Ghosts of Shattered Lives

By Rebecca St. Claire

While returning to Florescia for her coronation as Sezara Vandiamante of the Midnight Court, itinerant monster hunter Gwynarra Caoilfhionn receives a request from the director of the Society for Afterlife and Arcane Research. A series of deadly hauntings by infernal entities and violent ghosts have plagued the citizens of the Atharian Empire, an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cursing Raven Books
• Release date: Oct 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886805802

Book preview

Chapter 1

A spring storm battered the cobblestone streets of Dornbach. As black clouds hurled rain spears from the sky in the early hours of the evening, the street lamps, tall cylinders of black iron topped with a clear Arcanyx crystal, sprang to life, providing illumination for those traveling the streets. The stored magical energies of Arcanyx crystals also powered the brooms sweeping the porches and interiors of shops, taverns, and homes as well as the handful of horseless carriages the wealthiest of Dornbach’s citizens used for travel. Thunder’s roar and the rain’s patter deafened the rumblings of the iron wheels on the mechanical carriages and the rhythmic footfalls of the jackboots worn by the Atharian Empire’s soldiers as they patrolled the streets of this border city. Lightning flashed, illuminating the few adults who walked the streets.

A lone figure whose face was shrouded by a heavy black cloak walked the rain-soaked streets, drawing the attention of a patrol of soldiers. This cloaked figure allowed the front point of the brim of their tricorn hat to protrude from under the hood. A small sword, a flintlock pistol, and three crystal vials hung from the leather sword belt, and the figure had something strapped to their back shaped like a Froamian harp. The soldiers followed the figure as their path moved from the Great Stone Market toward the Gold District, home to the city’s elites.

The figure’s pace remained steady, almost too steady, as they walked with the soldiers trailing them. This figure turned down an alley near the southern edge of the Gold District. Victory Park, a park built to commemorate the Empire’s triumph over Froam and Edrium half an age ago. The stone fence and statues in Victory Park were built from the ruins of temples dedicated to The Lunar Huntress and the Lady of Fire and Iron, temples destroyed during the Empire’s expansion. All temples not serving the Lord of Sky and Storm and the Lady of Hearth and Field suffered similar fates once the Atharian Empire crushed the city’s resistance under their steel-heeled boots.

The opulent marble facades of the buildings in the Gold District towered over this lone figure as they walked through the dim alley. The figure stopped, and the soldiers halted their movement, observing. The figure looked around, glancing through a side eye at the soldiers. The figure nodded once and then continued on their way to the Iron District.

A row of pale blue Arcanyx crystals pushed gentle breezes toward the Iron District, blocking the reek of rotten eggs, oil, and burning coal from impeding the Gold District’s airspace. The stone and marble of the Gold District gave way to the iron, copper, and wood of the Iron District’s factories and refineries. The soldiers slowed their pace as this stranger in black moved farther into the heart of the city’s industrial zone and turned onto a street that descended toward the Dross Pits.

The lone figure turned onto a side street that ended in a two-story half-timber tavern named the Wolf and Mist. Once under the awning before the door, the figure pulled back her hood. This woman who appeared to have at least some Elvish blood in her veins had short, wavy hair, charcoal at the roots but fading to an elegant silver at the tips that brushed against the fair skin of her chin. As she pushed the cloak over her shoulders, the elegant cream blouse protruded from under the sleeveless black leather vest and black leather bracers. She exhaled and stepped inside.

Unlike the cold, harsh, drab, and now soaked exterior of the Iron District, the Wolf and Mist’s interior was warm and inviting. Sumptuous burgundy wallpaper adorned with golden filigree covered the walls. Cloths of gold-trimmed burgundy fabric covered the wooden tables. A three-pronged candelabra of hand-blown blackened glass stood at the center of each table. The flames of the candles flickered and danced to the sound of the bard by the hearth whose masterful command of his violin, evidenced by a classical piece from the famed Florescian composer Cordelia Arenfroi, allowed all inside to forget the dreariness of the evening.

