Dream Magic (20 page)

Trev’s plan was a simple one, and it worked well: he sprinted toward the closing line and chose a spot
that showed the largest gap between two of them. The nightmare to the left was slow, he could see, having no leg below the shin on its right side. Hampered in its movements, it could only laboriously hobble along. Toward this one Trev bounded, and he gave a desperate cry as he leapt over it.

The Dead thing wasn’t so easily evaded, however. It raised a ball on a shaft of steel—a mace with rusty spikes. The spikes caught Trev as he sailed overhead, drawing a gouge down his calf. It hurt, but Trev managed not to collapse upon landing on the far side of the line of Dead. He stumbled, gathered him
self, and ran on into the pitch-black cavern.

The ring of Dead closed upon the
dragon. The blue-scaled creature was too big to leap over the line and too slow to dart between them. Instead, she barreled forward and reared up. Her talons struck at the approaching skeletons, knocking them down and cracking their dry bones. But the enemy got back up, undeterred and relentless.

Trev stopped running and turned. He wasn’t sure what to do. Should he
flee, or should he help the living dragon, no matter how wicked it was, against the Dead?

The hesitation was only a momentary thing, but it was real. After that single moment passed, his senses returned to him. He must fly! He had no choice, as this was the one opportunity that he would ever get.

Then the dragon breathed fire. Trev had never seen a dragon gush flame like that. He’d read of the event, and heard tales, but talk was one thing and witnessing the reality was quite another.

The line of Dead, swinging their weapons like thoughtless, clumsy machines, beat on the
dragon and stabbed at it. But the flames consumed them quickly. So hot were the fires they melted mace, sword, chainmail and axe as if they were all so much candlewax. The red-orange tongues swept them away to ash, burning their bones and causing them to become unmade.

Whatever sorcery held the Dead things together was undone by that sweep of impossibly bright, hot flame. They were destroyed in a stroke
, and a moment later, the dragon slid toward Trev, who now nursed his scratched calf.

He straightened as the
dragon approached. The great head regarded him quietly for a moment before speaking.

“You bleed,” said the
dragon. “I can smell your blood.”

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

The head dipped, nodding. “I’ve suffered the same. Only scratches. Nothing that could stop one of my kind.”

“Shall we proceed?” asked Trev.

“Lead on.”

The two walked to the mound. They paused at the foot of it.

“Is it time?” asked the dragon. “Can we walk the mound?”

“In the Everdark, it’
s always the right time. A mound can be traversed as desired. There is no need to wait for twilight or dawn, as those moments will never come to this place.”

“I see,” said the
dragon, and it regarded Trev curiously for a moment. “Before we pass from this world to the next, I’d like to ask you a question.”

“I’d like to do the same.”

The dragon chuckled. “Granted.”

“Ask then.”

“Why did you not flee? That was your chance, you know.”

Trev thought about his answer for a moment before replying. “I could have run—but I didn’t want to see the living fall to the Dead. Not here, not anywhere. The Dead killed my father as I watched.”

“Ah,” said the dragon. “You hate them. That I understand. For I hate the Kindred as you hate the Dead. I hate them so much that I worry someday my emotions will rob me of my reason. That was how my father fell, you know.”

“Yes,” Trev said. “That is how I understand it.”

They began walking then, widdershins around the mound. As they left the Everdark behind, rustlings sounded. The Dead were stirring anew. Trev wanted to rush, but he knew not to. He took measured steps along the path, making sure not to stray from it.

“You are not like either of the peoples who made you,” the
dragon told Trev. “Any true elf would have fled from me and laughed, enjoying the joke as the Dead hacked at me. Likewise, no human could ever have stood and met my gaze without shivering and making water down his leg.”

Trev thought of Brand, and believed in his heart there was
at least one man who could have stood his ground. But he didn’t think it would be a good idea to bring up the Axeman, so he kept quiet.

“You have the bravery of
an elf and the honor of a human,” the Dragon continued. “An odd mix. I’m not sure if the two traits will improve your life or bring your doom.”

“Do you want to know what I think of you?” Trev asked.

The other hesitated. They’d made it twice around the mound by this time, and the world was growing dim around them. The Dead that shuffled here and there no long seemed to see them clearly. Trev knew that to them, they had become like ghosts, incorporeal and distant.

