by Sam Ferguson
Indyrith nodded. “And then the wolf bit you, and you screamed in pain until the dream subsided,” he concluded for me. “It is the same with each dream walker I worked with in the last two hundred years. Always the same dream up until the age of fourteen, and then they are finally killed by the wolf.” He opened the book and started to turn it around for me. “Here, read these accounts and see for yourself.”
“But I didn’t die,” I said emphatically.
Indyrith stopped and stared at me. “What did you say?”
“I said, I didn’t die.”
Indyrith stopped turning the book and sat back in his chair. “What happened then?”
“Somehow, I knew the wolf was coming for me, so I banished all of my fear, and I sat up and took a swing at it.”
“You tried to punch it?” Indyrith asked.
“I did,” I said. “I almost connected, but then it disappeared and I was just sitting upright in my bed. Shook me to my core though. Even as a proud teenager I had to go to my mom that night. I explained the whole thing to her.”
“After two hundred years, finally there is a dream walker strong enough to defeat a harbinger wolf while in the world of dreams.”
“What do you mean?” Hank asked. “Harbinger wolves don’t attack people in their dreams.”
Indyrith nodded. “They attack some people in their dreams. You see, the harbinger wolves fear the dream walkers. That’s why they attack while the dream walker is young and undeveloped. There are many accounts of dream walkers being attacked in the same way. Not just for the last two hundred years I have recorded here, but for centuries before that as well. The oldest tribes have legends of such events. Some of them now confuse the event with the choosing of a spirit animal, but that is not what it is.”
“What does it mean then?” I asked.
“It means that you have the potential to become a very powerful dream walker. Powerful enough that the harbinger wolves have been watching you. You moved around a lot as a child, tell me why.”
“I dunno,” I said flatly. “At first it was because my dad moved us around. After that, it was to keep us safe from him. He wasn’t a good man. Threatened us with a lot of bad things, tried to follow us.”
“I suspect there is more to it than that,” Indyrith said. “Did your mother ever have dreams of you dying while still a child?”
I shook my head. “No, that’s…” I stopped mid-sentence as I recalled three such events that I had long forgotten about. “Yes, a couple times.”
Indyrith nodded. “Your ancestors knew the danger you were in. Your mother moving you away from your father helped throw off the harbinger wolves as well. But, if ever the wolves came close to finding you, then your mother would be given a dream to let her know you were in danger.”
“What? But why? What is so great about a dream walker?”
Indyrith smiled. “You already know the answer to that,” he said. “A dream walker, if properly trained, has the power to fight enemies through many planes and dimensions. You experienced that when you fought the drakkul in your memories.”
I nodded. “So, if I hadn’t hit the lizard-man,”
“Drakkul,” Hank corrected.
“Whatever,” I replied impatiently. “If I hadn’t hit him while inside my memories, I would have died in Dallas?”
Indyrith nodded.
“But how is that possible?” I asked. “Isn’t that a paradox or something? How can a future me save an old me?”
“Time is not as linear as men believe,” Indyrith said. “It appears so, and it acts that way, but there is more to it than a simple line of progression. Even I do not know all of time’s mysteries, but I can tell you that if you had not found your inner power, you would have died in Dallas. Furthermore, I am now certain that the harbinger wolf came separate from the drakkul. The drakkul came for your father, the harbinger wolf came for you.”
“And now both of them are pissed off at you, greeeat,” Hank said. “I’m gonna need another drink.”
“What do I do now?” I asked.
“I will help you along as best I can, but then you will have to hone your powers on your own. I have some records, but without a dream walker to teach you the path, I am not sure how far you can develop.”
“Then why worry about it at all?” Hank cut in. “I mean, we have been doing just fine with the three Vikings and our team. We keep the baddies out, or put down the ones that sneak in. Why all the fuss about a dream walker? I haven’t even heard you talk about one before.”
Hank seemed a bit jealous with that last bit.
