The Ghost Child Read online

  The Ghost Child

  A Carnage Novelette

  By Simeon Stoychev

  Copyright 2011

  Marise

  He had been riding for days, following the rumors, the sun never brighter than a pale blue moon in the clouds. Word traveled fast in these parts, even in winter. By some coincidence, Marise was in the north when the story found him, and now he followed the endless riverbank upstream.

  He stopped at snowy villages one by one and never rested more than a few hours, until the fifth day, when he reached the town of Serabi. He offered the stable boy a silver coin to see that his palfrey would be fed and ready for tomorrow.

  A wall of sharpened tree trunks formed the town's perimeter, and here and there a watchtower where a man could sit and drink hot cider on the watches of the night.

  Marise walked from the stables up the only street and pushed open the door of the pub. A little bell rang, and he politely stomped the snow off his boots.

  Several people sat at the bar, but only one or two of the tables were occupied. It was not a busy settlement, just outside the southern trade routes, and they were mostly hunters and ice-fishermen who would stop in town to pick up supplies. They turned and stared at him. Marise wore a hooded white cloak, and he left wet footfalls as he entered. The attention he attracted was, oddly enough, exactly what he wanted. He leaned onto the bar between two men who glanced at him from either side.

  "Apple cider, hot if you have it," said Marise to the barman, who was busy wiping a clay goblet with a towel. Steaming scent and the scoop of a ladle, then a filled cup slid along the counter.

  The men in the pub supposed that just because he was hooded he could not tell that they were staring. But he wanted their attention, would need to get them excited enough to talk.

  He thanked the barman and drained most of the spicy alcohol in one go. Hot apple tartness burned his throat, filled his empty stomach.

  "This is good cider," said Marise. "They don't make it like this in Atlantis."

  He heard chairs scrape and footfalls. The tables emptied and the bar instantly became more crowded. He smiled under his hood while goggling faces edged to get a closer look.

  "You been to Atlantis, good sir?" asked one, and, "Aye, where ya from, lad?" said another, while the barman made noncommittal grunts and tried to appear bored, though his pretense failed miserably.

  "I'm riding upstream at the moment, along the border," said Marise to no one in particular. "My home is in the south."

  "That ain't close. No sir, long journey that; both where you be comin', and where you be goin'. Long journey indeed," said someone to his left with a melancholy nod. The question Why was both obvious and impolite, so Marise interrupted with the answer:

  "I am looking for the ghost child."

  "Oh, the ghost child. I ain't heard that name before. Is it a place?"

  "Does it sound like a place?" snapped Marise. The closer to the source of the story he’d come, the fewer people seemed to know about it.

  "Alright laddie, I was just askin'; no harm meanin' by it."

  Marise drained his cup in one more swallow and pulled back his hood.

  "Alright. I need a translator. Anyone here speak the northern tongue? There's gold in it if you do."

  "I speak it, sir," murmured an old man behind him.

  Marise actually grinned. This was much more productive than he had expected. "Good. Can you ride out tomorrow?"

  "Where we are going?" asked the old man.

  "Across the river."

  Silence, and the barman turned away muttering.

  “What’s that?” said Marise.

  A goblet slammed on the counter: “I said, they’ll peel yer skin and use it for their tents. That’s tribe territory, you cannot cross the river.”

  “I can, and I will,” said Marise. “It's safer than you think.”

  The barman shook his head categorically.

  "Will you be ready tomorrow?" Marise asked the old man.

  "Ready. Tomorrow. Yes.”

  A huge, brawny fellow with orange whiskers stood and said, "Do not be foolish, Jorry. No need for you to die. Who’ll make us laugh when you be gone? And you, white-cloak, what madness drives thee? You'll be the death of our friend!" He was a head taller than Marise and stared him down angrily.

