by Janie Brunson
in Issue 80, September 2018
“So,” said Darius, lowering his magic flute to survey the mountain of treasure, “how are we going to carry all of this?”
I didn’t feel like answering just then, mostly because I was still coming to terms with the fact that one of my eyebrows and a large patch of hair had been singed off in the dragon’s death flames. The body lay stretched out at the foot of the treasure mound, its red-patterned scales lurid in the near-darkness. I slid the sword back into its sheath, still bloody and glowing from the dragon’s fiery insides. Then I looked down at my hand and saw the fresh, red welt. Because, I remembered as the pain finally began to sear its way to my brain, metal is a conductor of heat.
“Well?” Darius prompted, scooping up a handful of riches and letting it clatter back onto the pile, “any ideas? Did you forget to bring a bag?”
“Would you give me a second?” I snapped, “I just killed a dragon!”
Darius shrugged. “I had it under control,” and he flourished his flute, “you just had to creep up and stab it.”
“It was stressful, okay?” I looked around, taking in the sheer size of the treasure hoard for the first time. “And you’re telling me you didn’t remember a bag? Do you know how heavy this sword is? All you have is your little flute.”
Darius looked pissed. His flute was more dear to him than any actual person ever would be.
He was definitely about to launch into a long-winded defense of the flute, but then my eyes fell on something across the cave.
“Look!”
He did.
“What the hell? Was that there before?”
“Who cares? It’s awesome! Problem solved!”
It was a huge basket, woven of what looked like gold.
“Does it have wheels?” I asked.
“I think so.”
“Perfect!”
“Wait, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there before.”
“We probably just missed it,” I said, “what with the fire-breathing dragon and all. I, for one, was a bit distracted.”
“Well, help me, then.”
We both began scooping the treasure into the basket, tossing enormous handfuls of wealth one after the other, so that the cave filled with the ringing and clattering of material gain.
Quite a few coins and jewels didn’t exactly end up in the basket; our pockets were bulging before the pile on the floor was halfway gone.
“You don’t think the king’ll really give us part of it as a reward, do you?” Darius asked.
“No,” I said, palming another coin, “I only did this for the fame and glory. They’ll call me Raymond the Dragonslayer now.”
Darius snorted, “What did they call you before?”
“Just Raymond.”
“Yeah, well, Darius the dragonslayer sounds better. I was the one who actually hypnotized it and all. It was practically over by the time you came along.”
“Came along? I was here the whole time!”
“Well, we haven’t known each other that long.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“The king hired me first. I just needed someone with a sword. Could have been anyone.”
My sword made that impressive, metallic zing as I drew it.
“The difference,” I said as menacingly as I could, “is that this sword can cut off your stupid-looking head, and your flute can’t do shit about it. Try and keep that in mind.”
Darius lifted his flute in his hand, brandishing it almost as if he meant to start sparring with it, but then the whole cave shook. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Darius cursed. “Hurry! Let’s get this stuff and get out of here!”
We started tossing the rest of the treasure into the golden basket. After a few seconds, we put away sword and flute, sacrificing our pride in the interest of an urgent need to use both hands. The last thing was a large, ornate helmet from some dead knight, which I heaved onto the precariously-balanced heap in the basket. The cavern had stopped shaking at some point, but we were so focused on gathering all the treasure that we failed to notice.
I grabbed the basket’s convenient handle to wheel it out of the cave, but Darius’s hand was also there.
“Go!” I said, “I’ll bring it.”
“No!”
“You’re being an idiot!”
“I don’t trust you!”
I glared at him; the sentiment was mutual.
We both shoved the awkward, top-heavy basket toward the exit passage, nearly toppling it as we pushed in slightly different directions. We somehow managed to wedge ourselves into the passage, which was really only wide enough to walk single file, practically speaking. It sloped upward, so that, after a few minutes of scrambling along with the heavy basket, we were both breathless.
“Can we take a rest?” Darius panted.
“We might be buried alive down here!” I reminded him, but I pulled the basket to a stop, because I was secretly glad he had brought it up. I was so exhausted from this whole adventure that dying was actually starting to seem rather appealing.
We stood there with the basket between us, panting.
“You know,” commented Darius, “this cave isn’t collapsing very fast. I think whatever it was is over.”
Another tremor came then.
