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

by Jeffrey Getzin

  “How much stuff do you think is in there?” D'Arbignal shouted, barely audible above the din of the maelstrom.

  Shara had a horrible realization.

  “D'Arbignal!” she said. “There's an entire universe in there!”

  He stared at her without comprehension. Then they were knocked to the side as some humongous black creature was ejected from the hole, flying off on enormous black leathery wings.

  D'Arbignal watched it fly off. “I could swear that was a dragon!”

  Shara grabbed D'Arbignal by his lapels. “D'Arbignal, there's an entire universe in there!”

  He still didn't seem to comprehend. “So?”

  “So?” she shouted, desperate to make herself understood. “So, where's it going to all go?”

  “Why, I suppose it'll all—” He stopped then, and she could see that at last, he understood.

  “This is bad,” he said.

  “Yes!”

  He lunged at the bag, fought it as items and sometimes creatures were discharged and ejected somewhere out into the night forest. He struggled with it like a man trying to wrestle a bull.

  A length of lumber flew from the gap and struck a glancing blow to D'Arbignal's temple. His eyes lost focus momentarily, but he recovered and gripped the fabric of the bag, which bucked under him like a living creature.

  “What do we do?” Shara cried.

  “I haven't the slightest idea!”

  D'Arbignal managed to catch hold of the two edges of the rent, and he pressed them together, closing the hole. The fabric bulged and fought against his grip. He eyes darted about in desperation.

  “This is very bad!” he shouted.

  And then Shara knew what to do. It was so obvious, she couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to her sooner. What else do you do with something that's torn?

  “Hold on!” she shouted.

  She grabbed her sack and up-ended it. Perleanane's golden box bounced onto the ground, and so did the mutton, and so did the shattered remains of her sewing kit. She searched among the detritus.

  “What are you doing?” D'Arbignal said.

  “Keep holding it!”

  There! She spotted a spool of thread. Chartreuse! Oh well, it didn't have to match!

  “I can't hold it shut much longer!”

  Now all she needed was a needle. She hunted for it with increasing desperation.

  Come on! All she needed was a single—

  And then she saw one. It was one of her best, one of the Szun-manufactured metallic ones, and it was sticking out of her shoe like a piece of straw driven into a tree by a hurricane.

  She loosened her wrist, the familiarity of the gesture giving her confidence, and she leaned forward and threaded the needle in a single try.

  “Hold on!” she shouted. She crawled next to him and, while he held the bag shut, she sealed the rent with an overlapping zigzag stitch.

  “Ah ha!” she shouted, and let go of the bag, which had ceased its bucking.

  D'Arbignal hesitated, but then he too let go. He stared at it with trepidation, but at last relaxed.

  “It seems there are indeed some problems you can solve with a needle and thread,” he said, awestruck. “The quickest stitcher in the world, indeed!”

  Chapter 36

  The walls of Artisimize's dwelling began to fade. Shara caught glimpses of starlight coming through the ceiling.

  D'Arbignal inspected the bag. He reached his arm in up to his shoulder; the bag didn't so much as bulge.

  “It still holds quite a fair bit, I think. I wonder where the rest of the stuff went.”

  Shara grimaced. “I guess back to wherever Artisimize got it from in the first place.”

  “Oh hey,” D'Arbignal said. “I wonder if Perleanane's treasure is still there!”

  He fished around in the bag but came out empty-handed.

  “Oh well,” he said. “I suppose that would have been too easy.”

  As the house continued to fade, Shara discerned the outline of several men surrounding the building. They appeared to be armed.

  “Uh, D'Arbignal …”

  “I wonder what else is in here,” D'Arbignal muttered, his attention fixed on the bag.

  The house was nearly transparent now. The men were definitely armed. They were dressed similarly to the mob she and D'Arbignal had encountered in the bag, and there were seven of them.

  “D'Arbignal,” she said with increased vigor.

  He looked up from the bag. “Hmm?”

  She gestured at the men in front and in back of her.

