Chapter Six: Part Four

Continued from Chapter Six: Part Three

Younes chuckled. “Not so,” he said. “Not so. A monster he is, no failing that. Join with the tidy man? Mayhap he will—mayhap he will. And yet, something gives him pause,” Younes, sitting on the ground, no longer looked up, no longer seemed to talk to Kyouki or anyone else but himself. “Nay,” he went on, his voice getting steadily quieter so that it could hardly be heard over the wind outside the hollow. “Nay, for he has had a long hard time to think in the rushing sands—sands of time, yes. Iskander Younes is a hazard. No mistaking that, certain sure. That being so, why did they not kill him when a chance for it came to them? That’s a question that vexed him long, kept him quiet, left the canyon free of his wailing and cursing. That it did. His new mind never left it to rest, and Iskander Younes as he is to be seen now discovered a fair prize. He solved the riddle to his own liking, that and more. Yes, it’s so.” Younes rolled his eyes back to look at Kyouki. “You’ve an opinion that he should join your adventures, do you? But tell me, tidy man, what service can you to aid Iskander Younes in his vengeance? Can you answer me that?”

Kyouki paused before answering. Jarvela felt the sadness in him, seeping out like a mist. It was the kind of question he would not want to answer.

“I will not aid your vengeance, Younes,” Kyouki said.

Younes grinned. “Then Iskander Younes has no further use of you.”

The interview ended badly. Younes fled.

*

Thinking back on Younes, as they met in that canyon so many years earlier, Jarvela left Súthende in the company of his young friend, Tag Tegran. They rode due north through the hills to Kyouki no Uma’s house, a home to lost children like Jarvela till they could go into the world and stand vigil. The lost and the forgotten drew to Kyouki, learning of themselves, growing and training. They learned secrets of the world, locked in themselves. Over time, the urchins at Kyouki’s house blossomed and he sent them into the world to keep the peace—fighting monsters in shadow. The uneasy peace of the world would have long before been hotter had Kyouki’s Runagates not been prowling, though few knew it.

Jarvela had his message to carry to Kyouki: in the company of Digger, the Wiggend Lordling, Silk Golinvaux had gone into the hills near Súthende. Jarvela had been investigating Silk and his movements for months, using the networks of Runagates. Jarvela concluded that Silk had gone into the hills to meet with Iskander Younes, to join in their common purpose, though they had different reasons for meaning violence to the Warlord Engelkind. Younes had gone his farthest yet on his mission of revenge. He could be tracked through the movements of his less careful company.

“You’re awfully quiet, Jarvela,” Tag said in his deep voice, uncommonly thoughtful and even for a kid his age. He had dark hair straight as straw, and wise eyes with premature wrinkles around them. A hand rolled cigarette wobbled between his lips. Often his eyes stared into the distance even when he talked to someone three feet from him.

“I’d hope that Wexerly would join us on this road,” Jarvela said. “We’re riding to…” Jarvela groped for words.

“Death and ruin?” Tag suggested.

Jarvela shook his head, not to disagree but to say he didn’t know. “How do you feel about the future, Tag?”

Tag smiled around his cigarette. “It feels stormy, or nearly stormy. A pregnant frisson awaiting the first lightning strike.”

Jarvela frowned. He disagreed. He thought the first lightning had stricken somewhere, that they had missed it and awaited the thunder and the onslaught of a torrential rain.

He kicked his horse to a trot. Haste felt appropriate.

End of Chapter Six. Continued on February 7...

Chapter Six: Part Three

Continued from Chapter Six: Part Two

“Aside from my training,” Jarvela said. “I can only remember that you always asked for more ghost stories. I discount my training as important to you. So we must be ghost hunting.”

“Do not be so quick to dismiss yourself,” Kyouki said, looking sidelong at Jarvela. “You are right, though. We are ghost hunting. A specific ghost. We have almost found him.”

The next morning they started early. Unlike every other day since Jarvela had joined company with Kyouki, the Oswemend seemed to have a clear idea which way to go. They continued southward along the scrubby edge of the desert. Gradually, hills grew and slowed their horses. For a day no further adventure beset them.

The next dawn burned hotter than any Jarvela had ever felt. He shed many layers of clothing before they started and still dripped with sweat before an hour had passed. The hills grew hotter and drier as they went south. Large, sandy rocks began sticking up from the ground, becoming larger as they went. After not many hours there was more rock than hills. The wind formed rocks swept up taller and taller. Soon their rode wove around tall rock formations.

