by B T Litell
After placing four logs around the fire in a square, Michael filled his kettle to make some tea, in hopes that he could relax and return to sleep. He considered that because his water reserves were running low, he would need to walk to the well later that day. Right at this moment, though, that was the least of his concerns. He at least had enough water for the tea and to wash up later if he wanted. He would at least need to clean his bedding, considering he woke up dripping in sweat. Michael was thankful that Feldring had multiple wells and that he lived close enough to one of them that getting fresh water wasn’t incredibly inconvenient.
Michael sat in a comfortable, yet plain, chair he kept by the window, where he watched the slumbering city as it rose before him. He placed the kettle over the fire, which cast shadows that danced throughout the room. Oddly, they brought him comfort. Looking out the window, he saw the city that was built into the side of a mountain and high above where Michael lived, he could see the snow gathering on the distant peak. The snow had been creeping down the mountain over the past week, a sign that winter would be upon them quickly. A small table with a drawer sat beside the chair. Inside the only drawer in the table was a small leather pouch with a pipe and plenty of dried tobacco leaves. Michael filled his pipe with a few pinches of tobacco. Usually he used regular tobacco but the last time he bought leaves, there was a flavor that seemed worth trying. The shop owner had said the leaves had had a flavor of cherry added during the drying process, and Michael was curious to try the new flavor.
With his pipe filled, he opened his window slightly. A gentle, chilly breeze filled the room, and he struck a match. That ever-familiar sound of the match catching fire was a comfort on its own, as was the sulfur smell that accompanied the burning match. The tobacco in the pipe bowl lit successfully with only a few matches, something Michael couldn’t perfect any further. He had seen some people who could light even a tightly packed pipe with only a single match. He simply couldn’t do it that simply. After a few puffs of the pipe, Michael felt more relaxed; bluish smoke curled from the bowl of his pipe, the tobacco glowing as he puffed on his pipe. The taste of cherry was faint, but its addition was welcome for the experience.
He sat in his chair, his left ankle on his right knee. With one hand, he held his pipe, puffing at his pipe fast enough to keep the fire lit, but slow enough to avoid getting a headache from his smoking. His other hand rested on his knee, his finger tapping as his thoughts raced through the nightmare. The one detail which eluded him, and that bothered him the most, remained to be what and who that dark man was. He moved gracefully, like any swordsman, but other blades simply went through him or left no mark on him whatsoever. Despite having never met the dark man anywhere besides his nightmares, and not being sure what sort of being he was, Michael could not shake the feeling that he was familiar somehow. That lingering feeling of knowing him remained no matter the number of times the nightmare visited him. And he experienced the nightmare every time he had slept over the last few weeks. Not one night had the nightmares not been there, waiting for him to begin sleeping. It was as if the poor dreams were trapped in his bed.
Looking out of the window, Michael studied Feldring. It was a city built into the side of a large mountain and supported a mine that had been built high above in the peak of the mountain. The city consisted of several layers that grew progressively wider as they descended from the mountains. The roads were wide; three carriages could travel to the top of the city abreast of each other with room on the sides for a man riding a horse to also pass. Houses here in the city were tall and narrow, often built from stone, as there was always plenty of stone around. The city itself was built from the stone that had been taken from the side of the mountain. Much of the Ash Mountains, the particular range that stretched as far as the eye could see to the east and west of Feldring, were an ashen grey color, where they had gotten their name. From a great distance the mountains looked like large piles of ash.
From his smoking window, Michael didn’t have a great view of the city, but he could see out into the expansive hilly plains that stretched below the city and the mountain range. The sky before him, despite being dark, showed clouds that would promise eventual rain, which would likely reach the city later that day. Feldring was on the windward side of the Ash Mountains and it was always raining in the city. That did make it a touch dangerous to be out during or right after the rain, as the stone the city was crafted from grew slick with the water. But the city always smelled so wonderful post rain. A heavy earthen smell filled the city, despite the stone’s presence.
