“You’re late,” he said in a flat voice.
“Please! Help me!”
At this, Zalbar turned slowly to face his tormenter.
It was Razkuli. He was his best friend in the Hell-Hounds, or had been until
Tempus killed him in revenge for Zalbar’s part in the Jubal-Kurd nonsense.
Actually, what confronted him was an apparition, a ghost if you will. After
numerous encounters, Zalbar knew without looking that the figure before him
didn’t quite touch the floor as it walked or stood.
“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he demanded. “I thought you were my friend!”
“You are my friend,” the form replied in a distant voice. “I have no one else to
turn to. That’s why you must help me!”
“Now look. We’ve been over this a hundred times,” Zalbar said, trying to hold
his temper. “I need my sleep. I can’t have you popping up with your groanings
every time I close my eyes. It was bad enough when you only showed up
occasionally, but you’re starting to drop in every night. Now either tell me how
I can help you, something you’ve so far kept to yourself, or go away and leave
me alone.”
“It’s cold where I am, Zalbar. I don’t like it here. You know how I always hated
the cold.”
“Well it’s no lark here either,” Zalbar snapped, surprised at his own boldness.
“And as for the cold … it’s winter. That means it’s cold all over.”
“I need your help. I can’t cross over to the other side without your help! Help
me and I’ll trouble you no more.”
Zalbar suddenly grew more attentive. That was more information than his friend’s
ghost had ever given him in the past … or perhaps he had been too drunk to