Dreamers Do Lie

by Megan Cutler

  A week of traversing the uneven, unyielding rock left Arimand's once-comfortable leather boots battered and frayed. His blisters weren't worth counting. The camp women gave him ointment to dull the pain, but it didn't prevent new sores from forming. The icy winds, coupled with sleeping on the ground, left him drained. Working through the unrelenting heat generated a constant haze that clung to his brain.

  The clan's meager meals and water rations did little to stave off his constant hunger and thirst, not to mention the terrible sorrow that accompanied eating and drinking. Adding other food to the water seemed to dull its magical properties, but there was no way to erase its devastating effects. He had been so miserable his first night in camp, he failed to notice the sorrow that accompanied his meal.

  Now Hell had seeped beneath his skin. It sat in his joints and poisoned his muscles. A soldier grew used to certain hardships, but his body had never seemed so fragile. It didn't help that Eselt spent the entire week hovering over his shoulder. Arimand feared one small mistake, one misstep, or misspoken word and he'd be cast aside.

  So he noticed the distinct absence of the clan leader as he stripped the fraying canvas from his shared tent the next morning. He paused after lugging the packed bundle to the proper cart, but a quick glance revealed nothing that would have stolen Eselt's attention. Had he finally won the man's trust?

  Cautiously optimistic, Arimand joined the queue to receive the strip of meat that served as breakfast. He savored the salty jerky as he perched beside the rickety caravan, ready to help lift the unloaded crates and secure them in place.

  They were nearly finished packing by the time he spotted their leader. He almost didn't notice Eselt's scraggly mane as it cut through the crowd, too captivated by his companion. He hadn't seen those bright eyes and that fiery hair since his first night in Hell. Eselt cradled the woman's pale hand in his as he escorted her to the largest of the clan's wagons, in which the children usually rode.

  Arimand couldn't tear his gaze away until the woman disappeared behind the cart's cloth cover. She moved with a regal grace. Something about her posture and the serenity of her expression suggested she hadn't been in Hell for long. If she wasn't newly dead, she had certainly weathered Hell's rigors well. Then again, he had never seen her outside Eselt's tent. She didn't help cook, clean or pack. Who was she? Why did Eselt grant her such clemency?

  “Are those knots secure?” When Arimand failed to answer Kimuli's query, he received an elbow in his ribs. “You lost yer head?”

  “What? No. I mean, yes. The knots are secure. Need me for anything else?”

  Kimuli snorted but a hint of a grin split his rugged features. “Just get yer head out of the old world and back into the underworld. It'd be nice to catch something along the way.”

  Arimand stole another glance in the direction of the covered wagon before he took up his escort position. Without pack animals, it was up to the men to haul their makeshift carts from one camp to another. He'd been on dragging duty the past two days and was relieved to receive a lookout assignment instead.

  Throughout the march, Arimand found his eyes drawn back to the covered wagon. If he managed to stand at the proper angle, he could sometimes catch a glimpse of the fire-haired woman sitting in a circle of laughing children. But he didn't dare look for long; his attention was meant to be elsewhere. Not that there was much game to hunt.

  He bit his tongue and listened to the other hunters complain. He didn't dare add his voice to the chorus, for fear Eselt's absence was some clever test.

  “Where are we going anyway?” he asked during a lull in the conversation.

  Sulard sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow with one arm. “The locals call it Blalt.” Arimand wondered who had chosen the name. Everything in Hell sounded ugly. “It's a kind of port on the river Styx.”

  “So it's a town?”

  His companions laughed. “Closest thing the badlands has to one, I guess.” Sulard shrugged. “It runs all along the river in this ring. They call the west bank ports 'Blalt' and the east bank ports 'Schan.' So people know where you've come from.”

  “Of course,” Arimand murmured.

  “All yeh need to know is yeh can trade there,” Kimuli interrupted. The burly hunter tended to hover near Sulard. Arimand had observed them, on occasion, exchanging conversation via knowing glances when they thought no one was paying attention. “If something has made its way to Hell, yeh can buy it in a port market.”

