The River Ghasts of Lid and Other Stories

The River Ghasts of Lid

Have you ever heard of the village of Lid? Yeah, it's got a stupid name. It's about twenty miles north of here.

No? Well, that's a surprise. It doesn't matter.

The village of Lid is haunted. Not in a dumb, woo, ghosts-that-scare-the-peasants way, but by proper grown-up river ghasts, real as you or me. They come out in summer nights when the moon is full and do their thing, and the town leaves them alone, and it all sort of works out.

Now, the village of Lid is nominally under the rule of the Baron of Wentworth; but his soldiers are properly scared of the ghosts and so they give the town a wide berth. So wide, in fact, that it's quite the haven for bandits and pickpockets and other people of challenged morals.

Yes, this guy's with me, why not? He'll have one of these. Where was I? Oh, yes.

About two years ago a knight errant came to Lid. She needed some help, you see: there was a nasty warlock on the Southern fringes of the lower plains, who was throwing around curses like they were turnips; and she had been tasked by Hera to subdue this problem. This village was sort of on the way, and she knew the ghasts had a lot of deep and hidden knowledge and maybe they would help.

Now, she was arrogant, and she was stupid. Arrogant in that she thought all the world agreed with her evaluation of right and wrong; and stupid not to bring anything in case they didn't.

When she arrived at the village, all armed and armoured and mounted on her horse, the head of the village scuttled out, and asked, who sent you then? And she replied, I'm not here for you lot, I'm here to see your ghasts. And he said something along the lines of, well it would help us if you could just take anything valuable off now, because then we won't need to fish it out of the river off your corpse.

And so she gave him the same look she had given to the great Destroyer of Mantish, just before she had turned said Destroyer into a bone-themed hat-stand; and the village head scuttled away again.

So down she went to the river. It was summer, and a full moon that night, so she just needed to wait for a few hours; and out popped the river ghasts, all ghasty and what have you.

Hello oh great keepers of ancient truths, oh lords of midnight and ambassadors of the grave, she said, because this is how you speak to ghasts; how's it going? How's tricks? How's the river?

And they shivered and shrieked and wailed and replied as one, what mortal dares stand before us? Daughter of Earth, we will leach the life from your eyes and pluck the tongue from your mouth unless you begone!

And she said, look. You see this talisman? It says in an ancient language, if thou shalt fuck with this person then thou shalt be fucked with back, rather more than thou were perhaps anticipating. Hera herself gave it to me. So can we just skip to the bit where we have a conversation?

And the ghasts made a noise like the opening of the grave and they said, what do you want then?

So, she explained the situation. And they were clearly pissed at having their little game spoilt, but a ghast loves looking clever, so they replied like a thousand spiders drowning in a flood, we know the answer but there is a price.

No there isn't, said she, you're making that up. Either tell me or don't.

And they laughed; and they took their price.

You see, she was protected by the amulet. But her horse, her poor horse, who was tethered a little way away, ignoring the whole thing, was not. And the ghasts reached our their tendrils and hooked their talons into the beast's flanks, and they dragged it, screaming, its hooves pawing and slipping against the muddy river bank, the knight fruitlessly clinging to its bridle, as it rolled its eyes and tossed its mane, down and into the dark churning water, the foam rising as it fought and drowned and she had to release the leather or be drowned herself.

After that, she didn't say anything.

But they did. They whispered the secrets of the warlock, his weaknesses and flaws, hissing as she wordlessly turned and walked back up towards the village proper, their mocking voices seeping through the night air, only fading as she trudged out of the village.

This is good beer, isn't it?

What? I am afraid that's how the story ends. But, yes, it is a good story.

Don't you want to ask me what that is?

Yes, that. I know you've been trying to slip it into your pocket without me noticing; it's fine, really. We don't have a problem! You can have it. I want you to. Payment for listening to a story. It's pretty, isn't it? Let's drink our drinks.

It's called a canticle of draft. It's magic. It has a couple of useful properties. The first is, once it's been activated, it can't be stolen or given away; it can only be transferred if both parties agree to it. And that's fine! We both agree it's yours. You would be dead, otherwise.

The second is more interesting.

That warlock had a lot of toys. When he was defeated, they sort of became finders keepers. He was really into binding the unliving to helping him, which was one of the reasons why he was such a problem. The canticle would – once activated – summon the spirits of his fortress.

Now. I think that, now you are the owner, the canticle is going to interpret your fortress as Lid. Because we can both be honest now, yes? That's where all the local pickpockets come from. That's where you will scuttle back to.

And, yes, it is a summer night, and the moon is full, isn't it? Seriously, don't bother running. You are actually safest here.

Because you see this other thing? Yeah, this box with the spikes, which has started to glow. This, my new friend, has some heavy-duty sorcery on it. It has no name in our language, but I like to call it 'the spikey death box thing that is going to make some river ghasts from Lid deeply regret drowning my fucking horse.'

Ah, here they are.

Hello, oh great keepers of ancient truths...