The Ghosts of Glenaster

By Jonathan Mills

Thomas Taper has returned from the nameless lands, to the joy of Esther Lanark and her friends - yet a shadow hangs over him, and over the empire, as news arrives from the capital that the emperor is dead.

Many powerful people covet the crown, but none are more dangerous than Lord Anguis, a sorcerer from the Spike Lands, a distant and strange country at the very edges of the known world. As the awful truth about Lord Anguis begins to emerge, Esther and Thomas realize that they must journey together once more, to find a lord from a forgotten house who may hold the key to saving the empire.

But this lord has his own secrets, and Thomas, too, is not the man he was – can Esther save him, and herself, from the darkness that threatens to engulf them all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Mills
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463088029

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Many thanks to Allison Brothers, Susan Cartwright-Smith, Mike Evers, Charles French, Colin & Maxine Hill, Rob & Anna Jackson, James Marson, Jessica O’Toole, Rita Øgle Backe, Mary Pages & everyone who has read my work and given words of encouragement, or constructive criticism. Thank you for the journey.

THE STORM

Thomas Taper woke to the swimming of shadows, and the creaking of ghosts, and the roar of a storm, crawling over the valley and pitting the ground with hail.

His eyes turned in his head, from left to right, now looking at me, now at Matthew, and then away, towards the window. The window shivered.

Sarah Lays was wiping his brow, and muttering soothing things, and nodding to him in small secret ways.

By the door, Lukas Broad watched, heavy and still, the firelight combing the bones of his hands and the creases of his face.

And next to him, his cloak and scarf wrapped tightly about him and his hands tucked underneath his arms, was Lemba Brightshoulder, only an inch or two shorter than the ceiling, staring at the man in the bed with a look between fear and love.

Matthew Longfield was sat on one side of the bed, I on the other, behind Sarah. He got up now, and walked over to me.

Come, Esther. We should leave him in peace, let Sarah take care of him.

But, he’s awake, I whispered, afraid he might hear me.

He was alive, I knew that, for his chest rose and fell, and his body wound and unwound itself from time to time, as a man’s will in sleep. He was out of danger. But, though his eyes were open, he did not seem to know where he was, or who we were, or why he was there. He did not speak. Sarah gave him some water, and helped him to drink it. And, after a moment, his eyes closed once more.

I took Matthew’s hand, and followed Lukas and Lemba out of the room.

***

Downstairs, Mab Thornarm and his wife, Kathryn, were perched on stools either side of the kitchen fireplace, their backs to the door. The wind stole dust from the mantel, and rifled through the pockets of the coats hanging by the range. Every now and then, a pulse of lightning would bring briefly into view the room’s hidden things, as they watched from skirting boards and crouched in corners.

Mab turned as we entered, nodding uncertainly.

How is he? he asked, reaching for the poker and stirring the fire with it. He was older than his brother, with long hair that hung about his collar like wet grass, and an untidy beard. His head was hunched into his shoulders, and when he stood he walked with a stoop, as if learning to walk had been a terrible effort, and he had resented it ever since.

The same, said Matthew. Sometimes he wakes, but not for long.

There’s soup, said Kathryn, smiling at me. Would you like some?

I nodded, Yes. She got up and moved to the range.

What soup is it?

All sorts, she said, ladling some into a bowl. It had a light green colour, and smelt vaguely of cauliflower.

There was a table near the range, and she set the bowl down upon it, and passed me a spoon. I sat on a chair and ate the soup, which tasted mostly of pepper, but was hot. I blew ripples across each spoonful to cool it. Kathryn was younger than her husband, and, though her beauty was almost gone, and her teeth uneven or missing, she had the loveliest smile I think I have ever seen.

Lukas lit a cigar, and made small shakes of the head, as if cross with himself. Lemba stared at the wall, and it was difficult to tell if he was thinking, or only listening to the thunder.

