Piece of the Cut

Hi guys,

This is a “piece” (excuse the pun), that I’ve been working on for a while now and I’ve had a lot of fun writing it. Although it’s one of the longer short stories I’ve written, I urge you to read it until the end. Set in the great fantasy city of Ark, this story tells of a gang of thieves trying to locate their stashed goods from a score, in a graveyard of all places…

I hope you enjoy it and as always, I’d love to hear any feedback or thoughts you might have.

Cheers,

Jevan Thompson

 

“What made you put it in a pitting graveyard? Honestly Slim, we’re gonna draw too much attention…” Deckard said, irritation thick on his tongue and loathing heavy on his stare. It had taken them weeks of careful planning and delicate preparation to make the heist, and now that they had finally pulled it off…

Slim’s put it in a pitting graveyard. Saying it again in his mind didn’t ease the feeling of disappointment and frustration that was building up inside of him. In fact, it did the opposite, making him put his head in his hands and groan loudly.

“You can stop right there with your attitude sunshine. First of all, none of us actually lifted the cargo, that was done by the Hatters. Second, you were the one who suggested we go down potters street, which meant they had no choice but to ditch it in the graveyard. Thirdly, you make out like it’s the end of the world, but nobody’s going to give a rats arse if they see the four of us going into a graveyard in the dead of night.” Slim almost spat the words out in anger, with his finger pointed firmly at Deckard’s face to drive home his three points even further.

“You talk to me like that again, I’ll slap the salt out of you, I swear by the gates. This is the third damned time you’ve cocked up a job.” Slim snarled.

Deckard had to admit, that Slim cut a fairly threatening figure in the small confines of the carriage. His thick bushy eyebrows were twisted into a fierce frown and his eyes were so sharp they could have cut stone. Slim was easily one of the biggest of their small crew, which was probably why he was in charge, that and he possessed the harshest, most cut throat instinct of them all. He was exactly the sort of man who would use any of his strengths to exploit anyone else’s weakness. He was, in every essence of the word, ruthless.

Deckard shook his head and moved his gaze to the other members of the crew, attempting to garner some support in his accusation. “Oz, come on, this isn’t my fault!” He said, stressing the “my” to try and make them all see how innocent he was.

Oz, short for Osbert, was one of the talkers of the group. He possessed the odd ability of being able to talk and talk and talk, but not actually say anything. That particular trait was very common amongst the nobility and other wealthy folks within the city, so naturally, Oz fit perfectly into the role of the crew’s imposter. Any time one of their schemes required someone to talk to the middling levels of society, Oz became that man.

His hair was long, but slicked back on his head with grease, making it shine softly every time their carriage passed one of the oil street lamps. He was thin, but not weak. Tall but, not gangly. Simple, but not ragged. He looked across with a look of boredom plastered to his face, it would of been very annoying to Deckard, if it wasn’t the fact that this was simply who Oz was. There was no malice in his action, no intent to cause offense, it was just…

Well…

Oz.

“While you do seem rather sure it wasn’t you who caused the problem, I’m afraid Slim makes a very valid point. It was you who said to go down Potter street. Unlucky Decker.” He said, firmly and resolutely, then he turned his head to continue gazing out of the window.

There was a brief few moments of silence, save from the horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles. Deckard was just about to open his mouth to attempt to garner support again, but a voice interrupted him before he could speak.

“Decker, just admit ya ballsed it up. Sure it was the biggest job we’ve done yet, and sure we’re probably not gonna get another like it, but hey. We’re here, so admit it and we’ll move on.” Vinne said pointedly, cutting an apple apart with one of his many knives.

Vinnie was a gutter rat, through and through. His early years were spent in rags, fighting, stealing or cheating for every precious breath. He had unintentionally been brought up a criminal, learning that it was either learn the ways of unsavory business, or be a victim of it. With a quick mind and even quicker hands, his education in the slums of Ark had taught him the ways of nimble, fast fingers, perfectly suited to picking pockets and swiping coin purses.

