Dreamwander

by Kildare

  The first of the soldiers crossed the bridge and set up a defensive perimeter. Others dismounted and led their horses down to the river. The blockage on the road forced the first wagon to stop, grinding the entire caravan to a standstill. Only the first wagon had crossed the bridge. Two more sat on the bridge and the final three were parked on the other side. Three-quarters of the caravan was stuck on the far bank, meaning the heaviest fighting would occur there. Not exactly what they had planned for.

  Disorder engulfed the soldiers as they dismounted and led their horses to water. The original defensive perimeter had lost half its members. No perimeter had been set up on the far side at all. The soldiers were jostling for access to the river along the banks, creating a chaotic mess. Most were no longer mounted and few guarded the wagons. The soldiers weren’t prepared for an attack. The battle was going to be a bloodbath.

  Cillian felt the first surge of adrenaline. His heart rate quickened, skin tingled, and hands trembled. He roiled with exhilaration. Was almost giddy. The reaction shocked and even frightened him. Who was he right now? Was this simply the reaction of this strange young body he was trapped within, or had he always secretly lusted for another fight?

  A man on the bridge started barking orders at the soldiers to maintain their order, but he was too late. The first birdcall sounded from the far side of the river. A second answered on the near side. The enemy soldiers showed no reaction. He doubted that any had heard the call in all the commotion. Cillian notched an arrow, closed his eyes, and exhaled. He had sworn to himself he would never pick up a weapon again in the name of war. He’d been done with all that. Yet here he was, about to attack a group of men he had never met before. Despite all his memories of death and carnage, he couldn’t quell the adrenaline and excitement. A part of him desired the fight, if not the killing.

  The birdcall sounded again. Cillian didn’t wait for the reply. He opened his eyes, found a mark, and fired. The arrow missed wide of its target, but struck another man. The struck man stumbled as others turned to look at him. That they were under attack took a moment to sink in. Everything happened as if in slow motion. Why was no one else firing? Then the woods exploded with the flight of arrows. Time sped up.

  Cillian fired a second arrow into the mass of men and horses along the riverbank. The men were so tightly packed together that even a poor shot couldn’t miss. The horses panicked, knocking men down and trampling over others as they tried to flee. Some tore off into the woods, others plunged into the river. Many still bore their rider’s weapons. Without arms to defend themselves, some men tried to escape into the woods, only to be cut down. Others tried to use the wagons as shields, but the arrows rained down from all directions.

  A man leapt up onto the first wagon and whipped the horses forward. The other wagons followed. Cillian reached back for an arrow, but his quiver was empty. The man on the first wagon had hunkered down behind two shields. Arrows weren’t going to stop him. Before Cillian even fully realized what he was doing, he was running toward the road to head off the wagon. He withdrew Anbhás from its sheath and held it aloft. A roar of yells rippled through the woods all around. Other men were charging into the fray from across the road, light flashing on drawn swords.

  He reached the road just as the wagon passed by. He swung the sword at the rear wheel and sliced through metal and wood, cleaving the wheel in two. The wagon listed to its side and ground to a sudden stop, tumbling the driver to the ground. A moment later the tip of a sword rested on the man’s throat. The second wagon tried to go around the first. Cillian leapt up, caught hold of the driver, and dragged him out of his seat. They fell to the ground and set upon each other like scrapping dogs. The man pulled out a dagger and thrust the blade at Cillian’s throat. He deflected the aim, elbowed the man in the nose, and caught hold of his wrists. Cillian wrested the dagger away, got on top, and pressed the steel against the man’s neck.

  “I yield,” the man cried out in Latin.

  Cillian stood and ordered him to join the other prisoners already forming in a line. The wagons had been stopped and all the drivers forced down without bloodshed. Cillian collected his sword and walked past a man lying face down in the dirt, three arrows pinned in his back. A pool of blood had soaked up the dust and congealed. Cillian looked away.

