What a lovely little light, thought Bori, following a tiny, glowing globe through the forest. And so helpful. Wherever it's going, it's got to be good. He reached out for the light, which playful darted away from his hand.
"Oho! A challenge!" said Bori, smiling. He swatted lightly for the little light again and again, running after it as it picked up speed. It zipped through the air, always just out of reach, until finally he managed to brush his finger against it. He got a mild shock to his hand, but was too happy about scoring the hit to notice. "Hah!" he said to the globe, which he had the impression was mildly surprised he had managed to touch it. "You should have known better, little light, than to challenge ..."
A ghostly voice that spoke behind him with the weight of ages cut him off. "Engallian Soaringsteel," it said. Wind whipped through the forest, making a cacophany of rustling leaves and blowing the raindrops into Bori's face as he wheeled around, realizing the little light had charmed him, somehow, leading him into this trap. He shielded his eyes with one hand and palmed a hidden dagger with the other. The wind died as suddenly as it had come, and Bori dropped his hand, launching the dagger at the figure he saw.
It went right through.
Bori blinked away the water in his eyes and saw more clearly that which stood before him. It was a vaguely man-shaped swirl of strange, luminescent gray wisps of energy that were coming out of the empty air around it. It manifested rapidly, taking the form of a man dressed in royal robes, a magnificent sword on his belt. Bori looked through the man ... through him ... at his dagger, burried to the hilt in the tree behind it. Then the man raised his intense green eyes, and Bori saw his face. It was worn and sad, a beard on his chin and shoulder-length hair that might have been blonde, except that all the colors of this apparition were grayed, like a painting left in the sun ... except for those vibrant eyes ... eyes full of pain and ... expectation.
"Oh, bogs," said Bori. "A ghost ... there's a ghost in front of me and ..." it suddenly registered to him what the voice had said. Fear passed into trepidation and wonder. "... a ghost who knows my name ..."
"I need your help, Engallian," said the voice, though this image's mouth did not open. "My people need your help."
"How in the name of all that is blessed do you know who I am?" demanded Engallian. His real name was something he had gone to great lengths to hide.
"I and my friends have been watching you." The ghost smiled and the little globe of light flew around Engallian to hang in the air over its shoulder. It nodded to the light, which gave off a little hum and then winked out of sight, leaving them in the dim gray light the specter cast on the little clearing. "I know who you are. I know you are the master thief, Engallian Soaringsteel, Lian to his friends, who fled Illrya, the country north of mine, to seek a new and different life. I know you travel with two companions who ..." the ghost paused and looked past Engallian for a moment, the continued, "who have just arrived."
Engallian heard crashing in the bushes and looked over his shoulder to see Gordon and Whiskers stumble over a bush. Whiskers was on his feet in an instant, waving his rough club in the air. "Begone ye ghost! Leave Bori be!"
"Whiskers, wait!" said Gordon, standing and putting a hand on his short friend's shoulder. "That spirit ... he called this country his ..."
Whiskers lowered his club, and his eyes grew slowly wider behind his goggles as he realized what that meant. This was ...
"King Meddias Merkandore, Sovereign of Kaldurst, at your service!" said the ghost with a profound bow. Gordon fell to one knee, and Whiskers dropped his club alltogether and started to fumble over an apology.
Engallian, emboldened with knowledge of who this spirit was, stepped forward. No more than an arm's reach from this otherworldly vision of a being from beyond the grave, he stared straight into the dead king's eyes. "What is it you want with me?"