《Leaflow: Dead Man Walking》 Part 1: The End of a Story PART 1: The End of a Story It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in the frontier town of Lansteer. A man in a long, black cloak with a deep hood was crossing the street. Dust puffed up under his silent footfalls, drifting over the empty road. It was merely a rutted wagon track, running straight between wooden buildings on either side. The man in the cloak had no apperent features under the hood except for a pair of empty eyes which glowed leaf-green. The hilt of a sword showed now and then under the front of his cloak. He was half-way across the street, headed for the general store, when another man detached himself from the shadows of a nearby saloon. This second man was well known around the town. Chuck Feltman, tall, beefy and red of face. He had been a bandit in his time, and a Sheriff¡¯s deputy. Now he was a rancher with a spread just out of town, a rolling business rumored to be built on ill-gained money. He stepped in front of the cloaked man, drawing a revolver from the holster at his side. It was an old model,with a rusty engraved plate on the side. But it would undoubtably do the job. The cloaked man stopped mid-stride, weird eyes sliding down to take in the gun, then up to meet the rancher¡¯s gaze. It was a steel-blue gaze, under graying hair. ¡°Charles Feltman. A pleasant surprise. I thought we agreed to never meet again.¡± ¡°There was never any agreement. You walked out on my gang two years ago. I¡¯ve been laying for you ever since. Until now, you were smart enough to stay out of town,¡± Chuck spoke in a low, rasping voice, ¡°that¡¯s overwith.¡± The cloaked man stood as if perfectly at ease, crossing his arms loosely on his chest. ¡°Come now. I haven¡¯t turned pigeon yet, but this would make a pretty tale for Sheriff Costwhile to hear. Especially if he heard the whole thing.¡± Chuck¡¯s face twisted into a nasty leer. ¡°Dead men don¡¯t tell very good tales, mister.¡± ¡°Really? I would say that their tales are the only ones to be complete.¡± The green eyes inside the hood flashed mockingly. ¡°Because until you¡¯re dead, you can never know all that life will hold in it.¡± With a motion quicker than time, the cloaked man drew his sword from its sheath. The flat of the blade shone and rang as it deflected a bullet headed for where his heart should be. The next instant, the blade was whirling through the air. It sunk into the gunman¡¯s chest with a soft squelch, leaving only the hilt protruding. Chuck sank to the ground, pistol still clutched in his fist, mouth open in a soundless cry as he looked down at the object that had gone through him. He flopped to his side in a small puff of dust. The man in the cloak walked up and bent down beside him, speaking quietly, ¡°I¡¯m sure your tale is a wonderful one. And such a good ending, too.¡± He put his hand to the hilt of the sword, beginning to draw it out. But before he had withdrawn it far, there was a stir from what he had thought was a corpse and Chuck¡¯s eyes flickered open into narrow slits, full of hate. With an almost convulsive movement, his hand holding the pistol came up. Three shots rang out. ¡°So long, Leaflow,¡± were Chuck¡¯s last words. As the rancher gave his last gasp and lay dead, Leaflow looked down at the three holes in the front of his cloak. He knew that their were ones much like them in the back, just between where his shoulderblades should be. His green eyes seemed to grimace. ¡°Well, this is embarrassing.¡± By now, people were starting to gather on each side of the street, looking on in shock and excitement. Women in wide skirts and Sunday gowns gasped, pulling back against the buildings or sheltering small children with an arm. Men watched and muttered. Boys crowded to the front, wide-eyed and curious. ¡°It¡¯s ol¡¯ Chuck Feltman.¡± ¡°Hey, he killed Chuck.¡± ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll deal with it.¡± A tall man in a dark suit stepped down off the wooden boardwalk to stride towards the scene. For a moment, Leaflow seemed to be about to flee. But then he seemed to think better of it. Without any sign of pain, he finished jerking his sword from the corpse and wiped it on a black kercheif from his pocket. ¡°Now, then.¡± The Sheriff came to a stop in front of him. Sheriff Aaron Costwhile was a dark-haired, serious man with a face that brooked no argument. He was said to have once broken a strong bandit¡¯s fingers one by one after winning a fistfight against him, and another time rescued three farmwives who were under siege in one house by their angry neighbors. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.This renown Sheriff looked at Leaflow with a mixture of repulsion and curiosity. His hand never left the pistol at his side. ¡°Who are you and what is this all about?¡± Leaflow put a gloved finger through one of the holes in the front of his cloak, before looking up at the Sheriff. The sword was still in his left hand. ¡°If I give myself up, will you allow me to speak to you...in private?¡± His green eyes swept over the crowd gathering on the boardwalks, some of the men edging closer with rifles from their wagon boxes or tools from shops. Costwhile considered with a frown. ¡°If you give yourself up and let me take care of that pigsticker for you. But manslaughter is a serious crime, and you¡¯ll have to let my deputy in on the secret to, ''cause he¡¯ll help me get you to the jail.¡± Leaflow bowed his head, apperently looking at the sword in his hands. When he looked back up, there was a cold fire in his eyes. ¡°I will give you my blade for now, but if you do not keep it safe, a curse will be upon you. and if you do not give it back to me when I ask, the curse will be doubled.