  "He'll return in a few days, I promise," said Marise, tossing a coin on the counter and moving to walk away. The big man blocked his path. Marise looked up with a sigh. If they had to fight, that was alright. Really, if the fellow fancied a fistfight with anyone, Marise was the ideal choice. He’d beat him, heal him, and offer up an encore. But he didn't want to cause trouble in this town. The people were inherently good here, with a precious concern for a friend; that was all. He lifted a hand and placed it on the big man's shoulder. "Do not worry. I will protect your friend. We will be safe." He shook the large shoulder.

  The man blinked. He let Marise pass and watched him lift his hood and stride away, little bell tinkling above the door.

  Next morning, Marise woke slightly before dawn, feeling rested for the first time in weeks. He had slept for almost ten hours. The town's inn served venison stew for supper last night and between that, the hot apple cider and the nights here so long, he hadn’t been able to resist a nice rest. But now, as he stood outside the inn and looked down the empty street, he worried that the old man would not show. Could the child still be alive, he wondered. Will I be in time? Would anyone else be searching?

  He walked through fresh snow towards the stables and gritted his teeth against the heavy clouds. The brightest hours in this hellhole could pass as easily for twilight in the south. Thankfully, the old man was in the stables. Marise entered with relief.

  "You ready to go?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Where's your horse?"

  "I not have one."

  He had not expected this, but perhaps he should have. Horses were not as useful during the winter up north. Their legs could freeze or break the river ice, and most likely the old man didn’t even own one.

  "Alright, jump on behind me. It's only a few days ride." He offered Jorry a hand and added, "Hold on tight. There's a frozen path across the river east of here. We'll take that. Tell me if you feel tired." He glanced at the old man's satchel of supplies. "I have food for us both, and oats for my horse. We'll be back before you know it."

  They trotted down the street and out the town's open gate, nodding to the watchful men in the wooden towers. Jorry’s furs were so thick behind him, Marise felt a little warmer as snow began to fall.

  He had no trouble following the hidden road at a good pace for two hours northeast across the flatland, before Marise pulled on the reins and slowed to a halt, ready to cross the river ice. He dismounted, leaving their provisions on the horse.

  White wind wove about them, over the dunes and valleys of that white desert. Though cold was not the greatest danger here. Bogs of mud still liquid beneath the ice could swallow men and horses whole, and bigger things as well. Worst of all were the blizzards that came without warning, only slightly mitigated by the vast evergreen forests farther north. Wind was one reason for the walls around each settlement, wind strong enough to lift a child, to blind you, freeze your eyelids shut; while frostbite was so common, he couldn't throw a snowball in town without hitting someone who’d lost an ear, or a toe, or both ears and all but two toes.

  Marise tapped the ice with his walking stick. His breath turned to rime inside his scarf and he adjusted the fabric with two bare fingers from his right glove. Jorry followed more wearily, watching his feet. The old man's furs were nigh-indistinguishable from his beard.

  "So, Jorry," said Marise. "Why did you come with me?"

  The old man responded wi
th a muffled noise that could have been a grunt, or a cough, or maybe a sneeze.

  "I see. You don't happen to know anything about what I'm searching for, do you? Could spare us a journey. Get paid and go home early."

  Marise turned awkwardly to Jorry's deep-set eyes.

  "I am not knowing. Sorry."

  Wind soughed between them, and it was a while before they spoke again.

  Soon Marise could see the beginnings of the evergreen forest and felt determined to make it to tree cover before nightfall. He wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight. A fire might keep some of the smaller beasts away, even the bears, but wolves were clever creatures, and while he wasn't worried about himself, if Jorry got eaten, that meant he must go all the way back to Serabi empty-handed, and Marise did not imagine another translator would be as easy to come by.

  At dusk they entered the forest, his palfrey snorting, stepping high over the icy underbrush, until they were forced to dismount and continue on foot. Then they heard the wind before they saw it, and Marise felt lucky to be so deep in the woods. The tree canopy shook, wiping traces of an already darkened sky, and snow fell from swaying tree tops.

  "We better make a fire," he said. "I'll see to it."