“You jinxed it!” I accused him, and we both began hauling the basket upward again, Darius having the sense, at least, to start walking backwards, which gave us more room in the passage to maneuver.
“See, it’s over.”
“Stop a second,” I said.
We pulled up and waited for about a minute. Another tremor came.
We looked at each other, each mirroring the other’s suspicious frown.
Darius let go of the basket, leaving me to throw my weight against it so that it didn’t slide back down, and pulled out his flute.
He brought it to his lips and started to play, his fingers moving with smooth certainty over the instrument. He was obviously as familiar with that flute as with a part of his own body. The melody he played was enchanting. Low, thoughtful phrases and wondrous high notes. Indescribable, as the best music often is. It made me forget, for a moment, how irritating he was.
His melody continued, and I was aware on some level that he was playing with a purpose. After all, it was a magic flute.
It wasn’t long before it began to have results. A misty spot appeared a little up the passage, so slight at first that I was inclined to assume I had imagined it. But then it swirled and became more solid.
I watched, mesmerized by Darius’s music and the twisting patch of vapor, which was coalescing gradually into a recognizable form. A human shape, tall and broad, encased in something bright. Of course, armor. I became aware that the head was crowned with a shock of flyaway red hair that gave the specter a blundering, reckless air. Last to become visible was the face: ruddy, even in a semisolid state, with a strong nose and eyes flashing with temper and spirit.
Darius lowered his flute, and I was sad when the last note died away. The ghost, it would seem, felt differently.
“Damned musicians!” he growled, “Never could stand them. Manipulators, every one.?
“Nice of you to come to the party,” Darius said, his tone casual and calm.
“And that’s the other thing,” said the ghost, “Musicians always think they’re at a party. Tell me, does this really look like your last birthday get-together?”
Darius chose to ignore this, which probably wasn’t the choice I would have made. A dozen nasty retorts were bumping into each other on the way to my tongue, but before I could pick one, Darius said, “Why don’t you tell us why you’re here playing games instead of somewhere else entirely?”
The red-haired ghost straightened up and puffed out his chest.
“I will thank you to address me with more respect, mortal musician!” He spat the last two words like a filthy insult. “My name is Frederic Barnabas Ignatius Wrothburn, great knight of the house of Wrothburn, conquering hero of–
At this point, I felt obliged to interrupt for the sake of my sanity.
“We get it. You’re Fred. Tell us what you want already!”
The ghost swung his gaze to me and said in an icy tone, “You may call me Sir Frederic.”
I opened my mouth to inform him bluntly that I was calling him Fred and he should be grateful it wasn’t something worse, but Darius gave me a hard look, so I turned the response into a simple, dismissive shrug.
The ghost continued with his story: “In life, I quickly became one of the most legendary knights in this land. Doubtless, they still sing songs about the many jousts I won, the many ladies I attracted. But none were as beautiful as the princess Cecilia.”
Darius and I looked at each other and suppressed yawns.
“She was the most stunning woman in the kingdom,” went on Fred, “hair like softest night, eyes like precious sapphires–
“And rich, of course,” Darius said.
“Of course,” admitted Fred with a smile.
“And she was stolen by a dragon,” I guessed.
The ghost glared at me, “Whose story is this anyway?”
“Continue your exciting and original tale,” I said, with an expansive hand gesture. My sarcasm was lost on Fred.
“Yes, a dragon,” he said, “The very dragon, as it happens, that you two just killed.”
A moment passed, but he didn’t seem like he had any more to say.
“What about the end of the story?” Darius asked eventually.
Fred drifted closer, his eyes blazing with a startlingly powerful rage.
“I could have done it if she’d helped me,” he growled, “If she’d distracted the dragon at the right time. But she just sat there and watched. I took off my helmet to show her the handsome face of her rescuer, thinking it would motivate her to take a little more interest in the proceedings. But she just looked at me and said, Sorry, you’re not the right person. The dragon used its deadly fire, then, and I became smoke and charred bones. The princess escaped while the dragon was sleeping that night and ran off with that pathetic weasel Sir Archibald. I ask you, have you ever heard anything more unjust?”
“Maybe you should have— I began, but Darius raised his voice to cut me off.
“That’s all terribly unfortunate, sir, but why are you still here telling us about it?”
“Because,” said Fred, his lips drawing back in a sneer, “I refuse to be defeated.”
The cavern shook, a quake that made the two of us stagger and sent treasure tumbling every which way.
