Dreamwalker (3 page)

T
hat night they were in a forest. Runes glowed white from the tree trunks, forming a perfect circle around the couple. Black shapes surrounded them, unable to pass the runes. Ander held the pale, slender hand in his own, caked with blood. His wife smiled at him one last time as her life slipped away. Her eyes were brown. The trees around them began to crack loudly and fall, shattering like glass.

Ander was wrenched from sleep suddenly by a loud knocking sound. Lightning flashed outside and rain trickled in from a leak in the roof. Ander rubbed his eyes and frowned. Knocking again. No, more like pounding. Urgency, or maybe fear. He wasn’t imagining it. He shook his head once to rouse himself from sleep and headed downstairs.

Draven was at the door, along with two of his militiamen and a man Ander recognized as Father Josue, and old priest of Lyetia. One of the soldiers held a bloodied cloth over his cheek. Draven held a large black bundle over his shoulder. Ander noticed how cold he felt; unnaturally so, despite the season.

“We caught it.” Draven and the others pushed past Ander and stood in the entryway.

With a beckoning gesture Ander led the men down into the cellar. Dusty shelves and tables lined one wall, each stacked high with papers curled and stained with age and neglect. Ander ignored these and walked to the far corner of the room. He kicked some empty crates aside, several of which fell apart from the force. Ander wiped the dust and grime from the wall and whispered a few words under his breath. Blue-white runes appeared at his word on the walls and floor in a circle that enclosed the corner. Ander stepped back and pointed to his work.

“Put it here.”

Draven gave Ander a questioning look but did as he was told. He pulled away the blanket that had wrapped around the form and dropped it against the corner. The runes faded once but then grew brighter.

The demon was a girl. She was young, perhaps twenty, with a small, fragile build, pale skin and straight black hair that draped over her face and shoulders like strands of silk. Her unconscious form was completely still. Something about her demanded silence and pause. Black tattoos covered her skin, seemingly from head to toe. They were beautiful and intricate, woven together in a flowing pattern that complemented every feature and curve of her body. At the same time there was something about them that was cold and forbidding. Ander recognized them as individual runes of power, each woven into the next in some complex grand design chosen by the artist. He could not help but take a moment to marvel at its masterpiece.

“A cage for demons.” The priest’s soft voice broke the silence. He was older, his well-trimmed beard completely white and his face lined with age. Ander always noticed that his eyes, grey but not dim, were very kind. The old priest had settled in the village a few years before Ander, and though priest and Dreamwalker were two very different walks of life, each had a mutual respect and recognition for the other’s purpose. Ander had always liked him.

“Correct, Father.” Ander knelt down and fastened shackles that were bound to the floor around the girl’s wrists. They glowed with the same runes that lined the floor.

“You’ve had this here for a while, shaman. Did you expect this to happen?”

Ander met the other’s gaze for a moment before answering. “I prefer to be prepared for such things. You never know what your path will cross.” He was sure both Josue and Draven saw through the lie. He turned to the two militiamen. “Go home and tend your wounds. You’ve earned a rest. Tell no one what you have seen here.”

Draven rubbed at his chin as he watched them leave. “We didn’t hunt for it, I want you to know. We were just warning the outlying families of the danger.” He nodded to the priest. “When we got to Josue’s house we knew it had been there. We tried to follow at a distance but it circled around and attacked my men. By some luck or blessing above I managed to knock the thing out and here we are.” He sniffed and looked at the girl with a scowl. “I’m ashamed to say that small thing almost bested us.”

“Nonsense.” Ander crouched down just outside the circle. His eyes never left the girl as he studied her, fascinated. “This is a vessel.”

“A what?”

“Many demons have no earthly form.” Josue stepped forward. “They require a body to sustain their presence. It is likely this child was prepared for her fate over many years, judging by the work done to her skin…”

“Just a body.” Ander rose and faced the others. “There is no girl, it’s just a shell. Some are bred soulless for such a purpose. There never was a girl.”

Josue looked at Ander and shook his head. “You cannot be sure—“

Everyone stopped at once and noticed that the demon’s eyes were open. They seemed dark, almost black in the light. They stared at each man in turn without blinking. Ander never looked away as the demon tilted her head and glanced down at her bindings. She lifted her wrists to test the weight of the shackles. Her lips curved upward into a sly smile.

“This is something new.” The voice was soft and feminine. “New place, new bonds. New master?” Her gaze focused on Ander. Something about her gave him a chill.

“Your name, demon.” Ander forced himself to keep eye contact.

The demon licked her upper lip. “First tell me yours.”

Draven interjected, his tone low and rough. “We haven’t time for games, witch. Tell us what we want to know or I’ll force the answers from you.”

Her glance darted to the solider. She let out a low chuckle of amusement and sat up in a manner that accented the curves of her body. “I’d like to see that. I remember you. Strong, quick. Perhaps too much so.”

