Frostgrave: Ghost Archipelago: Tales of the Lost Isles

by JOSEPH A. MCCULLOUGH

  Kassandra was on her feet now. She skirted the edge of the chamber, staying to the shadows. She had no weapon, she was no threat. She stayed out of sight, looking to the glowing runes that surrounded the burial mound in the centre of the chamber. Biding her time.

  ‘Kassandra! Is this your doing?’ Vance shouted.

  Perhaps her time was almost up. The skeletons were almost spent. The magic that had animated them was little match for Vance’s powers. She cursed, that all of this could have been in vain. That Vance might yet take her birth-right from her.

  A-hoot-twoo!

  That sound was unmistakeable: the call of a great white owl. It was the creature from which Kassandra had taken her moniker. Now, taking heart from the call of the owl, Kassandra raced toward the central circle, towards the chest.

  The last skeleton fell before Vance’s blade. His aura flickered as his power waned. His face showed the exertion of maintaining his great strength for so long. Vance moved to intercept Kassandra before the bones had hit the cavern floor. He was fast as a panther, reaching the chest at the same time as her. But both of them were stopped in their tracks.

  Before them, a glowing vapour rose from the bones of Black Jacques. It enveloped them, impossibly bright. Kassandra blinked away her moon-sight, and could still see the manifestation before her, terrible and powerful. Vance saw it too, for his eyes widened in surprise – and fear. He struggled, but something had both of them in a mighty grip. The mist coalesced into an ethereal form. A man, bearded and tall, dark hair surrounded a ghastly face, skull visible beneath glowing flesh.

  Black Jacques Dupont.

  ‘Who disturbs my rest?’ the spirit hissed. ‘Do you not know that vengeance keeps me here? Vengeance drives me. Vengeance shall take you!’

  Vance tried to struggle, but even at the height of his strength he would be little match for such unnatural forces.

  ‘I… am… a Dupont,’ Kassandra croaked, as spectral fingers wrapped around her throat, and the life was choked from her.

  ‘Who you were in life matters not. Only know that you shall serve me in death…’ the wraith said, voice like a creaking door.

  She was not as strong as Vance. She would die first. Unless…

  A-hoot-twoo!

  Kassandra turned her eyes upwards. The shadow of the owl passed close overhead. Its eyes flashed red, just for a moment. Kassandra reached out, held her hand open, and felt something drop into it – something cold and metallic. The owl circled away, up to the open sky.

  Kassandra held up the ring – the ring that Konrad had taken. Black Jacques let out a mournful sigh at its presence, and released her. She fell away, coughing, rubbing at her throat. Kassandra gathered herself quickly, staggering to her feet, holding out the ring.

  ‘I am Kassandra Dupont,’ she said. ‘And I come to release you from your curse, and claim what is mine by birth-right.’

  ‘Give it… to me…’ the wraith whispered.

  ‘Wait!’ she said. ‘Promise me safe passage from here.’

  ‘Done. Give it to me…’

  ‘Very well. Although before you go to your final rest, know this: the man you have in your grasp there is an Autrus.’

  ‘What?’ Vance croaked.

  ‘Autrus? Yesss…’ Black Jacques looked upon the man whose throat he held, and let out such a wicked laugh that a chill ran through Kassandra’s bones. At a wave of the Wraith’s hand, the surface of the black pool bubbled, softly at first, and then violently. Black shapes, indistinct, little more than shadows crawled jerkily from the pool. They scratched and clambered their way up the mound, until they reached Vance’s feet. Only then did Black Jacques release Vance, throwing him to the dark shadows, which clawed and grasped at him, dragging him out of the circle, to the slimy bank of the crescent pool.

  Jacques turned once more to Kassandra. She held out the ring, and he took it in an ethereal hand. It floated before him for a second, and then vanished into glowing motes of dust. With it, Jacques himself began to fade.

  ‘Take what is yours, Kassandra Dupont, and go…’ he sighed. And with that, Black Jacques faded away, forever.

  Kassandra stooped to the chest, and opened it. A light radiated from within – bright as the full moon. She delved inside, and withdrew a sextant, carved from moonstone. An heirloom of long-forgotten power. Forgotten by all but the Dupont family. With the moonstone sextant, and the gift of moon-sight, it was said that Black Jacques could always find his way back to the Crystal Pool whence he gained his uncanny powers. And now Kassandra Dupont would put that claim to the test.

