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Dearest Readers, a wee themed chapter because… Extremely Belated Happy Halloween and Day of the Dead!
*conjures a pile of chocolate Boos, and full-sized Sneak(ers) Attack bars in your Treat Bag of Holding*

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THE HIDDEN SWORD

Book Two: Wandering Water | Chapter 51: Of Sleep and Specters (Part One)

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Come to think of it, Okami never snored in his sleep.

Never heard a buzz or a snuffle from him, whether when camping on the road or bunking together in their shared cabin in Shar-Teel's boat. Always contained and composed when he slumbered, much the same way he carried about with his work and words during the day.

But now here, and since her first night in this place? Irse curled and tamped both ends of the pillow against her elven ears in futile hope of drowning out the incessant snoring around her. In exchange for work around the Keep, the Mirrorshades had generously lent her a cot in the women workers' dormitory in the uppermost floor.

A whole lot better than a pile of hay in the stables with the horses. Though, not to be ungrateful, these women were wellnigh sawing logs in their throats.

Huffing, she crossly fluffed her pillow, and roughly drew the blanket over her head.

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Half-opened eyes frowned, still fogged and unseeing in the dark. To her ears came voices droning from faraway and outside the dormitory. Difficult to make out anything of their words, but something in their tone rang familiar - of Candlekeep and the Chanters.

Mind still clouded by drowsiness, she rolled on her back and threw one arm above the head. How did their spoken chorus go about again? Without prodding nor digging, her lips softly mouthed the verses she thought she had forgotten with the years away from her old home.

First, the Voice of the East. In the Year of the Turrets, a great host will come from the east like a plague of locusts, so sayeth the wise Alaundo.

Second, the Voice of the North. When conflict sweeps across the Dales the great lizards of the north shall descend with fire and fury, so sayeth the great Alaundo.

Third, the Voice of the West. The Wyrm shall wander the earth and such a pestilence will follow in his wake, that all that know of his passing shall be struck down by the plague, so sayeth the wise Alaundo

Fourth, the Voice of the South. When shadows descend upon the lands, our divine lords will walk alongside us as equals. So sayeth the great Alaundo.

The voices outside grew louder, closer.

Then at the last, the Chanter. The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sown from their passage, so sayeth the wise Alaundo.

Just as the name of the seer left her lips, the chanting abruptly ceased, and the doors burst open.

"Who in the-," Irse muttered angrily, suddenly awake, bolting up from the cot. "- Nine Hells." Her words trailed off; eyes wide in astonishment at the strange sight before her.

A procession of cowled people filed through the door in the measured steps of a funeral march. Robes of purple, faces obscured by black veils. As they passed each bed, the candles in the bedstands suddenly blazed to life, then dimmed to a cold white flicker. Their pallid light cast formless shadows which snaked and crawled all over the walls and the floor.

Halfway through the room, they paused as if waiting for something, someone. Irse slid off the cot and crept towards the bed nearest to her.

"Hey," she hissed as she shook the other woman, but this one remained deep in slumber.

"Hey!" This time, a shout to rouse the others. But none stirred. Baffled, she stared at the still and silent mob.

"Am I the only one seeing this?" Irse muttered aloud, hands wringing.

Then this must be another dream, much like the rare ones where she knew she was only dreaming and could wake at will. Transfixed, she stayed rooted in her spot and waited. They seemed to take no notice of her for none called nor directed their gaze at the lone elf standing and pointedly watching them.

Curious but cautious, she stepped forward to take a closer look. A few paces taken, and she glanced over her shoulder. Odd. There in her cot, she saw herself still asleep, eyes closed, arms and legs splayed, blanket carelessly tangled about, one foot dangling off the edge. A silver string faintly glowed, looped around her ankle, the slender length stretched across the floor but fading into the darkness between them.

And then the rest of the room as she saw it now was no more. All the beds and the women in them gone, the cabinets and washbasins and everything else. Only these strange petitioners remained. They broke from the column and gathered at the middle of the room, their postures loose while murmuring in hushed tones.

A hooded one shifted uneasily between his feet, nervously glancing around. "I hope this won't take long. I promised my wife the slaying will be quick and that I shall not be gone many days. Pardon my blasphemy, but sometimes the Missus can be murder incarnate when her demands are not met."

"I learned that the Fist declared my victim's death as accidental. Their deduction is that he merely tripped and impaled himself on every pointy thing in the room? How dare they insult my best work?" hissed a female voice beneath a cowl.

A short and squat man glanced up at his companions, the hood not even concealing the smug upturn of his head. "Well, my venture proved unexpectedly fruitful. I made quite a killing today in the turnip market."

They huddled and hovered around something in the middle of the room. As she brushed past some of them, those talking began to hush and point. By the time she reached the center, she found herself standing on a symbol, faded and worn with time, barely discernable except for its most prominent feature.

