Sower of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy)

by Debra Holland

  “Ontarem is aware of your…difficulties. He sent me here with a gift for you.” She raised her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal a thick silveral chain coiled in her palm.

  But it was the black medallion resting on the small pile of chain that caught his attention. The round circle seemed to pulse with a dull light that sent an immediate headache to throb at his temples. In the center, hair-thin strands of gold glittered in the sunlight.

  Thaddis narrowed his eyes. “You’ve made a sha-way.”

  “Yes. I’ve followed Ontarem’s instructions, of course. He’s impatient for you to capture her.”

  “What does it do?”

  “The medallion will lead you directly to Princess Daria.” She flicked the medallion with a fingernail. “In addition, this will generate a protection if anyone attacks you.”

  “I could have used it in the battle against Seagem.”

  “I doubt you put yourself at risk.”

  “Of course not. I’m the king.” He grabbed the medallion away from her. The silveral chain dangled from his hand. He held up the necklace. The pendent swung between them like a pendulum. “This will guide me to her?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged one shoulder, her beautiful face carefully impassive. “And when you do find Princess Daria, this will give you complete control over her.”

  He slipped the chain over his head, feeling the weight of the sha-way in a chill burn against his chest. “Then Ontarem’s victory will be complete.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Numb from mourning and privation, Daria sagged in the ornately-tooled saddle, swaying with every step her mare took across the arid wasteland. She squinted through the slits of the long cloth she’d wrapped around her head in an effort to evade the punishing rays of the desert sun, searching for any sign of civilization. She wiped a hand across her mouth. The grimy gold-and-purple embroidery on the cuff of the torn green shirt scratched her sunburned face.

  It was hard to believe that, five months ago, she’d been the beloved daughter of Iceros, ruler of Seagem. Not precisely a pampered princess—the corners of her lips turned up at the thought of her warrior training—but her life had been sweet. Nothing akin to this bitter existence, every day a fight for survival.

  She leaned forward to stroke the dusty brown neck of her mare. When she straightened, the telescope case thumped against her heart. She enclosed her hand around the hot metal, thankful for her father’s gift. Had Iceros known what a lifesaver it would prove to be?

  Daria turned to make sure the horses captured from the enemy continued to follow them. The poor beasts plodded along, ribs standing in relief, coats dusty, their once-proud heads hanging low. The horses’ life energy seemed to be seeping away, just like the punishing desert rays had finally worn down Micfal’s indomitable spirit. He no longer practiced the pas-sa-ra in the evenings.

  She halted her ruminations for a moment to extend her othersense, scanning the vicinity.

  This last month, when Daria and Micfal had entered the arid wasteland, they’d finally seemed to lose their pursuers, only to discover a whole new set of problems. They had less than a day’s water supply left and no greenery in sight, only long expanses of sand and rock, broken by the occasional stalks of dried vegetation. The landscape matched the barrenness of her heart.

  They would have to slaughter one of the horses—almost a mercy to the poor creature—but her heart rebelled at the necessity.

  With a tired sigh, Daria stopped her intuitive search. She cast a worried glance at Micfal who was riding beside her, slumped in the saddle.

  He’d wrapped a dirty strip of gray cloth, torn from one of his shirts, around his head. The tall warrior who’d enjoyed tossing a little princess in the air and tickling her, then later a formidable weaponsmaster, had withered away into a wizened elder. At his age, he should have been sitting by a fire, telling tales to his great-grandchildren.

  She winced away from the thought. He no longer had great-grandchildren. And if the two of them didn’t find their way out of the desert soon, they’d join their families in the Hall of the Dead.

  She couldn’t even pray. This far from her homeland, Daria doubted she’d be heard by Yaderius—not that she’d ask for help from Him. Idly, she wondered if Yaderius missed the adoration of his followers. Never again would the priests and priestesses call out to Him in the morning thanksgiving ceremony. Nor did He have any people to whisper to him the prayers of their hearts. Only her and Micfal. And she’d ceased to worship him—to even believe in his omnipotence.