Wind grew through the rocks. The sparse sand whipped up. Jarvela wrapped a cloth around his mouth to protect his breath. The going got more difficult every mile—the wind threw around more grit and the ground was always stonier. Jarvela did not want to believe that some ill will set against them. He had trouble disbelieving it. A dry voice laughed or cursed in the wind, raising the hairs on his neck. The first few times he heard it he thought he imagined it, spiraling through the coarse dust into his face. It sounded so faintly and seldom that he thought it a brush of wind. The sound of the voice grew louder, clearer, frequenter, till Jarvela could only believe it. The laughter sounded scornful and ironic—the curses as bitter as the grit in the wind blowing in his face.

The sand blowing around had grown so thick Jarvela saw a few feet ahead of him and no further. He had no clear idea of the terrain anymore, except that the ground had become dry stone. Kyouki still seemed to know where he wanted to go. He rode a little ahead of Jarvela, his head bowed and wrapped in his black silk hood. The cruel voice in the wind drew him on through the sand. He had found his ghost, Jarvela supposed.

Though the wind developed no change, Jarvela became vaguely aware through the closening of the air and the tightening of the rushing sound that they had ridden into a canyon. Jarvela felt they had been riding in it for some time—perhaps two miles. The walls swooped closer around them so that what little sunlight strangled through the gritty wind turned dim and red. The horses didn’t like the wind and sand. They wanted to turn back. The voice in the wind scared them the more. It had become shouting with a renewed vigor.

The walls of the canyon narrowed to nearly a cave for a hundred feet. They whooshed out again suddenly and they rode into a wide place in the canyon. The sand had been thinning for a while. Through it Jarvela could see vague shapes in the distance. The walls of the sandstone canyon, windswept and winding, stood tall and a uniform yellow-red from the ground up shaped like a very slow creek bed eroded with very fast wind. The[1]  far wall was featureless except for a pale X shape chained to the wall thirty feet off the ground.

“A man,” Jarvela shouted, bending near Kyouki’s protected head.

“Very nearly,” Kyouki said. If Jarvela could have seen his face he would have guessed Kyouki smiled.

“Your ghost?”

“Yes—the wretched creature,” Kyouki said. The familiar, rasping laugh in the wind broke forth again, louder than ever.

Taking a pickaxe they had brought with them, Kyouki, using his own special nimbleness, climbed slowly up the cliff face to the X of a pale man hanging from the walls. Kyouki found a narrow ledge under the chains and just managed to keep his feet enough to strike the chains securing the man’s feet a few good blows. Jarvela watched, feeling loathe to release this person, so securely hanged from chains in such an unwholesome place. His voice made Jarvela nervous. And some other ill feeling hung about the place, though Jarvela could just be jumpy from riding in the hard wind in the canyon for so long. Besides, the pale man could not be trussed so roughly for being a safe person. A hazard and no mistake.

Kyouki managed to dislodge the chains securing the man from the cliff till only on chain kept the pale man’s left arm attached to the wall. Through an improbable feat of balance and strength Kyouki held the pale man by the one chain left, climbed to where it was attached to the wall, and dislodged it as well. He kept a hold of the chain and climbed down the cliff. On the ground Kyouki wrapped his own cloak around the man, who could almost not stand. They walked back to Jarvela and the horses, Kyouki supporting the other, who still dragged his chains.

“Let’s find someplace to get out of this wind,” Kyouki shouted at Jarvela. Jarvela tried and failed to get a good look at the newcomer. He kept the hood of Kyouki’s cloak over his face. Aside from being a man as large as Jarvela, broader than Kyouki, and pale, Jarvela could see very little of him.

A little further along the canyon they found a deep crevice which afforded protection from the wind. It was deep enough and wide enough to get the horses inside. Still they had enough space to sit on the canyon floor near the opening. Jarvela had a good look of the pale man, who sat against a wall in the alcove.

He smiled. It looked genuine enough. Anything cheerful in it had the taint of being formed by a purple and bruised mouth in a wax-white face, his skin chapped and cracked from maybe years hanging in the sand-swept canyon. The chains around his limbs had been welded together. Whoever put him up there wanted to keep him there.

“What crime deserves this punishment?” Jarvela asked.

