The Gods of Dream: An Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  "I would be glad to have you along," she said, smiling for the first time this day. Sir Grendel had been guard to her all her life, and before her birth, he served her father the king. Throughout her childhood, she could find endless comfort in his great, hulking presence in the hallways, in the kindly glint in his green eyes. There is still some goodness in the world.

  Soon she was in the stables, mounting her mare Comet, as around her armored guards, faces hidden behind bronze helms, sat upon coursers. Onana and Lynk sat behind upon twin chestnut fillies. Out of the stables they rode, and through the streets of the Begemmed City. Marble walls and spires rose around them, inlaid with gems. Few people filled the streets, and the marketplaces lay barren. They are scared.

  Soon they reached the Gates of Sapphire, carved of heavy wood banded with iron. Guards stood upon the city walls, bows in hands. Once the gates were open, and the plains of Dream lain before her, Moonmist breathed in relief. She rode out into the countryside, the cool breeze on her face. I need this. I need to get away from that city where the air smells like fear.

  Yet she could still remember the voice in her head.

  Her hand rose to her breast, and she clutched her pendant of the two pegacats, Starlight and Harmony. One cat carved of black jet with silver wings, the other carved of white marble, her wings of gold. Protect me on these days, pegacats of Eloria.

  She wished she could ride forever, ride for moons and moons, until she reached the eastern realms of Dream. They said the pegacats lived there by an enchanted waterfall. Moonmist wished she could meet them some day, them and the other gods of Dream, like Maninav the goddess of flowers, or Galgev the fox god, or even Yor, the Father Elk, the greatest god of Dream. There, in the east, where the gods dwell, there must be no evil. Phobetor will have no power there. Yet a tiny whisper of a thought, but a wisp, knew that no place in Dream was safe anymore. Phobetor had his eyes set upon Eloria, and it seemed that even the Begemmed City, with its knights and thick walls, was not immune.

  "So long as breath lives in my lungs," she whispered, "I will defend my city. If war should come, we will stand strong." She looked to Sir Grendel and his men, who rode around her, the sunlight upon their armor and swords. She was not sure what help she, a young princess who spent her life in pampered idleness, could grant her city on such dark days, but she could at least continue to pray.

  Lynk rode up beside her upon her filly. The handmaiden held the princess's banner in hand, flapping atop a ten-foot pole: the pegacats, Starlight and Harmony, circling each other upon a cobalt field.

  "My princess," the girl said, "I'm sure that things will be fine. Your guards are brave, their shields thick and their swords bright." Lynk smiled, dimples in her cheeks.

  Moonmist smiled. "Thank you, Lynk." The girl with the head of black feathers warmed her heart. Lynk was the same age as Moonmist, and had been with her for three years now. You are not only my handmaiden. You and Onana are my best friends. I thank Yor for such kind friends on dark days.

  "There, ahead!" Moonmist called over the rumbling hoofs. "The copse of birches. There is a meadow among the trees. Let us rest there and eat."

  Sir Grendel nodded, and the riders turned toward the copse, hoofs thundering across the grassy fields. Moonmist felt better already, as she always did when riding outside, the fresh air against her face, stinging her cheeks, the smell of grass and trees around her. I will not let the beauty of Dream fall to the Banished One.

  They were a hundred yards from the copse when wails rose. The horses bucked and neighed. Huge claws tore down the birches, cruel fangs glinted, and knights drew their swords.

  Moonmist screamed.

  * * * * *

  Alone in his garden, Phobetor sat and gazed upon white trees. The gardens of his palace could always solace him. A soft smile touched his lips. Even the God of Nightmare needs time alone, to reflect, to gaze upon living things.

  Made of skin and hair were his trees, eyeballs covering their trunks like knots in wood, their branches like long fingers with many joints, hair growing from the knuckles. The gods of Dream think that only their landscapes are beautiful, Phobetor thought. But they have not seen the beauty of Nightmare. He rose from his bench of twisted golden wire, walked toward one of the trees, and dug his claws into the trunk. Blood poured down the tree like sap, and its fingerlike branches twisted and shrieked. Phobetor wiped the pouring blood with his fingers, then held out his bloodied hand.