  ‘Help… me… my love,’ Vance croaked. He still resisted the pull of the shadows. He was half in the water now, scrabbling at the bank for some purchase that eluded him.

  ‘I am sorry, betrothed, but I am afraid our engagement is off. If only you could see the things I could see now.’

  ‘What…? But the Blood Burn…’ Vance said.

  ‘Oh, I am afraid I rather feigned the effects of Blood Burn. I have not been using my gifts since we entered this cave,’ Kassandra said, keeping her distance as Vance flailed first angrily, then impotently. ‘My powers are much diminished without the light of the moon. In here, however…’

  ‘H… how… did you…?’ Vance struggled against his shadowy enemy, his strength at last failing him.

  ‘How did I get this far? Because Black Jacques showed me the way, of course. Silly Vance – as soon as we reached the Mermaid-tail Falls, hidden messages were revealed to me on the map, showing me the way through the caves, and warning me of danger. I memorised it, so I would not have to court Blood Burn by helping you. I lured you into danger so that you would do exactly that. I see your powers wane. Your aura is flickering.’

  Vance shouted with anger, and then gasped with pain. His body was wracked by the Blood Burn, the fight was almost gone from him. He could surely feel the cold hands of the wraiths upon him, dragging him backwards, but he could not see them as Kassandra could. Warriors of old, cadaverous, their translucent flesh sloughing from their aged bones. Their armour shone silver, their eyes burned baleful red, burning with demonic fire. Kassandra’s blood ran cold at the very sight of them, but she took heart from the knowledge that they had not come for her. Black Jacques himself forbade it.

  ‘Ah, poor Vance, you never bothered to learn of my family history. But why would you? Nothing concerns you except yourself. You see, Jacques Dupont came here long ago in search of treasure, but he found only death. He was murdered by his own crew, betrayed by his so-called friend for his share of the treasure, and the legendary Moonstone Sextant. Only his Warden was loyal, and she attempted to save Jacques’ life with her spells, but succeeded only in binding a fragment of Jacques’ soul into his signet ring. Jacques and the Warden were murdered.

  ‘The traitor was the only man to escape the dark spirits of these caves. He fled before he could take the sextant, but managed to relieve Jacques of his other treasures, including the ring. He returned home, and led a haunted life, pursued by the curse. Though he was a Heritor, and attracted fortune and fame, he was never at peace. When death came for him, he confessed what he had done, and gave up this ring, which found its way back into the hands of the Dupont family, where it belonged. We have waited a long time to set Jacques’ spirit free, and reclaim what is ours.’

  Kassandra held aloft the sextant, which shimmered in the shaft of moonlight from the cavern roof.

  ‘As for the traitor… do you know who he was?’ Kassandra went on. Vance looked up at her, croaking something unintelligible, the life almost gone from his eyes. ‘His name was Glarus Autrus. Your great, great, great grandfather, I believe. He was stronger even than you, and yet the wraiths of the Kraken Caves almost claimed his life. That is how I knew you could not survive this place, Vance. It is why I lured you here. On behalf of my ancestors, I accept your apology, Vance Autrus. Take heart – with your death, the stain upon your family’s honour is wiped clean.’

  Vance reached up with the la
st of his strength, as bony fingers dragged him into the black water. ‘K… Kass…’ he managed, and then he was gone.

  ‘Goodbye, love,’ Kassandra whispered.

  She held up the sextant once more, and it spun, light radiating from it. One day, perhaps, it would lead her to the Crystal Pool. For now, she needed it only to show her the way home.

  * * *

  Kor’Thiel’s owl swept overhead, signalling Kassandra’s return with a hoot, before the crew had even seen her approach.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ she called.

  The men of the camp stood, and a great cheer went up. ‘The Owl! The Owl has returned victorious!’

  Kymba was first to greet her, with a bear-hug that lifted Kassandra from her feet. Kor’Thiel bowed, in his usual way, though Kassandra fancied there was the ghost of a smile upon his lips. The others came in turn, with platitudes for their returning captain. And last of all came Konrad, with the broadest grin.

