"The truest of dreamers are those who dream during the day, those who see another world with waking eyes."
~ Secrets of the Night by Skryse Nuuks (Written in Ashttïg Ewïg's Time, The Season of the Lords)
Erdil
Since the day of his curse, Avétk's dreams had been haunted, tainted. The innocents he killed would return in Träumenil seeking revenge, and so when sleep did not come easy to him that night he wasn't surprised. Not that anyone could kill him, really, but every night that the Fathers cursed him with a dream turned into a battle that left him wearied.
For a while he lay staring up at the stars, millions of lights glowing in the pitch sky, and tried not to think about who he'd killed that day or why. But trying not to think of something was the surest way to get yourself thinking about it. The more you try, the more impossible it is. Brushä's young freckled face twisted into a demonic sneer, his fingers clawing at the air. Avétk had been so sure of his innocence, so sure killing him was wrong. Again he looked at Brushä's young face in his memory, the way his eyes gleamed black and soulless, the way his face twisted with a frown too deep and wicked for a youth. Something had corrupted that child.
Was it the loss of innocence that haunted him, or the potential of a good life lost forever? No, it was that Avétk saw a shadow of himself in the child. That unnatural savagery, that black death. All too familiar, the way the child had lost himself in lust for power or for something he could not name.
Perhaps Brushä had been cursed, or maybe being cursed was more about your desires and pursuits than any external influence. Humanity took the easy way out, blamed their gods and immortals or curses and bad dreams, but life was seldom that easy. The one to blame lived in the mirror. The one to blame lived next door or slept in your bed.
A sigh escaped Avétk and he folded his hands behind his head. A breeze blew over the hill where they slept, crisp night air fresh in his nostrils. The starry sky stretched out above him. It seemed so clear and peaceful, a great farce in his opinion. The night held the dark things, the things people feared come the blood moon and celebrated when the old tales were told around fires. Things like himself. Unbidden, thoughts of the night of his curse resurfaced.
Much of that time slipped from his memory, like a Platanna frog whose slimy skin made it impossible to grasp it. He recalled the dark forest pressing in around him while he curled on its floor weeping and gnashing his teeth against the pain that burned like fire through his body. Sounds that rang through the darkness had scared him shitless, animals and creatures of the night too horrific for a young boy to face. Of course he knew now that those sounds were common in the Grùwoud, but by the Fathers, he'd been terrified back then, and even now, though he knew the truth, those sounds did not sound like animals in his memory so much as demons and spirits of wickedness roiling in the shadows.
Goose bumps trailed down his arms past his elbows, but he ignored them and counted the stars under his breath. Mother used to say the stars were doorways to other realms, to places where unnatural things were the norm, where houses were upside down and people floated through the air. A short laugh escaped him.
Mother had been such a great storyteller. He wished he hadn't left her without explaining why, wished he knew she was safe. And if he was honest, he wished again to be safe in her arms, comforted and carefree the way he'd been in his youngest years. Ahh, those were the days. Another sweet and sorrowful memory hovered at the edge of his mind, but a more prominent whisper interrupted. Something was wrong.
The goose bumps turned painful as spikes, and the hairs on his arms and back raised like a dog's hackles. Something was very wrong. The axe was in his hands before he could register that he'd stood. Sniffing the air, he crouched low. The only smells he picked up were those of wild animals, trees, dust, and something bitter but natural. No human approached. Beyond the hill, the moon's light made the open fields of dust easy to observe for movement.
And nothing moved. Avétk's eye caught a movement, but it was a hare scurrying from its burrow to a brush—nothing to worry about. And yet the feeling did not subside. Something was very very wrong. Something evil was in the air. Call it a premonition, but since the day of his curse, he'd sensed things, and not like the Wise Women of the order of the blood moon 'sensed things'. The crap he picked up actually mattered and came from a legible threat.
He glanced at Emeline who lay asleep on her winter coat, the one he'd bought her in Aysgarth. Warmth filled his heart. Her hair lay sprawled about her perfect pale face, her blue pink lips smooth and supple. A frown leaked onto her face, then her fingers twitched. The dream. Something was wrong, and Avétk couldn't shake the idea that it was the dream, even though the Mage had said they would be safe from dream attacks.
Her lips moved, her breathing caught then became laboured. With the axe gripped in his hand, he jumped to where the Mage slept. 'Mage?'
The Mage grumbled and turned in his coat.
'Mage! Wake up! Something's not right.' Avétk shook the Mage's shoulder.
'What's going on,' a groggy voice right at his ear asked.
'Fathers!' Avétk swung the axe without thinking.
The groggy Apprentice dodged without moving her feet, all the while rubbing at an eye. Good instincts.
'And?' she asked.
'The girl child, something's wrong.' Avétk pointed at Emeline, and at just that moment her back arched. Bloody moon and hell. Avétk dropped the axe and it fell a hair's breadth from Denirya's left foot. She didn't flinch, but her eyes widened as she watched Emeline.
Avétk ran to Emeline. What does one do at a time like this? He was not good at caring. 'Em?' he whispered.
Denirya yelled orders at an even groggier Färin. Something about bottles in her bag, something about a leaf or something. The voices tuned out.
'Em! Please, speak to me!' Her back arched again and a tear rolled down her cheek. Please, dear Fathers. Avétk stroked her cheek, removed a bit of hair that'd caught on her lips. She went slack. He hated this feeling, powerless to help, standing and watching while his heart suffered.
