Dreamwander

by Kildare

  The poverty of the house, of all the houses, was a shock to his expectations. All were round and built of stone with sod or thatched roofs. Without the modern conveniences of electricity, the people were greatly limited in their choice of furnishings. There were no televisions, stoves, refrigerators, or any of the other customary items found in a modern house. To imagine life without one of these comforts was difficult, without any of them proved impossible. He had been born before their farmstead had electricity, and as a child had lived without it, but those years lay so near the edge of his memories that they were little more than shadows of the original experiences.

  He spied a leather coin purse—with strings to close the top—laying on the ground beneath the bed and he walked over and picked it up. The leather felt quite durable and he slipped it into his shirt pocket. It might come in useful later.

  His appetite sated and his thirst quenched, he saw no reason to tarry longer in the village. He had hoped to also find more weapons, but had discovered nothing more dangerous than the knife he had filched. He had already tossed aside the toy sword. A bow would have come in quite handy and might provide enough incentive to keep a threat at bay. But he had stayed long enough and would have to abandon his search. Doubt had been growing in his mind since he had passed through the open gates. Was he being too cavalier in his lingering? Should he also be fleeing?

  He turned aside at the city gates, climbed onto the ramparts to gaze out over the countryside, and searched for any signs of danger. He saw nothing to cause alarm and walked through the gates without fear.

  He hadn’t walked far when he spied a lone horse grazing in a pasture. He found a bridle at the nearest farm, and approached the horse with a handful of grass. The gelding allowed him to walk right up. He slipped the bridle on without a struggle, jumped up on his back, and set off at a quick trot down the road. The road crested a high hill dominating the landscape for many miles. No sooner had he gained the crown than he realized why the country’s inhabitants had so rapidly deserted.

  The smoke he had first spotted lay miles behind. Dark columns too numerous to count dotted the rolling hills to the west, and to the east the entire horizon was hidden by the slate-gray smear of smoke. He knew instantly why the pattern of fires in the two directions was so different. The hills to the west had no fields and only houses and farmsteads were being burned. In the flatter east, the crops were being torched as well. What caused him to jerk the horse to a stop, though, was what was ahead.

  The road dropped down into a deep, wide valley, clad in green woodlands and open meadows browning on account of the lateness of the season. A smoky ribbon wound its way through the center and where a bridge spanned the river stood a village, the ruins of which now smoldered a hazy orange in the sun’s sinking light. The fields were strewn with naked bodies. Even from this height, he could see the ravens and crows feasting.

  He regarded the scene in quiet horror, considering whether to descend into the valley or find another path. The look of the river finally pushed him to proceed cautiously forward. Though narrow, the river looked deep enough that the horse would have to swim, if he could even get the young gelding to enter the water. Some horses couldn’t be forced to cross water, the young being particularly leery.

  The road plunged down into a wooded slope and he was no longer able to see the fields soaked red with butchery. A raucous chorus of birds distracted his mind from what lay below. He closed his eyes and for a moment he was back in Minnesota, sitting on the deck of their house overlooking the lake, birds singing cheerfuly in the trees. They had bought the house as a summer retreat. Most summer weekends, he would pack up the family and depart Fargo for the hour drive across the border into Minnesota. It was a cramped house, barely big enough for the six of them, but it was a little slice of paradise. A place to unwind and escape. When he wasn’t tinkering around with repairs, or out on the lake canoeing or fishing, he was usually sitting on the deck, drinking lemonade, and reading. He always had a reading list with entries added faster than he could subtract.

  The woods had taken some adjusting to. At first, the confined spaces felt claustrophobic. He was so used to horizons without boundary that any duration longer than a couple of days sparked a desire to break free and seek open space. But after a few years, the trees offered their own comfort. If he was too long on the plains, he desired the cramped embrace of a forest. Too long in the woods, and he desired endless sky. Strange how restless the heart could be.