Mab went to the window, lifted the curtain. The trees at the edge of the garden seemed to cower in the teeth of the storm.

There’s a man there, he said, after a moment. Matthew joined him at the window, then strode to the door, and opened it. Instinctively, Lukas reached for his sword.

Outside, the hail had turned to sleet. It hissed against the roof, and danced in waves across the face of the night. Emerging from the timberline, not a hundred yards away, was a small man in a thick coat, struggling against the wind, his scarf trying to escape from his neck, and his hands thrust firmly into his pockets.

He came towards us, head down. Matthew called out to him.

Brother!

The man looked up, but kept on coming. Matthew and Lemba ran outside to help him.

He stumbled slightly, but they picked him up and brought him inside. His face was pinched, and he appeared out of breath. Kathryn sat him down by the fire and made him some coffee.

We waited patiently for him to speak, which he did after some minutes, clutching his mug of coffee and taking sips from it like a nervous animal.

My name is Peter. Peter of the Beech, they call me. William of the Gate sent me to tell you that the emperor is dead.

He said all this in a rush, and then fell silent, as if the words he needed to speak had fallen out of his mind suddenly. Matthew was careful with him, as you would be with any fragile thing.

When did you hear this? he asked.

Earlier, said Peter. This afternoon. As soon as word reached the Towers, William sent me. He asked if you could come back.

Matthew’s eye scanned the room. He looked tired.

Of course, we’ll come back with you. But in the morning, after the storm has passed. Mab, have you some dry things for this man? And he’ll need some food, too.

***

We had been nearly a week in Mab Thornarm’s house, some leagues north of the Towers, at the edge of the Green Cities. A few paces from his back door was the Cities’ wall, swaddled in a thick hedge of yew.

The house was large and sturdily built, with a roof of lichen-encrusted slate, and walls of narrow brick. This was where my brother had stayed after he had arrived in the Cities, with Rebecca of the Stars, over a month before. It troubled me that that woman had spent so much time within these walls; but when I met Mab and his wife I could not be angry with them, for he was so honest, and she so gentle, that when they told me how they were ignorant of Rebecca’s true nature, I felt I had no reason to disbelieve them. My brother was sleeping now upstairs, in the bedroom he shared with me, and we had been grateful to escape here, away from the fearful looks of the Grænn, when Thomas had returned to us.

Sarah had spoken the words of recreo, the spell to conjure the dead, as Lord Fyra had commanded her, there in that awful clearing; and indeed something – the Witch herself, perhaps – had emerged from the Widow’s Thorn that night, and dragged Lord Fyra down with it to the nameless lands, far below the bright earth. But in its wake another figure had appeared, sword in hand, and blood and darkness in the creases of his clothing, and had collapsed at our feet. And I had known, even before Lukas had knelt down to lift the hat from his head and sweep the hair from his face, I had known who it was, for it was someone as dear to me as my brother, and my parents, who were lost. Beyond all hope, Thomas Taper had returned to us, had returned to me, like a miracle, or whatever a man might call it if he longed for it hard enough. I did not care where he had been. It was enough that he had come back.

He had been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since, and we had hardly gotten five words out of him in all that time, and none that made any sense. Sarah and Kathryn had taken turns to nurse him, and every time he appeared to wake they would summon the rest of us, and we would stand and look at our friend, as if he were some strange object or exotic animal, some puzzle we did not know how to solve. His body was there, sure enough, but his mind had gone to a faraway place, and perhaps was still in the nameless lands, and did not know how to get back.

Across from the kitchen, on the other side of the hall, was a small parlour, and, as Mab helped Peter out of his wet things and into some dry clothes, Lukas, Lemba and Matthew sat themselves around its old table, closing the door. I hovered in the shadows and listened.

Lukas patted his pockets.

What a time to run out of tobacco, he said. Lemba laughed softly.

