Dreamwielder

by Garrett Calcaterra

  The news seemed to breathe strength back into Prisca. “I hope he gets to see Sol Valaróz at least once more,” she said when Makarria had finished her story. “He’s always dreamt of going back and he deserves that, if nothing else.”

  Makarria smiled and said nothing.

  “It’s true,” Prisca said after sighing deeply. “You are a princess. I see now it was pointless to try and hide things from you, but I did what I thought was best. You are a princess of Valaróz, Makarria. Neither you or I have ever seen it, but we belong to the land of the sun, the kingdom Vala founded when she crossed the Spine.” A single tear, atrophied by dehydration, ran down Prisca’s cheek. “If it’s true, Makarria—if you are the one ordained to defeat the Emperor—then do what you must. I know he has threatened to kill me and your father if you defy him, but please, don’t worry about us. I would gladly die to know you have killed him and made the world safe. There are others in this tower who have been tortured; I have seen them and spoken with them in the darkness of night. All of them would gladly die to know you have prevailed. This is your time, Makarria, not my time, not your grampy’s, not anyone else’s. Do what you must. Don’t let all our suffering end in vain.”

  Makarria slumped forward and stared at the cold gray floor below her. “I would, Mother—I would kill the Emperor—but I can’t. I tried. He knows how to stop magic. I tried to hurt him, and he just made the magic go away.” She began crying again.

  “Shush, darling,” her mother told her. “Men of his ilk always try to destroy the magic in the world, but I promise you, no one can make all the magic surrounding us go away. The Emperor is an ignorant child if he thinks he can overcome magic, or that he can live without it. It’s part of us, all of us, Makarria. Don’t you ever forget it.”

  Prisca went silent then and fell into unconsciousness.

  Makarria looked at her mother and father hanging there at the opposite wall. They were little more than husks of the people she remembered when leaving her farm. A cold determination filled her insides. I have to kill the Emperor, she realized. But how? Her mother’s words ran through her head again: He needs magic to live, and he’s a child if he thinks he doesn’t. A child…

  Makarria closed her eyes and pictured Emperor Guderian in her mind. She did not picture him as a grown man clad in armor and sword, however; in her mind she saw him as he once was, many years before and still a child.

  Caile rushed from his pavilion into the rain as the warning horns sounded around the city of Lepig. He looked first to the massive tower harboring the tank of naphtha to make sure it was safe and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it still standing there. His deepest fear over the last two days was that Wulfram would come flying from above and set it aflame. The tower stood as he last saw it though, thirty feet tall with the steel-banded, five-thousand gallon tank of naphtha at the top. The tank was covered in every spare skin and fur his soldiers could rustle up in town and soaked in water to ward off any burning arrows the Sargothian troops might shoot at it. Caile knew all would be lost if the tank was set aflame before its highly flammable contents were sprayed onto Guderian’s war machines.

  “Keep your eyes on the sky!” Caile yelled up at the archers stationed on the tank tower. “Keep Wulfram the raven at bay, and I will keep you safe.”

  The danger was not coming from the sky though. Caile looked to the west and saw an endless line of Sargothian war wagons approaching along the high road from Weordam. “Take your positions!” he yelled to his troops, but the Pyrthinian troops were already where they were supposed to be. The half dozen archers on the tower looked to the sky; two soldiers manned the spout nozzle; the remaining archers hid behind their ground fortifications, ready to light their naphtha-tipped arrows aflame upon command; the cavalry waited at the ready behind the nearest buildings, ready to ride outward and flank the war wagons once the machines were mired in the trenches and pits barring the road into the city; and the ground troops were ready to charge and kill whatever Sargothians came past the machines.

  Satisfied that all was ready, Caile wiped the rain from his brow, buckled his shield to his left arm, and drew his sword. An intoxicating sense of power and invincibility rushed over him, and he felt compelled to run forward and meet the war wagons headlong, but he knew better than that. His father, Lorentz, and even Don Bricio had taught him well. The adrenaline-fueled sense of invincibility was a mirage, he knew, and he dutifully fell back to his command post at the outskirts of the city and waited.