Draven growled and started forward but Ander stepped between them. The demon was speaking magic into her words to cause anger, anger that would cause Draven to do something foolish. He placed his hand on the wall over one of the runes and spoke a single word under his breath. The rune shifted and changed shape at his touch. The girl released a shriek and bent forward in pain.

“You were warned.” Ander moved his hand away from the wall.

“Magic weaver.” Her words were a low hiss. “Spirit-namer.”

Ander ignored her challenges. “Speak your name, demon. Your vessel is dying.”

He regretted revealing the fact as soon as it passed his lips. Would it be able to possess another without aid? He could not be sure. Surely the priest would be protected by the grace of his goddess, but if that thing possessed Draven Gree…

The girl tilted her head, the movement slow and mechanical as though her neck were a rusted hinge. She looked aside to one of the tables that lined the walls, piled high with stacks of papers – Ander’s lists and drawings.

“You know it already. I see it there, written over and over again.” Her lips curled into a cruel smile. “We’ve met before, you and I.”

Draven frowned. Josue raised his brow as he turned toward Ander. “Of what does she speak, Shaman?”

Ander frowned. “She speaks lies, Father, nothing more.”

The girl’s cold dark eyes fixed on Ander. “Why speak lies when the truth is so much better? I had forgotten all about it, the night you dared to summon the likes of me. You were younger then. Handsome as well, though I much prefer you now – stronger, lined with experience…” She smiled.

Ander turned away and brought a hand over his eyes, pressing against them in attempt to keep away the images he had spent so many nights trying to hold onto. He heard faint whispers from every direction, reading off his many lists of names.

“Come now, Spirit-namer. Name me.”

“Be silent, she-demon.” Draven tried to place a hand on Ander’s arm but he pushed him away.

The whispers were growing louder, though the solider seemed not to notice them.

The girl began to laugh. Josue grasped a golden sigil that hung at his neck and mumbled a low prayer, his words shaken and unsure as he drew back from the others. Draven began to shout threats to the girl, his weapon in hand. The whispers persisted. Ander heard a ringing in his ear that grew louder by the second.

Then all at once there was silence, save for a single name Ander heard whispered as though someone’s lips were next to his ear.

Ambrosine.

He mouthed the name as it was spoken to him.

In moments he was on her, Draven’s knife in his hand. He shouted curses as he struck her across the face and then raised the weapon over his head with every intention to make his next move fatal. But the demon was too quick. The chains that bound her fell away into dust as she took hold of Ander’s neck, the movement so swift and precise that Ander had no choice but to move to defend himself. He grabbed at her wrists with both hands, the blade pressed between her skin and his palm. She was far stronger than her vessel’s small frame should allow.

Ander felt Draven pull him back despite his shouts of protest. As Ander and the demon broke contact the knife in Ander’s hand sliced through one of the tattoos on her arm. She shrieked at the sudden pain and tried to renew her grasp. With a sharp kick to the ribs Draven sent her flailing back into the rune bindings. Her head struck against the stone wall and she fell silent, her eyes closed. Blood trickled from her broken lip and the seething cut on her arm.

For a moment it seemed to Josue as though the ink markings around the cut shimmered briefly before fading, and after that they seemed somehow different from the others.

Ander and the soldier struggled, but though the two were equal in strength it was Draven who had the training. In moments he had his knife back and flung it across the room. Ander growled as he pushed away.

“Why did you stop me?”

“She’s the one who had you on the fray, friend.”

“Let me kill it!” He made another lunge toward the motionless girl but was subdued by Draven. “I must!”

“No!” The two men paused at Josue’s sudden interruption. The priest stepped forward and rested an urgent hand on Ander’s shoulder. “You cannot.”

“Stay out of this, priest.”

“You cannot.” He spoke more softly now, his words laced with concern. “Think, shaman. You know better than I that a demon must remain
bound
to its vessel. It cannot be allowed to go free. You would only harm the girl.”

“I won’t have a rogue demon in my village.” Draven released his hold on Ander and rolled his shoulders forward in a gruff motion. “It’ll be on your head, Ander.”

Ander clenched his jaw and turned away. It was right there, right there! The others didn’t understand. So much time spent searching, and now it was right there. At his mercy.

But they were right. Killing the vessel would only release the demon, putting everyone at risk. Here and now, at least, it was contained. Ander sighed and let his shoulders drop.

“Leave it here, then. I’ll see to things.” He straightened his stance and faced the two men. “But this demon has
much
to answer for, and I will see it done. One way or another. The vessel is just that – do not try to guilt me into thinking otherwise. That thing is no more a girl than the stones outside.”

