Dreamwander (In The Ruins of Eden Book 1)

by Kildare

  “Your fears, while justified, are unwarranted,” Rebel Sly said. “We’re not highwaymen. Most here served in the miltary. Now we serve no master. We too desire only safe passage.”

  The three relaxed their guard a little, though they weren’t foolish enough to cast aside all skepticism. Rebel Sly rode out toward them. The others followed.

  Rebel Sly stopped within ten paces of the three men. “I won’t presume to tell you which road you should take, or where you should go, but I’d implore you to avoid Arx Aequoris. No nightmare can prepare you for the ghastly horror that is that city’s present state. You’ll find only death there. Go elsewhere.”

  “Our city was attacked three weeks ago,” the fair-haired man said. “Of five hundred, we are all that survived, now less than a hundred. We understand too much the horror of this war.”

  “What can you tell us of the road east of here?”

  “You’re the first people we’ve seen in four days. Traffic shouldn’t be a concern. Where are you headed?”

  Rebel Sly lied. “We’re in search of a band of trolls spotted fleeing into these woods after the battle at Arx Aequoris. So far we haven’t found their trail. You’ve seen nothing?”

  “We’ve seen no trolls since the attack on our village. Do you think they’re near?” The leader was clearly alarmed by the mention of trolls, as was the rest of the caravan.

  Rebel Sly realized the terror his words had sown. He waved his hands to distill their fears. “No, no. They were flying like the wind and we a half day behind in our pursuit. They’ve likely crossed the Wind River Gorge by now. Or turned north.”

  “Quiet!” Kjartan barked.

  Everyone froze. At first the noise sounded like nothing more than the faint wail of wind. Odd. The leaves hung motionless. The wail grew louder and sounded more like the rumbling of a jet. Didn’t sound like wind.

  “Dragon!” Arinbjørn shouted. “It’s Red Ruin!”

  At the utterance, the caravan collapsed into chaos, people scurrying off in all directions, barreling over each other in their panic. Some fled on foot in such a hurry they abandoned all their possessions. Others mounted their horses and dashed away. Kjartan commanded the group to follow him away from the road. Behind them the screams of the terrified filled the woods. Cillian felt sorry for the poor bastards too scared to keep enough wits to remain silent. They would be the first to die.

  They hadn’t ridden far when one of the screams changed in pitch and volume. Just as quickly, it was cut short. The dragon had taken its first victim. The others screams stopped, too, the birds hushed, and the woods silenced, an eerie calm settling over all. Cillian became aware of how much noise the running horses made. He hoped it wasn’t too much.

  The land became rougher, rising and falling in folds that slowed the horses. The roar of the dragon faded to a distant rumble as it moved away. Another short, muffled scream rang out and then they heard no more from the others, now too distant. Birds broke out in song again. The riders burst free of the woods and were back onto the open plains. Several miles away an outcropping of boulders hedged the horizon like broken teeth. Craosán Abhainn na Gaoithe, the Wind River Gorge, lay just beyond, their best hope to find shelter.

  They heard the coming of the dragon long before they saw him. A puff of gray smoke appeared above the treetops, then another, and another, in a broken chain of burning trees tailing the dragon’s wake. Plumes of smoke drifted up in a wide arc. The hills between were too high to see what happened behind. For a moment, Cillian saw two objects appear that looked like the tips of wings, but he had to be mistaken. The dragon couldn’t be that gigantic. His wingspan would have to be as wide as a plane.

  Cillian heard a woman’s scream. He looked back to see a scattered group of people dashing out of the woods a couple miles away. Why was she screaming? Didn’t she understand the danger? She was practically inviting the dragon to attack them. Kjartan’s muffled swearing agreed with Cillian’s thoughts. They had nowhere to hide if the dragon spotted them. They were out in the open and miles from cover of any sort.

  “There’s a deep gorge past those stones,” Rebel Sly shouted. “Ride like the wind and we may reach them.”

  A roar burst forth from the woods high-and-low-pitched all at once, like the shrieking of an incoming mortar and the explosion it unleashed combined. Too late. The dragon had heard the woman’s scream. Red Ruin rose into the air and hung suspended in flight above the treetops. Even at this distance the flapping of his wings sounded like the pumping of giant bellows. A burst of flame consumed the trees below. More screams sounded in the woods. A full arc of woods around the dragon ignited and he disappeared behind the gray smoke spewing into the sky.

