“Amazing,” Ghost said as he wiped the blood and pus from his feet. Calan took the rag from him, cleaned off what he could not see, then wiped it across the carpet, even though it clearly would not remove the stain.
“What is amazing is that I did not make you wait until morning,” said the priest, rising to a stand. “Falling asleep has slowly gotten more difficult over the years, and interrupted rest does not tend to improve matters.”
Ghost ignored him, instead flexing his hands and taking several careful steps back and forth. The priest watched him, his mood turning somber.
“What is it you plan on doing with those hands?” Calan asked. “Will you hurt and kill, as you once did?”
Everyone knew priests of Ashhur could sense a lie as easily as a normal man could feel the wind blowing on his skin. So instead, Ghost avoided it altogether.
“If I say yes, would you have still healed me?” he asked.
The priest chuckled, and he lay back down on his bed and groaned in pleasure as he settled underneath the covers.
“I would have healed you anyway, yes,” he said.
“Then why ask, if it changes nothing?”
The priest shrugged.
“Was hoping you’d put my mind at ease, is all. But I would rather help all I can instead of helping no one for fear of aiding a man with evil in his heart.”
“Seems naïve,” said Ghost. “There are some men that should receive no blessings, for there is nothing good left within them.”
Calan looked over at him, let a smile crack his face.
“I remember you, Ghost. You’re not one people tend to forget, and more than anything, I remember feeling there was a speck of hope buried down deep, perhaps lost along with your original name. Naïve or not, I will be here if you need me. You endured a long time in darkness in our cruel, cold world, and if there is anything this cruel, cold world hates most, it is letting go.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Is it all right if I see myself out?”
“Shut the door behind you,” Calan said, rolling over and putting his back to him. “And snuff out the candles, if you wouldn’t mind.”
The temple was only the first of Ghost’s many stops he had planned for that night. Gaining the strength back in his hands and feet was an important one, and relied solely on the mystical arts Ashhur’s priests were known for. His next step, however, was one far more firmly rooted in the material realm. He hurried to the main road running north to south through the heart of Veldaren, then turned south. Not far into the district, he took a left, stopping before a squat little cube of a building. It bore no written sign, just a large board above the doorway, marked by an image of an x formed by the crossing of a sword and an ink quill.
Ghost checked the door, found it barred on the other side. He frowned, considered trying to break it down, decided otherwise. He had a feeling such measures would be unnecessary.
“Bill!” he cried, banging on the door with his fists. “Bill Trett, get your ass out of bed and to this door!”
Making such a ruckus at night might normally have unnerved him, but four years under torture had removed much of his caution. What enemies did he have that might come for him? Only one, the Watcher, and if he had not already spotted his white face hurrying through the streets, then hollering at the mercenary guild’s headquarters would hurt matters none.
“Bill!” His fist thumped against the wood, and he took considerable pleasure in its rough feel, and more importantly, how it caused no pain to his hand. “I know you’re there, Bill; now open the door!”
When he paused to listen, he heard a scuffling, coupled with a veritable barrage of curses, at last followed by a lifting of the bar.
The door flung open, and an old man with a badly scarred face and bushy white unibrow stepped forward, a dagger in hand.
“What the bloody Abyss do you want?” Bill asked. “Answer now, before I stab you in the…”
The man froze, and his watery eyes widened as he caught sight of Ghost in the moonlight.
“Well, I never,” he said. “Ghost? Is that really you?”
“Back from the dead,” Ghost said. “Now put that toothpick away and let me in.”
Bill hobbled away from the door, but he kept ahold of the dagger. The man wore a long night robe, and when Ghost stepped inside the cluttered mess of papers, names, lists of locations and jobs all strewn about the shelves, he was not surprised to see a single cot in the center of the room.
“I thought you might sleep here,” Ghost said.
“Not much point in going home,” Bill said, stumbling back to his cot. “Only time I ever leave is to get drunk at a bar. It’s more interesting than getting drunk here, anyway.”
He crossed his arms, looked to sit, then changed his mind. Ghost could tell he wanted to ask dozens of questions but had far too much discipline to do so. Just one of many reasons the man had risen to his position when his time as a mercenary ended.
“I’ve been away,” Ghost said. “And not taking other jobs, either, so don’t hassle me about my dues. I’m out now, though, and have several kills already lined up.”
“An interesting person who’d hire you looking like, well…” Bill gestured to Ghost’s ratty clothing, his bare feet, and his clear lack of weaponry. “Like you do now. Did they dig you up out of the ground before offering the job?”
Ghost cracked a smile.
“You’re closer than you think, Bill. But I need coin, swords, and clothing. Given all I did for the guild, I feel I’m due.”
Bill frowned.
“You know I don’t keep any coin here overnight. Guild policy.”
Ghost gave him a look.
“All right, fine. Follow me, you bastard. But if I do this, I want one question answered after it’s all said and done. That fair?”
“Fair as this world can be.”
Only a third of the building was used to greet wealthy clientele needing to hire escorts outside the city, patrols for their property, or more permanent protection for their various farms, mines, and homes scattered throughout Dezrel. Past a door behind the counter, they entered the rest of the building, which was a single storage room. Two tall windows let in enough moonlight for him to see rows of shelves filling the center, and they were stocked with all kinds of weapons, armor, and clothing. Ghost beamed at the sight.
“Always knew I could count on you,” he said.
“Until you vanished, I could always count on you,” Bill said.
Ghost glared at him, and the old man quickly apologized.
“Just take what you need,” he said. “I’ll write it off as an expense at bringing you back into the fold. A man of your skills could easily find work today, especially given all the insanity we’ve been seeing in the city lately.”
“Anything beyond the usual?” Ghost asked. “Or is Thren’s private war finally dying down?”
“Dying down?” Bill asked, and he looked confused. “That ended when the Watcher’s truce began. Was about the same time you vanished, Ghost. Most of us just thought you were one of the many casualties of that night.”
Watcher’s truce?
Ghost realized just how badly behind the times he was. Four years had passed, and in the underworld, such a span could be a lifetime. It wasn’t just food and water he’d been starved of by the gentle touchers.
“So, did this Watcher kill him?” Ghost asked as he lifted the lid on one crate to see five or six short swords. None looked in good enough condition for him to use, plus their length would not be sufficient to fully utilize his height and reach. “I don’t see Thren Felhorn as one to sign any sort of truce.”