  They camped near some rocks and ate the dry meat and bread that Marise had brought. He had a little cheese as well and a whole flagon of Apple cider that had nearly frozen. He warmed it in a metal pan over the fire, then rose to get more wood, growing their pile enough to last the night.

  Wolves howled at the moon, while clouds made way for stars. If only the sky would clear during the day this journey could even be comfortable. Marise tapped the ground with his walking stick and bowed his head close to the fire.

  "Why are you not afraid, Jorry?" he asked. But the old man pretended to be asleep.

  The next day was problematic when the palfrey broke its leg. The issue wasn't the leg at all, but Jorry, who started in a panic. The old man had actually begun taking the satchels off; he must’ve thought they were leaving the poor animal behind. Marise tried to sound jovial as he bent over the leg.

  "Oh how strange. Why there's nothing wrong at all. Look, it's fine. Everything’s alright." He patted the horse's neck happily, as it snorted and clambered upright.

  Jorry was puzzled.

  "I see the bone," he said, "I see the bone broken from the skin."

  "Trick of the light. Snow, ice, you never know what you can see," said Marise.

  They trudged north during the day at the outermost edges of the forest while there seemed no danger of a blizzard, making good progress until the late afternoon, when they retreated back into the trees. They made a fire that Marise allegedly lit using flint, though it took him less effort than Jorry had expected, and Marise had to shrug at the old man’s puzzled eyebrows.

  On the third day they did not leave the forest but trekked farther into it, Marise striding ahead, feeling his way with his staff, until the flitting bird calls came from every direction at once. The mossy trunks grew darker too, with less snowfall underfoot, sentinels ever taller and more ancient. They slept that night to the renewed howling of wolves and ate more dry meat and bread, but ran out of apple cider. Marise's face was graver than usual as he stared into the fire.

  On the fourth day, they’d hardly walked an hour, fighting to make a path through the undergrowth, when the horse suddenly whinnied and stomped the ground, yanking on the reins. Through the trees, Marise could see huge, stone boulders stacked into a pyramid. Human skulls spilled everywhere like so much fruit. Closer, and he saw the empty eye sockets. Skulls jutting up like rotten flowers petaled with hair, their every stem a spear. Crows rustled overhead, cawed and flapped away.

  Jorry bent to examine the freshest skulls.

  "We are deep in tribal territory now," said Marise. "Stay close, old man."

  And Jorry stayed close. But the deeper they went, the more likely it seemed that they would never leave again.

  It was another hour from that place when the trees began to thin. Then the forest abruptly ended. The sky opened, and they stood in a clearing of fresh snowflakes and gazed up at the low clouds. Marise waited. The clearing was fifty feet across, a large circle of untouched white. He patted the horse and turned to Jorry.

  "We are here, and I hope you speak the northern tongue, old man, because I do not."

  Jorry studied him solemnly while they stood and waited, and nothing happened. The palfrey grazed tufts of frozen grass, and Marise gave it oats from the saddlebags. They were just about to retreat back into the forest, when the old man's breathing became audible. A hooting like owls trilled in the distance; then growling and more hooting. A chattering and clacking, more bird calls next, and then the sibilant sounds of language. Eyes glowed by every tree trunk. One pair right in front of them faded, reemerged glaring from the body of a tiny wizened woman with bones in her hair. Her patchwork quilt clacked along the ground behind her.

  Marise relaxed. He and Jorry could be shot without warning, but not in the circle of visitors. As the crone came closer, they saw great holes in her ears and nose. She walked with a hiss. A beaten sword dangled at her waist; crude metalwork hammered to an acceptable width and curved like a scimitar. But strangest of all were her bare feet, her large toes jutting out. Marise guessed that the old woman had either been carried, or that the village was very near indeed. Beside him, Jorry grew more skittish by the second.

  The crone scrutinized them contemptuously. She gazed back and forth, from the hooded figure to the bundled old man, whose thick furs ruffled in the breeze. She grunted in a language dark with consonants. Marise leaned closer to Jorry and whispered:

  "Tell her you are my translator. Tell her you are no one. She recognizes your Incaran clothing."