  Arimand wondered how objects made their way to the damned realm. They encountered plenty of things a man couldn't carry or wear when he died but, before he could ask, Kimuli spotted a pair of tracks. The trail ran cold not far from the caravan, and Kimuli went back to complaining while Sulard tried, in vain, to soothe his temper.

  By the end of the march, Arimand was too weary to search for the strange woman. It took all his focus to complete his assigned tasks. And though he no longer needed to prove himself, Arimand volunteered to assist with the clean up after the evening meal. He had grown fond of the clan women's company.

  Dwenba's gripe had proved accurate; the damned men spent most of their evening around the campfire speculating about affairs in the mortal world. What they didn't know about the war, they tried to guess, a pastime Arimand had no desire to share. The women seemed more inclined to discuss their former lives and the circumstances which led to their damnation. Perhaps they were less embarrassed by their fate. Many admitted to stealing, a few to being unfaithful wives. Most came from difficult situations, spending the majority of their life on the street or trying to attract men who could give them more comfortable lives. And most were proud of their survival despite daunting odds, even if it ultimately tainted their souls.

  They were also more willing to answer his questions, and he had several to ask this evening. He waited until their usual banter subsided to speak.

  “Who's that young woman Eselt keeps hidden away?” He reached deep into the cleaning cauldron to retrieve the last of the dishes and tried to ignore the melancholy that sunk into his skin through his cuts. An eerie silence descended as he straightened. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Dwenba plucked a clean plate from his hand with a flick of her wrist. “Everyone asks sooner or later. I don't know why anyone's surprised.” Her sharp tone sent everyone scurrying back to work.

  “I've only seen her a few times,” Arimand replied as he transferred the rest of the dishes into waiting hands. “Given the way Eselt runs this clan, it seems odd.”

  Several women snickered. Others snorted.

  “I'd sure like to avoid all the chores.”

  “We just don't smile as pretty as she does.”

  “If only charm were all it took to be successful, I'd probably still be livin'!”

  “That's quite enough,” Dwenba's harsh growl silenced the tittering women. “Lady Kaylie doesn't deserve an ounce of that ill will, and every one of you knows it.”

  Arimand blinked. “Lady Kaylie? What happened to leaving our titles behind?”

  “There's an exception to every rule, isn't there?” Dwenba lightly squeezed his wrist. “I suppose Eselt wanted to set the lady apart. The damned are all equal when it comes to esteem, but the lady deserves some respect.”

  “But what makes her special?” Arimand insisted. Part of him already knew. He'd seen the light in her eyes. “Eselt doesn't seem the type to favor someone for arbitrary reasons.”

  Dwenba grinned. “Well, aren't you the wise one? We all have good reason to respect Lady Kaylie. She isn't tainted like the rest of us.”

  “Tainted?”

  Another round of giggles answered Arimand's question.

  “Damned, darling,” Dwenba clarified gently. “Kaylie's soul is pure.”

  Arimand's gaze swept the crowd. Most of the women avoided eye contact and several hung their heads until he turned away. The edges of his lips twitched upward as he turned back to Dwenba. “You're trying to make a fool of me, aren't you?”

  Dwe
nba shook her head, as solemn as ever. “I've never encountered a more serious topic. That girl belongs in Heaven, not stuck in this wretched land of torment.”

  “That's impossible. I'm no religious expert, but I'm pretty sure the old gods wouldn't let innocent souls slip through their fingers. If they did, there'd be dozens.”

  “If there were dozens, we'd call them barely damned.” Dwenba gave him a pointed look. “But there's only one, Arimand.”

  “How could you possibly know that? Hell is vast, and you can't move beyond this ring.”

  “I most certainly could. I just wouldn't be able to get back.”

  “Then how do you know Kaylie's unique?”

  Dwenba leaned forward until her eyes hovered inches from his face. “You tell me, young man. You've seen her.”

