Dreamlands (22 page)

Ajer
launched a terrific strike at the priest’s chest, but his cloak billowed out behind
as if the weapon had passed through empty air.  Swinging the staff club-like against
the cowled head had no more effect than beating a sack of gravel.  At last Ajer
spun the bō in a circle, catching and turning the blade of the sword, just
now returning to the fight, in a downward arc.  When its tip met the ground, the
scimitar lodged in a crevice of the arcane design, and was held fast.

The
cloaked fiend was wrestling to free his sword when I received a glancing knock
on the head from behind.  Scrambling around on hands and knees, I saw the Wilted
who had clubbed me already down with a thrown dagger, Erik’s, in his back.  The
golems should have overwhelmed me, but had instead halted in place to stare
straight up.  The Wilted had likewise stopped their attack, for the first time
acting in unison, and dropped their weapons to turn their faces to the clouds. 
What was reflected in those dozens of dead eyes shone like the scattered chips
of a broken mirror, and I resisted the unbidden instinct, like a finger under
my chin, to look skyward.

The
Peregrine's crew wasted no time pondering their good luck, but reaped their
stunned enemies in a bloody harvest.  Of the three sailors who did look upon
the cultists’ god, two fell dead on the spot.  The third, an Oriab Islander
named Stouma, lowered a face transformed to a rictus.  Mouth agape and chin wet
with saliva, he began to run hither and yon, gibbering like a madman and lashing
out with his truncheon at friend and enemy alike until Erik and Gavrel were
forced to bring him down.

I pushed
myself to my feet and turned back to Ajer.  My friend stood calm and triumphant
at the edge of the circle of gold, one foot atop the stolen relic.  The high
priest had abandoned his scimitar, and was walking towards him.  His hands were
raised in a pleading gesture, but his voice no longer contested the lashing
wind, and whatever he said was lost as Ajer raised his staff overhead. 
Grinning white-toothed, he brought the iron-shod butt of the bō down and
crushed the skull to dust.

When
the staff struck, I caught a glimpse of nothingness where the skull had been,
rays like a black sun rising, before every image was negated.  I no longer
heard the storm wind or the dying Wilted, nor even my own laboured breath. 
What followed the relic's destruction absorbed every vibration, so that even in
the perfect absence of sound, where one expects to hear the beat of one's own heart,
there was nothing.

When
the day’s light returned it did so in stages, reluctantly, as if fearing to be
driven out again, and left everything limned in a fungal green afterglow.  Small
sounds too began to wash back over me like a surf.  The funnel of dark clouds
overhead was dissipating, strips of rag torn away by the winds off the north
coast.  Sailor and Wilted alike stood dumbfounded, the latter now looking very fragile,
as if their flesh were a shell about to collapse.  The slaves of the Men of
Leng began warily to retreat to the woods.  No one pursued them. 

The
golems had in their master’s defeat disintegrated, leaving here and there
shapes horrifically reminiscent of men.

The
soothsayer’s form was laying only a few strides from where I had stood against
the high priest’s horrors.  Having tumbled to the ground after her final
working, the ill-used Huspeth would not rise again.

I
stumbled dazedly over the clay towards the golden circle, though already I
could see what I would find:  the high priest and Ajer Akiti were gone.

* * *

The
Peregrine’s arrival in Zij was anticlimactic.  Shortly after we had embarked on
the search for Isobel, the yellow-eyed merchants had withdrawn, and with them the
steady supply of wilt.  Voxhaus had been killed in the ensuing riots and
several ships had been burned to the water.  Other sporadic violence followed while
the hundreds of Wilted came to terms with the shortage.  Some of them left town
in search of more wilt, many died through violence or lack of their drug, and the
hardiest of them simply recovered.

There
was no hero’s welcome for us, but each crewman’s share of raw gold must surely
have assuaged that disappointment.

Fortunately
for them, the two squatters who had taken up residence in the Iron Street
apartment had left immediately at Jome’s request, and in Isobel’s care it had
again taken on the semblance of a home.

The
night of my return, Isobel and I put down our grief for Solomon, and friends
dead or lost, and embraced in the one perfect solace of humankind.  From that
reality, sweeter than any dream, I fell into a slumber as pure and bottomless
as I had ever known.

* * *

A
violent sneeze brought me back to a world cold and silent.  Brushing at the layer
of dust settled in my eyes and hair, I looked about in confusion.  After
several seconds, I realized that grey place as the bedroom of Ms. Granville’s
safe house.  Arkham again.  The understanding that I had been separated from my
home, from Isobel, was as painful and undeniable as a severed limb.

Pushing
away a host of unpleasant sensations –throbbing headache, ferocious hunger, and
a tongue like a bus station seat cushion– I clung to the image of Isobel.  I
lay back, pulling up the covers, and cursed the single line of daylight at the
edge of the blinds.  Isobel.  I tossed back and forth as her beauty faded, as
must all our experiences, growing ever dimmer and duller in imperfect memory. 
It was useless.

Against
the protest of my own skull, and stiff and aching muscles, I sat up in my borrowed
pajamas.

“Bollocks.”

Acknowledgements

I
would like to thank these brave volunteers who agreed to read and provide
feedback on the first rough draft of Dreamlands: Emily Norton, Ted Petch, Vince
D. Weller, and especially Ali Walsh, who acted as my proofreader and editor.  Without
their efforts, Dreamlands would have been a much lesser work.

About the Author

Scott
Jäeger works as a software consultant, and occasionally contributes 3D models,
character animation, and writing to computer game projects.  He lives in the
United States.