Magicks and Marvels abound
in
A Serialized Sword & Sorcery Epic
by RICHARD K. LYON & ANDREW
J. OFFUTT
About the authors
Book
Five: The Three Dreams
******
Episode
1: "Since You Have Interrupted My Breakfast, How Do You Plan to Leave Here
Alive?"
The Visions of Darmostra
TO
BE A HERO IN A GREAT WAR, to save a city full of innocent people from the
sword, is a proud thing but the years that come afterward may be happy
or full of harsh things. For Breen the years after the siege of Ermont
were years of war, years of earning his living as a professional soldier,
and they were both the worst and the happiest in his life.
Worst because of the cold, the rain, the mud, the long
marches and short sleeps, and all the other miseries that are part of leading
an army in war, none of which the boy minded himself but which took their
toil on old Uster to Breen's great concern.
When Uster's brain wasn't working well, great and proud
men moaned that a lamp they desperately need was extinguished and they
urged Breen to take better care of the old man. When his mind was clear,
those same proud men, the nobility of a nation and commanders of its armies,
attended his words like dutiful children. And they won battle after battle.
After the war in Paragar there was another war and another.
Uster said that a soldier's proper home is battle and it proved to be the
old man's last home. On a hillside overlooking a vast windswept plain under
dawning iron-gray skies, Sir Uster died. He was privileged to see one last
battle from his deathbed, see his plans deliver a nation from foreign oppressors
and he lingered in life til Breen returned from that battle. The boy, now
became a man, came back glowing with the pride of hard victory and splattered
with blood, some of it his.
Breen's elation turned to grief when he realized Uster's
condition and weeping he knelt beside Uster's bed. With his last breath
the old knight blessed his grandson.
Breen continued going from one war to the next. War was
now a trade he knew and a soldier's life suited him as well as any other.
Over the years as he roamed the world Breen occasionally heard dark rumors,
tales whispered in taverns late at night when men's tongues are loose.
It seemed a new dark wizard was roaming the world, a fearful being named
Pyre. Though his purpose was a black mystery, twas woe to whoever crossed
his path.
Such rumors Breen largely ignored. His life, if naught
else, was a busy one and he'd little time to worry what his cousin might
be doing. On rare occasions, however, Breen had rather disturbing dreams.
The first came on the eve of the Battle of Rastarfarn.
After checking the men of his small command one last time Breen retired
to his tent. Though sleep came quickly, in the middle of the night he found
himself cold, an odd sensation for twas the middle of a hot summer. He
rose -- or thought he did -- and when his sleepfogged eyes cleared Breen
stared about in puzzlement.
What am I doing here?
Before him lay a great dining hall, vast and somber, carpets
as dark a red as blood, and tapestries as cold a blue as the winter ice.
The long polished ebony table was empty save for two place settings, at
one of which -- Breen's eyes bulged as he stared at his host.
"Greetings, Cousin," Pyre declared, "and welcome to Castle
Ice. Since you're my only living relative, I took the liberty of summoning
you to dinner."
The whole scene had the eerie unreal feeling of a dream
and Breen vaguely wondered if he was truly awake. Aloud he said, "Sorry,
cousin Pyre, but I've already eaten as much as tis wise to eat on the eve
of battle."
"Then at least a glass of wine and some conversation."
The sorcerer moved his empty hand and began pouring wine from the bottle
now in his hand into the glass Breen found himself holding. "Now," the
mage murmured smoothly, "please, dear cousin, tell me of your life."
Slowly sipping the wine, which was quite good, Breen obeyed.
When he'd finished he said, "And what of you, Pyre? The world rings with
tales of your deeds but what may be the truth of them is more than I can
say."
"I do," the dark mage answered with a shrug, "what I must."
"What of King Knarr?" Breen persisted. "The story is oft
whispered that that mighty monarch sent his entire army against you and
you destroyed them by summoning demons."
"Tis true, absolutely true. Would you like to know the
secret of how such things are done?"
"Well, ahh, I do have a battle to fight tomorrow..."
"Good," Pyre replied with sardonic smile, "for it's really
quite simple. All you do is let the other side chase you through a huge
field of happy poppies and then start a grass fire."