¡± With a shrug, Costwhile held out his hand to take the old-fashioned broadsword. It was heavier than he had expected, the crosshilt made of silver and the grip wrapped in black leather. A large red stone glared at him from the pommel. ¡°We¡¯ll see about that. And threatening an officer of the law isn¡¯t a good idea either. Deputy Marston!¡± His second in command came up, taking custody of Leaflow gingerly. The cloaked man stiffened at his touch, but allowed himself to be led away. The crowd followed at a distance, despite the Sheriff¡¯s shouts to go about their business and leave it to him. The jailhouse was a small shack on the outside of town with two rooms inside. One held a desk and chair for the officers. The other had a stout door with a barred window and was very plain inside. A bucket and a wooden bench was the extent of the furnishings, and there were no windows. Sheriff Costwhile slammed the door on the curious crowd with a last admonishment to get the undertaker for ¡®ol¡¯ Chuck¡¯ as soon as possible. It was a warm day and the body wouldn¡¯t wait. He slid the sword across the desk as Marston took Leaflow into the jail room. He seemed to have no other weapons on him, so the Sheriff brought the chair from the other room in and sat down. ¡°Have a seat.¡± Costwhile indicated the wooden bench. ¡°And tell my how it is that some people say Chuck attacked you, others that you attacked him, but one way or the other he¡¯s dead of a sword through the chest while three bullets through yours haven¡¯t seemed to slow you down.¡± Leaflow glanced at the three holes in the woven fabric again, before sitting down on the bench and pulling his knees up with his fingers linked in front of them. ¡°It¡¯s simple, really. Though I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ll believe me.¡± ¡°Try me.¡± Costwhile had seen some pretty wild things on the frontier. The town of Lansteer and the county of Longriver was civilized now, compared to when he had first taken office there. And he was Sheriff number two to be stationed in the town. Leaflow¡¯s empty green eyes met his. ¡°Very well. I¡¯m already dead.¡± Marston made a choking noise which could have meant anything. Costwhile¡¯s mouth tightened into a straight line. ¡°Well, of all the people I¡¯ve ever met, I reckon you¡¯re the one who looks it the most. But have you any proof?¡± ¡°Other than three bullet holes through my chest?¡± Leaflow blinked slowly, like a cat. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll just have to tell you the entire story.¡± He paused in thought for a moment, before adding, ¡°of how I am a deadman walking, that is. My entire story would take too long. Far too long.¡± Costwhile crossed one leg over the other. ¡°Alright, shoot. But keep it brief. I still need to know why Feltman is laying out there dead in the street.¡± ¡°Oh, the stories are one and the same.¡± Leaflow nodded. ¡°Which would be reason enough for me to have attacked Charles. But I didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Your trial will be later. Just get on with the story.¡± Leaflow¡®s eyes seemed to take on a fatal smile for just a moment. ¡°You think to keep a dead man in chains? Very well. Perhaps this story will change your mind about that, as well...¡± Part 2: Beginning of a Story PART 2: The Beginning of a Story To begin with, I don¡¯t come from this world. Or this plane of existence, to be technical about it, but another dimension. You don¡¯t know about all that, and it doesn¡¯t matter much to the story. The point is, in my own dimension, in the folly of my youth, I stole and consumed an elixir of long life. Not immortality; for hundreds of years I could have been killed by a falling safe or a particularly high fever like anyone else. But long life certainly. For one reason or another, this eventually led me to become a wanderer through dimensions, the various parallel universes which are all connected but separate like the beads on a string or dewdrops on a spider¡¯s web. I¡¯ve known many people throughout the worlds. Most of them are long since dead now, or on some dimension far away. I don¡¯t often expect to meet someone from one dimension living in another. So I was surprised to find Charles Feltman here on this planet. You know him as Chuck, but when his name was a little longer and more refined he wasn¡¯t on this world, or a rancher. He was the lead man of a gang in another dimension and was often known simply as ''Breaker¡¯. A little down on my luck, and mostly bored, I got mixed up with his gang during a curious incident in which they needed an expert poisoner...but that¡¯s another story. The point is, I worked for him once in another world, left it for a time, then ran into Chuck again in this dimension. He had done his stint as your predecessor¡¯s deputy by then, but quit to go ''gold mining¡¯. In this instance, it meant stealing the gold from other people. ¡°Leaflow, have a drink with me,¡± Chuck said, shrugging his shoulder towards the door of the saloon. ¡°We need to talk.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± I gave him a long look. Meeting him on the streets of a tiny frontier town in another dimension was not what I had expected. ¡°Confessions, or offers of work?¡± ¡°The latter, of course.¡± Chuck¡¯s red face smiled unpleasantly. ¡°We don¡¯t do much of the former in this line of work.¡± ¡°Ah, still the Breaker, after all this time?¡± With another shrug, Chuck led the way towards the saloon. Or, shall I say? He walked sideways towards it, making sure that I was never truly behind him but always following. Inside, he ordered drinks. Having worked as a poisoner before, I always assume the worst about a strong drink, especially one with a faint color to it. I didn¡¯t drink. He quaffed his, then leaned an elbow on the counter and bent his head close to mine. ¡°Ever heard of a man they simply call, ''the Duke¡¯?