M
idnight. The sky is clear tonight and gives way to the full moon that beams into the open window, illuminating the circle of runes that shimmer in the silvery light. But some are red now, stained with blood that trickles from the dead woman’s mouth. Her blue eyes are staring at nothing. Ander kneels beside her, his hands stained as well. He hears the faint feminine voice whisper help me. White light flashes from nowhere every few seconds. With every flash it reveals the demon crouched in the corner, a shapeless black mass. No, a girl. Such a small, unassuming girl. Watching. Watching. Pleading. Laughing.

Ander gave his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Dawn was a few hours off yet, but he was alert, jarred by his dream. He dressed and returned to the cellar, ignoring his instincts to write the details of his sleep. Beams of moonlight illuminated the small room and the girl who lay unconscious in her magic cage. Ander’s runic magic shimmered faintly in the light. With silent steps he knelt before the girl, his breath caught in his throat. The pale gleam of the knife in his hand reflected the light, forming a thin white stripe on the girl’s tattooed skin.

He noticed the wound he had given her earlier. It was a shallow, almost superfluous cut, but the skin separated just enough to split one of the tattoos that lined her features. Ander frowned as he studied the marking, pulling it whole in his mind. He knew that rune, as he did so many, written countless times on his papers and upon the walls. He had written it once himself, badly, so many years ago. A rune of control. He exhaled sharply and looked at the girl’s face.

She was breathing. Her chest made the slight labored heave of one who is ill or out of breath. Her eyelids fluttered as she dreamed. Ander saw the corner of her mouth make a delicate twitch.

He closed his eyes, turning the blade of the knife flat against his wrist as he rose and left the room. Regret tugged at his chest as years of torment and searching screamed at him to turn back as he climbed the stairs and returned to his bed. Turn back, end this. Be free of her.
Turn back.
But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Twenty years of agony and the painful need for closure were all held at bay by one simple truth.

Demons didn’t breathe.

The sting of cold bit against his skin as Ander walked into the morning air outside. He did not stop until he had reached an overlook that allowed him a view of the entire village below. The streets were already busy with people going about their lives, blissfully forgetful of the war that pressed on, countless miles away, and equally unaware of the darkness that rested just above the valley. Ander dragged a hand down his face and sighed heavily. Demons didn’t breathe. The thought filled his mind like a pot of water boiling over the sides. The vessel was a person, not the empty shell he had known of possessions in the past. Such an instance
shouldn’t
be possible. It was
impossible
. He had been sure of it. In the countless times he had run this scenario through his mind he had been so sure.

He thought at first to visit Josue, to seek the help of the gods for the first time in his life. Magic and divinity had never been at odds with one another, although some priests taught the idea that no man or woman should have the power of shapers or walkers that mimicked what the gods could do. The two had separated not out of strife, but by simple deviation as one pushed the confines of science and the other found comfort in faith and guidance. No doubt Father Josue would provide Ander with guidance and wisdom, and perhaps even answers. He would have some way of leading him away from what he had always known was a destructive path, and show him how to release his obsessions and seek something more fulfilling. The process might take years, but in the end he would be wiser for it, and his nights would no longer be troubled. Josue would help him find peace.

But peace was not something he wanted, and so when he came to where the path split between the mountain roads and the descent into the valley, he took the latter. He needed the wisdom of someone who had devoted himself entirely to a cause, who had put his very being into something, and then found doubts when brought to the brink of everything he thought he wanted.

Ander had met other deserters before. Men and women fled the war for all sorts of reasons, but cowardice and fear were not things he knew in Draven Gree. The young captain was steadfast and battle-worn, like so many before him and so many to come, but he had been touched by the war in a different way.

His old friend greeted him at the fence, inviting him in with a gesture and a few amiable words. Ander could see that he hadn’t slept that night. He would want to know about the demon, but followed the rules of friendship and courtesy by offering him a cup of wine mixed with herbs and water. Ander accepted and the two took chairs by the open window, warming themselves with drink to stave off the cool mountain breeze that reminded them winter was not far off.

“Is it contained?” Draven asked at last when all polite formalities had been satisfied.

Ander shook his head. “I made a mistake, Gree.”

Draven sat forward, his face drawn with concern. “What do you mean?”

“The vessel… there’s something there. Someone. I think there’s someone there.” He told Draven about what he had seen, and what it meant. The other man sat in silence, listening without judgement or opinion, only nodding on occasion to mean he understood. When Ander thought he had nothing else to say, his friend’s silence managed to push him to explain even further.

“I’ve been hunting this demon for a long time. I’m sure it’s the one. It took something precious from me, and now I’m not sure I can take my revenge.”

“Is she dangerous?”

She.
The thought of the woman and not the demon that possessed her tugged at Ander’s chest. “The demon, yes. I’m not sure about…her. I’m not even sure she’s conscious.”

Draven pulled a long sigh and rubbed at his unshaven chin. “What did she take from you?”