Deckard scoffed at his comment and shook his head again, something that he seemed to being doing more and more in the carriage’s interior. Vinnie’s face instantly twisted up into a shade of anger, his features going dark and his once reasonable expression turning very bitter indeed.

He spat his fruit out the window with utter disdain, as if the fruit had suddenly turned rotten and putrid inside of his mouth. The point of his blade was raised in Deckard’s direction before he spoke.

“You serious? You that pitting proud that you won’t admit you’ve messed up? You’ll get no sympathy from me you useless rat.”

Deckard was about to retort, with righteous fury at the sheer cheek of what Vinnie had said, but something stopped him just as he was about to open his mouth. Violence. Much like Slim’s expression, but so much worse. It wasn’t just the piece of steel he held firmly in his calloused hands, it was the aura that surrounded him, enveloping the small carriage like shadows in the dark.

He wondered just how dangerous Vinnie was, but then he remembered. Vinnie had grown up fighting on the streets of Ark, Deckard was just a guest here. He turned his away and remained quiet.

The night streets of Ark passed by outside of the window and Deckard pretended to observe them. The streets were like in any other city at this quiet time of night, empty, dimly lit and only populated by the few people who preferred the darkness over the light. He’d seen the same sight before countless amount of times. The late hours were when the crew tended to be the most active. Thoughts of anger, annoyance, doubt and pride all flashed through his mind in a brief burst of emotion.

It’s not my fault the Hatter’s messed it up!

Everyone else agreed with me, so they’re all just at fault as I am.

Is it really my fault?

I wonder if Vinnine would have gone for me.

I can’t believe the cheek of it!

Was it me?

A seemingly endless amount of questions began to bubble up inside of him, causing him to wonder if it was in fact possible that he might have failed in his planning of the job. He reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, but the thoughts still bounced around inside of his mind like sparks in a foundry.

Before his dark thoughts could fester however, the carriage rolled to a gentle stop, the horses whinnying with pride at their good work. There was a brief pause and the sound of a few heavy footsteps from the driver’s section of the carriage. The wood creaked and groaned with annoyance as the driver appeared in the window, a hood obscuring much of his face.

“We’re here boys.”

********************************************************************

The old battered gate had an old battered chain which entwined it shut, although, it looked like it could fall apart at a particularly strong gust of wind. Rust had nearly won its age old battle to eat to the lock away entirely, so it was to no surprise that when Arn, the driver, all but tapped the thing with a smith’s hammer, it snapped open easily.

Arn was the fifth and final member of the group, the muscle. He was nearly as big as Slim, but where Slim was a large man with a large belly, Arn was a big man with very little fat on him. He’d been brought up as a blacksmith’s apprentice, but when the owner was seized by the city watch for selling stolen goods, he was cast out to fend for himself.

He used his muscle to his advantage, fighting in the pits until Slim had recruited him a few years back. It turned out Arn could beat men just as easily as he beat steel. Whenever a job needed a heavy hand, Arn was surely there, using his skills in his own, brutal way.

Slim turned around to the crew and addressed them all, a worn cigar that looked as old as the gates smouldering in his lips, sending smoke curling up, only to be snatched away by the quick fingers of the wind.

“Right then lads, here’s the deal. The Hatters stashed our haul in one of the tombs, it’s marked as Alazar. We’re gonna all split up and look for it.” He took a large puff on his cigar, savouring the rich, acrid smoke for a second, then he started up again.

“If you see the watch, light a red burner and leave it somewhere high that everyone will be able to see.” Burners or ever burning candles were a nickname for the cheap candles that the gang used. They had small, symbols of power carved in them to stop them from blowing out, making them very useful for signalling.

“If you see the right grave, put a green one up. Green good, red bad. You all got it?” He asked the group of shameless thieves.

They all gave various nods of understanding or agreement, and walked through the gate to find their prize.

*****************************************************************

Deckard saw a green light just over the other side of the mausoleum.

It was so feint, he wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it at first. It was like a distant lighthouse in a storm, only there if you focused enough. He stopped his search and began to make his way over to it, navigating the maze of forgotten crypts and ancient tombs. He was having a fruitless search in the dim light anyway.