¡± I shook my head. I had not been in this part of the universe long at that point. If I had, I certainly would have heard of the eccentric, fantastically rich fellow living in a tower on a mountain alone. The rumors of his riches were only matched by the tales of his supposed sorcery. Chuck outlined this to me, though he downplayed the stories of magic and, I knew even then, exaggerated the Duke¡¯s wealth. ¡°Enough to make us all rich,¡± Chuck whispered hoarsely. It was unpleasant having his ruddy, alcoholic face so close to mine, but I simply blinked at him mildly. ¡°And why do you need me?¡± I asked, ¡°can¡¯t your thugs get into the tower and beat the snot out of him by themselves?¡± Chuck shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s just the thing. We don¡¯t want to do anything so obvious. See...¡± His voice dropped another few decibels. ¡°The duke is in good with the local law enforcement. And rumor has it that he has guards. Native thugs. One way or the other, he has to be good at defending himself, or else he couldn¡¯t sit on his hoard out there in the wilderness like he has. I don¡¯t want to get a bad name around here, see, ''cause I¡¯m looking to settle down once I make my pile. So we need to use more subtle methods.¡± More people were coming in the saloon then, so we moved to a dim corner which we could have to ourselves. You know, it is the sort of place that has dim corners, where the ill-fit boards will creak if anyone tries to disturb you. And few windows to let in curious looks, especially as they are all covered in grime. Well, to condense our conversation, Chuck wished me to use stealth in order to enter the Duke¡¯s tower, poison him and ''doctor¡¯ his papers. Chuck already had official-looking paperwork stating that, for ''past services¡¯ he was the Duke¡¯s sole heir. As the Duke was a solitary fellow and there were no known relatives, he hoped to get away with this blatant outrage. Well, it may have been foolish of me, but I agreed to aid him in his plans. I was curious about this Duke¡¯s supposed magic, and you know what they say about curiosity and the cat. The outline of the plan was almost ridiculously simple. The carrying out, I knew, would be much more difficult. I have done some jobs involving stealth and house breaking in my time and know that things rarely go according to plan ¡®A¡¯. Especially when you think they should. It was a dry, fine evening when Chuck took me to look over the Duke¡¯s tower for the first time. There were clouds on the horizon, distantly, tinted orange with the impending sunset. The sagebrush on either side of the road was silvery, sending up a fuzzy aroma. You know the rolling hills and sudden cliffy ravines of the country too well for me to describe them in detail. We rode a pair of horses rented in town, skinny beasts all bone and sinew. Horseback isn¡¯t my favorite way to travel; it bunches the cloak funny. Chuck sneered at me sideways for it, though he knew better than to say anything. Well, twilight was coming down when we reached the steep hills in which the Duke lived. My eyes, which glowed even before my death, can pierce the dark better than most men¡¯s. From a vantage point in the road, we could see the tower looming against the velvet sky above us. It stood up tall and straight, made of stone with an overhung, battlemented lookout space on top. You know, the sort one would find on an ancient castle¡¯s tower. In fact, this was much like a tower taken from a castle, made of stone and octagonal in floor plan. But because of the native stone shade, it was a dull, dusty red rather than a romantic gray. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. There had been an addition to the bottom of this tower, a sort of small blockhouse built onto one side. In the shadows of the evening, the Duke¡¯s residence could have been a lighthouse, except for that the only light burning was a small one in a tiny upper window. Chuck tied our horses off in the brush and we crept through the sage and ravines until we were on a slight slope above the tower. It sat on the edge of a steep cliff, which looked down into a narrow, rocky stream bed, only full of water in the wet season. The slope we were on made a gentle incline down to the tower on the other side. Down below us, across the stream bed, the road wound through the hills and away towards whatever town lies on the horizon. I canvassed the tower silently for flaws in its defense, ways to get in. The obvious route was a door in the blockhouse wall. This was stout, made of wood and spiked in steel. I had the instinctive feeling that this was a poor route for thieves and murderers, and was probably guarded on the inside. After looking it over carefully from a distance, I decided the best thing would be to get quietly to the blockhouse roof and slip into a tower window from there. Though built as a pseudo-fortress, the tower was also a house and not as carefully made to prevent entry as a defensive castle would be. Our spying mission over, Chuck and I returned to town and thence to a small place he had out on the plains, near where his ranch is now. We guessed that the next night would be overcast, and therefore a better time for the break-in. As it was, a half-moon rose slowly into the sky while a few of Chuck¡¯s ''friends,¡¯ or thugs, dropped by to discuss our plan and give their advice. We went to bed late, but I did not sleep much. Not through fear of the next night, but simply because one who has seen hundreds of years through the dimensions does not close their eyes often, or for long. The next day passed quietly, with a little preparation to fill it in. Chuck gave me some simple breaking tools, such as a crowbar and length of rope. He also entrusted me with the falsified will, carefully