Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  This was what he wanted to hear, proof of her loyalty, but perversely he found himself wondering if she had planned this with Reothe so she could open the fortress from within when his back was turned.

  ‘You don’t believe me.’ Imoshen’s voice sounded weary and indignant. ‘Why do I bother?’

  He stared across the fire at her. There were bruised circles under her eyes which shimmered with unshed tears. As he watched, the tears rolled down her cheeks, glistening in the firelight.

  Before he could stop himself he crossed the fire circle to kneel before her. He used his thumbs to brush the tears from her face.

  She blinked, twisting her head to be free of his hands.

  Tulkhan rubbed his jaw, feeling the bristles of the beard he hadn’t bothered to remove since leaving T’Diemn. ‘If the scrying says I’m going to die here, what difference can warning me make?’

  She shrugged. ‘Scrying is not an exact science. I already told you that. I am here and the baby has been born, so things are not exactly as I foresaw them in the scrying. It was one possible path and now we are on another, hopefully one that will not lead to your death. Here, hold this.’

  She gave him the half-eaten bowl of stew and changed the baby to the other breast. The babe protested vehemently but settled down when he found a fresh nipple.

  Tulkhan had to admire his son’s single-mindedness.

  ‘My food.’ Imoshen held out her hand. ‘This is a good spot for a fortress, but we are vulnerable to attack right now. If I were Reothe I would make a clean sweep and be rid of us altogether.’

  Tulkhan tried to concentrate on what she was saying. He had trouble discussing tactics with Imoshen in this situation. A Ghebite woman would never discuss such things with her husband, let alone do it while breastfeeding his son. Females were considered unclean while they were making milk, bleeding or pregnant. Even their normal places in the temples were forbidden to them at these times. The priests claimed they became channels for evil spirits because of their inferior souls.

  ‘General, are you listening to me? I didn’t come all this way to die in a surprise attack.’ Imoshen fixed angry eyes on him.

  Tulkhan concentrated on her features. Imoshen was not a channel for evil. He had seen too many different religions fail people to have any faith in the teachings of Ghebite priests.

  ‘Do you have people posted outside the fortifications ready to give the alarm?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  She looked down tenderly. The baby had fallen asleep with her nipple in his mouth. ‘Can I have a blanket to wrap him in?’

  He took out his own blanket and laid it on the ground. She wrapped the baby and picked him up, then held him towards Tulkhan.

  ‘What?’ What was he supposed to do with a baby?

  ‘Hold him. I want to get clean and treat my feet, then find some more clothes.’

  Gingerly Tulkhan took the sleeping bundle. Imoshen called for warm water and spare clothes, then she climbed to the first floor of the central tower.

  Tulkhan sank beside the fire, feasting his eyes on his two-day-old son. Who would have thought? So much black hair and perfect little features. Dark eyes. In the firelight it was hard to tell if they were black like his, or wine-dark like Imoshen’s.

  The baby gave a whimper, his hands splaying wide. Tulkhan blinked and caught one little palm, the baby’s fingers closing around his finger, holding on tightly.

  Six fingers.

  His son was half Dhamfeer. How could he not be?

  Tulkhan tried to withdraw his finger. The baby’s hold tightened. The boy was a determined little thing. The General felt a surge of pride. His son had not taken the full year from conception to birth, but he was still half Dhamfeer. So be it.

  Tulkhan leaned his head against the wall and looked up to the star-dusted sky. Their patterns were different this far south, but he had grown to know them as he travelled through Fair Isle. This was his island now and he would endure. His son was born of this land, half Ghebite, half T’En. He was the future.

  With his finger encased in his son’s firm grasp, Tulkhan felt the bitter kernel of distrust that had tainted his life for so many moons dissolve. As it slipped from him he realised its nature and its source. Reothe had planted that self-doubt.

  Now it was gone and the world was his for the taking.

  IMOSHEN PICKED HER way gingerly to the fire circle. Her feet were tender and she was still bruised and torn from the birth. When the General returned the baby she accepted him carefully. Her breasts were tender. She had nothing in reserve for healing herself.

