Dreamwander

by Kildare

  “Who knew?” Rebel Sly asked.

  “The Tuath Dé. That’s why they didn’t stop us at the pass when we entered their lands. The Tuath Dé blocked our path, but when they saw Cillian, they allowed us through. They knew he didn’t belong here. Of course they would’ve. They may know what to do with him, and why he’s here.”

  “We can’t just march into Ildathach.”

  “We could send him alone,” Fáelán said.

  “And if they kill him?” Niamh asked.

  “What would it matter?”

  “That might not be a wise strategy,” Cillian said. “Of what use am I dead?”

  “Then what do we do?” Fáelán asked.

  Cillian looked around. Most were looking down at the ground. No one suggested an answer to this last question.

  Rebel Sly shook his head. “This decision is beyond my wisdom.”

  Cillian remembered Evelyn’s insistence that he find the druids. “Take me to the druids. I was told I must find the druids.”

  “If any mortals would know what to do with him, they would,” Rebel Sly said. “How do you know about An Dún sa Spéir if you aren’t from here?”

  “The angels,” Cillian lied. The truth was too hard to explain, and even more unbelievable.

  “I’ll go with him,” Niamh offered. “Though I don’t know how, he’s important. I’ve seen him do things no mortal can.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Fáelán said. “Not because I believe him, but because I’m not sure he’s to be trusted. He might not be who he says he is.”

  “Trusted or not, I’ll make the fourth,” Rebel Sly said. “More would be safer, but would slow us down. We’ll depart in the morning. As for the rest of you, continue as planned. Are there any dissenters? No. Then I shall retire for the evening. I have a comfortable bed awaiting me.”

  The others laughed, a joke Cillian didn’t understand at first. Then he realized the bed Rebel Sly referred to was the ground. Rebel Sly turned to walk away just as another rider trotted into camp.

  “A party has camped for the night on the road just outside the western edge of the forest,” the young man announced. “We believe they’re men loyal to Scorpio. They guard five wagons.”

  “How many men?” Rebel Sly asked.

  “Forty, give or take a couple.”

  “You’re not sure of their loyalty?”

  “No. They wear the attire of the legions, but they’re not soldiers. Some had long hair. They look like mercenaries. We watched them for an hour before I rode here. They look to enter the forest in the morning.”

  “If they enter, they must not be allowed to leave. Any of them. Change of plans, men. We ambush them on the road. Send the word out to all the sentries. They’re to remain at their posts until they’re relieved, but I want them to be aware of our plans in the event some of these mercenaries escape the attack. We rise two hours before the sun to prepare the attack. I don’t want any surprises.”

  Rebel Sly walked away from the fire with the rider. The assembled host disintegrated as men slipped off to sleep.

  “I thought he wasn’t the leader,” Cillian said to Fáelán. “Those sounded like orders.”

  “If any man had disagreed you would’ve heard it. Why would we argue about an ambush? We’re outlaws, after all. Now come with me and I’ll get you some blankets.”

  Fáelán led Cillian and Niamh to a dying campfire where men were bedding down. One was already snoring. Fáelán pulled blankets from a canvas tote bag, handed a blanket and roll pillow to each of them, and sprawled out near the fire beneath his own. Cillian lay down nearby, springy grass beneath, blanket above, and the pillow supporting his head. Niamh lay next to him.

  “Niamh, you said I told you I was moving through time differently from you. What did you mean?”

  “That’s what you said at Carena. I didn’t understand what you meant, and you didn’t explain. I’m sorry, but that’s all I know.”

  Could it be possible he had visited this world before, but didn’t remember? That would explain why people acted like they knew him. But how? Time travel? If true, things were getting even stranger. Or had an imposter said this to Niamh, knowing she would pass it on to him to confuse him? Either way, the conclusions were troubling.

  “Sleep well, Cillian,” Niamh said with a teasing, suggestive smile. That look from their first meeting had returned, a glint in her eyes hinting at much more.

  Cillian was already too confused about everything else that he wasn’t going to attempt deciphering that look. “Good night, Niamh.”