  The Sargothian wagons approached faster than seemed possible, emerging from the rain-shrouded horizon like nightmarish iron-clad monsters. Even having seen the steam-powered rickshaws and wagons in Col Sargoth, Caile still instinctively expected to see the enemy lines approaching at the speed of a cavalry charge, at most, but these wagons were charging forward over the rain sodden road faster than any horse, faster than anything he had ever seen. Smoke billowed up from their stacks, and the sound of the three hundred plus wagons filled the air like a violent thunderstorm. Steam pistons thrummed like an earthquake, drowning out the deluge of rain hitting the ground.

  “Wait for my word!” Caile yelled out.

  The wagons barreled forward, armored in steel, scythes stretched out before them like plows.

  The rain fell in torrents.

  The first wagon reached the outskirts of Lepig and augured nose first into the ground; the front wheels buried themselves in the ditch the Pyrthinians had dug, and the wagon upended itself to land upside down in the mud before the city. The second wagon followed suit. The third wagon slowed and merely slid into the ditch, and the wagons behind it skidded to a halt.

  “Release the naphtha!” Caile screamed over the cheers of his troops.

  The men at the tower released the control valve, and five-thousand gallons of flammable fuel began rushing down the copper pipes to stream forward and shower the stalled wagons. The stream of naphtha shot with the same force Caile had imagined, just as powerful as the water cannons of Sol Valaróz. The viscous liquid splashed over the steel shells of Guderian’s war wagons.

  “Archers,” Caile yelled. “Draw, aim… Fire!”

  Two hundred burning arrows arched into the sky. Nearly all of them struck the doused wagons, but the flames did not take. The burning arrows clanked off the steel hulls of the wagons harmlessly, and while a few of the burning spears set the naphtha alight, the downpouring rain promptly put the flames out.

  Caile stared at the enemy machines, his hopes snuffed out along with the flames of the arrows. He watched as the Sargothian troops rushed forward to begin digging the war wagons from the ditches. Sargothian foot soldiers surged forward and Sargothian archers took aim at Caile’s men on the tower.

  “Cavalry, charge!” Caile yelled. “Archers, aim and fire!”

  The Pyrthinian horsemen charged past Caile, and a hail of burning arrows rained down on the Sargothian troops and wagons again, but the burning arrows did little more than sputter and fizzle out as they struck the armored shells of the war wagons. The heavy downpour of rain extinguished everything as the Pyrthinian troops engaged the Sargothian force.

  Makarria had seen many strange things in her dreams the past few months—everything from girlish fantasies to visions of the future to immaculate forms of rock and human life itself—but she had never seen before what she now envisioned. The past, she realized. Guderian’s past….

  She had seen glimpses of Taera’s visions of the future, but this was vastly different; it wasn’t a potential future but rather the very real past. In her mind she saw Emperor Thedric Guderian as a boy… and the Dark Queen…

  Thedric jumped from the boughs of a tree in the garden and ran toward his mother. She flung wide the folds of her black cape and knelt down to take him in her arms…

  The Pyrthinian cavalry rushed forward, but as intent as they were to steer clear of the war wagons, the wagons were faster. The steel-shelled machines barreled outward from the road into the fields to bar the cavalry�
�s progress and Caile could only watch as his soldiers were mowed down like stalks of grain beneath the scythe. The screams of horses and men filled the air.

  “Fire, fire!” he yelled at the archers, but still their burning arrows fizzled out on the hulls of the war wagons.

  Makarria beheld the throne room of Lightbringer’s Keep, but in her mind’s eye she saw Thedric Guderian as a lad of three. Beckoning the small boy was his mother, the Dark Queen…

  ‘Hurry, Thedric. I have news for thee.’