  The ground leveled, the trees parted, and he became aware once again of his surroundings. This time the horse needed no encouragement to stop. Cillian gazed in horror and revulsion upon the killing field. Men, women, children, and horses had all been struck down. The people had been stripped of their clothing and left to rot. Smashed and burnt carts and wagons were strewn across the field. He buried his nose into the crook of his elbow against the nauseating stench of death.

  The scene suggested the trolls had descended upon the village without warning, overtaken its meager defenses, and pursued the frightened townsfolk as they fled. He wondered if any had managed to escape, either by fleeing, hiding in the woods, or swimming the river. A vision formed of the attack, the screams of terror among the panicked people, blood-thirsty shouts of joy among the trolls as they slaughtered all they encountered, the kindled fires in the village quickly turning into a raging inferno, black smoke pouring into the sky.

  The croak of a raven shattered the mental video. It sat perched atop the head of a redheaded child lying face down in the grass. A slash across the torso marked the killing blow. The raven hopped onto the child’s back. Cillian averted his eyes. Seeing the bodies of men and women was disturbing enough, but a child was more than he could bear. Such brutality was beyond comprehension. Had none been spared? Had they not even taken slaves? But perhaps death was better than bondage.

  The birds growing fat off the dead numbered in the hundreds, croaking and cawing as they desecrated the bodies. He felt like he was being taunted. He sought escape and entered the village to gain the bridge. More bodies lay in the street, many partially or entirely burned. The ashen heaps and burned timbers that had once held up a wall or ceiling smoldered, thin trails of gray smoke rising all around, pillars for the blue sky. He dared a breath of fresh air. Ashy smoke replaced the stench of rot. Not a single structure had been left untouched. All put to the torch. How many people had been burned alive within their own homes? A thought too shocking to rest upon. He had seen enough. He wanted out of this nightmare.

  An attempt had been made to destroy the wooden bridge, but the fire had burnt out, leaving most of the span intact. Cillian dismounted and checked the strength of the partially burned timbers. It held his weight. He returned for the horse and led him over the bridge. The river was deeper and swifter than he had thought from atop the hill, the waters gurgling softly as they slipped by below. The road disappeared around a bend into the creeping shadows of the woods. He mounted and followed the road, the village soon veiled behind a screen of green. With each step away, his anxiety receded, though not his caution. The perpetrators of the atrocity could be anywhere. Miles away or lying in ambush along the road. The words of Uillin echoed in his head. No roads are safe in this country.

  They hadn’t gone far when the horse stopped, ears perked, and scanned the woods for a noise Cillian hadn’t heard. Deeper in the forest, birds sang tunes slow and somber, almost dirge-like. They gave him no comfort. Not the bubbly songs he was used to hearing in the woods of Minnesota. Sounded rather melancholic. Could birds be depressed? They started forward again. As the sunlight above the treetops faded, the woods darkened and the trees crept closer together, giving them a gnarled, menacing look. His heartbeat quickened and his eyes darted, searching for phantoms lurking in the shadows.

  The sight of the village had him out of sorts, his mind playing tricks. He turned his thoughts back to his summer retreats into the woods of Minnesota—the long walks he used to take with Evelyn and the kids
, exploring the woods and identifying its citizens. Memories from ages ago when everything was much different.

  The forest floor rose and fell in little folds like a carpet pushed inward at the ends. Cillian stopped to survey his surroundings on the height of one such fold. He saw no end to the trees or anything to indicate an opening. Though he was sure he headed in the same direction as at least some of the birds he could hear, their songs never grew louder and always seemed to be rising from far deeper in the woods, as if they retreated as he advanced. It gave him goosebumps. No matter how much he pretended, this wasn’t Minnesota.

  VI

  -------

  15

  The creepy sense he was being watched arose. He scanned the woods in all directions and saw nothing. If someone was spying on him, they could be almost anywhere. He removed his cowboy hat and stuffed it into the sack with the food. Might be better if he wasn’t dressed so strangely.

