A Ghost from the Past
Episode 11 - The World Stone
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Tasol and Myra fled Bannion in the dark of night coming upon the main road to Ward’s End. Quickly deciding they cannot travel on the road for fear of being tracked, they decide to go over the mountains. Pushing through the forest, they came upon a thieves trail and an old friend.
“Is that Daymel?” Tasol heard Myra ask from behind, her voice thick with disbelief. “But he died in the raids.”
Tasol cast a wary glance down the trail, struggling with what he was seeing. As the man came closer, Tasol broke into a smile. “Daymel? How can it be? They said you’d–”
“Been killed in the raids,” Daymel said finishing Tasol’s sentence. “That’s the front the crew uses when you pledge to it–a way for a clean start. But you, my old friend, what are you doing out here?” By the time he finished, they were face to face, exchanging a bear hug as they laughed. Daymel turned to give Myra with a smile. “And Myra, it’s been many years, but you look good.” He reached out for a hug, but she pushed him away.
“I can’t believe you think I’d hug you after what you did. You just left. Without a word.”
“Ok, I probably deserved that,” Daymel said, stepping back to give her some space.
She shot him an icy gaze, “There’s no probably about it.”
Tasol leaned in to his sister, whispering sternly, “We don’t have time for this.” She glared at him, her frosty exterior not softening. Myrna’s reception was understandable. Before Daymel’s disappearance, he and Myra had sort of been a thing. Tasol knew she’d taken it hard, but she was strong and reluctantly moved forward, settling on a life with Getty. That’s also about the time Tasol’s relationship with Myra soured, as Tasol didn’t like Getty. Still, it was nice to see Daymel, and it reminded him of better times.
Daymel turned his attention back to Tasol, smiling again. “You shouldn’t be on this path. It’s dangerous, and not for city folk.”
Tasol glanced up and down the path, knowing Daymel spoke the truth. He’d actually heard rumors of this path during late nights at the tavern when people’s tongues got loose, and they told stories a crisper mind would not speak. The stories were always shrouded and indistinct, but the gist was the same. A thieves trail tracked along Garren’s Path, and was guarded and only used by the Jackrabbits, a deadly crew with tentacles everywhere.
“We just need to get to the slide by the cliffs along Smith Creek. We can’t travel out there today,” Tasol said, motioning towards the main road beyond the trees. “We need the cover of the forest.” He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do you guard this path? Can you grant us passage?”
Daymel looked down the path behind them nervously. “It’s not my place to grant anything. You shouldn’t be here,” he said, growing more nervous, mindlessly flexing his hand. “You need to leave this trail now, before it’s too late.”
“We’re being hunted,” Tasol said firmly, “so, we can’t. Move out of our way or help us, but either way it’s clear we need to go now.” Tasol pushed past Daymel, turning to Myra, nodding for her to follow. “We have to pick up the pace. Seems Daymel’s nervous about something that comes from behind.” In a matter of moments they were off past Daymel, who was quietly objecting, chasing them along the trail. A small crew of Jackrabbits bounded the corner behind them on the trail, but Tasol and Myra had luckily turned a corner just out of sight. Before they knew it, Daymel had overtaken them on the trail.
“God damnit, Tasol. You haven’t changed a bit. Follow me, don’t slow down,” he said tersely, leading them forward. “Up ahead, there’s a side trail to the creek. From there, you’re on your own. I’ve already risked too much, and there’ll be questions why I wasn’t on guard.”
They pushed up the trail, breaking off on to a barely noticeable side trail. Within seconds, they were hidden behind some bushes, and they paused, catching their breath. They’d been at close to a full sprint for almost a mile, and Myra was gasping for air, not used to the exertion. A moment later they heard the soft patter of footsteps coming down the trail. A branch broke nearby, startling Myra as Daymel reached over covering her mouth, placing a finger across his lips, telling her to keep quiet. The footsteps continued down the trail and out of hearing.
Daymel rose with a stern look and all business. “Quickly, they’ll soon learn we’ve left the trail and circle back.” Before he even stopped talking, he was off down the trail, Tasol and Myra in pursuit.
The forest was dense with underbrush. It had been decades since a fire passed through this area, and the forest floor was littered with tinder. Branches, leaves, and the fallen trees, much of it old and brittle. The trail itself was quite narrow, and it was impossible to avoid snapping branches as they pressed on. Tasol shook his head. Their haste was leaving a noticeable trail behind such that a blind man could track them. Still, Daymel crashed forward, cutting the path, breaking branches and stomping twigs along the way. Tasol turned to check on Myra, and no surprise, she was close on his heels, her footsteps as silent as ever. Ahead, the tress started to clear into a narrow opening as Daymel turned, motioning them all to slow. Coming to a walk, the clearing in the trees came into focus. It was a dry creek bed covered with scattered rocks of varying sizes.
“That’s Smith Creek. The slide’s down there a few hundred yards, back toward the main road,” Daymel said, pointing ahead of them while staying hidden in the trees. “You’re own your own from here.”
Tasol looked ahead to the creek bed. On the far side of the creek was cut into the wall of the mountain itself, carving its path over the centuries and leaving a steep cliff–too steep to climb without a top rope. On closer inspection, cut high into the cliff, Tasol saw a narrow trail terracing across it, climbing upwards until it crested the cliff in the distance.
Daymel caught the direction of Tasol’s gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What?” Tasol said, turning back to Daymel.
“You don’t speak it,” Daymel said, locking eyes with Tasol, “but traveling the old trail through the Silvermoon's is foolish.”
Tasol said nothing.
“That’s a dangerous trail,” Daymel continued, “we’ve lost whole crews up there. It’s not a place for a man and his sister.”
Tasol held his gaze. “We can manage. Sometimes it’s easier for the mouse to pass than the bear.”
Daymel shook his head, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He then passed his eyes briefly to Myra. “And Myra. You need to know that leaving Bannion, leaving you was…”
“You can shut it, Daymel. The time for apologies is long overdue. You didn’t just leave. You let me think you were dead, and so you will remain–dead to me.” She turned to Tasol, pushing forward to the creek bed. “We should move on, get up the cliffside before nightfall.”
Tasol nodded, placing his hand on Daymel’s shoulder. “I don’t share her scorn. I’m pleased to see you’re alive, and hope you’ve found a better life.”
“Thank you, I have,” Daymel said, his eyes again flashing to Myra. “Take care of her. I always thought there was something special about her, about you both, really.”
“More than you know, more than you know, my friend. Thank you for the help, and may Devron watch over you.”
“And you too, my friend. May Devron watch over you both.” With that, Daymel turned pushing back into the brush of the small trail, disappearing back around the corner.
Tasol turned, scurrying after his sister. She’d already pushed further down the creek, but he noticed that she’d slowed, positioning herself behind a tree on the bank of the creek. The next instant, she flashed a hand signal to him, telling him to stop, hide.
Hide, he thought, from what? And rather than just doing as she said, he stepped out to get a look around the bend of the creek. He then saw what she had, but it was too late to now do as she’d told him. He’d been seen.
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