'Move aside,' a voice said, and Avétk came back to reality. The Apprentice stood above Emeline with a bottle and a leaf in her hands. The Mage touched his shoulder but frowned at Emeline. Ketiya had her knives out watching the surroundings. Then blood showed on Emeline's stomach. Blood!
'Stand back, warrior.' The Mage's voice carried such authority that Avétk flinched and scampered to Ketiya's side, though his eyes never left Emeline.
Blood bloomed on her stomach like a flower, then smoke rose from the wound, and slowly her hands grasped the wound, blood smudging between her fingers. No, no, no. How could this happen when he was protecting her? How could this happen in a safe place? Ketiya frowned out at the dust plains.
'Something's out there,' she said.
Avétk knew what it was. Those dark things. Those man creatures of the Dark Woman. Without a word he turned back to get his axe. The coals of their fire still glowed bright orange, and the moon's light was brighter than usual. Were these signs good or bad? He could not tell, but he could feel the curse burning in his muscles and blackening his eyes.
The Blackblood Cleaver stared at the expanse and counted twenty, no twenty six of those things approaching. There was no hesitation in the Blackblood Cleaver. He tore down the hill, roaring in a deep and guttural voice. A few of the dark things stood, some had hidden behind trees and bushels, some had seemed mere shadows. Now each had a bloody X on their foreheads, and the Blackblood Cleaver would have their blood and their heads.
Fast as the night, the Blackblood Cleaver ran. Without slowing down he hacked a creature apart with a crack that rang through the plains. A tremor shook his bones.
'Blood, Blood, Blood,' he hummed through stained teeth.
Crack, slice, crack, slice.
The rhythm of his boots thumped in the dust accompanied the splashing guts and bodily fluids of the dark creatures. There flew a tooth and he smiled at it as it arched and gleamed in the moonlight. His arms swung, cut, hacked, cleaved. There flew an arm, an artistic arc of blood trailing it.
The Blackblood Cleaver breathed in the smell of blood as though it were roses. A woman ran past him cutting at his prizes. He would deal with her soon. Night-black fingers scattered from his swinging axe and a scream erupted. Music to his ears.
Blood splattered on his face as he dug his axe into the bowels of another dark creature. Its inners spilled over his hand. He lifted the thing until his axe broke through its back. Blood dripped from his nose onto his lips. He licked them and savoured the metallic tang. The body he flung away and it arced just like that arm had. He was a bloody artist.
A creature leapt onto his back and bit his neck. The feel of its sharp teeth digging into his skin enraged him. He grabbed it's smooth skull from behind with his hand and forced his thumb into its eye. It roared and the Blackblood cleaver flung it over his shoulder so its body thunked onto the ground before him. It lifted an ash-grey sword, but he grabbed the blade at ripped it from the creature's grip, cutting his hands open deep. His blood mixed with the blood of his victims. He smiled, red on his teeth and lips, dripping from his chin and nose.
Where had they all gone? Body parts and gore lay scattered on the plains, and the woman cut through the last breathing throat but hers. The body dropped. The Blackblood Cleaver's feet thudded in her direction. Time to finish the job. The sweetness of the kill tingled in his fingers. The axe's slippery grip warmed beneath his touch. Pasty but glorious.
The Blackblood Cleaver's smile turned sinister and he growled. The woman sheathed her sword and watched him approach as if none of it mattered. The insolence! He raised his axe, now only a few feet away. Her baleful stare was spoiling the fun. But no matter, soon she would be an artistic rendition of beauty. A hand touched his shoulder.
A deep snarl grew and bit from his mouth and he turned sharp and quick, but dammit the snake behind him was quicker. It was a man.
'Avétk, remember the girl child.'
Avétk blinked his eyes, ready to drop his axe on the man, but the boiling in his blood cooled to a simmer and he slowly lowered his arms.
'She has been gravely injured,' Färin said.
A gasp came from behind Avétk, and Ketiya ran to Emeline who hung limp from the Mage's arms. What had he done?
'The Mage says it was a dream attack.' Färin's eyes were unsettled and his jaw muscles tensed. 'We are no longer safe in the safe places. Something has changed.'
Avétk nodded but could not speak. Inside he felt relieved—he hadn't hurt her—but then she had been injured when he had vowed to protect her. No matter the cost, he had to protect her now. Determined, he marched back up the hill and Färin walked at his side, hand on his sword's hilt, eyes darting over the plains. When they reached the top, they saw that the Apprentice had gathered everyone's belongings and slung it over her back, wrapped in an extra coat. The coals had been stamped dead and dusted over.
Not a one of them paused. Avétk kept marching, and everyone followed. The Mage walked beside him with Emeline in his arms.
'I have done what I can,' he said and Avétk nodded. He did not trust his voice to speak, and if his feet stopped moving he might lose it altogether. 'She will not survive for more than two days in this state. We have to hurry.'
'What happened,' Avétk croaked, his voice hoarse with emotion. He cleared his throat.
'An attack in her dreams by what I can see. A strange injury. Not a stab wound, not a wound of magic, not a slice or burn wound. It looks...' The Mage hefted her weight a bit and moved her lolling head to a better position. Avétk looked the other way and swallowed tears.
'This looks like lightning.'
Well, Avétk hadn't expected that. 'Lightning in a dream?'
'It is a most puzzling thing,' the Mage said. It dawned on Avétk that he still dripped with blood and gore all over. The Mage had balls not to flinch at his appearance or wrinkle his nose at the smell.
'We pass a stream soon, warrior,' the Mage said.
How had he known? Maybe he hadn't. Maybe the smell had bothered him. Avétk sniffed his armpit, and swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. And his armpits were the friendly parts!
© Joy Cronjé 2015