  “Oh,” D'Arbignal said. “Ah.”

  “Give me the bag, D'Arbignal,” a voice said from her right.

  It was Gianelli.

  Chapter 37

  Gianelli stood outside the ring of men, towering over them. His massive arms were crossed in front of his chest. He looked fresh and well-rested, whereas D'Arbignal looked like he had been beaten, stabbed, and bashed for hours, which he had been.

  “Oh, you've got to be kidding!” D'Arbignal said. He said to Shara, “You ever have one of those days where everything goes wrong at once?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Give me the bag, D'Arbignal,” Gianelli said, his face blank. “I won't ask you again.”

  “Oh good,” D'Arbignal said, yawning. “It was starting to get tiresome.”

  “I'm not joking, D'Arbignal.”

  “No, you never did have much of a sense of humor.”

  Shara addressed the men that surrounded them: “Are you the Rat's men?”

  One of them nodded, but Gianelli said, “They're my men now.”

  “Well, the Rat's dead. And the Rat's mage Sulaire. And his other men. D'Arbignal killed them all. Which one of you wants to be next?”

  “To be completely honest, I didn't exactly kill Sulaire,” D'Arbignal corrected. “That one was an accident.”

  Shara's words were having an effect on the men. They looked about at each other nervously.

  “Like I said, they're my men,” Gianelli said. “And I'll order them to kill you if you don't give me my bag.”

  D'Arbignal reached for his rapier, which lay on the ground, but he pulled back.

  “Hey, Shara,” he said, as though he hadn't a care in the world. “Look at this. My rapier's turned orange.”

  Indeed it had. The blade of the rapier had an orange tint to it, as though forged from a naturally orange-tinted metal.

  “Quit stalling, D'Arbignal,” Gianelli said. “Give me the bag.”

  D'Arbignal grabbed his rapier. It burst into flames.

  He yelped and dropped the rapier. The flames went out.

  The effect on Gianelli's mob was galvanizing. Already spooked beyond rational thought, the suddenness of the fireball caused what was left of their morale to break. To a man, they fled into the woods.

  D'Arbignal picked up his rapier again, using his thumb and forefinger to grasp the hilt. Nothing happened. Then he grasped it fully by the hilt, and again, it caught fire. He shook it a few moments and the fire went out.

  “I'm sorry, Gianelli. You were saying?” He looked up again, and then around in mock innocence. “But where have your friends gone?”

  “That does it,” he growled, raising his axe. “You and I have been heading toward this ever since the beginning.”

  Under his breath, D'Arbignal said to Shara: “When I say ‘now', drop to your hands and knees.”

  D'Arbignal raised his orange rapier up to a guard position and took a half step back.

  “Fair enough, Gianelli. Everybody has to die sometime. Might as well be your time now.”

  Gianelli roared and the sound of his voice reverberated throughout the fading haunted village. Then he raised his axe high above his head and charged.

  For a moment, D'Arbignal did nothing except grin that infuriating grin of his. Then he started running towards Shara.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  Shara dropped to all fours as instructed. D'Arbignal dropped his rapier,
ran towards her, then leaped onto her back. He took a single step onto her head and sprung high into the air.

  Shara looked up just in time to see D'Arbignal bring the magical bag's opening down over Gianelli, axe and all. D'Arbignal landed in a forward roll, but Gianelli was no longer there.

  D'Arbignal clapped his hands, delighted with himself.

  “I was so hoping that would work!” he said, smiling ear-to-ear. “Now watch this!”

  He reached into the sack and said, “Gianelli's axe.”

  He withdrew his hand, and sure enough, it grasped Gianelli's axe. There was no mistaking that notched and bloody instrument. He handed it to Shara, who took it despite her misgivings.

  D'Arbignal beamed, unable to contain his laughter.

  He reached into the sack again and said, “Gianelli's clothes!”

  Now he came out the Gianelli's shirt and breeches bunched in his fist. He handed those to Shara, too.

  “Now, observe,” he said. He parted the lace on both his sleeves. “Nothing up my sleeves, right?”

