Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [76]
Rhys had little to fear about from bandits. “Poor as a monk” was a household expression. One glimpse of monkish robes (even those of a strange color) and thieves turned away in disgust.
Atta’s low rumble caused Rhys to abandon his thoughts and turn his attention to the task ahead. They had reached the battlefield and he could see Nightshade quite clearly, the red moon smiling down on him brightly, as if Lunitari found it all quite funny.
Rhys chose a place in the shadows beneath a tree that, by its splintered branches, had been caught up in the fighting. He felt a prick from his conscience for spying on the kender, but the matter was too important, too urgent to be left to chance.
“At least I’ve given Nightshade the benefit of the doubt,” Rhys said to Atta, as he watched the kender prowl hopefully around the battlefield. “Anyone else hearing such a tale would have hauled him off to the cells for the insane.”
The battlefield was a large stretch of open ground, several acres in length and breadth. The battle had been fought only a few years previous, and although the field was now overgrown with weeds and grass, some scars of the conflict could still be seen.
Any intact armor or weapons had been looted by either the victors or the townspeople. Left behind were broken spears, rusted bits of armor, a worn boot, a torn gauntlet, splintered arrows. Rhys had no idea who had been fighting whom in the battle. Not that it mattered.
Nightshade roamed about. Once he stopped to pick up something off the ground. After examining it carefully, he dropped it into his pouch.
He glanced about, sighed dismally, then shouted out, in neighborly tones, “Hullo! Anybody home?”
No one replied. Nightshade roamed on. The night was calm, peaceful, and Rhys felt sleep start to overcome him. He shook his head to shake off the fuzziness, rubbed his eyes and drank some water from his flask. Atta tensed. Rhys could feel her body stiffen. Her ears pricked.
“What—” he began, then his voice stuck in his throat.
Nightshade had stooped to pick up a battered and dented helm. Pleased with his find, the kender put the helm on his head. The helm was far too large, but that didn’t bother Nightshade. He thunked himself on the top of the helm with his fist and endeavored to flip up the visor, which was somewhere around his chin.
He was fumbling with the visor, which was rusted, and missed seeing the ghostly apparition rising up out of the ground almost directly in front of him. Rhys saw it clearly and even then he might have doubted his senses, but he could tell from Atta’s stare and her rigid muscles, taut beneath his hand, that she could see it, too.
The specter was about the height and bulk of a human male. He was clad in armor—nothing as sophisticated as a knight might wear; just a few cast-off pieces cobbled together. He wore no helm and there was a ghastly wound on his head, a gash that had cleaved through his skull. His features were twisted in a scowl. The specter reached out a ghostly hand toward the kender, who was still happily ensconced in the helm, with no inkling of the horror in front of him.
Rhys tried to call out a warning. His throat and mouth were so dry that he could make no sound. He might have sent Atta, but the dog was shivering, terrified.
“Whoo boy, it got cold all of a sudden,” said Nightshade, his voice echoing inside the helm.
He managed to free the visor about that time and it popped open. “Oh, hullo, there!” he said to the specter, whose hand was inches from his face. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were here. How have you been?”
At the sound of the kender’s voice, the specter dropped its hand. It hovered uncertainly in front of Nightshade, as if trying to make up its mind to something.
Awed, Rhys listened and watched and tried to make some sense of what was happening. Nothing in his training, his prayers, or meditation had prepared him for this sight. He stroked Atta, soothing her and reassuring himself at the same time.