Shara and the Haunted Village: Illustrated Edition (Bryanae Series Book 1)

by Jeffrey Getzin

  “I?” D'Arbignal said, with deliberate irony. “I'm just the muscle. Gianelli back there is the brains of the operation.”

  Shara looked back and forth between the ghostly village and the darkness somewhere in which lurked Gianelli.

  “What is that village?” she said, her whole body trembling.

  D'Arbignal grinned.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “Shall we find out?”

  Chapter 13

  A disturbing stillness covered the village like a blanket of despair. External sounds, such as Gianelli's rants, were audible but muted and Shara could hear no sounds whatsoever coming from within the village proper.

  They stood now on the immediate outskirts, at the foot of a road that bisected the village down the middle. Faintly glowing houses and shops lined up along the road like an army at attention. The eldritch glow bedeviled Shara's eyes; she could not locate its source. Nothing she directly looked at seemed to be giving off any light. The green luminescence seemed always to come from her peripheral vision, from some source just out of sight.

  If there were dwellers within the village, they did not make their presence known.

  The structures themselves looked solid enough. D'Arbignal tapped a wall with the tip of his sheathed sword and was rewarded with a muffled thud. He looked at Shara and shrugged.

  “What… what should we do?” she whispered. There was something funereal about the village, something that demanded mournful respect.

  “Let's see if any of these doors are unlocked,” D'Arbignal said, also whispering.

  He tried a few doors while she remained where she was, still outside the village. Each door was solid enough, but none yielded to D'Arbignal's attempts at entry.

  “I could probably try picking one of the locks,” D'Arbignal mused.

  A shiver ran down Shara's back. “I'm not sure you should. It seems somehow … inappropriate.”

  He flashed her that manic grin again. She found it disturbing; she had to look away. Then her eyes were drawn to a building, a bit larger than the others, at what looked to be the exact center of the village. She wasn't sure what it was about that building that demanded her attention—the architecture wasn't dissimilar to that of the other buildings, and it wasn't that much larger—but it held her attention almost against her will.

  D'Arbignal followed her gaze. He too appeared mesmerized.

  “That looks promising,” he said, but the bravado seemed forced. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I bet that was where he lived.”

  “He?”

  D'Arbignal's attention remained glued to the building. “Hmm? What?”

  “Who is ‘he'?”

  “You really don't know anything about this village, do you?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “This is where the mage Artisimize spent the last of his days.”

  D'Arbignal said the name as though he expected her to recognize it. She merely shrugged.

  “Greatest wizard of all time?” he said. “Lived for five hundred years? None of this rings a bell?”

  Once again, she shrugged.

  “Well, this”—D'Arbignal gestured vaguely around him at the village—“was where he lived.”

  “And that was his house?” Shara asked, pointing at the magnetic building.

  And again, that insane grin of his.

  “Only one way to find out,” he said, and headed toward it with a jaunty stride.

  Shara remained on the periphery of the shimmering village as D'Arbignal's figure dwindled. Around her, the ghostly muted sounds, and off in the distance, Gianelli's raving.

  But that adventurer's heart of hers still pounded within her chest. It pounded in fear, yes, but also in anticipation. She had been fed such a meager diet of life all these years, and now a lavish portion had just been heaped onto her plate. Oh, she could only resist that yearning to live for so long. She had to heed her heart's call for adventure: just this once.

  She wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, trying to bolster her resolve, and then she ran after D'Arbignal into the heart of the haunted village.

  Chapter 14

  The door to the mage's home swung open as though on freshly oiled springs. D'Arbignal was bathed in the warm, welcoming glow of candlelight while Shara waited along the street, trying to stay as far from any of the other spectral buildings as was possible. The silence of the night was almost complete; she could no longer hear Gianelli's ranting.

  “Now this is interesting,” D'Arbignal muttered from the doorway, and then stepped inside.

  Now she was alone.

