The Ransom Knight Read Free

grew colder, almost icy.
    “That wind, sir knight,” said Tollard. “Too cold for the season.”
    “We’re in the hills,” said Mulger. 
    “Doesn’t get that cold up here at this time of year,” said Tollard.
    “No,” said Trocend. “He’s right. Something is wrong. We…”
    “Sir Mazael!” said Gerald. 
    A wall of gray mist rolled towards them, flowing down through the trees like an ocean of smoke. Mazael had never seen mist act like that before. It was hurling towards them with terrific speed, yet seemed to hang motionless in the air even as it did. 
    “That is devilry, sir,” said Mulger. 
    “It is,” said Trocend. “Prepare yourselves.”
    Mazael drew his sword, and the others followed suit. The mist slowed and thinned, seeming to condense into individual pillars. The pillars hardened, and suddenly took the forms of ghostly warriors. Mazael saw knights in plate armor, armsmen in chain mail, archers clad in leather armor, spearmen with shields and spiked helmets. All of them were ghostly and immaterial, and Mazael saw the forest through their translucent forms. 
    “Are they ghosts?” said Tollard, his eyes wide. 
    “Defend yourselves!” said Trocend.
    The ghostly warriors charged, raising their weapons.  
    Mazael lifted his shield, drew back his sword, and charged. The nearest phantom raised a mace and brought it hammering down. The weapon looked immaterial, but some instinct made Mazael raise his shield. The mace struck his shield with tremendous force, the shock shooting up his arm. He stepped back, his longsword sweeping before him, and felt the blade connect with the ghostly warrior. The translucent knight faded and unraveled into mist. 
    He spun and saw Tollard and Mulger fighting back to back with the efficient movements of veterans, their swords in hand. Gerald stood behind them, his shield upon his arm and his sword in his right fist. The armsmen were trying to protect him, but there were simply too many of the specters. A ghostly figure in leather lunged at Gerald with a club, and the squire got his shield up to deflect. The club bounced off the sturdy oak, and before the phantom recovered its balance, Gerald stabbed with his sword. The translucent figure dissolved into mist, and Gerald retreated at once into a defensive stance. Mazael felt a peculiar stab of pride. The boy had learned his lessons well. 
    Yet there were too many of the damned phantoms for Gerald to handle, and Mazael charged into the fray. One of the specters struck at his back with a sword. His chain mail stopped the edge, though the blow would leave a nasty bruise. He used the momentum from the strike to hurl himself forward, and he cut down one of the phantoms menacing Gerald. Tollard and Mulger shifted their stance, and Mazael, Gerald, and the two armsmen formed a ring facing outwards as the phantoms swirled around them. 
    “What the hell are these things?” said Tollard. 
    “Ghosts,” said Mulger.
    “The hell if I know,” said Mazael, striking down a phantasmal knight. He didn’t think the ghostly warriors were undead creatures. He had never encountered an undead creature, but he had spoken with knights and wizards who had, and from what he understood only powerful magic could put the undead to rest. Their swords of steel had no trouble dispatching the ghostly warriors to mist. What were the creatures? Some sort of magical spell? Warriors who had been cloaked in magic?
    A more pressing question came to the forefront of Mazael’s thoughts.
    “Where the hell is the monk?” he snapped, parrying a sword strike and bashing his shield across the specter’s face. The phantom knight stumbled, and Mazael split it in two with a quick slash of his sword. 
    “I don’t know,” said Gerald. “I lost track of him when the ghosts appeared! I…” He fell silent, blocking a strike.
    Mazael snarled a furious curse. No doubt Trocend had run off when danger appeared. Those specters would have surrounded and