  Jorry cleared his throat and addressed the woman. She hissed back at him, and he translated:

  "Our bones look delicate, she says. She could use them."

  Marise chuckled. "Tell her I'm rather attached to my bones."

  Jorry did it, and the woman's lip curled.

  "Not for long, she says."

  "Tell her my name is Marise. Tell her I am Carnage. Do it slowly."

  Marise could almost hear the old man's heartbeat on the air, his r's rolling like a purr in the guttural accentuation:

  "Ka-RRn-adj"

  The woman's eyes snapped to Marise. Her entire posture changed. She made a noise in her throat, seemed to tremble. And then she did, her whole body shaking, palms open. She genuflected, prostrate on the ground. Speechless, Jorry stared at Marise, whose tone never changed:

  "Tell her I’ll spare her tribe, but I must see the chieftain. I have questions. Tell her I am in a hurry."

  Jorry talked faster, and the woman answered just as fast. She stood, moved at a wobbly run, beckoning for them to follow.

  All eyes had vanished from the forest in a rush of footfalls. The crone babbled as she went. Jorry was breathless, struggling to keep up. "She was yelling for them to hide. Should I tell her to un-hide them?"

  "What for?" said Marise, but Jorry didn't answer.

  Soon they reached the village with its crooked huts and leather drapings everywhere. Fresh animal skins hung from tree branches. They passed a crackling campfire, recently abandoned. The woman ran forward, then a few steps back along the frozen ground. Her head was ever bowing, beckoning. Everything looked deserted.

  At the center of the village, living trees made all four corners of a hut that the crone had entered. Marise waited. He was about to ask for Jorry to call her to bring the chieftain out, when two tribesmen trotted through the doorway carrying a stretcher laden with an emaciated figure.

  They alighted the stretcher across two tree stumps in front of Marise, and then the tribesmen fled into the forest. Marise leaned over the chieftain, seeing the scarred face, the hair rolled into a ponytail, and the missing left arm. That was recent, poorly bandaged. He could smell the sepsis from here.

  "Ask him who did this," said Marise, and Jorry did so.
br />   The chieftain's tongue wandered; his eyes rolled. He muttered painfully over and over.

  "What’s he saying?"

  "He says, 'ghost child, shadow child.'"

  "Ask him what it means."

  More mumbling, now a whisper, now a growl and when it did not stop, Jorry translated quickly as the words came:

  "In the wind of the night... the cold comes... I cannot feel... I cannot escape... the ghost child is within me... he sees through me... I cannot escape... demon child..."

  "Ask him where. Ask him what happened!"

  Jorry did as he was told, and the babbling shifted.

  "We should not have gone there... he sees... we should not have gone there..."

  "Damn it, ask him to explain! Where did it happen?"

  Marise listened intently to the next words, waiting for a hint, a clue that he could turn into an answer. He tried to understand before the translation. A name, a place, anything.

  And he almost missed Jorry's movements beside him.

  One instant the chieftain was speaking, strained words, ugly words; then suddenly Jorry was not translating. Marise turned, saw the blade flash and caught the old man’s wrist just in time. The shining point of steel trembled over the chieftain's chest, scraping the patchwork quilt. Marise stared in confusion, but for an old man, Jorry was incredibly strong.

  He flung Marise backward to the ground.

  "NO!"

  The blade sank into the chieftain's chest.

  Marise rose with an earth-shattering boom that scattered Jorry like a leaf. "No, no, no," filled the silence, and he stood over the chieftain desperately, hoping for – what, exactly? The blade was still inside. He was not Ultime. Marise could not restart a dead heart. Helplessly he watched the blood between those lifeless lips. Silent lips. And he filled the air with roaring expletives. Then his gaze found Jorry, lying motionless at the foot of a tree. Marise strode to him, lifted him up by the collar and growled: