Ghost Story
"You, priest, surely you've heard
worse tales," said the man with a scar descending down the
length of his left cheek, its chalk-white, puckered trail reaching
to his neck. His eyes bored into me, seeking both a challenge
and an answer to his hopes.
I cleared my throat. "Oh, yes.
Far worse."
Cardanzo, sitting to my left, smiled
and sipped his beer, and Sanjuk, to my right, raised an eyebrow.
The scarred man, one Lt. Harbald Drax of the Muster, leaned across
the table, attentive.
"Do tell, friar," he said,
his eyes still on me as he motioned behind him to his comrades,
summoning them over. I took a sip of beer myself as I waited for
the mercenaries to pull up chairs, each of them eyeing me suspiciously.
Once they had settled, I put my mug
down and stared intently at the wood grain of the table, as if
seeing some augury there.
"It was dark that night on Midian
during the crop-gathering season. Peng-Lai, the Woman in the Moon,
did not come out that night to play her lyre. Only torches lit
the edge of the lake where the men gathered to administer justice.
. .."
The room grew quiet as ears turned
to listen attentively. Smoke from a dozen different weeds from
half as many worlds floated over our heads, misting the wan light
from the lanterns hung by each table. The room was full of silhouettes,
with few features discernable from over an arm's length away.
"Their captive struggled against
his bonds, but they were drawn tight about him and made of strong-threaded
hemp. If he could only reach his wireblade, he would be free.
But his weapon, along with the rest of his devil's gear, had been
taken from him, distributed among the vigilantes who carried him,
kicking all the way, to the lake's edge.
"The old headman, leader of the
village gang, turned from the dark waters and regarded the captive.
He nodded to the men and they began wrapping more cord around
the bound man, these ones tied with stones and rocks of varied
sizes.
"The captive, frantically trying
to dislodge the stones, cried out to his accusers: 'This is illegal!
I demand you cease immediately and free me! How dare you even
lay hands upon me! When my family discovers your crime, you shall
all be killed, and your children sold into slavery!'
"The old man looked on, no emotion
on his face. 'I reckon it's no worse than what you'd do to us
if we didn't take justice into our own hands. You're an evil man,
Baron Michaelo. The Pancreator will judge what's wrong and right
here.'
"'You have no proof for your accusations!'
the criminal cried.
"Don't need it. This ain't no
Reeves' court. You killed them children with this here Republican
sword,' he said as he held out the criminal's wireblade hilt,
'and carved horrible symbols and signs into their flesh before
dumping them into the lake. I don't know who you tried to sell
their souls to, but I tell you they are the Pancreator's children
- they're in a better place now, not that hell you intended for
them.'
"The criminal quit his struggling
and an ugly grin stretched across his face. 'Do you know what
I wrote into their skin, old fool? Compacts and deals, sealed
with blood. Agreements which cannot be broken by your petty justice.
Do what you will to me. I shall wreak my vengeance upon all of
you one by one. Your own avarice shall be your undoing!'
"'Throw him in!' the old man yelled,
and the vigilantes lifted the criminal - writhing in their grasp
- and flung him into the lake. The stones quickly dragged him
into the dark depths. A few air bubbled broke the surface but
their coming eventually slowed and finally stopped.
"The men dragged their tired bodies
to the nearby village and each returned home, lighting a small
candle to burn through the rest of the night.
"Over the coming weeks, the village
returned to normal. What children still lived were allowed to
play outdoors once more. With each day, they were allowed to roam
farther and farther from their parents' sight, until they once
more played like all children do, roaming far and wide over the
nearby hills and dales.
"But it was not the children the
villagers had need to fear for. All those men who had participated
in the murder of Baron Michaelo came to calamity, one by one.
First, there was the butcher. He had kept the baron's fine hunting
dagger for his own, and used it to skin what deer others brought
to him for preparation. One day, while skinning an ontagont with
the knife, he slit his own throat with one well-determined swipe.
Others soon found him, his blood mixed on the floor with the split
innards of his butchered animals. They assumed it was suicide,
anguish over his lost child.
"Next, however, died the tanner.
He had kept for himself bottles of the powerful beverage the baron
carried with him, a vintage from some far world none knew where.
He used such bever to console his guilty soul on the many nights
that had passed since he had helped to throw the baron into his
watery grave. One night, he drank three whole bottles. His body
was found by his wife, and the local apothecary discovered that
one of the bottles held not wine but sweetened poison from the
glands of a vicious Ungavoroxian beast.