  Or was she? Buildings lined both sides of the street; she felt like she were being watched, as though pairs of ghostly eyes peered at her through every shutter and keyhole. A cold breeze whisked in and around the fabric of her dress, making her teeth chatter. She clutched her travel bag to her chest and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “D'Arbignal?” she said, hesitantly, and she was so frightened that his name came out almost inaudible. She shivered, and then took a deep breath. She called his name again, louder this time. Still no reply.

  She took a few steps closer to the house. “D'Arbignal?”

  This time, she thought she heard something come from within, but she couldn't be sure it was D'Arbignal's voice … or even a voice at all.

  And then, from somewhere behind her, Shara heard whispering. She spun, her eyes wide with fear, but she saw nothing save the luminescent buildings that dotted the street. She glanced back at the mage's house, half-expecting to discover that a monster had emerged and had been creeping up on her while her back was turned.

  She took another handful of steps closer to the mage's house. The glow that spilled from the door illuminated the toes of her boot. She craned her head, trying to see in through the door, but could not.

  She heard whispering again, from a different direction, and this time it spoke her name; she was certain.

  “D'Arbignal?” she cried. The note of fear in her voice added to her panic. She spun in a circle, trying to watch all directions at once, unable to master her fear. “D'Arbignal?”

  She approached the house. Its front door was ajar, like a salivating mouth; she half-expected an enormous tongue to roll out and draw her in. She reached towards the door, but froze when she heard her name whispered yet again.

  Then a hand grabbed her wrist.

  “Ah, good,” D'Arbignal said. “You're here!”

  She shrieked and flung her bag at him.

  He dodged it with uncanny agility and gave her an innocent look.

  “You didn't need to do that,” he said, amused. “I've already got a bag. Come see!”

  Tears flooded her eyes. She swung at him wildly, trying to slap his face. “Don't you ever do that again!”

  D'Arbignal evaded her slaps while taking a step backward into the house. He bowed to her, hat in hand. “My apologies, milady. That was wrong of me. I just couldn't resist.”

  He sounded sincere, yet was that a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth?

  “You should have tried!” she said, then surprised herself by laughing hysterically.

  “Yes,” D'Arbignal said soberly. “You are, of course, correct. I truly apologize. But really, you should see this.”

  “See what?” she said. She knew what he wanted: for her to follow him into that house.

  “Come look.” D'Arbignal withdrew into the house.

  Shara stood alone again in the deserted (she hoped!) village, with the glow from the house the only sign of comfort or life. All around her, the village seemed to stare at her with malevolent intent.

  She placed her hand on the door, then pushed it open.

  The room was wooden and octagonal in design. Candles were lit in a dozen wall sconces. D'Arbignal stood at the center of the room with his back toward her, looking at something that lay on a square tabletop. Her bag was on the wood floor just a few feet away from her, with the tip of the wrapped mutton sticking out.

  She retrieved her bag, t
hen approached D'Arbignal with an odd hesitation. She wanted to check the contents of the bag to make sure her sewing kit was unharmed, but she couldn't take her eyes off D'Arbignal. What had captured his attention so?

  “What … what is it?” she said.

  D'Arbignal glanced at her over his shoulder with a merry twinkle in his eye. He stepped aside with a flourish, as though introducing a famous musician to an eager crowd.

  She saw the table; its surface was constructed from a very dark wood, completely bare except for a large burlap sack … and a wooden sign propped up next to it. The sign read:

  Don't touch it. Seriously, don't.

  “How could I possibly resist such an invitation?” D'Arbignal asked with a grin.

  “Unless it's some kind of trap?” The sack looked ordinary enough; it wasn't as though there were a rope leading to a pulley, suspending a hammer above the bag. But D'Arbignal had said a mage had lived here. If that were true, who knew the limits of what he might— or might not—have done to that bag?

  “Exactly!” D'Arbignal held a single finger skyward, emphasizing the point. “But if it's a trap, then why the sign? Is it to lure us, or is it to deter us? To tempt or dissuade? Ah,” he rubbed his hands together gleefully, “what a choice!”

