Cat woke hours later. He was back in the guest-lodge, and someone had laid his weapons out beside him. Mara asked if he was ready to continue on, and he said he was. He didn't ask about the children; he didn't need to.
He'd known they wouldn't recover completely. At least, he would have known if he'd had time to think about it. The children had been connected, their thoughts spilling into each other while energy poured through them and into a ghost. They'd parted ways, gone back to their families, called their parents by name, but... Some remnant of the connection remained. Cat could feel it, a pull at the edge of his thoughts. In devouring the ghost, he'd taken the link with the children into himself. It might fade with time and distance, but then again it might not.
Even if his connection to them dissolved, those children would always have a bond with each other. Cat didn't know if it would be a strength or weakness for them. He suspected it might be both; he suspected that it would be shaped by how they dealt with it, and with each other.
He couldn't stay to find out. The children would likely be better off with him far away. There was still a war-beast loose near the town of Brightness, in the hills a few miles off; there was still a job to do.
But someday, perhaps in a year or two, he would have to come and check on them.
Showing posts with label Lure of the Ghost House. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lure of the Ghost House. Show all posts
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Lure of the Ghost House V
"Well, well," said the ghost. "Have you come seeking apprenticeship? Or are you looking for the children?"
In life the man had been tall and lean, with shoulder-length black hair and a neatly-trimmed black beard. The pallor of his skin might have been remembered, or it might have been an acknowledgement of his spectral state. He wore the grey robes of a Verath, which was a bad sign; and he seemed to know who he was and what he was about, which was worse. A ghost that was muddled and confused might be set on its way, dispersed into the tides and flows of the world-blood, but one like this... This is bad, Cat thought.
He rose to his feet, frowning. He didn't see any way to delay this, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Still, if there was any way to take the ghost off-guard... "What is it you have to teach?" he asked. Then, deliberately idle, he added: "...and what are you doing with those children?"
The ghost drew himself up as if affronted; then his shoulders lowered. "If you seek a teacher," he said, "you should show more respect."
Cat waited.
"Very well," the dead Verath said at last. "Serve me, and I will teach you the arts of death. They call to you, don't they? The training you have, passing the elements through your body, it isn't enough, is it? You know there is more you could learn."
Cat nodded. He knew. "And the children?" he asked.
The ghost shrugged. "The villagers took my children. Now I have taken theirs. And when I have used them to restore my living body, I will teach you the things it took me decades to learn."
Cat shifted the navic to his back, and let it hang there. Even sheathed, the blade was part of him; it hung comfortably across his back with nothing to support it. He took a step forward, moved as if to kneel...
...And came up with the indoor saber in his hand, slashing.
Two strides away, the ghost fell back, cut in half by the blow. Still connected to the children, it restored itself with stunning speed, and Cat's follow-through rebounded from an unseen shield. It gestured, murmuring, and Cat felt darkness gather around him.
It was a Death Art, one that drained his strength and dropped him to one knee. He extended his arm by an act of will, then drew it back and to the side, fingers clenched for gripping. In physical combat, the motion would have voided an enemy's attack, drawing it off into empty space. Against a Verath's Art, it pulled the draining numbness into darkness and silence and cold. The effect collapsed as he devoured it.
The master of the house stood staring, his ghostly face slack with shock. Cat lunged up and forward, and for a moment he stood locked with the ghost. In life, it would have been no contest; but the ghost still drew energy through the circle of the children, and with the house insisting on its presence all around them, the spirit was as solid to the touch as flesh would have been. For a moment, they stood locked, strength against strength; then Cat shifted his weight, and felt the opening as the ghost failed to follow. He twisted, sending the ghost past, avoiding its force and more, drawing it into the void he had created...
It screamed as it fell into the darkness and cold, as Cat devoured it. A shockwave of ice rolled out across the aged wooden floor, momentarily dispelling the house's memory of itself and revealing weathered wood layered over with dirt and ash.
Cat staggered and fell to his knees. His head was throbbing, and his blood alternated hot and cold. He knew what "children" the master of the house had lost; he knew that they had been horrible, rotted things, murderous and deranged and uncontrollable, animated by the darkest of Arts. Small wonder the peasants had killed them; they'd had no choice. It was that or wait to be killed.
