Midnight’s frost bit hard on the Old Haunted Tower at the top of the castle. Icicles dripped from the battlements and ran in fear down its black walls, seeking out the less troubled sanctuary of the keep below.

The view from the tower, for anyone brave enough to risk the slippery steps, the treacherous walkways and, of course, the ghosts, was breath-taking. Which was handy in a way, because if your breath was not taken on a night like this it would freeze on your lips and fall on your toes.

From the tower you could see lights of Iskandursend, cupped between the twin curving cliffs that protected it. From the outside, these formed impenetrable walls that had long thwarted potential invaders. The longer north cliff was topped with an artificial wall dotted with guard towers. These looked down on one side on a sheer rocky face and a steep scree slope leading to the plane 300 feet below. On the other side of the North Wall was a large grassy slope – called the Grayzin – that formed part of the city.

In contrast, the sheer south cliff was a 200-feet high thin blade of rock which boasted two guard towers on the only sections thick enough to support such structures. The path that ran the length of the South Cliff was inches wide, notched with fearsome gullies and well deserved its name: the Immanent Fall. The Immanent Fall patrol was not one relished by the city’s guardsmen.

At the foot of the Grayzin dark tangled streets clustered next to the river Sunder, which roared through Iskandursend. On the south bank, slightly bigger, grander streets filled the space between the Sunder and the Spine – the heart of the city. From the dark cold eyrie of the tower, the houses’ roofs were visible only as shadows that hid large patches of white ice on the Sunder.

The Sunder came into Iskandursend from the west, thundering through a gate in the Dusk Wall, a 10-feet thick wall which bridged the four furlong gap between the ends of the North and South Cliff.

It left in a rage through the Dawn Gate in the east – again breaching a protective wall joining the ends of the twin curving cliffs. It passed just north of a rounded eruption of rock 50-feet high and 100 feet in diameter, known as the Haggit, which had been heavily fortified over the centuries to form a strong point watching over the sections of wall that led from it to the ends of the two cliffs as they dipped down to the river.

The Dawn Gate – complex design

West of the Haggit, south of the Sunder, across the river from the Grayzin, rose the Spine. The Spine was a ramp of rock on which were built the grandest buildings of Iskandursend. It rose above The knights lived here, as did the lesser unlanded nobles and the richest merchants. The streets of the Spine, thinned and narrowed until they came to its highest point – a steep triangle upon which was built Haarwood Castle.

After the steep climb to the castle, the flatness of the gardens which lay between its outer and inner walls seemed miraculous. Beyond the Iskandur Gate in the inner walls lay the courtyard and the Great Keep with its seven towers – each representing one of the seven hills of the Duchy of Haarwood.

The Old Haunted Tower represented Iskanrusend itself – being the oldest.

From that tower, the view extended far, far beyond the city and its defences.

Beyond, lay the whole Duchy of Haarwood, peaceful in the snow. On the six other hills dotted around its plain lay the other towns of the duchy. Between them a patchwork of fields and woods lay muffled by the white sheet of winter.

Across the scene snaked the broad river Slochan, carrying icy water from the steep Glittering Mountains in the north to the rolling Glimmer Hills to the south. The two mountain ranges curved dramatically and all but met in the west, leaving just enough room for the river and the High Road to continue west to the other – warmer – parts of the kingdom. The way was guarded by the walled town of Fastnis, perched on a steep eruption of rock at the narrowest point.

Tonight, the wind was especially cold, and uneasy. Tonight the wind came from the east. Tonight, as the chime of midnight sounded, the wind came from the Old Haunted Forest (no relation to the tower).

Across the duchy, people were huddled behind locked doors, with fierce fires burning in the hearths, as they shivered in their beds (or even under them if they were particularly scared). Bad things came from the forest, bad things happened when they wind blew from there.

