Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (29 page)

Jep Walters’s eyes went wide as his jaw dropped.

The shrieking of the ghosts would not stop.

There was no sign of Jarod Klum.

The flying spirits scattered about the hall in a panic, their glow suddenly intense as they rushed here and there in a fury.

The booted ghosts on the stairs also fell into a frenzy, one jumping over the railing and rushing down a service hall while the other ran back up the stairs, turned, and, still keening, bounced off a door before opening it and loudly slamming it closed behind him. Several of the flying spirits had followed them both by chance, and the screaming from all the spirits continued unabated.

Jarod blindly reached behind him. His hand came to rest on a latch. He quickly depressed it and fell backward through the door, slamming it shut after him.

Five people turned and looked at him.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, I . . .”

Jarod froze.

There was an elderly gentleman sitting in a large, upholstered chair. Next to him was a handsome couple holding hands where they sat on the divan. A young woman lay on a fainting couch, leaving the book she had been reading. A small, curly-haired boy sat on the floor of the parlor with his hands over both his ears.

It was a common and tranquil enough scene, except that Jarod could see
through
each of the family members.

The old man said, “Are you all right, boy?”

Jarod gaped.

“Oh, don’t talk to them, Father,” the woman said from the divan. “They never understand.”

“I’ll talk to them if I want to,” the old man said. “Maybe if we did they’d leave us alone for a change!”

Somehow Jarod found his voice. “But you’re . . . you’re . . .”

“Dead?” said the man sitting with the woman. “You
can
say it, you know. It’s not a dirty word. Everyone gets to be dead sometime.”

“Oh,” Jarod responded in a daze. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Who better to know than us?” said the old man.

“Please, Father, can’t you just make him go away . . .”

“Now, daughter, just because we’re dead doesn’t mean we should forget our manners.”

“And he is rather charming,” said the young woman on the fainting couch.

A renewed shrieking passed by the door at Jarod’s back.

Jarod flinched.

So did the ghosts.

“Blast that racket!” said the old man ghost. “We never should have come here!”

“Come here?” Jarod asked more boldly, seeing that these particular apparitions were not immediately intent on murdering him. “I thought this was your home.”

“
Our
home?” said the ghost woman on the couch. “Fancy that!”

“No, my boy,” said the old man ghost, shaking his head, “we came here to get
away
from that sort of noise. We’re on holiday from Mordale.”

“Mordale?” Jarod said. “What happened to you in Mordale . . . I mean, if it isn’t impolite to ask.”

“Oh, and he’s so polite, Mother!” the young woman cooed.

“Now, Esmeralda, you know better than to get your hopes up,” her mother replied from the couch.

“Oh, it’s all so ridiculous,” said the father from the couch. “Bad construction of a wall. Dreadful thing fell on our carriage—snuffed out the lot of us. Unfortunately, we all had a good deal of unfinished business to be done before we moved on . . .”

“Moved on?” Jarod asked.

“Don’t explain, Philip,” said the mother ghost, patting her husband’s hand. “They never really understand.”

“The point is that we’ve been working things out in the city,” said the elderly ghost, “but it’s so noisy there that we all felt the need to get away. We knew about this place in the country—word gets around among the spirits, you know—so we thought we would come out and rest in peace. But this is worse than the city . . . people coming in and out and screaming like this!”

“We came here to get away from all that chain-rattling,” huffed the mother ghost as a renewed set of lusty screams and pounding feet passed the door.

Jarod drew in a slow breath. “You mean . . . those things out there
aren’t
ghosts?”

“Those?” piped in the apparition of the little boy. “Not hardly!”

“Blasted intruders,” grumbled the old ghost. “Waking the dead!”

Jarod took a careful step forward. “Please, I apologize for disturbing you . . . and for my friends outside . . . but if you’re willing to help me . . . I think I can solve your . . . uh . . . infestation problem and give you some quiet after all.”

The father ghost stood up. “Why should you do that?”

“Well, because I’m on a quest,” said Jarod. “There’s this woman named Caprice . . .”

Jep Walters wrung his hands. The rest of the Black Guild Brotherhood stood shifting back and forth, their torches guttering in the autumn wind, anxious to do something and yet powerless to make themselves move forward toward the horrible sounds coming from within the manor.