While he sat contemplating the dark man, Michael heard a quiet tapping at his door downstairs. What could someone want from him at this hour of the night? Upset by the interruption, Michael emptied his pipe onto the hearth and the dull glowing embers from the tobacco danced into the rest of the fire. His pipe emptied, Michael set it on the windowsill and wished he could have smoked the entirety of it without an interruption. Five quick, soft knocks repeated. With a candle in his right hand, he quietly walked down the stairs to his front door and walked past his sword, which stood in the wooden rack he had built for the sword. The sword had belonged to his father, a soldier many years before, who had retired during a time of peace. An empty slot accompanied the sword. He planned to buy another sword to fill the space, but he had found no sword that matched the quality of his father’s sword and wished not to taint its beauty with a lesser sword.
Opening his thick, solid oak door, Michael saw a hooded man wearing a tan floor-length robe decorated with black markings along the sleeves and cuffs of his robes. His chest bore a black embroidered raven, its wings held up as if it were ready to fly right off the front of his robes. Very little of the man was visible as his hood was raised, even though it was the middle of the night. He was tall, standing a few inches taller than Michael. He also was lean, with broad shoulders. Under the cowl Michael could see a strong jaw with a clean-shaven, cleft chin, but like he had seen on James in his nightmares. Michael reminded himself that many people had cleft chins.
“Good morning, sir. How can I help you?” Michael asked, assuming it was likely morning rather than night. He was surprised to see a priest from the King’s Court so far from the Capital City, named Prikea just as the continent. The priest must have been traveling for at least a week to get here. The Prikea Castle was over a hundred leagues away
“You’ve been having nightmares, haven’t you?” the priest inquired.
“I have. The dreams have been plaguing me for weeks now. There is a man in my dreams,” Michael replied, motioning the priest into his sitting room. As the priest walked in, he sat on one of the wooden chairs Michael had built. Once seated comfortably in the chair he removed his hands from his sleeves and lowered his cowl, revealing a cleanly shaved head, dark grey eyes, and dark eyebrows. He sat gazing into Michael’s eyes though it was hard to tell since he still wore his hood. He also didn’t know how to respond to the gaze of a priest, having only met the old man who tended the chapel in Feldring, and it seemed that he hardly qualified as a priest. Perhaps that was what retirement held for a priest.
“The man wears a dark cloak wielding a weapon of the Night, does he not?” The priest’s voice remained firm, a sea of authority flowing with the baritone of his surprisingly soothing voice. His presence alone felt like it could command a courtroom.
“I cannot see his face, and his weapon creates lightning when they contact weapons from this world. I know not who this man is, but I have a feeling that I know him and cannot lose that feeling. Do you know who this man is, sir?” Michael asked, wondering what answers he would get from those questions.
“It’s not necessary to call me ‘sir,’ Michael. Regardless, I suspect he is a Knight of the Lord of Kalathan, known among the Order of Ravens as a Shadow Knight. His ultimate goal remains an enigma to the Order of Ravens. We have been searching through all of our documents and we have found very little about any of Kalathan’s Shadow Knights. There is a chance we ha
ve improperly identified what he is, though, and that could be why we have very little information about him, his purpose, or when he may have made this alignment. What I do know is that you need to come with me to speak with the rest of the Order. This will allow us to figure out why these nightmares keep appearing to you. We do really want you to cease having these nightmares.”
“What would that entail? I have a job and a life here in Feldring that I really doubt I could just up and leave. How long will this journey take?” Michael inquired, anxiety setting in thinking about leaving the comforts of his life as he knew it and accepting the unknown in all of its terrifying expansiveness. Perhaps this journey could be a good thing for him. He had, after all, always wanted to visit the capital city. He just had never found the time for it.
“I left the afternoon after we sensed the second nightmare. I don’t mean for this to sound intrusive. Your dreams come from a lesser form of Magic that are actually showing you an event in the future of great importance. These dreams can appear to anyone, but the fact that your dreams are repeating every night tells us that this is something the Order must look into. We implore you to consider this opportunity, Michael. Help us bring an end to the darkness that is growing in our land.”
