The Ragged Lands

A thin, wailing cry went up as Becca’s shovel dug into the earth. Whisps of what looked like cloud rose into the air, the cries becoming sharper as the spirits took shape in the vapor. Faces appeared in the clouds and frowned at Becca.

“Sorry,” she said. One of the spirits made an angry hissing sound.

“You’re that attached to this shithole?” The spirit began to fade, the others following it. “You’ll find another home. I’m sure I’ll need whatever this is more than you do.” There had been at least four spirits in the object she was digging out. It must be a good deal larger than the cup she had unearthed yesterday.

“Goodbye, spirits,” said Pat. He was standing at the small hand-wagon, waving at the fading forms.

“Don’t talk to them,” she said.

“You were,” Pat replied. Becca sighed and turned back to her digging. The lifeless rock and earth made no further complaint. The spirits were gone. Pat would never understand that not all spirits were harmless and kept forgetting that he should let Becca do the talking if they encountered any.

“That’s a helmet,” said Pat. Becca looked down at the object she was digging around. Her brother was right.

“Indeed,” she said. “Looks like more leftovers from the Ragnarok. Come on over here and help me dig.”

Her brother picked up his shovel from the wagon bed and started slowly digging. One of his scoops equaled two or three of hers. Pat was nineteen, strong as an ox and nearly as big. But unfortunately, also nearly as intelligent.

Enough earth was clear now that Becca could work it out with her hands. She knelt and pulled in back-and-forth motions, dislodging it further.

“Come on, you fucking piece of junk.”

“It’s got a gryphon on it,” said Pat. “Maybe it belonged to Ronan!”

“I don’t think so,” said Becca. “Ronan didn’t die here.”

“Ronan’s not dead,” said Pat.

Becca shook her head. Pat believed the old stories that Da used to tell them to the letter. He was certain one day Ronan Gryphonhook would return. The old Champion had died in the battle of Chaggar, or Thargos, depending on which tale you heard.

The helmet came free, and Becca handed it to Pat to put in the wagon. “That’s worth a silver mark,” she said.

“Why?” asked Pat. “The last helmet we found only got us twenty shillings.”

“This one’s almost whole,” she said. “There’s some rust, and a cheek guard’s missing, but there’s still enough good metal there for a smith to use. It’s too bad the rubies are missing.”

“Rubies?” Pat peered at the helmet again.

“The gryphon’s eyes,” she said. “They’re hollow. They used to have rubies in them. We’d be truly rich if they were still there. But as it is, we might even be able to afford some sausages.”

“Sausages!” shouted Pat.

“Quiet!” she said. “Look, I know there aren’t any people around but there could be more spirits anywhere, and if one of them decides to have a little fun with us, we’re fucked.”

“We’ve got obsidian.”

“Not enough, if it’s a big enough spirit,” she said. “And our obsidian won’t do any good against a troll, or a grimworm.”

Pat began to look around nervously. “Think they’re out yet?”

Becca shook her head and wiped sweat from her brow. It was always hot as blazes on the heath, even if the light of the sun barely pierced the clouds.

“Think there’s any more spirits in there?” asked Pat, looking at the helmet.

“Well, if there is, they better speak up soon,” said Becca. “Otherwise, it’s going to market.”

The light was dimming, but the two of them kept on, Pat pulling the wagon and Becca clunking her shovel in the rocky ground every few steps, listening for the tell-tale hollow thunk noise that indicated there was more than shale packed beneath it. She kept one ear open for other noises, for rumblings in the ground other than those the wagon’s wheels made. There weren’t any, at least for now.

In every direction she looked, the grey, lifeless heath greeted her, broken here and there by the odd rise of a large rock or a twisted, ugly shrub that somehow managed to grow here despite the lack of any viable soil. She and Pat used to call the trees “ugly old men” when they were smaller, and sometimes she still thought that’s what they looked like. Hideous, stunted things that twisted in odd, unnatural ways. Outside of the few wet patches of land on the fringes of the Ragged Lands, they were the only vegetation she knew.

The heat was baking through the linen of her shift and causing it to stick to her baked brown skin. Becca itched, yet resisted scratching. If she did, Pat might start, and once he started, he would keep going until he’d drawn blood. Then he would cry. She glanced over at her brother as he happily pulled the wagon along, staring ahead with a dreamy look on his face. Why could you not be normal, and be able to go seek your own fortune? She felt a guilty twinge at the thought. She loved her big brother. She had to. Uncle Gerald didn’t love either of them, and someone had to love poor old Pat.

“Two young ones and a wagon,” said a quiet voice. “Wither they a’come, but to seek fortune, m’I right?”