  "Drink, my pets," he said. The slugs and snakes that nested on his head crawled down his neck, along his arm, and coiled around his fingers. The creatures drank the blood from the tree, hissing and bloating. Phobetor smiled softly, gazing at his pets with affection. Why do those in Dream find Nightmare so dreary? This land is full of life and beauty.

  When his pets had their fill, Phobetor left the gardens and walked over a floor of shattered glass, moving toward his palace. In the distance around him, columns of fire rose, and great reptiles coiled in the ashy, swirling skies. His palace loomed ahead, its spires like jagged knives, its walls bleeding, its windows like shrieking maws.

  "Feesrog," Phobetor said, reaching out his mind, sending his thoughts out toward Seashell Shore, the eastern shore of Dream. "Feesrog, do you hear?"

  After a moment of silence came a guttural voice, speaking in Phobetor's mind from that distant shore. "Yes, my lord, I hear."

  Reaching his mind and gaze into the east, tens of thousands of miles away, Phobetor could see the creature of fang and fur. Dank and malodorous, his fur rustling with maggots, the beast stood among the trees of Dream.

  "Have you found them, Feesrog?" Phobetor asked.

  The Incubus shook his head, his three eyes lowered. "I have not, my lord. Talon and Sunflower have not entered Dream since that day. They fear your might."

  Phobetor reached the doors of his palace, towering doors of iron and firegems. Burly gatekeepers guarded them, twenty feet tall with doglike faces and hands the size of carriages. The gatekeepers opened the doors with mournful creaks, and Phobetor stepped in, his silk clothes rustling. His feet echoed against bloodred tiles as he walked across the grand hall, centipedes scurrying across the floor to escape his stride. Phobetor barely noticed the creatures; his mind was still set in the east, upon his Incubus.

  "They call you the Crunge, do you know?" Phobetor said and laughed softly. "I like the name. I should call you that, perhaps."

  "If you wish, my lord," said the beast of fang and fur.

  "I have sensed something," Phobetor said, climbing a staircase lined with jagged swords. "A portal was opened, not far from you, and I lost my sense of the hawk. The hawk is up to something, and possibly the elk too."

  Feesrog snarled, showing fangs like daggers, his tongue flapping, long and sticky and thick. "I will dine upon the elk and the hawk."

  Phobetor nodded. "When the time is right. Feesrog, do not underestimate them, and do not doubt that they are conspiring against us. Guard the bridge over the canyon. Do not leave it. I sense trouble in Seashell Shore."

  "Yes, my lord."

  Phobetor entered his hall, a grand hall lined with columns. Between the columns, he could see the realms of Nightmare stretching into the horizons, muddy and red, burning with towers of flame, the sky red and black and grumbling.

  "I will send the Silent Man forth," Phobetor said. "He will soon join you. Be careful, Feesrog. The hawk is planning a move against us, and these Talon and Sunflower are part of it."

  With that, Phobetor severed his connection with his Incubus, leaving him to guard that shore of sand and salt. Dream. They think it is so beautiful. Soon it will be mine. And you, Moonmist, sweetness... you will rule it with me.

  Phobetor marched toward his throne between the columns, gazing upon the burning red landscapes of Nightmare that growled on all sides. When he reached his marble throne, he sat down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He brought into his mind the image of Moonmist, his beloved. He let the memory of her beauty fill his mind, like good bl
oodwine fills the mouth. He savored the memory of her pale skin, freckles, hazel eyes.

  Such a beautiful thing.

  Phobetor did not regret being banished from Dream. No. In Dream he would have been nothing; a pariah. Here in Nightmare, he was a great lord, with many hosts worshiping him. He had his palaces, his armies, his women of flame and clay. Yes. The God of Nightmare has his paramours. He could raise his concubines from clay, breathe flame into their mouths, and turn them into living, lustful demons of searing fire-beauty.

  "But a girl of flesh and blood... a princess...."

  Phobetor ran his claws in the air, pretending to stroke the golden feathers that grew from Moonmist's head. He could still smell her scent. With every fiber in his pale, thin body, Phobetor longed to grab her, possess her, dig his claws into her as he knew her.

  Phobetor knew he could have any girl, if not a demon of clay and flame, then any of the Dreamgirls his minions captured. But he wanted only one.