  The dragon burst through the smoke and bore down on the other group of riders with horrifying speed. A single blast of fire reduced most of them to smoking heaps of ash. One rider escaped, but only for a moment. Red Ruin swooped down and easily snatched up the horse and rider with his talons. Cillian couldn’t believe how monstrous the dragon was. Its talons wrapped easily around the horse. The dragon carried his prey high into the sky before releasing his grip. The man screamed all the way down. His fun over, and everyone else dead, the dragon cast his gaze about in search of his next victims. Cillian didn’t need to hear the shrieking roar to know they had been spotted. In less than a minute he would be upon them.

  As Red Ruin flew, he twisted his monstrous head to the left and right, torching everything in his path, and leaving a charred trail of fire and smoke in his wake. He could hurl fire well over a hundred feet. Cillian realized then he had been wrong earlier. The puffs of smoke hadn’t been rising from behind Red Ruin, but from the trees he had incinerated far out in front of him.

  Cillian swung his gaze back and forth between the boulders ahead and the dragon behind. They were too far away, and the dragon coming too fast. They wouldn’t make it. Not all of them. Not if they stayed together.

  “Split up! Split up!” Cillian screamed. “It’s our only hope.”

  Rebel Sly, Niamh, and Fáelán veered to the left, Kjartan, Egil, and Arinbjørn to the right. Only Cillian kept a straight path. He glanced back over his shoulder. Red Ruin barreled down on him alone, ignoring the others. Cillian’s plan was working, only he was now the sole prey. Great idea, dummy; you really thought this one through.

  When the dragon was nearly upon him and he realized he couldn’t reach the gorge, he withdrew Anbhás. It was useless against the dragon’s torch, but at least he could display one final act of defiance. He reined the horse to a halt, leapt off, and turned to face the dragon. He was no more than thirty yards from the lip of the gorge. So close, but too far.

  To his surprise the dragon swept over him, so low the sudden rush of wind knocked off his cowboy hat. He bent down, picked it up, brushed off the rim, and set it back atop his head, all while rattling off a list of curses at this final insult. He turned to follow the dragon’s flight and saw that Red Ruin had knocked down his horse. She lay on her side, struggling but unable to get back up.

  Red Ruin swung out in a great arc and returned, made one more pass, and braked his wings. Upon landing the ground shook and grass ignited. His wings swept far out in front of him—behind Cillian even—creating a strong blast of hot air with each flap. When he settled down onto his front feet he towered over Cillian. The dragon was gigantic, dwarfing a skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex he had seen in a museum long ago. His head alone was as long as a four-door pickup. The Imperator’s dragons that Cillian had thought so big now seemed like puny dwarfs.

  The dragon appeared to have no solid mass, but instead was pure fire molded into a shifting form. Tongues of flame seemed to rise from within his core, licking upward toward the outer edges. His skin—if it could be called that—resembled the fiery, churning surface of the sun, hotter and cooler fires boiling together. His wings were darker, closer to black, and burned with less intensity. Fiery horns ran all the way down his neck and back. The air around Red Ruin quivered from th
e rising heat. Where Cillian’s gaze traced the dragon’s edge, he noticed the scenery behind shimmered.

  Cillian felt like he stood beside a massive bonfire. In seconds, beads of sweat sprang up along his brow. With each exhale of breath, the dragon rumbled as loudly as a Jake break. Cillian froze in place, knowing he couldn’t flee fast enough to escape the reach of the dragon’s fire. His entire body shook, no better than a mouse cowering before a cat. The dragon studied him with eyes as big as Cillian’s head, the black slits of pupils encircled by shifting white fires.

  Cillian backed away from the wounded horse. She whinnied in terror as the dragon set a massive paw on her. The quick swipe of an index finger snapped the horse’s neck, ceasing its shrill whinnying. Cillian cringed at the crunching of bones. The dragon clutched the horse by a rear leg and lifted it into the air. A foot-long claw slashed at the saddle, and it fell to the ground. Two-foot-long teeth snapped shut and the horse was gone. Cillian felt a rage deep within ignite at this act of cruelty.

