by Angus Wells
That remained a promise. When he dreamed of flight from yelling monsters or of raging flames, there was always, behind the nightmare images, that vision of the mountains, and the sense of a cool wind, protective against the fire. He could still neither explain nor understand it, only know that sanctuary lay ahead. He thought the wilderness changed him; surely, he felt, he was no longer a frightened boy looking to Arcole for protection, but now a man. He thought, even, that he felt hair on his chin, and was proud of that.
Four days into the forest he dreamed that they should hide, and consequently they passed the next day huddled in a cave beside a waterfall. Arcole, spying from the rimrock, advised that a band of some twenty or more demons went east along their backtrail. The following morning Davyd announced it was safe to continue, and they clambered cold and damp from their hiding place.
Soon after that he urged they detour, away from the river, and Arcole agreed without demur, even thought the going was hard and they neither saw nor heard demons.
One night he forbade them a fire. It had rained that day and they were soaked, but still Arcole concurred and they found a place where pines had toppled, one bringing down another across a shallow bowl, roofing the hollow so that it was hidden from casual sight: had Davyd not dreamed of such a place, they would not have found it. They gathered deadfall branches, constructing a shelter that was as much camouflage as protection against the night’s cold, and leant against one another for warmth. Arcole and Davyd sat to either side of Flysse, close, and it was impossible for Davyd to ignore her proximity until voices sounded soft through the darkness.
Then he only held his musket tight and ransacked his memory for precise recollection of the dream that had warned against a fire.
It had been a jumbled affair, of savage hunters and cowering prey, and his only certainty was that they must not risk discovery. He clenched his jaw then, for his teeth threatened to chatter, and he could not tell if that was the cold or the chill of the dreadful fear that gripped him. He turned his head and saw Flysse’s face a pale shape in the gloom. Almost, he took her hand, but then he saw she clutched at Arcole’s arm and envied his friend that touch. He had thought such impulses banished: he turned his eyes away and cursed silently, not sure whether he cursed Arcole or himself.
Outside, beyond the sheltering trunks, the voices came closer. Soft calls went back and forth. Davyd strained to hear them clear. It seemed he could almost understand what they said, but that was impossible; and he told himself his imagination ran wild. He hooked a finger about the musket’s trigger, his thumb on the hammer. He vowed that no demon should take Flysse whilst he still lived.
The voices came closer, until they sounded from just outside the makeshift shelter. The moon was filled, drifting cold, indifferent light over the forest, and its illumination granted Davyd brief glimpses of feet and legs clad in buckskin. He saw the boots the demons wore were decorated with colored beads, and flinched as the fallen pines vibrated under a demon’s weight. Dead needles and shards of moldering bark cascaded down, crawling things dropping. One landed on his face and he must fight the urge to slap it away. He felt Flysse, rigid beside him. Her eyes were wide and staring and her lips were clenched. She held a pistol. Past her, Arcole held his musket upright, angled at the treacherous roof. Davyd thought his pounding heart must surely beat loud enough that the demons hear it, or some crawling, biting thing prompt him to involuntary movement. His hands began to ache as they gripped his musket: he forced himself to relax his hold. He struggled to breathe evenly. Dear God! The dream had warned of danger, but not like this, not so close. He could not understood how the demons could fail to see them.
The pines shuddered some more, creaking as the demon walked across them. It said something in its odd, almost comprehensible tongue, and then a fresh downpour rained over the three as it sprang clear. The voices receded, fading away, and finally were gone.
No one moved or spoke, Davyd felt sweat run hot down his face, cold down his back. An owl hooted, then some large animal shuffled past. Deep in the forest a beast snarled, and another screamed.
In a voice so soft it should not carry past the shelter, Arcole said, “I believe they’re gone.”
Davyd was surprised so low a tone could sound so tense. He turned his head slowly sideways, shuddering as something with too many legs fell down his chest and began to crawl over his belly. It was more than he could bear: he pressed a hand to his wet shirt, crushing the insect.