For a moment his heart stopped; then, entirely on its own, it started beating again.
He knew how the peasants had trapped and destroyed the master's monstrous children, two centuries earlier; he knew how the master had created them; he knew how the master had died, poisoned by his servants; he knew how the master had watched, screaming in bodiless rage, as the peasants had burned his body and scattered the ashes. He remembered fifty years of studying the Art alive, and two more centuries of study as a ghost. He wanted to pound his head against the wooden floor until the memories went away.
Mara smashed through the non-existent front door, which reformed itself (now open again) behind her.
Cat raised his head, and forced his body to be still. "Basement," he said. He could feel Delissa approaching, and feel the house recoiling from the energies that cycled through her and filled the air around her. She must have come in the back. "There's a circle in the basement." He could still feel it. He could remember the connections that had been forced between the children. "Don't break it. Tell them to do it."
Then the wooden floor was rushing towards the side of his face. He didn't have the strength to stop it.
In life the man had been tall and lean, with shoulder-length black hair and a neatly-trimmed black beard. The pallor of his skin might have been remembered, or it might have been an acknowledgement of his spectral state. He wore the grey robes of a Verath, which was a bad sign; and he seemed to know who he was and what he was about, which was worse. A ghost that was muddled and confused might be set on its way, dispersed into the tides and flows of the world-blood, but one like this... This is bad, Cat thought.
He rose to his feet, frowning. He didn't see any way to delay this, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Still, if there was any way to take the ghost off-guard... "What is it you have to teach?" he asked. Then, deliberately idle, he added: "...and what are you doing with those children?"
The ghost drew himself up as if affronted; then his shoulders lowered. "If you seek a teacher," he said, "you should show more respect."
Cat waited.
"Very well," the dead Verath said at last. "Serve me, and I will teach you the arts of death. They call to you, don't they? The training you have, passing the elements through your body, it isn't enough, is it? You know there is more you could learn."
Cat nodded. He knew. "And the children?" he asked.
The ghost shrugged. "The villagers took my children. Now I have taken theirs. And when I have used them to restore my living body, I will teach you the things it took me decades to learn."
Cat shifted the navic to his back, and let it hang there. Even sheathed, the blade was part of him; it hung comfortably across his back with nothing to support it. He took a step forward, moved as if to kneel...
...And came up with the indoor saber in his hand, slashing.
Two strides away, the ghost fell back, cut in half by the blow. Still connected to the children, it restored itself with stunning speed, and Cat's follow-through rebounded from an unseen shield. It gestured, murmuring, and Cat felt darkness gather around him.
It was a Death Art, one that drained his strength and dropped him to one knee. He extended his arm by an act of will, then drew it back and to the side, fingers clenched for gripping. In physical combat, the motion would have voided an enemy's attack, drawing it off into empty space. Against a Verath's Art, it pulled the draining numbness into darkness and silence and cold. The effect collapsed as he devoured it.
The master of the house stood staring, his ghostly face slack with shock. Cat lunged up and forward, and for a moment he stood locked with the ghost. In life, it would have been no contest; but the ghost still drew energy through the circle of the children, and with the house insisting on its presence all around them, the spirit was as solid to the touch as flesh would have been. For a moment, they stood locked, strength against strength; then Cat shifted his weight, and felt the opening as the ghost failed to follow. He twisted, sending the ghost past, avoiding its force and more, drawing it into the void he had created...
It screamed as it fell into the darkness and cold, as Cat devoured it. A shockwave of ice rolled out across the aged wooden floor, momentarily dispelling the house's memory of itself and revealing weathered wood layered over with dirt and ash.
Cat staggered and fell to his knees. His head was throbbing, and his blood alternated hot and cold. He knew what "children" the master of the house had lost; he knew that they had been horrible, rotted things, murderous and deranged and uncontrollable, animated by the darkest of Arts. Small wonder the peasants had killed them; they'd had no choice. It was that or wait to be killed.
For a moment his heart stopped; then, entirely on its own, it started beating again.
