Dreamwalker (2 page)

T
he scent is bitter and metallic. Ander swallows in attempt to lose the unpleasant taste on his tongue. Outside the sun is only beginning to set, but the cavern is dark already. He hears the drip of moisture as it descends from the vaulted ceiling far above. A pale blue light emits from the runic symbols drawn on the stone floor, giving everything around them a faint aura. Ander stares helplessly from a far wall, unable to stand from the wounds he has sustained.

Morning. Ander hesitated to open his eyes, trying to hold onto the fragments of the visions in his mind. He rolled out of bed and moved automatically to the desk across the room. A half empty metal cup fell to the floor with a ringing crash that resounded across the sparsely furnished room. The rest of the sleeping draught that Ander had drank the night before creeped across the bare floor as it seeped from the cup that had been knocked askew. Ander did not even look at it. Papers covered the desk – a small stack of off-white blank sheets to the left and a carefully arranged pile of lists and drawings to the right. He sat and pulled one of the blank pieces to the center.             

Without hesitation he took a pen and began to write. He wrote quickly and without pause, straining to record every detail of the dream he could recall. The worn nib of the pen only left the page to be dipped in ink that dripped carelessly across the page as the writing resumed, words strewn together and barely legible. Under the words he drew a careful diagram of the cave, down to each stone and puddle he could remember. Ander placed two fingers against his right temple and pressed there, his knuckles white from the pressure as though he were trying to push out just one more memory, one more detail he might have forgotten. Another page was for the lists – lists of runes and places and names. He wrote the demon’s name until there was no room on the page. He placed the fresh writings, the paper still wet with ink, over the others, then dressed and went downstairs. A slice of old bread and a cup of water were his breakfast. He did not notice the taste – he ate because it was necessary. An empty stomach would lead to a sleepless night, and he needed to dream.

Autumn was nearing its end. Ander stepped out of his cabin and felt the crunch of frost as it gave way to his boot. The sharp chill to the air caught his breath at first. His nostrils flared as he looked around at the new day. He would need to start gathering firewood before winter set in, he supposed. He walked out to the crest of the hillside on which his cabin sat and looked at the valley and the village below. Families were emerging from their snug homes, making preparations to start their day. Ander allowed himself a moment to wonder what he might have done if things were different. His wife would be coming up the hill with buckets of water from the stream, her cheeks red from the cold. Her mouth would be covered by a woolen scarf dyed green like summer leaves, but she would be smiling at him with her eyes.

Ander’s expression melted into a frown. What color were her eyes?

He knew Draven was coming even before he heard the gentle clop of the horses’ hooves as a group of men approached the cabin. They were the village militia, founded years ago by Draven Gree. He had been a soldier in the north, and Ander had guessed at his reasons for leaving. He knew the old stories – soldiers subjected to unknown trials that enhanced their bodies and minds, turning them into monsters. The scars that lined his face and hands spoke of many ugly battles, and Ander knew the look in his eyes told of long nights and heavy memories, much like his own. He supposed that was why Draven trusted him with whatever sort of news required a five-man escort.

He approached the road and raised a hand in greeting. “Gentlemen, good morning.” He nodded to the captain as he dismounted. Draven returned the gesture.

“Ander, morning. All is well I hope?”

“Well as can be.” He sniffed and looked toward the craggy mountains across the valley. “Bit cold for a morning ride.”

Draven released a short sigh and rubbed at the stubble under his chin with the back of his hand. “It is at that. I’m sure you know this isn’t a social visit. I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He took a breath and looked side to side before he leaned in toward Ander. “Something a shaman like yourself might be able to help us with. We’ve been having troubles.”

Ander raised a brow. “Troubles.”

“Aye.” Draven scratched the back of his head and shifted his stance. “Thought it was wolves at first, or a bear claiming new territory. You know we never have troubles past that around here. But lately we’ve had reports of dead livestock in the outlying farms, since about, oh, three nights ago.”

Ander could see Draven’s embarrassment but wasn’t sure why a few dead cows required his input. Something else troubled the soldier. “Go on.”

The soldier sighed again and got closer, his tone low and reluctant. “When I say dead... I saw the poor beasts. Oxen, goats, didn’t matter- each was ripped to pieces. Nothing left to tell one from the other.” He swallowed and shook his head. “This isn’t a bear or some predator from the woods. It doesn’t leave a
trace
, ‘least nothing my trackers can find. In truth - I don’t know what this is.”

Ander frowned. Something about the description troubled him, and he knew Draven had too much respect for the mystic to ask anything of him without need. “Take me to one of the slaughter sites. I’ll see what I can find.”

A
nder rode ahead of the others as they arrived at a clearing in the woods and dismounted. He could already smell the blood and decay thick in the air. Ahead in the clearing were several corpses of cattle, all of them mutilated beyond recognition. Flies droned all around. The militiamen stayed back without having to be told, covering their noses and mouths, muttering superstitions to one another and making the sacred signs with their hands to ward against evil.

Ander took a moment to feel his surroundings as Draven fell into place behind him.