  He walked around the table, peering under it, over it, and around it. He scrutinized the sack itself, and how it rested upon the table.

  “I wonder what it contains,” D'Arbignal mused. “What do you think, Shara?”

  “I think you should—”

  Her voice was cut off as an enormous arm slipped around her neck from behind and lifted her off the floor. The pressure on her windpipe choked off her shriek. Her eyes bulged in terror.

  “Gotcha!” Gianelli said, his voice genial.

  Chapter 15

  D'Arbignal's sword whisked from its sheath so fast it seemed to appear in his hand by magic.

  Gianelli tsked at him, shaking his head, and digging his chin into the top of her skull in the process. She kept fighting to get air into her lungs, but while she could exhale easily enough, she could not manage to inhale.

  “There's no need for the rapier, D'Arbignal. Just give me the bag and I'll give you back your doxy. A fair trade.”

  Her fingers pried at the arm around her neck, but it was like stone. She was starting to feel dizzy. Her attempts to inhale were causing little snorting gasps to puff from her nose.

  D'Arbignal stood unwavering; the point of his rapier did not move.

  “Be reasonable, D'Arbignal. Admit you've lost and give up. I always knew you were going to betray me. It's one of the reasons I insisted on bringing our little friend along.” He tightened the grip on her throat. Her eyes rolled back in her head and consciousness receded.

  D'Arbignal said something, and then Gianelli said something back, but she couldn't understand the words. Her hands fell from his arm like a pair of slack ropes.

  Then the pressure diminished. She dragged in a deep breath, then another, fighting to get the air past that massive vice.

  “… but I never had any intention of betraying you, my friend,” D'Arbignal was saying.

  Gianelli snorted.

  “I speak the truth!” D'Arbignal protested.

  “It doesn't matter,” Gianelli said. He further reduced the stranglehold and her breathing was almost unimpeded. “Just so long as we have a deal.”

  “And you promise that you'll—?” D'Arbignal started but then interrupted himself. “Oh, right, like your word means anything!”

  Gianelli laughed, sounding almost giddy.

  “I like you, D'Arbignal,” he said. “I don't know why, but I like you.”

  Then, suddenly, his voice was cold and absolute. “Now give me the bag or she dies.”

  D'Arbignal shrugged. He stretched out his hand for the bag.

  Gianelli slid his arm from her shoulder, holding the back of her neck with a single hand.

  “This should be interesting,” D'Arbignal said, reaching forward.

  An enormous wind blew into the room. The candles went out, leaving the room in near darkness.

  “Yikes!” D'Arbignal shouted, but there was something very wrong with the sound of his voice. It seemed as though it came from miles away.

  The wind continued to blow, but really, it wasn't so much as something was blowing into the room as it was that something in the room was sucking the air inwards. Shara was amazed to find herself being drawn toward the center of the room, her feet sliding along the wooden floor.

  “Trapped!” Gianelli yelled. “I knew it!”

  Shara tried to turn toward the door. She could barely discern Gianelli's outline as he clung to the doorjamb. She struggled, but couldn't get away from the howling wind. She kept getting drawn, inexorably, deeper into the room.

  “Help me!” she cried, even though she knew that Gianelli would be no help to her.

  The giant snorted.

  “First you steal my gold, then the popinjay betrays me, and now the item I've sought for years turns out to be unattainable. And you want me to risk my neck trying to save you?”

  “Please!” She reached her arms toward him.

  He could have grasped her arm. He could easily have pulled her to safety. Instead he turned away.

  “You're on your own.” His voice had no malice in it, and no amusement, either. It had returned to its stony neutrality, as though she did not matter to him one way or the other.

  She watched as he pulled himself clear of the house. Then, almost as an afterthought, he kicked the door shut with his heel, leaving her in complete darkness.

