by Marcus Lee
Below, the settlement drew closer and she sought out her hut on its southern outskirts. Approaching it, she willed her dream-self inside to find her father asleep. His cheeks were tear-streaked amongst the grime on his face, and he clutched Maya’s favourite doll that her mother had made just days before she’d died. Maya had stopped playing with the toy many years ago, but could never put aside something crafted by her mother’s hands.
Reaching out, she tried to wake her father, but her hands simply passed through his form. ‘Rest easy father,’ she whispered, and her dream tears fell upon his face before she moved away, ‘I will be home on the morrow.’
Back outside, she willed her spirit aloft and begun to fly northward. Why not? Once beyond the valley, the landscape became unfamiliar. Maya looked down as she travelled to see the sickness that ailed her valley extend to every horizon. She flew further and noted with interest that every road headed this way, toward the capital, like veins toward the heart, but it was more than that. It was as if there was something intangible flowing in the same direction, rippling, almost like water.
Despite her speed, there was no wind whipping the hair from her face. How could a dream feel so real?
Over large towns she passed, and then a city appeared that surrounded a foreboding fortress with lofty towers and high walls. This had to be the capital of the land, Kingshold.
Maya moved above the streets, which even at night thronged with people and soldiers who emanated a strange darkness. Curiosity led her to the castle and past the guards at the main gate who chatted away about the sickening land and an impending war.
She drifted through the entrance, along corridors and brushed past sentries, maids, and minor lords. The flow of people drew her in their wake, and she found herself floating before a large open doorway with guards either side.
Maya entered the room, and at its head, a large, powerful man with a golden circlet adorning his brow sat upon a large throne. His face was pale in contrast to his dark armour, yet there was no denying his strength. Despite the noise, he closed his eyes as if to sleep.
Another man dressed in black leather leaned forward over a table covered in maps to make notes on parchment. Intermittently retainers hurried in, gave him scrolls, whispered in his ear, or moved small carved wooden soldiers on a large map spread out on the table.
She floated closer, not fearful for this was her dream. There on the map, the boundaries of the kingdom and the neighbouring Freestates were marked, arrows drawn connecting the carved soldiers. It seemed these were plans of a military nature, a preparation for war perhaps.
Suddenly, the spirit of the Witch-King, for who else could he be - stood from the throne, leaving his physical self still seated. ‘Have I caught you spying, girl?’ he snarled, and he lunged, eyes fierce, his fingers firmly grasping her wrist.
‘No!’ She screamed, and let her gift shine, knowing instinctively that in this darkness, light was the only answer. The Witch-King shouted in shock and snatched his hand away as if burnt.
Panic took her, and she swiftly flew out of his reach, higher, up through the roof of the castle into the sky above. His laughter followed and then suddenly she was not alone for there floated a man dressed in blood-red robes beside her.
‘You need to awaken,’ he said, and tapped her once on the forehead with his fingertips.
Back in the cave a short while later, she opened her eyes and screamed all over again.
-----
Taran, his head spinning, barely made it to his room, but at least he was alive even if almost all of his money was now gone. His head hurt not just from the ale that he’d drunk, but from trying to pull memories from Rakan’s confused, befuddled mind throughout the whole night.
Rakan’s thoughts were full of pride at his evil doings, and Taran had initially recoiled from the pictures that spilled into his head, but he knew his life depended on it and so had carried on reading them. Using the knowledge he garnered, he’d spun a tale of once being a young apprentice blacksmith attached to the army where he’d known Rakan as a sergeant. He’d embellished the story and told everyone of Rakan’s creative cruelty and unmatched skill with a blade whilst they’d both been based at Kajhold, from which the lands of the Eyre were raided.
At the start, he’d felt that Rakan was unsure about him, but having pulled so many distant events from Rakan’s mind had dispelled those doubts quickly. So by the end of the evening, Rakan’s arm had been around Taran’s shoulder, as if Taran were a younger brother. Rakan even offered him a place in the squad so they could revel further in the stories of the good old days.