"Hey, someone doodled an ugly skull all over your floor," she said with a chuckle while pointing at the symbol beneath her feet. Ought to take more than soap and rags to rub it off.

"You," someone cried. "You are here! Truly here! Oh most bloody and glorious!"

"Eh?" she stammered, rounding at the source of the voice. But the throng took up the man's words, mumbling and chanting once more in a tongue she couldn't understand. They pressed at her with trembling hands outstretched and reaching for her.

"Ah haha, sorry folks." Irse stepped back. "Am I in the wrong cult gathering?"

She tried to push against them, only to find in her horror that their forms have become solid and unyielding. They swarmed like a suffocating tide, and hands from all sides grabbed at her.

"Hey, let go," she shouted, struggling against their grasp.

Yet no matter how much she resisted, the more they weighed her down. Nearly hysterical now, the girl lashed out in frenzy.

"Away with you," she screamed.

In vain she elbowed and swatted against their grasp, begging to be let through but none paid heed to her pleas. Then and unknowable spark flickered in her, fanning her faltering spirit.

"Away with you," she commanded them now, her tone taking on another timbre, as it were the voices of many, deep and distorted.

At her demand, the crowd scattered as if struck with a whirlwind. Now's her chance. Only a passing thought wondered how she conjured such a voice, but she quickly dismissed it. After all, wasn't this just another dream where nothing lay undoable?

She barged her way through them and in a blink she was out of the door and running in the familiar corridor. A quick glance over her shoulder, and Irse grimaced and pushed her legs harder than they ever had in her waking life. For behind her, a torrent of things roiled and surged, screaming mouths and writhing limbs, mists red and dripping black.

It was then that she spied a door known to her. Without a mark of hesitation, she pushed at the panel and tumbled inside, quickly slamming the door and leaning against it.

Lost them. She breathed, relieved in the quiet darkness.

And looked up and saw a sky burning with fires, billowing with smoke across a landscape, barren, tilted and jagged, filled with monstrous shapes and forms. Above it all rose a massive throne, built on dead things – twisted steel and mangled bones. Black ichor gushed from its sides, a great deluge pouring in thick torrents down its steps.

Eyes wide and astonished, Irse slowly stepped forward to gaze at the throne of iron and blood.

"Hey!" she shouted, frowning. "This isn't the privy!"

The door she had come through, now a bronze gate set against an obsidian rock face, burst forth with a screech and the cowled mob swarmed into this bizarre world and encircled her.

"Here, finally here," they chanted, heads and hands raised as if calling to someone to descend from the sky. "Here where we may rest with you and await your return."

Who in the realms are these people waiting for? Bewildered, she staggered back as they inched forward. Behind her, a wave of heat blazed from the empty throne, fires licking at her heels. Wake up, she urged herself. Wake up, this cannot be real.

As if an answer to the call, an irresistible force abruptly pulled her from above, and she found herself swiftly drawn away from the mob, up towards the scorching sky. Irse shut her eyes tight as she phased through the murky clouds and screaming lightning.

"Lord Tethrin, wake me now," she mumbled, desperate and hugging herself tightly. "And I promise never to double-dip in the gravy bowl again."

Deafened by the wind roaring in her ears and whipping her hair about her face, Irse finally dared to open her eyes.

An infinite horizon of stars now surrounded her. Above, the moon beamed down upon the clouds, wider and brighter than she had ever seen. Beneath her feet, oceans and continents passed in dizzying speed as the force continued to pull at her from up and behind.

And just as sudden as her prodigious flight, it forcefully hurled her down into black nothingness, a shroud immediately engulfing everything. Blinded and smothered, she yelped and thrashed about, finally falling over an unseen edge and into another void.

Light and voices filtered through the dark. Panting, she pulled the blanket off her head.

Upon her stomach she lay flat on the floor, one foot still hooked to the edge of the cot. Her screams must have roused them, for a handful of women stood around her, more annoyed than worried.

"Quiet, you," one of them grumbled. "Some of us are trying to catch a pinch of shuteye."

"Thought elves sleep like the dead with their eyes open?" another jeered.

Irse sheepishly gathered the blanket, bowing and mumbling her apologies. The women only muttered their irritation at the disturbance and returned to their beds. With the candles snuffed out, the dormitory lay dark and quiet once more. The elf slumped in her cot, shaking her head.

What an unfunny nightmare.

Irse sighed and laid herself down in her cot, pondering the strangeness of this vision until all thoughts were finally lost to sleep.

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She waited until the last petitioner left before diffidently shuffling over to the priestess.

"Mistress Gellana, if I could ask you something?

"Yes, Child?"

Hesitant, Irse's eyes darted around, cupping the side of her mouth to whisper, "I don't know if it was only a dream, but I saw ghosts in the dormitory. I think they're folk who used to live in this keep."