The woman strode toward the bar. The patrons seated at the various tables watched her steps. Their conversations halted. The violinist faltered, his vibrato warbling in anxious anticipation. A chorus of whispers punctuated the woman’s steps. She’d heard them all before.

"Is that her? Is that the Gwynarra Caoilfhionn?"

She’s the one who slew the Dread Wight of Colgaran Pass.

Poor thing, what happened to her adoptive family, terrible. And this is how she chooses to survive.

I heard she banished the Seven-Headed Serpent Dancer in the desert south of Samar Adin.

She’s never killed one of us before. She wouldn’t. We’re safe.

But she’s Gwynarra Caoilfhionn. She banished the Crematory Wraith back to the Ashen Wastes. How can we be safe?

It’s only a matter of time.

Gwynarra’s ears twitched and burned each time that last question arose. Patrons cleared the stools at the bar as she neared. She lowered her head and sighed. Taking a seat the bar, she raised her hands, holding them open to show she had no weapons drawn and ready. The crowd slowly returned to their own conversations, and the bard regained his hold over the music. The bartender, a young-looking human man with brown hair pulled into a ponytail and secured with a burgundy ribbon bowed in Gwynarra’s direction. She nodded, offering a gentle smile as her crimson eyes flashed.

He approached her, and with a silken baritone that revealed the slightest hint of a fearful tremble, he greeted her. Welcome to The Wolf and Mist. Your reputation precedes you, Lady Vand—er, Lady Caoilfhionn, forgive me. I am Pyetir. What may I serve you?

Gwynarra gave the tavern’s main room a quick glance. A few patrons still had eyes on her. She raised her voice enough to be heard but not enough to overshadow other conversation as she said in her fading Froamian brogue, Just here for a meal and then passing on in the morning. When the last set of eyes turned away from her, she lowered her voice to its normal volume, allowing the sweetness of her lilting intonation emerge. Don’t suppose you have any vintages from the Bologrein Fields or maybe the Zyntarias Islands, do you, Pyetir?

Pyetir nodded slowly, stroking his chin with his left thumb. We don’t have any Florescian vintages, not since the trade treaty fell through. We do have a handful of Syntarian vessels—human only. We lost the last Lyopar yesterday.

Gwynarra nodded with solemn understanding. Human will suffice.

Pyetir nodded. One will be ready in half an hour. Care for a drink while you wait?

While I can enjoy it, I would love a Rosso Regale Brachetto, if you have any. Otherwise, your sweetest wine.

Pyeter nodded and smiled. The tips of his fangs peeked from his thin lips. That will be forty torbal for the wine and the doll.

Gwynarra reached into her belt pouch and produced the required rectangular silver coins. She placed them on the bar and slid them toward Pyeter. He scooped up the coins with a deft hand while pouring the sparkling red wine into a crystal glass. As Gwynarra grasped the stem, he said, May we all live long enough to mourn the loss of taste at your first century.

Gwynarra’s lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed. I’d prefer that to not happen, but Papa told me it was inevitable.

Pyeter left her to drink. As the effervescent wine tickled her tongue, Gwynarra smiled and kicked her feet, bouncing as the flavors danced on her taste buds. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time since she entered Dornbach. The rose petal notes cut through the sweetness of the berries, adding a complexity to an otherwise simple but elegant wine. Half an hour passed, and Pyeter returned, handing Gwynarra a copper key and directed her to room thirty-seven, located on the second floor. She drained the last of her wine, thanked him, and ascended the wooden staircase.

The rooms on this hallway were small and close together and had between them, but they served the purpose patrons of The Wolf and Mist desired. Gwynarra unlocked the room and found a middle-aged human male with dark olive skin, lustrous black hair, and tired eyes. Scratches and bite marks decorated his neck, arms, and exposed hairy chest seated on a bench. He bowed. His voice was rich and accented, more so than Gwynarra’s. Greetings, mistress. What is your pleasure with this one tonight?