Oz was stood nonchalantly next to the thick heavy gate of the tomb, with his hands in his overcoat and a pipe gently burning, hanging limply from his mouth. He nodded as Deckard approached and pointed to the rotting wooden sign that was nailed to the top.

ALAZAR

“Well, I’ll hand it to you Oz, you got keen eyes.” Deckard said grudgingly.

“Well, seeing is believing when it comes to the merchants.” He replied smoothly, annunciating each word correctly, even with the pipe still lodged in his mouth.

They waited in silence for a while, the conversation refusing to come to them, refusing to emerge as they waited in the dark. Deckard thought about opening his mouth many times, but he couldn’t find the right words. He wanted to apologise, to say that it was his fault it had gone awry for this job and the last two they’d pulled off.

It seemed like no matter how hard he planned, other things out of his control came in a wrought havoc. He felt like the stress was getting to him, but who could he tell? If he mentioned is faults to the other gangers, they’d cast him out at best, swirl him at worst and so he was trapped with his own thoughts, with nobody to help.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps on the stones and the sight of a few figures striding closer in the darkness. Slim’s light from his unmistakable cigar singalled his approach, pushing down any hope of Deckard expressing his fears. He might have a chance with just Oz, who was the most reasonable of the bunch, but Slim would swirl him for certain.

At last, all of the crew had arrived and they surveyed the tomb, eagerness shining in their eyes. Slim looked over to Oz who nodded his head smugly.

“Good work Oz, right…let’s get to work. Vinnie? You’re up.” Slim said, a crooked smile stretching across his face, his one gold tooth glinting slightly amongst the sea of yellow in his mouth.

Vinnie padded over and produced a set of thieves picks, expertly inserting them into the lock with a practised ease. Even though the candlelight was dim, he set to work instantly, listening and feeling for the telltale clicks of the lock’s pins. He had tried to teach Deckard once, but Deckard’s fingers not used to the subtle manipulation of the tumblers. It had taken him well over twenty minutes to open a lock Vinnie had deemed easy.

Better to let the expert do it.

It only took him about a minute to produce a satisfying, final click, then he twisted the tools in the lock and pushed the gate open with a satisfied smile. “We’d be here until morning if Decker was doing it.” He said with a wink as he pocketed his tools. The rest of the men sniggered and followed suit, walking down the marble steps into the crypt. Deckard was unable to come up with a retort fast enough and so he sighed to himself in annoyance and reluctantly followed them down.

There was another door a few steps down, Vinnie making short work of the heavy lock inside of it. It took Vinnie and Arn to push it open even Arn letting out a grunt of effort at shifting the heavy wood. As soon as it creaked forwards, there was a small rush of air as the wind flooded in excitedly.

Their footsteps echoed loudly in the tunnel, each step they took sounding like three or four reverberating back at them. It was if a small army was traipsing through the underground depths, searching for the treasure that was promised to them. They had lit a torch to better see in the darkness, and it was only a few short steps until they came upon a chamber.

Vinnie whooped with joy, clapping his hands together at the sight of it.

“This is it boys, it’s finally here!” He said, laughing and patting Oz on the back with glee. The others managed to contain their excitement well, but Vinnie was skipping around like a child who’d found an armful of candies.

It was relatively big considering it only housed a dead man, the man obviously having done well enough in life that he was looked after in death. But weather it was the gravekeepers not earning their pay or that the late Alazar wanted to be left well alone, the interior of the crypt was a sorry state indeed. Cobwebs hung thick in every possible place, like the spiders had made this their new base of operations within the city. A few dead rats lay crumpled across the floor, twisted and rotting from the ravages of time. Dust covered every surface like a second skin, making the entire room look like it was made of grime.

Slim battered the largest of the cobwebs out of the way with his big arms, carefully making sure his smouldering cigar remained unmolested by the spider’s handiwork. As they strode further in, the room was revealed in its entirety by the flickering torchlight.

