25

Fawkes furrowed her brow and gazed at the valley ahead. They’d reached the edge of the Weald, and their destination couldn’t be far off now. She insisted on setting up camp while still under the canopy of the trees–and, presumably, the protection Arjen had granted them–and call it a day. Hunter was fine with that. More than fine, in fact; he had a gut feeling he wouldn’t be a huge fan of what came next in their little trip.

“So, Ghostbarrows”, he said, breaking the silence. “Ghost Nation. What’s all that about and what does it have to do with us?”

He had a million questions to bombard Fawkes with, but those where as good a place to start as any. If he was to waltz in some place with as charming a name as that, he at least wanted to know what he was dealing with.

Fawkes let out a sigh, closed her eyes, and massaged her temples with her gloved hands.

“You know how the Brennai are split up in different nations, right?” she asked, but the question was a rhetorical one. She knew Hunter knew jack shit about Brennai politics, so she didn’t even pause to wait for an answer. “A long time ago, the people of the Ghost Nation were the most advanced and prosperous of them all. They used to call themselves something different, of course, but only the shamans and medicine women remember that name, and they’re not ones for sharing.”

“So, what happened to them?”

“Nobody knows”, she shrugged. “They simply vanished into thin air, or so they story goes. Their homes and possessions and places of worship were abandoned as they were, as if every last of the folken got up and left in a hurry. As if they… evaporated.”

“Like ghosts,” said Hunter. “Yes, I think I get it.”

“There’s more. Their ancestral places are said to be covered by some magical mist now, a kind of haze that seeps out of the ground and covers everything as the sun goes down. And within it, one is still able to see the ghosts of the folken, their lost souls still cursed to go about their business, as if they still were among the living.”

Despite himself, Hunter felt chills going down his spine.

“…and we’re going there why, exactly?”

“What is that, lad, are you scared?” Fawkes burst into laughter. “Did the ghost stories get you shaking in your boots?”

“Of course they fucking did,” Hunter said. “Excuse me if I’m not excited to get tangled with ghosts and curses and the like, especially with spirit bears and ritualistic killer monsters on the loose. You know, I’m starting to feel like we’re going around actively looking for trouble.”

The woman’s grin widened, revealing two neat rows of unusually healthy teeth.

“Funny you should mention it. That’s exactly what we’re doing, more or less. Why do you think I keep you around? You transients are a veritable magnet for trouble.”

Hunter was left staring at his companion with his mouth open in disbelief.

“Seriously now? And why would we do that?”

“Because we’re looking for Reiner,” Fawkes explained. “And, much like you transients, where trouble goes, Reiner follows. And vice versa, too.”

“Reiner… that’s your friend, right?”

“He is of the Lodge,” she nodded. “We’re both… hunters of sorts, you could say. We seek and retrieve things the Lodge deems valuable or dangerous. He sent word for me to meet him in the Hawk Nation’s encampment, said there was a hunt he could use my help in.”

Hunter had at least a dozen fresh questions buzzing around in his head. When it came to anything related to that Lodge of hers, however, Fawkes was never in a particularly talkative mood, so he settled for the most practical one.

“So where is he now, Reiner?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Fawkes shrugged, and her grin wilted a bit as the lines around her mouth and eyes hardened. “He didn’t wait for me. Ever the foolhardy, selfish idiot, that man. Last any of the folken saw him, he was headed for the Ghostbarrows.”

“So that’s where you’re going, too, and you’re dragging me along as ghost bait” Hunter said, gazing at the valley beyond. “I see.”

“Got a problem with that, lad?”

“What if I do?”

“In that case,” Fawkes said with a grin full of renewed malicious glee, “I’ll have to tie you up like a hog and drag you along–which will be far more unpleasant for the both of us. So quit your whining and follow, yes?”

For some reason, Hunter had no trouble believing her.

***

Hunter logged out to get a few hours of rest, leaving Fawkes alone with the direwolf. For all her nagging, she was slowly warming up to the shaggy beast. By the time Hunter logged back in, the two of them were sharing breakfast over a small fire.

They broke camp just after dawn. There was a thick mist covering the valley before them, just as Fawkes had said there would be. None of it made it into the Weald, curiously enough, as if the treeline itself was a border of sorts. A single step beyond it was enough for the mist to totally engulf Hunter and Fawkes, and for a notification to pop up on Hunter’s HUD.