sealed in an envelope. When evening came on, I went back to town for the horse, which was as little happy to see me as I was him. Chuck stayed at his house to await my hoped-for success. He was that sort. If I had been killed in the attempt, he would have been frustrated at my failure but shrugged his shoulders at my death. As it was, it turned out much the worse for me. The horse I left glowering at me in another patch of brush beside the road. I think he would have whinnied in delight if I had ended up dead in there, as long as he could slip his harness. Moving with slow care, I made my way through the sage brush and rocky ravines until I was once again just above the Duke¡¯s tower. As we had hoped, clouds had come up over the sky, shutting out the light of stars and moon. Everything was dark, gray and somber. Once again, the only light in the place was a small one in an equally minuscule window near the top of the tower. I waited patiently until that light went out, spending my time in taking in the lay of the land and the build of the blockhouse roof. A small tongue of brush ran down towards the tower on the right-hand side, near the edge of the cliff. Wagon tracks went away from the tower on my left, winding down and crossing the stream bed at a ford to reach the road. I chose to creep down through the brush, fighting the prickly branches and pulling twigs from my hood until I was near the building. This had to be done slowly, so as not to make too much noise. Also, to save my cloak, so that it was not in rags by the time I reached the open. Windows looked out from the blockhouse towards the wagon tracks and up the slope, but there were none on the brushy side. It almost seemed made for burglers to come at it this way. Taking advantage of the dark, which I knew others could not see as clearly in as I, I flitted across to the angle between the blockhouse and the tower. The stone, rough but well-cut, gave few purchases for climbing. I wedged the crowbar into a slight crack below a gutter. Between the two, I somehow managed to pull myself to teh roof, though the crowbar fell to the ground as soon as I was off it. I lay still for a long moment on the tiled roof, flat and dark as a dead buzzard. Nothing stirred down below or in the house. Apparently, no one had heard the crowbar fall. From there it was a simple matter to get in one of the windows, which had nice, simple shutters and easy to open windows. The glass was not latched in the inside, only the shutters were, and those with a pin that could be flipped out of the way with a knife. The darkness inside the tower was even deeper than that outside. I slid into the gloom, feeling a wood floor under my feet. Dimly, I could make out a narrow hall which I stood in, and which had a spiral stairway at each end. Nearby was an inner doorway, leading in to what I found was a dining room and kitchen. After exploring these, I came back out and started up the steps towards the chambers above. Though I could have poisoned everything in the place, there were the guards to think of. They probably ate of the same supplies, and I did not wish to kill them as well as the Duke. It would have aroused suspicions. It was my guess that the light I had seen from outside the previous two evenings was in the Duke¡¯s bedchamber, which was where he should be as well. The next story held two rooms, one of which the stairs led directly into. This was what looked like a library, with comfortable leather chairs and a few book cases. There was also a neat wooden desk, with quills and paper laid out on it. The drawers in it were locked, but I had brought tools for that. Quietly, listening for footsteps or movement above, I picked one of the drawers and opened it. As I had hoped, there was a bit of paperwork inside. It was too dark for even my eyes to read it in there, but that suited me. I slipped the false will into the drawer and locked it again before looking around me. There was a door in the library, leading, as I have said, into a second room. It was an odd door, made of dark wood with brass embellishments on the corners and in the center. Wondering what could be within, I stepped up and looked at the knob. It was in the shape of a skull, made of brass like the other door ornaments. There was no lock, as far as I could tell, so I put my hand to the knob. My gloved fingers touched the cool metal and a strange feeling came over me. I felt like I was being watched, or as if another mind had tried to look into mine briefly. I am not unfamiliar with various forms of mental magic and instantly closed my thoughts to outsiders. But the feeling persisted until I let go of the handle to look around the room. There was no one else with me, and when I was not touching the knob the watched feeling vanished. Judging it best to leave the room alone, guarded as it was by a skull and what felt like a spell, I turned back to the stairs. It seemed that the Duke had more magic in him than Chuck had given him credit for. For some reason, this didn¡¯t surprise me. I only hoped that the knob had not warned him directly of my presence, and that he was still asleep in the room upstairs. I was glad, as I stepped up those wooden stairs in the gloom of the tower, that I was only acting as a poisoner and would not have to face his magic directly. How strangely our emotions play cat-and-mouse with us, lying about the near future as if they did not know better. The boards on the stair did not creak. They were too new and well-built to make more than soft groaning noises now and then. My steps were quiet, making only light tapping sound if I took an in-careful step. Everything was in darkness, except for when I caught the reflection of my own eyes on glass windows or a nearby wall. They can be a danger sometimes, eyes that glow in the dark. Now and then I wear tinted glasses to mute them. The top of the stairs came out in a short hall with a door at the end. There was silence behind it, the sort of stillness which only exists when people are present. Present and either asleep...or holding themselves very still. I sensed at least one person on the other side, but my sense of them was vague, dulled by some sort of magic. I could not tell if they were merely unconscious or laying in wait. I turned the knob, which was of a normal round shape, and entered into the room. Part 3: Curse of the Dying PART 3: Curse of the Dying Some people say that life is a journey; it¡¯s not about where you¡¯re going to, but how you get there. Others that life is a stage and every person an actor therein. I¡¯ve even heard it said that life is a kaleidoscope. Simply adjust your perspective a little and suddenly everything falls into a different shape. Whatever it is, when you enter a new phase of life, or death, it is like opening a door. All you can hope for is that whatever is on the other side doesn¡¯t wish to devour you before you can escape. With this thought in mind, I opened the door and stepped inside. There was a faint light in here, from the coals of a fire which had burnt out in a grate. This light cast the corners in a deeper shadow, so that I had difficulty in piercing them. Sitting near the grate¡¯s glow was a large, four-poster bed with heavy scarlet drapes. They were pulled back a little on the near side as if carelessly shut by the one within. I could just make out the vague, pale oval of a man¡¯s face on the pillow inside. Near the bed, on my side of it, was a small wooden table with a pitcher of water, a unlit candle and a drinking glass sitting on it. The glass had some water in it as well. I¡¯m not at liberty to say if it was half full, or half empty, but it was exactly what I had been looking for. An easy way to make sure that my poison only took the master of the house. If nothing of the sort had been there, I would have had to resort to something of the dart or injection methods, both of which could have become messy in a hurry. A thick carpet on the floor deadened my footfalls as I crept across the room. At the side of the table I paused, glancing at the figure on the bed. His eyes were hidden by the pillow and a mass of dark hair. A pale hand lay beside the pillow, with a heavy seal ring still glinting on it. The feeling of magic in the room was intense, as if a fairy had been by and sprinkled her wish-granting dust on the floor. It blunted my senses, so that I could not tell if the man was asleep or shamming. He was certainly breathing steadily, laying relaxed as if deep in slumber. I drew a tiny packet from a cloak pocket and looked at it in the dim, faintly orange light. White powder was inside, fine as icing sugar. It would leave no color in the water, no taste and hardly any odor. But it was deadly. A poison concocted in another dimension, by people who know what they are doing with mushrooms, herbs and man-made chemicals. I opened the packet and moved a hand to tip it into the cup, intending to reserve two-thirds for the pitcher. My hand was just over the shining glass vessel when there was the sound of a breath being drawn beside me. I startled, sprinkling poison over glass and table. The Duke had awoken. I turned my head towards him, seeing the whites of eyes bright in the gloom as they stared at me in horror. At the same moment, something else moved in the room. From the shadows beside the bed a wizened hand shot out, grasping my wrist so tight the packet of poison fell from my hand to the floor. A high-pitched, grating voice cried, ¡°See master, I told you evil was abroad tonight! My power warned me. Someone is poisoning you in your own house!¡± The Duke sat upright, throwing aside the curtain. I jerked back, dragging a figure from the shadows with me and almost upsetting the table in the meantime. It was the figure of a bent, shriveled woman with long, gray hair and a terrible glint in her eyes. The feel of magic was so strong around her it was like an oppressive perfume, going to my head. I made another jerk at my wrist, getting it free this time as we both stumbled out into the center of the room. The witch was dressed in black and red velvet, a rich gown for one so unappetizing in appearance. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw the Duke fumbling with his bed clothes, drawing something out from under the covers which appeared to be a handgun. But at the same time the witch took a hobbling step towards me, holding up one of her wrinkled hands. I felt a beam of dark light strike at my mind, a direct mental attack that was designed to incapacitate me rather than craze or kill. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. As I hinted, I am not unskilled in such contests of the mind. I pulled myself together, blocking the dark thrust with mental armor like a scaled dragon¡¯s hide. The witch was strong; I felt her power start to peel back the scales as a fisher¡¯s knife would. I prepared another block, but did not lose sight of the physical world. The Duke was shouting, ¡°Agatha, get back!¡± While the witch came at me with her claw as if to ram home the mental spike with her bare hand. Blocking the next magical thrust with my mind, I drew my sword in the physical realm. Even a strong mental magician has a difficult time keeping track of both the physical world and what is going on in their minds during a mental duel. The witch almost fell onto the blade as I made a thrust at her heart. It went home, sliding through red-and-black fabric as well as what lay beneath. The witch gasped, staggering forward further onto the blade. The mental attack broke off, leaving me trying to draw back in the physical realm and the mental one at once. Once again, that witch¡¯s shriveled hand clawed at me, grasping my wrist. She seemed to pull herself up the blade, rather than make an attempt to escape. I felt a deep cold up my arm, a frigid icicle thrust through the wrist. ¡°May your death be long, until you pay full score for your evil ways!¡± The witch gasped as she fell dead on my blade. This curse was not mental magic as I knew it. Her touch made my sword arm go numb and I felt the curse seep into my bones like a poison. I think it sat uneasily with the elixir of youth I had taken so long ago. The vestiges of that potion still ran in my blood, keeping the ravages of time at bay. The curse came up against them and they did not find each other to be comfortable company. Or at least, that¡¯s what I guess, because under the cold I had a growing feeling as if my blood were going to boil. And the witch¡¯s curse did not, as you shall see, have quite the effect she was hoping for. I shoved her corpse away with my left hand, trying the get a grip on myself and control my numbed arm. The Duke shouted something, calling for guards and giving me pet names of his own invention, I believe. Bullets started to fly as he fired on me, now that his witch was out of the way. The room had cleared of the sense of magic, and that was one relief. It seems the Duke himself had none, but had kept the sorceress as a sort of safeguard, which had created the rumor of his supposed powers. A bullet ricocheted off my sword¡¯s blade, ringing loudly in the room. I snatched up a chair which was standing nearby and threw it at the Duke, awkwardly, with my left hand. This put his aim off and I jumped forward, switching hands on my blade. A last shot grazed my on the shoulder and he was out of bullets. A sweep of my blade lopped off his hand with the gun in it, a thrust finished him off. I had completed my mission, but everything was a mess, including the room. Blood was trickling down my arm from the shoulder wound, but I hardly felt it. The fight between the curse and the elixir was making me feel something less than well. Waves of red and yellow poison seemed to be building up somewhere in the back of my head. Thumping footsteps on the stairs announced the guards, finally on their way. I stumbled across the room, dropping a bar across the door that had been resting to one side of it. That would hold the guards for a time, but now I was trapped in the room. A hasty glance took in the small, arched window which was on the right-hand wall. It was just big enough for a person to fit out of, with a squeeze. The table aided me in reaching it, but I was four stories up above a small strip of land at the edge of the ravine. It looked like a long, dark, jagged way down. I heard fists beating on the door, then the report of a rifle being fired at it. Leaning down, I snatched the drape of the bed and crammed it out of the window. It was like a puppy wagging its tail in a well and hoping to touch the water. The drape hung out a few feet, still making it a drop of more than three stories to the ground. Desperate, I remembered the length of rope Chuck had given me, which I had around my waist. Uncoiled, it was perhaps twenty feet long and not very thick. But it was better than nothing. I tied it to the end of the drape, shoved the whole thing back out of the window and scrambled through. Even through my gloves, the rope burned my hand as I slid down it. At the bottom of the rope I dropped, landing with a roll and a flop which took my breath away. For a long moment I lay on the ground, dazed. The sky above was still overcast, a few darker clouds moving swiftly across it in a high-altitude wind. I couldn¡¯t feel one arm, the other shoulder burned with a bullet wound and the colored waves in the back of my mind were roiling disconcertingly. It was, indeed, a night to be remembered. The guards would start searching the grounds once they realized I had gone out the window. And with the drapes stuffed out the window and the rope on the end, it wasn¡¯t going to take long to guess. With an effort, I pulled myself up and staggered off into the brush. Somehow, I found my way back to the horse. He was in the process of chewing through his picket rope and gave me an angry snarl when I came up. It soon turned to a sneer as he realized what sort of condition I was in. But, being in no mood for argument, I persuaded him to return me to Chuck¡¯s shack without delay. Part 4: Dying of the Curse Part 4: Dying of the Curse Chuck was at home. So were three or four of his gangster friends. I nearly fell off the horse when I arrived, making the beast chuckle in his nose. Leaving him to go where he wished, I staggered into the weathered, clapboard shack. A fine rain was starting to fall, pattering on the roof. Wind soughed around it and whispered in through the cracks. Chuck sat with his boots up on the table, thumbs in his pockets. ¡°Well, look what the horse dragged in.¡± He sat up and put his boots down with a thump. ¡°You don¡¯t look too healthy, Leaflow. What happened to my mission?