Indyrith nodded. “Those questions are more complicated than they appear,” the elf said. “I have not spoken of it before, because I was not sure I would ever find one again. The last candidate failed to even exist within the dream world for more than a few minutes at a time before losing his focus. We never even progressed to the first test, which is to draw water from a stream in the dream world.” Indyrith turned and gestured to me with his hand. “Joshua Mills, on the other hand, was able to call upon his power to change time itself, and defeat a drakkul that otherwise would have killed him in the flesh. I have not seen this level of raw power since I first met A Li Onai.”
“Wait, you knew her?” I asked.
“She was a powerful warrior, and a great healer.” Indyrith sighed and closed the large book. “Dream walkers were first and foremost healers. They could use the energy of the dream world to heal physical, emotional, and mental wounds. However, as the harbinger wolves closed in on them and began attacking, the dream walkers were forced to become warriors themselves. They eventually became the best fighters this world has ever known.”
“Except for Rolf, you mean,” Hank said. “After all, Rolf not only fought monsters with his cousins, but they killed an entire tribe of ice giants, and were granted a boon by Thor, himself. They even killed Ogedei Khan, and then thwarted all of the other Mongol princes until the Mongol Empire fell. That’s to say nothing of the other monsters they have fought.”
Indyrith smiled. “And yet, if Joshua Mills can reach his full potential, he could slip into Ogedei’s dreams and kill him from there, as well as all of his followers. More than that, he could travel to other worlds without ever needing the portals that the drakkul and other master races employ. They would never see him coming, and he would be like a cloud of death, killing them while they slept.”
“So, he’d basically be like Freddy Krueger?” Hank asked.
Indyrith looked puzzled. “I am not aware of a dream walker by that name.”
“Forget it,” Hank said. “Not important.” He turned and examined me. “You’re here to fight for the right reasons, yeah?”
I nodded. “Protect the little guys, like you said.”
Hank rubbed his chin and then folded his arms. He turned back to the tall elf. “So, if we help Mills reach his potential, then we can stop the invasions forever?”
Indyrith nodded. “I believe so. There is nothing by the way of prophecy, but there are several oracles before me who have proposed such a solution. That is why I have devoted much of my efforts to finding a dream walker.”
“I still don’t get it, why not tell us?” Hank asked. “I could have helped.”
Indyrith shook his head. “It had to be kept secret. Even now, we can only discuss it with those in this circle who need to know. You may tell Flint,” Indyrith told Hank. “I will tell Rolf, and my daughters as well but no one else can know of this yet.”
“Why the hell not?” Hank asked.
“Think of it this way. Imagine that you are a general of a large army, and you hear that your enemy is developing a weapon of terrible power, one that could destroy your entire army, and against which there is no defense. What would you do?”
“Well, I would take every soldier I had and attack first,” Hank said.
Indyrith nodded. “If the others discover Joshua Mills’ power, and his potential, then they will do the same. Many will come to the po
rtal, and Rolf will do his best to keep them out, but the line will grow so long that he will not have the time to rest. Eventually he will lose.”
“And that’s assuming that other enemies don’t come in the same way the two in Dallas did,” Hank said.
Indyrith nodded. “Like a wounded and cornered tiger, they will fight with every method at their disposal.”
“Armageddon,” Hank said. “We’ll be swamped by millions of invaders, and they will all have the same goal.”
“To kill me,” I said with a nod. Suddenly I was feeling very unwell.
CHAPTER 7
The following day I was taken out to a large shooting range. Berms had been put into place, piled high on the sides and much higher in the back. There were seven shooting stalls, but only one of them was occupied. Flint was busy placing weapons onto a table off to the side. Loaded magazines sat next to each rifle or pistol he had with him. He saw me coming and smiled.
“Well, if it isn’t the puny human who gets hurt in dreams,” he said as he racked a glock 9mm. “Come on, let’s see if you have any skills we can actually use.”