"More vigilantes soon died, each
helped along by some item pilfered from the dead baron: his synthsilk
rope used to hang the wrangler, his travel rations to choke the
baker, his velvet cape to smother the weaver. Soon, the only one
left alive from that night was the headman who had personally
condemned the baron.
"He fled the village, believing
it to be cursed and haunted, and took to the hospitality of his
family in the city. Surely here, far from that damned lake, he
could escape his fellows' grisly fate.
"Among his gear was an item of
great worth, one he meant to sell once he reached the city, for
it would make him rich for the rest of his days. After his cousins
showed him his room, he curled up on the bed, exhausted after
the long ride. He clutched his treasure in his hands, fearing
that his own family would pilfer his bags seeking loot. Nothing
would prevent his selling the thing on the morrow.
"He awoke as the sun crept through
his window, casting its accusing light upon his eyes. He stretched
and yawned and immediately doubled up in pain. He stared at his
body and the blood welling up over the bedsheets - his nightclothes
torn to shreds, deep, precise cuts all over his skin. His body
was laced with symbols and images arcane and unholy, not unlike
those the baron had carved upon his young victims.
"The headman stared aghast at
the unreadable text of his flesh and groaned as his sight fell
upon his hand, which he now realized still clutched the treasure
he had so passionately guarded before falling into sleep. He moaned
in horror and released the hilt of the wireblade. It slipped from
the bed and rolled across the floor, coming to rest in the corner
of the room.
"He leapt from the room and ran
into the streets, screaming for a priest, for a healer, for anyone
who could save his soul flame. A trail of blood followed him,
for his wounds could not seal - so perfect had been their cutting,
there was no edge where flesh could adhere to flesh. He died by
the time he reached the next block, his blood having run completely
from him.
"The Church authorities were summoned
to investigate. Upon seeing the flesh glyphs, they scoured the
headman's gear, searching for any signs of the man's killer. They
found the wireblade on the floor, and recognized the crest carved
into its pommel.
"Three days later, a young Eskatonic
investigator called upon the Michaelo mansion and was greeted
by a servant. Led into a vast library, he waited only a few minutes
before the baron arrived, fresh from his lunch, its strong smell
pervading his clothes. The noble apologized for his appearance,
claiming to have suffered a long illness that caused his flesh
to become pasty white and his skin to heal wounds but slowly.
"The Eskatonic, nauseous from
the smell, produced the wireblade and asked if it were his. The
baron claimed it, and said he had lost it when his boat capsized
in a lake to the south, well over two seasons ago. He had thought
it long gone beyond his reach.
"The priest, too sick to interview
the man much longer, forgot the urgency of his mission in his
desire to once more breath fresh air. He bid the baron farewell,
found his own way out, and mounted his horse in the courtyard.
"'If there's one thing I cannot
abide,' he said to his horse, 'it's the smell of dead fish.' He
then rode back to the city and went about his daily prayers, thinking
no more upon the matter."
I sat back and took a long sip of my
beer, watching the faces of those who leaned near.
Scarface crinkled his brow in thought.
"What happened then?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I heard
this tale when I was a young novitiate on Midian. Priests in my
order swore that the baron still existed in his mansion and sometimes
rode out at night on missions of retribution against any serf
who dared to stand against the nobility."
One of the mercenaries spoke up. "I
don't buy it. It's too much like a morality tale. Keeps the peasants
in line." Others grunted assent.
A smallish mercenary, older than the
others and sitting in a booth against the far wall, spoke: "I've
seen him. This Baron Michaelo. I worked for him once. It's true
- his flesh stank of the rotten sea."
The mercenaries grew silent. "Yeah?
Doesn't have to mean he was a warlock. Maybe he had a remote control
for the wireblade, so he could operate it at a distance to chop
that guy up."
The old merc leaned forward: "What
about the rest of his stuff? You think his knife and cloak were
remote-control, too? There's things out there no guild scientist
can name, boys, and it'll get us all in the end."
Scarface smiled and guffawed. "Ah,
it's just a ghost story, Colonel. It don't mean nothing. Just
a story to scare good folk is all. Might work on peasants, but
not toughs like us. Right, guys?"
"Gehenne, no!" one merc yelled,
and another added: "You gotta try harder than that to get
us, priest!"
The mercs got up and went back to their
tables, scattering again into small groups. Scarface looked at
me. "Good try, friar. But next time add a haunted starship
or something. You know, something that could actually happen!"
He stood and stumbled to the bar, bellowing for a refill.
Cardanzo looked at me. "Was the
story true?"
"I really don't know. But I do
know one thing: I still can't stand the smell of dead fish."
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