“Yes,” said the
dragon at last. “I do want to know. Have no fear, I won’t slay you for an insult on this occasion, even if my talons itch to do so.”

“V
ery considerate, I’m sure. Well...I think you’re lonely. I think that’s why you paused to speak to Harrdin and I. A normal dragon would have consumed us without a self-indulgent conversation first. You’re bored as well. That’s why you’ve consented to follow me into the unknown, risking your person.”

“There it is again!” exclaimed the
dragon, snorting a dart of fire. “The cheek of it! Right here, inches from my scales, you dare to make light of me?”

Trev was startled, having taken the dragon’s word about not minding an insult seriously. He told himself to remember in the future just how touchy these creatures were.

“I only speak the truth,” Trev said carefully, “at least, the truth as I see it.”

“Do you
believe that admission somehow makes your words sting less?”

“No, I suppose not. But you did give me leave to speak freely. I assumed you were a creature of honor, as you’ve been one thus far.”

“You can’t trust my kind as you might one of the Fae. We aren’t as bound to our words as your kind is. We’re more like humans, in that respect, as much as I’m loath to admit it.”

Trev nodded, knowing instantly what the
dragon meant. “So not all dragons are honorable or dishonorable? It varies from one beast to the next?”

“
Yes, but at the same time I’d point out that we’re less likely to bend our words and enjoy the confusion of our victims. Perhaps the truth is we see honor differently than do the Fae.”

Trev could understand what the
dragon was saying. He’d found his father’s folk to be truthful, but only in the strictest sense. He was like that himself upon occasion. But he also felt a pang when he misled others. He knew that the elves rarely felt regret when they led an innocent to doom. In fact, the experience usually delighted them.

It was on the fourth circuit around that Trev thought he saw something in the cavern—something new. He
did not pause, however. He didn’t dare to stop advancing on the path.

“What’s that then?” demanded the
dragon, halting. She swiveled her head and peered around the cavern.

The aspect of their surroundings had shifted now, as they were half-way between one world and the next. It was an odd effect—disturbing. It
was as if they looked through mist or wavering water.

“A bright light,” Trev said. “A flash. I don’t know—let’s keep going.”

“Why do you hurry?”

“Have you walked around a mound before?”

The dragon hesitated. “No,” she admitted at last.

“Well, my folk do so quite often. We have to keep moving. We can’t stop here—and there is no way to go back.”

“What if we step from the path?”

“You mustn’t. You won’t be able to return—at least most people can’t. You will be lost between worlds.”

“What’s there?”

“A gray, formless nothing. It’s cold but not entirely empty. There are
monsters there, terrible things that can’t be seen or fought.”

“There it is again,” said the dragon a moment later. “
Did you see that flash of light? A golden flash—like a sunbeam. How could there be such a light in the cavern?”

“There can’t be,” said Trev slowly.
He was beginning to suspect the truth. He tried again to urge the dragon forward. “We must make haste.”

The
dragon regarded him with suspicion. She did not budge. “What are you thinking, tiny, brave being? You know what it is we see out there, don’t you? What is it? Is it something in my world, or something in the next one?”

Trev chewed on his lower lip for a second. He gazed into the dark cave, but the lights had stopped flashing.

“You owe me an answer first,” Trev said. “As we agreed earlier.”

“Then what is your question
? Out with it, and quickly.”

“What is your true name,
dragon?”

The monster hesitated.
She glared at him. “I will answer because I keep my word when it is spoken. But do not tell another. And do not dream that you will somehow become my master with this knowledge, half-breed.”

“I won’t.”

“My name is Fafna, daughter of Fafnir.”

“A fine name,”
Trev said quickly, and he began to walk along the path again.

“Where are you going? What of the lights?”

“They’ve stopped flashing.”

“But you know what they are, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, and I will swear never to devour you, Trev.”

Trev looked back and cocked his head. Such an offer was not to be discarded lightly. In fact, he’d never heard of another dragon who’d offered such a promise to a mortal.

“Very well. That is Brand, I believe.”

“The Axeman? That light—it’s the light of Ambros the Golden?”

If he hadn’t known better, Trev may have thought there was a hint of fear in the
dragon’s voice. But he knew it could not be so.