Two large grey Sarcophagi sat boldly in the centre of the room, as if daring the newcomers to gaze upon their stone coffins. There were probably intricate markings and emblems etched into them, but the dust covering had rendered them flat and boring, just two stone boxes.

The walls were shelved with small trinkets and items caked in a layer of thick dust, goblets, books, a small shrine to the four, there was even a painting that hung in between the two coffins, but the colours had been cracked and ruined so badly it was unrecognisable any more. A rotten grimoire lay content on a small lectern in the centre of the room, with an amulet hanging from it’s side forlornly.

But the gang weren’t interested in any of that, after all, they sought a far more recent addition to the tomb, something less old and more valuable. Sure enough, their prize lay in the corner of the room.

Four heavy wooden chests, all new and untouched by the dust of the tomb.

Four chests full to the brim of fresh taxes, that were all bound for Tomruddy’s Counting House, but had somehow ended up in a crypt in Mercy’s Quarter.

Slim smiled, a devilish glee blazing in his eyes.

********************************************

The final chest gave a loud grunt as it was ungracefully shifted into the back of the carriage. Arn’s breath was laboured from the effort, small beads of sweat softly glistening in the gentle glow of the faraway street lanterns.

“That’s the last one boss.” Arn said gruffly, turning to face slim who was stood just behind.

Slim gave a big smile, revealing a sea of yellowed teeth.

“Nicely done Arnie. We’ll head back over now.” He said, throwing the snub of his cigar onto the cobbles below, grinding it between his foot. The soles of his boots gave a harsh rasp as he turned back to the graveyard.

“Boss?” Arn asked.

Slim cocked his head back, his smile still lingering sinisterly.

“We gonna swirl Decker?” Arn asked with a neutral stare.

Slim’s smile managed to impossibly grow, revealing all of his rotting teeth. His grin as vicious as a shark, his eyes dripping with malice. His one gold tooth glinted.

“We’ll head back over.”

****************************************************************************************************

Deckard turned the pages of the grimoire over in his hands, the old parchment doing it’s very best not to crumble into dust. It was all a useless mess of jumbled symbols and glyphs, with a few scraps of nonsense in there for good measure.

To tell the truth, Deckard was only reading the damned thing so he would look busy. If anyone were to ask him, he would explain he was trying to determine the value of the book, to see if it was worth selling. In reality however, he had seen how ridiculously heavy the chests of gold were and he certainly had no intention of lifting them.

That’s what Arn is here for.

It was only when he heard the sounds of more footsteps again, his ruse was momentarily broken, the appearance of the noise shocking him from his false work. He flinched out of instinct and the old grimoire slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

It was at that exact moment, when the grimoire split apart scattering it’s pages onto the ground, that Slim and Arn came back into the crypt. Slim had one of his infamous post-job smiles carved on his face, his cigar surprisingly non existent. Deckard stood flustered at his obvious clumsiness and placed his hands on his hips in a futile gesture of assertiveness.

“The book was no good Slim, just full of ramblings and ravings. I mean, by the gates, he was probably senile when he wrote the damnned thing.” Decker said, running a hand through his hair as he spoke.

Slim shrugged his shoulders.

“Naahh, well it’s no bother, we’ve got enough of the tax gold to drink ourselves into an early grave!” He said with a hearty laugh. The other members of the crew gave a happy cheer in response.

Deckard’s heart jumped at the noise, panic rising in his heart like a watchmen’s bell. He held his hands up with a wince.

“Slim! The watch! Someone will hear!” He said in hushed, rushed tones.

Slim’s eyes turned hard for a second, the laugh momentarily dying in his throat. But, as quick as lightning, his signature smile returned.

“Nobody’s gonna hear anything down here Decker. This tomb’s far underground, you could bang and scream all night and nobody would hear a thing.” He said, still beaming.

Pitting hell, he’s a scary bastard.

Deckard could have sworn his eyes flared with a hint of something, but he couldn’t place what exactly the mysterious something was. Before he could consider it further, Slim turned to the others and began to congratulate them all, clapping them on the shoulders and giving words of encouragement.