  Thedric ran forward and grasped his mother by the waistcoat. Outside, balls of fire rained down on Lightbringer’s Keep and men screamed in agony…

  Caile blocked the sword stroke of his nearest assailant and swung his own sword into the Sargothian soldier’s thigh. The man went down with a grunt, and Caile yanked his sword free only to thrust it back down into his adversary’s throat. The man died immediately, and Caile looked up barely in time to see a Sargothian cavalryman baring down upon him. Caile sidestepped the warrior’s flail and slashed with his sword to take out the hind legs of his enemy’s horse. The horse collapsed with a scream, and the cavalryman flew over the saddle to break his neck in the mud.

  “For Pyrthinia!” Caile shouted in triumph, but suddenly a dark shape moved toward him on all fours.

  The deep toll of a bell thrummed throughout Lightbringer’s Keep and Emperor Guderian rose to his feet from a chair in his study. He was sincerely surprised and glared at Talitha who sat naked and chained to the floor beside him, as if the warning toll was somehow her fault. He had not expected Makarria to act out against him, but the alarm from the houndkeeper’s tower was quite clear: magic was afoot.

  Caile raised his shield barely in time to block the deadly talons of the black wolf. Even so, he was knocked to the ground.

  He pushed himself back to his feet with his sword raised. “Fire, fire, fire!” he yelled, and a volley of arrows streamed downward, but the wolf was gone already and the arrows embedded themselves into the muddy ground.

  It’s Wulfram, Caile realized, and spun around to look for help. There were a few archers in the tower still, but the men at the base were all slain. Without thinking, Caile ran to take up the nozzle spout. He yanked back on the nozzle valve and sent a torrent of volatile liquid forward onto the stalled war wagons.

  “For Pyrthinia!” he yelled, but then the black wolf was there in front of him again.

  Makarria envisioned Lightbringer’s Keep, but she envisioned it fifty years before she had seen it in real life. In her mind, Thedric Guderian was but a lad, and the Dark Queen sat on the throne before him. Makarria erased the floor beneath her and everything but the walls and manacles holding her and her parents. She made the torture chamber a blank slate and the half- formed images of the past came to life…

  ‘Come to me, my boy,’ the queen said. ‘War is upon us, and you must flee. Take care of yourself and someday you will be welcomed here again. You will return as the king you are meant to be.’

  At her bidding, a sorcerer grabbed up young Guderian and carried him away, but the crown prince of Sargoth looked back and saw behind him the might of Col Sargoth, what could be. He was taken away on a ship across the Gothol Sea, but still he kept his sight on Col Sargoth. South he went, to the Old World, and with him his dreams. But still, he remembered the glory of Lightbringer’s Keep….

  Wulfram knocked Caile away from the spray nozzle of the naphtha tower, but Caile maintained his footing in the muddy turf and slashed back. Wulfram snarled and sidestepped the stroke, then lunged forward again. Caile took the brunt of the attack upon his shield and spun away, managing to strike a blow across Wulfram’s snout with the butt of his sword.

  Before Wulfram could attack again, Caile sprinted away through the rain to the nearest of the war wagons. He jumped up onto the main deck, slick with naphtha and water, and cut down the soldier sticking his head from the foremost turret. The Sargothian archer collapsed back into the hollow of the wagon, and Caile turned again to face Wulfram, now below him. The wolf leapt up, knocking him back against the turret, and Caile’s sword fell from his grip. Caile pushed Wulfram away with all the might he had in him and spun away to fall to the ground.

  “Fire!” he yelled to his archers, but he was too far way for them to hear him now, and Wulfram leapt down from the wagon to face him, eye to eye.

  Thedric Guderian barged his way through the doors into the lowest chamber of his torture tower and froze, disorientation sweeping over him. He was not in the torture chamber he remembered. Rather, he stood in the throne room, which he had just left moments before. But it wasn’t the throne room as it was now… his mother and Wulfram were there. Impossibly.

  What would you have me do? Wulfram asked, his voice young and strong.

  The Dark Queen contemplated his question silently for a long moment. Send my son away to the Old World, she said finally. Then destroy Lon Golier. I want the city burned to the ground. If nothing else, I will have my revenge on Golier.

  Wulfram bowed and swept away.

  The Dark Queen turned then to Guderian. Come to me, my boy, she said. War is upon us, and you must flee. Take care of yourself and someday you will be welcomed again. You will return as the king you are meant to be.