“I thought I felt him,” Fafna said. “It is a dragon’s power to know where the Jewels are, and who wields them. I’d felt Ambros was somewhere near. This place has confused me, however.
Where is he exactly? Where does that glow come from? Is he ahead of us, or behind us?”

“There is no way to be certain,” Trev admitted. “Because we are halfway between the worlds, it could be either. However, logic can help us in this instance.”

“How so? Speak!”

“Firstly, there are numerous Dead things in the cavern we just left. I don’t think the
y exist on the other side. Therefore, if Brand appeared to be doing battle as it seems that he was—”

“Then he is behind us. Very good.
But as you say, it is not a certainty.”

“Well, there is one other detail I should report.”

“What?”

“Brand has been pursuing me for days. He’s been rather relentless about it.”

“Whatever for?”

“I have not stopped running long enough to find out. He seemed at times to be angry.”

The dragon was finally moving again. Making haste, her body humped slightly as it came up after Trev.

“Careful!” cried the half-elf. “Don’t stray from the path! To do so is certain death.”

“I thank you for the warning, exaggerated or not.”

“Believe me, I’ve caught glimpses of the phantoms that haunt the paths between the world. They are worse than Brand, even when he’s
in a state of deepest madness.”

“You’ve seen that as well?”

“Indeed, I have,” said Trev. He thought of Brand, plowing through the Storm of the Dead in Riverton. Although Trev had only been a child then, the memory was still very vivid. “Lord Rabing can wade through flesh,” he told the dragon, “cutting swathes through an army as a lesser man might reap a field of wheat.”

Despite Trev’s earlier
warnings, Fafna hurried forward. Trev had to trot lightly to keep up with her.

Chapter Ten

The Servant of the Lost

Brand was in a foul mood. He’d been chasing after Trev for days, and now the boy was in sight—although as a wavering figure on an unreachable path.

The trouble started when they entered the cavern full of slumbering Dead. The Dead that should have been moribund were anything but. They’d obviously been stirred up by the passage of Trev and his pet dragon—Brand no longer believed the boy was a captive in need of rescue. Anyone who could walk with a dragon for so long in the Everdark without losing his life wasn’t a child in need of protection.

In fact, as he reaved through the Dead that dared approach him and his flashing Axe, he had the strength of mind to wonder just
what
Trev was up to. Whose side was the half-breed was on? Could the boy have turned against the people that raised him? Could he now be an enemy of the Haven?

The thought flared up in his mind and would not die. It turned hotter and more certain by the second as he shattered ancient bones and burned fleshless skulls to ash with beams brighter than the sun.

A deathly grin did grow upon his face as he marched through the hapless Dead. They kept coming at him, heedless of their losses, and he welcomed their sacrifice. His mind, he felt, was growing more clear with every glittering arc of the Axe. Ambros flashed, burned, and bit—and his mind felt relief.

It had been too long. Far too long since he’d swung his doubled-bladed friend in a furious battle.
This was not a battle, really, it was an orgy of destruction. But there was nothing quite like fighting waves of mindless Dead. They were the perfect foil for Brand, like a light wine consumed with gusto before supper.

But
what was to be the main course? What could fall next to his Axe when the Dead were gone and the mound was reached?

He looked around, seeing nothing but a
Blue glimmer a dozen paces away. He almost took a step in that direction, but halted. It was only Tomkin, that Wee hopping weasel. The manling would bound off the second he charged, oh yes, his brain still worked well enough to know that!

No, the manling would not do. Ambros hunger
ed for
gouts
of blood, for
real
carnage, for flesh and bone aplenty to hack apart with wild, powerful blows…

Brand set a foot upon the path that led around the mound. This had to be the way. There was nothing else down here. He could possibly go to the Gnome City, but that was no more than a mile
distant. The thought of rudely awakening the gnomes from their slow years-long dreaming with a sparking bite of the Axe did make him smile. Ha!

But no. the walk was long, and the fever in his mind would have dimmed by then. Worse still, he knew the Axe could not be sated with the lives of dusty elementals. No, it had to be the nearest sour
ce of evil—of flesh-clad bones. Enemies with beating hearts and living blood: the boy and his pet dragon.

And so he marched along the spiraling path. Each step was powerful, forceful. It was as if he heard a pounding drum no other could. He did not stray from the path for a second, nor did his feet miss a beat. He circled the mound steadily, once, twice, thrice…

Behind him, distantly, walked Tomkin. He was dimly aware of the tiny jackal. The manling stayed far back and spoke little. That was good, for Brand had no interest in any words that sought to soften his resolve.