“He is guilty of no crime,” Kyouki said. “Though the name may mean nothing to you, this is Iskander Younes. He was hidden here because some people are embarrassed by his existence. He reminds them of certain secrets they’d rather hide. I think he wants to tell you about it.” Kyouki fell silent while the quiet laugh of Younes mumbled from him.

“Aye, no crime but loyalty,” Younes said. “This was the body of Iskander Younes, a loyal soldier, who swore fealty to a lord and a lord bade him do, so Iskander Younes did as he was bidden. There died Iskander Younes, but not his end. Nay, for here is he still. And not the same. Nay, respawned, the first of an ill breed.” Younes giggled. “They hid him away—dangerous he is, certain. More dangerous still being present than being he. Iskander Younes is a secret clue of a bad decision. As the master yon suggests, Iskander Younes reminds them what they meant to hide. They don’t much like that.”

“Damn,” Kyouki muttered, standing just behind Jarvela’s shoulder. Jarvela glanced back. Kyouki’s eyebrows lowered, his eyes stern. “I’ve made a grave error. I hoped he’d be more stable than this.”

Younes looked past Jarvela at Kyouki. Laughing, Younes waved a chained hand to Kyouki. “Iskander Younes is free. The tidy man—oh ho, so prim and clean at every edge—has his price, no doubt. Perhaps Iskander Younes will see it in his power to repay this mild kindness extended to him. Name your warrant, tidy man.”

“Join with me, Younes,” Kyouki said, stepping around Jarvela. “Join with me and we will rebuild a place for our kind.”

The pale face of Younes looked suddenly tense. His eyes widened and his mouth fell agape. “You are not like Iskander Younes. Not by an ounce of flesh nor a turn of phrase. How could you even suppose?”

“I know better what you are than you know,” Kyouki said, lowering his voice. He sounded like he had recently become uncertain of it.

Continued on February 3...

Chapter Four: Part Three

Sorry about the delay. Busy holiday. Continued from Chapter Four: Part Two

 “You wear the trappings of a Holy Assassin,” Digger said. The white man’s cold eyes drew away from Silk and fell on Digger. “Do you go about the Ferryman’s work?”

“I am not a member of his congregation,” the white man said.

“Then what’s your business killing off people in the area, eh?” Digger asked. The white man stared at Digger for a few seconds before replying.

“In the light you are bold,” the man said. Digger sniffed, frowning at the implicit accusation of lacking boldness at darker moments. He made no argument. The white man turned his eyes back to Silk and said, “You do not know me.”

Silk took his cigar out of his mouth. He breathed a wave of smoke out of his nostrils. “I don’t,” he said through the middle of the smoke. “Should I?”

“No,” the white man said. “The outlaws I have confronted recognized me, mistaking me for some rumor they heard I presume. You do not recognize me. You expected me to be who Novoselic, Bartley, Aaltonen, and Burgan mistook me to be.”

“You expected to find someone specific out here?” Digger said to Silk, frowning and annoyed. Silk looked Digger in the face. Digger took it as an affront that Silk had refrained from divulging the information earlier. The sentiment made sense, Digger having been sheriff of Súthende at the time.

“Yes,” Silk said. “I thought I knew who’d been killing your outlaws.”

“Friend of yours, was he?” Digger said, unable to keep the shortness from his voice.

“Well, an occasional business partner, at best,” Silk said.

“Who was he?” Digger said. “Is he still nearby?”

“His name is Younes,” Silk said. “I have no idea where he is.”

“You thought the messages in the murderers’ mouths came from him, eh?” Digger asked.

Silk looked back at the white man on the boulder, wondering. His unnatural, corpse-white skin looked like Younes’s, as did the raven-black of the hair just visible under the hood and the darkness around his eyes and mouth making him look utterly spent. The face, the build, the eyes, his very bearing: everything else about this man was different. Poised, practices, elegant, where Younes would be messy, angry, and forceful.

“What’s your name?” Silk asked him.

“Twig Lithnmark, a soldier in the Zombie Corps,” Twig said.

“You’re very trusting,” Silk said.

“I am in a position of power,” Twig said. “You are Silk Golinvaux. You are wanted dead by the Holy Assassins of the Ferryman.”

“Hmm,” Silk raised his eyebrow. “That’s news.” Although…Silk began to think of what he knew of the Holy Assassins and their recent movements. A handful of them had recently headed north to hunt Younes. To lend him a hand against them provided Silk with a primary motivation for coming north.

