Ghost’s call meandered in, and Cadderly drove it away.
Vander? the distant assassin questioned.
Like a mirror, Cadderly offered no response other than to turn the telepathic question back on the winds.
Vander!
Anger. Cadderly felt that above all else. The young priest smiled in spite of the importance of his task, pleased by the confirmation that he had at least unnerved the little assassin.
Then the call was no more, but Cadderly, suspecting the killer who had been so dogged in pursuing him would not give up that important link so easily, didn’t let his guard down.
Vander hissed. Cadderly heard it distinctly.
“Fight!” the young priest cried, both aloud and mentally.
Ivan and Pikel moved to the stall door, weapons ready, as Cadderly had instructed. If the assassin found his way into Vander’s identity, the dwarves would set upon him before he could sort out his surroundings.
But Cadderly had no intention of letting Ghost in, not while the trickster had his body as an open escape route, safely away in Carradoon. The young priest conjured an image of the spinning spindle-disks, shared it with Vander, and together they studied the hypnotic dance, remembered the specific defensive chants Cadderly had taught the giant.
Other, more evil sensations assaulted them, cluttered their space with the anger of another will. Cadderly prayed that Ghost wouldn’t realize that Vander had an ally beside him.
Cadderly watched and chanted, and the firbolg, though his anger rose dangerously, managed to keep Cadderly in his mind.
Together, they drove the would-be possessor away.
“You defy me?” Ghost asked in the dark alleyway. Above anything else, the assassin, vulnerable without Vander, knew such defiance could not be tolerated. Vander was his out, his escape from any situation. He couldn’t allow the firbolg to somehow, somewhere, find the strength to turn his distant intrusions away.
Somehow? Somewhere?
The little assassin breathed a deep sigh. What was going on at the farm? he wondered. He feared that Cadderly might be involved, but how could that be? Certainly Vander, if an attack had come, would have called out to Ghost? Might Cadderly and his friends have taken the farm so quickly that the firbolg never got the chance?
Ghost dismissed the thought. Vander was still alive. Ghost had recognized the receptacle at the other end of his telepathic call. He told himself he was being paranoid, a dangerous state of mind for a killer living on the edge of artistry and disaster. Vander had denied him before, after all, from a distance, where the Ghearufu’s power was not quite the same.
In a few hours, Ghost could call upon the firbolg again and get back in. Vander would not be able to keep up his mental defenses for very long. A twisted grin spread across the wicked man’s face as he considered the boundless possibilities for punishment.
The smile did not last long. Ghost’s mind was clouded by doubt. Something was wrong, and there was simply too much at stake for Ghost to readily accept that Vander had found a moment of strength to keep him out. The assassin had not located Cadderly and the young priest’s friends in some time.
“To the farm,” the assassin decided. He would go there, punish Vander, and regroup his forces.
He slipped out of the alleyway and approached an armed man sitting comfortably on a fine horse.
“Your pardon, gentle sir,” Ghost said meekly to the city guardsman.
The assassin was wearing his mismatched gloves. No need to take chances.
Up on the farmhouse roof, wearing the black-and-silver domino mask and nondescript clothes of a Night Mask, with the cowl of a black cloak pulled low, Danica watched the riders—two men on one horse—moving steadily down the road. The monk leveled her crossbow when the two entered the farmyard. She recognized the man on the back as the same assassin they had found at the Dragon’s Codpiece. Danica’s instincts prompted her to shoot the man from the horse, but Cadderly had warned her that the man might not be what he seemed.
Another factor urged Danica to hold her shot: the man in control of the horse wore the uniform of a Carradoon guardsman.
“He is a friend,” the assassin on the back of the horse called out, seeing Danica atop the roof.
Danica smiled under the cowl, glad that her disguise had apparently fooled the pair.
“Friend,” the guardsman said. He brought the horse into the yard, said something to the other man Danica couldn’t hear, and dismounted, heading straight for the barn.