The giant’s face was as dark as a bruise, his cloak folded about him like a shroud, and his great limbs appeared frail and brittle. Since the death of Aleya – the woman he had loved, if only briefly – something seemed to have broken inside of him, and once the funeral lay had been sung for her, and the grave dug and covered over, he had remained crouching by it for many hours, and when finally we pulled him away he was like a man forsaken.

Many such graves had been dug since the battle with Lord Fyra’s army, though the corpses of his shadowfighters were burned upon a great fire, and the flames had crept upward into the sky for a long day and night. Brell Thornarm, Mab’s brother, had been sorely wounded during the battle, but had slowly recovered, though he remained in the Cities’ infirmary. And, as we had made our way to Mab and Kathryn’s house, all the faces we saw were haunted each by their own ghost, every eye shivering at the horror they had witnessed.

I had hoped to wait a little before sending word to the capital of what happened here, said Matthew. But if the emperor is dead then it cannot wait any longer. The Court will want to know what Lord Fyra intends, and once they learn that he is dead, too, all hell will break loose. His supporters may blame us.

You were defending yourselves, and your home, said Lukas. And anyway, I don’t think Lord Fyra ever had many supporters at court. Even those that did follow him, did so more out of fear than anything else. They will be relieved he is gone, and grateful to you for getting rid of him. No, our greatest worry is what happens next? There will likely be a struggle for power. There is no true heir, but there are many claimants to the throne, quite a number of whom could press their claim by force if they chose to. The empire could descend into chaos.

Outside, the storm sounded like it was throttling the night. Matthew shivered.

Who are these claimants, then? Do we know?

Lukas blew through his mouth.

Well, other than Lord Stoker, who is now in your dungeons… There is the Lord Pike, of Sanctus - he has a fierce reputation, but is unloved at court, and by pretty much everyone else, too; Lord Carew, of Ustus - he is young, and has some support in the Citadel, but is more interested in ladies and the tourney than court politics; House Parmenter has long had a claim, and they have plenty of acres in Lampra, and in East and West Cross, too - but the present Lord Parmenter is extremely elderly, and has a temper like a lion with a thorn in its toe, and his three daughters more concerned with fighting each other than in currying favour in Ampar; Lord Riaz, of the Light Lands, once vied with Lord Parmenter for the right to levy tolls on the Great Road, before the threat from the Witch became too great – he is noble and brave, but his moods are often dark and unpredictable, and he and the Lord Parmenter can’t stand the sight of one another. Then there are half a dozen smaller houses from the eastern empire - little is known of them but they could mount a claim; House Fairless and House Merewood, also, are far from the capital – though Lord Silas Merewood owns most of the property in Trent, I’m told – but who knows what their ambitions might be, now that the emperor is dead? All of them have armies, all have men loyal to them in one way or another. These are only the ones I can think of. There are at least a dozen others. But I won’t bore you with reciting the lineages of every noble in the empire, even if I knew them all, which, thankfully, I don’t. Most of them are related to each other, anyhow.

Matthew pulled at a piece of thread that had come loose from the curtain, and twisted it about his finger.

What a way to choose a leader… Is there no one else?

Lukas smiled apologetically.

Perhaps some oddly named lords from obscure parts of the empire will remind themselves to me in the watches of the night...

The wind started to shake the windows so hard I thought they would be ripped from their frames.

Perhaps, said Matthew. All of this can wait, for now. I will return to the Towers tomorrow and see how the land lies, then we will discuss it further. There is other business to attend to. I have sent a large company of men to the Blind Woods, to speak to the Sinovi there.

‘Speak to’? said Lukas.

After what they have done, they will be asked to leave the eastern lands. If they are not gone within a week, or should they ever return, my men have orders to kill them.

Hasn’t there been enough killing? said Lemba, quietly.

It does not seem unreasonable, for those who were in league with Lord Fyra, said Lukas. Yet they may have others with them, including Grænn, who escaped the Cities when the firedrakes attacked.

