Music is Crossing Destiny by Audiomachine. Play it!

******

I almost drop Gilbert when I see the ghost. Only the shrieks echoing about the field keep me anchored to the world, compelling me to focus—to find a solution to the problem. With a final heave, I set my fellow squire on the edge of the field. Sir Payton has already been dragged away by another knight. He must have been knocked unconscious from my accidental blow.

I turn back to the ghost. Slowly, its lips quirk into a malicious grin. I suppress a shudder running throughout my limbs, force myself to hide my fear.

Focus, I tell myself. You can do this.

All of the sudden, every detail within the area becomes clear to me, seemingly magnified under a lens. Each blade of grass whipping under the wind seems much more prominent; the exact direction and speed of the currents is no longer a rough estimation on my own part; the distance between me and every single object within sight can be calculated easily. A clash of temperatures resonate beneath the surface of my skin. I know that it is my newfound abilities coming to my aid, which so far, have only surfaced during my duel with Gilbert.

Abilities that I have so little control of.

The instincts kick in. Before my mind can register it, my legs are already running towards the nearest weapon available. Arrows and chunks of rocks scrap my skin as I barely dodge them; I'm caught between the crossfire of the ghost and my allies. I manage to lunge for a longbow, the familiar texture of yew in my hand soothing and supple. My muscles relax slightly, comforted by the presence of the weapon in my hands.

A quiver of arrows lies nearby. I'd seen that before I had rushed for this particular bow. My fingers find a fletching; I forcefully pull the wooden shaft out of its container, its brothers and sisters rattling in protest.

Loading the longbow with lightning speed, I take aim at the ghost's exposed eye, knowing that a sure hit would instantly fall it.

No!

As soon as I release the arrow, a subconscious part of my mind screams at my mistake, pounding in my head, as though that it could reverse my possibly fatal move. In response, I fling the longbow out of my hand, letting it drop to the ground like a pack of hot coals burning my fingers.

The conscious part of me, the stubborn part that refuses to accept the mistake I just made, the part that still hopes for the ghost to dissipate, clings on—it roots me to the ground and focuses my eyes on the wraith, following the arc of the arrow.

It hits the ghost's eye, but doesn't land on it.

The arrowhead found its target, accurate and true. However, instead of punching through flesh, it sails through the phantom, landing on the wooden platform behind it instead. The conscious part of me, now finally submitting into foolish defeat, encourages me to do the most logical thing possible.

Run.

I run for the vast open space of the field, unsure of where to go. My hearts pounds erratically in my chest, reflecting the surge of panic quickly overtaking it. Yes, I may be a Champion of War, yet I have no idea of what to do now. How does one defeat ghosts? Perhaps if Gilbert were still conscious, the two of us could devise a mode of operation in the most logical way possible, combining our limited knowledge of necromancy. And maybe, just maybe, everyone here can walk away with their lives.

Coward, a small voice whispers in my head. Coward. That's the title that suits you best.

I feel a flush rising in my cheeks as I realise that I was just about to completely abandon my comrades. My fingers start to form tight fists; my teeth clench. Better to die a hero than live a traitor. I must stand my ground and fight, although it could very well spell the end of all of us. That is my duty to the Pietists—to protect and serve mankind, no matter their faults and waywardness.

Risking my escape to safety, I turn around to analyse the situation. To my surprise, quite a few of the knights had rallied. They are forming a semi-circle around the ghost, longbows and crossbows aimed for it, attempting to keep it trapped till help arrives.

Meanwhile, the alarm bell had been sounded—two high, shrill notes, indicating that the invader's status as 'threat' isn't quite confirmed yet. As I stand in the middle of the field, knights rush past me, reinforcements for the small group of their comrades temporarily holding off the threat. I suddenly feel embarrassed. Even these mortals were more willing to sacrifice themselves than me.

I head back towards the mayhem with dulled senses; the burst of abilities long deserted me. The full sprint slows down when I pay close attention to the scene. Others may expect me to charge the phantom straight on and bring it down like an avenging Pietist. Only, that's not my style.

Strategy and patience. Those are my keywords. The keywords of Pst. Bronicus.

Like I expect, the arrows fly through the ghost harmlessly. The phantom, apparently just aware that a battalion of knights are surrounding it, decides to drop the crossbow and move in to engage its opponents in melee combat. The dusters fitted into the ghost's gauntlets quickly reduce a few of the knights into a bloody pulp; the fighters swing swords and battle-axes through what would be the ghost's flesh in an almost desperate frenzy. Not a single scratch is made.

