by Ross Kitson
EpilogueDreams of Darkness
Emelia dreamt of dark things. Within a maelstrom of pain and fever she traversed the dreamscape of the night, sometimes running, sometimes crawling.
The world around her warped and flowed, images of the past intermingling with scenes she had never knowingly beheld. The mercurial landscape threatened to engulf her, overwhelm her with its confusion and chaos.
The agony of her wound continually sought to drag her down into a darker place, somewhere unholy and wretched, transfixed between awareness and the void. It took all her strength to keep going, to keep moving; if she hesitated then surely she would be lost.
In the swirl of the dreamscape she could see a stable point, a tiny island of grey stone amongst the whirlpool of colour. Emelia focused past the pain and dragged herself toward the sanctuary.
A small girl sat in the centre of the island of stone. Her dress was grubby and tattered. Her skin was scaly and it glittered. Eyes as bright as the stars in winter regarded Emelia as she slumped in exhaustion.
“We need to keep running,” the girl said. “If we stop then he’ll win. If we stop he’ll control you.”
Emelia blinked back tears and looked up at the girl. “Emebaka? What’s happening?”
“He’s coming for you, in your dreams,” Emebaka said. “Vildor—the Darkmaster. And at the moment, there’s no awakening to save you.”
Tears ran hot down Emelia’s cheeks and then tumbled onto the grey stones.
“Then I’m lost,” Emelia said. “There is no-one to help me. Jem… Hunor… they cannot aid me here.”
Emebaka’s scaly hand was cool as it held Emelia’s. “All I need is your trust and your belief. I can help you escape to wherever you want to.”
Emelia smiled. “You said that to me once before, when I was a child.”
“Dreams are a game. You just have to know how to play them. We need to stay one step ahead of Vildor, to give the others a chance.”
Emelia nodded, forcing herself to her feet. The dreamscape was coalescing into a tangible organized scene. To her left was a ruined city, its ancient stones coated with ivy and moss, its streets choked with weeds. To her right was a city of purple stone, pristine and clean.
“Which way do I go?” Emelia whispered.
“Let me be your guide,” Emebaka said. The two leapt from the stone island and began running. Emelia glanced over her shoulder. Across the dreamscape she could see a dark figure, face bleached as white as bones in a desert. It was Vildor.
Her time was running out.