Vinnie and Oz had procured a bottle of spirits from somewhere, and were both sharing it around with mischievous smiles. It was eventually passed to Deckard, who took an eager drink. The “rasp”, a cheap spirit often found more suited to remove rust from metal, was also found quite frequently in the slums of ark and it had become a fond favourite of Vinnie’s.

It also was absolutely abhorrent. It made Deckard shiver and turn his face in disgust. Mocking laughter from the other crew members echoed in the small tomb.

Deckard smiled as warmly as he could, but he was growing more and more uneasy being trapped under the ground, in truth he had never been good with confined spaces. But once again, he could not betray any weakness to the other crew members. They were like sharks, circling each other in a constant dance. At the first sign of softness, they tore it apart.

After a few more moments of congratulations Slim addressed them all again.

“Right boys, we’ve got what we came for, let’s get out of here and get a proper drink.”

By the gates, about damned time. Decker thought to himself.

He began to move to the steps, but he was stopped by Arn who stood in his way.

Deckard smiled in mock amusement, until he heard a laugh from behind him. He turned his head, smile gone, to see Slim wearing his smile yet again, only this time, he could pinpoint what was wrong with the smile. It had no warmth.

There are many kinds of grin. Deckard had assumed it was the kind of smile one friend wears to another, a smile like a crackling fire at the end of a cold day, full of warmth and comfort. But Slim was wearing a predators grin, showing all his teeth, his eyes shimmering with ill intent. There was no comfort here.

“You’re not going anywhere Decker.” Slim said.

****************************************************************************************************

There was no feeling he had ever experienced than the complete and utter realization that his death was mere moments away. His stomach dropped, as though he had swallowed a lead weight. His chest began to constrict and tighten making every breath a battle. A blast of dizziness hit him like a fist and he felt all the moisture vanish from his mouth.

He tried. He really tried to not show it, but he had been gripped by the firm, unrelenting grasp of terror. A shaky smile birthed from his lips, but his fear was palpable.

“Ha, Slim, I’d love to stay down here, but I’m quite thirsty! After you.” He attempted to appear cool and collected, but his voice betrayed him, cracking and breaking like a sheet of ice under pressure. He noticed the other crew circling him on the fringes of his vision, like a pack of hungry dogs.

Slim’s grin faded in an instant.

“It’s no joke Decker. Truth is, this has been a long time coming…” He said, his voice dancing with satisfaction.

Just as Deckard began to prepare himself for an answer, he felt all the air driven furiously from his lungs.

There was a pain, a pain so sharp, so fierce, he could not do anything but stand there dumbly. His mouth opened, but he could only snatch a precious breath to fill his lungs.

Like a fish out of water, he desperately tried to find air that wouldn’t come.

A scream longed to burst from his mouth, but only a pitiful wheeze emerged.

The stinging suddenly intensified, making him groan in agony and he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and a gentle voice in his ears.

“Ya’ve got no idea how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that.” Vinnie whispered softly, as heartfelt as a lover.

Deckard felt the knife slide out of his back and the agony rose to new heights. He felt a deep ache within his body, numb yet blinding. Dead, yet searing. Warmth began to slowly blossom around his spine.

His heart was pounding, slamming against his chest as if to escape. Another gasp escaped him and he wobbled, but somehow his feet stayed under him.

“Would you look at that? He’s still standing!” Slim laughed to the others. They all stared at him, oddly impressed that he wasn’t lying in a crumpled heap on the cold, dusty ground.

Deckard coughed in response to their gazes. He managed to wrestle a deep breath in, which just made the pain even worse.

“Why?” He said shakily.

Slim let out a harsh bellowing laugh, which echoed all around the small chamber.

”Are you serious?! You’re pitting useless! The only thing you’ve done for the crew is make things more difficult, and we don’t need that. Do we boys?” Slim raised his hands and looked around the room. All the others either nodded or spoke a few words in agreement.