“Careful.” Arcole’s warning was still pitched low. “Best, I think, that we stay here. How say you, Davyd?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice. He thought that if he spoke at all, he would likely scream. He felt horribly cold and thrust a hand into his mouth, biting, that his teeth not rattle announcement of their presence. Arcole’s teeth flashed white in a brief smile. Then Davyd flinched as Flysse’s hand touched his.
She put her mouth close to his ear. Her breath was warm and made him shiver. “Praise God for your dreams,” she murmured. “Without you we’d surely be dead.”
He stretched his mouth in what he hoped was a gallant smile, though it was more likely a grimace. Flysse answered his smile and touched her lips to his cheek. It was a cruel kindness.
Arcole said, “Do you two sleep now, and I’ll watch the night.”
Flysse said, “I doubt I can. My heart races too fast.” But she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
Davyd wished it were his shoulder cradling her head. He wished the confines of their shelter did not press them so close. He doubted he could sleep. The last thing he remembered was Arcole’s low voice: “None snores, eh?”
That night he dreamed the wind blew warm and strong out of the mountains, and there was no fire nor any demons—only the wind, like summer sunlight on his face. In the morning he knew it was safe to go on.
“Think you they hunt us?” Arcole asked as they prepared to leave.
Davyd stretched, flexing cramped muscles. “I don’t know,” he said. “How can they know we’re here?”
“Perhaps they’ve some way of sending messages.” Arcole shrugged. “Perhaps those bands we saw along the river send word. Perhaps they hunt us because we slew their fellows.”
“I think perhaps they claim all this land for their own, and name any who come here enemy. I think they are filled with hate.”
The words were no sooner uttered than Davyd wondered why he said them; they seemed to come involuntary, from that part of him that dreamed. Surely it was not a thing he had considered before: survival was enough. He frowned, confused, and brushed bark and bugs from his hair.
Arcole nodded thoughtfully. “And how much do they claim?”
“Likely all of Salvation,” Davyd answered, but it seemed another spoke, his mouth only the tool of utterance.
Arcole studied him a moment, then: “And the mountains? Beyond the mountains?”
“Safety.” Suddenly Davyd was entirely himself again. He shook his head, shrugging, wondering if the frightening night had deranged him. “I don’t know, only that the mountains are our one chance.”
Arcole fixed his pack across his back. “They’ll not be easy to climb.” He smiled. “But perhaps you’ll dream us up a pass.”
Davyd nodded. “Perhaps.”
The mountains were invisible now, lost behind the curtain of trees. They seemed very far away, and he could not imagine climbing such heights. For an instant he wondered if escape was only an impossible dream, the wind that promised safety only a subterfuge, a trick. Perhaps his dreaming would bring them all safe through the forests only to see them die amongst those gigantic peaks. For a moment he doubted.
Then he gasped, his vision blurring. It was as if he dreamed awake: he felt the wind on his face, and through the timber saw a light that burned off doubt. In a voice he was not sure belonged to him, he said, “The mountains are safe. We must go there.”
He staggered and felt Arcole’s hands on him, holding him upright. His fr
iend’s face was etched with concern.
“Are you fevered?”
“I’m …” He shook his head. “No … we’re safe now. We must go on … To the mountains.”
Arcole let him go, said, “Yes. But are you hale?”
For a moment he stared at Davyd as if he were a stranger; for a moment Davyd felt he was a stranger. Then he swallowed, ducking his head. His vision cleared and he saw only the forest again. He said, “I am,” and grinned. “Save that I’m wet and cold and would sleep a week or so, all’s well.”
Hesitantly, Arcole said, “It should be dangerous to chance a fire now. Those creatures might see the smoke.”
It sounded like an apology: it was odd to hear such indecision from so confident a man, and Davyd frowned. “I’ll dry out as we walk,” he said. “And tonight we can build a fire.”
