Authors: Usman Ijaz
“Wha?” Jic mumbled. “Stepped out for a drink, is
all. Calm down, boy.”
“I should report you to my father!” said Connor.
“Someone could have robbed us while you two were enjoying yourselves!”
“Calm down, Connor,” Adrian told him quietly. He
didn’t trust the two stablemen at all, and he didn’t like the severe stares
they directed towards him and Connor. To the stablemen he said simply, “Well,
now that you are here, make certain to stay here. And do your job properly.
We’re tired of having to do it for you in the morning.”
Quinn bowed mockingly. “Of course, young master.
Beg your pardon, young master.”
Adrian led Connor away and the two returned to
the kitchens. When they had gone inside to eat the day had slowly been edging
towards dusk, by now night had completely descended. One of the cooks warmed
some milk for them before sending them to bed.
5
Living in an inn, one became used to the sounds
of loud voices that seemed to ring throughout the night - or at least until
Tarak threw them out - and Connor was instantly asleep. Adrian , however, lay
on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Now that there was nothing to keep him
busy, he had only the dreams. They picked at him, and he could not stop
thinking about them. Even when he tried to focus on the music of the flute
coming some two floors below him, he eventually found himself thinking about
the dreams again.
He dreamt other dreams as well, but upon waking
only remembered the ones that caused his eyes to swell with tears if he thought
too much on them. And after every occurrence of the nightmares, for that was
what they truly were, he would promise himself that he would tell his uncle
about them, but he never did. He knew that something had to be done soon, he
just didn’t know what. Was there a cure for nightmares? He hoped so; he feared
that every night that he dreamt pushed him a step closer to madness.
He
struggled to stay awake, but couldn’t fight his body’s needs forever. His eyes
fluttered behind the lids as the nightmares swallowed him at last, and he was
sucked into a darkness full of carnage.
6
The sky above him is a mass of churning
black clouds. It makes Adrian think of ashes spread across the heavens. A harsh
wind pushes at him, raising clouds of dust around his feet and choking him. He
breathes the wind in, and tastes ash clearly ... and death. He is on a small
rise, and the crops of wheat before him sway towards him, golden strands like
slender arms welcoming him into their embrace. He refuses to walk towards the
wheat and what lays beyond with the unpleasant sensation that he has been here
before, walked beneath this dead sky before. A part of him knows it is a dream,
and in some depth understands that he has experienced this before, no matter
that it is a little different every time, and yet he is as helpless to wake as
he is to stand in place. His feet begin to carry him forward as the wind howls
past him.
The stalks of wheat swallow Adrian,
blocking out his view. He walks down a small slope of grainy soil. Ahead he can
see the top of a lone tree leaning out to one side. He walks through the wheat,
feeling its rough texture run through his hands. A bright flash overhead
catches his eye and he looks up to see three bright streaks of maroon shoot
across the ashen sky. The sight fills him with dread, and he struggles to turn
back, to wake, anything but to continue on as he is. But his body refuses to
heed his commands, and he is but a frantic ghost within the confining shell of
his being.
He breaks through the wheat, and the sight
before his eyes leaves him standing still as a statue. His eyes grow wide and
his dry mouth hangs open in horror and revulsion. It feels now as though he has
lost control of both mind and body, unable to think, unable to act. Before him
stretches a small pond, the water a pitch black that promises certain death at
a touch. The water is still, he sees, though the wind is now howling,
attempting to push him into the pond. His eyes drift to the tree rooted to one
side, leaning drunkenly over the water. From one thick branch four corpses sway
in the wind by the thick ropes around their necks. The wind rollicks their bare
feet above the water, snapping their torn rags around their frail bodies.
He watches miserably as the wind moves the
corpses in unison. There is something very haunting about the way they all face
him, eyes closed in death. He struggles to break free of his stupor, but finds
that he is only a small voice inside his own mind. The eyes facing him snap
open. Gray eyes that no longer seem dead but full of anguish stare into his.
For a moment he can do nothing but stare into those accusing faces as they look
to him, and feels as though he should do something for them, if only to make
them stop looking at him in such a pleading manner. But there is nothing he can
do.
Grasping some control over his body, Adrian
turns and staggers back the way he has come, refusing to look over his
shoulder, aware that the corpses are pursuing him.
And abruptly he is running down a broad
road covered in red dust, empty save for himself. The barren land all around is
as flat as the road and he can see for miles to either side. A look behind him
shows the same as a look before him: the empty road stretching on out of sight.
A slight movement of white in the breeze catches his attention and he looks to
the side of the road. He staggers back as he sees the dead bodies lining the
road. The dead forms are all shrouded in white, with only their faces revealed.
Frantic, Adrian looks to the other side, and sees the same shrouded forms
lining the road out of sight before and behind him, as though guiding the path
he must walk. Their lifeless eyes transcend the sky, which he sees is now the
rusty crimson of dried blood. His heart is pounding in his chest with a frantic
beat.. The sight of death all around him overwhelms him. He closes his eyes,
refusing to see the road lined with death, and prays to awake. He is not
certain if he runs with his eyes closed, or if he is only fleeing in his mind,
but death still greets him at every turn.
He runs past burning houses and past farms
aflame. He runs past men, women, and children hanging by their necks, their
bodies feathered with arrows. Their lifeless eyes roll in their sockets and
follow him. He can feel them upon his back, yet he dare not turn around to meet
them. He continues to run. To his right a boy little older than himself lies
wailing in anguish, holding the bloody stump of his right arm. Before him
carrion eaters flee, the reapers of death. Crows and ravens in the hundreds
take wing before him, and somewhere among them he sees a small flock of white
doves, and knows that they are important somehow. He watches as the doves are
swallowed in the dark flurry of wings all around, and a few emerge.