  ‘You played your part magnificently,’ Kassandra said.

  ‘I had a good teacher,’ Konrad replied. ‘Mind you, I was a little too convincing. Kymba here almost pulled my arms off before I could explain the plan. I think I’ll leave the acting to the mummers in future.’

  ‘And the Nightmaiden?’ Kassandra asked with a laugh.

  ‘Anchored off the cove there, and ready to set sail, Captain.’

  Kassandra took out the sextant, and let it glow in the moonlight. The men gasped in awe. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Kassandra said. ‘Fortune and glory await.’

  THE JOURNAL

  BY

  GAV THORPE

  There was a moment – just a moment – when the poisoned darts were whistling past her ear, when the wet leaves slapped her face, when the tangle of roots and sucking mud threatened to trip her, when Marianne Amontill wished she had stayed at home.

  The instant of regret, the thought of slinking back to her family begging for them to take her back, set a fire of indignity raging in her chest.

  ‘Keep running!’ she shrieked to her companions, ducking beneath a branch as she continued headlong down the winding game track.

  Alongside her pounded Gordwyn van der Klyde, curly hair lathered sweatily across his red face, paunch bulging like a sail in a full gale.

  ‘Thanks… For… The… Advice…’ the First Mate panted with a scowl. ‘I… hadn’t…’

  ‘Save ya breath, foe of many pies,’ laughed Oata. Her scarlet headscarf and shirt was bright against dark skin, amber pendants and bronze torqs flashed fitfully in the shafts of sun that broke the canopy. Her brow, nose and ears were pierced with small copper bands studded with flint, opal and malachite. The Stone Warden covered the ground with light strides, barely a drop of perspiration on her. She ran with her flint-topped staff strapped across her back, obsidian-edged daggers in hand, eyes scanning the close-growing trees to either side despite her apparent humour.

  The three remaining members of Marianne’s crew were Gabbri Sala Amaal, sprinting perfectly well despite his traditional dishdasha and veil; Solomon ‘the Serpent’, his face creased and heavily scarred as evidence of a life spent in the rougher parts of the world and a red-veined nose to indicate much of it passed in the company of a bottle; and Dmitry Freyger, a wiry, pale-skinned deckhand and sometime cook and scribe, whose claim to be fluent in fifteen languages had seemed impressive until it transpired none of them were spoken in the Ghost Archipelago.

  ‘We need to find another boundary marker,’ declared Gabbri, who was close on the heel of van der Klyde, almost tripping over the lumbering sailor’s feet. ‘We’ll be off their territory.’

  He referred to the waist-high totem poles adorned with skulls and feather fetishes they had blithely ignored earlier. They still had no clue what they signified, nor to whom, for their assailants, from the moment of the first rustle of leaves and whistle of dart in the air, had shown nothing of themselves but for fleeting diminutive shadows and movement in the undergrowth.

  Ahead, the path split.

  Marianne made a quick decision, drawing again on that part of her that remained of Copernichol’s legacy, the part of her that marked her as one of the Heritors. She felt the faintest of sensations through her body, a warmth that was not entirely pleasant. Instinct flashed, bringing formless insight. This was her gift, an intuition beyond reason, the ability to know something before understanding it.

  ‘High ground,’ snapped Marianne, flicking a hand towards the left fork, to the volcanic peak that could be seen through the trees.

  ‘Why?’ asked the Serpent.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ confessed Marianne, taking her own advice as she plunged down the new track, silk scarf and long black hair catching on low-hanging branches. ‘I think it’s supposed to give us an advantage.’

  Her foot caught a root – or perhaps the root snared her foot; nobody that had visited the Ghost Archipelago would be willing to rule out such a thing.

  As Marianne fell, her heavy bag came off her shoulder, dropping some of its contents onto the mud and sodden leaves. A small book flapped out, two dozen parchment pages thick at most, and no broader than her palm.

  On her knees, she snatched it up and protectively wiped grime from its stained and dog-eared cover. For a moment, she stared at the poorly scrawled script written in faded black ink.

  The Journnal of Copernichol Amontill.