Taran had artfully refused again and again, and to help ease any suspicions of the other soldiers, he’d paid for drinks all night, and occasionally dipped into their thoughts as well to make them feel like they knew him.
It was only a short while to daylight, and Taran wanted to be up and out before any of the soldiers. Sober, they might see things more clearly, and his tale might no longer hold. So before retiring to his room, he’d told the tavern owner to rouse him shortly before sunrise.
Even if he only had a few coins left to his name, he still had his life, and as Taran slipped beneath the coarse sheets, he congratulated himself on still being alive, and apart from his painful head, unscathed.
He closed his eyes, and sleep quickly overwhelmed him.
-----
Maya awoke in the cave, mind racing about the dream that had seemed so real. She sat up and opened her eyes to the warm glow of the campfire still filling the cave, only to find a man sat next to her.
She cried out in shock and rolled away, then drew her dagger to point it threateningly toward the figure who just sat there.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said the man. He stood up, and Maya seeing the blood-red robes, recognised him from her dreams.
‘Who are you? How did you get here, and how did you get in my dreams?’ she demanded, still holding the dagger.
The man sighed. ‘So many questions, and we have so little time. But they are well asked, so I will answer them quickly. Afterwards, let me talk, for my time here is short and your time in this life will be short as well if you’re not careful.’
‘Firstly, my name is Astren, and I am often called a seer. I’m not actually here. Rather this is a projection of my physical self, for I managed to follow your spirit here as it fled to your body, and this area is familiar to me.’
Maya snorted in derision. ‘Really?’ she asked.
Seeing her sceptical gaze, Astren reached out and put his hands into the glowing embers of the fire. ‘Do you believe me now?’
Maya gasped in astonishment, yet still not satisfied she picked up a stone and tossed it at Astren who made no attempt to move. It passed right through him to clatter on the floor.
‘Unless you want further proof?’ Astren asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘So, how did I get in your dreams? Well, this night you travelled the spirit pathways. Years ago, those who enjoyed the gift of spirit talking discovered them and found ways for a select few not just to talk, but to visit one another across great distances during the night hours. Last night our travels fortuitously brought us together.’
‘Now, you tell me. What made you visit Kingshold? Were you taken there when younger?’
Maya looked surprised. ‘I’ve never been anywhere outside of my valley.’ Then she picked up on something Astren had said. ‘A gift of spirit travel, is that what I have?’ she asked.
‘Yes, exactly,’ replied Astren enthusiastically. ‘You have the ability to travel the spirit world. Whilst others dream, you can do what others only dream of.’
‘I have another gift as well,’ Maya hesitantly offered. ‘I can heal.’
‘This is the first time I’ve heard of anyone possessing this sort of gift,’ mused Astren. ‘I am very interested in finding out more, especially in such dark times.’ He was silent for a moment before continuing. ‘There are other dangerous travellers who share the spirit paths. Daleth, who you kno
w as the Witch-King, has many such in his service. As you likely already know, gifted ones, when identified, are sent to the capital. Those who show they have the gift of spirit talk often become Daleth’s eyes and ears, whereas any who show darker or other useful gifts are taken into his army. But someone such as you. I think it unlikely you would have been allowed to live as a child. Now you have reached adulthood, your fate, if discovered, will almost certainly be dire.’
Astren’s image started to fade. ‘I cannot stay any longer. I will need to sleep for a day after this,’ he said. ‘Continue to keep your gift hidden, and you will remain safe. I will try to reach you again so we can talk some more.’
With Astren’s image and voice fading, Maya raised her voice. ‘The Witch-King, what gift does he have? Answer me this before you go.’
Astren’s image, almost invisible now, turned to her his words barely a whisper.
‘He enjoys youth eternal. I believe he is a drainer of life, of the people, of the land.’ And then he was gone.
