It hadn't gone well. The army had routed them in ways Raynie had not thought possible. But then, that was the problem. They'd gone up against an army, a real army; trained troops with solid armor and powerful weapons. No one had mentioned anything about an organized army, and that piece of false advertising had gotten more than one person killed. Rather than stay and be massacred, they'd beat a hasty retreat, money be damned.
There were five people missing of their original twelve. They found the bowman and one of the swordsmen still alive, if badly wounded. It was about then that they realized Fulton was missing.
"Fulton!" Raynie cried, voice raw. "FULTON!" The battle long over, even the looters had left. Only carrion birds and their inert victims lay scattered about. The thief had not survived, nor had the guy who fought with two short blades. Their bodies already picked clean by human scavengers, there was nothing left to do but lay them to rest before the birds and beasts finished the job. Several paces away, Marco crouched down and examined one of the corpses. For a long moment he stared at the body, brows drawn together as if he were having trouble making up his mind. A moment later he turned and waved to one of the others to come and have a look. Curious, Raynie went over as well.
"You know him?" Marco asked. Drant, a thickset man who wielded a mace, shook his head.
"I might have. Hard to tell now."
Leaning, Raynie peered at the remains. The corpse was male, fair-skinned beneath the dirt and gore; taller than herself, but shorter than Drant. He was a little too solidly built to be a boy, but so wiry it would be hard to put an age to him. A deep slash to his middle had brought him down, a second cut to his throat had spared him the misery of a slow death by bleeding and sepsis. The looters had stripped him to his skin, not even leaving his linen, only sparing his modesty by rolling his lower half to one side so that one leg obscured the view. His upper body lay flat against the earth, arms splayed awkwardly off to either side.
"Too bad the birds've already been at his face, he does look familiar," Drant remarked.
Raynie frowned. His face looked reasonably intact- even handsome- to her, with none of the usual horrible pocks and craters left in the fair skin from a crow's beak. Indeed, he must be a bit fresher than the others, only his eyes were gone.
Wait.
Dropping to her knees, Raynie seized the cold face in both hands and stared at it. The empty sockets were not the usual diseased pools of blood and goo common on corpses. Instead, the exposed flesh was clean and smooth and still faintly pink. With a cry of anguish, she clutched his head to her heart.
"DON'T LOOK AT HIM!" she sobbed, oblivious to the tears pouring down her face. "Don't look at him…"
"Oh gods…" Marco breathed. "That's Fulton…"
The looters had taken his cassock, his bag of herbs and the prayer book inside it, even the third finger of his right hand was gone. The thieves had simply cut it off rather than try to wrench his fire ring free.
Shrugging out of his jacket, Marco stepped forward and waited for Raynie to straighten. Reverently, he laid the garment over Brother Fulton's cold face.
"...I'll tell the boss," Drant said quietly, and left to do just that.
Kneeling in the grass, Marco put a hand on Raynie's shoulder, swallowing hard on his own tears.
"I'm sorry, Raynie…"
"It's not fair," she sniffed. "He was a monk, a healer… He wasn't really a fighter. He was blind. Who'd kill a blind monk? He was so nice… He didn't deserve to die…"
"He's alright," Marco told her, rubbing her shoulder gently. "He's not in pain. He's happy, he's with his god."
Miserably, Raynie nodded and looked up, eyes streaming. "I don't know what to do for him… His book is gone and I couldn't read it even if we still had it but...what do we do for him? How do we bury him?"
"He was a monk, but he was also a warrior," Marco assured her. "We'll give him a warrior's funeral along with the others. I think he'd be okay with that."
He would have to be. The light was fading, and they had three men to bury. Rather than pile them all in a ditch, they took the time to dig a longer trench and laid each man inside; thief and swordsman on either side with Fulton in the middle. Marco was able to spare a bandage for Fulton's eyes and a wider scrap for his modesty. Everyone was quiet. Losing their healer had been a blow, but Fulton had been more than that. He'd certainly been more than just a fellow soldier to Raynie. Had it been anyone else, they might have sung a chorus of a drinking song, but a holy man lay between the two soldiers. It seemed inappropriate to send him off with something so vulgar. The only thing Raynie could think of was the song he'd taught her for her birthday. It was little more than a religiously-slanted nursery rhyme, but it was all she had.
Putting a hand on her shoulder, Marco's gruff voice slid in below hers, steadying the wandering melody and strengthening her words. Either more people had listened to Fulton's sermonizing than she realized, or quite a few of the mercenaries remembered the rhyme from their own distant childhoods. The others sell-swords repeated the words with her, those unfamiliar with the chant humming the familiar tune.