  "Moonmist."

  Who else for a lord of Nightmare, than a princess of Dream?

  He smiled softly as in the distance, pillars of fire burned and coiling dragons screamed. "Yes, sweetness. You can run from my hag. You can escape for a while. But I am coming for you, Moonmist. I want you, and I am coming to take you."

  Chapter Four

  Tasha the Mouse

  Windwhisper flew across the living room, sparkling gifts in his talons. He bore a golden bottle--small as a shot glass--in his right talon. In his left talon, he held a jeweled compass on a golden chain. He placed the items on the coffee table and stared at Cade with yellow, glowing eyes.

  "How can Phobetor be stopped, Cade?" the hawk said, voice soft as clover in Dream meadows. "There is but one way, of paltry hope, of almost certain failure... but the only way. You, Talon. You can save Dream." The hawk nudged the gifts. "Travel across the lands of Dream, avoiding Phobetor's spies, until you reach Nightmare and find its master. This compass contains a drop of Phobetor's blood, and always points to him; it will guide you. You must then touch this bottle to Phobetor, and he will be sucked in and imprisoned."

  Cade shut his eyes. You can save yourself, Cade, he heard the old voice in his head, the voice of his sister as he lay, bandaged, slipping in and out of consciousness. Only you. Cade opened his eyes and looked out the window, at the autumn leaves falling, landing to scuttle across the street, rustle around pumpkins that lay upon cobblestones. He had survived then. He had lain dying for two months, and reemerged into the world, shrapnel in his hands and legs, reemerged to flee to this new country of autumn leaves and pumpkins upon cobblestones. He had thought that would be enough. He had thought that had been his life's battle, but now....

  "Magical quests? It all sounds like some fantasy book," he whispered to the hawk, but today, Cade could not find the boundary between imagination and reality. Maybe he was losing his mind, or had lost it long ago. He could see in his mind the wilderness of Dream, the beaches and sunlight, the misty forests of mossy birch, the endless gardens where faeries and firebirds flew. He saw, also, that image he had glimpsed in Windwhisper's eyes, the place of darkness, screams, and agony. Nightmare.

  He looked into the hawk's eyes again, but saw only yellow orbs, watching him, waiting. "I can't do this," Cade whispered. "I'm not Talon. That's only a game we play. I'm Cade, the orphan refugee. You do it, Windwhisper. You take the bottle to Phobetor."

  Windwhisper shook his head sadly. Dapples of sunlight coated his feathers and danced in his eyes. "I cannot, for Phobetor spies on all creatures of Dream. He would know if I quested toward him and send all his power to stop me, demons of dark wings and shadows that fly. Only an outsider can do this task, one Phobetor does not know."

  Cade sat down on the sofa. He stared at his hands, scarred hands that still ached. Autumn is here. The cold always makes them hurt. He looked up at his sea turtle statuettes that stood, solemn, upon the wooden shelves on the wall, arranged like soldiers of underwater. I insisted we buy the shelves, he remembered, buy the turtles, make a home of this place. When they fled to this country three years ago, Tasha had only wanted to sleep, to cry. He forced them to make a home here, to buy turtles because their mother had loved them, to start a new life. But had they really found a home here? No. Only in Dream. Only in the wilderness away from all memory and pain. Dream is where we escaped to. It is the place that saved us; how could I be the one to save it?

  "I can't leave Tasha," he said, shaking his head. "She needs me. She has nobody else." He had never left his sister, not even when the loneliness and pining swelled within him, when he wanted to flee this sad house and the memories that forever filled it. He always came home to be with her. She had taken care of him during those months that he lay abed, slipping in and out of death. He could not stop caring for her now, leave on this crazy quest into that place of fire and anguish.

  Windwhisper sighed. "Cade, does Tasha ever have nightmares?"

  "Of course, but--"

  "Phobetor is getting stronger, his kingdom larger, and so do nightmares worsen. If Phobetor destroys Dream, all good dreams will vanish. Sleep will become unbearable, so torturous that people will force themselves to stay awake until they die of exhaustion. Tasha and everybody else."