“You’re not just a ghost,” I grunted, fighting to keep my balance and hold onto the basket, “You’re a poltergeist.”
“A crude term,” said Fred, “but you see the point, mortal. I have more power than an ordinary lost spirit could ever dream of. It is my reward for the unfairness of my death, and for the years of bitter loneliness after, stuck here in this cave, planning my revenge. You see, gentlemen, I was meant to be king. And I still will be. Even death cannot stop me!”
The basket jerked under my hands and a spray of coins and precious stones sailed upward of their own accord, catching the dim light as they scattered and tumbled through the air. The old knight’s helmet joined them, lifting from its place on top of the basket to hover and spin before falling to the cave floor with a ringing crash.
“You see the power I have, even as a ghost! All of this wealth is only the beginning of what I will soon call mine!” Fred intoned.
“Death certainly didn’t ruin your flair for the dramatic,” I said.
“Raymond!” Darius hissed, “Your mouth is going to get us killed. For God’s sake, shut up!”
“Can’t you just play your flute and fix this?” I asked him.
Fred laughed.
“This is my domain!” he said, “Things happen here because I want them to, especially now that the dragon is dead.”
Darius’s flute tore itself from his hands and went sailing down the passage. Darius stared after it, frozen, then looked down at his empty hands.
For the first time, I began to feel nervous. I put my hand on my sword hilt, but what good was steel against a man who was already dead?
“Darius?” I said, but he just blinked blankly at me, not really seeing. I was frightened and a bit ashamed to realize how much I had relied on his magic throughout this venture.
My heart began to pound a frantic rhythm behind my ribs. Maybe if I could keep Fred talking, then Darius and I could figure some way out of this.
“I don’t get it,” I said to the ghost, trying to keep my voice steady, “How can you become king if you’re dead? I don’t think we’ve ever had a ghost king before. Not that I paid a lot of attention in history class.”
“I will be alive again, you fool!” roared Fred, “I will take your body! Or the musician’s, whichever one of you dies first. In the moment of your death, I will slide into the place left by your departing soul, and then I shall bring this treasure to the palace and demand my reward. That will be the first step.”
“You gave us the basket!”
“Of course! Much easier for me if you packed it up beforehand. How were you two planning to carry it all, anyway?”
“Darius was supposed to bring a bag,” I said.
“A simple misunderstanding,” said Darius. His voice was quiet and his eyes were still glazed, but he was taking notice of events again, which filled me with relief.
“Can he really take over a body like that?” I asked him, hoping to keep him grounded in the present.
“Yes. Poltergeists can do that. They are so angry and vengeful that they force their way back to life through strength of will alone. This one’s almost there.”
“And all I need now is one of you,” Fred sneered, “Any volunteers? No? Well, then, the swordsman it is.”
My sword began to slide out of its sheath of its own volition.
“You’re planning to stab me with my own sword?” I demanded, suddenly more furious than I had ever been, “Oh, hell, no.”
I grabbed the hilt and held on, shoving it back down. I’ve spent years practicing with weights and jousting in armor, and my strength seemed to be enough to match Fred’s. The sword stayed in its sheath. So, the poltergeist’s power wasn’t limitless.
Fred gave one more mighty pull on the sword and I stumbled with the effort of holding it in check. The basket slipped. I fell against the wall, then my feet slid completely out from under me and I was tumbling painfully down the steep, rocky tunnel, back toward the dragon’s lair.
I thought I heard Darius yell, “Raymond!” as I skidded away. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. The basket rolled down the slope after me, then tipped over as it hit the bottom, spilling everything back onto the cave floor.
Bruised and scraped, I pushed myself up with a groan. My hand came down on something hard and cylindrical, which dug into a fresh scratch on my palm. Before I could swear aloud, I heard a sharp crack above me and rolled to one side just as a chunk of stone fell where my head had been. My grip tightened around the thing in my hand.
Fred appeared a few feet away with a displeased scowl on his face. He seemed about to say something when we heard a hoarse voice say my name. Fred and I both turned. Darius was in the entrance to the passage, his face pale under its coating of rock dust.
“Raymond,” he said, “Listen. He has a weakness.”
“I have no weakness!” Fred snapped.
I ignored him and looked straight at Darius to show I was listening.
“A poltergeist always needs something to use as an anchor to this world, usually some object that was important when he was alive.”