Deckard was struggling to hear what they were saying, his heartbeat booming like a drum in his ears.

Slim strode towards him, murder burning in his eyes.

Deckard felt a fist crash into his face, but there was no pain as he tumbled to the floor. He struck the lectern awkwardly on his way down, sending it spinning to the ground noisily. The dizziness inside his head had intensified, the whole room spinning and twirling. Another groan sounded from his mouth as he struggled to put his hands underneath him.

“No Decker, you stay down there lad.” Arn said distantly. His voice was so far away.

A boot smashed into his ribs and this time, his mind found the necessary strength to scream. Another blow hit his stomach like a hammer, turning his shill scream into a desperate retching. He lay onto his side, and could see through his blurred eyes figures moving to the tombs entrance. The torchlight they carried grew dimmer. Their footsteps were muted, as if he was underwater.

“No.” He mewled. “Don’t do this…”

He retched again.

“Oz…help me!” Tears came to his eyes and a sob caught heavily in his throat. One blurry figure turned a head back, mumbled something, then continued walking. Deckard heard the door close and then he was left in complete darkness.

“Don’t leave me!” He shouted to nobody.

**********************************************************************

In that small, cold tomb below a crypt nobody cared about, Deckard lay weeping.

For the first few minutes, he had shouted and cursed his double-crossing crewmembers, but only the quiet stones could hear him. Defiance was the topic of his pursuits. He ranted and raved at the wall, promising a swift retribution to them all, that justice would be done, but alas, only the stones heard his cries.

After his initial bout of rage and fury, reality settled in like a chill wind. As warmth on his back grew and grew, his anger ebbed, being replaced by the heavy hands of sadness and the slowly tightening grip of fear.

It was at that moment he started to beg, to plead. He beseeched his former friends to let him out, that he would redeem himself with a bigger score, one that would make them all rich beyond their wildest dreams. The stones listened, but replied only with silence.

In between choked sobs, he managed to find and light a burner. It was a fearsome battle to create the flame, as his hands were growing numb, but the struggle was worth it just to see that feint spot of red light amidst the darkness.

It seemed like his whole body was tingling, alternating between unfeeling and small stabs of pain. He wanted to groan, but he was getting weaker by the second. A sudden burst of panic rushed through him, from the tips of his toes to the hair on his head.

Not like this…

I don’t want to die like this!

It was then amidst his quiet sobs, he saw another light out the corner of his eye. He thought it was a hallucination, some figment of his imagination that his mind desperately conjured to ease his passing to the gates. But, after a few silent moments of study, he was certain of it’s realness. It was a figure. The shape of a man walking to him slowly.

“P…ppleease…Onorous…take me to the afterverse…” He pleaded reaching out to the ethereal figure.

A sound began to echo around the chamber, emerging gradually into existence, but after a second or two, it was as if someone was in that dark room with him. Laughter. Possibly the last sound Deckard expected to hear.

“Onorous…be merciful…” Deckard sobbed.

There was an eerie silence for a moment, but only for a moment.

“Relax there lad, death isn’t so bad. It’s the dying that’s the worst part.” The ghost said with a sad smile.

****************************************************************************************************

Deckard awoke not in the afterverse, with green fields all around him and an endless sun gently caressing his soul, but instead in the dull, dank tomb with the stone floor pressing forcefully against his face. His soul was certainly not caressed.

“Woah there, you okay there lad?” The ghost asked, slight concern in it’s tone.

Deckard couldn’t tell whether he had passed out from the blood loss or the shock of seeing what he thought was supposed to be herald of death. He let loose a thick groan and managed to roll himself so he was resting on one of the coffins. His back still burned with a gentle pain, but he was too weak to properly register it.

He took a ragged breath and worked up his courage, then raised his eyes to the figure stood in front of him. The man was made entirely of green light. Everything from his skin to his clothes, all green, translucent light. He wore simple robes, like a scholar or a clerk might have. His face was weathered by age, wrinkles and marks where there should be none, but he did not seem to be ancient.