“I do not know the name Younes, except as the name of my boot camp,” Twig said.

“You’re hardly missing anything,” Silk said. He slid his sword into its sheath. “Rather the reverse of a charming fellow.” Resting his hands on the horn of his horse’s saddle, Silk considered this Twig. He wore the leather and voluminous black cloak of a Holy Assassin—staring down from the deep hood as if born in it. If he said the Holy Assassins wanted Silk dead then—though this was a logical leap—Twig must have encountered Holy Assassins and put them in a position to give up their clothes. Silk could think of no reason a Holy Assassin would relinquish their hard-earned trappings—and those leathers came at a bloody price—except if the Assassin no longer had breath and heartbeat enough to wear the clothes.

And Holy Assassins never fought a fight unless they meant to fight one. If baited, they would run. They never made mistakes choosing their targets. A fight with them is a fight to the death—usually the death of anyone but them. Clearly not in the case of Twig.

“Did you encounter Holy Assassins?” Silk asked. Twig nodded. Silk, frowning, thinking, flicked his cigar to knock the ash from the end. He put it back in his mouth. The Holy Assassins that had hunted Younes might lie not far away killed by Twig. They would know the difference between Younes and Twig.

Younes had been bringing Silk a weapon: the only weapon that could destroy Engelkind. “Trust me, it ain’t what you think,” Younes had said of it. “It can’t do anything directly. Shall need to be understood and then wielded.” Silk had thought perhaps Younes knew of a book or scroll that would describe the story of Ferryman marking Engelkind in greater detail, perhaps. From such a story Engelkind’s weakness could be divined and applied. Looking into the eyes of Twig Lithnmark, Silk began wondering whether Younes was as nuts as he seemed, and what could be done with a man, even such a strange one as stood on the boulder before them.

“Who are you writing to, then?” Digger asked, holding up one of the messages from the throats of one of the murderers. Twig looked back at Digger.

“It is an old rite. You should know it,” he said.

“Enlighten me.”

“I am sending messages to Ferryman. The ghosts of the felled men carry the words in their mouths to the next world. It is an old story.”

Digger’s eyebrows lowered. He seemed confused and somewhat dumbfounded. His hand went involuntarily to rub above his eyes as if he had heard something so utterly illogical he had no idea what to do with it. “That means the body’s own last words, not any words that happen to be there,” he said in the tone of one arguing a scriptural detail. Which it was.

“The story says the words in his mouth are carried to Ferryman,” Twig said flatly. That was also true. It was the literal translation in the story: “the words” without specifying any particular words. Silk knew the story.

“You can’t do that,” Digger said, his voice rising.

“I have done it,” Twig replied. Silk began to chuckle.

Digger shook his head. “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered.

Twig looked down with his face blank. Digger’s face tightened with frustration. He tried to master himself. Silk watched his struggle, his chuckles quiet. “Is something funny?” Digger asked, sniffing and glancing at Silk. Though the situation tickled Silk to no end, he chose not to reply. He looked back up at Twig.

“The boy is right, though. You actually can’t do it,” Silk said. Twig met Silk’s eyes without any curiosity. “Ferryman no longer replies to supplications, you see. Not in this world.”

“It is so,” Digger said, his eyes lowered to the snow at the base of the boulder where Twig stood. “None of the gods can. Not actively. They never show themselves these days. How do you not know this?”

“I have been away for a while,” Twig said. “There are many things in the world that are new. I am removed from my time.”

“What do you mean?” Silk asked.

“The War ought to be in full swing,” Twig said, then hopped off the edge of the boulder. He landed with a whumph in the thick snow on the ground. Digger raised his bow a little higher. “I am told that it has ended.”

“Yes. Many years ago,” Silk said. “You missed the end of it, then?”

“Yes,” Twig said, approaching Silk and Digger. The horses nickered and frisked as he came closer.

“The gods lost,” Silk said. “They were exiled. They went back to their city past the end of the world, forsaking their keeps to razing and ransack,” he smiled, hiding his thoughts while he considered how much to tell about the new god, Kunig, and the control that Engelkind had over one of the greatest cities of the gods. Silk decided to leave that for later. Too much too fast would do no one any good. “The gods are never seen in the world anymore.”

Happy New Year. The narrative shall resume in New Year.