Becca signaled Pat to stop and glanced around quickly. She didn’t see a person, but a dark stain hovered above the barren ground a few steps ahead. She quickly shoved a hand into her sack and grabbed her lump of obsidian. Beside her, Pat did the same.

“I mean ye no harm,” said the spirit.

“Better safe than sorry,” said Becca. “No offense.”

“Where might ye be goin’?” asked the spirit.

“Nowhere important,” said Becca. She knew better than to give the spirit any real answers.

“I don’t see many out on the plain o’late,” said the spirit. It had started hovering along beside them, keeping a few feet away on Becca’s right. “Ye gatherin’ fortune, aye. Plunder. M’I right?”

“It’s what we do,” said Becca. “We’re out here every day. At least I am.”

“Aye, you be Brown Becca,” said the spirit. “I seen ye afore. But narry the big lad, there.”

“I’m Pat,” said Pat. He smiled his gormless smile at the spirit.

“For fuck’s sakes,” Becca muttered. “Pat, remember, I do the talking!”

“Ye cull’d yeself a new lover, aye, young Becca?” asked the spirit. “One new to these lands.”

“No,” said Becca. She glowered at the spirit. “That’s my brother.” Her lover, the spirit had assumed. Please.

“He not from here?”

“He’s been raised here, same as me,” said Becca. “How do you know me?”

“Ye left me without a home, did young Becca, aye,” said the spirit. “I be Stockpile, so I be. Poor old Stockpile narry harmed no one, but ye left me a gypsy, so ye did.”

Becca grimaced at the stain. It had now started to take on the amorphous shape of a man, no more than four feet tall, and all black. This spirit had little power. It was safe to talk further.

“The cup,” she said. “That was it, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, oh, aye,” said Stockpile. “Ye took it fer plunder, and left poor old Stockpile alone. Ye could have offered t’take me with ye. I here, all alone now.”

“Fine,” said Becca. “Come with us, then. We’ll be headed home in less than an hour.”

“Aye, but nay, thank’ee,” said Stockpile. “The heath be my home these many thou’n’s o’ years. But I thank’ee fer the generous offer.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Becca. She meant it.

THUNK. Her shovel had struck something dense.

“Paydirt,” she said to Pat. He grinned excitedly and went to grab his shovel. It took him a minute to realize that he had left it at their last dig site.

“Aww,” he whined.

“Go on back and get it. I’ll start.” Hopefully she would have it finished before he made it back here.

“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said. The cheer had already returned to his voice. It was always five minutes. It was the only increment of time Pat knew.

Becca started scraping away surface rock while the spirit watched her.

“Ye out here every day, but nay he,” said Stockpile. “He bigger, but he act smaller.”

“He’s just not…he doesn’t understand life out here,” said Becca. “My uncle keeps him at home, usually. He helps out around our hut.”

“He younger than he look,” said the spirit.

“No, he’s grown,” said Becca. “He just turned nineteen.”

“But he defer to ye,” said Stockpile. Becca sighed again. She got this any time someone new met Pat. Even spirits, apparently.

“He’s soft,” she explained. “In the head. He got hurt as a child. Before I was born.”

“Aaahh,” said the spirit. It seemed satisfied.

“There something I can help you with?” Becca asked as she began to dig around the object. Spirits didn’t usually talk to mortals this long.

“Nay, nay,” said Stockpile calmly. “Nae much haul, there.”

“It’s getting harder to find anything out here,” said Becca. She wondered how long it would be before she, Pat and Uncle Gerald would have to leave their old shack and head in one of two directions; downstream as refugees, or upstream, further into the Ragged Lands. She wasn’t sure which prospect was worse.

“Aye, so t’is,” agreed the spirit. “Mile ‘pon mile, no home fer poor old Stockpile.”

“So why do you stay here?” she asked. She was only half-listening to the spirit. A glint of gold was showing through the earth where she was digging. Gold!

“I afraid,” said Stockpile.

“Hah,” said Becca. There was no mirth to her snort. “You live in the Ragged Lands, and are afraid of going elsewhere? I don’t think there’s grimworms in other lands, or trolls, or half the uglies that roam around out here.”

“Nay,” said Stockpile. “But those things cannae harm a spirit. Other things can.”

“Well, not having a home will hurt you, sure as shit.” Becca dug faster. She heard Pat’s heavy, uneven footsteps coming up behind her. Whatever it was, it was longer than a helmet, and the gleam of gold lay all the way along it.

“Aye, that be true,” the spirit said. It was still lost in its own reverie, and didn’t seem to care what Becca had found.