Danica was confused and worried. Cadderly had expected the weakling assassin to come in and confront Vander, not bring a city guardsman. She still held tight to her crossbow, still wanted to put a quarrel into the evil little man’s androgynous face.
To her further surprise, the guardsman didn’t go into the barn. Instead he moved to the gutter along one corner and began to scale it. He was halfway up the tall structure before the man on the horse took serious note of him, and Danica thought his reaction—wide-eyed and pale—a curious thing.
“What in the Nine Hells is going on?” the young woman whispered.
She looked around the yard to see if Ivan or Pikel had slipped out of the barn, to try to discern if anyone inside had any idea about the strange events in the yard.
The guardsman made the edge of the roof. Danica looked up to see him, and she pulled her cowl tighter, fearing that the man had climbed only to give him a better view of her position—a better view of her.
He paid her little heed, though. He wore mismatched gloves and stood on the edge, looking down at his companion, who, by that time, had dismounted.
“You have outlived your usefulness,” the guardsman explained. He laughed wildly, clapped his hands, and dived headlong off the roof.
His laughter turned to a shriek then a groan then silence.
Danica breathed hard, not beginning to understand what had just occurred. She looked down to the man standing beside the dead guard, saw that it was he who wore the strange gloves. He looked up at her, shrugged, and bolted for the barn door. By the time he got there, the gloves were gone.
“You resisted my call,” Ghost said to Vander. “We have discussed this matter before.”
“This kill is … ugly,” Vander stammered in reply, obviously nervous in facing the man who had been his tormentor for so long. The firbolg gnawed his thick lips under his bushy red beard, wishing that his newfound allies would rush out and end that taunting nightmare.
“I am not speaking of young Cadderly,” Ghost retorted. “He will be dealt with in time, do not doubt. I have come here to speak only with you, the one who dared to resist my call.”
“I did not—”
“Silence!” Ghost commanded. “You know that to resist is to be punished. I cannot complete my task with an unwilling associate out here, safely separated from the town.”
Unwilling vessel, Vander corrected, but he wisely held the thought to himself.
Ghost took a few steps across the barn floor, peering out through a crack in the side boards. “Do you remember your brother?” he teased, referring to the firbolg he had killed when Vander had run away from him, had run all the way back to the distant Spine of the World Mountains.
The wicked little assassin turned, smiling even more widely when he noticed Vander’s great hands clenched in helpless rage at the giant’s side.
Ivan peeked through a crack in the stall’s wall, then looked back, concerned, at Cadderly and Pikel.
The young priest, intent on his telepathic connection with the firbolg, didn’t notice the dwarf at all. He felt Vander’s mounting rage, a blocking emotion that diminished their bond. Things had gone pretty much as Cadderly had expected, but he was no longer certain of how he should react. Even across the miles from Carradoon, Ghost’s intrusion had been difficult to fend off. How would he and Vander fare with the sneaky assassin standing just a few feet in front of the firbolg?
Calm, he imparted to the firbolg. You must remain calm.
&nb
sp; “Punishment,” Ghost purred, putting one finger to his pursed lips. He fingered something in his other hand, something round and gold, though Cadderly couldn’t tell exactly what it might be.
“I never told you this before,” the assassin went on, “but I did more to your son, poor boy, than take his arm.”
Vander’s eyes widened. His great hands twitched, trembled, and his roar shook the walls of the wooden barn.
“Time to go?” Ivan dared to ask aloud under the cover of that prolonged growl.
Cadderly’s mind was filled with a wall of red, the manifestation of Vander’s uncontrollable rage. The young priest was out of contact with the firbolg, he knew, and he knew, too, that by the time he managed to contact his ally once more, the disaster might well be complete. He uncoiled his legs beneath him and accepted Pikel’s arm to hoist him to his feet. Neither his spindle-disks nor his enchanted walking stick offered him much hope in defeating a giant, so he clenched his hand, the hand with the enchanted ring, and reached inside his cloak for the wand.