Blood dolls maintained a high level of formality in their speech when dealing with vampires. Gwynarra sighed. You can tell me your name. I’m just looking for a quick bite.

Does this one’s name matter, mistress? This one is but food and perhaps a moment of pleasure?

Gwynarra winced at his last offering. You are a person, a living human being. If remaining unnamed will make this go smoothly, then so be it. But, do you consent to being fed upon?

The man nodded. This one consents, mistress. Take your sustenance from this one’s body where you desire most.

You’re a bit tall, so please be seated. I will only drink from your neck. This won’t be long.

As mistress commands. The man bowed and sat on the bench. This one’s body is yours for the time.

Gwynarra tensed as a sickness churned her stomach. Yes, vampires often engaged in other carnal pleasures with blood dolls, and that was often understood to be part of the arrangement. And the act of being fed upon often elicited a pleasurable response from mortals. Even if she were attracted to this person, the idea of moving from feeding to fucking felt awkward, but in times of high emotion, she sometimes indulged in further carnal pleasures.

She approached and sat beside him. He leaned forward. The man smelled of spice and sweet wood. Scars decorated the man’s neck where he had taken repeated piercings. Scar tissue impaired feeding and often added unpleasant pain to the mortal’s sensations. A few open sections remained.

Gwynarra moistened her lips as she leaned forward. Her young fangs glistened in the dim light provided by the single red Arcanyx lamp. The man offered no resistance, and he moaned and grunted as the vampire pierced his skin just above the point where his neck met his right shoulder. Gwynarra held for a moment, feeling the blood flow around them before releasing the bite. Warm blood seeped from the two puncture wounds, she suckled and lapped at the spicy, sweet blood. After a few moments, she pulled her lips away and dragged her tongue across the wound to encourage coagulation.

Thank you, she said. Enjoy your night.

This one thanks you, mistress, for allowing this one to be in your service for this briefest of moments. May you be well.

Gwynarra left the room. As she passed one of the mirrors, the presence of her reflection told her aluminum backed the reflective glass. She fixed her hair. The green had returned to her eyes, and she could walk the daylight without arousing suspicion for at least a week. She returned the key to the bartender and departed, having already secured a room at the White Hart for the night.

The next afternoon, Gwynarra whimpered and groaned as she stretched herself awake. Sunlight peeked around the edges of the window’s red oak shutter. Gwynarra propped herself up on her elbows as she pushed her back against the rustic wooden headboard. She always slept naked save for the silver pendant six small golden Arcanyx crystals set along its edge she never removed from around her neck, and until six years ago, she had grown accustomed to the cool, soft satin sheets in the Vandiamante castle. Few inns had comparable bedding, even in the wealthier neighborhoods of large cities. But she was alive, and that mattered.

Gwynarra dressed and descended to the common hall for a quick meal before setting out on the road. Located near the city’s western gate, the White Hart catered to travelers and traders who wanted a soft-enough bed and a warm, filling meal for a small amount of coin. Travelers from other parts of the Atharian Empire, the Indigo Coast’s free cities, and other nations on or near the continent of Deomoht. Humans, Elves, a handful of Dwarves, Gnomes, and small group of red-furred Vulparin traders dined and conversed at the long communal tables as the ever-shifting aromas of the perpetual stew from the hearth, the hoppy beers poured from the kegs, and the baking loaves of crusty rye bread perfumed the air.

Gwynarra walked toward the rustic stone hearth where a stack of bowls and spoons rested. As she reached for a bowl, the innkeeper, a curvy Half-Elven woman with an angular bob of silver and mahogany hair called out to her in the Froamian tongue. You’ve got a flesh board waiting for you at the table in the corner, all paid for by the couple seated. Clients?

Gwynarra shrugged. I was on my way home. Didn’t have any work here.