Once the song had died, they stood awkwardly for a moment before Drant picked up the shovel again and began to scoop earth over the bodies. Unable to bear it anymore, Raynie turned and fled.
They did not make camp that night. Rather than stick around, they struck off immediately for safer territory. Raynie hated to leave the three men in their anonymous grave. The shaman lady would wonder what had become of Fulton, and there would be no one to tell her. It didn't seem fair. She had only wanted him to be happy, to feel loved, and now he was gone. Gone forever, without even a headstone to mark his name. He had liked to tell her about the love of his god. She hadn't thought he was into men, but maybe with monks it was different? She had no idea. If he had truly gone to be with his god, then she hoped that he would make Fulton happy. After so much devotion and such a rotten end, it was the least he could do.
The house was not large, little more than a rented upper room. Although its furnishings were sparse, and obviously second- or even third- hand, it was spotlessly clean. There did not seem to be anyone home, but a flicker of light and movement caught the edge of Stocke's eye. Turning, he faced only his own reflection in a polished bronze mirror hanging from the wall. Blinking, he cast his eyes over the single room; the bed in the corner, the table with two low stools, the shelves and cupboards full of books, bowls, jars, and dishes; the many herbs dangling from the rafters. There was no one there, and yet… Muttering the incantation to himself, Stocke let his eyes relax and looked the room over again.
There. The ghost was like an inverted shadow; all light and mist and the sparkling energy of a life cut short.
"Aht, look there," he said, nodding at the shade. "Is that a soul?"
Turning, Aht blinked at the spot indicated. "Yeah…" she said. "I remember this feeling… It's almost like I should recognize him, but I don't. He must be someone very important to Isla if he's still here."
"I see…"
The ghost was looking at them, head tilted to one side curiously. Well, perhaps 'looking' was the wrong word. Although his features were indistinct, he appeared to have a blindfold over his eyes. Stocke could not immediately identify his nationality by his clothing, either. The ghost was dressed in the garments that he had probably worn last; a long robe with a cowl and hood that was thrown back, and heavy soldier's boots.
"What should we do?"
Aht opened her mouth to speak, but another voice cried out:
"Wait!"
Both spun around to face a figure standing outlined in the doorway.
"Don't you touch him!" it cried, rushing to put itself between them and the ghost.
"Isla!" Aht cried, a smile splitting her features.
"Why Aht!" Isla seemed equally pleased, relaxing somewhat. Pushing back her hood revealed large, curling horns and brilliantly red ringlets parted down the middle and gathered on either side of her head with bronze clips. Long silver earrings swung from her ears, the clinking of the miniature scales like fairy chimes. "I would never have expected to see you here. So you have become a shaman. Good for you."
Smiling, she removed her cloak and turned to hang it on a peg. Her outfit was far more elaborate than Aht's simple kilt and cloak. Most Satyros females Stocke had seen were teenagers or younger, all with lean and wiry bodies. Isla, however, seemed generously built by comparison. Although still a far cry from Raynie, she had a full bosom and wide hips, both covered by handsomely woven cloth and multiple strands of beads. One pendant in particular caught his eye; a small crystal vial hung between her breasts, glowing faintly with a blue-white light.
His soul…
"I know what you've come here for," Isla went on. "I'm sorry, but I won't be able to offer you much in the way of hospitality. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, please."
Stocke blinked, confused. This was scandalously rude behaviour for anyone, but much more for a Satyros who were known for their generosity. Unless… He glanced from one shamaness to the other. Of course. The ghost.
"But!" Aht protested, "Uncle Vanoss! I… You… He…" Stamping her foot, she let out a frustrated noise and turned to him. "Ohhh…! What should I do, Stocke?"
"Er…" was his immediate reply. The older woman looked at him with pleading, amber eyes. She would be considered beautiful among her people, even among humans. Both hands had moved to clasp the vial to her heart.
Stocke felt torn. He was not a shaman, not even a cleric. This was not his decision to make. And yet did not all religious orders hold a sacred duty to the dead, to guide their souls to the afterlife so that they could be at peace? Keeping this poor man, whoever he was, trapped among the living was not doing anyone any good.
"I think you should let him complete his journey," he said gently, addressing Isla rather than Aht. "He needs you to see him safely to heaven. Let him rest."
She swallowed hard, eyes welling up and spilling over. Silently, she shook her head. "I can't. Not yet. Not just yet. We had so little time together… I love him, he loves me!"
"Let me ask you something," he said, moving forward and resting a hand on her shoulder. "Does he want to stay here in this world?"
