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. It was good to touch something warm and alive.
Nightshade pulled off the helm and let it fall to the ground.
“Sorry. Was that yours?” He saw that the specter was missing about half its skull. “Oh, I guess not. You probably could have used it. So things haven’t been going real well for you. Would you like to tell me about it?”
It seemed that the specter was speaking, though Rhys could not hear the voice. He could see the spectral hand making angry gestures. The spectral head would turn to look off into the distance.
Nightshade listened with calm attentiveness, his expression one of sympathy and concern.
“There’s nothing here for you now,” Nightshade said at last. “Your wife has married someone else by now. She had to, even though she grieved for you and missed you. There were the kids to raise and she couldn’t manage the farm by herself. Your comrades lift a glass to you and say things like, ‘Do you remember the time old Charley did such and such?’ But they’ve moved on with their lives, too. You need to move on with yours. No, I’m not trying to be funny. Death is a part of life. The sort of dark and quiet part, but definitely a part. You’re not doing yourself any good hanging about here, fretting about how unfair it all was.”
Nightshade listened to the specter again, then said, “You could look at it that way or you could take the view that the unknown is filled with new and exciting possibilities. Anything’s better than this, right? Skulking about here lost and alone. At least, give what I’ve said some thought. You don’t happen to play khas, do you? Would you like a game before you leave?”
The specter apparently wasn’t interested. The ghastly form began to dissipate like mist in the moonlight.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Nightshade called. “Have you seen or heard anything from Chemosh lately? Chemosh. God of the Dead. You never heard of him? Well, thanks anyway. Good luck to you! Have a safe journey.”
Rhys tried to pick up the shattered pieces of what he’d thought he’d known about life and death and sort them all out and reassemble them. At length, he found he couldn’t and he simply threw them all away. Time to begin again. He walked over to where Nightshade was standing. The kender was eyeing the helm and eyeing his pouch, as if trying to determine if it would fit.
Hearing movement, Nightshade turned his head. His face brightened. Dropping the helm, he came dashing up to them. “Rhys! Did you see that? A specter! He was kind of a dismal specter. Most of them are livelier, so to speak. Oh, and he doesn’t know anything about Chemosh. My guess is the man died before the gods came back. I hope he feels better now that’s he’s on the next part of his journey. What’s the matter with Atta? She’s not sick, is she?””
“Nightshade,” said Rhys contritely, “I want to apologize.”
The kender’s face screwed up in a bemused wrinkle. “If you want to, Rhys, you can. I don’t mind. Who are you going to apologize to?”
“You, Nightshade,” said Rhys, smiling. “I doubted you and I spied on you, and I’m sorry.”
“You doubted—” The kender paused. He glanced at Rhys, glanced at the dog, glanced around the empty battle field. “I see. You came after me to make sure I wasn’t lying when I said I could talk to the dead.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”
“That’s all right,” said Nightshade, though he said it with a little sigh. “I’m used to being not trusted. Comes with the territory.”
“Will you forgive me?” Rhys asked.
“Did you bring any food with you?”
Rhys reached into his scrip, pulled out a hunk of cheese, and handed it to the kender.
“I forgive you,” said Nightshade, taking a large and contented bite. He cocked an eye at Rhys. “It’s very odd.”
“It’s ordinary goat cheese—”
“Not the cheese. It’s quite good. No, what I mean is that it’s odd that the specter didn’t know Chemosh. None of the specters or ghosts or haunts I’ve met have been visited by him or his clerics. True, Chemosh wasn’t around when that particular specter was alive, but it seems to me that if I were the Lord of Death, the first thing I would have done when I came back was to send out my clerics to do a sweep of all the battlefields and dungeons and dragon lairs, to enslave as many wandering spirits to serve me as I could find.”
“Maybe the clerics just missed this one,” Rhys suggested.
“I don’t think so,” said Nightshade. He munched his cheese with a thoughtful expression.
“What do you think is going on then?” Rhys prodded, truly interested to hear what the kender had to say. He’d developed a good deal of respect for Nightshade in the past hour.
The kender gazed out over the dark and empty field. “I think Chemosh has no need for dead slaves.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’s finding slaves among the living.”
“Like my brother,” said Rhys, with a sudden cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Other than their first conversation in the graveyard, when Rhys had told Nightshade about Lleu and the murders, the two had not discussed it much. The subject was not one Rhys liked to dwell on. Apparently Nightshade had been giving the matter thought, however.
Nightshade nodded. He handed back the remainder of the cheese and Rhys returned it to the scrip, much to Atta’s disappointment.