Ander stared at him for a moment, then pulled the cuff of his sleeve away from his right arm. A thin black band was tattooed around his wrist – a mark of marriage. Draven only nodded. There was a long silence.

“Tell me about Fort Legend, Draven.”

He knew the name from whispers, not all of them from the waking world. Fort Legend was an enigma. It had been built in the middle of pure wilderness. The location was not defensible, nor did the surrounding area hold any strategic value. No one, king or conqueror, had ever claimed the land before and it was unlikely anyone would try for some time. There had been no battles at Fort Legend, nor had there ever been a siege attempt by enemy forces. Travelers avoided the fort as best they could, though no one could really explain why. No one went to Fort Legend unless ordered there, and those who came out again were always to be feared.

Ander had never asked Draven about his past before, but insight and whispers from his journeys to the Otherworld had made the link not long after their first meeting. It was more than a guess—he was certain of the connection. Fort Legend was the haunted look in Draven’s eyes, and the weight that bent his shoulders forward. It was the quickness in his arms when he drew his weapon at the slightest foreign sound, and the pause before he swung his blade. The name had been on Ander’s mind for some time, though he knew not why, and now seemed like the only time to ask, as though he might not have another chance.

The man leaned back and sighed, his expression drawn with fatigue. He took a pouch from his breast pocket and turned it over in his hand. An iron ring tumbled into his open palm. Crudely made, three faces stemmed from a single head, each twisted in agony, a different colored gem placed in each mouth. Ander had never seen it before. Draven took the ring between his fingers and turned it over thoughtfully.

“We were soldiers, Ander. Soldiers take orders. Very few were transferred to Fort Legend to be trained there, but everyone knew what it meant. You were the elite—the very best, without question. We were trained to be the most efficient killers, weapons that would devastate the elven armies, but it was so much worse than that.

“Old men ran the fort. Alchemists. Not generals, not warlords—men of science and magic. They gave us these little vials of black liquid and we drank them without question. The first weeks were painful, but the results came soon after that to those who survived. The speed, the strength—reflexes and instincts far beyond anything- anything I…” He inhaled sharply. “We were like gods, Ander. You’re the only man I know who might understand the feeling of it—beyond lust, beyond need or desperation, beyond ecstasy. I took down entire armies in mere minutes.”

He let his head fall back, the veins of his neck bulging outward as though they might burst. Ander began to speak, but Draven waved him quiet and sat forward again.

“I’ll admit I thought him foolish when Nikil first expressed his doubts toward our cause. I don’t think I cared anymore, or at least I didn’t want to. He won me over, though, and Varric too. We’d volunteered for the war together, trained together…yet when we decided to see the source of these potions for ourselves, I was ready to deny everything and turn them in. I was that far gone. I thank the gods for Varric, who beat me senseless and returned my mind to reason.

“I don’t remember how many elves there were in that room. I don’t think any of us counted. There they had been all that time, bound and gagged so we would never discover them, most mutilated so terribly they couldn’t be called elves anymore. And weak, too weak to move when we approached, though I’ll never forget the fear and dread in their eyes.” His hands were trembling and Ander saw true terror in his expression. “We gave each of them a blade to the temple—it was the first mercy I had offered anyone in years. Varric was a fool for insisting we take the she-elf, but she was still whole. She would live, unlike the others. Something about her blood—they harvested the others for their organs and other parts, but this one had been laid out on a strange table, her veins opened just enough so that she would survive the slow drain. Varric carried her out with the strength her own blood had given him, and we all got away that night.

“That was never going to be the end of it, of course.” His smile was wry and bitter. “We hid in the wilds for weeks, going deeper into those woods than anyone had ever dared before. Nikil is still there, if he lives. Varric and his she-elf were together for some time, then they parted and he went on to the coasts. I hear word of his comings and goings now and then, but we agreed never to make direct contact. He’s joined the elves in the war. I came here to Delving Vale, trying to forget. But they hunt each of us to this day. One day the war will stretch its ugly shadow far enough to find me here, but by then I’ll have taken my wife and my children just a little bit farther.”

Draven leaned back again, his eyes wild and staring as though he were experience the fresh shock of what he had just described. Ander let the silence linger for a long time, knowing there could be no words of comfort or encouragement to give him. Silence was his only gift; silence and his own lack of pity or verdict.

The soldier took a deep, slow breath. “Sometimes you want something so badly—things appear to fall into place so perfectly that you don’t allow yourself to see the flaws. It takes something far more important or more terrible than your goals to pull you away from the wrong path.”

Ander nodded and rose from his chair, clapping his friend on the shoulder. As he reached the doorway Draven called after him.

“What was she like, your wife?”

Ander took pause and let his shoulders drop. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to face his friend—perhaps his only true friend—when he admitted the truth.

“I don’t even remember her name.”