The usual weathered smile on the gnomish cleric's face faded as she listened to the vision's retelling. "Maybe you heard from the others, and it's true. A lordly castle this may be to everyone's eyes, but no princes and noble ladies pranced around its stony halls."

Gellana recounted how the Friendly Arm used to be the stronghold of a depraved priest and his followers. A year after those dark times when the gods walked the realms and they lost their patron's favor, they became desperate, resorting to abducting travelers along the road for their vile sacrifices. It was then that the Mirrorshades and their friends, all of them adventurers likewise short in stature but stout of heart, answered the call to put an end to the evil of this place.

The cleric spoke with regret and sadness of that hard and costly battle. Unwilling to surrender despite their defeat, the priest and the few remaining survivors had barricaded themselves in the hall, at the time their shrine and sanctuary, now the women's dormitory. The Mirrorshades eventually broke through the heavy door, finding only bodies with fingers still curled around daggers and throats slashed at the side; their bloody reign started and ended by their own hands.

"Cleaned this place of all its filth and taint, we did. Scoured and prayed over each stone, too."

Indeed, what used to be a den of fear and death now became a haven for the weary and wandering. But perhaps a bit more scrubbing might do if there still lingered remnants of its grisly past?

"But restless spirits, you say? No, I've never heard of anyone bumping into your ghosts. But then," Gellana said, eyeing the young elf shrewdly. "You might be one of those few who can see more with their eyes, and not just in the dark like your People do."

Irse shrugged. "I see weird things. Sometimes they happen to me. But I'm used to them now." Somehow.

Gellana nodded thoughtfully and continued in her work of grinding herbs for poultices. Irse glanced around at the temple interior, eyes falling upon a symbol of Garl Glittergold, a gold nugget strung upon a thick leather band and fastened to a plaque studded with gems.

"The Watchful Protector," Irse reverently read the title scribed at the border. "Good thing, a much better patron is in-charge of this place now. Who were the bad priest and his fellows worshipping anyway?"

Gellana paused, her expression grave once more. "Bentley and I charged the folks here to never speak of this god's name again, not even a peep. Not because it'd get him crawling up from his astral grave. Rather, because his name and person were terror and murder itself. You know of whom I speak, Child."

Irse stiffened, nodding. Bhaal. Even with his passing, his name and memory still dredged up a deep dread in some. Even the Chanter's words about this god's mortal spawns stirred an unexplainable unease in her heart. Yet any questions about them were merely deflected by her father.

Concern yourself not with the shadows of yesterday rather seek for the sunrise of the coming tomorrow, he would admonish her. And how right Gorion had been, for she was always quick to forget any bump or scrape or disappointment when looking forward to next day's breakfast.

But today, something mighty disquieting lingered on her tongue long after this morning's bacon and biscuits.

"Those ghosts, they saw me and said something strange. They called to me as if I'm one of them. As if they knew me, someone gone for a while but came back."

Maybe she looked like one of their comrades? Someone who had stepped out into the nearby woods to forage for berries but unfortunately met an even hungrier bear. Or went back to a Keep being razed to the ground, said "Nope!" then turned around and never returned. Yes, any of those reasons for sure.

Gellana quietly regarded her for a long moment, brows furrowing as she seemingly dawned upon some unpleasant insight. Perhaps the gnome saw something in the young elf, a troublesome revelation. But then Gellana sighed and a serene smile once more graced the aged but kindly face.

"If they be truly ghosts, then your aura as a living spirit drew them to you. Gray moths lost and yearning for moonlight will flutter to anything, be it a candle, a lamp. Or-"

Or?

"If it be a dream instead, then what little knob twisted loose, what little hinge unoiled in that wet sack of yours up here might be making you muck around with ghosts that aren't there, hmmm?" Gellana teased, reaching up and tapping at the girl's temple with the tip of her cane.

Giggling, the young elf knocked at the other side, frowning in mock puzzlement before rubbing her belly. "Or maybe last night, my fourth helping of pork liver with yogurt didn't agree with the five-year old fruit cake."

The old gnome guffawed, creaky and bright. "Of course, that be it. I says to Bentley that ancient fruit cake be too young to have been sliced up and served. Should've waited one more year before taking it out."

Yes, that should be the only reason.

With that haunting corner of darkness in the place dispelled and brightened once more, elf and gnome laughed together, basking in the glitter and warmth of a thousand gems scattered the above the temple hearth.

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Corrective scribblings:

Revision applied in Chapter 50 to reflect the scene on the turret roof as having occurred on the second day at the Friendly Arm Inn instead of the third. Not really a giant wrench in the in-story calendar. Even with the error, still there's no way for Certain Characters to accidentally meet before their scheduled appointment. *ebil cackle while stirring in a cauldron*

Likewise, my apologies for a short posting. Work work work compounded by Life and pushing to churn out the rawest drafts for Book Four, though I swears the next chapter is almost done. *collapses and offers a cup of candy cornugons as concession*

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