Frostgrave: Ghost Archipelago: Tales of the Lost Isles

by JOSEPH A. MCCULLOUGH

  Her party drew their weapons, far more awkward in stance and poise than those that approached with grim purpose.

  ‘Oata…’ muttered Marianne, drawing the dagger from the sheath at her hip. ‘Do something.’

  The Warden murmured her assent and broke away. As she did so, two of the opposing group set their weapons back in their scabbards and pulled free bows.

  A strange guttural shout emanated from Oata. She threw out her hands, heel of her palms touching, fingers splayed. The ground shook gently, the vibrations building. Stone and sand danced, raced in a zigzag towards the oncoming brigands. The Stone Warden’s bass growling continued, like the sound of a rockfall echoing from a distant cave. The ripple became a crack, which became a broadening ravine as Oata dragged her hands apart, teeth gritted, eyes scrunched with effort as though she physically pulled the gap wider.

  The slap of bowstrings was lost in the crash of breaking rock and thunder of the water. A moment later Oata staggered back, a more human cry wrenched from her lips. One shaft had missed, but the other jutted from her left arm, just above the elbow. Her incantation broken, the earth-tumult subsided, leaving the ground broken.

  A chill gloom swept the valley. Marianne looked up to see swiftly gathering storm clouds above. Only then did she see the figure hanging back from the others, a seventh man in bright clothes gesturing in exaggerated fashion at the sky. A Storm Warden.

  Gordwyn had seen enough and broke into a run, bellowing for his crew to follow. Their opponents countered, nimbly leaping over the scattered rocks and debris left from Oata’s spell to fall upon the crew with clashing blades. The ring of fighting seemed harsh and loud, accompanied by the panicked squawk of birds taking flight into the darkening air. Lightning flickered, its gleam reflected in the blades of the combatants below.

  Marianne’s faithful followers tried their best. Dmitry was a swift target, always moving, but though he parried and wove with studied practice, his opponent laid his blade repeatedly against the crewman’s own, forcing him back step by step. Gordwyn moved well for his bulk, roaring and shouting as he laid about with passion rather than skill. He shouldered a knife-wielding foe to the floor and stepped on the man’s leg, eliciting howls of agony as bones broke under the pressure of his considerable weight.

  Through the melee advanced the other party leader. He barely paid any attention to the hacking and ripostes around him, eyes fixed on Marianne.

  Despite their enthusiasm, her crew were no match for the professional warriors. One by one they were beaten down and disarmed, so that when all was done they knelt in a scattered group, blades at their throats, arrows from the two bowmen directed towards Marianne. She broke her gaze long enough to check on Oata. The Warden was sitting down, teeth bared in pain, but she nodded at the unspoken question in Marianne’s gaze. She’d live.

  ‘Give me the book, Marianne,’ snarled the bearded man, thrusting out his hand in demand.

  She looked at him, fear, revulsion and shame all vying in her gut to make her dizzy and sick. She met his glare with defiance.

  ‘It belongs to me, father.’

  * * *

  ‘Father?’ The big one’s incredulity almost made Amanuel laugh. He slid his sword – unused – back into the scabbard and turned a disparaging look on the motley assortment of outcasts his daughter had scraped into the semblance of a crew.

  ‘Yes, she’s my daughter, you artless, rump-fed bugbear. Who else do you think would chase your sorry little expedition across the sea and through these cursed jungles?’

  ‘Father…’ Marianne had tears in her eyes. She couldn’t look at him, her concerned gaze returning again and again to her companions.

  ‘Stop fretting, I’m not going to hurt anyone.’

  ‘Tell that to her,’ said Dmitry, jerking his head to where Oata was bandaging her arm with a strip torn from her clothes.

  ‘The fat one broke my leg!’ whined Flay in protest. He sat with his back to a rock clutching the damaged limb. ‘I want to cut him!’

  ‘Enough.’ Amanuel’s curt command silenced everybody. He twitched the fingers of his outstretched hand. ‘The book, Marianne.’

  ‘But we could do it together,’ she pleaded, eyes wide. ‘We can find the pool together. Grandfather would have l—’

  ‘My father wasted his life and the fortunes of my family chasing this nonsense. I’ll not see my kin homeless and bereft on this fancy. Give me the book.’