The sounds of the commotion were roaring all through the house. Flashes of light would pass a window with screams and sobbing on the upper floor only to be matched in the next moment by a crashing sound and more cries for help from the main floor.

“We’ve got to do something!” Mordechai pleaded.

“What can we do?” said Jep in reply. “What can
any
of us do?”

“It wasn’t haunted, you said,” whined Brody Muffe. “There’s no danger, you said.”

“Someone has got to do something!” Mordechai moaned.

Suddenly, the front doors of the manor flew open, banging against the walls as a figure emerged.

It was Harvest Oakman, still wearing the remnants of his torn muslin cloth. He stumbled down the stairs as several of the Black Guild Brotherhood rushed forward to catch the still shaking Harv.

“It was Jarod!” Harv said, out of breath. “He found me in that madness . . . he led me out!”

A bone-chilling shriek followed from the doorway and the Black Guild Brotherhood fell back.

Then a second figure shot out, running as fast as any man present had ever seen. It took several of the Brotherhood just to stop him before he passed them by. It was Joaquim Taylor, his eyes wide and his breathing hard.

“Shades! Spirits! Haunts!” gulped Joaquim. “Thought they had me for sure! Say—where’s Jarod? He showed me the way to the door. I thought he was right behind me?”

The house shook with a terrible keening sound.

There, framed in the doorway, stood Jarod Klum. He was supporting the rather massive weight of a blubbering Xander Lamplighter, who was having trouble keeping his feet squarely under him.

Jep stood looking at Jarod in amazement as he turned over the Constable Pro Tempore to the arms of the Brotherhood. “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jarod looked Jep Walters squarely in the eye and said, “I’ve got to go back in.”

“You WHAT?” squeaked the Supreme Shahanshah of the Brotherhood.

“There may be others still inside!” Jarod said nobly. “Besides—I have not yet finished my task.”

Then Jarod turned . . . and walked back into the Forgotten Manor.

The young man had no sooner entered the house than the most horrible, frightening commotion heard yet roared from its open door. It was as though the house itself had been outraged and had taken Jarod into its insatiable maw. The sound carried as far as Eventide, waking the women of Cobblestone Street into a sudden fear.

The main doors slammed closed as if of their own accord.

Then, an instant later—silence.

The dawn rose cold. Jep Walters was exhausted, but he and the rest of the Black Guild Brotherhood had remained through the night, watching quietly and hoping against hope for the deliverance of Jarod Klum.

As the sun’s rays peeked over the summit of Mount Dervin, Aren Bennis with Beulandreus Dudgeon on his back galloped up the old manor lane. Mordechai had gone for them in the morning and both had swiftly answered the call.

“What’s going on here, Jep?” Aren asked in brusque tones as he reached back and helped the dwarf down to the ground.

Jep shook his head sadly, his face drawn. “It’s . . . Jarod Klum, good man that he was. We need someone to go in and bring back whatever is left of him. It’s the least we can do for his poor mother.”

Aren eyed the house critically and then reached behind his back, pulling from under his coat an enormous, gleaming sword. “Come, Beulandreus—let’s go find the boy.”

The dwarf nodded grimly. Both were surprised to see Abel, the scribe, resolutely stepping forward to join them.

Sword drawn, the centaur walked up the steps with his two companions. Aren pulled open the front doors of the manor with his free hand and, bending over, led them inside.

Illuminated by the rays of morning light, streaming through the dirty windows, the entry hall featured beautiful architecture even in its dilapidated state. The matched curving staircases were impressive despite the broken railing on the left side. Most things were still covered in a thick layer of dust, but tracks led in every direction across the floor, and there were several pieces of furniture newly broken.

Rap . . . rap . . . rap . . .

Aren jerked his head up at the sound, raising his sword.

Beulandreus took out a hammer and adjusted his grip.

Abel drew out his pencil.

The soft sound had come from the top of the stairs.

Aren carefully advanced up the stairs, the great blade drawn back, his arms poised and tensed to strike. Beulandreus flanked up the opposite stairs while Abel followed at a discreet distance behind the centaur.

Rap . . . rap . . . rap . . .

The sound was moving.