He knew how the peasants had trapped and destroyed the master's monstrous children, two centuries earlier; he knew how the master had created them; he knew how the master had died, poisoned by his servants; he knew how the master had watched, screaming in bodiless rage, as the peasants had burned his body and scattered the ashes. He remembered fifty years of studying the Art alive, and two more centuries of study as a ghost. He wanted to pound his head against the wooden floor until the memories went away.
Mara smashed through the non-existent front door, which reformed itself (now open again) behind her.
Cat raised his head, and forced his body to be still. "Basement," he said. He could feel Delissa approaching, and feel the house recoiling from the energies that cycled through her and filled the air around her. She must have come in the back. "There's a circle in the basement." He could still feel it. He could remember the connections that had been forced between the children. "Don't break it. Tell them to do it."
Then the wooden floor was rushing towards the side of his face. He didn't have the strength to stop it.
Lure of the Ghost House IV
The house enfolded him, becoming more solid and real with every step he took towards it. The ruins were easily forgotten; Cat walked a clean cobblestone path through a well-maintained garden surrounded by low stone walls. He circled the stone fountain, now intact and flowing with clear water, and continued on. Three shallow steps led up to the doors, which stood open to the night. This was not a place of fear and tragedy, but someone's beloved home.
He stopped in front of the steps, and tightened his hands on the haft of his navic. It was a curious weapon; not quite a sword, but not quite a polearm, either. The blade was fit for a saber, but the handle was as long as the blade, and wrapped after the fashion of a sword. The house wanted him to be comfortable, to admire its cleanliness and splendor, but Cat remained indifferent. The blade in his hand was a potent reminder of why he was here.
He reached out, forcing himself to focus on the physical substance of the house, even as its ghost became more real to him. The stone steps were still cracked, the doorway still blackened by smoke and fire, though they insisted to him that they were whole and intact. He could feel something else, almost lost in the intersection of the vin-cha beneath the house, almost hidden by the house itself: someone had created a tracery that flowed through the whole structure.
Small wonder the house remembered the shape it once had. Small wonder it had awakened, and was trying to convince him that it still was what it once had been. Insanity was not unique to living men and women; the spirits could be just as mad, in their ways.
He realized then that he'd been wrong. He'd expected a single problem, that whoever had taken the children was also causing the change in the house. Standing at the doorway, he knew that the house was manifesting on its own. In the process, it was concealing whatever intelligence remained inside... but likely also interfering with whatever that one was trying to do.
Where are the children? he asked it, pushing the thought outward.
The house ignored him. It didn't care about the children. It cared about itself, and perhaps about the people who had once lived there... but as the women had said, the people from the village never came here. It wouldn't know them.
Still, someone had created a tracery, a rarified and invisible structure that ran through the house itself, tracing the shapes of the walls and floors, doors and ceilings. When the house was whole, it would have allowed anyone with the right sort of talent to extend themselves throughout the house, just as Cat extended his own energies through the navic. Now, though, with the spirit of the house awake and active...
Cat stepped through the door. For a moment, all he could see was the house as it once had been. Little things shifted, furniture changing places, pictures replacing each other on the walls, but the house remained itself. It took an effort to extend his senses back to the merely physical, to feel the rubble and ash and detritus, the ruined walls and the shattered windows.
Kneeling, he placed a hand against the floor and attempted to extend himself along the paths of the tracery. The house pushed back, trying to hold him out, and he decided not to force it. Hush, he whispered. You're beautiful. I only wish to see through you.
There was a momentary hesitation, and then agreement. His awareness flowed through the house, from the long, low attic -- destroyed now, but remembered strongly enough that it might still have supported his weight -- to the rough stone of the basement, carved from the stone of the hilltop. The other mind was there, of course, cold and dead and angry, gathering power through the young, bright lives arrayed around it.
It twisted away, but the children remained in their circle: still linked to each other, and to the dead thing that had gathered them from the village. Cat could feel the focus of the circle moving, rising, approaching.
He looked up, and found himself facing a ghost.