The figure was instead a man just past the prime of his life, experience and wisdom etched into his face, where a younger man wears lust and pride. His mouth was curved into a calming smile, making his green moustache form a neat semi-circle below his nose. The hair on his head was combed back into an orderly ponytail, completing the look of a tidy, learned man.

“You’re not Onorus.” Deckard stated, mildly disappointed. He was vaguely aware that he was slurring his words, but the numbness was making it difficult to care.

The ghost’s eyes closed in a humoured acceptance and he stood up from his crouch, groaning at the pain that only old bones know.

“My apologies friend, I’m not the gatekeeper. You’re safe for now.” He said with a wink.

Deckard’s head was pounding and his back was sheer agony, but strangely, he was relatively relaxed and agreeable with the idea of a ghost talking to him. He raised his eyebrows and blinked twice, his face utterly blank. The ghost saw this and put a hand to his head.

“How rude of me! You’re sitting there bewildered and confused and I haven’t even thought to introduce myself!” The figure exclaimed. With an elaborate flourish of his hand, he held it out as if to shake.

“Ulster H Alazar, at your service my boy!” He said merrily.

Deckard’s hand reached out automatically, then he toppled over with a groan when his fingers met nothing but air.

“Oh blast! I’m awfully sorry there lad, easy to forget these things. My word…what’s wrong with your back?” Ulster asked. Without waiting for an answer, the ethereal man bent down once again and examined the blood slowly oozing from the knife’s kiss. Deckard attempted to speak, but he was growing cold now, that ever present numbness that had started in his fingers had spread to the rest of his body, which he welcomed gladly. He was content to mumble nonsense.

“Ahh, a knife in the back eh? Not just a figure of speech is it my friend? Here, take a deep breath, this may sting…” Ulster said to the dying Deckard. Deckard responded with a dull moan.

Ancient words of an ancient language filled the air as Ulster began to chant. The melody was simply beautiful, his tones rising and falling in a perfectly enunciated song, one syllable blurring gracefully into the next.

Although the prone Deckard could not see it, an emerald light spun from the spirit’s fingers, flowing perfectly in rhythm with his singing. It twisted and twirled through the cold air of the tomb, seeking out the wound with a peaceful ease. The blood on Deckard’s back shone and sparkled as the light infused it and impossibly, the liquid began to retreat back into his body.

It sluggishly, unfathomably reversed its flow. His shirt was no longer soaked with his own blood, his face was no longer deathly pale. Deckard took a breath in and immediately, all of his ails vanished. The numbness that had infested his being was cast aside, like fog evaporating in dawn. Strength coursed through his limbs and where once there was pain, only a gentle calm remained.

Deckard’s eyes flew open, seeing in wonderful clarity once again. He pushed himself to his feet and was amazed to find there was no pain. A laugh burst from his lips uncontrollably, something born out of sheer amazement and happiness. His fingers traced his back, but there was no sign of anything other than smooth skin and a small hole in his shirt.

“There you go, good as new eh?” Ulster said with a nod.

“Thank you.” Deckard said, tears brimming in his eyes.

Ulster smiled again, something that Deckard suspected was a regular occurrence in this man.

Well…

This…appearance of a man.

“You never introduced yourself earlier my dear boy, though, I can forgive you, given your current condition.” Ulster said.

Deckard felt like he should be offended at his use of the word “boy”, but he was overcome with the elation of being alive again. The word passed over his head without a second thought.

“Deckard Duncan.” He replied, holding out his hand in welcome. Ulster reached out with his own transparent hand and held it next to his. They both moved their hands up and down in a mock handshake.

“A pleasure to meet you my friend.” Ulster said.

******************************************************

“I still don’t understand, what are you Ulster?” Deckard said, throwing another rotten book on the makeshift fire they had created. Ulster had offered them up at once now that he had a visitor to accommodate. Ulster was sat on one of the coffins, looking around his tomb with a mild curiosity.

“Well I will confess, I expected it to be cleaner.” He said thoughtfully. After a few more savoured moments of contemplation, his gaze snapped back to Deckard.