For a moment Breen stared at his cousin, then realizing
that he was being mocked, he started to shout, "That's not..."
As his eyes sprang open Breen found that he was in his
tent, sitting up in his bed.
Happiest because at last the aged knight received the
honor that was his due and that Breen had so keenly desired for him.
* * *
"That's the famed Ozmarall waterclock."
Whirling Breen saw that he was not alone. "Pyre!" he exclaimed. "You brought me here? Why?"
"A small vanity," the black robed mage replied. "I wanted you here for a witness. I am about to battle a monster with means dire and arcane and soon you will see either the greatest or the last enchantment of my career."
This reply Breen scarcely heard for the young mercenary was busy staring at his own body. It wasn't there. Not merely did he have no body that he could see, when Breen tried to touch things he couldn't. Though his hands felt as real as usual, they passed through anything he tried to grasp.
"Don't worry," Pyre told him blandly. "Nothing's wrong. It's just that you're not really here. You're still asleep in your bunk on the Bold Lady."
"But where's here?" Breen snapped peevishly. To his further annoyance Pyre did not reply. Instead the dark mage turned and strode deliberately toward the center of the square.
The water clock gurgled abruptly and with a sudden release of compressed air whistled twice.
At the far end of this square there was some sort of palace, a squat ugly structure absurdly crowned with twisting minarets. Richly clothed figures were filing slowly out of that evil-seeming palace in calm stately parade.
Watching those slowly moving sinister figures in the flowing robes, Breen remembered and shuddered. According to the grim seafarer's tale, there was a famous waterclock, the clock of Ozmarall, in the dread city of Tehracula, a fearsome place who's ruling aristocracy were all vampires.
With legs he didn't have Breen sprinted after his cousin. "Pyre," he called, "don't you realize the danger? That's Nestromon, the immortal Vampire King! He's evil beyond measure and his powers are so great he defies the very Gods with impunity!"
Despite this warning Pyre continued advancing on the dread black assembly, with long swift strides. Turning his head back ever so slightly, he whispered to Breen, "Don't worry. You're in no danger because you're not here. As for me... I'm doing what I must."
By now Breen was close enough to Nestramon and his dire retinue to see them clearly. The lords and ladies, bejeweled and dressed in silk and satin with somber elegance, moved with the grace of stalking cats, unnatural hunger glittering in their red eyes. Two guards, squat powerful creatures with faces the color and texture of wax and dead unmoving eyes, were carrying a naked blonde girl, gagged and bound hand and foot.
From the terror in her wide blue eyes and her pathetic whimpering twas evident she knew she'd be Nestramon's breakfast. As Breen's eyes traveled to the King Vampire himself, the young mercenary trembled for never before had he seen a being so awesome. Towering head and shoulders above even the tall Pyre, Nestramon's body was straight and slender as a willow, his face a skin-covered skull. He wore plain clothing, shirt and pants of dark red, for this king needed no ornaments to show his authority.
His eyes alone were enough, vast dark pools of evil wisdom. Those dreadful eyes were now fixed on Pyre and with fanged smile the Vampire King commanded, "Stranger, tell me what you are doing here."
With a bow so slight as to be mockery, Pyre replied, "I came here to ask you a question."
"I am a fair man," Nestramon replied, his smile growing wider and showing more of his glittering fangs. "Ask what you will but then you must answer my question."
Pyre nodded agreement. "There was," he began, "within your kingdom a certain man named Kananose, famed as the most skillful polisher of mirrors in the entire world. Where is he now?"
For an instant there was the slightest flicker in the Vampire King's eyes, as if he found the question a trifle disturbing. "As you probably know," Nestramon replied, "I valued the services of dear Kananose because he, and he alone, had the skill to polish a mirror to such near absolute perfection that I might see myself in it. Naturally I guarded him well, but some foolish, upstart, a petty wizard named Ebbern, stole him from me. My vengeance will be swift."
Pyre shook his head. "I fear not. The powers at work here are greater than you imagine."
"Let that be my problem." There was now no mistaking the hunger in Nestramon's eyes. "Your problem, interloper, is to answer my question. Since you are guilty of interrupting my breakfast, how do you expect to leave here alive?"
Next Episode ... THE
THIRD DREAM, A DREAM WITHOUT WAKING