He stopped in front of the steps, and tightened his hands on the haft of his navic. It was a curious weapon; not quite a sword, but not quite a polearm, either. The blade was fit for a saber, but the handle was as long as the blade, and wrapped after the fashion of a sword. The house wanted him to be comfortable, to admire its cleanliness and splendor, but Cat remained indifferent. The blade in his hand was a potent reminder of why he was here.
He reached out, forcing himself to focus on the physical substance of the house, even as its ghost became more real to him. The stone steps were still cracked, the doorway still blackened by smoke and fire, though they insisted to him that they were whole and intact. He could feel something else, almost lost in the intersection of the vin-cha beneath the house, almost hidden by the house itself: someone had created a tracery that flowed through the whole structure.
Small wonder the house remembered the shape it once had. Small wonder it had awakened, and was trying to convince him that it still was what it once had been. Insanity was not unique to living men and women; the spirits could be just as mad, in their ways.
He realized then that he'd been wrong. He'd expected a single problem, that whoever had taken the children was also causing the change in the house. Standing at the doorway, he knew that the house was manifesting on its own. In the process, it was concealing whatever intelligence remained inside... but likely also interfering with whatever that one was trying to do.
Where are the children? he asked it, pushing the thought outward.
The house ignored him. It didn't care about the children. It cared about itself, and perhaps about the people who had once lived there... but as the women had said, the people from the village never came here. It wouldn't know them.
Still, someone had created a tracery, a rarified and invisible structure that ran through the house itself, tracing the shapes of the walls and floors, doors and ceilings. When the house was whole, it would have allowed anyone with the right sort of talent to extend themselves throughout the house, just as Cat extended his own energies through the navic. Now, though, with the spirit of the house awake and active...
Cat stepped through the door. For a moment, all he could see was the house as it once had been. Little things shifted, furniture changing places, pictures replacing each other on the walls, but the house remained itself. It took an effort to extend his senses back to the merely physical, to feel the rubble and ash and detritus, the ruined walls and the shattered windows.
Kneeling, he placed a hand against the floor and attempted to extend himself along the paths of the tracery. The house pushed back, trying to hold him out, and he decided not to force it. Hush, he whispered. You're beautiful. I only wish to see through you.
There was a momentary hesitation, and then agreement. His awareness flowed through the house, from the long, low attic -- destroyed now, but remembered strongly enough that it might still have supported his weight -- to the rough stone of the basement, carved from the stone of the hilltop. The other mind was there, of course, cold and dead and angry, gathering power through the young, bright lives arrayed around it.
It twisted away, but the children remained in their circle: still linked to each other, and to the dead thing that had gathered them from the village. Cat could feel the focus of the circle moving, rising, approaching.
He looked up, and found himself facing a ghost.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Lure of the Ghost House III
The house sat regally atop its hill, its walls full and clean, the glass in its windows whole. The roof was done in regular rows of slate tile, like the finer houses in the village below, and the fountain bubbled with water. Cat stopped at the gate, his feet still on the overgrown cobbles outside; inside, the path was clean and straight, the grass neatly trimmed. "Do you feel that?" he asked.
Beside him, Delissa said: "It was ruined, overgrown..." Then she straightened.
Mara was already nodding. "I see it, but... there's no substance. When I feel it, I feel the ruins." She stopped, staring. "I've never seen the ghost of a house before."
"There's someone inside, remembering it into this shape." Cat didn't want to be saying this, but he didn't have time to be indirect. There were children inside, and the townspeople were scared; that said enough for their relationship to the ruined house, and whatever might be here. "If the children aren't dead, then he's using them."
"For what?" asked Delissa. She had raised her spear; now she lowered it slightly, hesitating.
Cat shook his head. "I have no idea." Here, where two veins of the world's invisible life-blood crossed, there was plenty of energy: enough to restore the house in truth, not just in appearance.
"It's a circle," said Mara. "He didn't take all the children, only the ones with enough talent to contribute. Whoever he is, whatever he is, he's using them to raise more power."
Cat nodded as that piece fell into place. "Let me go in," he said Mara. "Let me try to talk to him."
Delissa said, "You can't talk to..." Then she fell silent.
Mara turned a curious look his way. "You think you can?"
Cat shrugged. "If we all go charging in there, he'll turn their energies against us... or he'll kill them. If I walk in alone... he might at least be curious."