  ‘It’s worth more than whatever the duke is offering.’ She pointed up the river. ‘Look, that’s the bridge before the Caves of Gold. Just like the entry says. It’s true. Father, listen to me. My talent is never wrong. It’s all true.’

  His hand did not waver.

  ‘I will take the book and get back the money your grandfather squandered. If you want a home to return to, child, then you will come with me.’

  Reluctantly she pulled off her pack and brought forth the journal. She hesitantly offered it forward and Amanuel grabbed it from her grasp.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What now?’ she asked with quivering lip.

  ‘We go back home. If you want to sail with these rejects of the dock beer houses feel free, but I think you would be better off staying with me.’

  He signalled to Forsca, who nodded to his men to raise their weapons. Two of them moved to help Flay to his feet, pulling him up between them. Amanuel gestured for Forsca to approach and pulled ointment and proper bandages from the Captain’s waistbag. He tossed it to the ground in front of Marianne’s Stone Warden.

  ‘You’re the only one here worth a damn,’ he told her. ‘I can’t for the life of me think why you would accompany such a ragtag of uselessness.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ she sneered in return.

  Shrugging, Amanuel turned away, back to his daughter.

  ‘I’ll make camp further down the river and then we’ll move along the coast back to the ship,’ he told her, not looking back. ‘I suggest you join us by nightfall.’

  And, with that, Amanuel stuffed the old book into his belt and walked away.

  Twas axidente that Markus nocked the dark stone plinthe of the large idol in the central plazza. The surfiss crakd, becoming dust like plasster. In the lite of the brandes reflctd from the large bronz mirrores abuv, we saw a glint. Excitd, the cap’n took his pommell to the stone an sure enuff it flakd away. Benith we found gold.

  We set to explorin wit more viggor, testin every statue an even the walles. Sure enuff, as much was gold as was stone. Enuff for each manne presente to buy hisself a citie.

  An then it was that the cap’n came over kweer and tol us that if this was jus a one city, wot mite the hart of the iland hide.

  Tears streaming, Marianne watched her father and his cut-throats depart, heading down the river to the sea. She shook her head, unable to believe that the adventure had been ended even as it had begun.

  She looked at her companions and her tears became sobs at the sight of their incredulity and hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she started, but no more words came. She fell to her knees, vision misted with tears.

  Figures approached, she was not sure who in the dying light.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, sniffing loudly. ‘The book… Without the book I have nothing to offer you.’

  There was a short pause and then Dmitry crouched beside her, a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘We didn’t follow a book,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She stifled another sob and wiped her face.

  ‘Your father was right,’ said Oata, coming up behind the crewman, the bandage on her arm stained red. She gestured to Gordwyn and the others, pain causing her to wince before she continued. ‘Nobody else would hire a group like this. And no crew worth the salt in the water would have agreed to sail on a promise and prayer. We are the dregs of the waterfront. The flotsam of the surge to find these islands. Gordwyn will be lucky if his heart lasts until we get back. Dmitry can barely string a sentence t
ogether in his own tongue, never mind any others. If you think ‘Gabbri’ is actually a man behind that veil…’

  A feminine laugh betrayed the truth of this.

  ‘Solomon’s one drink away from a coma at any given moment. And everyone knows about your lotus addiction,’ rumbled Gordwyn, looking at Oata. ‘The stains on your tongue, the vague look first thing in the morning?’

  The Stone Warden looked as though she might dispute this. Her angry glare became an expression of shame and she looked away, nursing her wounded arm.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ confessed Marianne as Dmitry helped her to get up.

  ‘I never thought the book was real,’ said the deck hand.

  ‘I did,’ said Gordwyn with a smile. ‘But that isn’t the point.’

  ‘We followed you, Marianne,’ said Solomon, a rare declaration from the taciturn swordsman.

  ‘Don’t go back with your father,’ said Oata, turning around. ‘If you give up, then we all have to. I still dream that we might find the Crystal Pool.’

  ‘And if we don’t, it doesn’t matter,’ declared Gordwyn. ‘We came for the adventure, for the chance to be someone, to do something!’

  ‘This is…’ Marianne could not find the words. She smiled at each of them, wondering how she might have been so blessed in such desperate times. Then it occurred to her. Her Heritor-gifted intuition. She had been drawn to these people, not simply by chance but her own instinct.