Then my eyes meets its own lifeless ones; they show a flicker of recognition.

It pushes its way out of the semi-circle, not quite wanting to kill anyone, but willing to cripple just to get closer to the Champion of War—me. Enough observing, I tell myself mentally. Time to bring on the action.

In my most taunting voice, I yell across the field, "What's wrong now, can't seem to locate your target without any help? Well, I'm right here, you spineless jellyfish! You flightless dodo!" Sir Isaac's insults are beginning to rub off me, I notice.

The phantom seems to gain a spurt of energy. With brutal force, it begins to smash its way through the barricade, causing a few startled knights to curse and cry out. Once it's out of the mess, it raises its glassy eyes, locking with mine once more, as though it is saying 'You are mine'.

Without any hesitation this time, I run away from it as fast as my legs can carry me.

I speed towards the stables, hoping that the tight space will make it harder for the phantom to manoeuvre about, though it might hinder my own moments as well. Better to have a slim chance than none at all, I think grimly. Unknowingly, I had drawn my dagger. It now lays in my palm, its leather grip caressing my fingers curled around it.

The horses whinny nervously in their stalls as I charge into the stables, their hoofs clopping with rhythmic chaos on the solid ground. I hurriedly unlatch the locks to the stalls, setting them free. I can probably use the empty stalls as hiding spots to launch an ambush, and the horses are innocent. They don't deserve their blood to be shed.

I almost laugh at this—even horses have a higher chance of surviving this ordeal than I do.

Trying not to gag at the rancid stench of the hooved creatures' manure, I leap over a door and into one of the stalls, pressing myself against a corner, maintaining a crouch so that no one would be able to see me from the outside. Fortunately for me, the phantom cannot match my speed. If I'm correct, it should be just entering the stables now. I'd like to continuing running away from it. However, even I can't keep up my pace forever.

I can't say what makes me sure that the ghost has stepped into the stables—a slight change in the direction of the wind, a faint echo bouncing of the walls, or maybe it's the faint distortion of grey light shafting in. My breath catches; time seems to hold in its place.

"Constantine."

It takes all of my will to stop myself from screaming. Not from the raspy, guttural voice, nor from the ghost's sinister tone. It's because they invoke a memory in me, one that I had shoved down for the past week.

The voice belongs to the hooded man from my last vision.

"You cannot hide from me forever. Come now, I won't kill you," says the ghost mockingly.

That voice, the staff, the ghosts...

Forcing myself to calm down, I begin to think of ways to escape from this situation. Fool! I have mistakenly trapped myself within four walls, the only way out being either the windows or the entrance. If I am to climb out through the window, it would be suicide, as my back would be exposed to the ghost. Not to mention clambering upwards would consume much too much time. An image of the entrance flashes in my mind—suicide too. There's only one advantage I have here.

Surprise.

My mind sharpens; I feel my abilities humming, waiting for a signal to go off. For now, I have a brief, acute awareness of my surroundings. From the ripples in the air currents, I gauge that the ghost is approaching the third row of stalls, its steps slow and deliberate, knowing that it has cornered me. I am currently in the fifth row of stalls.

I know that steel won't injure it, but what about bare fists?

No time to test that theory out—the phantom is approaching the fifth row of stalls. Sliding Miraterciel back into my boot, I coil myself, my muscles straining in anticipation of a bounding leap. I tune my ears to focus, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

I then jump up from my position on the floor, over the door, positioning myself to land on the phantom.

It is startled by my sudden burst, and though already raising an arm to block my fist, it's too late for the attempt. Pst. Bronicus be with me, let my flesh make contact with the ghost. I aim my fist for the unguarded area of the face, the surprise on its face giving it an almost humane look...

My arm just swings through it, creating ripples in its shape.

The momentum sends me flying forward, and I nearly crash into a pile of buckets. Clinging at a wooden post, I steady myself and wheel around to face the phantom, now about five feet away from me. Its pose is relaxed, cocky even. It has lured the mouse out of the hiding place.

"You're mine."

I try not to curl up into a ball when I hear that voice—the voice of nightmares. It somehow brings out all negative emotions within me, making my vision fill with memories I'd much rather forget.