Mara nodded. "What about us?"
Cat considered. "He's invested a lot of himself in this house. If I don't come out, take it apart. Scatter it, destroy it. Or attack, and try your hand at destroying him -- whoever and whatever he is." And however that might go.
Mara nodded again, more slowly this time. "Do it."
Expressionless, Cat stepped through the gate.
Beside him, Delissa said: "It was ruined, overgrown..." Then she straightened.
Mara was already nodding. "I see it, but... there's no substance. When I feel it, I feel the ruins." She stopped, staring. "I've never seen the ghost of a house before."
"There's someone inside, remembering it into this shape." Cat didn't want to be saying this, but he didn't have time to be indirect. There were children inside, and the townspeople were scared; that said enough for their relationship to the ruined house, and whatever might be here. "If the children aren't dead, then he's using them."
"For what?" asked Delissa. She had raised her spear; now she lowered it slightly, hesitating.
Cat shook his head. "I have no idea." Here, where two veins of the world's invisible life-blood crossed, there was plenty of energy: enough to restore the house in truth, not just in appearance.
"It's a circle," said Mara. "He didn't take all the children, only the ones with enough talent to contribute. Whoever he is, whatever he is, he's using them to raise more power."
Cat nodded as that piece fell into place. "Let me go in," he said Mara. "Let me try to talk to him."
Delissa said, "You can't talk to..." Then she fell silent.
Mara turned a curious look his way. "You think you can?"
Cat shrugged. "If we all go charging in there, he'll turn their energies against us... or he'll kill them. If I walk in alone... he might at least be curious."
Mara nodded. "What about us?"
Cat considered. "He's invested a lot of himself in this house. If I don't come out, take it apart. Scatter it, destroy it. Or attack, and try your hand at destroying him -- whoever and whatever he is." And however that might go.
Mara nodded again, more slowly this time. "Do it."
Expressionless, Cat stepped through the gate.
Lure of the Ghost House II
Cat woke to the sound of angry voices. There were people outside the guest-lodge, too many people for this time of night. On the far side of the lodge, he felt Mara sit up; he felt the stirring of Gai-Cha around her, and felt the pistol in her hand. He stood, shedding his blanket, and his navic came into his hand. He followed the commander to the door.
Mara was not tall; she was shorter than Delissa, and stockier, with sandy blonde hair cut close to her skull, pale and freckled skin, and sharp blue eyes. She was also a good five years older than the other two, just past her thirtieth year. She pushed the door open and stepped out beside Delissa. "What is this?" she asked, her voice hovering in the toneless region between inquiry and threat.
The crowd fell silent. It was a crowd, and not quite a mob; only a handful of them were armed, and they seemed more upset than violent.
A woman stepped forward: older, heavyset, with her back held straight and her gaze clear. "My Sinna is missing," she said. "So are other children, boys and girls both. You have to get them back."
Mara frowned, but lowered her pistol. "What happened?"
Cat knew the answer almost before she finished the question; it came to him in a flickering spark of intuition. He knew, but he couldn't explain.
"The house has taken them. Old Yeric saw him come down, saw him gather our children and take them up the hill." She looked past Mara, and Cat found himself suddenly the focus of attention: the woman's, and everyone else in the crowd's. "That's why we never go up there. You did, and you woke him up."
Mara turned, and Cat bowed his head. It's possible, he thought. It's more than possible.
"I... see," said Mara. She turned back to the crowd. "We'll bring them back if we can." She turned back to Cat and Delissa. "Gather your things, and then show me where you went."
Cat nodded and stepped back through the door. He meant to gather the rest of his weapons, but Mara caught his arm as soon as the door swung closed behind them. "What did you do?" she demanded.
He paused, because words had never come easily to him. "There's a ruin on top of the hill. I went and looked at it. I didn't do anything, but..." ...just my being there... "...that might have been enough."
"Obviously it was," snapped Delissa. "Come on. Let's go fix your mistake."