  He knelt and put the mouth of the bag by the ground. He reached in and said, “Gianelli.”

  He pulled from the opening Gianelli, who was completely naked save for his boots. Before Gianelli could react, D'Arbignal spun him face-down onto the ground and sat on his back.

  “I'm going to kill you!” Gianelli sputtered, wriggling in vain.

  “Yeah, yeah,” D'Arbignal said. Then to Shara, he said, “May I have that shirt, please?”

  D'Arbignal tied Gianelli's hands behind his back with his own shirt.

  “That's wonderful!” D'Arbignal said, admiring his handiwork. “And now the pants?”

  Chapter 38

  The phantom village had almost faded, but Gianelli's cursing had not. Hands and feet bound together behind his back, he writhed with murder in his eyes.

  Together, Shara and D'Arbignal had managed to save most of her sewing kit, though some of the items were missing, including her precious seam-ripper. Its loss broke her heart, but there was little she could do about it.

  The finely-made box that had contained the items was shattered beyond repair. She gazed at the fragments of the box the way she might the grave of an old friend. She laid out the wooden pieces in an orderly pattern onto the ground and bid a silent farewell. She would have to find another box at some point to serve in its place.

  Then a lovely idea occurred to her.

  Without ceremony, she dumped Perleanane's snuff from the golden gem-encrusted box, then wiped the insides clean with a scrap of Gianelli's shirt. She appraised the beautifully-constructed treasure and decided that yes, it would make for a lovely sewing kit.

  Now she and D'Arbignal were walking from the village, which was almost no more. Only the faintest outlines of the building remained, and even those could only been seen out of the corners of her eyes.

  “Will Gianelli be all right if we just leave him like that?” she asked, almost whispering for no good reason.

  “Probably not,” D'Arbignal said, smiling.

  She looked back at where they left Gianelli. He had ceased his cursing, but still fought to free himself from his binds.

  “It's not right to leave him to die.”

  D'Arbignal shrugged. “Occupational hazard. He shouldn't have tried to kill us.”

  “I know, but still …” She thought of Perleanane, that nasty, self-absorbed monstrosity, and shuddered. She didn't want to be a monster. She hated monsters.

  “But still,” she continued, “we're better than that. We are better than that, aren't we, D'Arbignal?”

  D'Arbignal gave a theatrical sigh. “Oh, no. You're going to make me do the right thing, aren't you?”

  She smiled.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Next town or patrol we reach, we can let them know where to find him. Fair enough?”

  Her smile fell. “Next town? You mean you aren't coming back to Cerendahl?”

  “You mean you are? What's so special about it? I presumed you'd travel a bit with me … if you wanted, that is.” D'Arbignal's face colored. “I mean, you're welcome to come along. You wouldn't be a bother. All you'd have to …”

  D'Arbignal's voice trailed off and his eyes focused at something ahead. She followed his gaze and at first saw nothing. Then the moon passed behind some clouds and she saw him.

  At the very end of the village, where it joined with the dilapidated road, there stood an ethereal figure, barely discernible in the night.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  D'Arbignal didn't speak for a moment, then he said: “It doesn't seem to be … I don't know, malicious. It just seems to be … well, waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  He held her gaze. “I think he's waiting for you.”

  D'Arbignal extended his arm in an after-you gesture.

  She cautiously approached the ghost, with D'Arbignal a few steps behind her. As she drew near, she made out the features of a man, possibly an elder, though she couldn't be sure.

  The ghost raised his hand to his forehead, then lowered it to his heart, and then extended it out towards her.

  Shara felt tears well up.

  “You're welcome,” she said. The ghost vanished.

  Chapter 39

  They stood at Hangman's Corner with dawn approaching. Cerendahl was so close that she heard the carpenter's hammering. So many days, that hammering had awakened her and she had fumed at being denied her rest. Now, that noise sounded like home.

  D'Arbignal wouldn't meet her gaze.