He runs past rapes and murders beyond
count, the screams of the innocents following him. In the end he realizes that
there is no escape. With a wordless scream he sinks to his knees while all
around him the darkness waits.
And then comes the woman.
Adrian stands and finds himself on the
outskirts of a thick mob of villagers. Men, women, and children fill the air
with shouts of condemnation towards something in the center. Their faces are
twisted in fear and revulsion. Adrian knows what is in the center, what they
are all watching, and he tries to turn and run back the way he has come. But
even as he begins to turn around he realizes he will never make it past his
first step. He is pulled towards the mob, and they dissipate around him like
fog. He is pulled to the forefront, helpless to turn away, helpless to do
anything but watch. To struggle against that great force that pushes him feels
as though his thoughts are being torn from his mind, ripping apart all sense
from his grasp.
The
woman hanging limp between the two large men might once have been beautiful.
That beauty is now certainly marred by the blood and dirt that streaks her
golden hair and fair face. A large gash splits her scalp above her right eye,
surrounded by dried blood. There are others, many in the same state as her, all
being dragged towards the great pyre that burns in the center of the clearing.
But Adrian’s eyes rest only on her.
He
feels a tightness within his chest, as though some great hand is slowly squeezing
the life out of him. A part of him wants nothing more than to be able to turn
and run from this sight, to ignore it and live in ignorance, but another part
of him can only feel helpless at the desire to want to be able to do something.
At first he believes her to be unconscious,
then he hears her soft moans and understands that she is awake. He looks around
at the faces of the mob. The flickering orange-yellow glow of the fire casts
them in a demonic light, and for a moment they look to him like jackals. He
watches in horror as the bearers begin to heave the bodies onto the pyre like
deadfall. Adrian shouts for them to stop, pleads with them to stop, but his
small voice is lost in the greater roar of the mob.
He rushes forward to try and stop the golden-haired
woman from getting to those flames, not understanding why she is so important,
and a massive arm wraps around his small chest. He fights against it, but it
will not let go. He watches as the woman is thrown onto the edge of the raging
pyre.
Tears overspill his eyes and roll down his
cheeks, warm in the heat of the flames. The arm around him suddenly lets go and
he breaks forward. He leaps onto the pyre, scattering chunks of wood, mindless
of how the fire burns him. If only he can get the woman away from the flames
.... He grabs her by the arm and begins to pull her free, all too aware of how
the flames are licking at her clothes. There is a sickening scent in the air
that makes him think of roasting meat.
The woman’s face turns towards him and her pale
gray eyes meet his. He sees confusion in that gaze, as though wondering who he
is and what he is trying to do. Slowly her eyes grow clearer, as if she is just
awakening from sleep.
Abruptly Adrian is seized from behind and
pulled away. He breaks free and attacks the pyre again, but once more he is
pulled back. He looks into the woman’s pale, understanding gaze, and knows that
he cannot do anything for her.
“Do not be afraid of what is to come,” she
whispers. And smiles.
“Mother!” he screams.
1
It was two days later, in the middle of the
afternoon, when the three strangers arrived. They walked their horses slowly
towards the Golden Lilly, pots and pans tied to the saddles and creating a
painful, clanking tune. Connor watched them approach from where he sat with a
marble in hand. It was the steady
clump-clump
of the horses’ hooves on
the cobble-stone street that had drawn his attention.
Two
large men led the small procession and a younger one followed at their rear. Of
the two men in the lead one had dark hair with spots of gray at the temples and
a face like an anvil. The other’s dark orange hair blew freely in the breeze.
He wore the same stony expression as the first, and a faded scar running down
his right cheek did nothing to make that face any gentler. Both appeared thick
and solid, the kind that looked as though they could stand up to a raging
river.
The one behind them was a completely different
story, however. If the first two resembled boulders then he matched a willow,
Connor thought. He was of a height with the others, but slender were they were
thick. His black hair curled down to his shoulders, providing some cover for
his youthful, clean-shaven face. He beamed at nothing in particular as he gazed
at the city around him, and Connor thought he must never have been in a city
before.
Their attire looked as though it were the only
thing they did share in common. All three wore long drooping coats over
open-throated shirts of faded hues and dark breeches. Their hands were adorned
with dark gloves that exposed only their fingers and thumbs.
Connor watched them come with a feeling of
unease and dread. Those stone men in the lead with their stone eyes sent a
chill through him.
Bounty hunters?
“Well, go on and meet them!”
Connor glanced at Quinn near the rear of the
stables, throwing feed for the chickens, and back to the approaching men. He
steeled himself and walked out by Adrian’s side to greet the newcomers. He
didn’t know why he should feel so unsettled, only that he did ... and those
cold eyes would not leave him. For a moment he felt as though they were staring
right through him, disregarding him as something insignificant.
“Welcome to the Golden Lilly,” Adrian said to
the men.
The one with the graying dark hair made a gruff
sound in response. The three men unloaded their blanket-rolls and traveling
gear and handed the reins to the boys. The man with the graying hair tossed a
copper penny into the air. Adrian caught it in surprise.
“Take care of the horses. Rub them down, and
have the gear stowed away someplace where it won’t be bothered.” His voice was
a deep rumble; the voice of a man who expected his orders to be carried out
without any qualms.