I was going to say something about asking whether he had ever had an entire sword pass through his gut, but I thought better of it. We were supposed to be on the same side. Sinking down to play his games wasn’t going to help that along at all.
Besides, I had served as a Mormon missionary in Russia. Russians have swear words that will make your blood curdle, and they aren’t half as restrained in using them as Americans are. Flint wasn’t going to toss anything my way I couldn’t just let roll off my back.
I walked up to the stall and kept behind the red line drawn at the back end of the stall.
“You ever been taught how to shoot?” Flint asked.
“Nope,” I lied. The truth was my grandfather had taught me as a kid, but that was a long time ago, and I didn’t want to say I had been taught only to realize that I had then forgotten. Besides, most of these weapons were things my grandfather never showed me. Black powder? Sure. Old school lever action and bolt-action rifles that were made pre 1970? All day long. Semiautomatic handgun? No chance. My grandfather didn’t even own one. But then again, I bet I could throw a tomahawk better than Flint. Grandpa had plenty of tomahawks.
“Well, this is about as basic as it gets,” Flint said as he set the 9mm on the table. This is a glock eighteen. It has a four point-four-nine inch barrel. That’s nearly half an inch longer than the nineteen, so hopefully it will help you hit something. Normal trigger pull is five and a half pounds, but I have reworked mine so it’s a full six pounds. Don’t want you shooting yourself in the foot by accident when you get excited. Holds fifteen rounds in the magazine. I loaded ten just to see how you shoot. When you’re ready, pick it up and aim at the target.”
I looked out and saw a paper silhouette mounted against a thick rubber backing. I moved forward and then picked up the weapon. “Where’s the safety?” I asked.
“It’s on the trigger,” Flint said. “Originally it was planned to have no external safety. When he was forced to make one, Gaston Glock figured that a smart warrior would know that the only real safety for a weapon is the man or woman handling it. Keep your finger out of the trigger guard until you’re ready to shoot, then fire when ready.”
Made sense. I had once heard that you didn’t have any business carrying a firearm until you knew it as well as you knew a roll of toilet paper. The man who had said that explained that you could be drunk and upside-down in a swimming pool, but you would still know how to use toilet paper. I guess he was hoping to get the same point across as Gaston Glock. The only safety on a weapon that matters, is the training the operator has employed to develop his skills.
I aimed at the head and fired the first shot.
Flint laughed. “High and left,” he said.
Funny, the round had hit the head, so I would have counted it for a beginner.
I took more careful aim at the white oval where the eyes would be and fired again. The bullet tore into the left side of the oval, but not centered in the white.
“Still high and left,” Flint said impatiently. “Listen, build your castle with your sights, and then squeeze the trigger. Don’t yank it. Don’t jerk it. Just softly squeeze it back to you. Don’t try to anticipate the shot.”
I aligned the sights carefully and then tried to slowly squeeze the trigger. It didn’t matter. My muscles in my arms tensed just before the shot and pulled the whole weapon down. The round hit the white space to the left of the neck on the target.
“And you’re dead,” Flint said. “Too bad, so sad. Thanks for stopping by.”
I set the weapon down and folded my arms. “You have any additional tips?” I asked.
Flint smiled and stuck a toothpick between his teeth. “Sure, go back home and leave the fighting to the grown-ups.”
I nodded. I had never been a great focused shooter. I could never quiet my brain enough to simply be in the moment with a pistol. However, there had been one method I used with my grandfather that had worked. Of course, I had been using a .44 magnum at the time and it was a very different animal from the glock sitting in front of me, but still. I had to see if it would work.
“Don’t overthink it,” my grandfather had said. “See the target, raise the weapon, and shoot the target. Put your eyes on the target and fire as soon as your weapon is aligned. Simple as that. Don’t hold it and wait. Don’t try to put everything through the same hole. Just go for a grouping that fits within a quarter. Try to touch three bullet holes together. Do that, and you’ll be fine.”
