I’m publishing my entire novel (The Haunt on the Island of Esmer) for free here on Substack in installments. If you like what you’re reading, and don’t want to wait to know what happens next, you can buy the book here in paperback or Kindle format.
They had marched through the night without another fight.
He heard the wonder of the Black Boat men as they stumbled past piles of burnt Dhlams the mage had left in his fiery wake. Wild board had stamped their prints on the ashes, rough mounds where tusks had rooted for scraps of flesh.
The hypnotic sound of men marching. In the night, the bob and blur of bright torches waved against the darkness. Rattling metal, marching feet, the bell and tambourine noise of men on the move trailed behind him. No chance of staying unseen.
Glume had made ready a few simple sleds which the men pulled up the mountain with ropes, arguing about whose turn it was to heave and haul.
One foot in front of the other. He kept everyone at full marching pace. No stop. He was tired beyond feeling pain now. Dawn had come and Mage retreated farther into his cloak.
Allred looked for fear inside himself as if studying a puzzle. He couldn’t find it and that wasn’t good. He knew it lingered somewhere within him, hidden in secret warrens of his mind—worse he could feel the fear crawling through muscle and gut.
In the Haunt it’s still waiting for us, Allred figured. He scratched his jaw and lit another redleaf roll. His mouth and throat were dry from the smoke. It kept him moving.
Allred knew in his bones they neared a large one. Even if it wasn’t, he wasn’t certain any of them could bear descending yet again. Overflowing with Dhlams and worse, whatever gate stood at the top of the mountain it led to the ruin of souls.
That meant big treasure. That meant a lot of dead men.
In a perverse way, the Haunts made him feel human now. The most inhuman thing to do, entering those realms inhabited by demons, guarded by curses, filled with tombs. There he felt alive on the edge of doom.
Wasteful thoughts.
“Keep the pace,” Allred shouted when he saw the line of men falter.
He slowed and let the back of the line of marching men catch up. He heard some shouting, looked back and saw two men pulling a sled. They had dropped their ropes and were yelling at each other. One pulled a dagger. The others tottered to a slow stop to watch, an excuse to rest.
He made his way back down the line, “Problem?”
Both men turned, looked at him. One spit. Daggers vanished.
“No, sir.”
“Just a stumble.”
“Good,” Allred said.
The line kept moving. They had already cleared the small cliff face earlier. The one thing that heartened him—his crossbow he had found where he cast it off before running.
He returned to the front of the line, head down, looking at none of the weary men. The Black Boat man beside him looked tired, afraid but he kept good pace and stayed quiet. He shouldered a heavy pack. A rusty axe hung from his belt loop.
“Drop back. Keep the back of the line in order.”
If he didn’t have any fear left topside above the Haunt where most mortal men lived and died; then if there is was some portion of fear due to all men, did others carry the burden of fear he had relinquished?
Foolhardy thoughts. The kind of thing Scrolls calls philosophy. Pointless.
One foot in front of the other. Eyes ahead.
He flicked the redleaf roll away from him, pulled from his belt pouch a small wooden plaque portraying the Lady of Allwein. When his thoughts grew confused, he looked at it and rehearsing the prayers he had learned in youth, he offered up his thought to the Lady.
“The Lady of Allwein?” the Black Boat man he had dismissed asked.
“It is,” he answered.
“My mother prayed to her,” the Black Boat man said.
Against his own feeling, he handed the plaque to the man. He waved it off but glanced at her from a distance, “It’s been too long since I learned the prayers.”
The man was a criminal and of the worst type, that Allred knew. He considered answering.
Instead, he stayed silent, just nodded and the man slowed his pace and fell back. Allred put the little wooden plaque back into his belt pouch.
They were making good time, not long until the top.
Into the Haunt and out, Allred thought, that’s the way to think. Win another victory. After that, maybe talk to Cole.
Something would have to change. Years in the wilderness, in the belly of the Haunts and every single one of them, besides maybe Stoneburner, were living right on the edge of toppling over into a temple for the Haunt-Ridden. He’d rather die than live out his days, slobbering and babbling in one of those places.
They needed to change the plan, but he didn’t know how. Cole had the plan, not him.
Revenge drives him. And it’s our revenge as much as his.
He dismissed these ideas, like an unwanted sentry. Breathe. Listen to the jungle.
A family of squirrels darted from branch to branch above as if running a race with the march. Flies and gnats fell prey to green and brown lizards who watched the men from their perches in the palms. Their throats expanded in red flesh-bubbles. They bobbed up and down, hissing at the noise. Raw cantaloupe-colored blooms drooped from vines burdened with clumps of dry leaves burnished brown by the morning heat.
He’s a reasonable man, Allred thought. But something has to change.
When they reached the clearing, he whistled to alert any sentry Cole had set.
He felt a lightness as he made his way over the small metal fence, noting someone had dug around the base of it while he was gone. Emerging from the clearing, Cole came to meet them at the trailhead and took charge of the Black Boat men.
They filed past Cole, in his presence all walked a little more upright. They tried to learn something about what would come next from Cole’s face.
In the brighter light of the clearing, away from the shade of the jungle he felt the empty desperation of sleeplessness press down on him.
Cole surveyed the Black Boat men, assigned some to tasks, and gave them over to Stoneburner’s command.
Mage hovered beside Allred, mute since the beach.
Too quiet.
Either way the job was done. Order fulfilled. And from what he could see, it didn’t look like any fighting had broken out up here.
Aodlen joined them. Cole released the doctor on them both.
