by J. M. Frey
Published by
Table of Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
About The Author
Connect with J.M.
Copyright
Ghosts Copyright 2016 by J.M. Frey. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by Ashley Ruggirello
Cover photo by Catiamadio
Edited by Kisa Whipkey
Book design by Ashley Ruggirello
Electronic ISBN: 978-1-942111-27-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locals is entirely coincidental.
REUTS Publications
www.REUTS.com
Also by J.M.
Novels
Triptych (Dragon Moon Press, 2011)
The Untold Tale (REUTS Publications, 2015)
The Forgotten Tale (REUTS Publications, Forthcoming 2016)
Novellas
(Back) (SilverThought Press, 2008)
The Dark Side of the Glass (Double Dragon Press, 2012)
Short Stories
“The Once and Now-ish King” inWhen the Hero Comes Home
(Dragon Moon Press, 2011)
“On His Birthday, Reginald Got“ inKlien
(FutureCon Publications, 2011)
“Maddening Science” inWhen the Villain Comes Home
(Dragon Moon Press, 2012)
The Dark Lord and the Seamstress
(CS Independent Publishing, 2014)
“The Twenty Seven Club” inExpiration Date
(EDGE Publishing, 2015)
“The Moral of the Story” inTesseracts 18: Wrestling With Gods
(EDGE Publishing, 2015)
“Zmeu”inGods, Memes, and Monsters (Stone Skin Press, 2015)
“How Fanfiction Made Me Gay” inThe Secret Loves of Geek Girls
(Bedside Press, 2015)
Anthologies
Hero Is a Four Letter Word (Short Fuse, 2013)
Academic
“Whose Doctor?” inDoctor Who In Time And Space
(McFarland Press, 2013)
Part One
The messenger hawk is only odd because it wears a band of Turn-russet around one leg. I’m more used to seeing Carvel-green, or, if Mum can scrape together enough to cover the expense of a hawk and the emergency is dire enough, Dom-amethyst.
It lands first on a branch close to Kintyre’s head, overhanging the stream where Kin is grumpily scrubbing our travel pots out with sand. As he always does, Kin ignores the ruddy thing. The hawk chirrups in disdain and hops down to the ground. It bobbles over to me like a grouchy pigeon, sidestepping the still smoking ashes of my morning cookfire. I was in the middle of packing away our leftovers, so I’ve got some jerky in my hand. I offer it up, and the hawk snips at it daintily, careful of my fingers. The beast is probably the politest of the three of us. Kin and I don’t work too hard on our table manners when we’re out-of-doors.
“Never know why you lot always go to Kin first,” I say, wiping jerky grease on my trousers and then shaking a finger at the hawk. “I’m the one that feeds ya.”
As a kind of answer, the hawk fluffs up in the sunlight, resettling its feathers after what has probably been a long flight. I’ve always liked how sleek the creatures are, how deadly, and at the same time, how much they look like a curious cuddle toy. The hawk lets me scritch along the crest between its eyes, crooning. I smooth back the small plume of white that marks this bird as a messenger, as one of the breed clever enough to recognize different human faces and follow simple verbal commands. Dead useful things, these birds.
Appeased, the hawk lifts its foot and I untie its burden. Covering a yawn—didn’t sleep so well last night—I wonder if there’s enough heat in the embers of our fire to kick it back up and boil another kettle of tea. It’s not like Kin and I have anywhere else to be, and the thought of a long, lazy morning fishing and napping is suddenly delicious. Yeah. Could do lots with a day of nothing.
I’m also missing the warmth of the last lassie we left behind, if I’m honest about it. And that of her father’s hayloft as well. But we’re one day’s walk from Estagonnish, and there’s no bloody inns between here and the next sprout of farms. Just sparse forest interspersed with wildflower meadows, and the curving sweep of a balls-cold stream.
Good for catching rabbit and eel. Bad for a good night’s rest. And after all the adventures we’ve been on—and enemies we’ve made—I’m not too keen on sleeping out in the open. Or, really, anywhere that’s lacking a roof and walls, a door that can be boobytrapped, and a window that makes noise when it’s broken. Sleeping out under the stars sounds heroic when I write that sort of drivel, but in reality, it fills me with wary paranoia. And it’s bloody chilly to boot. ‘Cause unless there’s a pair of tits between us, Kintyre’s not too keen on sharing body heat.
Shame, that.
Of course, this bone-weariness knifing through me doesn’t just stem from bad sleep. Not even really from our most recent quest, or from the bloody great sword-fight it took to vanquish the Dark Elf. No. It’s from the many, many houses filled with so many grieving people.
I am wrung out from comforting so many husbands and wives, parents, children, and lovers while returning the jars of eyes stolen and collected by the Elf. Their grief is like a greasy smear against my skin. I feel a hundred years old, pulled loose and weak by the weight of it.
Sadness always makes me absolutely bagged.
I yawn again and try to cover my mouth, then wince, juggling the hawk’s note into my off hand. Writer’s nutsack, that aches. In my morning haze, I forgot that I wrenched my wrist in the fight. I’m going to have to rewrap it soon. Or maybe I should go shove my arm into the stream for a bit, see if the cold won’t do some of its own magic on the swelling.