Pat’s breath was puffing when he reached her. He had run both ways. He would never know, or care, about reserving his energy.

“I found my shovel!” said Pat.

“I almost have it out. Here, help me clear some of this.”

It was gold. A long, lobstered tube of it.

“It’s a gauntlet,” she said. Judging from its length it was for a man of average size. If Pat put it on, it would reach midway up his forearm. A green jewel the size of a coat button gleamed on the back of the hand. She had never seen a gauntlet like this.

“It’s yellow,” asked Pat. His voice was hushed. He knew what the metal was, even if he’d only seen it in pictures.

“Aye, that be gold, lad,” said Stockpile.

Becca took both hands and lifted it from the hard packed dirt. The gauntlet gleamed in the low light, and light seemed to flash from the green jewel.

“Gold…and an emerald,” said Becca. She couldn’t stop staring at it. “It’s intact. It looks brand new.”

“Are we rich?” asked Pat.

“More than rich,” said Becca. “Fucking kings. This is enough to get us out of the Ragged Lands and into a real house. Provided we can find someone who will believe we didn’t steal it.”

“But we didn’t.”

“Pat, we’re scavengers,” said Becca. “People may have a hard time accepting that we didn’t rob a merchant for the helmet, let alone this.” She turned back to it. “I wonder what it’s worth?”

Something pinched her left finger where she held it. “Shit!” she yelled, letting go of the gauntlet. But it didn’t fall. It was stuck fast to her left hand.

“What the fuck?” She shook her hand, hard, trying to dislodge the thing. The gauntlet started to hum. With a series of clicks, the gold plating began to open, and began surrounding her arm.

“Pat, help me!” she cried. Pat grabbed at the gauntlet and tried pulling it. Pain spasms racked Becca’s arm. “Stop! Pat, don’t! You’ll pull my skin off!” Pat let go, but the gauntlet continued to click and snap around her arm, her wrist, her hand. It had come alive, separating itself into tiny plates, gradually reforming around her arm in the same shape she found it in. The emerald replaced itself on the back of her hand. The gauntlet closed up, looking as solid as if she’d girded it onto herself. Her left arm was completely encased in gold interlocking scales from fingertips to elbow. The emerald gleamed brightly once, then went dull again.

The pain stopped.

“Gods,” she breathed. “What is this thing?”

“It be a tool of Magi!” squawked Stockpile.

“What?” asked Becca. “There are no more Magi. Their tools only worked for them. This thing looks new and…and…” She began to pull on it. “And I’m stuck.” She pulled harder. “It’s pulling my skin,” she said. “It won’t come off!”

“Magery!” cried the spirit again. “It be a tool t’hunt an’ kill me kind!”

“I’m not a Mage,” Becca insisted. “I’ve never seen this thing before. I don’t know why it did this.”

“Some things can harm spirits,” said Stockpile. “That be one of ‘em!”

The spirit disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared earlier. Coward. You know I’m no Mage. The last Mage disappeared thousands of years ago. Everyone knew that.

Becca stood still for a moment, gradually becoming conscious of rumbles in the ground, seeming far off. They didn’t matter now. She flexed again. The fingers would move, and even within the gauntlet they felt as natural to her as if her hand was bare. But tools of the Magi only work for Magi. She pushed the thought away and told herself once again that there were no more Magi, and she certainly wasn’t one of them. It probably just needs human contact.

Pat was staring, his eyes wide. “It scared the spirit,” he said. “If it’s magic it could hurt you. We should show Uncle Gerald.”

“He won’t know anything about it,” she said. She tested the movement again, bending her elbow, flexing her wrist, then her fingers again. She barely felt like she was wearing the gauntlet at all. Why does it feel like a second skin?

“Then let’s go find Dunkin Walter’s house!” said Pat. Becca threw him a sardonic look, but Pat was all smiles.

“Really,” he said. “We’re already out here. Let’s just look for it. It can’t be that hard to find. It must be big.”

“Dunkin Walter is only a story,” she said. She had said this before, many times, but it never did any good. Da had raised them on tales of Dunkin Walter, Ronan Gryphonhook and Shelton the Good, but had stopped when he understood that Pat expected to meet these people some day.

“I think I saw it once,” Pat said. “Let’s ask Uncle Gerald if he knows where it is.”

The rumble went through the ground again. A few yards to the west, Becca saw a small, segmented tube of black sprout from the earth and feel its way around in a circle.

And was it her imagination, or did the emerald pulse and glow for a moment?

“We should be heading back anyway,” she said. “The grimworms are out.”

Next Chapter: Pyrallan