“As you say.” Arcole looked to his priming as if he could no longer meet Davyd’s eyes.
• • •
Flysse had retired into the trees to perform her ablutions, and halted within their shade when she heard the curious conversation. She did not intend to eavesdrop, but there was that about Davyd’s manner that prompted her to wait and listen. He was so much changed from the frightened boy she had comforted in Bantar, she scarce recognized him any longer. He had seemed so young then, so skinny and afraid, she could not help but mother him. Now he was a young man. He had grown tall and muscular, and between their arrival in Grostheim and now his voice had deepened. And there were other changes. She wished she had not kissed him—she feared it should stoke the fires she sensed burned within him, and that could lead only to difficulties.
It was no longer possible to ignore the fact that he harbored feelings for her. She supposed that was not so unusual, and thought that had they remained in Grostheim, he would, in time, have transferred that infatuation to some girl of his own age. But they had not remained—they were three folk fleeing into the wilderness, and that forced them ever more proximate. She wished she could find some way to damp his ardor without hurting his feelings. Perhaps when they reached the promised sanctuary of the mountains …
Which prompted fresh wonderings. That Davyd was a Dreamer, she accepted—was grateful for his talent—but even in that he changed. She had urged he endeavor to employ his gift more precisely, and since that day it seemed the ability increased apace. He dreamed nightly now. Indeed, did she interpret what she had just heard aright, he now began to dream awake. She understood the look Arcole had given him: it was as if Davyd entered some strange transitional phase, as if the butterfly began to emerge from the cocoon. He remained the youth she knew, and at the same time seemed a stranger. She wondered what he would be when finally grown to maturity.
She rested a hand against the gnarled bole of a pine and looked to the sky. The sun came out now, the clouds that had delivered the rain blown off on a high westerly wind. Light came down bright through the branches, warm as a lover’s promise, and the forest seemed a tranquil place. It had been since they reached these woods, she thought, that Davyd’s prophetic dreams had grown so much stronger. Along the river, as they closed on the wilderness, the ability had burgeoned, but now it was stronger than ever. It was as if he saw each day mapped out, and was no longer at all hesitant in his predictions. He told them where to walk and where to camp, when they might forage for food and—most important of all—when the need hide. Without him she doubted even Arcole could survive for long, and even as she was grateful, she felt a little frightened. Almost, she thought, Davyd became something more than human.
Then, as she came out from the timber and he saw her approach, he was only Davyd again, smiling and then blushing, busying himself with his gear. He was bedraggled, his lengthening hair a lank red curtain about his face, his shirt stretched wet across his broadened shoulders. She smiled, but he was aping Arcole, checking the priming of his musket, and did not see.
“Do we break our fast?” she asked for want of something to say. “Or do we flee?”
Arcole said, “Our guide tells me we’re safe for now. But best we go on, look forward to a fire tonight. Eh, Davyd?”
Flysse knew her husband well enough to recognize he sought to heal whatever breach that earlier strangeness might have opened, and smiled her approval. Davyd did not look up, only nodded absently and murmured, “Yes; tonight.”
“Then onward we go,” Arcole declared, then looked at Davyd and asked, “Do you take the lead?”
Davyd stared back, momentarily perplexed. “Me?” He pushed wet hair from his forehead, which furrowed now.
“It seems only fitting,” Arcole replied. “You guide us, no? Your rightful place is in the lead.”
Davyd thought a moment, then nodded. “I suppose so,” he allowed, seeming not entirely convinced. “But I don’t think it really makes much difference.”
Arcole said, “Even so,” and bowed, gesturing that Davyd set himself to the fore.
Davyd straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and grinned as he braced his musket across his chest.
“Follow me, then.”
Arcole saluted and motioned Flysse ahead of him as he took station at the rear.
That night they found a clearing cut by a little rill that bubbled through the grass. They built a fire and Flysse set out snares, winning them four plump rabbits. They still set a watch, but just as Davyd had promised, no danger came—only a black bear that snuffled down to the water, then lumbered off grumbling as it caught their scent.