  Fore days after cumming upon the fog bank we thort ourselves completely turnd around. Then Master Blackwicke spyd the orb of the sunne thru the haze an we toke barings an the Captain lookd at hs charts. West, he told us an west we sailed, an mark me words by the following noone we was clear of the fog and sailing prettie.

  On the nor-east horizonne we spyd the tip of a fire mountin. Twas reathed in myst and smok, an the seas were a tummult aboute the coste. The cap’n charted afresh an we bore north directly, but the wind backed an we were pushed unto the shore anyways.

  We camme upon a cove, golden sand an green trees, gently shoalin into the waters. A perfect harborre, to make repairs after the storm.

  ‘Work harder, you slack dogs,’ bellowed Forsca, his knotted rope swinging threateningly in his ham-sized fist. ‘The lord ain’t payin’ us to loiter!’

  The four other crewmen of the Desperado bent their backs to the labouring, bringing ropes and netting, sacks of dried food and water canteens down from the ship beached in the sandy cove. From the shade of the trees, Amanuel watched his hired team working, while his Storm Warden, Herrick de Gras, paced a short patrol a little further into the treeline, muttering to himself.

  The former was a man in late middle age, with a neatly trimmed beard, curled moustaches and greying black hair slicked back with fragrant oil. His broad-brimmed hat sat on the sand by his booted feet. Over simple travelling clothes he wore a breastplate of iron sculpted with the design of his family’s crest – a drake’s head in profile, upon a stylised sun. A longsword lay in its scabbard across his lap, its unblemished leather hilt testament to lack of use, the curlicue design of its sheath more likely found in a family gallery than a bloody battlefield.

  The latter was a short, young man, sturdy of build, with shaven scalp save for a single slender braid that hung to his waist. The Warden’s face was inked with dots of red and orange and black, forming swirls of pattern on cheeks and chin. His outfit was a riot of clashing colours, the elbows and cuffs of his green-and-red-checkered leather jacket were adorned with multi-coloured streamers, his leggings beneath the full spectrum of a rainbow. At his waist hung a hand axe, its naked blade inscribed with crossed thunderbolts.

  ‘Anything?’ the party master asked, angrily swatting at flies as big as his thumb.

  Herrick ceased his pacing and cocked his head, appearing a little like an inquisitive parrot.

  ‘Oh yes, my lord. The wind remembers them well. They are to the north, less than half a day ahead of us.’

  ‘Good. The favourable winds that sped us on their tail were worth alone the coin your services have cost me.’


  ‘And I hope to be of continued service for the remainder of the expedition.’ Herrick grinned, revealing a gappy smile and a tongue pierced with a small ruby stud. ‘All the way to the Crystal Pool, yes?’

  ‘No,’ growled Amanuel. ‘I just want my book back. The Heritor’s quest is a fool’s errand, and if there is a fool greater than Duke Shausa I would be surprised, but his money is as good as any else’s.’

  ‘What if the journal is not fake?’ suggested the Warden, turning his gaze back to the dense forest. Something screeched in the distance. ‘What if Copernichol really did reach the fabled grounds?’

  ‘Copernichol reached that pool, that’s for certain. But if that book is several centuries old than I am too. It’s goods for sale, nothing else.’

  They were interrupted by a call from Forsca. His men had finished their unloading and now approached up the shore. To a man they were clad in black leather armour, bearing short bows, swords and several daggers also. Cut-throats, to be certain, but professional too. The kind of men Amanuel did not like, but also exactly the kind of men he needed at that moment.

  He stood up, tied his father’s sword on his belt and signalled for Herrick to lead the way.

  * * *

  The incline grew steeper and the track widened, bringing them under the unrelenting glare of the afternoon sun. Gordwyn was the colour of beetroot, his breaths coming in such stilted, wracking gasps that Marianne could see he would never make it to the top of the hill, never mind any higher up the mountain slope.

  She slowed to a walk and then stopped, nursing her aching thighs.

  ‘I think we’ve lost them,’ she said, warily eyeing the trees just half a bowshot away. It was certainly true that it had been a short while since any missiles had come at them from the cover of the foliage. She turned her attention further up the slope, where the trees relinquished even more of their hold on the island, becoming scattered copses against the dark stone of the volcano. The gleam of fire and continuing belch of smoke unnerved her, though they had not felt a ground tremor for over a day now.