I doubt that was any more than stories, said Matthew. Apart from Magnus, I don’t think they saved many, if any, of our folk. None have returned to tell us of it, certainly. But I have instructed my men to look out for our kin, nevertheless, and escort them home, if that is their wish.

I could hear the rain drumming against the roof. When Matthew opened the curtains to look, it was cascading off the eaves, and bouncing along the ground.

We must make fast our borders. I will send messengers to the Court, and explain what has happened. If they wish to send ambassadors here, to discuss the matter, then that is their right, but I won’t let another army enter the Cities.

Lukas fidgeted in his chair.

Winter is here, he said. The fighting season is over till next spring. For now, most likely, the Court will close ranks and listen to representations from the various claimants to the throne. No one will risk a confrontation during the colder months. Not unless they’re mad.

Quite a few of them are mad by the sounds of it, I thought.

WILLIAM

The following morning, with the storm passed off to the east, and the sky a watery, grey colour, Matthew left for the Towers with Peter, promising to return in a few days with any news.

But nearly a fortnight went by, and the winter winds had really begun to bite, before a party of men arrived from the Towers, including William of the Gate, one of Matthew’s captains. He sat in the parlour and sang and drank ale – half of which dribbled down his long red beard – and told us that Matthew apologized for not coming in person, but a deputation had arrived from the capital, and he was taking counsel with them.

You should’ve seen their faces! he said, laughing so hard I thought the chair underneath him would break. Of course, they tried to be diplomatic about it, but you could tell they were mightily relieved that Lord Fyra had gone. They were certainly very obsequious towards Matthew, I can tell you that. Thought they were going to pin a medal on him! And he laughed some more. One of them said he knew Thomas Taper. Francis Mead, his name was. Deputy Procurator.

His eyes became less merry, and he ran his fingers along the coarse grain of the table. They made a hush, hush sound.

"It seems those who would succeed the emperor have not been slow in making their presence felt. They say that, among others, a noble from the far south, a Lord Anguis - he spat out the word with some distaste – has sent word to the Court staking his claim to the throne."

Already? I asked.

He rolled his eyes.

The skies have been thick with homing pigeons, from one end of the empire to the other. How I detest those filthy birds…

Lemba looked troubled.

Lord Anguis… I am not familiar with that name.

Nor I, said Lukas. Who is he?

They say he is from the Spike Lands, many leagues to the south-east, across the Krv river. It is part of the empire, I understand, though so distant it might as well not be. They say this Lord Anguis has an army of fearsome warriors - ten thousand strong at least - with blades on their armour, and a troop of black ravens that accompany them into battle. And that their leader is a sorcerer of some kind, a warlock.

A warlock?

Yes, Lukas of Sanlo, a warlock! Though I do not put much credence in such stories myself. Nevertheless, they say he has already left the Spike Lands, and is headed north to press his claim.

It will take him many months to get to the capital.

Indeed it will, if he ever does. He may be no more than a myth.

Lemba tapped his foot on the floor.

A frightening myth, he said.

What about this Francis Mead? said William. What shall I tell him about Thomas?

If he wishes to see Thomas, said Sarah Lays, who had appeared in the room without any of us noticing, then he will have to come here. He is in no fit state to travel.

William nodded.

I will ask him.

I would like to speak to this Francis Mead as well, I said, and every head in the room turned to look at me. There are two people I care about, who were very kind to me when I was living in the capital, and I believe they have been put in the workhouse. They have been maltreated. I want to petition the authorities for their release.

William raised his eyebrows – which, like his beard, were impressive – and addressed himself to his tankard, as if to say, Who does this young girl think she is?

And what is to become of Lord Stoker? asked Lukas. A decision will have to be made.

Lord Stoker has asked to take the Cold Path, said William stonily.

The men looked at one another.

What is the Cold Path? I asked. There was silence for a while, then Lemba said:

It used to be a way for lords to avoid bringing shame and dishonour on their house, if they were guilty of a terrible crime. In order to spare them the indignity of a trial and execution, they could take the Cold Path instead, and walk out into the frozen wastes, never to return.