  He rolled onto his back and stared up into the darkness, the dying red embers just bright enough to catch some of the motionless leaves. Somewhere higher up, the canopy hid any light of star and moon that might have been shining. The sounds of men bedding down quieted until the only sounds were the crackle of a fire and a chorus of frogs. Cillian yawned and closed his eyes, surprised at how quickly he had become tired. Only minutes before he had thought he might not be able to fall asleep for hours.

  As the weariness crept in, he wondered what adventure he would find when he woke next. Another exotic world? More strange beings? Hopefully no more close encounters with death. Despite the others’ dread of the Tuath Dé, he hoped for another encounter. Though they had all looked warlike, it was hard to believe such beautiful creatures could be as violent as described. They seemed more angelic than even the archangels.

  VI

  -------

  17

  Someone shook Cillian’s shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw the vague outlines of Niamh’s face, half-masked in shadow. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. Darkness lay heavy on the woods. Even though someone had added more wood during the night, the fire had dwindled down to embers.

  He couldn’t remember falling asleep. The thought jolted him awake. Why was he still here in the camp? Something had changed. He shouldn’t be here. He leapt to his feet.

  “What’s wrong, Cillian?” Niamh asked.

  “I shouldn’t be here. When I fall asleep, I should wake up somewhere else.”

  “You wake up somewhere else every time you fall asleep?”

  “Yes.” Cillian paused to think. Was that true? Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember falling asleep in any of these dreams. He had assumed he would wake up somewhere else. Maybe he was mistaken. At least, he hoped he was wrong. The alternative that he could be stuck in this world with no way out was too frightening to comprehend. “Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know.” He sighed. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”

  Niamh put her hand on his shoulder. “Fate ignores no one. There’s a reason for all this.”

  Rebel Sly strode through the waking crew. “Grab some breakfast and break camp. We depart in ten minutes.” As quickly as Rebel Sly had appeared, he vanished back into the darkness.

  Fáelán shoved a leather pouch full of hardtack into Cillian’s hands. “Hope you weren’t expecting mutton and eggs.” He also gave him a wooden cup filled with water. “Dip it in the water or you’ll likely break a tooth.”

  Cillian followed Fáelán’s advice and wet the hardtack before biting into it. Even softened it was still tough and had little taste. He wondered if they ate hardtack every morning.

  Fáelán watched him with an amused expression. “You’re wondering if this is a typical breakfast? What kind of bandits would we be if we had only this to survive on? Today there’s no time to cook breakfast. That’s all the rations we can spare, so try not to eat it all.”

  “Anyone have any coffee?” Cillian asked. He got quizzical stares in response. “Of course not.”

  He rolled up his blanket and bound it with cords. A man he hadn’t met before handed him the reins to a horse. As he tied the blanket and pouch to the saddle, he wondered what had happened to the gelding he had ridden into the camp. Most of the other men were already mounted and fading away into the darkness. Cillian hurried to where he thought he’d seen a stash of weapons. He found a bow, a quiver of
arrows, and an ordinary leather sheath among the weapons, swapped out the sheaths, wrapped the old one up in a blanket, retied it to the saddle, and mounted. He hoped they didn’t mind his little theft, but he needed a sheath that wasn’t so glitzy. He choked down another bite of hardtack and followed the quiet flow of the others. He saw no sign of Niamh or Fáelán.

  Torches were lit, fires doused, and the entire camp set off through the forest. If not for the torchlight, he wouldn’t have been able to see the ground, and certainly not any trees. No light filtered through the canopy above, the sunrise still hours away. He had no idea where they were headed or how long before they arrived. He knew only that they were riding toward a road somewhere in the forest, and not the one he had taken. An atlas would have been helpful.

  It was a solemn ride and little was spoken. He wasn’t sure if the men were steeling themselves for the battle ahead or if they were always so mute. His own company of men had rarely been as quiet as they marched through the green fields and forests of France and Germany. At times they were almost raucous. Their teasing and flippancy distracted from the grim realities of the war. The mind often went to dark places to hold back even darker thoughts.