  ‘Then let us carry on,’ she announced, straightening her clothes and pushing wisps of hair from her tear-streaked face.

  She strode with determination along the river path until they reached the bridge. She paused, shared a glance with the others at the seemingly timeless stone crossing, and then set over the span. When they reached the crest of the bridge, a grand gateway came into view, carved into the rock of the gorge wall. It looked like a totem pole of the natives, with two dozen square blocks set upon each other, each a different, bizarre face with bulging eyes, beaks, leering tongues, and other grotesque features.

  Steps, untouched by the many passing seasons, wound down from the bridge to the dark opening.

  ‘Copernichol was right,’ whispered Dmitry. ‘There is a city here.’

  ‘And gold?’ ventured Gordwyn. ‘Maybe the gold?’

  ‘More than that,’ said Oata. She gave Marianne a look, her meaning clear.

  ‘Yes. Copernichol Amontill made it all the way to the Crystal Pool.’ She turned and looked down the river, determination steeling her resolve, her heart fluttering with excitement rather than fright. ‘The journal isn’t fake. I don’t know how, but we are going to get my book back.’

  THE CLOCKWORK CHART

  BY

  M. HAROLD PAGE

  Ulrich awoke from dreams of drowning. His eyes opened on the darkness of his deck tent. Beyond the canvas, the waters of the Ghost Sea slapped the hull of his pinnace.

  Somebody shook his shoulder. Whiskers tickled his ear. A voice hissed in his ear, ‘Wake up, Heritor, you are being robbed!’

  The Heritor curse crackled through Ulrich’s skull. It drew little lightnings on his night vision, sent his body into motion. His arm snaked out, tangled a plump limb. He rolled and pulled.

  The intruder tumbled over him; a bundle of flapping streamers and feathers in the gloom of the canvas tent.

  A Storm Warden, then.

  Ulrich rolled further, ended on top, his knee in the stranger’s pudgy back. His left hand found a mane of dry scraggly hair and grabbed it. His right got his dagger – when had he drawn that? – at the other man’s soft throat.

  The Storm Warden chuckled. ‘No thief I, Heritor. I came to serve you. And my first service is to warn you that you are being robbed.’

  Ulrich strained his ears. His curse jolted his awareness into expanding.

  On the Torraga dockside, a man joked and a woman laughed falsely. A tavern rumbled with talk. Several drunks bawled out a sea shanty with lengthy pauses to recall the words. A barmaid whispered in a patron’s ear. A tapster broke wind. A cat stalked a rat. Fleas…

  Too much! His headache would be bad enough as it was.

  Ulrich furled in his perceptions, attuned himself to his pinnace, the Redeemer; the slap of water, yes, but also the creak of tarred ropes, the slight pitch and roll as a gentle swell ebbed and flowed through the harbour.

  Nearby, somebody snored. Further off, bare feet pattered over the planking. Metal scraped. Somebody was picking the lock of one of the chests stowed near the mast. Ulrich could guess which one.

  But how was it thieves moved around unchallenged?

  A cold hand clutched his heart. ‘My people!’

  ‘Asleep,’ hissed the Storm Warden. ‘Ensorcelled. Get off me and I shall dispel the magic.’

  But Ulrich was already sheathing his dagger and rising, hands lightly clutching Guiltbringer.

  He shuddered. He had no memory of scooping up the long-bladed greatsword from where it lay by his side. Once again, his curse had reduced him to a mere puppet. How dare the intruders do this to him!

  ‘Heritor, wait!’ hissed the Storm Warden. ‘The odds! It won’t be a fair fight.’

  ‘Since the ethics concern you, I’ll challenge them first,’ said Ulrich. He pushed out of his tent and crouched by the wheel.

  The full moon painted the pinnace’s deck in ghostly colours. The thieves hunkered by the mast, shadowy figures fumbling with the sea chests. They had a little rowing boat tied up amidships.

  Ulrich’s limbs twitched. His curse wanted him to plunge in among the intruders. Instead, he checked on his crew.

  The six men and women lay beyond the mast on the foredeck where they had bedded down, all except portly Ayesha, the sailing mistress. She should have been on watch, but instead she sat slumped against the rail, snoring, her club on the deck by her side.

