The Last Days Of The Edge Of The World by Brian Stableford

battles of the war, and had not been the same since.
    Helen looked closely at the weathervane, in case this small replica of the giant’s horn might also have words written upon it, but it didn’t. She went on across the open space, still avoiding the shapeless things embedded in the dirt. At the mighty oaken doors of the great hall she paused again.
    The distant moaning of the ghosts was not so distant now, and though it could still be heard emanating from far beneath her feet, it was now supplemented by a faint hollow whisper that came from within the hall.
    It was not a loud sound but it was a complex one. It was not the work of one voice or even a hundred, but of a great multitude, most of whom were no doubt situated much more deeply than this, though a substantial fraction must be gathered in the great hall.
    Helen gripped the handle of one of the big doors firmly in her left hand (the right held aloft the still-glimmering match) and turned it. Then she put her shoulder to the oaken panel and heaved with all her might.
    Slowly and ponderously the door yielded and swung inwards.
    She found that there were, indeed, five hundred or a thousand ghosts waiting for her within.
    Ghosts are sometimes called shades or shadows, but that is exactly what they are not. Ghosts live in shadows, and stand out in their environment precisely because they themselves are composed of unshadow. Shadows are black and ghost gleam. A well-established ghost (recent ghosts are tentative and irregular in their manifestations) may be the purest glittering silver, shining very softly with a weird radiance quite unlike any other light which exists.
    The ghosts which haunted the hall of Castle Mirasol were well established indeed. They were brilliant. Had this been any other kind of light it would have filled the hall with brightness and clarity, but it is the fate of ghosts always to be imprisoned by shadow and helpless within it… and hence the hall was a chaotic confusion of black and silver—deepest black and brightest silver, ghosts and shadows bound inextricably together.
    The ghosts were seated about seven great tables—six set parallel to one another and in line with the door, and one at the far end, elevated somewhat and set at right angles. The tables had once been set with a glorious banquet, but that had been a very long time ago. The food had all rotted, unconsumed, and even the silver dishes and the forks and spoons were black with tarnish, while the copper candlesticks were green with verdigris except where their ruddiness was protected by translucent-drips of wax from long-dead candles.
    As Helen came into the hall every ghostly eye was turned upon her. Ghosts’ eyes gleam more brightly than the rest of them, and sometimes seem like fiery diamonds when they are directed at a mortal being.
    Helen paused, feeling the worms beneath her feet struggling to escape from their entrapment.
    “Hello,” she said. She was always polite to ghosts. It cost nothing.
    There was no reply. The whispering had died away, though there was still the moaning from far below. Ghosts have the ability to stifle their otherwise perpetual voices when living creatures are about. It is probably a great relief to them.
    “I won’t disturb you,” said Helen. “All I want to know is what’s written on the horn which Belek of Beauval took from the hoard of the giant Faulhorn. Then I’ll… leave you to get on with… whatever you were doing.”
    The ghosts exchanged glances. Not one spoke. Then, as one, they looked towards the high table. At the centre of the high table was the great throne of Mirasol, and on that throne sat the ghost of the last of Mirasol’s kings— Belek. This ghost moved, now, within its heavy shadows and looked down at the girl who stood in the aisle between two of the long tables, holding up a lighted match.
    “Who are you?” intoned the ghost, its voice thin and anguished.
    Helen’s flesh crept. She didn’t mind. It was only a