  Men rushed past him to join the fray on the bridge as the riders waiting in ambush farther up the road arrived to pursue any trying to escape. From across the bridge the clash of metal rang in the trees and blended with screams of anguish and elation. Cillian had no interest in joining. He had spilled enough blood for the day. The fight would be over soon enough. Though the enemy soldiers were making a desperate last stand on the far side of the bridge, they were too few. Bodies of men and horses lay strewn all along both riverbanks.

  The exhilaration faded, leaving behind the sinking feeling of the madness of it all. How had he gotten caught up in this? Bad enough killing in your own world, but he had no dog in this fight; he knew none of these people. Their wars, politics, daily trials were all completely foreign to him. He was a cowboy, not a damned swordsman. He had fought the Germans with a rifle. Now he traipsed about in the woods like Robin Hood, disappointed by his own stupidity for getting caught up in all this.

  He looked at the wagons. The boxes were constructed of solid iron with no entrance he could see. He climbed into the driver’s seat and onto the top of the first wagon and looked down the line. At the top of each box was centered an iron door with a padlock. What lay behind the doors necessitating a lock? He would need a cutting torch to break it. He looked down at his hip. Or the right sword. He hopped back down and walked to the drivers, who had all been lined up against the last wagon.

  “What’s in the wagons?” Cillian asked.

  “We don’t know,” the man who had tried to kill him with the dagger answered. “We weren’t told.”

  “I suppose you don’t have the keys to the locks, either?”

  The men all shook their heads.

  “Who does?”

  “That would be Sabinus,” one of the men said. “He’s the leader. He’s on the other side of the bridge, if he’s still alive.”

  The last defenders had surrendered at the bridge, and Rebel Sly’s men were stripping them of their weapons. In a few minutes they would be on their way over. Cillian wanted to have a look inside the wagons before they returned. No one was around the lead wagon. Despite knowing the strength of Anbhás, he hated using the sword as a blunt saw. Went against everything he knew about how to avoid dulling a blade. But, with a solid blow, the lock cracked in two. He knocked the pieces away, swung open the heavy door, and peered into the darkness. His jaw dropped at the sight. He hadn’t expected this. The wagon brimmed with coins of gold and silver and jewels.

  He checked to see if anyone had witnessed him break the lock. None had. He shut the door carefully and considered what to do. Decided to check the next wagon. He used more care on the second lock to avoid drawing any attention. This wagon contained the same contents as the first. Might they all carry treasure? He remembered the leather pouch he’d taken from the house, and quickly filled it with gold coins, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. He tied tight the strings and slipped the pouch back into his pocket, careful no bulge showed from the outside to reveal his theft.

  Cillian approached the drivers again. “You have no idea what’s inside these wagons?”

  “No. We were paid to transport them, not look inside. And as you can see, they weren’t intended to be easily broken into.”

  The few enemy survivors were led back across the bridge and lined up along the edge of the road with the rest. Cillian counted nineteen. Rebel Sly was one of the last of his band to cross the bridge, and after talking to a couple of his men, approached Cillian.

  “You all right, Cillian?” he asked. “You look a little shocked.”

  “I had a peek inside two of the wagons.”

  “And what important treasure were these men transporting?”
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br />   Cillian smiled. “I think you should take a look yourself.” He scrambled up onto the last wagon and beckoned Rebel Sly to follow. “You’re going to want to see this.” Cillian broke the lock, swung the door open, and motioned Rebel Sly to look within. He dropped onto his knees for a better look. When his eyes lifted to meet Cillian’s, they had widened with shock and excitement.

  “They’re all like that?”

  “Three so far.”

  Cillian knew what to do without asking. He cut open the last two locks and checked inside. All five held the same freight. Rebel Sly scooped up a handful of treasure and displayed it for everyone to see. Sunlight sparkled on the coins and gems. The men cheered and congratulated each other for their haul as the prisoners stared in silent disbelief. They had had no idea what they had been defending.

  “Who’s your leader?” Rebel Sly asked.

  “He’s dead,” someone shouted. “Arrow took him by the bridge.”

  “Who was in charge after him?”