  “No,” Guderian said, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as if it would somehow make the visage of his mother disappear. “This isn’t real,” he said, turning to Makarria where she hung against the wall. “I’m not a boy. Make it stop.”

  Makarria half-opened her eyes, still in a dream trance. The image of the throne room she held steady, half-formed but not yet solidified into reality. She saw the Emperor standing there in duplicate: a child in her mind’s eye but a grown man in real life.

  “It’s your life,” she muttered. “You make it stop.”

  Flames suddenly spurted past Caile and Wulfram leapt back with a yelp as his black fur took flame. Caile had no idea where the fire came from, but he didn’t care. He scrambled up from the mud and darted around the wagon to grab up his sword. When he looked up, he saw before him Taera, surrounded by seven mad-looking vagrants. A pack of coyotes rushed past one of the men and fell upon Wulfram, who had already extinguished the flames in his fur. Rain and wind swirled over the top of one of the other women and she flung it forward to send three Sargothian cavalrymen flying back into the mess of war wagons.

  Sorcerers! Caile realized and rushed away from the wagons to join his sister. “Fire, fire,” he yelled. “Set the wagons on fire!”

  One of the women at Taera’s side raised her hands and fire belched out from above her to bathe the wagons in flames. The naphtha hissed and took flame even in the downpour of rain.

  “Again!” Caile shouted in triumph.

  Another firewielder joined the first, and the two of them struck together. The whole line of wagons near the tank tower went up in flames.

  Wulfram was still there though, in wolf form, and he tossed aside the coyotes harrying him.

  Now’s your chance! Caile realized, and he ran yet again to the tower of naphtha.

  “Make it stop!” Emperor Guderian yelled.

  Makarria looked at him through her blurry eyes but kept the vision of the throne room and the Dark Queen firmly in her mind—half dream, half reality. It took all of her strength to hold the vision at the brink of the hilltop. “You make it stop,” she whispered. “You have the ability to stop magic.”

  Come to me, my son, the Dark Queen said, beckoning him.

  Guderian screamed in fury and clenched his eyes closed.

  Caile opened the valve and aimed for Wulfram. The torrent of naphtha washed over the giant black wolf and knocked away the remaining two coyotes.

  “Fire!” Caile yelled.

  The firewielders lashed out at Wulfram, but he was too quick. He leapt away from the flames and bolted. Even as he ran, his body began to change into that of a raven. Caile cursed and grabbed up a bow and arrow from one of his fallen men as he sprinted after Wulfram. The da
rk sorcerer was already flapping his wings, and he took to the air. Caile skidded to a halt at the first burning wagon he came to and lit the tip of his arrow. He notched it quickly into the bow string and pulled back with all his might.

  Wulfram arched up and away from him through the rain.

  Caile took aim and let the arrow loose. The flame at the tip sputtered as it cut through the rain, but it stayed alight and flew true. It struck Wulfram in the breast, and instantly his naphtha-soaked feathers burst into flames.

  Wulfram’s half-human, half-raven cry carried over the battlefield. His mighty wings flapped twice more, then he began to plummet from the sky. His burning body shifted and changed as he fell, at one moment a man, the next a wolf, the next a raven. Down and down he fell, then stopped with a thud as he struck the muddy ground. The impact snuffed out the flames, but Wulfram’s body was already burned and broken beyond repair. He took one last breath then died.

  Emperor Guderian shook his head and looked away from his mother, who he knew was not real. She had been dead and gone for fifty years.

  “You will die for this,” he told Makarria and moved toward her. He raised his sword and even as he did so he reached inward to feel Makarria’s magic and stint it.

  Makarria felt the image in her mind suddenly yank free from her grasp. She screamed out in pain and felt her mind tumult back down the mountain of resistance.

  Around them, everything flitted away: the throne room, the Dark Queen, but also the floor beneath Guderian’s feet. Makarria had turned the floor to nothing before she had created the image of the throne room, and now when Guderian stripped Makarria’s half-realized vision away, the half-dream floor was stripped away with it.