Aren followed it south through a doorway and into a narrow corridor. Beulandreus closed ranks with Farmer Bennis as Abel scribbled a descriptive note.

Rap . . . rap . . . rap . . .

It came from behind a door to their right.

Aren carefully reached for the door latch and slowly released the catch. He gave a push to the door. It swung wide into the room with a terrible squeal.

It was a bedroom, and an opulent one at that. The bed was the largest that Abel had ever seen, fitted with a sumptuous mattress. Four tall posts stood at its corners, with curtains hiding its occupant.

Rap . . . rap . . . rap . . .

This time, from behind the bed curtains.

Aren approached slowly, motioning the dwarf over toward the foot of the bed. Abel held his pencil threateningly. The centaur thrust back the curtains around the bed.

There, blinking with the sudden intrusion of light, lay Jarod Klum. He sat up with a groan, rubbed his eyes, and then yawned. “What time is it?”

Aren chuckled as he lowered his blade. “An hour past dawn, young Master Klum. Sorry to awaken you, but you’ve kept the entire Black Guild Brotherhood up for the whole night.”

“Truly?” Jarod sounded surprised. “They said I had to sleep here all night. That’s all I was doing.”

“All you was doing!” Beulandreus roared with a hearty laugh.

“Oh, please keep quiet,” Jarod asked in a low voice. “I promised them we wouldn’t disturb them while they’re here. How did you find me?”

“We heard some rapping sound,” Beulandreus said. “Led us to you straight away.”

Jarod stretched. “Probably the boy. He was the one who found this bed for me. A pretty helpful lad once you get to know him, even if he is dead.”

“Who?” Aren said with a quizzical look. “What have you been up to out here, Jarod?”

So it was that Jarod, still sitting in his comfortable bed, rehearsed to them what truly had happened—though he swore them all never to tell.

And none of them did . . . for a very long time.

Aren, Beulandreus, and Abel all stood in the main hall of Forgotten Manor behind Jarod, who had finished rolling up his blanket.

Aren reached over and messed up the young man’s hair.

“Hey, stop that!” Jarod said, pulling away.

“You have to look the part,” Aren said quietly with a smile. “Come on, now. Let’s see about making you into a hero.”

By this time, much of the town had turned out to witness the spectacle at the Forgotten Manor from a
very
respectable distance. When the doors opened, there was a great gasp from the crowd as Jarod Klum—the bravest man in Eventide—bounded out the doors.

A tremendous cheer erupted from the townsfolk.

“I am astonished, boy! Simply astonished and overwhelmed!” shouted Jep Walters, a tear of relief streaking his wide, cherry-cheeked face. He kept slapping Jarod on the back.

Jarod looked around him. Aren, Beulandreus, and Abel had all joined the crowd. Curiously, the Dragon’s Bard was not there.

But Jarod’s gaze was drawn at once to the edge of the cheering throng, where Caprice Morgan was smiling and waving at him. He raised his arm to wave back, but in that moment Vestia Walters ran into him, throwing her arms around him with such force that he was nearly knocked to the ground.

“A champion!” she cried as he struggled to keep his balance. “My true champion!”

By the time he had extracted himself from Vestia’s grip, Caprice Morgan was nowhere to be seen.

The Dragon’s Tale

The Dragon’s Tale

Wherein the brave Jarod is appointed Captain of the Dragonwatch and
why slaying dragons is considered a hazardous profession.

• Chapter 20 •

Muster of the Dragonwatch

Father Patrion raked the dead leaves out of the flower beds surrounding his church with a distracted air. It was such a beautiful place, he thought. He had come to love it dearly—even as he knew in his heart that he had failed his church, his people, and his faith.

He had made a terrible and simple mistake in the face of the infallible divine.

Father Patrion sighed as he gazed at the columns supporting the roof over the church. They were all so straight and so true, he thought. Once again he felt ashamed for his shortcomings, for his inability to convert a single soul to the worship of his goddess and his utter failure in communicating his situation with his superiors in Mordale.

Now the wedding of Sobrina Morgan to Lucius Tanner had been announced. The banns had been read before the town and the date was rapidly approaching. He, being the person officially entrusted with the things of deity, had been called upon to seal the marriage before the gods—although which of the gods they intended had yet to be made clear.