  The feeling grew stronger. He thought he caught a flash of movement slip behind a tree. He halted the horse, hoping he might catch someone peek out from behind the tree. Movement at his periphery jerked his gaze away. Twice more a trace of black flickered at the edge of his vision. Four possible sightings of something and each from a different direction. Something watched him. Something had surrounded him. He quickened the horse’s pace, alert for any movement, careful to avoid passing too near any trees in fear of an ambush. Danger hid everywhere.

  A bird called, only it was no bird. Someone mimicked as a signal. Cillian turned toward a second whistle from behind. On a nearby ridge sat a man in a black cloak atop a tall, buckskin horse. A long sword hung from his hip. He repeated the call with a slight variation. The trample of hooves sounded all around. A dozen men on horseback appeared, linked in a wide net quickly closing, arrows drawn, with Cillian the bullseye. He reached for his sword and stopped. No matter how sharp, it was useless against arrows unless he could deflect a dozen at a time. Better to keep it hidden.

  The man on the buckskin horse stopped at ten paces and lifted his right hand, clenched in a fist. The others also stopped, their arrows nocked but no longer drawn back. The man pushed the cloak’s hood back. A band of brown leather encircled his head and held back long, greasy black hair. A moustache drooped around thin lips. The man acted like their leader.

  “Who are you and what’s your purpose in this forest?” he asked in Gaelic.

  “My name is of no importance. I’m just passing through on my way to the capitol.”

  “Siderea is under siege. The traitor Scorpio has murdered the Imperator and now General Aduro’s forces have encircled the city. Perhaps you should reconsider your destination. Those Southerners are little better than animals.” The man’s gaze fell upon the scabbard. “I wonder, is your sword as impressive as its sheath?”

  “It’s a family heirloom,” Cillian deflected. “An ostentatious decoration for a simple sword.”

  “Of course it is. So I’m sure you’d have no protest if we look at your simple sword ourselves.”

  The man dismounted and approached. “You seem like an intelligent man, so there’s no point in wasting my breath reminding you of the numerous arrows pointed in your direction.”

  He clasped the hilt of the sword and slowly withdrew it. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. Gasps of shock from the others.

  “A family heirloom, you say. I should like to meet your family.” The man held the sword straight out, admiring its sheen and light weight. “Now what would a man dressed in such strange attire be doing with this sword? You’ll understand if my suspicions have now been raised.”

  The man waved Cillian down from the horse. Seeing the ring of arrows targeted at him, he dismounted, unbuckled the sword’s belt, and handed it to the man.

  “Do you intend to rob me, then?”

  The man grinned. “Do you hear that men? He thinks us bandits.”

  The others laughed at his comment.

  “You aren’t bandits?”

  “No, we are, but I have no intention of stealing your sword. Though I fear I can’t allow you to pass through these woods. As I said, you’ve roused my suspicions, and since we’re but simple thieves, your fate must be decided by wiser council. Only one question remains. Do you wish to struggle when we bind and blindfold you, or do you wish to be taken peacefully? You have my word we mean you no harm, though if you struggle I can’t guarantee your final condition. Goods can sometimes be damaged in transport.” A slight smile paired his final words.

  “I’ll take you to be a man of your honor,” Cillian said. He handed one of the men his cowboy hat. “Careful with that. There will be hell to pay if it’s damaged.”

  Two men grabbed his wrists and bound them as a third slipped darkness over his head. He was lifted and set back upon what he guessed was the same horse he had ridden. The men wasted no time. Cillian was barely upright on the horse again and they were moving. For a while he tried to keep track of their heading, but the ground often rose or fell and the course was so meandering he soon lost all sense of direction.

  With his other senses restrained, he listened to the birds piping their last songs of the day. Sixteen different varieties, yet none familiar. All sounded like bird’s songs he knew, yet slightly different. The ignorant would have recognized no difference in the songs, but he picked up on the subtle variations. The birds of this planet seemed to be similar, but different from the birds of Earth.

  They rode on for what seemed like a half hour and then as hastily as they had departed they stopped. They had reached their destination.