  Now, so far from home, Daria didn’t know who ruled over this place. Then again, perhaps the God or Goddess of this country had forsaken the place long ago. If she’d had the choice, she wouldn’t have hung around for long.

  Choice, she thought bitterly. No choice left.

  Behind her lay a world reduced to ashes, her land conquered. The deaths of her family and her people, the sacking of her city had shattered her heart into pieces grittier than the sands over which they rode. Night and day, she’d relived the horrors. The early tears held in check had given way to a numbness that ate away at her spirit, just as the desert shriveled her body.

  And the visions of death and destruction still rode with her, refusing to leave her in peace, no matter how far she fled, nor how weary her body. Each night she slept fitfully, waking from nightmares with gasps and cries, fearing to return to sleep.

  Perhaps the endless journey would soon be over. Not that she cared. She welcomed the thought of a peaceful afterlife. But the promise she’d made to her father nagged at her, forcing her to keep going. She’d vowed to survive.

  Now I’m close to breaking my word.

  In the distance, the shimmer of water beckoned. Daria turned her gaze away. She’d learned through painful experience that the sight of water was only a dream, endlessly tantalizing, never delivering its promise.

  To the left, remote ridges broke the horizon. She squinted in that direction. Unlike rocky hillocks they’d ridden by earlier, there seemed to be something symmetrical and angular about the outcroppings. For the first time in weeks, tendrils of hope sprouted within her, prompting her toward the stone upwelling.

  She pointed. “Micfal, over there.”

  He peered over, narrowing his eyes through the slits of the gray cloth wrapped around his head. He shrugged. “Don’t see anything. These old eyes aren’t as keen as yours.”

  She snapped open the miniature gold case of the telescope, unfolding the cylinder. Raising it to one eye, she squinted through the lens. “I think they’re ruins of buildings. Perhaps we’ll find some water.”

  He shrugged again.

  Daria bit her lip. In the last few days, Micfal had withdrawn—lost some of his will to live. Worry tendrils twined through her thoughts. He’d been so strong after the destruction of the city, setting aside his own mourning to ensure their survival. He’d forced her to live when she’d wanted to give up in grief and despair.

  But now with his once-powerful body shrunken, his face grown gaunt, just skin over bone, Micfal seemed so fragile. Several times he’d absently dropped fragments of sentences, alerting her that he’d become lost in memories of his family. Her heart ached for him and for herself. He was all she had left. What would she do if he gave up entirely?

  I can’t lose the last person alive that I love! I’ll have to be strong for him.

  Daria headed the horses toward the ruins. The tumbledown tangle of buildings loomed in the distance. Something about them pulled at her. She imagined an unknown spirit guide walking at Teifa’s head, guiding the reins. Her hope increased. At the same time, she wanted to set heel to her weary mount and gallop away. Would Seagem appear as such someday—first torn apart by invaders, then worn away by wind and sand?

  Broken-down rubble in shades of tans and browns gave way to remnants of buildings. A breeze danced dust along empty window ledges and whirled particles through gaping doorways. The occasional scrape of Teifa’s hooves on rock told her the
y traveled on the remains of a roadway. Where did it lead? She shivered, feeling as if unseen eyes watched.

  Beside her, Micfal straightened. “I dislike this.” His faded eyes narrowed. He glanced from side to side.

  In spite of her growing foreboding, Daria felt relieved to see Micfal appear more like his old warrior self. “Do you feel something?”

  “Haunts maybe. Or perhaps more.” He loosened the sword at his side. “Be ready.”

  For what? Robbers? Animals? What can survive in this desolate place? She tested with her othersense. As far as she could tell, none of Thaddis’s soldiers roamed nearby. Or, if they did, their thoughts weren’t on her. Still, she readied her own sword and made sure she had her bow near at hand.

  The street widened, branching into a fork. Right or left? Micfal chose right. The longer they rode, the more her trepidation grew. Other roads intersected theirs, but, by unspoken agreement, they stayed with their original choice.

  They rounded a bend marked by a crumbled wall, and then pulled up short. Twenty paces ahead, a creature from nightmares blocked their path.