Of course, rational people did not believe such superstitions. Sensible people did not share the peasants’ foolish beliefs. They would not let such a thing as the direction of the wind stop them enjoying themselves. Here, in the castle at Iskandursend, the capital of Haarwood, all the people that mattered were at a huge feast thrown by Princess Gabriel.
To show they were not scared they ate and drank and laughed and drank. Only a cynic who did not understand the complexities of court life would point out that not one of them set foot outside.

That was a shame, as they missed the sight of the full moon bathing Haarwood in its glow, creating a billion diamonds on the shivering landscape. Yes, if you were brave enough to risk life and limb to see it, it was a sight to see.

Brave Sir Oscar was brave enough. Ghosts and old wizards’ tales held no fear for him. He wasn’t afraid of falling either. He’d much rather be up here, admiring nature’s glory rather than making false conversation with a loud load of self-important lords, ladies and gentlemen in the great hall.

He had drifted through the festivities and had lingered awhile because the fire was welcoming and the food tempting. But then Sir Monising had lumbered to his feet and embarked on one of his rambling monologues about the importance of devotion to the crown and the greatness of Haarwood’s knights. Several hours in the biting, freezing, awful cold were infinitely preferable to that.

Brave Sir Oscar cut a dashing figure. Bold green eyes danced over his very prominent but noble nose. Underneath said notable promontory a stiff grey handlebar moustache asserted the knightly character of its wearer. Brave Sir Oscar stood just over six feet tall, seven if you included his grey war helm and its green plume. He had long grey hair flowing down over his powerful shoulders. His muscular chest was covered in glittering grey chain mail. A green cloak billowed out behind him like a sail, on it emblazoned his personal crest, a golden lyre, and his family motto “The strings will guide me to my foe”. (No, he didn’t know what it meant either, but it had been in his family for years and everyone else took it so seriously that he kept it). From his green belt hung his sword, a slim grey sabre. It had a name: a knight’s sword must always have a name otherwise he wasn’t a proper knight, according to the Knightly Rooles (spelling wasn’t really seen as knightly either). Most of the other knights called their weapons things like Widowmaker, Doom Bringer, Fear slicer. Brave Sir Oscar thought that was silly as most of them never drew their swords for any reason other than cutting apples at banquets. His sword was called Too Blooming Heavy, because it was.
On this night, Brave Sir Oscar looked particularly dashing. He had struck a particularly knightly pose (Knightly Rooles, Chapter the Seventeenth, “Onn the Nightly Hoaldyng of Posess”) as he leaned against the parapet and looked out into the cold night. His cloak was billowing very finely in the wind, and his green plume was doing its best to keep up. Even his moustache billowed.

Then, just as the last bell of midnight chimed, an eerie sound wafted across the frozen distances. It was like a wolf’s howl and an old man’s groan and a blast from a hunting horn all at the same time. The noise seized the ears for a second and then was gone.
The weird tone chilled Brave Sir Oscar to the core a good trick on a night as cold as this and gave him the slightest taste of something he had not known in a very long time: fear.

Brave Sir Oscar leaned out over the battlements straining to catch the noise again. But all he could hear was the whisper of the wind and the sound of revelry from the keep. Brave Sir Oscar turned and walked back round the outside of the tower to the stairs.

Just as he was about to descend, the noise came again. No it wasn’t a noise, it was more like a sense. You didn’t hear it with your ears. It rose and fell and it froze the heart. This time there was no doubt where it was coming from: the old haunted forest, dozens of miles away.

“A keening,” thought Brave Sir Oscar and then realised he didn’t know what a keening was or where the thought had come from. That worried him.

That noise, the keening, meant something bad, there was no doubt. Brave Sir Oscar turned to go down the stairs but halted when he heard another set of strange sounds, this time from below: angry shouting, clanks and pained grunts. Brave Sir Oscar peered into the darkness but couldn’t see anything. Whatever it was was hidden by the long curve of the stair as it curved round the outside of the tower. Then he saw a shimmering light.

It was a ghost. A most unwelcome development to add to an already uneasy night.

