by N Felts
center of the room and wielding his instrument of conducting like a fragile weapon. “And yet, it is true.” He breathes, eyeing the souls within the lantern, partially concealed by the man’s heavy coat. With that, the specter grows more cordial, slowly descending to eye-level, and studying his guest thoroughly. “What has drawn such an improbable conclusion to our race here?”
“A boy in green passed through here,” Geist states plainly, preferring not to waste time. “I ask if you know his business in these forbidden lands.”
“He is of no concern to you, reaver,” the ghost growls, his composure balanced on a pin head. “He does not fear the dead, rather, he seems to see all forms of consciousness for what they are. If intentions are what you desire, he aims to save the spirits cursed to roam these lands forever. Not imprison them,” he concludes, maintaining his distance as he stares intently at the swirling essences within the lantern.
“You would allow him closer to the tower?” The reaver asks, breathless. The red-hued ghoul offers no response as he scowls at the ghost hunter. “I’m not your enemy. We shared the blood of our proud race once. Blood spilled until none remained. Centuries in this purgatory and you’ve learned nothing!” The magi begins to rant, growing increasingly angry himself. “Your king and his ilk were not the only ones who suffered. Better men than you or I paid dearly for mistakes they had no say in.”
“You are correct,” the spirit sighs, reluctant to communicate his torment, even to the final remnant of his culture. “My brother was one of them,” he expresses, turning away from the mortal as he gathers his thoughts. “When the tower was opened, and the plague brought down upon us, I could not stand idle while that fool of a king conspired against us all. However, I could not risk involving anyone close to him,” he pauses, chuckling for a moment. “The enemy of one’s enemy can prove a valuable asset in times such as those, but I fear I was a fool myself. My dear brother learned of my meeting with the Garo, and had I not locked him away in secret, the assassination could not have moved forward.” Shocked by the revelation, Geist listens even more intently as his clenched fists fall open at his sides. “I would have freed him afterward of course, but there was no such opportunity. The plot failed, and I was outed as a conspirator, forced to flee the castle on that fateful night,” he painfully recounts, staring at an inconspicuous spot on the far wall of the cavern. “It was there. A member of the Garo Robe promised to spirit me to safety, but his true intent was to silence me, quite permanently. I did not weep for my life that night, but for that of my brother, doomed to wait for a freedom I could no longer offer.”
“That’s terrible,” Geist must admit, trapped in the awkward silence that ensues.
“I do not wish to be saved, but there are some who deserve a chance to repent. Even that bastard who still wears the crown,” he concludes, fading away peacefully. Temporarily reeling from the tale, the reaver decides it puts a great number of things into perspective, and more importantly, it makes the path ahead utterly clear.
“Some may deserve a chance,” he agrees, his eyes as distant as the passing clouds as repressed memories of that fateful night swirl into his mind. His hand tightly gripping the lid of his lantern, he finishes the thought seconds later. “But not him.” With that, the Ikanian bolts out of the cave, ignoring the castle to the east, as the chambers and passages beneath the well only lead to one place. Stopping the enigmatically resourceful fairy boy ceases to be his purpose as he sets his sights on the barely recognizable creature ahead, its long tongue serving as a path up to its doorway of a mouth. Charging up the decayed slope leading into the Stone Tower, he intends to track down the demon spawn who took so much from him. The one who, even now, he scolds himself for failing to confront sooner. Now inside the crumbling tower of his people’s lament, the magi cannot believe his eyes when he spots the boy in green, nimbly leaping across deathly gaps high overhead. The gargantuan cylinder of ancient construction bears no pathways traversable by any practical manner, instead proving exceptionally resistant to anyone intent on scaling its interior. Not wasting an instant, the reaver springs into the air, a powerful torrent of wind sending him soaring past the many stories of the convoluted tower until he lands on the last floor without incident. Even so, the boy in green dashes through a large door in the distance, a pair of long, yellow ears bouncing atop his head as he moves out of sight.