“Wasn’t humans. The war—“

“Had nothing to do with this, I think. Rest easy, captain.” Ander turned and rested a hand on the other man’s shoulder for a moment of assurance, seeing the subtle relief in the soldier’s eyes.

Closing his eyes, Ander let his body relax. The sensation he felt as he allowed his spirit to walk past his flesh was like drifting down an easy river. In moments he was between worlds. He could see the others, reduced to shapes of white light, oblivious to the idea that he might be anywhere else than in the body that stood in front of them.

Everything was bright, as though he had just stepped into the midday sun from a darkened room. Objects from the living world seemed sharper here, and somehow detached. There was almost complete silence. Many who tried to come to this place were quickly driven mad by the silence, but not Ander. He felt stronger here. He always had. This was the Otherworld. He took a long breath in through his nose, though breathing was not necessary here, and let himself drift again, this time into the past.

Shapes of light drifted lazily in front of him, repeating the movements of their living counterparts. Time and place had no meaning here, though it linked to the physical world like two sides of a river’s surface. The currents came as easily to him as a well-worn forest road. Ander watched the cattle and their keeper as they had been several days before. He watched the sun pass overhead and night fall on the clearing, but everything remained as bright and sharp as ever.

Then he saw the shadow. Out of the brightness of the trees he saw a formless mass, darker than anything found in the waking world, as though it rejected all of the light that surrounded it. Ander watched as it slithered from the trees like a dark liquid. The shape of the keeper seemed to sense the danger and ran. Smart, Ander thought. The cattle panicked and scattered, but the darkness was too quick. Ander watched as each massive animal was taken down as though they were nothing. The darkness seemed to grow and then withdrew into the forest. There was only ever silence.

Ander opened his eyes and took in a deep gasping breath. He bent forward and retched, sick from the feat and from what he had seen. Draven came to his side, a look of concern on his face.

Ander coughed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You’re right. There was a demon here.”

Draven swore under his breath. “What can we do, Ander? My family—“

“Keep them indoors, and that goes for everyone. We’ll have to find the thing, but tonight I must rest.”

Before he could turn to go, Ander felt a tug on his shoulder as Draven pulled him aside, probably far less gently than intended. Normally the man’s expression was careful, unhurried. His was the face of a man who kept his secrets well. But now it was drawn and strained, the whites of his eyes flickering like the barely concealed panic of an animal that knows it is trapped. Ander saw, not for the first time in his life, true fear in Draven, a man more courageous and steadfast than anyone he had ever known.

“A demon. Here.”

“That is what I said.”

“But why? Delving Vale is—and demons aren’t—“

Ander shrugged. “They’re rare, yes. I’ve only seen a few in my life, and always through vessels. Men summon them for the war, but realize quickly that they cannot be controlled. Likely this one is rogue, and here at random.” He paused and, on seeing the other man’s expression unchanged, added, “Fear not, we’ll find it.”

Draven turned so that his back was to his men and dragged a hand over his face. “I haven’t seen a demon since—since the war.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Ander wouldn’t ask him to. Instead he clapped Draven on the shoulder in an effort to encourage him, but the gesture felt hollow.

T
here was a common adage that the gods granted sunrises to the world to remind its inhabitants of new beginnings, but Josue had always liked sunsets better. Everything always seemed to fall into place as the sun began its slow descent behind the mountains, peeking over with its last remaining rays of light as though to check on the world once more before dawn. Animals returned to their paddocks to escape the chill and the darkness together, and families settled in for their evening meals and to recap the day. By the time the stars were out everything was where it should be, ready and waiting for the next new day.

Josue enjoyed the colors as well. His simple cabin that looked over Delving Vale gave him a perfect view of the tiny village and the surrounding valley. Now that autumn had set in the forest was a brilliant mixture of red and gold that glowed like fire during those last few minutes of light. The goddess Lyetia whom he served favored the coolness of the forest, rich greens and gentle blues, but Josue knew that experiencing the fires could make one appreciate the rains all the more.

He stood at the threshold of his little house, a cup of tea in hand, and whistled softly. The old dog who had been asleep by the herb garden rose and stretched, then ambled lazily into the house for his next nap. Josue patted his head as he passed, musing for a moment that he had forgotten the old dog’s name, but that it didn’t matter anyway. He stoked the little stove that served for both cooking and warmth in the one-room cabin, then settled into his favorite chair as the night crept in around them, held at bay by the warmth and light of the flames. Praise to Lyetia, another day come to a close, he thought. The sigil of the goddess he had served all his life hung with a comforting weight around his neck.

He must have nodded off, the gentle drone of the bordering forest sounds and the hum of the mountains as the wind passed through them guiding him to another night of rest. But when he woke there was only silence, such a silence that made him alert with instincts humans rarely invoked. Beside him the old dog was sitting up, his bristled fur forming a ridge down his spine. Josue bent down to give the mutt a reassuring pat, then pushed to his feet, listening to the silence. No birds, no insects. Even the wind had given pause.

Then he saw it, just past the edge of the light that seeped from his window. A black shape passed through the underbrush with silken movements, barely disturbing the ground, but the very sight of it turned his blood cold. His hand shot up to grip the sigil of his goddess, but he could barely recall the words to invoke her protection.