Not the most welcoming as locale names went, that was for sure.

Hunter followed Fawkes in silence, hoping she knew where they were going. The humidity and the cold made him shiver in his damp poncho, and the mist around them carried sounds in an eerie way, making it impossible to pinpoint where they came from. Other than that, nothing seemed to be wrong. No ghosts or spirits–just a trek through knee-deep weeds in one hell of a cold morning.

Biggs and Wedge were flying in circles somewhere above, and the direwolf was padding next to Hunter, its eyes flattened and its tail hanging low. Hunter was glad it–he–had stuck around. He found his presence reassuring. Sooner or later he’d have to find a name for him, too, since he more or less had invited himself to their little group. There was this dog his grandmother had always told him stories about when he was little, a silly big sheepdog she used to have back when she was a girl. What was its name…?

“Fyodor,” Hunter said out loud, and the direwolf’s ears perked up. Yes, it was a good name. “I shall call you Fyodor.”

“What was that?” Fawkes asked.

“The pup’s new name. Fyodor.”

“You transients and your crazy ways,” she grumbled. “You’ll never cease to surprise me, lad, I swear.”

Hunter paid her no heed. Fyodor seemed to like his new name, so that was that.

As the sun inched its way up in the sky, the mist around them slowly dissipated–although the general feeling of unease the whole place had about itself didn’t. There were birds singing and bugs buzzing, and there were signs of animals all around. Still, there was something deeply wrong about the Vale in its entirety, something lurking just below the surface of things. Hunter pointed out it might be a good idea to find a high place and get a grasp of the lay of the land, and so they did. There was a small hill nearby, no more than twenty or thirty feet in height, so they set to climb it.

At first sight the surrounding area looked like any other of the valleys around the Weald, a flat expanse of land peppered with small hills and low vegetation. There were no signs of villages or encampments anywhere, no smoke from hearths or campfires, no fields with signs of agriculture–an observation that granted Hunter an increase to his Survival, which now stood at 24–far higher than any of his other skills.

“So far, so good,” Hunter said. “No ghosts, and no barrows.”

“What do you think you’re standing on?” Fawkes asked dryly.

“What do you mean?”

Looking slightly amused, she made a wide gesture with her hand.

“Look at all these little hills. Aren’t there a bit too conveniently similar, a bit too conveniently situated near the middle of the valley?”

“So what if they are?” asked Hunter, still not getting it.

“They’re mounds, fool. Burial mounds. There’s a tomb beneath each and every one of them. These are the Ghostbarrows. You’re literally standing on one.”

Hunter had heard about such places before, he realized. There were places around the Middle East and the Mediterranean where you couldn’t dig a damn ditch without stumbling upon an ancient tomb or another. For an inner-city kid like him, however, who’d barely even been in a goddamn graveyard? Having the burial grounds of dead folk just beneath the soles of his feet was decidedly not something he was comfortable with.

“Uh… so we’re here. Good. What now?”

Fawkes didn’t look that certain herself. She produced a monocular from one of her countless pockets and looked around.

“Some of the mounds have entrances built on their sides. That’s a good place to start” she said after a few moments.

“Entrances to what?”

“Barrows, lad. Try to keep up.”

Ah. Great. Nothing like a little tomb delving in a ghost-infested valley to get the old blood pumping, right?

“So what, we pick one at random, knock at the door, and see if somebody answers?”

“That would be a waste of time,” said Fawkes, still looking through her monocular. “There are dozens of mounds. No, the best course of action would be to make a beeline for the larger ones in the middle. That’s what Reiner would have done.”

“Reiner, the guy who’s got a hard-on for trouble. Best course of action indeed.”

“Good. It took you some time, but you are catching on.”

She turned towards the central mound the biggest one–and gazed at it with a look of concern. Fyodor, as if understanding, headbutted her thigh with affection and licked her hand, and Fawkes returned the favor with a few absent-minded head pats. Hunter would tease her about it, if it wasn’t so damn heartwarming.

“Let’s get moving”, she finally said and started walking down the mound. “And keep your menagerie of critters close. I don’t know what we may encounter.”