  At first glance, the beast looked similar to one of her father’s hounds crossed with the scaled and clawed sea monsters that lived in the depths of the ocean. Malevolence gleamed in the creature’s black eyes. The beast dropped a wide jaw, baring fangs, and then raised its scaled, earless head, emitting yips and howls.

  Micfal drew his sword from its sheath. The harsh sunlight glinted off the blade. “A hound from the depths of hell.”

  Daria shivered. Yadarius held only the most evil of criminals, such as the reavers, in the dungeon hell of His hall. The hellhounds, creatures much like this, guarded the door. She pulled an arrow from the quiver and let it fly. The point hit the hellhound square in the chest. The animal twitched, as if annoyed, but otherwise showed no reaction.

  Daria’s stomach clenched. The hellhound had better armor than the raiders who’d destroyed her homeland.

  The beast lifted a paw. Six claws extended, the middle one growing into a talon several inches longer than the others.

  Daria’s hands froze around her bow, and she mouthed, “Micfal….”

  “Iceros!” The war cry of the Seagem warriors burst from Micfal’s lips. He spurred his mount forward, sword raised, but he never reached his quarry. To his left, a second hellhound leaped from a low wall.

  Daria screamed a warning.

  Micfal didn’t have time to change direction.

  The claws of the creature ripped across his unprotected side.

  Micfal cried out, but managed to kick the creature back. His horse shied away. The hellhound twisted around, biting Micfal’s leg, yanking him from the saddle.

  Micfal. Stricken with horror and panic, Daria grabbed an arrow. She had to save him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Restlessness, like an itch between his shoulder blades, unsettled Khan from his weeding. He leaned back on his heels, twitching his shoulders, trying to shake off the sensation.

  Ignore the feeling, he told himself. Just the late afternoon sunshine heating your back.

  Spying an errant rust-colored native intertwined with a green tomato seedling, he bent over the plant and inhaled the sharp scent of the leaves and the rich loamy smell of the cultivated dirt. Gently, he untangled the weed and yanked it from the soil. Dropping it on the growing pile of uprooted native vegetation, he shrugged his shoulders again. No use. The edginess increased until he felt like a cat needing to rub against the corner of a wall.

  Shir and Shad dozed together on the wall of the shrine, tails in their favorite wrapped-around-each-other position. Should he send them to patrol?

  He sat up from the row of tomato plants and surveyed his surroundings. The outer wall of the park, fortified with blocks and brick dragged from the ruins, surrounded his territory—an oasis of safety. No reptile-dog had yet penetrated his defenses.

  From habit, he checked the position of his bow and the quiver of arrows lying by the stack of weeds, felt the weight of his knife in the pocket of his robe. In spite of Shad and Shir’s vigilance, he always kept the weapons near to hand.

  As he looked around at the neat green rows of seedlings lacing the formerly desolate park grounds, Khan could not help feeling pride. The goddess had blessed the garden, and maize, grains, and vegetables covered every inch of land, developing at a jungle-like pace. Flax and cotton sprouted near the outer wall. And although he didn’t know yet how he’d build weaving equipment, he trusted that in time the answer would come.

  Inside the walled shrine, he’d planted flowers and herbs, some of them already blossoming. His mother's roses, withered twigs when he'd hopefully stuck them in the ground, had grown faster than anything else. A few buds already showed. The veiled lady presided over a growing domicile of greenery, and he fancied that underneath the veil, she smiled.

  But even the sometimes-felt presence of the goddess didn’t mitigate his growing loneliness. After months of just the company of the horses and monkey-bats, Khan missed human companionship. While he’d always enjoyed walking alone among his acres of growing things, he wasn’t cut out for a hermit’s life. The solitude weighed on him—an ever-present ache in his chest.

  His new situation wasn’t easy, but he experienced daily satisfaction and a sense of meaning from his achievements. Yet, an empty hollowness surrounded the accomplishments because he didn’t have anyone…didn’t have her…to share them with.

  His restlessness turned to sudden alarm.

  Something’s wrong.