“You could simply be anyone showing up at my door and claiming to be a priest. I cannot make such a drastic decision immediately. My whole life is here,” Michael said, nervous about what the priest would say to that. After a long pause where neither of them said anything, Michael continued with further questions he had. “Who are the other men that are with me? What city are the dreams taking place in? It’s clear to me that it isn’t Feldring, and the King’s standard is not red with a crimson griffon,” Michael stated. He had other questions but figured he could always ask more if he got answers for those.
“None of the other priests know the answer about who the other men are. It is clear though, that you are comrades, but we cannot figure out why, or where. Or even when, for that matter. I have not been given any insight as to the other priests’ thoughts about your dreams. They are discussing that during my absence and will fill us both in when we get to the castle. This could be well into the future, but it’s incredibly hard to say with any level of certainty,” the priest replied, dodging Michael’s comment about proving his priesthood.
“Do you know anything about the other two? Are they seeing these nightmares too, or is it only me that sees them?” Michael had to manage his curiosity. The last time he failed to do that, he ended up becoming a carpenter, which was not entirely a bad thing.
“Considering I know nothing about the others, I cannot be sure whether they see the nightmares too, but we have sent other priests to find where they may be right now. We would like to have all three of you together to explain what we think will resolve the events of the nightmares. Our libraries beneath the castle are extensive, but I am unsure right now if these other two have been located yet. Do you have any other questions?” The priest seemed tired, but if he were, he would not admit that.
“Only one question left. How long will you give me to think over this decision?” Michael inquired, curious about the answer he would get.
“I plan to make my journey back to the castle tomorrow at midday. Take all the time you need between now and then to think over this big decision. Please come find me in the temple before then with your decision. We need all haste made with your decision,” the priest replied, standing up and walking toward the door. The priest seemed tired. Even if he was tired, he would likely never admit it.
As Michael stood and followed the priest to open the door, he watched the priest raise his cowl back over his head. As his hands grasped the cowl, Michael saw something on the back of the priest’s right hand. It appeared to be a tattoo; however, there was no fading in the design or colorations at all. Any time Michael had seen slaves marked in similar manners, usually on the sides of their necks, there always seemed to be fading from the sunlight. Or whatever it was that caused ink that was set into skin to fade. Michael honestly didn’t know.
The design looked like a raven, but with a shimmering surface, almost as if it could emit its own light. The shimmer looked like silver between the feathers on the wings. Before Michael could ask what, the symbol represented, the priest had his hands back in his sleeves. The priest seemed much more authoritative with his hood drawn over his head; the shade from his cowl covered his face so that only his mouth was visible.
“Please take some time to think over this decision. I will be at your temple meditating, should you decide to come with me. You can find me there,” the priest commented as he walked through the door and into the darkness of night. His footsteps made no sound as he walked down the brick roadway, something that happened very rarely in the mountain city. Making no noise, he disappeared into the night while Michael stood in his doorway considering what had just happened.
After a few moments looking into the street, Michael closed his door and returned upstairs. He found the water in his kettle was boiling, and he quickly remembered that he had indeed set the kettle on the fire to make tea. Michael grabbed the ladle he kept near the hearth and filled a thick stone cup with water. He grabbed his bowl of tea leaves and threw in two pinches of the dried leaves into the water. He watched as the leaves swirled around in the water, changing the color to a light red brown that slowly grew darker. While he waited for the tea to steep, he once more filled his pipe, lighting it with a small stick he lit in the hearth, mostly covered with embers at this point. He drew a few puffs on his pipe, adding more wood to his hearth to rebuild the fire. Thankfully the hearth, when properly ignited, provided both warmth and light in his home. With all this finished, Michael sat in his chair once more, gazing out over the city he had called home his whole life, knowing that if he left this could be the last time that he could be gazing upon the tiered, stone city.
