “Yesterday? I wasn’t asleep that long… wait, Lord Lucian?” she burst. “He’s a lord?” That’s not right—it can’t be. That man was a lord? What sort of lord wanders the wastes alone in the middle of the night?

  “He is the leader of our village,” Doctor Kinnel answered. “We call him Lord Lucian. Now come. Breakfast is getting cold.”

  Numb, Cylin followed the older man into his kitchen. He motioned her to a chair, and Cylin sat. A moment later, he set a plate in front of her with a pile of scrambled eggs and three thick strips of bacon, still sizzling from the stove.

  “Do you take tea?” Doctor Kinnel asked.

  “Yes, please,” Cylin said reflexively. Tea? She hadn’t drunk tea in years. Pryor hadn’t thought it worth the expense.

  She devoured her eggs and the slices of meat before the doctor set a steaming mug beside her plate. Cylin lifted the mug and breathed in the scent of mint. She’d been told once that tea was meant to be savored, and she tried to take her time. Doctor Kinnel sat across the table with his own steaming mug.

  As she scanned the room, she realized that the lights on the walls glowed with illumination too steady to be candle flames. “This place has… electricity?”