The innkeeper nodded, and Gwynarra approached the table in the corner. Seated at the table were two humans, a couple, who appeared to be in their late twenties or maybe early thirties. The man’s tanned arms, neck, and face suggested a farmer or some kind of outdoor laborer, and the woman’s scent, curves, and the infant nursing her breast suggested she had given birth a month ago. The man rose to greet Gwynarra with a bow. Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, and she thanked the Lady of Hearth and Field for Gwynarra’s arrival.

Gwynarra sat and made a simple sandwich from the salted pork, hard cheese, and crusty bread bits from the flesh board. Before taking a bite, she smiled. Thank you for the meal. Is there something I can do to help? She looked over her shoulder. Nothing seemed amiss. She then added, And how did you know I was here?

The man swallowed hard. Hope we didn’t offend, Miss, but I heard the guards talking about a stranger walking in the rain. Didn’t know it was you, as you say, but we prayed. He looked toward his wife and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, allowing his meaty fingers to massage her shoulder. We been praying for three days now.

I’m not the most maternal, Gwynarra said. How am I the answer to prayer?

But you are, Miss, the woman said. You see, our son, Franzith, he ran into the Whispering Tunnels after his dog three days ago. Well, Zurbail returned home yesterday, Franzith hasn’t.

Gwynarra nodded. The Whispering Tunnels? Sorry, I’m not from around here.

The man nodded. An old mine shaft right outside town in the Shunkrir Peaks. We abandoned it a decade ago after strange noises and a cave in killed a dozen miners. Been haunted ever since.

Everyone knows not to go there, the woman said. We tell the kids when they misbehave, the Whispering Ghosts of hungry miners will call them to the caves and eat them. Franzith knew better, but he wouldn’t abandon the dog. We hope—no, we pray—we pray he’s still alive.

And the city guards, Gwynarra asked. Are they of no help?

The man spat on the floor. He leaned close and whispered. The guards are great at scaring starving people off from stealing a loaf of bread, but they won’t even go into the Tunnels. When we heard you were passing through, we prayed you’d be who you are and hoped perhaps you’d be willing to find our boy. We’ll pay. As much as we can.

The man pulled a sack of coins and dropped it onto the table. The coins jingled. Gwynarra opened the pouch and ran her fingers over the torbal. She counted out twenty-five torbal and placed them in her coin purse before pushing the remaining coins toward the couple. Their jaws dropped.

I don’t know if your son still lives. If I bring back a corpse, this will cover burial. If he lives, he’ll guide me to his home. The Whispering Tunnels, northeast of the city?

Yes, follow the southern path once you exit. Thank you. The man said.

Gwynarra nodded, rose from the table, and left the inn.

Chapter 2

The snowcapped Shunkrir Peaks formed the northeastern border of the Atharian Empire. The Gundarak Tundra, now uninhabited save for a clan of long-fur Lyopar and the former home of the last dragon slain during the early years of the Age of Iron, stretched to the north, bounded by Hoarfrost Bay. Rich in copper, iron, and Arcanyx crystal deposits, the Shinkrir Peaks provided the Atharian Empire with near boundless natural resources.

Gwynarra traveled by a dapple gray mare she acquired at the Night Bazaar in Samar Adin shortly after she fled the Vandiamante castle. She traded the mechanomagical mare for this horse, which she named Siobhan, and for her flintlock pistol. Nothing connecting her to the Vandiamante family remained aside from her undead nature, a golden key she wore around her neck, and the silver-edged small sword on her hip.

The sun burned her eyes, and Gwynarra squinted. Her vision faded to shades of gray in the sunlight, and her exposed skin prickled. She yawned. A throbbing pain burst from the left side of her head, keeping her brain in a foggy, distracted state. The pang of a serated knife ripping jagged lines in her stomach, accompanied by a deep rumbling growl caused Gwynarra to wince. Day-walking was dangerous for her kind, especially those still in their fledgling years when their powers had not fully developed.