  Soft clop of hooves on soft earth, sneezing of horses, curse of someone nearby who hadn’t seen a low-hanging branch. With so little to see or hear, his mind drifted wide before anchoring on his last sight of Evelyn. How had Gobán orchestrated such a meeting? And how had the leprechaun known who she was? Her warning to trust no one had tipped him back into utter confusion. How was he to determine friend from foe if he couldn’t even ascertain reality? This whole world could be an illusion, some trick of his own mind, or a deception designed by Loki. Or perhaps the angels.

  More importantly, how could he determine anyone’s true motives? The angels warned against Loki, Loki and the leprechaun warned against the angels, and Evelyn warned against them all. Everyone accused everyone else of deception, leaving him on his own to distinguish between the truth and lies, a seemingly impossible task. He needed to find something he knew was real to use as a polestar, but had no idea what that might be.

  Niamh appeared out of the darkness ahead. “What did you think of the hardtack?”

  “I found it less edible than dirt, but more than a rock.”

  “Imagine having to survive on it for weeks. Anything else would seem like a delicacy.”

  “I hope not to. So now that you know the truth of who I am, why was a triumph given in my honor?”

  “Your imposter—whoever he was—took control of the legions and defeated an invasion by sea of the Austri in the south and a Cursi incursion in the east. After that you—or he—disapeared, but vowed to return for the triumph that the Imperator promised to throw in your honor. It’s because of your imposter’s exploits during these battles that we assumed he, and you, were one of the Tuath Dé.”

  “I definitely haven’t led any armies into battle.” Cillian chuckled to himself. “That’s something I think I’d remember.”

  “Did you have any trouble after you escaped the city?”

  “Three men pursued me into the forest, but once they realized who I was, their resolve wavered. One wanted to capture me, but the other two were opposed. They killed him and left me alone. After that I found refuge in the cottage of a leprechaun.”

  Niamh’s next words were inflected with surprise. “You crossed the divide between the mortal and immortal worlds?”

  “I guess. At least that’s what the leprechaun told me. He warned me that a powerful queen had set a price on my head.”

  Cillian heard Niamh sigh. There was too little light from the torches to see her expression. “So the Dread Queen knows of your presence here. Our task just got far more dangerous. If she desires to capture you, her pursuit will be relentless. She commands the trolls, and has far worse beasts than shadow terrors. Say nothing about this to anyone. Right now I must speak with Rebel Sly about other matters. We’ll talk more later.” She spurred her horse, and disappeared back into the night.

  The woods had begun to flush with the first morning’s light when they reached the road. Rebel Sly assembled the troop together and laid out his plan of attack. Heavy blue fog had crept into the woods and veiled those at the edges. They looked more like ghosts than men.

  A bridge spanned a river a mile down the road. There they would ambush the wagons. A third of the men would cross the river and lie in wait on the far side, a third would hide on the near side, and a third would remain mounted farther up the road and would join the fray after the initial attack, blocking any escape down the road. Rebel Sly would give the signal to attack when the convoy was halfway across the bridge and at its most vulnerable. The attack would aim to hit the rear of the wagon train hardest, panicking those in front and causing them to flee down the road, where they would run into the second ambush.

  The men divided themselves into three groups, and those heading to the river left their horses with a few guards and walked the last mile on foot so the convoy wouldn’t hear the horses. Unseen by Rebel Sly or Niamh, Cillian slipped in among the men making for the bridge. He suspected they might oppose him joining the attack. He couldn’t hide with his strange shirt, jeans, and boots, but the other men said nothing. He left his hat hanging on the saddle horn.

  Seeing the next person was difficult in the dense morning fog; trying to find someone was nearly impossible. Sketchy impressions formed into shape and then faded away again. The men moved like ghosts, too, their footsteps silent. No matter how careful he tread, the grass crunched beneath the hard soles of his boots, the only noise he could hear in the forest.