The wraith takes advantage of my momentary confusion, closing the distance I'd carefully placed between us with two quick strides. Ramming a gauntlet-armed palm up my throat, it pushes me against the wall. It starts choking me; another arm keeps both of my own pinned down uselessly. I thrash about, trying to loosen its grip on me, but every tiny movement makes me windpipe narrower.

No. I think. No, no! I cannot die like this! I refuse to!

Wait, now the ghost is making contact with me, not passing through me. What if...what if that in order to hit the phantom, I need it to be making physical contact with me at the same time? To confirm my suspicions, I give up struggling against the dead weight.

I clamp my teeth onto its hand.

The ghost releases me, crying out in surprise and pain. I crumple onto the floor, gasping for breath. Recovering as soon as I can, I hobble onto my feet. For one more time, I lock eyes with the ghost. The hollow slits narrow themselves, radiating anger and fury.

This time, when it comes for me, I'm ready.

It doesn't have a weapon—only the knuckle dusters fitted into its gauntlets make for serviceable offenses. They're all it needs though, for I mistime the first blow. One fist lands on my lower jaw, sending me reeling backwards with shooting stars of pain flashing before my eyes. My first uppercut was too fast, swinging through the phantom before it made contact with me.

The second blow comes—a jab to my gut—fast, unyielding and without mercy. My counter-strike to the jaw is mistimed once more, the ghost already punching the air out of my lungs when my fist is a millimetre away from my target.

I regain my footing, sidestepping the ghost to face it from the opposite, where the space behind me is larger and grants me greater mobility. I cannot afford to allow myself to be trapped against the wall. With trembling arms, I prepare to face the next attack. I can't mistime it again—the two previous blows were shockingly brutal. As much as I hate to admit it, they're taking a toll on me.

The phantom is gaining confidence with every move it makes—its aggressiveness will be my opportunity to turn the tables.

The punch is aimed for my chest, but while fast and accurate, it is too predictable. I manage to block the attack. I grab the ghost by the wrist before throwing it over my shoulder, letting it smash into the ground. Billows of sand smoke upwards.

I quickly back away, not wanting to give it a chance to hit me. With no noticeable injuries, it slowly gets up. I turn so that my back faces the exit; I ready myself to run away at a moment's notice. A golden rope is tied around its neck, a detail that I hadn't noticed before. It smiles at me; my toes curl in my boots.

"You truly are the Spawn of the Devil," it says with a laugh.

As fast as the winds of Pst. Kiaran, Miraterciel is within the grip of my palm, angled to slice the ghost's throat. It freezes for a while, possibly surprised that I'm relying on a tiny dagger as a last resort. Then it chuckles. Rage floods my mind. I'm unable to smother it, every deep breath only making it rise inch by inch.

Suddenly, black spots dance before my eyes. Oh no. The visions! They hadn't attacked me the days before, and I'd completely forgotten about them. Now they're going to be the death of me—literally.

Gritting my teeth, I barely stave them off. Please, I pray to my patron. Just until I survive this ordeal.

"The prophecy is unravelling, Constantine. Do not fight fate, or else the outcome will be far worse than you could possibly imagine. I will come for you. Even if I have to resurrect myself ten times over, I will come for you."

With a roar, I lunge and stab the ghost in the throat.

It explodes into shimmering green-grey dust, settling over my clothing and the ground, before winking at me and fading out of sight.

My head starts to pound. I massage my temples, trying to ebb the pain, hopefully pushing the oncoming vision away. If anything, it makes the headache worse. I stumble against a beam for support, my sweating palms slicking and slipping over the wood.

Cries of a rallying battalion sounds from outside. I open my mouth to laugh at this—brilliant reinforcements the knights make, only frenziedly helping an ally when the enemy has been defeated. A hiccup is emitted from my throat instead. The voices die down, though I know that they're getting closer. My vision dims...

"There he is!" cries a knight. The clanking of plate armour and clashing weapons make my head hurt dreadfully. I squeeze my eyes, hoping that it would help me dissolve the pain. My knees start to buckle beneath me; I collapse onto the ground. Miraterciel clatters out of my hand.

I get pulled into the unknown abyss of darkness.

******

A/N: Dedicated to ammmmanda for being such an awesome supporter of this story! Check out her story 'Twisted Kingdoms', featuring a diverse cast, unexpected humour, and a whole lot of drama!  

Pst. Nelatius — The lord of the hearth and home; the welcomer, friend to all strangers.