  “And what do we have here?” the dragon asked in a booming, baritone voice. He spoke in Gaelic. “One of the sons of Eve. Who has brought you into this world, I wonder?”

  Regaining his composure, Cillian held his sword out in front of him. “You killed my horse you son of a bitch. I’m not afraid of you.”

  Red Ruin laughed at his weak attempt at defense. “Of course you are.” He turned his head to the side and belched forth a blast of fire torching the grass a hundred feet away. The dragon’s color changed, the red-and-orange flames shifting to blue-and-white. It was like watching a chameleon shift colors. Within seconds, the fires had cooled again.

  Red Ruin brought his gaze back to Cillian. “Should I fear your little stick, Cillian Rysgaard?”

  Cillian refused to relent. Even if he was about to be converted to a heap of ash, he would at least remain defiant. Life or death, he wouldn’t beg for mercy.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You think I don’t know the name of the fool who freed Loki?”

  “This is no ordinary sword,” Cillian warned.

  Red Ruin sat back on his rear haunches and folded his wings against his side. His tail flicked around behind him a couple times before coiling up beside him. It ignited the grass everywhere it touched. “I know far more about Anbhás than you. Rathsvith, a mighty dwarf lord, forged that sword with the flame of the dragon Kur, and then treacherously slew him. How you came to possess the sword is the only mystery. I assume treachery was involved, as well. It usually is in such matters. You do seem like the thieving type.”

  Cillian ignored the barb. “Then you know this will slice right through you.”

  “And you know before you can get close enough, I’ll roast you alive. So we agree that we aren’t fools and that a safe distance will be maintained between us.”

  Cillian lowered the sword to his side. The dragon spoke the truth. He would never get close enough for a strike and the sword was worthless as a shield. He backed up, not from fear, but from the overwhelming heat emanating from the dragon. He was already drenched in sweat and wilting like a flower, going all wobbly in the knees. He stopped when a breath of cool breeze graced his skin.

  “What is it that you want with me, Red Ruin?” Cillian asked.

  “Why are you here, Earthling? You don’t belong.”

  “I was sent here.”

  “By who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Likely some mischief of Loki.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Chaos is his nature,” Red Ruin said. “Now that you’ve freed him, chaos will consume us all. You’re only the first sign. There’ll be more. A great storm is brewing. All order will collapse.”

  “Did Loki send you?”

  Red Ruin laughed, a low, rumbling sound like approaching thunder. “You know nothing of dragons if you think we can be ordered about like some common servant. A dragon does whatever a dragon feels like doing, the gods be damned. I didn’t come here for you, Cillian. I came for what is rightfully mine—the treasure you and your fellow travelers stole. It was promised to me by the Dread Queen. I want it back.”

  “And what did she get in return?”

  “I won’t attack her forces. At least for a while. The thing about dragons is that we’re pyromaniacs at heart. Our love of precious metals and jewels can be satiated for a time, but our love of destruction knows no bounds. We’d love nothing more than to incinerate the entire world. Unfortunately for our cause, we’re too few. That no longer matters. Ragnarök approaches. Death shadows us all. None are leaving this world alive.”

  “As you have pointed out, I’m not from this world,” Cillian said.

  “This world, your world, it doesn’t matter. None are safe. Hold out no hope. It’s far too late to change the future.”

  “You seem to think you know a great deal about the future.”

  “Dragons have the gift of prophecy. I’ve envisioned many things before they came to pass. I’ve even seen you.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “Nothing?” Red Ruin cocked his head to the side and appeared to smirk. If dragons could smirk. “I know a great deal about you. About what lies ahead for you. It’s a shame for your friends, though. If they knew, would they still follow you? I think not. You’ll leave a trail of ruin in your wake far more destructive than anything I could ever wreak. Men will curse your name, curse the day you were born. They’ll name you murderer, betrayer, destroyer, monster. Know that before the end, all those who accompany you on your journey will die because of you.”