  “He’s dead, too. Lying next to the leader.”

  A short, dark man stepped forward. “They’re all dead. Those of us still alive were hired as protection. We weren’t told what we were protecting. Only that it was important and needed to be taken to An Sliabh Gruama. Why there, or who we were meeting, I don’t know.”

  “The Grim Mountain lies near the border of the Dread Queen,” Rebel Sly noted. “Could they have been taking it to her?”

  The men admitted their ignorance with shrugs.

  Niamh pushed her way through the crowd to stand at the base of the wagon.

  “What do we do with this?” Rebel Sly asked her.

  “Who do we know who could safeguard it? Where will it be safe?”

  “King Naoise and Queen Deirdre in the Kingdom of Mathúin Dearg are the only ones to whom I’d entrust such a treasure, and who have the defenses should its rightful owner come to claim.”

  Rebel Sly turned to the men. “Men, as Fáelán and I are traveling to An Dún sa Spéir, the decision is yours to make, but I’d advise you take these wagons to Mathúin Dearg. They’ll be safe there.”

  “You don’t think he might take it for himself?” Fáelán asked.

  “Naoise? Never. He has too much honor to stain it with theft. And what other options do we have? We are too few to defend this treasure. What say you, men?”

  The outlaws argued among themselves for several minutes, more about the road to take than the destination, and at last agreed they would take the treasure to Mathúin Dearg.

  “In my absence, elect a new leader,” Rebel Sly advised. “Be careful on the roads to avoid any trolls or legions. When you reach Mathúin Dearg, make clear to Naoise and Deirdre this isn’t a gift, but to be held for safekeeping. We’ll reward them handsomely for their assistance. And figure out what to do with these captives.”

  “And what are we to do once we’ve given the gold to King Naoise?” one of the men asked.

  “Wait for word from us. One we’ve spoken with the druids at An Dún sa Spéir, we’ll make our way south to Mathúin Dearg and rejoin you. With the empire in chaos, there’s little reason to remain in this area. We’re unlikely to find more soldiers to ambush, or wagon trains to plunder. After this heist, best to hole up in a safe place for a while.”

  Rebel Sly climbed down from the wagon and patted men on the shoulder or spoke words of farewell. Likewise Fáelán. When they had finished, Rebel Sly waved to them and declared loudly, “God’s grace embrace all of you, and may our fates soon cross again.”

  With that parting, Rebel Sly, Niamh, Fáelán, and Cillian departed, following the road back to where they had crossed its path earlier that morning.

  “Why were they taking the treasure to the Grim Mountain?” Fáelán asked. “Do you think Scorpio has allied himself with the Dread Queen?”

  “I can’t fathom he could be so foolish,” Rebel Sly said. “If she’s able to drive a wedge between the kingdoms, she’ll destroy us all one by one.”

  “I fear we have yet to learn the true extent of Scorpio’s treachery,” Niamh predicted.

  VII

  -------

  18

  The dark blue of a thunderstorm engulfed the horizon, lightning darting across its face. Bolts flashed with such frequency that at any moment dozens could be seen. The clouds churned, almost boiled. Growing up on the plains, Cillian had seen countless storms, but never anything like this. Never this much dark fury. Lightning struck the water, but with no sound of thunder. The storm was too far away, a bit of a relief. God help anyone caught in its path.

  He looked down at his feet, exclaimed, “Oh, shit,” and spun around.

  He stood on a bamboo raft made of logs lashed together by rope. A mast held up a slack white sail. He wore nothing more than a pair of shorts. Neither shirt nor shoes. At least he was dressed for the ocean.

  The ocean was calm at the moment. The raft barely shifted in the shallow waves.

  He swung his gaze back to the storm to determine its track. It was approaching rapidly. He had little time. He quickly assessed his situation. The raft was ten feet in length and width, the mast a half-foot in diameter and twelve in height, the sail a hemp canvas. The ropes cinching the logs together were solid and he doubted they’d break even in a brutal storm. The raft was well constructed, the single positive.