-----
Taran awoke to the noise of pounding, and he wasn’t sure if it was his head or the tavern-keeper’s fist on the door that pounded the loudest.
‘Alright, alright,’ he growled, and looked at the meagre light coming through the window. It was approaching sunrise, and he needed to hurry if he wanted to get out of here before the townsfolk and soldiers roused themselves.
He pushed his face into the water bowl on the room’s only table to wake himself up, then pulled on his clothes, grabbed his belongings, and unbarred the door before stepping quietly out onto the landing with a view to making his exit. As Taran walked to the top of the stairs, angry voices were coming from below. Discord at this time of the morning was never a good sign, so he moved swiftly down the stairs, intending to be on his way.
When he got to the bottom, to his dismay, the common room was packed, full of shouting people, a few soldiers and the town overseer. The townsfolk were loudly demanding justice for a killing, and Taran certainly didn’t want to be here to see the execution when it happened. The soldiers seemed to be arguing some point, but Taran wasn’t interested, he just wanted to leave, so he approached the tavern keeper pouch in hand.
While counting out some coins from his dwindling supply, he glanced up briefly and met the tortured gaze of a townswoman whose face was puffy and red-eyed. Tears had run filthy tracks down her dirty cheeks. ‘There he is!’ she screamed, then raised a shaking finger to point straight at Taran. ‘That’s the man who killed my husband!’
Taran’s head spun, and the floor seemed to shift under his feet. ‘Just wait a moment,’ he said, lifting his hands. ‘There must be a misunderstanding, I was in here drinking all last night, ask the tavern keeper or these soldiers,’ and he gestured at them both.
The woman spat at him. ‘Drinking while my poor Urg died in my arms,’ she hissed, and Taran’s stomach sunk, and it felt as if his whole world turned upside down.
Urg was dead! He’d never killed someone before. Suddenly Taran felt like being sick, and his head spun while his trembling legs barely supported him. He took a step back, unaware as the tavern keeper raised, then brought a cudgel down on his head which knocked him barely conscious to the floor. The next moment he was being punched and kicked and his gift was useless even if he could have concentrated. It was such a crowded space with too many people.
On the orders of the overseer, he was restrained by two soldiers whom he’d been drinking with the previous night. They shrugged in a kind of mute apology as they held him, but not so apologetic that they didn’t bind the ropes incredibly tight around his wrists. He was pulled to his feet and had to be supported on either side.
The overseer stepped forward, a look of barely concealed glee in his eyes as he sneered at Taran. Bringing his face close, he rasped. ‘You’ve been accused of killing Urg the joiner, and I find you guilty. Your fight was witnessed by many here, all of whom saw you strike the murderous blow when the fight was already over.’
Taran thought to protest. It had been a fair fight, one of so many, but he realised the townsfolk wanted revenge for losing their money, and the overseer had lost some too. Only the wife was perhaps justified in her need for vengeance. It was unfair, but nothing Taran could say would change this outcome. He wasn’t a valued part of this community or any for that matter, he was a banished one, and his life meant nothing to anyone here, in fact anywhere at all.
‘Fetch the captain wherever he is!’ ordered the overseer, and one of the soldiers in the crowd ran to find him.
Taran was half-dragged half-carried to the justice square where only yesterday he’d fought his bout. The crowd followed, and other townsfolk drawn by the noise and the chance of a spectacle filled the ranks of onlookers. He was tied upright to one of the corner posts, a scarred ugly old piece of wood stained and weathered but still hard and unyielding. Taran tested the strength of the ropes. If only he could break free … but they were too tight, and he knew even if he did free himself, the crowd would tear him to pieces.
The mood of the people grew uglier as they waited for the captain, and the sun had fully risen over the horizon before he appeared, flanked by a dozen soldiers, a menacing and hard look on his scarred face.