  She just wanted to sit and hold her son. It was amazing how good it felt to hug his little body to her. Warmth from the fire seeped through her. She was tired beyond thought.

  Travelling the foothills with the baby had been a test of endurance. She had hardly dared let herself stop for fear of falling asleep and being recaptured.

  It was so good to be safe at last. Through almost closed lids she watched Tulkhan leave the campfire to confer with his fortress commander. She had sensed something different about the General when he returned the baby to her. Tulkhan was lighter of spirit, more confident. She didn’t know why, but she was relieved.

  The familiar rumble of the Ghebite language hung on the air. There was something about the tone of the General’s voice that she found very comforting.

  ‘Imoshen?’

  She looked up startled. Had she dozed off?

  Tulkhan offered his hand, indicating she was to stand.

  ‘Can’t we just sit?’

  He sank onto his haunches with the ease of a man used to living rough. ‘The men are nervous, Imoshen. According to Ghebite custom a woman is unclean while she makes milk for the babe. Ordinarily no man but a woman’s husband would see her for two small moons after the birth and even he would not touch her.’ He gave an apologetic cough. ‘You unsettle them.’

  She snorted. ‘Anyone would think they birthed and raised themselves!’

  Tulkhan grinned. ‘So it may seem to you. But these men are simple soldiers. They find it hard to think differently from the way they were raised.’

  ‘You are a soldier, yet you can see things differently.’

  He shrugged. ‘As first son of the second wife, I have been on the outer looking in for many years.’ He met her eyes, a rueful smile lighting his face.

  Imoshen felt a tug of recognition. She knew what it was like to be an outcast.

  Tulkhan seemed to recollect himself. ‘To make matters worse, they fear attack. They know you turned Jacolm and Cariah to stone and they fear the same or worse from the rebel leader. Can you tell me how Reothe will strike?’

  ‘I can’t help you. I would if I could, but I am untutored in the T’En gifts. If the Aayel had lived I might know more. I am only finding my way. I don’t know what Reothe is capable of. It frightens me too.’

  His disappointment was palpable.

  ‘I am sorry, General.’ Regret made Imoshen abrupt. She touched his clasped hands. ‘This is my gift.’ She brushed his bruised knuckles, meaning to draw on the force of his own will to heal his graze because she was so exhausted. Strangely, she didn’t have to. The food and rest must have restored her.

  He lifted his hand, turning it over, flexing the fingers as he made a fist. The skin had healed perfectly.

  ‘In time of peace it is a good gift,’ she told him. ‘But it’s not much help at present.’

  ‘Not true.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘We may have great need of you afterwards.’

  Imoshen nodded, unable to bring herself to tell him that even if Reothe allowed them an afterwards, she doubted if she would have the strength to heal more than the mildest of wounds.

  His knuckles brushed her cheek. ‘Don’t let yourself worry.’

  It was a gentle gesture and it almost undid her. Weariness overtook her and she fell asleep sitting up, too tired to move.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A SCREAM RENT the air, a terrible ke
ening note of pure terror. Imoshen pushed her hair from her eyes and struggled to sit up, her bruised body protesting. All around her men sprang to their feet, reaching for their weapons.

  Tulkhan hurried around the fire to Imoshen, pulling her upright. She gasped as the myriad cuts on her swollen feet split open.

  He pushed her towards the tower. ‘Go up there, take cover.’

  She hugged the baby to her chest. ‘Give me a knife. Reothe’s people took mine.’

  He appeared startled and Imoshen cursed. Did he think she was some useless Ghebite female?

  Several more screams cut the air, rising above the frantic shouts of the men.

  Wordlessly Tulkhan dragged his own knife from its sheath and handed it to her. Imoshen grasped it in one hand, then turned to dart away.

  ‘Imoshen?’

  Tulkhan’s tone stopped her.

  His face worked with emotion. ‘You came to warn me. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. I probably led them here and provided the impetus for the attack.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  He took one step to cover the space between them and caught the back of her head in his free hand. His lips found hers in a bruising kiss. It made her heart leap. Her body recognised this for what it was.