  The logs protruded out a little farther than the rest at each corner and on one corner a coil of rope was looped around the longer log. Cillian freed the rope and found he had a good thirty feet to work with. More than enough to construct a harness and tie himself to the mast. He set about quickly to the task. The leading edge of dark blue clouds was already passing by overhead, the rumble of its drums floating on a breathless air.

  Cillian had finished creating his rudimentary harness, and was in the process of hitching the harness to the mast, when the wind picked up, lurching the raft in the choppy waters. He paused long enough to gaze up at the fury. A mountain of blue bore down on him. He frantically slipped the harness around his waist and shoulders and tied the other end of the rope around the mast.

  The sky had darkened considerably and had taken on the look of dusk, everything smeared in shades of black. Whether the sun had actually set, or the clouds were blocking that much light, he couldn’t tell. The clouds above still roiled, more chaotic than the choppy waters below, lightning dancing in the gaps. The thunder barely registered over the roaring wind. Drops of rain pattered on the bamboo.

  The raft swelled up onto the crest of a wave, and gave vision to a sight like standing on a mountaintop, the march of mountain ranges blurring to the horizon, only here they were mountains of water instead of rock. A dark curtain of rain dragged its hem across the ocean.

  Cillian dipped his head against the rain that lashed with such sting he questioned whether he was any better off being on the raft than under. He wasn’t any drier. The raft see-sawed, one moment gravity pulling backward, the next pushing forward. He risked a look, an action he immediately regretted. The raft leaned almost vertical and was plunging down the backside of a massive wave as another bore down. He didn’t have a prayer.

  The raft pushed up the front of the next blue wall until the ascent became too steep, lost momentum, and stalled as the crest pushed it backward. For a moment it seemed as if he had become weightless. Then the raft’s weight slammed him into the water, knocking the wind out of him. The raft spun around, unravelling more rope, and flipped again. He was flung into the air and smashed back down onto the logs. The second impact would have probably taken his breath if the first hadn’t already. So he had that to be thankful for. Managed a pained smile at the thought.

  The raft spun and pitched, sending him sliding all over the slick bamboo logs and testing the strength of the rope. It had unraveled to six feet, which wasn’t much, but too much to catch hold of the mast. He couldn’t catch a grip of anything. Even the rope was slippery.

  After much frantic scrambling, a wave finally rocked the boat at j
ust the right angle, sliding him into the mast as another massive wave toppled the raft over. This time it didn’t right. He had just enough rope to reach the surface and cling to an outer log. Even when he lost his grip the rope was so taut that at most six inches opened between himself and the raft. It was too much gap.

  The waves battered him against the raft, ripping him away, then knocking him back into the logs. If he didn’t cut the rope he was going to get beaten to death. His chest was soon crisscrossed with lacerations, a deep gash was etched in the bottom of his jaw, his lip fat and bruised, and blood mixed with the rain and salt water from a cut over his right eye. The salt water in the open wounds burned like fire. Tying himself to the mast had been a mistake. Another blow to the head slumped him down over the edge of the raft, drained him of all fight. He was going to die here.

  A massive wave swept over the raft and he knew this was probably the end and then he was back on the surface and the raft was upright again. The mast cracked above where he had tied the rope and slowly teetered as the base splintered and broke apart, the weight of the tattered, water-logged sail dragging it down. The mast struck the water—silently, amid so much roar—rolled, snapped apart, and pulled away.

  He tried to pull himself back on with his little remaining strength. His muscles had gone rubbery and several attempts were needed before he succeeded in lifting himself up out of the sea. He crawled to the broken stump of the mast, embraced it, and collapsed. This was it. This was all he had left. One more wave would be too much.

  A brightness lit his closed eyes. He rolled over and looked up. Through an opening ringed in white clouds, a ray of sunshine lit the raft like a spotlight. The rain had stopped. He took a deep breath, gathered his energy, and pushed up onto his knees, shielding his eyes against the bright light. It was a sign. He was going to live. He knew it.