As they rounded the fourth circui
t the manling became braver. He approached to a dozen paces and dared to speak to Brand. As was always the case in this strange place, his voice had a somewhat ghostly ring to it.

“Brand? Have you come to your senses yet, you great oaf?”

Brand’s blood-lusting grin faltered. His eyes, which barely blinked now in his wild state of mind, squinched almost shut with rage. But he did not shout back insults. He did not scream threats. He knew that if he did so, he might lose his grip on the anger that burned in his chest. He did not want to be cheated.

Just ahead
, some part of him said—he thought perhaps it might have been Ambros itself, even though he hadn’t heard it speak to him in years, it seemed.
Just ahead is what we seek.
Evil shall be stricken from the page! Blood will fly!

“…from the page,” Brand mumbled, his speech slurred.

“What? Damn you, River-boy. Get a grip on yourself. Put away that shiny weapon and talk to me. We can’t just march into the open flames of a dragon’s yawn.”

Brand tried to speak then. He tried to shout at Tomkin to
SHUT UP!
But the words came out as an inarticulate howl instead.

“What’s that? You sound like a beast in a trap. One more time around, and I’m going to start bouncing pebbles off your head until you can think again. Bloody Axe, ‘tis the worst of them.”

Somehow, this triggered Brand as nothing else had. The entire trip had been taxing, frustrating and long. He’d been duped and manipulated by elf women, half-elf boys and now a young dragon with unknown but undoubtedly evil intentions.

Tomkin’s bitter complaints didn’t fall on deaf ears. Instead, they awoke a hot flame that was just beginning to cool. They fanned that flame and nursed it until it loomed up, blazing bright all over again.

With an inarticulate howl that was only part human, Brand did what no one ever should: he turned on the path around the mound and charged at his tiny tormentor. He held the Axe blazing and lifted high overhead.

“Brand! No!” shouted Tomkin, but it was too late.

Each step Brand took did not move him toward Tomkin, but rather away from the path. Such pathways around mounds were nothing like normal land, which a man could turn upon and cross with long strides whichever way he willed. The paths were spiraling routes between two points, one point in one world, and the second point in another.

In between, there was nothing good. A chaos of formless matter
like a sea of mist bubbled there. A split of space, time and motion. To take a step from the path might remove the man a year from the rest who still followed it—or a mile. And so when Brand reached the point where Tomkins stood, the two were not in the same place—not exactly. They were as ghosts to one another. In different moments, but appearing to be located in the same spot.

Some said that true ghosts were not of the Dead at all, but
echoes of the Lost. Souls that had wandered from just such a path at some point and had become trapped, visible to mortals briefly, but never able to return home.

Brand stood over Tomkin, who did dodge, dance and cower—but he did not run from the path or attempt to reverse his course upon it.

To Brand, it seemed as if he was battling a mad spirit of glimmering white. He slashed and hacked, spittle flying. He shouted in rage and glee, as both emotions were entwined with his twisting mind. But he hit nothing, because nothing was there.

After a half-dozen futile blows, he saw the glimmering ghost run past him, forward around the mound. Brand turned, confused,
with the Axe upraised. He took several steps after the manling—but faltered.

The path, once as clear as a stream reflecting silvery moonlight, was now dim and wavering. It was almost gone—almost erased.

He frowned, because he was not sure where to march, where to find the little devil in his top hat and coattails. He stumbled forward a half-dozen steps, but his vision only blurred further. The tiny figure now teased him in the distance, standing still and shimmering.

To Brand, it appeared that he
walked in a fog. He lowered his Axe and tried to think. It was difficult, painful. But the berserkergang that had once gripped him was fading. Perhaps the Axe itself sensed the danger and no longer goaded him like a frothing mount.

His sides heaved and he lowered the Axe
to drag upon the ground. There—he could see more clearly. The tiny figure that had teased him stood still now, and it seemed to be beckoning him onward. He took a lost, drunken step, then another.

That was when a black shape slipped out of the fog that surrounded him and snaked itself around his ankles.

Brand almost fell, but planted his feet and stood fast. He looked down in concern.