As Rakan approached, Taran met his gaze, and whilst his legs shook, and the injustice of it all made him want to cry, he tried to meet Rakan’s steely eyes. He wanted to face his end with something approaching dignity. He’d seen far too many executions and always hated it when people begged and cried before the end. Face the gods with pride! That’s what he’d always thought. Now it was time to see if his courage would hold, or flee, to leave snivelling before the inevitable happened.
The overseer raised his hands as he stood next to Taran, and the crowd hushed.
This was absolute silence, Taran thought. Not even a gust of wind or a distant birdsong. It seemed like the world was holding its breath, waiting for him to die.
‘The sentence for killing someone is to face death yourself. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?’ the overseer crowed in a raised voice.
The crowd hushed, waiting for the begging, the crying, the screaming.
Taran cleared his throat. ‘Yes!’ he shouted, his voice finding strength at the last. The crowd waited, and he let them for a moment. ‘Your breath smells like the pig's arse you were bedded with last night.’
What little colour was in the overseer’s face fled in an instant as laughter rippled through the crowd, and Taran felt some satisfaction. Still, the brief feeling vanished in an instant as Rakan moved onto the justice turf with some soldiers behind him.
‘You want to see blood?’ shouted Rakan, then drew his dagger as he walked closer. The crowd screamed in a frenzy once more, and the overseer’s face contorted in glee.
Rakan stood and looked into Taran’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity, ‘This is going to hurt, but not for long,’ Rakan said simply.
In that moment, Taran saw his mother hold him in her arms when he’d broken his wrist, felt her hands smooth his ruffled hair when his father had beat him. He remembered her fingers softly trace the cuts on his face after a fight, and saw the look of deepest love and deeper sorrow in her eyes every day of her life before his father had ended it.
Rakan stepped forward, and his dagger flashed up.
Taran saw blood spray in front of his eyes. ‘Mother,’ he said to himself, ‘I’m coming, be waiting for me,’ and then everything went black.
Moments later, Rakan cut the bonds that held Taran’s limp body to the post and lowered him to the ground, and all the while, the crowd screamed in hatred.
-----
Chapter III
Kalas lay on the ground weeping. He wanted to die, and soon he would, but it wouldn’t be soon enough.
He’d wanted to die almost fifty years ago after all his friends around him had perished, but he didn’t have the courage then. But now, now he didn’t need courage, he just needed to wait a little longer
.
He didn’t weep for himself, but for his poor wife Syan who lay dead in the dust just beyond his reach. She hadn’t deserved this, poor sweet Syan. She’d taken him into her home, him a bloodied beaten stranger, cared for him, helped him through his nightmares, giving him a reason to live, and now she was dead. He stretched for her hand, but a soldier trod on his fingers, and he sobbed.
He’d been in the dusty fields when he’d heard her screams. Over seventy years old and still he worked them, finding comfort in the simple manual labour. He’d run for home then, or rather shambled, but even so, he was faster than expected for his age.
Yet however fast he’d crossed the fields of withered wheat, pushed through the slow-flowing waters of the brackish stream, and then made his way down the dusty path to the farm, it was never going to be fast enough.
The screams had stopped long before he’d he entered the yard and seen her lifeless body, clothes all torn and bloodied sprawled in the dirt. Her son, Jay, hung from the porch by his neck, swaying in the breeze. He’d never been close to Kalas who wasn’t his father, but he’d been a good man irrespective, and now he was dead too. No doubt killed while trying to protect his mother.
The Witch-King’s soldiers had been sat around, eating the food they’d stolen when he’d arrived. They’d turned to look as he lurched into view, breathing loudly, and had laughed as he ran toward his wife’s body calling her name, but they hadn’t yet had enough fun. So they’d stood around, and had pushed him between them until he tripped and fell to his knees, and then a spear shaft had struck him between the shoulders.
Now here he was face down, awaiting the killing blow which would put an end to his misery. A long-overdue death that should have come fifty years earlier.
‘Kill me.’ he croaked. ‘Kill me now. I need to die before it’s too late.’