  The suction lifted her from her feet. She felt herself falling, falling backward through the room. Her arms flailed, reaching for anything to stop her plunge, but she found nothing to grasp. The suction grew louder and more overwhelming, roaring like hundreds of beasts; the cacophony surrounded her, overwhelmed her.

  Then she felt something slam into the backs of her legs—the edge of the table! She spun, feeling her head brush the canvas of the bag. Then there was canvas brushing across her chest and back, but that was impossible! She knew the opening of the bag was only a few inches wide! How could this be—?

  The canvas brushed the tips and heels of her feet until there was no more canvas. She soared through space, swallowed whole by the plain burlap sack.

  Insanely, all she could think about were the words on the sign: Don't touch it. Seriously, don't.

  Chapter 16

  Shara awoke face-down on the dirt road. When she raised her head, she discovered that she was on the outskirts of the village. Her body was a collection of bruises and sores, and she ached everywhere. She pushed herself upright; for a moment, the world seemed to reel around her. Her head pounded and her left eye felt swollen.

  What had happened?

  For a moment, she couldn't remember but then it struck her: the bag. The bag had sucked her into itself.

  So what was she doing here? How could it be day, when it had just been night? Why did the sky look so strange, like it was made of mud? And where were D'Arbignal and Gianelli?

  She realized that she was still clutching her own travel bag in her arms; she opened it. She pushed aside the wrapped mutton and checked on her sewing kit. It was still there, but to her dismay, she noted that the intricate wooden box had been battered and chipped. While its contents were safe, it broke her heart to see the box so deformed. It was the nicest thing she owned, and she had fought so long to keep it perfect.

  She got to her feet and stood unsteadily, unsure of her balance. She turned a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. It was the same village, yes, but something seemed … not quite right. It was as though the buildings were constructed from a different type of wood, or perhaps their positions had changed slightly. No, that wasn't it, either. Then she noticed the forest surrounding the village. The trees were all bare. There wasn't a leaf to be found, even though it was late summer.

  She looked toward the village; she saw a prone figure on the
ground. A plumed hat lay a few feet away from the body.

  “D'Arbignal?” she said, starting at the muffled sound of her voice. It was as if she were in a padded box instead of a bare forest. Her heart quickened and she didn't know why.

  The figure did not stir. She approached him cautiously, not sure what to expect after the day she had just lived through. As she neared the figure, she saw that it was indeed D'Arbignal who lay there. His head seemed to rest against a wooden sign planted into the ground, which was odd, because she hadn't remembered a sign being there the previous night. D'Arbignal's curly head of hair obscured whatever writing may have been on the sign.

  “D'Arbignal?”

  Still no reaction. She knelt beside him and was relieved to see that he was breathing, but his eyes remained closed.

  “D'Arbignal?” He didn't stir. She touched his face gently, but he did not respond. He looked as though he had been rolled in a barrel full of rocks. A large livid bruise was on one cheek, and his oft-mended shirt showed the bloodstains of multiple scratches and cuts.

  She gently cradled his head, eased it away from the sign, and lowered it to the ground. Now her view was unimpeded. The sign read:

  I told you not to touch it, dumbass.

  She stared at the sign, dumbfounded. Was this all some sort of sick joke?

  “Look! There's one over there!”

  She snapped her head up to see a half-dozen or so men shambling in her direction, all armed with swords, clubs, or lethal-looking farm tools. Their faces were gaunt and their eyes hungry, and most of them had feral-looking smiles.

  “D'Arbignal,” Shara said, shoving him, “you need to wake up now!”

  D'Arbignal gave no sign of having heard. He lay there, breathing deeply, as though asleep.

  The mob fanned out as it approached and then began to circle them.

  “There's two of them,” one said, his voice raspy.

  “Not much fat on them,” said another ominously. “They look pretty lean.”

  “Who are you?” Shara asked. She kept shoving D'Arbignal, desperately trying to shake him awake. “What do you want?”