  Ulrich exhaled. Just as the Storm Warden had said, they really were safe… for now. He stalked forward, untied the thieves’ rowing boat and cast it off.

  The thieves didn’t seem to notice. Lock-picks clicked and scraped. Hinges creaked.

  The pinnace’s sail was furled out of the way, so Ulrich raised Guiltbringer above his head – a nice, intimidating guard that would let him strike to right and left – and stepped out from behind the slender mast.

  He could.

  He could just cut them down.

  But that was what the curse wanted.

  ‘Get off my ship, scum!’ he growled.

  The thieves whirled, drew weapons: nasty long knives, a length of chain. A chest gaped open. Already, a thief was stuffing the Pilgrim Banner into his coat.

  Moving like a dancer, Ulrich glided closer. ‘Give me back my banner,’ he said. ‘Last warning.’

  The chain wielder whirled his weapon so that the links made a whirring hornet sound. ‘Get out of the way, northman. There are six of us and one of you.’

  Ulrich cocked his greatsword just a little bit higher.

  ‘Hah,’ said the chain wielder. ‘You won’t have room for fancy footwork here. Be reasonable—’

  Guiltbringer split his skull as far as his teeth. The corpse slammed to the deck.

  Two thieves sprang, tried to get Ulrich from left and right before he could pull back for a second strike. Professionals!

  He pivoted back, brought the point around, plunged it into the leftmost man’s chest. The blade sheared bone, found softer tissue.

  The other man tried to slash his face.

  Ulrich blocked against the unarmoured wrist. He flicked the sword up and over, cutting around the limb.

  The man screamed, sprayed blood.

  Ulrich sprang in amongst the survivors.

  One threw himself overboard.

  Ulrich’s blade whirled into the other two: left, right, right, left, down…

  Bits of corpse rained on the deck.

  Ulrich’s gorge rose. His limbs shook. A vice seemed to clamp around his temples. He lowered Guiltbringer until the blade trailed against t
he blood-spattered deck.

  ‘Fine swordsmanship!’ exclaimed the Storm Warden.

  ‘Don’t praise him!’ cried Ayesha, now on her feet.

  The sword clanged to the deck. The blade sang as if satisfied by its feast.

  The crew struggled out of their bedding.

  The Storm Warden stood in their midst, a shaggy little ball of feathers and streamers.

  ‘No, Storm Warden,’ said Ulrich, ‘it was my curse doing the fighting. I take no joy of it.’ He cocked his head at his crew. ‘Hurry. Before the sun rises and the good citizens of Torraga notice the mess.’

  Ayesha sent a couple of deckhands scurrying for buckets and mops. She eyed the intruder suspiciously.

  ‘I am Stochastus,’ said the Storm Warden, with a half bow to Ulrich and a polite nod to Ayesha, his sailing mistress.

  ‘Check the banner,’ ordered Ulrich. He beckoned and led the Storm Warden off to the stern so they were not overheard. ‘I am grateful for the warning, sir, but why?’

  ‘A kestrel whispered to me that you are my Eye of the Storm.’

  ‘What? Me?’ Ulrich let out a bark of laughter that hurt his head. He massaged his temples, realised his hands were sticky with other men’s blood. ‘When I am done with my quest, there will be no more Heritors, no more “eyes of the storm”. Is that what you want, Stochastus?’

  Stochastus grinned. The skin around his eyes crinkled into fleshy folds. ‘I can only trust the kestrel and serve you.’

  ‘You may trust a random bird, but I do not trust random strangers,’ said Ulrich.

  ‘Ulrich!’ said Ayesha, hurrying up. ‘The Pilgrim Banner is gone. Perhaps it’s for the best.’

  Ulrich smiled sadly. His sailing mistress had known him since he was a child. She must suspect that the price of concluding his quest would be his own death.

  After the… the incident, Ulrich had thrown himself into discovering everything he could about his curse. He had unearthed his ancestor’s journal in a cobwebbed attic. The legend really was true: She, along with a few score other explorers, had gained her murderous powers by drinking from the Crystal Pool during an ill-fated expedition to the Ghost Archipelago. Two hundred years later, and her blood-borne curse had surfaced in Ulrich.