  A declaration.

  She returned the kiss with all the fervour of her long-contained passion. Tears stung her eyes. Tulkhan might take his death wound this night. She might never have a chance to hold him again. So much was against them. Yet, at this moment, she knew he was hers, body and soul. Fierce joy filled her. If they lived through the night she would take him in her arms and love him with every fibre of her body.

  He pulled away. The desire in his eyes warmed her to the core.

  ‘Later,’ he promised. ‘If there is a later.’

  ‘There will be. There has to be!’

  Then he was gone.

  Imoshen climbed the ladder, pulling it up after her. The tower was the fortress’s last point of defence and there were no doors or windows on the ground floor. On the first floor there were no shutters to draw across its narrow windows. She scurried up the curved stairs to the floor above. Here there was no roof.

  Her heart pounded as the screams rose to a crescendo. She made a nest in the darkest corner and, using strips of old material, quickly changed the baby, then rigged a sling to tie him to her chest.

  Her hands flew, but her mind moved faster. How many rebels were attacking? At which point in the half-completed fortifications had they chosen to strike?

  More importantly, what were they doing to cause those terrible screams?

  She knew the sounds of physical pain, and this was more. This was agony of the soul.

  The sweat of fear clung to her skin. No longer registering the pain of the cuts on her feet, Imoshen prepared to fight for her life and the life of her son.

  She crept to a window. A pall of smoke hung over the campfires. Her nostrils stung and the back of her throat burned. This was no ordinary smoke. A glowing mist partially obscured the half-built fort. By this fell light she saw Tulkhan’s men, their faces twisted in leering grimaces of mindless terror. Some had fallen to the ground, foaming at the mouth, while others ran about, slashing wildly at nothing. In their crazed attacks they knocked their own men to the ground. A few simply stood and screamed.

  Fear for Tulkhan made her tremble. She could see rebels climbing over the ramparts, slitting throats methodically as they moved forward. Their helpless victims fell, blood spilling on the ground. As it hit the soil the blood steamed, adding to the mist...

  The Ancients!

  What evil pact had Reothe offered them to over-power the fortress?

  Opening her T’En senses, Imoshen searched for Reothe; but instead she found the Parakletos. Beautiful in their full T’En battle armour, they strode insubstantial but irresistible amidst the slaughter. Some knelt beside the dying, waiting for them to gasp their last, others wrenched the dying Ghebites’ souls from their bodies even as they fought for life.

  Sickened, Imoshen shuddered. Terror stole her breath and pinned her feet to the floor. Reothe had said the Parakletos had no power in this world. Yet he had opened a path somehow and laid a feast before them.

  Imoshen dry-retched. Tears blurred her vision. Gasping, she blinked to clear her sight. Tulkhan’s True-men had no defences against the Parakletos. They appeared aware of the danger, but blinded, so that they did not see the rebels amidst them. Where was Tulkhan?

  She identified him staggering towards the base of the tower. He fell to his knees, vulnerable.

  Desperate, she ran down the spiral stairs, shoved the ladder out of the first floor doorway and scurried down.

  Tulkhan was on his knees, his head in his hands, his body hunched and shaking. She knelt next to him. Cupping the General’s head in her hands she searched his unseeing eyes. What was wrong? Then she sensed it on the mist – an overpowering terror. It stole her breath, her very sanity.

  But it was an illusion.

  ‘It’s not real,’ she told the General. ‘It’s a trick!’ But the Parakletos were real and they waited greedily to claim men’s souls. The rebels were killing for the Parakletos.

  Imoshen grabbed two handfuls of Tulkhan’s hair and jerked his head. The pain made him focus on her. Dragging in a deep breath, she blew into his mouth to drive out the poisonous mists which made him susceptible.

  He pulled away from her, coughing. ‘Imoshen?’

  Coming to her feet, she hauled him upright. ‘The rebels are amongst us. Your men are dying where they stand without lifting a blade.’

  Stunned, he looked around, then cursed and bellowed an order at the nearest man, who writhed on the ground unaware.