  Swallowing hard, Arimand retreated two steps.

  Pleased, Dwenba dried her hands on her tattered apron. “I don't know what tragedy brought an innocent to the shores of Hell. But I know our Lady Kaylie is special. And if ever the old gods existed, they'll find a way to lift her where she belongs. In the mean time, Eselt takes care of her as best he can. Thank goodness he found her before anyone else did.”

  Suddenly, Eselt's threats made sense. He didn't want Arimand slipping into his tent to corrupt his innocent charge. Granting her a title made sense too; she looked like nobility. It would certainly explain her regal manner and fine clothes, but it wouldn't account for the strange quality that seemed to emanate from her. If it wasn't innocence, what could it be?

  The conversation moved on, but Arimand's thoughts did not. When he retreated to his tent with moisture-shriveled fingers, Kaylie's image remained vivid in his mind. Who was she? And what strange event sent her to Hell?

  For once, he didn't notice the howl of the wind or the icy draft drifting beneath the tent flap. Lady Kaylie's face filled the space behind his eyes as he drifted to sleep.

  Chapter Three: Port Blalt

  Port Blalt may have been larger than the clan's camp, but it was no sturdier. As wood was too valuable a resource to waste, most of the town's structures had been cobbled together from loose stone. Those ramshackle foundations were covered by the same hide and canvas the clan used for tents. A smattering of rough fire pits glowed at irregular intervals among the sheds and stalls.

  The lackluster huddle of buildings stood well back from the riverbank, probably so no errant tide could sow chaos among the population. A series of rickety docks sat astride the river. Dingy vessels made the crossing from one side to the other. The poor souls assigned to unload cargo lashed themselves to metal stakes not far from shore. Arimand couldn't tell if the sailors took similar precautions.

  It was difficult to determine the port's regular population, so choked was it with visiting clans. Eselt drove his people until well after nightfall before choosing a satisfactory campground far enough from the other clans their borders were unlikely to mix. Yet no one complained as they unpacked and assembled the tents, speaking instead with subdued anticipation. Arimand wouldn't call the atmosphere festive but anything less than oppressive marked a difference.

  Even at this hour, Blalt bustled with activity. No sooner had they finished raising their camp than did a swarm of locals invade. They brought food with them, distributing servings among the clansfolk as they filtered toward the central fire. Just as Arimand purchased his first night among the Vorilia with news of the war, the clan repaid the citizens of Blalt with news they carried from abroad.

  Arimand hadn't thought about much beyond the clan's daily routine. He assumed Hell's outer ring would be the same everywhere; the same mindless drudgery, the same endless misery. But when it came time for the port occupants to share their tidings, they grew restless.

  “There's talk of demons,” murmured an aged man with a bent back. Echoing murmurs carried the news through the crowd.

  “Everyone's heard those stories,” Eselt grumbled. “They go down into the city sometimes. People claim you can hear the screams from the outskirts when they drag the foul ones into the prisons.”

  The old man shook his head. “These are on our side of the border.”

  That got Eselt's attention. “What do they want in the badlands?” he demanded.

  “Can't be certain,” a withered old woman replied. “They carried some poor sods into the city. Scaled the walls and tossed them down. But no one wants to stray close enough to learn more.”

  Eselt grunted. “There's always trouble on the border. There's a lot of land between there and here.”

  The anxious murmurs of the port inhabitants suggested they didn't share Eselt's confidence. The flickering firelight illuminated many grim faces.

  “Suppose that depends whether they find what they're looking for.” The hunchback old man shrugged awkwardly.

  The exchange left a palpable anxiety in the air that didn't dissipate when the villagers began to drift back to their homes. Many of the clansfolk lingered longer around the fire than usual, pursuing topics of personal interest with the animated locals. Eselt had questions for new arrivals. Kimuli sought fertile hunting grounds. Sulard seemed to be on a quest to make everyone laugh.