It was almost as if he was standing with me now, telling me to ignore the arrogant prick to my left who was snickering and asking if I wanted to pack up and call it a day.
“Three shots,” I said aloud, more in response to my grandfather’s memory than anything else.
“Yep,” Flint said. “You fired three shots and they all sucked. One of them missed, the other two wouldn’t take down a borelian. You’d be dead three times over.”
I ignored him. I concentrated on the red plus sign in the middle of the oval on the target. I stretched out my hand and picked the glock up. I held it at the low ready and took a breath. I looked at my target, and then I pulled the weapon up fast and steady. Pop pop pop!
I lowered the weapon.
“How in the…” Flint muttered.
I smiled. Three holes on the plus sign, each of them touching and forming a kind of shamrock design.
“That has to be a fluke,” Flint said. “Do it again.”
I took in a breath, enjoying the smell of gunpowder. It had been far too long since I had smelled that beautiful aroma. As I took it in, it brought with it a flood of memories, and suddenly I was having the time of my life. I brought the weapon up again and fired three quick shots. Another shamrock blasted into the first, obscuring the design, but no less compact in the grouping.
“Beginner’s luck,” Flint said.
“This one’s for you, Flint,” I said as I pulled the weapon up one more time and fired the last round.
“Now that’s just cruel,” Flint replied when he saw the bullet hole in the silhouette’s crotch. He took the empty pistol from me and then turned to grab a light tan colored rifle. “Let’s move to the next stall on our left and see what you do with the scar.” We shifted to the adjacent stall and he pointed out a target set half way down the range. “That’s fifty yards. Think you can hit it?”
I shrugged and held my hands out for the weapon. Flint popped the magazine into place and then racked a round into the chamber.
I took the rifle in hand and held it up the way I would if I were shooting with my grandfather. The holographic sight was amazingly easy to get used to. I fired the first round to get a feel for it, and heard Flint swear under his breath. I pulled my trigger finger out and to the side as I lowered the weapon and tried to see precisely where my shout had gone. Flint put the binoculars up in front of me. The bullet had torn through the plus sign i
n the white oval.
“You sure you never fired one of these before?” Flint asked.
I shook my head. “Last rifle I fired was a thirty-aught six my grandpa had, but that was back in high school.”
“Put three shots in center mass,” Flint said.
I nodded and raised the rifle after he pulled the binoculars away. I put three into center mass. The holes didn’t touch, but they were still grouped roughly close enough to fit inside a fifty cent piece.
“Not bad, Mills,” Flint said. “Perhaps we can use you after all.”
We spent the rest of the day blasting paper targets with various kinds of weapons. I was like a kid in a candy store. It felt like I had spent hours playing. He introduced several different rifles and handguns to me that I had never fired. The only one I didn’t like was the Taurus 9mm. The magazine release button was put in a strange location that didn’t fit my hand quite right, so I would fire it only to have the recoil send the button into my thumb and release the magazine in the middle of the action, thus causing a malfunction nearly every time I used it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Flint said. “You can stick with the glock if you need too. However, I wanted to see how you do with this.” Flint reached to a holster on his left side and pulled up what I recognized to be a model 1911. “This is a Springfield 1911 .45 ACP,” Flint said proudly. “This beauty has been with me in every battle. When I first found out about the things that go bump in the night, I was deep in the bad parts of Afghanistan.”
“Are there good parts?” I asked with a scoff.
Flint nodded. “There’s good parts everywhere. Afghanistan is a wonderful place, as long as you make it past the camel spiders and the jihadis trying to kill you. There is beauty there.”
The way he said it sounded like my third grade teacher scolding me. I nodded and ceded the point. I hadn’t been trying to offend, but I hadn’t met anyone who had enjoyed their time in Afghanistan, and I had spoken with several friends after their deployments.