“Like a bone?” I asked.
“Probably,” said Darius.
I looked down at my hand then, and saw I was holding the magic flute! I was about to toss it to Darius, but, after one glance at the ghost, I slipped the flute into a compartment on my scabbard instead. Fred would have intercepted my throw, and we would have lost the flute again.
I felt a rush of frustration as I tucked it away; the flute seemed to be the only way to deal with Fred, and I couldn’t get it to Darius or use it myself.
Meanwhile, Fred was ranting about something; I tuned back in.
“never find it!” he was saying—almost shouting, really—”it could be any of this stuff! And, I’ll warn you, it’s something very small, something you would never expect. You have no chance!”
“It’s not impossible,” Darius said, talking to me and not the ghost, but my irritation levels were rising steadily.
“Fred has a point. How are we supposed to find this anchor thing in this mess?” I demanded, kicking at the scattered treasure and other debris that covered the floor, “How do we even recognize it?”
“Raymond,” Darius said, in that tone that I already recognized as the one he used when he was about to explain why he was right and I was stupid.
“We don’t always have to do things your way!” I snapped at him, and drew my sword.
Fred laughed aloud, “The flute and the sword never did go well together.”
Then his grin turned to wide-eyed shock as I lunged, not at Darius, but at him. Steel might be no use against a dead man, but I wouldn’t know until I tried.
“No!” Darius yelled, but I ignored him and plunged my sword through Fred’s ethereal torso.
The ghost gave a gargling scream, his substance blurring and flowing around the blade’s entry point as he writhed.
“You’re too close to life for your own good,” I snarled, holding onto the hilt with both hands, though painful chills were shooting up my arms.
For a second, the ghost and I locked eyes, and the rage and agony I saw there blazed brighter than his fiery-red hair, mesmerizing in its intensity.
There was a ringing sound behind me, and I saw Darius duck in my peripheral vision as something came zooming toward Fred. It was the fancy, pretentiously-decorated helmet, the one he’d used as a theater prop when showing off his poltergeist powers. It came down on his head and, with it, the pain in my arms multiplied, so that I couldn’t help but let go of the sword. It clattered to the floor and I fell to my knees, gasping, both arms tingling agonizing pins and needles to the shoulders.
Fred was free, and the helmet on his head was glowing. His chest, where my sword had entered, was unblemished.
“So the swordsman has forced me to reveal my anchor,” he said, his arrogant sneer back in place.
“Damn it, Raymond,” Darius groaned.
“You knew it was the helmet!” I accused, teeth clenched against the pain.
“Of course I did! It was obvious! Didn’t you listen to his story? He took off the helmet before he was killed, so it didn’t become part of the ghost.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because then he would have known that we knew, idiot! And he would have attached himself to it, and then it’s hopeless!”
I looked from him to the helmet, which did indeed seem fused with the rest of Fred’s body, and then back at Darius, though I found I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” he said, “because we’re about to die. So thanks for that.” His sarcasm was poisonous.
“The musician’s right,” said Fred, “You can’t get rid of me unless you destroy my anchor, and now, I can easily make sure that doesn’t happen. The only thing left for me to do is decide which one of you I want to become.”
He made a show of looking each of us up and down, considering his choice, taking his time. I picked up my sword and put it back in its sheath, thinking that I’d rather not die wearing an empty scabbard, and my fingers brushed Darius’s flute. I looked over at him. The greatest musician in the kingdom was slumped against the wall, staring off into space, his hands clenched tightly together. I thought I saw his lips move, and wondered if he was whispering a prayer.
Fred’s helmet blazed, healing any injury I had managed to inflict, keeping him anchored to this world until he chose a new body.
And, thus far, I hadn’t helped the situation at all with my sword or my ego. If there was any way to stop Fred, I had to try, even though the only way I could think of had hardly any chance of working.
I caught the ghost’s eyes and spoke quietly but clearly, “Your choice is obvious, you know.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. If you choose him,” I gestured at Darius without looking, “I can easily just kill him again once you inhabit his body. I have a sword, and he has nothing.”
“I assure you, it would not be nearly as easy as you think,” Fred said, but he had a slight, troubled frown.
I shrugged and flashed my best mocking grin. It was pretty good.
“When your own stupidity gets you killed for the second time,” I said, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I heard Darius draw in his breath, but I still didn’t look over at him. Fred’s jaw tightened.