  The hood was removed from Cillian’s head, but his wrists were left bound. The other men departed in all directions, leaving only the dark-haired one who had appeared to be their leader. They stood in the midst of a camp that even in the fading light he could tell was extensive. A scattering of fires flickered. Men milled about, gathering firewood, setting up parts of deadwood to use as tables, polishing weapons, leading horses this way and that, and hauling food to the fires to cook. Most gave him only a cursory look before returning to their tasks. How many prisoners did these men see led into their camp that they acted with such indifference?

  The men were a motley crew, some wearing plaid-patterned trousers, and other kilts. Some wore tunics and some were shirtless. Some had long hair and others were shaved smooth. He noticed two different ethnic groups. The majority were light-skinned and fair-haired, with pale eyes. The rest had darker skin, black hair, and brown eyes. Most were heavily tattooed. All spoke Gaelic. For all the variety of clothing, none were dressed poorly. Though worn from use, the men were far better dressed than the peasants Cillian had assisted on the road. Their armor, shields, and weapons were also finely crafted, inlaid with silver and gold, and covered in intricate markings.

  A stocky fellow roasted two boars on a spit. Cillian leaned over to the dark-haired man. “I assume we’re waiting for someone, or should I just go over and help myself to some of that pork?”

  “He’ll be here shortly.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  The dark man cocked an eyebrow over a sideways glance, but said nothing.

  Everyone was busy carrying out some task. Only Cillian and the dark-haired man were standing around. He noticed too that everything in the camp could easily be picked up and carried off in a matter of minutes. He doubted the camp had even existed that morning. He saw no tents or even tarps to protect them in the event of rain. Where did they sleep? He half expected to see habitations hidden in the canopy above, but the trees were empty. Did they sleep on the ground? Simple men with extravagant possessions. Something was off about the whole feel of this place. He suspected they weren’t just thieves.

  “Other than your weapons, I don’t see much in the way of fancy possessions,” Cillian remarked. “You must be terrible bandits.”

  The man snorted, but said nothing.

  “This is the man you found upon the road, Fáelán?” asked a voice from behind Cillian.

  “Yes, Reb.
And he’s an oddity.”

  A half dozen men approached. At their lead strode a tall man with an olive complexion. He was thin, but muscular, short black hair scattered gray with a shocking patch of pure white above his left eye. He wore trousers and black leather armor inlaid with opposing silver wolves’ heads over a green tunic.

  “What’s his name?” the man named Reb asked.

  “He won’t say.”

  Reb’s eyes met Cillian’s. “A man with something to hide. He’s in the right company.”

  The others laughed.

  Reb smirked, amused with his own joke. He winked at Cillian. “And what of the sword?”

  Fáelán handed the scabbard to Reb, who carefully examined the intricate carvings in the leather. His eyes had narrowed when he looked back up at Cillian. He slid the sword free with great care, handed the sheath to Fáelán, and held his hands out in front of him with the sword balanced on his fingers. With just the tips of his index fingers he raised and lowered the steel. Only in the rise of his eyebrows did Reb display any emotion: He was surprised by its lightness. In the next moment the sword was in his left hand and he slashed at the air and whirred about.

  The sudden burst of speed so thoroughly startled Cillian that he took a step back. He wasn’t the only one.

  “Wonders and mysteries, indeed,” Reb said as he slipped the sword back into its sheath. “From the markings of the scabbard and the quality of the steel, it’s clear this sword was crafted by dwarfs. But how did you come to possess it? The entire dwarf nation would hunt you to the ends of Símhin if they knew you possessed such a treasure. I suspect it’s a new arrival in the empire. Such a weapon doesn’t go about unseen for long.” The man once again eyed Cillian from head to foot, though much slower for his second take. “So how did you come to possess it?”

  Cillian had been considering his reply since the moment they had captured him and he still lacked an answer that was both believable and would grant his freedom. Worse, he had no idea who these men were. Bandits, yes, but were they loyal to the Imperator? Rebels? Indifferent parties?