Sniffing, Isla looked up, but away from Stocke. The shade had come over, one ghostly arm draped around her shoulders. Leaning forward, he touched his forehead to hers and she smiled. His lips moved, but Stocke could not make out the words.
"He says...he wants to stay with me, whatever that may mean."
"But...he looks so sad," Aht put in. "He doesn't belong here. He needs to go where he's supposed to be."
It was true, the ghost's expression matched Isla's perfectly, right down to the tears soaking dark spots into the bandage over his eyes.
"My sweet darling," Isla murmured, wrapping her arms around the ghost and hiding her face in his shoulder. "I promised I would not leave you, but are you only staying here for me? To spare me further pain?"
For a long moment the shade and the shaman looked at each other, each cupping the other's face in their hands. At last, Isla nodded, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.
"Alright beloved, if that's what you want. Of course."
Unknotting the vial's string from around her neck, she dashed it on the floor, the crystal shattering into a thousand glittering pieces across the rough wooden floorboards.
"I will never stop loving you," she whispered, "and I will carry you always in my heart."
Stocke averted his eyes as the shade smiled, and pulled her close to kiss her. When he looked up, the ghost had gone. At once Isla broke down, burying her face in both hands. Mindful of the crystal shards, Stocke pulled one of the stools over and guided her to sit down. Aht brought her a handkerchief which she accepted. Strangely, behind her tears, she was smiling.
"Thank you, Aht," she sniffed, dabbing at her face. "He...he was smiling… You were right."
For a long moment she looked at the younger shaman before opening her mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it.
"You're…" she began and then abruptly trailed off. "No. No, I think it's best if I say nothing. I'm afraid anything I might tell you would only confuse you more. If you would, please give this to my father, Vanoss? I should have surrendered this long ago."
She unhooked a second charm from around her neck, this one a silver disk embossed with a five-pointed star laid over upon itself. Aht nodded, accepting it.
"Of course, Auntie."
"I will tell you this much," Isla went on, looking up at Stocke. "Sometime soon, you and Aht will need to make a decision. I pray that when the time comes, you will make the right one."
"Thank you," Stocke told her, bemused. "We won't trespass upon your hospitality any longer. Come on Aht, we should see what progress Raynie and the others have made."
Isla looked up sharply at this, and stood. "Raynie? You know a Raynie?"
"Yes, why?" Stocke asked.
"About my height, a bit more solidly built, strong but kind, unschooled yet intelligent, fights with a spear?"
"Yes…" Stocke drawled, now thoroughly confused. "Why do you ask?"
Her smile was bittersweet. "Fulton used to talk about her. They fought together, years ago. This was his." Reaching, she fiddled with a brooch at her shoulder. Stocke couldn't help the sudden surge of alarm, hoping that she was not about to undress. However, the brooch had apparently only served to cover the knot that held the single strap of her halter top in place and was not actually integral to preserving the shamaness' modesty. Taking it from her outstretched hand, Stocke examined it.
It was cheap and primitive, cast in simple pewter, painted, and fixed to a steel pin. The device was simple; a pair of crossed staves with a star above, a holy book below, and the sun and moon on either side. If memory served, this was the heraldry of the outcast monks of one of Alistel's orders; the so-called "Blood Brothers" who had chosen to take up arms in order to more literally defend their faith. Although warriors, they were known to be remarkably tolerant to those who professed other creeds.
Taking the brooch back from him, Isla instead gave him a small and battered book.
"Will you give this to her?" she asked. "I'm afraid I never did learn to read his holy language. If you would, please ask his brothers to pray for him? It's what he would have wanted."
Inclining his head in a half-bow, Stocke accepted the book. "Of course I will. Thank you."
Once they had taken their leave, Stocke studied the book. To be honest, he'd had about enough of mysterious books, but this one seemed ordinary enough- at least he hoped so. Opening it with fear and trepidation, he eyed the pages nervously. It appeared to be no more than an ordinary prayer book, with one notable exception: over the beautifully illuminated and painstakingly lettered pages of holy script, someone had drizzled symbols in wax. Each and every page bore a different cipher, the wax in a variety of colors and qualities. Here and there, it had even been repaired with fresh wax where the old had crumbled away. This made the book rather fatter than usual, and difficult to stuff into his pouch. Why on earth would a cleric deface his own book of holy scripture? Had it been the shamaness' doing? And what in the world was the spirit of a monk- even a Blood Brother- doing tied to a Satyros shaman anyway? He would have to ask Raynie when he presented the book to her.