“Very well, swordsman, since you are begging for death, I will grant your request. Musicians get no respect anyway.”
“Why are you doing this, Raymond?” Darius demanded.
“At least I will die with honor,” I said, “There’s just one last thing.”
I unbuckled my scabbard and walked over to him, only slightly surprised when the ghost didn’t stop me. My speech about honor had triggered whatever remained of the knight in Sir Frederic; he would wait until I was ready.
I handed Darius the scabbard, “Give this to my family. Tell them I died well.”
He just stared at me, holding the scabbard awkwardly, like I had just handed him something explosive. Before he could say anything, I took it back and snapped, “You’re never going to get anywhere carrying it like that. Here.”
I reached around him to buckle it on properly, leaning in close and whispering quickly in his ear. Darius’s eyes widened. I moved away from him and caught Fred looking back and forth between us.
“He’s surprised at how heavy it is,” I explained to the ghost, “Music doesn’t build muscles.”
Fred smirked, then drew his own ghostly blade from its sheath. I walked over to stand in front of him and concentrated on holding his gaze as my heart pounded.
In a sudden, smooth motion, he put his sword through my chest.
There was a terrible chill that froze the very breath in my lungs. I had the vague sense that I was falling to the ground as color, then the rest of my vision, melted and faded. I heard a crash as Fred let his helmet fall to the floor, separating from it, preparing himself for a new anchor, and then the rest of my senses dissolved, and I was conscious only of cold and a sense of lengthening distance. I could no longer feel my body; it felt like I might never have had one.
And then something else broke through to my drifting mind: music. The soothing, beautiful notes of a flute, touching my consciousness like beams of sunshine. The sound warmed the deathly cold and filled the emptiness in my mind. I clung to the bright melody like a lifeline and used it to pull myself back, back to where I lay on the cave floor.
I felt resistance from Fred, of course, as I forced my way back into the place he had been about to claim for himself, but he was no match for Darius’s magic. I opened my eyes and turned my head to look up at the ghost hovering next to me.
The confusion in his eyes changed to worry as they met mine, and he made a move toward his helmet, abandoned on the floor several feet away. But, without any pause or clear turning point, Darius was playing a different tune, something slow and rhythmic. Fred stopped, his hands fell to his sides and his gaze became vacant. Darius was hypnotizing the ghost, just as he had hypnotized the dragon. And, as with the dragon, it was time for me to play my part.
I stood up on shaky legs, went over to Darius, and gently pulled my sword from the scabbard he still wore. I knelt beside Fred’s helmet, taking the time to think, once again, how ridiculous all that filigree and gold inlay looked, and then stabbed my blade through the helmet’s open visor.
There was a faint resistance as Darius’s last, low note lingered and faded, and then the sword slid through, and the anguished cry of the ghost of Sir Frederic Wrothburn echoed through the caves. It sounded further and further away, as though he were being dragged down a long tunnel, as his form grew completely transparent, and then began to dissipate.
The final, agonized look on his face was terrible enough that I had to turn away, but I saw the red of his hair in my periphery until the very last second. Finally, the helmet crumbled to rust in my hands.
“Okay,” said Darius, “get this stupid sword thing off me. It’s hard to play with it on.”
“Would you give me a second?” I snapped, “I practically just died!”
We tried to glare at each other but collapsed into laughter instead, dizzy with relief and exhaustion and the joy of living another day.
“I can’t believe you let him try to kill you!” Darius said after a moment, “what if I couldn’t bring you back?”
“I knew you could,” I told him, “You’re the greatest musician in the kingdom.”
“Well, of course,” he grinned, “but how did you know that I would?”
“Stop asking ridiculous questions,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“What about the treasure?” he asked, “We’re supposed to take it to the king.”
“Does he really need it? Doesn’t he have a lot already?”
“Yeah,” said Darius, “Forget about it. It’s too heavy anyway””
“Besides, it’s no use being a hero,” I said, and he nodded his firm agreement.
We walked in silence up the passage, not in any hurry, until we reached the cave entrance, where we could smell the fresh, spring air.
©September 2018 Janie Brunson
Janie Brunson is a law student who writes speculative fiction in all the spare time she doesn’t have. She enjoys dark chocolate and Broadway musicals. Her work has appeared in Bards and Sages Quarterly, The Colored Lens and 365 Tomorrows. This is her first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.