  The air seemed to be charged with excitement, electrifying the men as the moment of battle neared. A feeling he remembered all too well, one he hadn’t thought he would ever experience again. Memories of the war seeped through the barriers he had spent decades constructing, announcing the return of a strange phenomenon. In these dreams, his memories were far more vivid and real than in his waking moments. Sometimes too vivid. Faces and places from his past would appear in his mind with such clarity they were almost more real than the present.

  The fog melted away and he was marching through green fields crawling with GIs beneath a cloudy sky. His best friend, Sean Kavanaugh, walked next to him, prattling on about some frivolous theory concerning Hitler. Someone had started a happy whistle that quickly spread through the soldiers, more as a note of sarcasm than genuine joy. The scene appeared so clearly in his mind he felt as if he could reach out and touch Sean’s beaming face and it would be real. Not an illusion, but as real as his own body. More than just the images seemed real. He could feel the weight of the pack and the pinch of the straps, the soreness of his feet from so much marching in boots, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the smell of sweaty men who hadn’t taken a proper shower in weeks.

  Cillian pushed the memory back into dark recesses. The good memories were too intertwined with the awful to allow free roam. Too much sorrow dwelled there. The scene washed out into the fog. It was lifting, revealing ancient beech, oak, and maple trees widely spaced across flat ground thick with waist-high undergrowth. He could now see far down the line of men and was surprised how orderly and quietly they moved. These men were no rabble. They possessed the discipline of highly trained soldiers. The true purpose of this band of bandits had been withheld from him.

  Someone whistled and the men wheeled in unison toward the sound. The blurry outline of the bridge appeared ahead. The fog lay thicker over the river, shrank to scattered pockets in the woods. Too little light to see much else. The men fanned out along a low ridge parallel to the road, dropped down into the tall ferns and grass, and vanished. Cillian hunkered down beneath a hollowed-out log sprawled along the top of the rise. He could see the bridge and road through a narrow gap between the ground and the log. Now they waited.

  The rising sun chased the darkness from the woods and gave him a better look at the landscape. The bridge was constructed of wood, little more than the w
idth of a wagon, and crossed a slow-moving river. Trees hemmed close to the road. Once the attack started, the men guarding the wagon train would struggle to maneuver into defensive positions. Barring some unforeseen occurrence, the ambush would be finished in a matter of minutes.

  He watched the slow shift of a tree’s shadow to pass the time. With no one to talk to, he had little else to do. The men lay so still a doe and her fawn nearly stumbled into the line before they sensed their danger and fled, bounding off into the woods. He reckoned close to three hours had passed before he heard the faint birdcall that was the signal to attention. A second call answered, louder and nearer. A minute later the first of the convoy’s scouts came into view. A second followed close behind. They halted on the near side of the bridge and scanned the trees for danger. Then they rode on ahead and disappeared around a bend in the road. A few minutes later they returned, but his time they swung out in a wide path away from the road.

  One of the scouts climbed up onto the ridge where Cillian was hidden and surveyed the area. The log blocked his view of the man, but he could see the horse’s hooves only feet away. The horse ripped out a clump of grass inches from Cillian’s face and munched away. He tensed. If the horse detected his scent, it would spook. He was in a bad spot, unable to reach Anbhás or his bow without alerting the rider of his presence. After what seemed like way too long, the scout guided the horse back down the ridge and toward the bridge. Cillian exhaled and waited for his heart rate to settle back down. If not for the log, he would have surely been discovered.

  The scouts crossed the bridge and disappeared back down the road. Cillian slid out from beneath the log and scanned the line where he knew the other men lay in ambush. He saw no hint that dozens of men were hidden in the undergrowth all around him. He parted the ferns and peered over the log at the bridge, expecting at any moment to see more men ride into view. Ten minutes passed before he heard the birdcall again. Then the scouts appeared, the wagon train in tow behind. Noisy creaking of wood, rumbling of iron-clad wheels, and march of many horses. The men looked like the scout had described the previous night—scruffy figures costumed in the black uniforms of the Solaeri legion.