Two paths through the mountains greeted her, and following the vague instructions the man who hired her gave, Gwynarra followed the southern path. Last night’s rain cooled the spring air, providing a respite to the heat the sun forced upon Gwynarra’s skin. The once beaten mining path had been overtaken by the sharp-edged cerulean blades of dragon grass. Half an hour of travel brought Gwynarra and Siobhan to the mine shaft now known as the Whispering Tunnels. The wooden frame had been boarded over, but only three boards remained. Dogs and small children would have had no trouble slipping into these tunnels.

After tying Siobhan to one of the horse posts and kissing her nose, Gwynarra dropped to her hands and knees and crawled inside the mine shaft. The initial chamber had an alcove off to the left. Gwynarra ducked into the darkness it provided and exhaled. Her skin cooled, and the throbbing slowly left her head, allowing her focus and vision to return to normal. Her stomach growled. Gwynarra removed the vial containing a viscous plum-hued liquid from her belt and swigged the alchemic blood. She’d need to make more soon.

Gwynarra blinked and released a residual yawn before surveying the entrance chamber. The steel rock bolts and wooden frames appeared sturdy, and most of the Arcanyx crystal lanterns set into the walls or ceilings remained in place. The stored arcane energies within them, however, had dissipated some time in the past. Footprints littered the chamber’s dirt floor. Gwynarra moved toward them, dropped to one knee, and examined the prints. Most were adult in size, looters perhaps—maybe mourners searching for their fallen loved ones. She shook her head. And then a series of paw prints about the size of her palm drew Gwynarra’s attention. The boy—Franzith—followed his dog into the Whispering Tunnels, and so, Gwynarra followed the dog’s trail deeper along the mine shaft.

The dark mine shaft reeked of fungus and molds. The steel tracks for the mine carts had rusted and snapped in several locations. Skullcap and heartsbeat mushrooms, goldleaf ferns, and snapdragon moss grew up through, around, and over the remnants of the Atharian mine. Gwynarra plucked a handful of each mushroom, knowing their alchemical uses would be of benefit later. Silence, broken only by Gwynarra’s footsteps as she followed the path, filled the cool, humid air.

Broken glass bottles, discarded tools, and bloodied clothing littered the tunnel’s floor. Adult-sized footprints thinned, and a pair of smaller prints appeared A faint blue light flashed in the distance and then receded into the darkness. Gwynarra drew her sword. An Atharian krait, identified by the bands of bronze and black scales, slithered over her boot. She stabbed it with her blade. The light flashed again and then flickered three times at uneven intervals. Gwynarra cocked her head. That was curious. With one eye on the flickering and moving light and the other on the small human footprints, Gwynarra crept along the passage.

The light grew brighter as Gwynarra continued. The flickering became less frequent and more irregular in its flashings. Another krait slithered along the dirt. Poisonous snakes didn’t bode well for the mortal boy’s chances of survival. A cool wind carried a soft but malevolent giggle to Gwynarra’s ears. Perhaps there was something to the place’s name.

Gwynarra continued along the path, and after stabbing three more kraits, the source of the flickering light revealed itself. A hanging lantern swung from the explosive force of the cracked pale blue Arcanyx crystal inside it. And the bursts of energy appeared to be the source of the breeze. Gwynarra nodded.

She jerked her head when the giggling returned and was then followed by a lilting, melodic voice with a heavy sibilant vibrato. Come now, sweet treat. This won’t sting at all. You won’t suffer or starve. Silent and stately. Doesn’t that sound serene?

Gwynarra lifted her head. Snakes. A basilisk? They didn’t speak, so that couldn’t be it. A Lamia was possible. A Naga? No, they weren’t native to this part of Eilofoth, and this cave was too far from a known body of water, but the air was humid. No, Gwynarra shook that thought from her head. Naga tended to be helpful and wise. This creature’s words dripped with venom. At least the child appeared to be alive—unless someone else had ventured farther in.