He’d never seen a tentacle before, but he’d seen drawings of sea beasts that supposedly had such limbs.

There were suckers on his boots. Pink and gray and mottled brown. They worked at the air and foul liquids oozed from each as if it was a tiny, hungry mouth.

The tentacle pulled. The strength was fantastic
! There was nothing he could do to fight that unimaginable power. It was as if a tree trunk had grabbed him around the ankle and sought to pull him—to pull him from the faintly glimmering pathway.

Brand’s reaction was simple and automatic. He slashed down with the Axe, hacking at the tentacle. It was cloven three-quarters of the way through in a single blow.

The strange thing made no sound, but it shivered in agony. Still, it did not let go. Even with only a quarter of its flesh intact, the limb pulled at him. Brand could feel his boot come away from his foot, and the skin beneath being ripped away with it.

He hacked again, and again. The tentacle, now severed and spurting black gore, retreated into the fog. But still, the part that hugged his foot remained. Brand limped forward, feeling the pain dully in his foot, but wanting to get away.

Part of him wanted to charge into the fog after the thing. He
knew
he could kill it. He knew that the beast, whatever it was, would fall to enough hacking blows of his Axe. There was nothing living that could withstand it. The only hope of any monster was to kill the Axeman, for nothing alive could survive the Axe itself.

But he controlled his urge to rush away from the path and become forever lost. Instead, he plodded forward, placing one foot before the last until Tomkin’s vague shape became more distinct.

The creatures that resided in the shadows between one world and the next were not done with him yet, however. How long had it been since they’d lost a struggle with prey who strayed into their realm? Brand didn’t know. Perhaps they’d never been rebuffed before, and they didn’t appreciate the experience.

Two came this time. They scrambled up from behind him to pull him down. He turned, but could not see them clearly. Both were not even vaguely humanoid, but they weren’t like the first beast, either.

Rather than tentacles of wet flesh, they were clad in smooth carapaces, like shellfish or gigantic insects. Their shells reflected back the light of Ambros as he lifted the Axe on high, and it seemed to him they were greenish in color with an iridescent sheen to their bodies.

The one on the left reared up, extending claws that were cruelly serrated and lined with spines that were as sharp as a hair of steel at the tips. The second scuttled in low, going for his legs.
Its curved mandibles, each as long as a dagger, dripped with venom or spit—Brand knew not which it was.

Nor did he care, because the light of battle overtook his mind. He let Ambros make free with him, and it was a good sensation. It had been too long since an enemy had openly stood before the twin blades of his Axe and done battle with him. For years, he’d seen nothing but cowards who dodged, tried to talk sense
into him, or who had fled in terror.

Not these two abominations. No, they either had no concept of what they faced, or
they did not care. The thought that they might know exactly who he was and what he could do and still felt confident of victory never entered Brand’s mind. For now he was the Axeman, and he was supremely assured of his power.

He broke out into song as they closed with him, singing words he’d never heard before in a tongue long dead. He could not recall
these ancient words later, but it didn’t matter. The words brought pride, fury and righteous certainty to his mind. He knew exactly what to do—it was as natural to him now as floating upon the river on a summer’s eve.

First, he swept away the claws that came for his legs. He could not afford to be dragged down. The lower beast was clipped and a fount of gore erupted from its outstr
etched stumps. Still carried forward by momentum, the monster bore in, crashing into Brand’s shins. The mouthparts worked at his legs, which were fortunately covered in mail and padded underneath. He felt the crushing pressure of its bite, but the mail held. The armor had been forged for him by Kindred smiths, and there wasn’t a single link among the thousands that was not tight with all its brothers.

After swinging low, the Axe arced back up to take the second—but it was too late. The two had come together, and now the second one was atop the first, scrambling over it in its feral haste to get at the prey it could see with black, jewel-like eyes.

Unable to get a stroke in, Brand let himself fall backward. He pulled the Axe in close to his chest, and put it between himself and the monster.

Eagerly, the creature climbed over him, pressing him down with its weight. Brand could feel and smell it now—but still he didn’t fear. The stink of it was overwhelming, like the stink of a slaughtered animal when it is opened and bloody on the butcher’s block.

He sang on, even when the monster loomed over him and sought to sink its fangs into his face and closed its claws around his shoulders with a lover’s embrace—but then, at the last, the beast shivered.