“No!” he cried out, leading the dwarves into the main area of the barn. Cadderly calmed immediately, though, as did Ivan and Pikel behind him, when he regarded the scene, a scene that Vander apparently had well in control.
The firbolg, panting and growling, held the puny assassin in the air by the throat, shaking him hard, though the man was obviously already dead.
“Vander,” Cadderly said quietly to calm the giant’s rage.
The firbolg paid him no heed. With another roar of outrage, he folded the assassin in half, backward, and hurled him against the barn wall.
“He will return!” the giant wailed. “Always, he comes back for me! There can be no escape!”
“Like a damned troll,” Ivan remarked from beside the firbolg, his voice reflecting sympathy for the beleaguered giant.
“Troll?” Cadderly whispered, the word inspiring an idea.
The young priest held his clenched fist out before him, barked the word, “Fete!” and sent a line of fire at the corpse.
He kept his concentration firm, determined to burn whatever regenerative powers he could from the wretch, determined that Vander would at last be free. He glanced sidelong at the firbolg, took note of Vander’s satisfied expression then noticed, curiously, that Vander wore a golden ring.
Curious indeed, Cadderly thought as he turned back to the charred body, for he was just thinking of looking for such an item on Ghost’s blackened form.
Cadderly searched his memory in an instant. Vander had worn no rings.
Aura.
“Ivan!” Cadderly cried, ending his flames and spinning around. The giant moved as well, whipping out his huge sword, with Ivan standing unsuspecting right beside it.
Cadderly proved the quicker. “Mas illu!” he screamed as he drew the wand. A burst of colors exploded in the firbolg’s face. Blinded, the giant continued his swing, aiming for where Ivan had been.
The dwarf, warned and blinded by the blast, fell back. He heard the tremendous rush of air as the sword passed, taking off his helmet and clipping him enough to send him into a roll.
“I knew I’d get me chance!” the stubborn dwarf growled when he at last righted himself. Never shying from a fight, Ivan took up his axe and charged back in.
Danica slipped into the barn, discerned immediately what was going on, and fired a quarrel into the firbolg’s belly.
The giant howled in pain but was not deterred from parrying Pikel’s powerful charge, deflecting the overbalanced dwarf to the side, where he collided with a beam.
The giant feigned a sword thrust then kicked out instead, sweeping Ivan aside once more.
Another quarrel caught him in the shoulder, but again he seemed to hardly take note of it.
Danica was back at the door, Ivan and Pikel off to the sides, leaving Cadderly as the closest target. The young priest’s first instinct told him to use his ring, to drive the beast back with a line of flame until his friends could regroup.
He realized the grim consequences for Vander, though, for the poor, proud firbolg who had been trapped in the weakling body and tossed aside like so much garbage. The magical ring had no power to restore burned flesh, and if his body was charred, like the assassin’s corpse across the room, the firbolg could never reclaim it.
The giant lurched, popped in the back of the knee by Pikel’s rebounding charge. With a grunt, the beast reached around and grabbed the green-bearded dwarf, hoisting him up into the air.
Pikel stared into the outraged giant’s bloodshot eyes then promptly stuffed his foot up the beast’s flaring nostril and waggled his gnarly and smelly dwarf toes.
Half-sneezing, half-coughing, the disgusted giant hurled Pikel into the far wall and wiped his arm across his face. When he looked back at Cadderly, he found himself staring down the end of that slender wand. Thinking another attack forthcoming, Ghost snapped his eyes shut.
“Illu,” Cadderly said calmly, and the whole barn lit up with the brightness of a midday sun in an open field. Cadderly’s aim had been perfect, though, and soon the glow of his wand’s magic restricted itself to the firbolg’s face, particularly to the giant’s eyes.
Whiteness? When Ghost opened his eyes, he saw only whiteness, glaring and blinding. The whole damned world had gone white! Or perhaps, Ghost wondered, more curious than afraid, he had been transported to some other world.
Another stinging crossbow bolt dived into his belly, driving that notion away.
