“He heard a sound behind him and he turned. What he saw it is best not to say. Dropping all his gold, he bolted.
“Now the river they had heard cut through a gorge just about there, and his two companions were amazed to see him run off the edge of that gorge and even continue to run as he fell, his legs churning insubstantial air. Then they turned, and they saw what had been pursuing him.
“One went quite mad and leaped with a despairing cry into the same gorge which had just claimed his companion, but the third adventurer, the bravest and boldest of all, told himself that no ghost could actually hurt a living man and stood his ground. That, of course, was the worst mistake of all. The ghosts encircled him as he stood bravely, certain that they could not hurt him.”
Mister Wolf paused and drank briefly from his tankard. “And then,” the old storyteller continued, “because even ghosts can become hungry, they divided him up and ate him.”
Garion’s hair stood on end at the shocking conclusion of Wolf’s tale, and he could sense the others at his table shuddering. It was not at all the kind of story they had expected to hear.
Durnik the smith, who was sitting nearby, had a perplexed expression on his plain face. Finally he spoke. “I would not question the truth of your story for the world,” he said to Wolf, struggling with the words, “but if they ate him – the ghosts, I mean – where did it go? I mean -if ghosts are insubstantial, as all men say they are, they don’t have stomachs, do they? And what would they bite with?”
Wolf’s face grew sly and mysterious. He raised one finger as if he were about to make some cryptic reply to Durnik’s puzzled question, and then he suddenly began to laugh.
Durnik looked annoyed at first, and then, rather sheepishly, he too began to laugh. Slowly the laughter spread as they all began to understand the joke.
“An excellent jest, old friend,” Faldor said, laughing as hard as any of the others, “and one from which much instruction may be gained. Greed is bad, but fear is worse, and the world is dangerous enough without cluttering it with imaginary hobgoblins.” Trust Faldor to twist a good story into a moralistic sermon of some kind.
“True enough, good Faldor,” Wolf said more seriously, “but there are things in this world which cannot be explained away or dismissed with laughter.”
Brill, seated near the fire, had not joined in the laughter.
“I have never seen a ghost,” he said sourly, “nor ever met anyone who has, and I for one do not believe in any kind of magic or sorcery or such childishness.” And he stood up and stamped out of the hall almost as if the story had been a kind of personal insult.
Later, in the kitchen, when Aunt Pol was seeing to the cleaning up and Wolf lounged against one of the worktables with a tankard of beer, Garion’s struggle with his conscience finally came into the open. That dry, interior voice informed him most pointedly that concealing what he had seen was not merely foolish, but possibly dangerous as well. He set down the pot he was scrubbing and crossed to where they were. “It might not be important,” he said carefully, “but this afternoon, when I was coming back from the garden, I saw Brill following you, Aunt Pol.”
She turned and looked at him. Wolf set down his tankard.
“Go on, Garion,” Aunt Pol said.
“It was when you went up to talk with Faldor,” Garion explained. “He waited until you’d gone up the stairs and Faldor had let you in. Then he sneaked up and listened at the door. I saw him up there when I went to put the spade away.”
“How long has this man Brill been at the farm?” Wolf asked, frowning.
“He came just last spring,” Garion said, “after Breldo got married and moved away.”
“And the Murgo merchant was here at Erastide some months before?”
Aunt Pol looked at him sharply.
“You think-” She did not finish.
“I think it might not be a bad idea if I were to step around and have a few words with friend Brill,” Wolf said grimly, “Do you know where his room is, Garion?”
Garion nodded, his heart suddenly racing.
“Show me.” Wolf moved away from the table against which he had been lounging, and his step was no longer the step of an old man. It was curiously as if the years had suddenly dropped away from him.
“Be careful,” Aunt Pol warned.
Wolf chuckled, and the sound was chilling. “I’m always careful. You should know that by now.”
Garion quickly led Wolf out into the yard and around to the far end where the steps mounted to the gallery that led to the rooms of the farmhands. They went up, their soft leather shoes making no sound on the worn steps.
“Down here,” Garion whispered, not knowing exactly why he whispered.
Wolf nodded, and they went quietly down the dark gallery.
“Here,” Garion whispered, stopping.
“Step back,” Wolf breathed. He touched the door with his fingertips.
“Is it locked?” Garion asked.
“That’s no problem,” Wolf said softly. He put his hand to the latch, there was a click, and the door swung open. Wolf stepped inside with Garion close behind.
It was totally dark in the room, and the sour stink of Brill’s unwashed clothes hung in the air.
“He’s not here,” Wolf said in a normal tone. He fumbled with something at his belt, and there was the scrape of flint against steel and a flare of sparks. A wisp of frayed rope caught the sparks and began to glow. Wolf blew on the spark for a second, and it flared into flame. He raised the burning wisp over his head and looked around the empty room.
The floor and bed were littered with rumpled clothes and personal belongings. Garion knew instantly that this was not simple untidiness, but rather was the sign of a hasty departure, and he did not know exactly how it was that he knew.
Wolf stood for a moment, holding his little torch. His face seemed somehow empty, as if his mind were searching for something.
“The stables,” he said sharply. “Quickly, boy!”
Garion turned and dashed from the room with Wolf close behind. The burning wisp of rope drifted down into the yard, illuminating it briefly after Wolf discarded it over the railing as he ran.
There was a light in the stable. It was dim, partially covered, but faint beams shone through the weathered cracks in the door. The horses were stirring uneasily.
“Stay clear, boy,” Wolf said as he jerked the stable door open.
Brill was inside, struggling to saddle a horse that shied from his rank smell.
“Leaving, Brill?” Wolf asked, stepping into the doorway with his arms crossed.
Brill turned quickly, crouched and with a snarl on his unshaven face. His off center eye gleamed whitely in the half muffled light of the lantern hanging from a peg on one of the stalls, and his broken teeth shone behind his pulled-back lips.
“A strange time for a journey,” Wolf said dryly.
“Don’t interfere with me, old man,” Brill said, his tone menacing. “You’ll regret it.”
“I’ve regretted many things in my life,” Wolf said. “I doubt that one more will make all that much difference.”
“I warned you.” Brill snarled, and his hand dove under his cloak and emerged with a short, rust-splotched sword.
“Don’t be stupid,” Wolf said in a tone of overwhelming contempt. Garion, however, at the first flash of the sword, whipped his hand to his belt, drew his dagger, and stepped in front of the unarmed old man. “Get back, boy,” Wolf barked.
But Garion had already lunged forward, his bright dagger thrust out ahead of him. Later, when he had time to consider, he could not have explained why he reacted as he did. Some deep instinct seemed to take over.
“Garion,” Wolf said, “get out of the way!”
“So much the better,” Brill said, raising his sword.
And then Durnik was there. He appeared as if from nowhere, snatched up an ox yoke and struck the sword from Brill’s hand. Brill turned on him, enraged, and Durnik’s second blow took the cast-eyed man in the ribs, a little below the armpit. The breath whooshed from Brill’s lungs, and he collapsed, gasping and writhing to the straw-littered floor.
“For shame, Garion,” Durnik said reproachfully. “I didn’t make that knife of yours for this kind of thing.”
“He was going to kill Mister Wolf,” Garion protested.
“Never mind that,” Wolf said, bending over the gasping man on the floor of the stable. He searched Brill roughly and pulled a jingling purse out from under the stained tunic. He carried the purse to the lantern and opened it.