Dreamwalker by Mary Fonvielle Page B

For a moment neither man spoke, and both turned toward the cliff that overlooked the valley. Normally a stoic and stalwart figure, Draven seemed unusually tense, shifting his stance more than once and clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Josue stood in patient silence, waiting for the other man to speak. At last he obliged.
    “Father. I know we rarely speak on spiritual matters.”
    “I never thought you a religious man,” Josue answered, not unkindly.
    “I’m not.” Draven sighed and dragged a hand over his mouth and chin. “But lately…lately I’ve been troubled. A shadow over my thoughts. I can’t seem to shake it.”
    Josue said nothing, waiting for the other man to continue. At last he complied.
    “I was a solider in the war, as I’m sure most people around here know. I came here…to get away. I knew when we came here that this couldn’t be home forever. We all know that. But I thought the war was years off, at least. Long enough for my daughter to grow with some small idea of peace in her life.”
    Josue frowned a little. “Are you saying you think the war will reach us here, soon?”
    “I’m not sure. I’ve been having dreams about it. About my time…before we came here. And when I’m working, when I’m grooming my horse or chopping wood for our fire, my thoughts always turn back. The war, the deaths, the swamp fort…”
    Behind them, Ellys darted between the rows of the little garden that stood barren at the edge of the tree line, her laughter ringing in the morning air. Draven stopped to smile as he watched her, but behind the warmth of his expression there was dread in his eyes. His smile wavered and Josue stepped forward to rest a hand on his shoulder.
    Draven sighed heavily. “I promised myself the shadows of war would never touch her.”
    “You have done well by your family, and this village. That is not something to brush aside lightly.”
    None of this was on Draven’s mind, and Josue could see that his words would do nothing to change that. A deep-set fear or doubt of some kind plagued the younger man’s thoughts, and he was doing everything he could to keep it there. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but seemingly no words would come. Again Josue waited, hoping that patience was the most he could offer this man.
    “Just…promise me.” Draven stammered. “Promise you won’t let me hurt anyone.”

 
     
     
     
     
    T he scent is bitter and metallic. Ander swallows in attempt to lose the unpleasant taste on his tongue. Outside the sun is only beginning to set, but the cavern is dark already. He hears the drip of moisture as it descends from the vaulted ceiling far above. A pale blue light emits from the runic symbols drawn on the stone floor, giving everything around them a faint aura. Ander stares helplessly from a far wall, unable to stand from the wounds he has sustained.
     
    Morning. Ander hesitated to open his eyes, trying to hold onto the fragments of the visions in his mind. He rolled out of bed and moved automatically to the desk across the room. A half empty metal cup fell to the floor with a ringing crash that resounded across the sparsely furnished room. The rest of the sleeping draught that Ander had drank the night before creeped across the bare floor as it seeped from the cup that had been knocked askew. Ander did not even look at it. Papers covered the desk – a small stack of off-white blank sheets to the left and a carefully arranged pile of lists and drawings to the right. He sat and pulled one of the blank pieces to the center.             
    Without hesitation he took a pen and began to write. He wrote quickly and without pause, straining to record every detail of the dream he could recall. The worn nib of the pen only left the page to be dipped in ink that dripped carelessly across the page as the writing resumed, words strewn together and barely legible. Under the words he drew a careful diagram of the cave, down to each