His roar shook the walls once more, and the light-blind giant charged ahead, toward the unseen bowman, flailing his sword wildly. He slammed into the edge of the open barn door, dislodged the thing, and continued out.
Another quarrel sliced into the giant, and lured him ahead.
Ghost felt a club slam the back of his knee again, slipping through his great legs and tripping him as he tried to spin and react. Down the giant sprawled, shattering a water trough with his face and arms.
Something heavy and sharp, an axe, perhaps, sliced into his ankle, and a crossbow quarrel entered his shoulder, clicking off his huge collarbone.
Somehow the stubborn wretch managed to stand and stagger forward. His already wounded ankle took a hit from the heavy club.
He turned, sword leading, but the dwarf was already out of reach and the mighty weapon smacked hard against a small tree, uprooting it. Growling with rage, Ghost heard scuffling feet as the enemy continued to flank him, to encircle him.
He tried to call for the Ghearufu, even though he knew his own body was inaccessible, and knew that, even if he managed to hold enough concentration to summon the thing, Cadderly would somehow follow his spirit’s movements. He couldn’t get to it anyway. The hits were coming too fast, from every direction.
He jerked about, one way and another, leading with his low-cutting sword each time. Fury became his only defense, and he was confident that he was swift enough to keep his enemies at bay. Only weariness would slow him, and he hoped he could continue the blind assault until the infernal whiteness left his eyes.
Another quarrel whistled in, taking the giant in the lung, and Ghost heard the wheeze of his life’s breath spurting out through a bloody hole.
He swung again and again, frantic and dizzy. He overbalanced, roaring and wheezing. He tried to step forward, but his badly gashed ankle would no longer support him, and he lurched ahead, bending low.
Right in line for the waiting Ivan.
The axe chopped into the firbolg’s backbone. Ghost felt the burning flash then felt nothing at all below his waist. His momentum carried him one more long step forward, an awkward gait on stiff, unsupporting legs, and he tumbled and turned, crashing hard into the base of the huge elm at the side of the house.
There was only whiteness, pain, numbness.
Ghost heard the three friends shuffle near him but had not the strength to lift his sword in defense. Above all else, he heard the bloody wheeze at his side.
“Got him,” Ivan remarked as Cadderly rushed up t
o join his friends. “Ye wanting us to tie him down afore ye talk with him?”
The young priest, stone-faced, did not reply, understanding that the loss of a physical body didn’t end the threat of Ghost. He walked to the side of the helpless giant, took his spindle-disks in hand, and hurled them with all his strength right into the firbolg’s temple.
The battered monster jerked once then slipped to the ground at the side of the tree.
Danica, holding her crossbow low, gaped open-mouthed at her lover’s uncharacteristic lack of mercy.
“Take out your bolts,” Cadderly instructed her, “but do not remove his ring!”
The last image the young priest saw was that of his friends exchanging confused glances, but he had no time to explain.
Spirits were waiting for him.
Cadderly followed the flow of Deneir’s song into the netherworld without hesitation. The material world blurred to him, and his friends appeared as indistinct gray blobs. As he had expected, the young priest saw the spirit of Ghost sitting near the fallen giant’s body—on one of the lower limbs of the elm, actually—the spirit’s head resting in its translucent palm, waiting patiently for the magical ring to open the receptacle for its return.
Cadderly knew then that he had two choices: go back and remove the giant’s ring, or go and find the rightful owner of the soon-to-be-restored body. He willed himself to the barn, leaving his corporeal body standing impassively beside his friends.
Vander’s spirit crouched inside the barn, terribly afraid and uncertain.
You also? came his thoughts to Cadderly.
I am not dead, Cadderly explained, and he beckoned for the firbolg to follow him, showed his lost friend what he must do.
Together, the two spirits set upon Ghost with a vengeance. They could do no real damage to the assassin’s ghost, but they mentally pushed him away, combined their wills to create a spirit wind that increased the distance between the evil spirit and the recovering body.