  He grabbed his bow and the quiver of arrows, then hurried toward the house to gather more weapons. He wedged extra knives into his boots and slipped more arrows into the quiver. Tucking a waterbag and some food into the saddlebag and readying Nika, he mounted and rode off, Shad and Shir flying sentry. After all he’d been through in the last months, he’d learned to trust these “sendings” from the lady.

  Khan kneed the stallion to a trot. After a few minutes, they’d passed beyond the familiar territory marked by a toppling tower of sooty bricks.

  High-pitched yipping and shrill cries in a foreign language shattered the silence of the afternoon.

  Humans! And reptile-dogs!

  Shad let out a screech. Both monkey-bats’ tails arrowed behind them, their signal for the reptile-dogs.

  He kicked Nika into a gallop, following the direction of the piercing yaps. They rounded the crumpled edge of a stack of stones, turning onto a broad roadway leading to a crossroads in the midst of the charred remains of once-tall buildings.

  Nika skidded to a halt

  A few feet ahead of them, a male reptile-dog spun around from its quarry, growling, green spittle drooling from between long, yellow fangs.

  Twenty feet in front of the animal, an old man and a woman on horseback battled the female reptile dog. Other horses milled around behind them. The beast savaged the man, who held one hand over a wound spewing blood down his left side, while with the other he feebly waved his sword.

  In front of Khan, the biggest male he’d seen yet, wolfhound size, bunched muscled hindquarters, preparing to spring, the right paw with the poisoned talon extended.

  In one fluid motion, Khan pulled an arrow from his quiver, aimed, and shot. The point penetrated deep into the male’s throat. With a yelp, the beast collapsed.

  The female reptile-dog bit the old man’s leg, dragging him off his horse.

  The man’s companion loosed an arrow at the snarling beast.

  The arrow thudded off the animal’s chest, doing no damage, but causing the female to release the man. The creature snapped at the fallen arrow, breaking the shaft in half.

  “Aim for the white spot,” Khan yelled, urging Nika forward.

  The woman spared him a quick sideways glance from her penetrating green eyes and shook her head. Her thick blond braid flipped over one shoulder, dislodging her tattered headcovering. Apparently not understanding him, she shot into the reptile-dog’s side. Again, the arrow skidded away, but succeeded
in keeping the beast’s attention fixed on her.

  The riderless horse, its brown sides glistening with sweat, blocked Khan’s view of the creature, impeding a clear shot. He swore, urging Nika to the right and forward.

  The woman abandoned her bow, drawing a sword from a sheath at her side. “Iceros!” she yelled. The warcry reverberated in the air. She charged her horse forward, swinging the blade. The reptile dog raised the right front leg, preparing to strike.

  Merciful goddess. The woman didn’t know that paw contained the poisoned talon. If the creature slashed her, she’d be dead in minutes.

  With a shriek, Shad drove in front of the reptile-dog.

  The creature snapped at him, but the reprieve gave Khan time to reach the man’s mount and nudge Nika between the reptile-dog and the man. He smacked the brown horse on the shoulder to move it. It jerked and trotted away a few steps, skirting the carcass of the dead beast.

  The woman’s sword pierced the female’s left shoulder joint.

  The beast howled. With lightning speed, the reptile-dog leaped up, gouging her shoulder and arm with the lion-like claws on its right paw.

  The woman cried out.

  Khan needed to turn the creature’s attention so he could aim for the throat patch. He drew a knife from the top of his boot, targeting the hindquarters. With a fluid motion, he flicked his wrist, letting fly the blade.

  The reptile-dog shifted toward the woman, and the knife flew by.

  He pulled out another knife. Threw. Missed.

  All he had left was his dagger—the curved blade not made for throwing. “Lady, help me,” he prayed. A lift of energy poured down his arm. The dagger sparkled in the sunlight. He flung it toward the animal, pinning the beast’s tail to the ground.

  The reptile-dog twisted, biting at the knife.

  A split-second target. Khan yanked out another arrow. “Please, Lady, guide this.” He released the shaft, watching as the point impaled itself deep into the throat of the reptile-dog. With a grunt, the creature sank to the ground, its lifeblood flowing into the brick and sand of the roadbed.