The Cold Path hasn’t been taken for many years, said Lukas. I can’t believe Matthew would allow it.

Or if the Court will, said Lemba. They may wish to bring Lord Stoker back alive, for trial.

What about his brother? I asked. The one Lord Fyra cursed? What will happen to him?

Lord Stoker tells us he has been executed, on his orders, said William. We cannot be sure if this is true, so Matthew has sent men to Easternmost to verify it. But in my heart I do not think Stoker lies, not about this at least. He broke down and wept as he told us.

Easternmost will need a new lord, then, said Lukas.

Indeed. And Stoker had no heir, so far as anyone knows. Still, that is not our problem, fortunately. And now we must be going. He called through to the kitchen. Thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Thornarm! That was the finest drop of ale I’ve had since solstice!

As the men were leaving, Mab asked them about his brother.

He continues well, said William. Those were some wounds the shadowfighters gave him. Many men would have died of them. It is no small miracle that he has not. But he is in good hands. Give it another week or two, and you must come and visit him.

FRANCIS MEAD

The winter wore on, and the old year shrank into the new; and, though Thomas returned to consciousness once or twice more, it was only ever fleeting, and never for long.

The cold was bitter, and some days it grew so bad that frost ribboned the beards of the men, and the water in Mab’s pond became as stiff as glass.

Matthew visited as often as he could, though as the Cities’ Guardian his time was no longer his own, and people were already referring to him, in hushed tones, as Matthew of the Towers. One day he brought an older man with him, silver hair neatly clipped, his cloak of ultramarine threaded through with gold filigree, and his step brisk and careful. This was Francis Mead, Thomas’s old friend from Ampar.

Lukas and I greeted him at the door, but his manner, though polite, was somewhat distracted.

Thomas, is he awake? he asked, as Kathryn took his cloak and we sat together in the parlour. Lukas shook his head. Very well, then. Let me tell you what I know.

Lemba laid a fire, and we listened.

"I meant to come and see you earlier, before year’s end, but Matthew and I have had much to discuss, and I did not want to share what I had heard until I was more certain of it. I was hoping Thomas would be awake by now, but as he is not… What I have to say, I have told before now only to Matthew. William told you, I think, of a Lord Anguis, supposedly a powerful leader from the Spike Lands, who has laid claim to the imperial throne. This, sadly, is true, as it is also true that he has a vast army, perhaps twenty thousand men or more, marching slowly northward. But what I have discovered in recent days troubles me even more. For I had not heard of this Lord Anguis, and my knowledge of the empire is considerable. I knew I had to discover more about him, so I sent messages to those who know the Spike Lands - to Lord Bateman, who has land near the Krv river, and to those imperial agents who have travelled in the region. I have heard back from most of them, and what they have told me, however scant, has led me to a frightening conclusion - that this Lord Anguis represents a threat to the empire greater than anything we have seen in over a thousand years, greater than any warring house, or rogue lord, or the Singer, or even the Witch of Glenaster herself. What I have learned is this.

The Spike Lands are a wild and beautiful place, I’m told, and aptly named, for they are full of high, needle-like mountains, and deep, cruel rivers. And they are a superstitious people there, and for many centuries have believed that, in the caves beneath Mount Zubac, above the raging waters of the River Medvjed, a sorcerer has slept, and local people will not go near that mountain, and all those who do never return. They do not know exactly where he came from, this sorcerer, but all agree it was a long way away, somewhere in the north-east, and the description I have heard matches that of Calmir, the warlock kingdom of old."

Calmir. At that word I felt the blood stir in my veins, and the skin above them turned blue.

"Now, one could dismiss such stories as bedtime tales, fit only for children – except that, when the emperor died, the old volcano that lies at the heart of Mount Zubac erupted, for the first time in centuries, and the skies above the valley were heavy with ash for days, and several villages