The spectre glowed purple yet was transparent. It was seven foot tall and clad in armour. Its head was bare, and it had long flowing hair and an enormous beard. In its gloved hands it held an enormous two-handed war axe which it was swinging at the inner wall of the stairs. It is a commonly held assumption that ghosts are insubstantial and harmless beings, mere apparitions who cannot harm the living. The ghost coming up the stairs did not subscribe to this belief and was managing to whack great chunks of stone out of the castle. It was slowly making its way up the stairs.

Brave Sir Oscar held his breath and hoped it wouldn’t look up.

It looked up.

The ghost’s eyes glowed dark purple as it spotted Brave Sir Oscar.

It snarled.

It began to run.

And so did Brave Sir Oscar.

Our dapper hero had a problem. There was only one staircase down from the top of the tower yes, that’s right, the staircase with the angry ghost on it, that’s the angry ghost with the very large axe, for those of you who have not been paying attention.

There was nowhere to hide on the battlements: it was just a walled path round the outside of the Old Haunted Tower.

There was no door into the tower, either. This was actually not such a bad thing as the inside of the tower was scarier than the battlements. No-one had lived there for centuries. The only person who went there was the Court Jester, who was viewed with terrified suspicion by most people in the castle. It was rumoured he would while away the nights jumping from ruined floor to ruined floor and girder to girder, cackling in the dark. He had a very odd sense of humour – but nobody had ever had the courage to tell him that. They just laughed nervously at his capering and hoped he’d go away to “entertain” someone else.

Brave Sir Oscar paused for breath on the opposite side of the tower from the stairs. He had to think quickly. His only hope was to second guess which way round the tower the ghost was going to come, then dash round the other way, run down the stairs and then pop into the banqueting hall to join the party.

Now, which way would the ghost come? It would probably chase him. Brave Sir Oscar started to go round the other way. But wait! Supposing that was what the ghost was expecting? Perhaps it had
worked out that was what he was going to do and was even now creeping towards him in the opposite direction from the way he had come. In that case, he should go back the way he came.

Brave Sir Oscar started to tiptoe back the way he had just come from. Back to where the ghost had been.

The wind got stronger and began to howl as the thought occurred to the knight that maybe the ghost had worked out that this was what he was going to do.

“Aha. Maybe he thinks that I think that he thinks that I think that he’ll be lying in wait for me because I think he won’t be so stupid as to just follow me. I think. Simple really.”

Just then, something insubstantial settled on Brave Sir Oscar’s shoulder. He jumped three feet in the air and turned round to see…

…a snowflake.

He was now so worried but still Brave that he could not remember which way was which. He decided to be extra brave and walked confidently in the direction he was facing.

It was the right decision. The ghost had not come that way.

The ghost had not come that way because it couldn’t be bothered playing silly “he thinks I think” games and was waiting calmly at the top of the stairs. It smiled at Brave Sir Oscar as it saw him approach. It was not a nice smile. It was the kind of smile that would be unsettling even on the face of someone you knew to be very gentle on a bright sunny day when you’ve got all your friends beside you. And it was definitely not the kind of smile you would like to see when you’re completely on your own, 200 feet up a haunted tower, at midnight in the middle of a blizzard.

The ghost crooked its finger and made a “come hither” gesture at More Than A Bit Concerned Sir Oscar. It then looked lovingly at its big, cruel, black, sharp axe.

It looked up again at Brave Sir Oscar. But our hero was gone.
He was on the opposite side of the tower again, having broken the Seven Hills’ land speed record.

Brave Sir Oscar slumped to the ground. He didn’t like being scared. He couldn’t be bothered with it. It made him annoyed. He made a decision. He stood up. He shouted “I’m not afraid of you, you big purple pansy, come and get me, you ugly lout.”

He could hear the clanking noise of the ghost rushing round the tower. His plan had been to work out which direction the ghost was running, and go the other way but the wind and snow made it impossible to tell.

The ghost was getting nearer.

“Oh bother,” said Brave Sir Oscar. “I’ve had enough of this.”

And he stepped through the wall into the tower.