¡± To keep the story brief, I¡¯ll simply say that there was an altercation when he learned how the mission had ended up. He was furious when he found out that I had bungled the poisoning. I wasn¡¯t too happy about the witch that I hadn¡¯t been told about, the magic that had been downplayed or the fact that a curse was eating into the back of my mind at that moment. I explained to Chuck that the falsified paperwork had been left in the Duke¡¯s desk, and he was actually dead, so there was still a chance for Chuck to inherit. We both knew that it would be a slim chance if people questioned the death and started putting clues together. While he was still in the middle of a red-faced, gurgling fit of fury, his thugs looking on with sly eyes, I decided to leave. ¡°It seems our business relationship is over,¡± I remarked sardonically. Turning on my heels as best I could without falling over, I made my way out into the rain. Behind me, Chuck cried something about that not being the only thing that was going to be over. He sent the boys out after me. In the rain and darkness I gave them the slip, for the moment at least. The horse was gone, so I went on foot. To the north of his place was an area of scrub and hills, remarkably fit for getting lost in. I crawled into the dripping brush, head reeling. The waves of color were dancing before my eyes now, everywhere I looked. One arm was a dead weight. Under the vague cover of an overhanging tree and some scrubby bushes, I crouched with my head on my knees. For a short time, I was able to rest and catch my breath. But then I heard the sound of people moving through the brush, calling quietly to each other. They must have had a tracker among them, or simply have guessed where I would hide. If I had been thinking clearly then, I might simply have found a better hiding place and let them go by me. After that, I could have found a place to use my dimensional jumping apparatus and left this world behind. Instead, I moved off in front of them like a hunted beast. I went uphill, hoping to cross it and dive into the twisting ravines beyond. The brush was in patches, sometimes thick and sometimes little more than a few sagebrush in a clearing. I staggered through it, hearing a roaring noise growing in the back of my head. My guess is that the thugs split up around this time, hoping to pen me in. Whatever the reason, I pushed through a patch of brush and stopped on the edge of a steep cliff with a rocky, dry river bottom below, only to find that a gangster was right behind me. There was an open space on the edge of the cliff, a strip of crumbly ground with no scrub on it. Chuck¡¯s thug stepped out a of the brush a few yards from me, checking the cliff with a sideways leer before turning to me, raising a rifle. He opened his mouth at the same time, probably to shout for his companions. Even in my fuzzy state, I knew that was not what I wanted happening. Fumbling for my sword left-handed, I lunged at the fellow. This thug was not a stupid fellow. Instead of trying to bring the rifle to bear on me when I was already almost too close for a clean shot, he swung it like a club. I barely got my sword up in time before the rifle butt came crashing down. The shock almost numbed my left arm as badly as the right already was. The sword blade slammed down into the dirt and he raised the butt for another blow. I abandoned the sword and leapt at him. This isn¡¯t the point in the story where we both go flailing over the cliff and smash on the rocks below. Not yet, at least. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Instead, we fell to the ground and rolled around, fighting for the upper hand. He dropped the rifle in the first impact and we both grabbed for a pistol on his belt. Somehow, I ended up holding it by the grip. We rolled over once more, closer to the cliff, while he tried to pry the gun away from me by the barrel. Realizing that reinforcements would be an asset to him, he gave a strangled shout for help. In the next instant, I pulled the trigger on the pistol. He shrieked, as it wasn¡¯t a clean shot, and I pulled the trigger again, silencing him for good. The whole world was whirling by now. It seemed ridiculous, but after all that fight, all the care to keep myself alive, I simply tried to pry myself away from him and fell off the cliff. One moment I was staggering away from a rain-soaked corpse, the next I was on my way to becoming one. On the crumbly ground my foot slipped and I was dropping through the air, cloak flapping crazily around me. For a brief moment, my mind was clear of all curses and pain. In that moment, it was a joy to fly without the need of wings. The wind all around me, falling like the rain. Then I hit a projection and bounced off. Everything flashed black and red before I smacked the rocks at the bottom. Was I dead as soon as I hit the rocks? I¡¯m not sure. There seemed to have been an interim of darkness in which I knew nothing. It was like a long, restless sleep when you¡¯re worried about waking up and being sick or in pain once it stops. The surprising thing was, I was neither. All feeling of pain or discomfort was gone. A sort of blue light seemed to surround my mind. I heard the words of the witch repeated softly, like a dying echo,¡°may your death be long, until you pay full score for your evil ways!¡± But, all things taken into account, I had died fairly quickly. The elixir, mixing with the curse, bent it in strange ways. Instead of dying slowly, my time in death, but on terra-firma, will be long. Until I can pay off my evil ways, I suppose. I opened my eyes and stood upright. It was a drifting movement, like a man swimming. It took me a moment to realize that my body had not come with me. Looking back, I saw it laying on the ground. The cloak was a little cut up and rumpled from my previous adventures. It was rather pitiful, really. My body looked like an old, black sack someone had discarded. One boot was missing and a foot showed pale and wet in the rain. I drifted around a little, floating to the top of the cliff to watch the thugs find their comrade¡¯s body. They took in the whole scene and were not sure if I had escaped unscathed, or fallen over the cliff. Cursing the rain and the darkness, they decided to come back in the morning to find out. They picked up their pal¡¯s body between them and moved off, leaving my sword lying in the mud behind. It was a strange feeling, to be without a body. I was like driving home to find that there was no house there anymore, or