Dream Magic by B. V. Larson Page B

the Fae—but who lacked the money to do it rightly.
    That lucrative little racket had soon run dry when people had determined the wards were worthless. Bitter, Slet had taken his share of the loot and turned to whoring down around the docks, working odd jobs for whoever could stand him—souls who were few and far between.
    When Brand had come to the townsfolk with an offer of an elven bride for any unattached man of Riverton, Slet had felt revitalized. He’d been certain that a new beautiful woman could uncover his inner, true self and reveal it to everyone else who sneered at him in the streets.
    He’d gone with Brand on one fateful morn to the land of the Fae. Like his cousin Bret Silure, he’d wanted to find a wife. Unlike his cousin, he’d come back alive and with the woman of his dreams. In the Twilight Lands, he’d met his lovely bride and bedded her that very night. Never had any experience of his brutal life prepared him for the bliss he felt when he was with her.
    Slet had returned from the land of elves a changed man. He brought his new bride with him and showed her to all his relatives. They were stunned, envious and even spiteful—but a few were happy for him. They encouraged him to clean up his life and rejoin the clan as a functioning member.
    Soon after, he landed a job as a dockhand with steady pay. He broke his pipe and discarded it. He ignored the lowlifes he’d spent time with in the past, swearing to his new wife Annelida that he’d never take up with them again—a pledge he’d never broken, from that day to this.
    Sadly, things did not go perfectly for Slet. His wife turned up pregnant and quickened with unnatural speed. Alarmed, he did his best to make her comfortable and to provide for her.
    But at last, when the night of the birth came, a gale blew hard outside and dark clouds threatened with rumbling thunder. Slet had worked late, and when he returned his family stared at him with sad, tear-filled eyes. They had to tell him his fair wife had died in childbirth, having not been able to get the child free of her womb. He asked to see the child, but the midwives had told him firmly it was best he didn’t. He finally agreed and left.
    Grief-stricken, he’d wandered the streets in a daze. It wasn’t until weeks later when the Storm of the Dead lashed the Riverton streets that he’d been able to do anything useful.
    When the Dead came, he changed. In those grim hours of desperation, he took up a sword and chopped the bodies of every mad-thing that assailed the houses of the River Folk. He did this with a blood-lusting fury and snarling teeth. Those who saw him attested to his courage, but they also quietly suggested Slet was a man unfit for permanent duty alongside the blue cloaks of the Constabulary. It was felt he was a madman in battle and might cut down his comrades with the same zeal he turned toward his foes.
    And so , when the militia forces disbanded, it was only natural for someone who’d served as a soldier at the cemetery change his sword for a shovel and sword. Slet was given the post, and he had accepted it, not knowing what else to do with his broken life.
    Each night that passed he remembered his beloved Annelida. He wondered what his child had looked like, and he contemplated suicide with regularity. Years rolled by, and old wounds slowly healed. Still, he never drank, took a new wife, nor smiled when called to. Having turned sour in middle age, he had grown into the role of a reclusive hermit. School children frightened one another by invoking his name, and when they came up to Cemetery Hill on a dare, he obliged them by chasing them out with curses and vile threats.
    One night while he secured his shop and headed for bed, he thought to see a figure walking among the gravestones. It was long after dark, and visitors here were far and few between even on sunny days. Growing instantly annoyed by the intrusion, Slet furrowed his brow and stormed out to meet the