  Cade felt himself pale. He saw in his mind the Crunge, the creature of fur and fang, their beast of haunting. It had hurt them that day, had hurt Tasha when she was weakest. If the Crunge invaded her every night, haunted her whenever she slept, that could be enough. The next time he found her with slit wrists, her blood seeping into the bathtub as she gazed up at him with dry eyes, could be the last. Cade lowered his head. I can't let Tasha hurt herself again. I can't deal with it anymore. He had to save Dream, he realized, for Tasha if for no other reason. Our place. The place where everything was good.

  He took a deep breath and gazed at his apartment, the pot of dandelions Tasha had picked, his turtle statuettes, his life. Lips tightened, tears just stinging at the corners of his eyes, he grabbed the jeweled compass. He hung it around his neck from its golden chain. With an aching hand, he took the golden bottle and clutched it desperately. He looked at Windwhisper, trying to keep his face stern. He said nothing. He didn't need to. I've always known how to fight. I will do this, for my sister, for Dream. Yet he could not banish the fear that coiled in his belly.

  The moonlight filled Windwhisper's eyes, and for a moment, it almost seemed like he smiled... a smile of relief and hope. But then the hawk fluttered his feathers and leapt onto the table, and urgency filled his voice. "You must hurry. If Nightmare conquers Dream, the bottle will lose its magic, and Phobetor will become unstoppable. You must capture him before he conquers Dream."

  Windwhisper picked the dandelions from the vase. He released them in midair, where they floated in a ring, a hovering garland five feet wide. The hawk whispered a spell in a language that sounded ancient, almost forgotten. A shower of rose petals began to fall inside the ring of flowers, glowing with faery powder.

  "We can enter Dream through this portal," the hawk said. "It is not enough to visit Dream in your sleep, when morning will wake you. You must leave the world behind. Follow me."

  Windwhisper flew through the portal and disappeared with a flash of light.

  * * * * *

  Cade--her twin brother--chosen to save Dream?

  Hiding in the hallway, Tasha bit her lip, anger filling her. What about me? Windwhisper thinks Cade can save Dream, but that I'm useless? Everybody thinks I'm useless, but I'm not. I can do things too. Just because I sometimes go to the hospital doesn't mean I'm a loser.

  She watched as Cade disappeared into the portal, vanishing with golden light. Does Cade really think he can just tramp off on some quest to save me? He doesn't need to save me. He needs me to save him. Since the war left them alone in the world, they had done everything together, sharing their broken lives as if they still shared the womb. They would do this together too.

  Tasha raced into the living room. The portal was flickering. I
t's about to close. She ran toward the portal, but suddenly paused. If Windwhisper saw her in Dream, would he send her back? She needed a disguise, she realized. She remembered what Windwhisper had said that first day, the day they met him in the cemetery, when he first told them about Dream.

  "In Dream, you can be anything you like," the hawk had said, standing outside the mausoleum atop the bronze lion. "You don't have to be yourselves; you can be gods, animals, anything you wish."

  They had chosen to be Talon and Sunflower, the prince and princess of the wilderness, but today, Tasha needed to be sneaky and small. How can I enter without anybody knowing?

  Then she knew. She tightened her lips and leapt into the portal.

  Light flashed around her, and Tasha gasped. Her skin tingled and endless golden specks streaked across her, chinking like faery laughter or spilling coins, like the thousand tiny bells her mother sewed into her dresses when Tasha was a child. Tasha's hair streamed, and she tumbled through the air, spinning wildly. Back into Dream. Back into our world. She would not fear the Crunge. She clenched her fists, only they were no longer fists, but paws, tiny and pink.

  With a flash, the sparkling lights vanished, and the scent of sea hit her nostrils. Sunlight filled her eyes, blinding her. Catching her breath, she hit soft sand, dizzy.

  * * * * *

  For a moment the sunlight blinded him, and all Cade could see was white brilliance. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and he saw before him a beach. Seashell Shore.

  The sand was impossibly soft and flowing, strewn with seashells of all kind--Lion Paws, Angel Wings, King's Crowns and a hundred others. The water glimmered cobalt and green under an azure sky, crested with beads of sunlight. Palm trees grew above the shore, and in the distance soared green mountains. A breeze scented of water and salt filled Cade's nostrils, and the seashells clinked like wind chimes as the waves whispered over them.