  Red Ruin lowered a massive eye to the same height as Cillian’s own. A burst of light like the flare-up of a fire exploded around the pupil and Cillian felt himself unable to move, as if his limbs had become shackled by invisible chains. He tried to struggle and break free, to no avail. The eye held him transfixed. The pupil and iris vanished and in their place was only a dark pool that looked as if he stared into the depths of a well shaft. The darkness wavered and slowly an image materialized of a person facing away. The person turned around and Cillian saw his own face staring back at him.

  The sight was haunting. His face had the look of a broken man, an emptiness filling his eyes. All hope had been completely extinguished. What had occurred that had him so completely dejected? The image sank back into the darkness. A second image materialized of someone veiled in shadow, leaning against a tree. The light from a nearby campfire shifted, revealing Fáelán’s face. He was dead. Cillian saw each of their deaths in turn—Arinbjørn, Egil, Niamh, Rebel Sly, and Kjartan. Cillian knew then that the dragon had spoken the truth. They would all die, and he would be the cause.

  The fiery iris reignited, the spell was broken, and Cillian collapsed to the ground in a swoon. He pushed himself up against the dizziness dragging him down, mastered his shaking legs, and stared down Red Ruin.

  “You have spirit,” the dragon said. “That can’t be denied.”

  “Why not kill me?”

  “You’re no threat to me, and I have no intent to get involved in the games the gods play.”

  “But why spare me, yet kill all those others?”

  “Why not?” the dragon asked. With that response, he pushed himself into the air.

  Cillian watched him fly away, the shock of the experience numbing him so that even after the dragon had vanished over the woods, he still stared at the spot. When his daze snapped at last, he turned toward the gorge to search for the others, but saw no signs of their presence. Where had they all gone?

  VIII

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  22

  The boulders marking the land near the gorge weren’t natural, but had been transported to the area and erected. The tallest stones were over fifteen feet in height. Many had fallen down or leaned crookedly. Cillian couldn’t tell from their current state what they had once been used for. Nearby a stone bridge arced over the deep gorge. That would be the meeting point for the others. The last time he had se
en them, they had been running in opposite directions. To cross the gorge, they would need to come back. He didn’t have to wait long before they returned, emerging from the rolling hills along the gorge. He was relieved to see them all accounted for.

  “That was the most reckless thing I’ve ever seen!” Niamh shouted. “What would’ve happened if Red Ruin had killed you? Everything we’re doing would be useless.”

  “I was happy to see you, but now I’m not so sure,” Cillian joked.

  “First the Tuath Dé, and now Red Ruin,” Kjartan said. “You’re certainly a charmed one, whoever you are, Outlander.”

  “I saved all of your lives. You’re welcome for that. I was the only one the dragon wanted.”

  “What did he want with you?” Rebel Sly asked.

  “He wanted to know why I was on this planet. He said I didn’t belong here.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He said the treasure in the wagons was meant as a tribute for him from the Dread Queen. She was buying him off. He wants it returned.”

  Rebel Sly hung his head. “Then my men have been sent to their deaths. Better we’d never attacked Scorpio’s men. He’ll kill them all.”

  “Nothing else?” Kjartan asked.

  “No,” Cillian lied. He was getting quite sick of having to lie so often. He didn’t like it, and he wasn’t good at it, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t tell them the truth—that he was going to get all of them killed. He caught Kjartan’s eyes. Nothing needed to be said. Kjartan didn’t believe him.

  Fáelán caught a horse that had survived the attack, and led it back for Cillian to ride. “The other group won’t be needing her any more. A pity. The fools were too loud. I wonder if any of their party survived?”

  “Best not to think of such things,” Arinbjørn said.

  That night after they had eaten, Kjartan and Cillian took the first watch. Kjartan led Cillian to a dolmen overlooking the camp. It consisted of two stones holding up a flat slab of rock more than six feet off the ground. Cillian knew the site was likely an ancient tomb and that earth had once covered the sides, leaving only the flat capstone exposed. Such structures were scattered across Eurasia from Ireland in the west, to Korea in the east. They climbed up onto the slab, a perch allowing a view for miles across the rolling plains. The teeth of distant mountains poked above the horizon in the east, the scene little changed since the first time he had seen their snowy peaks. He guessed they were still seventy miles or more away. Several more days of riding lay before them.