“I count less Black Boat men,” Cole said, “What happened?”
Allred reported in clipped sentences, in a matter-of-fact way, condensing the entire fight—the beach and return march while Aodlen poured powders and medicines on the wounds he suffered from the Dhlams. It distracted him. His tongue heavy from the lack of sleep.
“I shouldn’t have tried it alone. Mage had to save—”
“My call.” Cole said and that was the end of it. “No more trouble on the way up?”
Aodlen kept bothering him.
“Ha! Got to patch you up.”
In the distance, Stoneburner shouted at the Black Boat men.
“Look up there, yet?” Allred asked, nodding towards the last ascent where the Haunt would stand.
“Not yet. Go see Stoneburner. Rest. Tomorrow, we try it,” Cole said. “Aodlen and Scrolls will mix the Haunt-potions, now that we know our number.”
Before entering a Haunt, every man had to take Aodlen’s special remedy. Allred knew the ingredients but most of the names made no sense to him. Aodlen’s job. Everyone had a role. Good enough. He turned to the doctor, waived him off, “Make mine double strong, Aodlen.”
Gods, he was tired.
“Oh, ha! Allred, I’ve been doing that for a long while.” Aodlen laughed.
“Heard.” It wasn’t funny. Probably wasn’t meant to be.
Aodlen followed him back to where Stoneburner kept the camp. Scrolls walked past, nodding a greeting and went to meet Mage.
Aodlen didn’t look tired at all. As usual, he was excited by his own concoctions. The feeling of being around someone drinking that much medicine wasn’t so different than being around a Mage. There was a dangerous underlying hum of the spirit coming off the doctor in his twitching restless movements.
Stoneburner brought him food, sat him down, nearly slapped him on the shoulder, then seeing the wound, gripped the other one in a friendly embrace.
“Ready for this one?” Aodlen asked.
“Ready for you to leave me be. Tomorrow, I’ll worry about tomorrow,” he said, shoveling the rue grain down fast. He noticed the wooden spoon was shaking in his own hand.
“Ha! Tomorrow. Yes, yes, well tomorrow brings its own worries.”
Aodlen was reliable, unflappable in battle, but he couldn’t tolerate the man for too long, especially when he was tired.
At least it’s nice to have people to stand next to on the edge.
Aodlen more than most of them looked like he was barely fighting off the Upside Fever. His eyes stared beyond your shoulder, staring through you and past you at once. Better than meeting his lightening quick glares. Talking too fast, punctuating every thought with maniacal laughter. His breath smelled like old metal, and he sweat all the time.
“I pronounce you fit enough for war, ha.”
The tattooing was the worst. Started slow years back and built up. His arms and chest were covered in them. Recipes for remedies he said, “Got to write them down, in case I forget, ha! My skin is better than some parchment. Parchment gets lost, ha! That could get lost. Lost, yes. Parchment, I’d have to talk to Scrolls, hahaha! If I lose my skin, then I lose the recipes and then we’re all in a mess.”
The tattoos weren’t about Scrolls and his parchment, though the doctor enjoyed needling the aristocrat—Aodlen had cooked up a special ink for his tattoos and it helped him sleep.
Cole didn’t say anything about it.
Allred didn’t say anything about it.
No one said anything to anyone about it. Each of the Relic Hunters were allotted their own portion of magic to do with as they pleased. No questions were asked.
It was odd though, when he thought about it. Ink helped the doctor rest. Ink helped Scrolls rest.
“You both love your ink, Aodlen,” he said.
“Ha! The scout has a more subtle mind than it appears. Hiding behind your little provincial mask, I think. We all hide where we can.”
Allred shoveled down the last of the rue grain. Stoneburner brought another bowl and handed it to him. Aodlen chattered on beside him.
People’s minds came loose after the Haunt. On the edge together. His mouth full, he stared at Aodlen and felt a weird pang of affection for the man.
“It’s going to be big, Allred. I can feel it. Ha! Yes, yes, though of course this is just how one must do things…”
The fast-talking made him dizzy and his hands tingle.
“Can’t you see this man is weary, Doctor?” Stoneburner chuckled. “Give him some time to sleep.”
Aodlen ceased talking, considered this and put a black, ink-stained hand to his own lips. “Quite right, quite right. I prescribe sleep. Would you like something for that?”
We all get by our own kind of way. All tired. Except Cole.
“Don’t need it,” he grunted.
Aodlen leaped up from the low bench hewn from a palm tree someone had constructed while he was on the march. A small palm trunk cut down the middle and setting on top of two stumps.
“I’ll get the doses prepared. Too many. I just realized. Lost men on the beach. Hmm, double doses, I guess! Ha! If need be. If need be. Need to recalibrate. Formulas. Hmm. Expensive ingredients.” Aodlen finished talking and then turned and wondered off, pulling his old playing cards from his belt and shuffling them as he paced around the camp.
Stoneburner pointed to the top of the rickety watch tower.
“You can sleep up there by permission of the young, watchman of Esmer,” Stoneburner smiled.
Allred handed the bowl back, made his way up the tower. There he found a pallet laid out for him. He started the task of taking out the sharp things he carried all over his body and laying them beside the blanket.
“Yeah,” Allred said aloud to no one.
Too tired for nightmares is the right kind of too tired.
Tomorrow and the day after and the day after.
“Yeah.”
In one hand, he gripped a short dagger, in the other a throwing knife. Outside, the Black Boat men barked and complained and were quieted and it wasn’t his problem for a few hours, so he fell asleep.