The bird, freed from duty, pops up onto a nearby branch and preens its wings. It’s trained to wait for a return message, if I want to send one. But more likely it’s waiting for more jerky. I could send it away, back to Turn Hall, with the hand gesture that means “go home.” It would go, empty-pouched and immediately, but . . . nah. Maybe, like me, the damned thing deserves a rest after its long task. Maybe it could use a lazy afternoon on the riverbank, too. I could feed it fish guts, if it wanted them.
Or maybe the hawk might appreciate a mug of reviving tea. That brings up the image of a hawk with its whole head jammed into one of our metal cups and I grin. Then I stand, wiping soot on the thighs of my leather trousers.
“Kin,” I chortle. “Post!”
“Who’s it from?” Kin asks, standing. He leaves the pots by the shore—hopefully somewhere where they won’t wash away again, or I’ll put my boot up his arse and make him go for a swim to fetch them back—and saunters his way back to the campsite, in no rush this fine morning. Kin squints at the hawk’s leg-band. That wrinkle appears between his eyebrows, the one that I still haven’t been able to describe correctly when I write about it. “Not actually Turn Hall?”
“Why not Turn Hall?”
“Most likely the Sheriff,” Kintyre says, dismissing my question and the assumption that it could be his younger brother all at the same time. “Sneaking Forssy’s things again.”
“You know, your brother is actually quite gen
erous,” I point out. “Never lets us leave Turn Hall without full ration packets and wineskins. ‘Course, he’d never admit it.”
“He’s a pretentious twat.”
“I won’t argue with that. I’m just saying he’s a generous pretentious twat. Pointe wouldn’t’ve had to sneak anything, is all I’m saying.” I hold out the message, but Kintyre folds his arms and glowers. His stupid rivalry with his brother now apparently includes him not even stooping to open his more-superior-than-thou brother’s letters. “Come on,” I cajole.
Kintyre’s only answer is a huff and rolled eyes.
“Fine,” I say, and untie the leather lace keeping the message rolled. “Huh. It really is him.”
“It is?”
“It is.”
Kin tries not to look interested, but I can tell that he is. He’s trying to peer over my shoulder out the side of his eyes. “What’s the book-mouse want?”
I suck air in between my teeth, unsure of how to say this without setting Kintyre off. I’m sure as the Writer’s calluses not going to actually read the message out loud. That’s just asking for an hour of pacing and ranting. “You, apparently. We’re being summoned.”
“He can’t summon me.” Kintyre bristles, and I barely manage to clamp down on my own eyeroll. “I’m the eldest.”
“But he’s the Lordling of Lysse,” I remind him. “And he summons us.”
Kin grumbles, but asks, “What for?” He leans over my shoulder, taking up all my space, like usual, and sucking all the air out of the world. He peers at the parchment, a tongue of corn-silk hair brushing against the skin just under my ear.
The shiver it causes is entirely involuntary, and I squeeze my eyes closed, and swallow hard.
Bastard. I try very hard not to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. If he knows.
Of course he doesn’t know.
When I’ve got myself composed again, I turn my face up to him and grin, ignoring the way his mouth is just right there and I could—auhg.
Bastard.
“An adventure,” I say, and the grin I force across my face has the perfect partner on Kintyre’s. Without even looking, Kin smugly waves the hawk back to Turn Hall, message-less.
✍
The way to Lysse leads us back through Miliway Chipping, and the road spears through the prairie lands that provide Hain with our staple grains. Farmers don’t mind travelers camping on the side of the road, but are understandably wary of grass fires. This means that in the breadbasket of Hain, no traveler is allowed to light a campfire. And that means no nighttime cooking, and no nighttime heat.
It’s still spring this far north, and the nights are still just this side of too chilly to sleep without a fire, or alone. I’m now really missing that last lassie, and I wonder blithely if it isn’t too late to backtrack to Estagonnish and invite her to Turn Hall with us. Of course, what to do with her when we get there is a problem that I don’t want to deal with. ‘Cause I sure as the Writer’s ink-stained fingers don’t want to marry that one.
Mum wouldn’t approve at all—the lass was all bosoms and no brains. Good for a while, but not good for a wife. And nobody I would trust to leave behind with the resulting sprogs while I go adventuring. She might set the thatch on fire if she tried to cook. Besides, I wouldn’t want to Pair up with someone I couldn’t take along on the road, anyway, so that excludes pretty much anyone at all.
Except . . .
Aw, ruddy bollocks. Now I’m back to thinking about how Kin and I will have to lay side by side in our bedrolls to stay warm. I scrub my eyes, trying to will the ridiculous domestic fantasy out of my head and pay attention to where I’m walking.
I must be getting old, like my brother Dargan teased the last time I was home. He said the older you get, the less willing you become to dither about things that are important. At first I laughed it off, but it’s been two months since I last stopped in Bynnebakker and his warning has been eating at me ever since. Prat.