The impression the child’s parents gave suggested these tunnels were haunted, but nothing thus far suggested anything incorporeal. Gwynarra sheathed her sword and drew her flintlock, poured shot from a measuring flask into the barrel, and loaded a hollow silver ball filled with blessed salt into the barrel. After priming the pistol, she unsheathed her blade again and continued following the creature’s hissing voice.

Oh, come now. It’s not as if I’m going to sup on your sweet, tender flesh. Your salty tears won’t season your bones, but your skin will glisten.

The voice grew louder and echoed off the rocks of the cavern. Gwynarra heard the child’s whimpering tears. If this was Franzith, he was still alive, but this serpentine creature had other plans. It laughed as it taunted the crying boy. Treading lightly, Gwynarra but quickened her pace. It was only a matter of time before the creature caught the boy.

Gwynarra soon reached the location of the cave in. Bones and mining gear were mixed with the falling rocks. Someone had carved a small opening in the rocks large enough for an Edrium shepherd dog or a small child to easily crawl through. Gwynarra kneeled. There was a chamber beyond that appeared to have statues in it. Curious discovery in an abandoned mine shaft. Since she no longer had the afternoon sun beating down upon her, Gwynarra shifted her form into that of a crimson-tinged mist and floated into the chamber beyond.

Once she returned to her Elven form, Gwynarra surveyed the chamber. A dozen realistic statues decorated an otherwise empty chamber. Nine statues depicted men who appeared to be miners, some with their hands covering their faces and others cowering on their knees. The other three looked like young men with backpacks, shovels, picks, tools, and flintlocks. Each face displayed abject terror as they posed to beg for mercy they didn’t receive. One of the young men held the remains of a shattered mirror.

Gwynarra nodded as the creature’s taunting laughter floated into the chamber. So sad, isn’t it? You should have slithered off before I returned. Now, you’ll stay as a statue in my sculpture room.

Please, a young boy, Franzith, Gwynarra assumed, said as his tears choked his voice. Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want to be stone. Please, I’m so sorry.

A gorgon had taken up residence in this tunnel, Gwynarra thought. Maybe she was there all along. I don’t know. Seems Franzith had a chance to leave but didn’t—or couldn’t—take it. I’ll be safe from her poison and petrification, but I don’t know how far along the transmutation process is for the child.

Weapons in hand, Gwynarra followed the tunnel, keeping low to avoid detection. Humidity thickened and warmed the air, and the gurgling of water became a contrapuntal line to the gorgon’s taunting, brittle laughter that reverberated through the passage. Gwynarra halted as the passage opened to a massive chamber with a large natural spring in its center. Grass and flowering plants grew from the soil. Gwynarra lifted her gaze and winced. A carriage-sized hole in the ceiling granted sunlight access to the grotto.

A shaped stone altar stood at the spring’s far edge. A recurve bow made of massive bones, a quiver of arrows, and a ritual dagger rested atop the altar. The gorgon, dressed in a brown dress cinched at the waist, stalked back and forth in the distance. Bronze and black scales covered her slender body, and snakes like those Gwynarra killed in the mine slithered and writhed on her head. This one had no wings.

As the gorgon stalked back and forth, taunting the child, Gwynarra caught a glimpse of her victim. The young boy cowered in the corner, panting and crying. His feet, shins, and knees had petrified. Gwynarra could save him if she hurried, but by sunrise tomorrow, the boy would be a statue. As the gorgon lunged at Franzith and then laughing as he screamed and cried, Gwynarra pulled the trigger and fired her flintlock.

Franzith screeched and covered his ears as the shot’s thunderous explosion reverberated through the grotto. The gorgon screeched like a wounded falcon as the ball pushed through the scales on her right shoulder. Carmine blood oozed from the wound. The gorgon arched her back, writhing in pain. She spun around and glared at Gwynarra. A sadistic and hungry grin snaked across her face, revealing the serpentine fangs that replaced her eye teeth.

"Such a pretty huntress sneaks into my home. She will be