“It defies all logic,” the Ikanian protests for none to hear. “What manner of magic allows him to proceed so quickly?” Crossing the few remaining sections of bridge in a short series of leaps, he too enters the Stone Tower Temple in a desperate race to an uncertain destination. The temple itself is a testament to irrationality, the common laws of the world the reaver lives in left at the door in this sacrilegious sanctuary. Cautiously proceeding across a narrow bridge of curved rock, he notes the clear, blue sky both above and below him, this prehistoric relic defying the goddesses of creation in every way it is able. Only able to traverse a few difficult-to-reach doors, the magi finds himself at a loss for words when the entire temple rotates one hundred eighty degrees, the ceiling becoming the floor and vice versa. Robbed of his bearings absolutely, he reestablishes himself on solid ground easily enough, and continues to frantically search, caring little for comprehension, but wholly focused on reaching whatever chamber his mortal enemy resides within. The enormous ruin rotates several more times before he once again catches a distant glimpse of the boy, charging across an enclosed walkway with his sword and shield in hand. Horrified by the thought of the child somehow knowing where the demon resides, he has no choice but to resume chasing in the boy’s wake.
Circling around to the very passage the child crossed, the Ikanian’s fears are realized when he hears evil laughter beyond the door ahead, quickly followed by clashing metal. Predictably, the door will not budge, the Garo notoriously preferring a one-on-one battle whenever they can manage. Out of options, the reaver touches his palm to the door, closing his eyes and concentrating intently. Reluctantly, a temporal window of volatile shape spreads from the center of the iron obstruction. Sudden waves of light burst from within between the sounds of blades cutting through the air, and the screeches of dozens of swarming bats. To his dismay, the conjured aperture reveals an invulnerable magic barrier, but even so, the events transpiring inside are not at all what the magi expected.
Gomess, the keeper of souls, narrowly avoids whirling sword strikes, breathing raggedly as he drifts through the room, surrounded by a paltry number of bats. Time has not been kind to the mutant subrosian, the essences he devoured failing to maintain his power once the kingdom was finally depleted of life. The glowing orb within the fiend’s stomach, revealed by Geist’s attack so many decades ago, no longer radiates with energy, instead glowing a depressing shade of green behind the curtain of keese. A telegraphed attack misses badly, the scythe-wielding demon twirling his weapon as he charges past the nimble young warrior. The boy in green sheathes his sword while returning his shield handle to its holster upon his back, drawing both his bow and a single arrow in a fluid motion, rivaling the most seasoned of archers in speed and technique. A magnificent halo of light eclipses the iron spade at the tip of the wooden projectile, the entire room glowing brilliantly just before the drawstring is released. Without a heartbeat to react, Gomess reels from the impact of the holy bullet, bellowing in pain as the tenacious warrior dashes in for the kill, his sword hand skillfully twirling the blade overhead as he leaps courageously forward. Unable to stand the pulse of light, the bats are scattered in every direction within the expanding ring of divine energy, and in his foe’s most vulnerable moment, the boy cleaves the orb of souls from the creature’s form.
Geist cannot believe his eyes as the sphere shatters against the stone floor, an untold amount of restrained energy exploding forth in a whirlwind of freed spirits. Disintegrating within the torrent, Gomess cries his final, pathetic scream, his scythe torn from his grasp as he slowly vanishe
s along with his loyal bats. Apathetic to the fate of the monster he has vanquished, the child throws open a chest concealed within a small alcove at the rear of the room. Satisfied with whatever it contained, he flings open the lone door of the arena, dashing past the magi concealed behind a conjured mirror. Too shocked to move for several minutes, the lone spectator of the battle finally makes his way into the now-unlocked arena, still able to sense the liberated souls gleefully finding their way to the afterlife. His emotions overwhelming his thought process, the Ikanian stares in disbelief, tears welling up in his eyes as he falls to a seated position, watching the spirits depart.
He takes his time journeying back to the valley, the few remnants of his civilization a depressing reminder of who he was, and what he has become. Having avoided returning here at all cost for longer than he can remember, his cowardice has become painfully clear watching a mere boy display more courage than he has ever witnessed in such a small span of time. The stream continues to flow, turning the waterwheel of the musical house,