  ‘He can’t hear you. The mist clouds their minds.’

  ‘Then we are lost unless you can reverse it.’ He spun to face her.

  Imoshen shook her head. She could not do it. There were too many Ghebites. Even if she could, they’d be killed before she had brought enough of them back to make a stand.

  The nearest Parakletos paused as he crouched over a dying man. T’En eyes that had seen too much horror met hers. Imoshen looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

  Nearby, another Parakletos wept as she watched a man die. Her eyes widened as if she recognised Imoshen, and she lifted a hand in supplication. It came to Imoshen that not all the Parakletos were cold and cruel, but they were bound by their ancient oath and tonight they served Reothe.

  ‘Imoshen!’ Tulkhan pulled her around to face him.

  She dragged in a shaky breath. ‘You must find Reothe. If you strike him down, all his work will be destroyed.’

  Tulkhan baulked. ‘But if Reothe can do this, how can I hope to defeat him?’

  ‘This costs. He’ll be defenceless. Go after him and I’ll do what I can here.’

  Imoshen moved off, not bothering to see if Tulkhan would follow her advice. She searched for the fortress’s commander. She would bring him back first. Between them they might be able to stem the tide.

  Tulkhan turned in time to see one of his men fall from the gate tower with his throat slit. Furious, he scrambled up the ladder and struck down the rebel responsible. The man fell, landing across the body of the Ghebite. Their blood mingled on the ground, steaming and bubbling.

  Someone leapt on Tulkhan’s back. Instinct took over. He threw the attacker over his shoulder, breaking the man’s neck before his feet hit the boards. Something unseen took the man’s weight from Tulkhan’s arms.

  Unwilling to witness what a True-man should not, Tulkhan took one last look at the fortress compound where rebels were already opening the gate. So much for their defences. Tulkhan’s lookouts had succumbed without giving a warning, and the rebels had been able to bring their ladders right up to the walls. The gate swung open. Rebels charged inside to slaughter the defenders who were preoccupied with their terrible dark visions.

  Three men stood at Imoshen’s side. Tulkhan fought the urge to go to her
aid. He had to kill Reothe.

  He climbed down the ladder, jumping to the ground outside the fortress wall. Where was the Dhamfeer? A glowing cleft in the rock wall to the south of the pass caught his eye. The rebel leader was sheltering in a narrow, dead-end ravine to work his evil sorcery.

  Tulkhan ran, his feet flying over the uneven ground past a cluster of wiry mountain ponies. Three rebels drew their weapons as he approached the glowing cleft. Behind them, bathed in unnatural light, Reothe knelt in a trance. Imoshen had been right. Reothe was vulnerable now.

  The first bodyguard charged Tulkhan, sword raised. The General deflected the attack and went for his knife, but remembered too late Imoshen had it. He grappled with the rebel, using his attacker’s body to shield him from the other two. Furious with himself, Tulkhan caught the man’s hand and turned his own knife on him, throwing the rebel at the second attacker. The third darted in. There was no time for finesse. Tulkhan parried the blow, stepped inside his guard and elbowed him in the throat, leaving him gasping his last.

  The second rebel struggled free of his companion, ready to attack. It was a woman.

  Tulkhan hesitated. She didn’t.

  She leapt forward. He staggered back, blocking awkwardly. The uneven ground betrayed him and he went down with her on top of him. Before she could turn her blade to strike, he knocked her senseless.

  Casting her aside, he came to his feet.

  The element of surprise was gone, along with the eldritch glow. Reothe had woken from his trance, though he still seemed disoriented as he fumbled to draw his weapon. With growing surety, he lifted the sword’s point.

  ‘She sent you, didn’t she?’ Reothe asked, beckoning with his free hand.

  ‘Are you really here this time?’ Tulkhan swung his blade and was delighted to feel the impact of metal on metal as Reothe blocked.

  The T’En warrior’s free hand surged forward, bringing a slender knife into play. Tulkhan sprang back warily, circling his opponent. Reothe matched him step for step, a long slender sword in one hand and a short knife in the other.