  Since there was no cleaning to do, Arimand sat beside the fire, knees folded in front of him, chin resting on one palm, watching the fading flurry of activity. Most of the topics up for discussion didn't interest him, but there was no reason not to let the words wash over his ears. If information served as currency in Hell, any tidbit might eventually prove useful.

  Eselt fidgeted more as the night went on. He often glanced over his shoulder toward his tent and muttered under his breath. Whenever an errant villager wandered too close, he rose and chased them away, pacing like an agitated sentry.

  Arimand understood his apprehension. The badland's inhabitants might have no reason to fear demonic invaders, but Eselt certainly did. Arimand's eyes strayed toward the tent the stout man protected. Could the demons be looking for the woman within?

  Curiosity compelled him to stay until the howling wind had driven everyone else to shelter. Until Eselt settled next to him with a sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh.

  “Something on your mind, Commander?”

  Arimand met the clan leader's gaze. “I wish you wouldn't call me that.”

  Eselt arched one shaggy eyebrow until it disappeared beneath his bangs. “What keeps you out so late, Arimand?”

  His eyes drifted toward the tent again. “Dwenba told me about the young woman you're hiding.”

  “She told you about Lady Kaylie?” The unbridled hostility in Eselt's growl made Arimand shiver.

  “I asked. You get to recognize people's faces quickly when you've commanded an army under constant threat of infiltration. I saw a stranger and wondered about her. Was she not supposed to tell me?”

  A soft rumble issued from Eselt's throat. “There's no telling Dwenba what she can and can't do. I suppose you'd find out sooner or later.”

  It was difficult to keep a secret in quarters as close as these. That this one had taken so long to uncover was a testament to Eselt's choice of companions. Arimand watched the campfire's flames jump and dance for several seconds before he spoke again. “I understand why you want to protect her, though I'm not sure I believe what Dwenba does.”

  “Might be better if you don't. Might keep you from sticking your nose where it don't belong.”

  Arimand lifted both hands, palms facing the smaller man. “I'm not trying to interfere. I just want to understand. How could an innocent soul end up here?”

  Eselt didn't answer. They sat a long time in silence.

  Arimand was about to excuse himself when the clan leader drew a deep breath. “I've been dead a long time. I've never seen or heard of anything like Lady Kaylie before. And demons in Ethilirotha? You could go a hundred years down here before you heard that again.”

  “I wondered,” Arimand admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper, “if it might have something to do with her.”

  “It
's nothing you need to worry about. You just do what I tell you to do.”

  Never mind those demons would destroy them all if they came looking for the so-called innocent woman. “Look, I understand. I spent time among spies. They taught me how to look at things differently.” He drew a deep breath and held it, preparing to enter dangerous waters. “I noticed your shrewd questions tonight. You aren't just interested in the war above. You're looking for an exit.”

  “So what if I am?” Fire blazed in Eselt's eyes and Arimand instinctively shrunk away.

  “It's a noble cause, trying to save a lost soul. Dwenba thinks Kaylie's lucky you found her before anyone else. If you are looking for an exit, I think she's right.”

  Eselt clenched his fists, the sinister tilt of his jaw making it look as though he wanted to tear Arimand's head from his neck. “What would you know?”

  “I know it's why I went to war. To protect innocents, I mean. Territory skirmishes are one thing, but what happened in Corvala was wicked. They didn't know what was happening until the food began to rot in the fields. By then, the sickness had already spread. If the rumors are true, they couldn't even tell the water had gone foul. How do you fight an enemy like that? I couldn't stand the thought of that curse spreading to Onroth. I was terrified I'd have to watch my family wither and die.”

  Eselt furrowed his shaggy brow into a grimace of skepticism. “You had a family?”

  “Everyone has some kind of family.” Arimand tried not to sound insulted; he didn't give the impression of a family-oriented man. “My mother's still alive, as far as I know. And two brothers, though they've probably been drafted by now. And a sister, happily married. Probably with a litter of kids since the last time I saw her.”