It had by now become their accepted custom that Davyd take the first watch, that he have the remainder of the night to dream. Flysse waited until he slept, then crept to where Arcole sat: she felt a need to express her thoughts.
“He changes,” she whispered. “I saw what happened this morning.”
“That was odd, no?” Arcole returned her. “But to our good, I think.”
“Yes.” Flysse nodded against his chest. “But why? He was not like this in Grostheim.”
Arcole shrugged. “I’ve not met a Dreamer before, only seen them burned. Perhaps the hexes on Grostheim’s walls prevented him. Perhaps danger brings out the talent, or it’s to do with the wilderness. Perhaps it was your suggestion.”
“How could the wilderness make him dream?” she asked. “And if it does, do the demons dream also?”
“I don’t know.” Arcole shrugged again. “Perhaps they do. I’d hazard the guess they’ve magic of some kind. How else could they creep up on the city so?”
Flysse said, “Do you think it still stands?”
“Perhaps.” Arcole nuzzled her hair. “The walls were strong, and hexed; the Militia had weapons aplenty. Wyme might have sent back to Evander, asking for reinforcements.”
Flysse said, “Do the demons prevail, we shall be all alone.”
Arcole laughed softly and said, “That was our plan, no? And does Davyd bring us to this ‘safe place’ of his … Perhaps we shall find folk there. Hopefully of kinder disposition.”
Flysse lifted her head to look into his eyes. “Think you it could be so?” she asked. “Can there be other folk here, kinder?”
“Who knows?” Arcole bent to kiss her gently. “All I know for sure is that we must go on. We’ve little other choice, eh?”
“If the demons have magic,” Flysse murmured, “shall they not find us?”
“They’ve not so far,” Arcole said. “And we’ve Davyd for our guide. We must trust his magic to bring us through.”
“Yes.” Flysse was silent awhile, then: “He changes in other ways.”
“He grows,” Arcole said. “And fast.”
“He grows and …” Flysse hesitated to say it.
Arcole finished the sentence for her: “He harbors a barely concealed passion for you. Yes, think you I’ve not noticed that?”
“It’s … difficult.” Flysse looked to where Davyd lay, glad that he slept soundly. “I’d not hurt him, but it is sometimes … embarrassing.”
“I cannot find it in me to condemn him f
or finding you desirable.” Arcole spoke with exaggerated solemnity. “After all, I share that passion. But do you wish me to speak with him …”
“No!” Flysse shook her head. “That should only make it worse. He’d feel guilty—God, he already does! Sometimes he’ll not meet my eye, but only blushes and turns away—and I’d not come between you. But when we reach his ‘safe place’—when we halt—what then?”
“Perhaps,” said Arcole slowly, “we must share you.”
“Sieur!” Flysse punched his chest, hard enough he winced. “I am your wife. Yours! I’ll not be passed about like some doxy. Is that the way of it in the Levan? Be it so, it is not mine!”
She heard a strange sound then, coming from her husband’s throat. It was as if he choked, and for an instant she feared her blow had wounded him. Then she realized he suppressed laughter—and struck him again.
“Think you I’d share you with anyone?” he asked. “God, Flysse, were Davyd not my friend, I’d call him out just for the way he looks at you!”
Flysse smiled, mollified. “Even so,” she whispered, “he becomes a man, and it shall likely become a problem, no?”
Arcole nodded, thoughtful now. “If there are folk in his ‘safe place,’ ” he said, “then surely there must be women there. If not … Well, perhaps he and I shall go back to Salvation to steal him a wife.”
“Steal a woman?” Flysse was shocked.
“Do the demons leave any alive,” Arcole said. “He becomes, after all, a handsome enough young man. Perhaps some branded girl dreams of freedom and would welcome a handsome young rover to satisfy her dreams.”