Wispy tendrils of blue-grey smoke rose from the burning tobacco as he puffed away at his pipe, deep in thought. He eventually took a drag on his pipe and found he was out of tobacco, emptying the ashes from the pipe and refilling it again, using another small stick, rather than opting for a match. As he continued smoking his pipe, mindlessly puffing at the mouthpiece, he thought about his choices. So many things would change about his life if he left with the priest. He enjoyed his career as a carpenter’s apprentice; however, it had grown to be less fulfilling than it had been a few years before. The work was enjoyable; the city just had no need for so many carpenters. Some of that was due to the city being made from stone and there was already a craftsmen guild with dozens of carpenters, many of whom were much more skilled than Michael ever dreamt he could achieve.
“I do want to see the castle,” Michael thought aloud to himself, tapping the tip of his pipe against his chin as he continued thinking. He stood from his chair and grabbed his tea, continuing to smoke his pipe in between sips of his tea. It had steeped just a bit too long, but there was no reason to waste tea just because of that.
With his third pipe that morning and his tea finished, Michael sat in his chair by the window and gazed out onto the city. The twinkling lights from the torches in the streets flashed in a rhythm that captivated him, but he knew they had no discernable pattern. He gazed up into the night sky from his window and watched the sparkling of stars that he could see from his window. Their brilliance spoke to him, told him that so much more could be explored beyond this city, but he would have to leave to see everything else. What more does this life really offer me, Michael thought to himself, knowing the answer. The life of a carpenter, even a carpenter’s apprentice, held nothing further for him.
Having made up his mind, Michael walked downstairs to his desk, lit the candle he kept there, and began writing two letters. One he wrote to the city’s housing registrar informing them that they could sell his house and whatever possessions he left here and donate the money to the nearby orphanage. He needed nothing in his house beyond a few belongings, and those children certainly needed
more than he had in his life. The second letter he wrote to Master Gamel, whom he apprenticed for. He would enjoy the gift that Michael was leaving him. He would have no need for all his carpentry tools or his stall in the shop. It would be simpler to give all that to Gamel.
With both letters finished, Michael grabbed the few possessions he felt he needed and put them into a simple burlap sack he could carry on his back. Sometimes he would go for an adventure outside the city. More often than not, he planned such adventures and never ended up going, as he feared the unknown. A knot tied itself in his stomach at the thought of leaving everything behind that he had known. Thankfully in this instance, his parents had both passed away a few years before. They had left him the house in their passing. In the burlap sack, he packed a few essentials: his pipe and tobacco, some simple woodcarving tools he kept at home to keep himself busy, a small kettle, matches, kindling he put in a smaller sack within his bag. When he remembered that he would be going to the castle, he packed his nicest shirt and trousers, folded them nicely, and placed them at the bottom of the sack.
After he had everything packed in his bag, Michael threw on a wool coat just because it had grown cold in the mountains, slung his bag over his shoulder, the strap crossing his chest, and grabbed his letters for delivery. Without thinking Michael opened his door and started to walk out before he remembered his father’s sword resting in the rack. He turned around and grabbed the sword in its scabbard from the sword rack, clasping the leather belt around his waist before turning around once more. Considering that he was leaving, and selling his home to the city, Michael left the door unlocked, checking to ensure there was nothing else he wanted to bring with him.
At this hour of the morning, no one walked the streets besides the city watch; they patrolled with torches, watching for criminals or those that should not be on the streets. Torches stood at the corners of intersections, throwing dancing light and shadows into the road, and some light from the moon helped light the city as well. A few wispy clouds floated through the nearly black sky, but there was nothing to really block the light from the moon. The only evidence to their presence remained as the stars they blocked in the sky as they passed. Michael thought back to his schoolhouse days, remembering when teachers taught him about theories that the moon actually reflected light rather than produce its own. Life had seemed so complicated when he was a child going to school. Learning basic subjects had been so tedious.