My wrist throbs again, as if agreeing with Dargan’s bit of pithy wit. I’m getting old. I’m getting slow. I barely blocked that blow from the Dark Elf’s sword, and damn near broke my wrist for the trouble. I don’t have the protection of an enchanted blade, or the skills taught to a lord’s son, like Kintyre. I’ve just got forge-earned muscles, a good piece of Dwarf-crafted weaponry, and all the wily tricks that come with being the youngest of seven boys. And lately, they’re all starting to seem like not quite enough.
I suck on my lips for a moment, thoughtful. Maybe I was hasty in dismissing the idea of a wife. Sitting by the fire, playing with dogs and babies while someone cooks for me for once sounds like a kind of paradise right now.
If only it could include my best friend.
Ugh, and there is that damned domestic fantasy crap again. I need a distraction. Fine. I start cataloging what I can remember of our travel stores, and the result makes me groan loudly enough that Kintyre looks back over his shoulder and grunts, questioning.
“We’re gonna need to stop before we get to the grasslands.”
Kintyre grimaces. “Aw hells, cold rations. I forgot.”
“Yeah. For at least three days.” I kick at a stone in the path to keep from having to look up at his ridiculous face when I make the suggestion I’m about to make, knowing he isn’t going to like it. “We could rent horses? It would go faster.”
Kintyre grunts but otherwise doesn’t reply. Kin hasn’t been fond of horses since Stormbearer, the horse Kin’s father gave him, was slain in the Battle of the Serpent Prince. I hadn’t been all that attached to my own horse, a fussy old nag named Hey You who had also felt Stormbearer’s death keenly. I’d left Hey You with my older brother Vulej just a little over two years ago.
Vulej’s wee ones apparently love the wretch, and whenever I pick up post from my father’s forge, there’s always shaky pencil smudges on the edges that my sister-in-law assures me are drawings of Hey You giving the twins rides to the Hay Market. I keep them all in a well-oiled leather fold at the bottom of my pack. I have very little in this world aside from Kintyre and my family, so I try to keep both of them as close as possible.
It’s sentimental, sure, but a man’s gotta have something worth fighting for, something a little more tangible than reputation, and glory, and the fleeting bliss of a lassie’s charms.
“Right then, no horses.” I sigh, and keep marching. “Arse.”
It’s just past midday when we reach the first of the farms. Out flung houses surrounded by gleaming acreages of lively, growing green things always mean there’s a center of commerce and civilization nearby. If I remember correctly, this particular center had a goodly number of taverns and markets last time we were through.
And good company, too. Blonde, I think she was, but in truth they all sort of blur together in my memory. It’s really only Kin that stands out in my . . . recollections.
Mind clearly wandering the same paths as mine, Kin finally slows his damnable long-shanks striding and falls back to match pace with me. “Do you think we’ll meet someone in town? We’ve got time for it, right? You can find us one.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to stick my tongue out at him like one of my nephews. Or to flick a rude gesture at his back. Or to say: “Aren’t I enough for you?” Or sometimes: “If you do, don’t involve me. I want nothing to do with it anymore.” Or sometimes: “Enough, I’m done with you. I’m going home to work in my Da’s forge and forget you.” Or sometimes: “I love you.”
Writer’s bollocks, sometimes I want to say nothing. I want to just grab Kintyre’s ears, wrap my fingers behind the tender pink shells and pull him down for a soft, wet, sleepy kiss, full of all the dopey affection I can’t seem to rid myself of. Sometimes I want to get my calf in behind Kintyre’s knees, give a shove of my hips and sprawl the arrogant prick on his ass, get a fist into the laces of his trousers and slurp down his—
Bastard.
He doesn’t even understand all the ways he’s killing me. The ways I’m torturing
myself, because it’s ridiculous. We’re Paired, but not like that. And it will never be like that, and damn Dargan to all the hells of the Writer’s imagination for planting this stupid bloody seed of thought in my chest anyway. I’m going to kick my brother in the nutsack the next time I see him, and damn what his wife has to say about that.
“We’ve got time,” is all I let myself answer from between my clenched teeth.
I shove my hands in my pockets, annoyed by my own cowardice. “We’re not to be in Turnshire for a fortnight, and it will only take a few more days to reach Lysse.” I heroically don’t add that perhaps if this is the village with the blonde, we should move on immediately after resupplying. It’s entirely possible that either of us may be confronted with the harvest we sowed on our last trip through.
Kintyre doesn’t answer, as usual, so I let my mind wander down the path the thought of kids has begun to lay. I always thought there would be children in my life. I actually want to be a dad. Being an uncle is wonderful, even though I only see the little pests infrequently. I love the squirts, and it’s great to see how much they’ve grown, all that they’ve learned, the ways their personalities and preferences develop between each visit. The youngest of the horde seems to think that “poop” is the funniest damned word the Writer ever Wrote.
I want their chubby, sticky fingers locked around my neck, the sweet kisses, the cuddles, the little feet racing through the hallways shouting, “Da’s back! Da’s here!” There’s something more, something magic in the way they say that to their fathers, different to the way they shout “Uncle!” when I surprise one of my six brothers at home. Almost like “Da” is a Word, instead of just a word, and one that I want to mean me. I would like a home to go back to, I think. A place where it’s warm, and I can sit by the fire and and be adored by everyone around me because I adore them back.