eating something without tasting it. I drifted around, looked at the wet brush and trees, came back to inspect my corpse dispassionately, found where my other boot had gone and, well, simply moped about. It took me a while to figure out that, with an effort, I could touch things. If I concentrated very hard, I found that I could actually see my hands, like a pale blue mist, and use them to grasp objects. Leaning down, I took a glove from my corpse (he wouldn¡¯t need it any more) and slipped it on one of the ghostly hands. There always was a little magic in that cloak and suit of clothes. The glove stayed on even when I didn¡¯t think about it. Feeling a little ashamed to leave myself naked to the world, I stripped the body and dressed my new, empty form. The clothes seemed to weigh me down, so that I stood on the ground like a normal person and could even move like one with little effort. I didn¡¯t like to see my body laying there, wet and pale with no one at home, so I picked it up and carried it off to a convenient spot for buriel. By morning, there was no trace of my having fallen from the cliff. It had stopped raining, leaving the sky smeared and overcast. I stood looking down at the rough grave I had made for my mortal remains, feeling depressed. With a wispy sigh, I trudged away. That is just about the end of the story of my death. Chuck figured I had killed his henchman and escaped alive, returning later to retrieve my sword. It was true, I did get the blade back, but not as a living man. I¡¯m still uncertain if a ghost can travel dimensions. I haven¡¯t tried it yet. I¡¯ve wandered this world for two years, and just now come back to Lansteer. My intention was simply to pay respects at my grave. An understandable weakness. But Charles Feltman had been waiting, hoping that I would come back into town so that he could pay me back for the mistake I made in the Duke¡¯s castle two years ago. He attacked me first. I suppose I could have just let the bullets go through me and walked away. But old habits die hard. Harder than a fragile human body, apparently. Epilogue: Walking Dead Man Epilogue: Walking Dead Man Leaflow still sat on the bench, green eyes glowing with a thoughtful, bluish tint. He had one hand propping up his chin¡­ or where his chin should have been in the dark hood. Sheriff Costwhile uncrossed his legs and stood up, stretching. ¡°Quite a story for a dead man. But it won¡¯t hold water, I¡¯m afraid. Whole thing¡¯s ridiculous. And the largest hole in the plot is this: the murderers of ¡®the Duke¡¯ and his poor old servant, whom you call a witch, were already caught. Butcher Bill¡¯s gang of bandits attacked the tower, killed all of the guards and murdered the owner of the place. They looted the tower, tried to escape with the goods and were caught. There was a shootout: most of the gang were killed. Survivors admitted to the robbery.¡± ¡°But to the murder of the Duke?¡± Leaflow¡¯s gaze came up to meet the Sheriff¡¯s. Costwhile shook his head. ¡°No. But the punishment for murder of someone like the Duke is much more severe than robbery, or even the killing of the native guards. They wouldn¡¯t confess to something like that easily.¡± ¡°Ah, but no one ever confessed to it. In fact, they stated that the Duke was already dead when they got there, didn¡¯t they? That the place was in turmoil because of the very recent death and that was how they got into the tower so easily. Correct?¡± Leaflow went to stand up as well, but the deputy waved him back with a threatening gesture. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s true.¡± The Sheriff¡¯s mouth quirked up in thought. ¡°Alright, so you want to confess to the murder of the Duke? That¡¯s not going to help you get off lightly for the death of Chuck Feltman, even if anybody believes that he attacked you first.¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°But Chuck inherited the Duke¡¯s money, didn¡¯t he? Though the court proceedings were, perhaps, a little confused and shady?¡± Leaflow pressed relentlessly. ¡°Yes...¡± Costwhile paused, taking a deep breath before letting it out sharply. ¡°But, hang it all, none of this proves that you¡¯re a walking dead man! You think you can prove that, other than by the bullet holes in your clothes?¡± Leaflow leaned back and looked at him with a peculiar expression in his green eyes. ¡°Easily.¡± He reached down and pulled his right-hand glove off with the other one. For a moment, Costwhile thought that there was nothing underneath. Then he saw the faint shimmer of an outline, something misty and bluish like a man¡¯s hand. With a careless motion, Leaflow plunged the hand into the wall up to his sleeve. The sleeve wrinkled, pushing back against the wall until half his arm was sunk into it. Just as calmly, he pulled the arm back out again, straightening the sleeve with a jerk and slipping the glove back on. Deputy Marston looked like he wanted to faint. Sheriff Costwhile stood very still, face going stiff and straight. After a minute he said steadily, ¡°well, it looks like you can prove it. So, you are really dead?¡± ¡°Truly.¡± Leaflow stood up, this time unhindered by the deputy, who shrunk back from him against the wall. ¡°And as you can neither chain nor execute a dead man, persecuting me would seem somewhat ludicrous. Lock me in a cell and I shall walk out through the walls. Put handcuffs on me and they will fall right through.¡± The keys to the jail cell were still in the door. Unhindered by either of the officers, Leaflow walked out of the room. They both heard the sound of his sword sliding across the desk, then slammed in a sheath. A moment later, the door of the jailhouse opened, then closed. Everything was silent outside. The people had all trailed away, weary of waiting while Leaflow told his story. END