lost king or nobleman. He seemed to be looking directly down at Beam, and something about those eyes seemed vaguely familiar.
Trust your memories, Be’ahm .
The images of the battle erupted in his mind. He remembered the Vaemyn warrior. He remembered the man uttering those same ominous words to him just heartbeats before his death. Trust your memories, Be’ahm. You must trust—
Something pinged behind him.
Beam quickly twisted around toward the sound. No one was there.
Then he saw the bodies. A black suit of armor lay sprawled across the dark floor out before the steps. A broadsword rose straight up from its chest as if the suit were an insect pinned in a collection. The armor was exactly as he remembered it from the dream, seamless, like it was set from a single pouring of steel. Lying across the armor were the skeletal remains of a long dead corpse. A bony hand still gripped the blade exactly where it penetrated the armor as if it were still holding it in place after all these years. It was exactly as he remembered, except that, unlike his dream, the reality of this fight had occurred many, many years before, perhaps even centuries.
Beam worked his way to his feet, and then walked slowly over to the murder. Bracing his ribs, he eased himself down into a squat. The sword rising up from the armor had a golden hilt. The grip was composed of two intertwined snakes whose heads met at the pommel, and embedded in the pommel was a red gem carved in the image of a lidded eye.
Beam fell forward to his knees.
This was impossible! This stone was identical to the one hidden in his pouch. He felt for the lump beneath his tunic. It was still there. It was no trick.
The skeleton’s head lay on the armor’s shoulder as if they’d been in a tender embrace when they succumbed. Strings of corroded scale mail hanged between the empty ribs like metallic cobwebs. Clumps of long yellow locks still clung to the skull from patches of dry, shriveled skin. Beam leaned forward and carefully brushed the dead hair back from the bony neck. There was the telltale horn. A dulled, brittle oteuryn curled up from the skull just behind the mummified ear. It was broken at the tip.
Beam suddenly felt sick. As he watched, the warrior’s face superimposed itself over the gray skin clinging to the skull. He remembered the Vaemyn collapsing before him just heartbeats before the dark rogue drove the blade down into his back. He remembered the warrior throwing himself backward as he heroically vanquished the murderous knight before succumbing to his own mortal wounds.
A shudder seized him. He covered his mouth. A wave of dark grief boiled through him so suddenly, so forcefully that he thought for just an instant that he was going to be sick. Tears scalded the scratches on his cheeks. A sob wrenched loose from his chest. He couldn’t breathe.
Then, as quickly as it had taken him, the emotion was gone, leaving only the residue of embarrassment in its wake. He was left feeling strangely hollow, as if a flood had eroded a pool in his soul and then dried away to leave only a cold, loveless pit. He couldn’t explain it. Tears over a savage? A savage he didn’t even know except as the remnant of a bad dream induced by a bit of foul rabbit? It didn’t make sense. It had to be his head injury inducing delusions.
He wiped the evidence away on his sleeve. He tried to remember the last time he’d shed tears. Perhaps as a boy? Maybe he’d cried when his mother died, though he had no memory of it. Sorrow and melancholy were useless, burdensome emotions that he’d never counted among his weaknesses. It had to be his exhaustion making him weak.
He smeared the long hair back from his face and turned his attention to the sword. The carved gem in the hilt of this sword was exactly the same design as the stone hidden in his pouch. It was the same cut, the same style, the same flawless red bloodstone. Could it be a coincidence? Was it some bizarre trick of luck
Trust your memories, Be’ahm .
The images of the battle erupted in his mind. He remembered the Vaemyn warrior. He remembered the man uttering those same ominous words to him just heartbeats before his death. Trust your memories, Be’ahm. You must trust—
Something pinged behind him.
Beam quickly twisted around toward the sound. No one was there.
Then he saw the bodies. A black suit of armor lay sprawled across the dark floor out before the steps. A broadsword rose straight up from its chest as if the suit were an insect pinned in a collection. The armor was exactly as he remembered it from the dream, seamless, like it was set from a single pouring of steel. Lying across the armor were the skeletal remains of a long dead corpse. A bony hand still gripped the blade exactly where it penetrated the armor as if it were still holding it in place after all these years. It was exactly as he remembered, except that, unlike his dream, the reality of this fight had occurred many, many years before, perhaps even centuries.
Beam worked his way to his feet, and then walked slowly over to the murder. Bracing his ribs, he eased himself down into a squat. The sword rising up from the armor had a golden hilt. The grip was composed of two intertwined snakes whose heads met at the pommel, and embedded in the pommel was a red gem carved in the image of a lidded eye.
Beam fell forward to his knees.
This was impossible! This stone was identical to the one hidden in his pouch. He felt for the lump beneath his tunic. It was still there. It was no trick.
The skeleton’s head lay on the armor’s shoulder as if they’d been in a tender embrace when they succumbed. Strings of corroded scale mail hanged between the empty ribs like metallic cobwebs. Clumps of long yellow locks still clung to the skull from patches of dry, shriveled skin. Beam leaned forward and carefully brushed the dead hair back from the bony neck. There was the telltale horn. A dulled, brittle oteuryn curled up from the skull just behind the mummified ear. It was broken at the tip.
Beam suddenly felt sick. As he watched, the warrior’s face superimposed itself over the gray skin clinging to the skull. He remembered the Vaemyn collapsing before him just heartbeats before the dark rogue drove the blade down into his back. He remembered the warrior throwing himself backward as he heroically vanquished the murderous knight before succumbing to his own mortal wounds.
A shudder seized him. He covered his mouth. A wave of dark grief boiled through him so suddenly, so forcefully that he thought for just an instant that he was going to be sick. Tears scalded the scratches on his cheeks. A sob wrenched loose from his chest. He couldn’t breathe.
Then, as quickly as it had taken him, the emotion was gone, leaving only the residue of embarrassment in its wake. He was left feeling strangely hollow, as if a flood had eroded a pool in his soul and then dried away to leave only a cold, loveless pit. He couldn’t explain it. Tears over a savage? A savage he didn’t even know except as the remnant of a bad dream induced by a bit of foul rabbit? It didn’t make sense. It had to be his head injury inducing delusions.
He wiped the evidence away on his sleeve. He tried to remember the last time he’d shed tears. Perhaps as a boy? Maybe he’d cried when his mother died, though he had no memory of it. Sorrow and melancholy were useless, burdensome emotions that he’d never counted among his weaknesses. It had to be his exhaustion making him weak.
He smeared the long hair back from his face and turned his attention to the sword. The carved gem in the hilt of this sword was exactly the same design as the stone hidden in his pouch. It was the same cut, the same style, the same flawless red bloodstone. Could it be a coincidence? Was it some bizarre trick of luck
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