“I guess you could say I’m a ghost or a spirit, but the truth is I am a manifestation of a dead man’s consciousness. A walking soul if you will.” Ulster continued.

“But how are you here? How did you fix my back? Why are you helping a me?” Deckard asked, one of his hands combing through his hair in confusion.

Ulster smiled and stood up from his chair, once again grimacing from the pain in his knees which no longer existed.

“To answer your first two questions simply, magic.”

“Magic?” Deckard repeated in awe.

“Magic.” Ulster confirmed. “But the answer to your first question has a little more to it than that.” He paused for another moment, trying to find the right words.

“I was a mage, when I was living. A practitioner of the ancient words of power. My particular studies took me along a path that nobody has walked in many years.”

“You were a singer?” Deckard asked respectfully.

“Yes…and I adored my work. You see, once I had graduated from the Court of Mages, I dove into the study of the soul. I yearned for the secrets of our consciousness, the mysteries of existence that had been unsolved for a milenia. So I studied. Researched. Countless hours of searching. I put aside everything else and then, after one hundred years of toil.

He paused.

“I found it. Or at least, I thought I had found it. In my excitement I threw caution into the wind and attempted to place a piece of my soul into an object. That amulet to be precise.” He said, gesturing to the necklace that lay abandoned on floor. It had fallen from the lectern when Deckard had crashed into it earlier.

Deckard walked over and picked up it up, admiring the quality of its construction. It was a piece of gold formed into the shape of a book, with a small emerald in the center. Intricate, delicate symbols had been carved into it, Deckard could only marvel at the care and attention that had gone into its creation.

“That stone,” Ulster began, “Contains my being. This existence you see before you, my walking soul, resides inside that tiny emerald.”

Deckard turned it over in his palms and marveled at the torchlight reflecting off it. Even though the amulet was worn by the years in the tomb, the flame’s light still glittered and twinkled on the gold beautifully.

“I completed the process, placing my soul into an inanimate object, but rather than a piece, I placed the entirety of it.” Ulster chuckled to himself, as though he didn’t appreciate the severity of his mistake.

“My body collapsed and died, I only had a shadow of a understanding as my body was brought into this crypt, to rest beside my father.” Ulster placed a translucent hand on the sarcophagus next to him.

“Your anguish, your pain is what called to me and brought me back to sentience. The howls of the lost and broken are extraordinary. I thought St.James himself might come and visit as you were shouting that loud!” He said with another smile.

Deckard placed the amulet on the stone coffin carefully and walked back to the fire. He stayed in silent contemplation for a while, pondering on Ulster’s tale, searching for understanding in the flames.

Once the fire had died low, the once crackling flames reduced to mere embers and smouldering pieces of parchment, Deckard spoke again.

“Why are you helping me Ulster? Look, I’m grateful, but why save a man like me? Why not leave me to bleed, like the rest of my crew?” He said quietly, still focused on the burning books.

Ulster strode over and stood opposite Deckard.

“Every man has worth, even if many struggle to find it. I can do nothing in this form, unable to stray from the amulet, unable to breathe the sweet air of life, unable even to feel the ache in my bones, although I pretend to. We can help each other.”

Deckard looked up from the dying remains of the fire and met the ghost’s eyes. They were as serious as the gatekeeper himself and they shone with a firm purpose.

“You can help me escape this prison. You can help me be a member of the living again. With you to carry my amulet, I can get my life back!” Ulster said, feverish resolve burning in his voice. It was strange to Deckard, this calm, quiet ghost suddenly alive with desire and focus.

Deckard started to speak, but Ulster continued on.

“I can help you find your worth. To ascend from this charade of crime and deception and to forge yourself a new path. I can give you the most valuable thing in this life we have…knowledge. I can give you vengeance on those that betrayed you, or purpose elsewear should you want it. Together, we can shape our futures.”

Deckard stayed silent. His mind began to surge with ideas of his future, but at the forefront of his mind was one clear image. Slim’s cruel smile, a single gold tooth shining.

“Okay Ulster. I’m in.”