  “You're not coming back to Cerendahl, are you?” she said.

  He smiled kindly at her, and it seemed there was sadness in his eyes. “You're not going to travel with me, are you?”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder, and then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I can't,” she said. “I belong here. I'm not like you.”

  D'Arbignal's eyes registered hurt, so she was quick to clarify: “By that, I mean that I'm not larger-than-life like you. I'm just an ordinary woman. I'm a seamstress. And I belong in Cerendahl, which is my home.”

  An impish fire burned in D'Arbignal's eyes. He grabbed her hand, spun her toward him, then dipped her. He leaned forward and kissed her with such intensity and duration that her knees grew unsteady.

  Then, suddenly, the kiss was over and she was standing there by herself as D'Arbignal walked off toward whatever adventure lay ahead of him, whistling a jaunty tune as though the kiss had never happened.

  She realized that he had placed something in her hand as he kissed her. She opened it to see in her palm the enormous sapphire D'Arbignal had taken from Perleanane's treasure room. It sparkled a dazzling blue in the morning sun. It was astonishing how pure and beautiful that gem was, considering its size. It was like looking into the ocean.

  “You're wrong, by the way,” D'Arbignal shouted as he crested the hill. Their eyes met one last time. “You're completely wrong. You are an extraordinary woman, and you're the Seamstress Who Saved the World!”

  She raised her hand in farewell.

  “Goodbye, D'Arbignal,” she said.

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “No, Shara,” he said. “Until we meet again.”

  With that, he was gone and she was alone.

  Shara turned away from the hill behind which he had vanished, and she headed back to Cerendahl … where, it occurred to her, she'd likely never have trouble making rent again.

  Acknowledgements

  As always, I have to thank my long-suffering girlfriend Kate, upon whom I so heavily rely for her opinion of every darn chapter, as soon as I've finished typing it, now, darnit, now, I can't wait, what? dinner will burn? that's ok; I like my steak well-done anyway so will you read it, will you? She is and always will be my Intended Reader. In addition, her fascinating stories of the strange and bizarre people she's met often provide inspiration for character traits, events, or particularly poignant dialog.

  Then of
course, there's my mother, to whom this book is dedicated. She's always been proud of my writing even when I wasn't. She even read—and enjoyed, mind you!—Prince of Bryanae despite its terrible, dark violence. Her love of reading and thinking must have been contagious, because every time I'm at her house, I want to steal her books! She often is my intellectual and moral compass upon whom I rely so much.

  Next, I need to thank the holy trinity of authors Chris Boucher (Doctor Who, Blake's 7), R. A. Salvatore (the bestselling Drizzt Do'Urden series), and Steve Hamilton (the Alex McKnight series and The Lock Artist). Over the years, these three men have provided me with so much help and advice on the craft and business of writing that I dare not even think of what my writing would have been like without them!

  Then, as always, there were those people who helped critique, edit, and tweak this novella. A few names, such as Barb Caffrey and Becky Kyle leap instantly to mind, but there were many others and I hope that they don't mistake my terrible memory for a lack of gratitude for their help.

  Thanks are also due to Carol Phillips, whose wonderful cover art has brought my stories to life. I hope she'll do my next cover, and then my next one, and then my next one…

  But where would I be without all my readers, who so loved Prince of Bryanae that I had the confidence and the inspiration to write another book. In particular, I want to thank Dan Copeland, who lost his battle with cancer not too long ago. Dan, not only did you set a sterling example of bravery, selflessness, and bonhomie in the face of terrible odds, but all the while you were suffering, you kept encouraging my writing. I miss you so much!

  Along those lines, I have to thank Art Pugach and Matt Helms: two very enthusiastic readers whose faith in my work was both inspirational and motivational to me. Words can not adequately express my gratitude.

  I also want to give another shout-out to Ryk Spoor (Digital Knight) for those gaming sessions, so long ago now. His brilliant campaign provided the backdrop for D'Arbignal to first emerge as a character. He really is, as he proudly proclaims, a Geek God.