Mara was not tall; she was shorter than Delissa, and stockier, with sandy blonde hair cut close to her skull, pale and freckled skin, and sharp blue eyes. She was also a good five years older than the other two, just past her thirtieth year. She pushed the door open and stepped out beside Delissa. "What is this?" she asked, her voice hovering in the toneless region between inquiry and threat.
The crowd fell silent. It was a crowd, and not quite a mob; only a handful of them were armed, and they seemed more upset than violent.
A woman stepped forward: older, heavyset, with her back held straight and her gaze clear. "My Sinna is missing," she said. "So are other children, boys and girls both. You have to get them back."
Mara frowned, but lowered her pistol. "What happened?"
Cat knew the answer almost before she finished the question; it came to him in a flickering spark of intuition. He knew, but he couldn't explain.
"The house has taken them. Old Yeric saw him come down, saw him gather our children and take them up the hill." She looked past Mara, and Cat found himself suddenly the focus of attention: the woman's, and everyone else in the crowd's. "That's why we never go up there. You did, and you woke him up."
Mara turned, and Cat bowed his head. It's possible, he thought. It's more than possible.
"I... see," said Mara. She turned back to the crowd. "We'll bring them back if we can." She turned back to Cat and Delissa. "Gather your things, and then show me where you went."
Cat nodded and stepped back through the door. He meant to gather the rest of his weapons, but Mara caught his arm as soon as the door swung closed behind them. "What did you do?" she demanded.
He paused, because words had never come easily to him. "There's a ruin on top of the hill. I went and looked at it. I didn't do anything, but..." ...just my being there... "...that might have been enough."
"Obviously it was," snapped Delissa. "Come on. Let's go fix your mistake."
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Lure of the Ghost House I
Cat stood on remains of a cobbled path, now thoroughly overgrown and half-swallowed by encroaching grasses, and looked past a broken stone fountain to the charred remains of a wooden house. It had been a nice place, once, with stone walls and wooden beams; he could still see fragments of glass in the corner of one window. The hill where it was located offered a nice view of the town below, and more: it was a minor power center, a place where two vin-cha crossed. The energy here was cool and soothing.
"Cat? What are you doing up here?" Delissa stood behind him, regarding him with dark brown eyes beneath a bristle of short-cut black hair. Her skin was dark as the bark of the trees, but softer, and rich with creamy undertones. She'd left her spear back at the guest-lodge, but still wore the battle saber on her left hip.
Cat shrugged. He was only a little taller than Delissa, and his hair and eyes were almost as dark as hers, but his skin was a sun-darkened olive. He'd left none of his weapons behind, and stood with his navic resting on one shoulder; a short indoor saber and a matching knife were tucked into the sash at his waist. "Looking around," he said. "It seems like a nice place."
"This?" asked Delissa, looking past him at the ruins.
Cat just waited, looking at her.
"It's creepy." After a moment, she added: "It suits you."
Cat tilted his head. He found the place quiet and soothing, but then Delissa had always been more social than he; she was competitive, and sometimes abrasive, but she still wanted people around her.
"They'll be serving the dusk-meal soon," she said after a moment. "If you want something to eat, you should come now."
Cat nodded, and followed her back down the hillside to the town.
"Cat? What are you doing up here?" Delissa stood behind him, regarding him with dark brown eyes beneath a bristle of short-cut black hair. Her skin was dark as the bark of the trees, but softer, and rich with creamy undertones. She'd left her spear back at the guest-lodge, but still wore the battle saber on her left hip.
Cat shrugged. He was only a little taller than Delissa, and his hair and eyes were almost as dark as hers, but his skin was a sun-darkened olive. He'd left none of his weapons behind, and stood with his navic resting on one shoulder; a short indoor saber and a matching knife were tucked into the sash at his waist. "Looking around," he said. "It seems like a nice place."
"This?" asked Delissa, looking past him at the ruins.
Cat just waited, looking at her.
"It's creepy." After a moment, she added: "It suits you."
Cat tilted his head. He found the place quiet and soothing, but then Delissa had always been more social than he; she was competitive, and sometimes abrasive, but she still wanted people around her.
"They'll be serving the dusk-meal soon," she said after a moment. "If you want something to eat, you should come now."
Cat nodded, and followed her back down the hillside to the town.
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