Arn charged—heart pounding, shins shrieking—through the foliage. The creature was after him. He was the prey, not the hunter. He had always been the prey. Sharp branches cut at his cheeks, wide leaves slapped off his shoulders. He plunged down a slope, half-sliding, half-falling, coming to rest on his feet—back slicked with mud. A growl—loud enough to fill his ears with guttural reverberation—preceded the beast. Arn took off again, fingers clutching the moss as his feet skidding this way and that.
The shadows of this forest seemed endless. The sun was blocked out by the same storm that had stranded him and claimed Shar’s body. The only light that illuminated his mad dash for survival seemed to pulsate from his chest itself, but looking down or even considering that fact made the light flicker and dim. The darkness—Arn knew—was more terrifying than the creature behind him.
But he heard heavy paws clambering down that mud slope—thud, thud, thud. He heard its screech, its panting, its thirst, and its hunger. It would consume him. It would end him. So Arn plunged through the shadowy brush, chasing his own fading light.
He went up another hill, then down the next. He lost skin on rocks, and coughed up blood after a particularly rough fall. His legs grew heavier—heavy as metal—and his light grew dimmer.
The wide leaves parted onto a pond—and Arn froze. He knew this pond. He had seen it many times before, but not in so long. A single tree grew on the single island in the middle of the pond. The tree glowed, with an uncanny off-blue light. This was Razaad. This was, and had always been, his dream of his home. He had spoken to the wise, bearded man here; he had followed the talking water scale.
As he watched—pursuant monster forgotten—he saw the light fading. The pond would vanish soon. Arn, like the tree, would wither and rot in the opaque blackness that followed.
Then the creature nuzzled his back and rested its enormous head on his shoulder. He couldn’t see more than its fang, its cheek, and its eye—and in that eye, Arn saw fires brighter than the sun. The creature didn’t move its lips, but Arn heard its wan voice. “Let me in, and you can see in the dark. We can burn the forest down together. Let me in…”
Arn leapt up—and his shackles seized against his wrists. He had been asleep. He had to remind himself of that. The dreamworld sometimes tricked him into thinking this was the dream. What sort of “real life” involved constant chains and daily bowls of brown, meaty sludge?
“It’s not good,” Gamden said, quietly, as Arn sank back down.
Breathing heavily and reeling mentally, Arn didn’t bother asking what Gamden meant. The apparition would tell him anyway, no doubt. He put his head back against the cool stones where he had dozed off.
Gamden kept mumbling away. “Your dreams grow more common. You’re suffering in here. You’re not going to make it.”
Arn shook his head, half in disbelief. “Is doubting all you do? Are you just a vision of my doubts?”
“What are you talking about?” Gamden said. He never addressed the fact that he was not real. Arn’s mind seemed intent on him believing all the things he saw. “I’m your voice of reason, if anything.” Gamden said. The delusion chuckled, as though humour made what he had said more believable.
“First the guards come and tell us that ‘Master Tarro’ has yet to reply—no word from him, so no change in our captivity—and all you can say is that that probably means we get to live a few more weeks?” Arn drawled. “Now I’m not even allowed to dream without facing your criticism?”
“I’m trying to get us through this,” Gamden defended.
Then, with a pounding on the wall as percussion, another—muffled—voice shouted, “Could you shut yer trap?! I’m trying to sleep you, mad goat!”
Arn rattled one shackle against the wall. “Mind your own business!” he bellowed back, probably butchering the language the man had spoken. He glanced back to Gamden. “You got us into this mess, Gamden. I’m not going to trust you to get us out of it.”
Of course, Arn hadn’t given Gamden any permission to kill Crar. He doubted Gamden needed it to try another foolhardy “plan.”
“Suit yourself,” Gamden whispered. He shuffled his position, chains rattling, and leaned back to get some rest himself. Arn, glancing at their small window, realized there was no moon tonight. It was the start of the next month. How long had they been down here now?
There was a little puddle from the last rainstorm under the window, and in that puddle was a small gleam. The pale, wavering light was orange and probably cast from a reflection of some distant torch, but it seemed to grow ever so slightly when Arn noticed it. He blinked, shivered, and shuffled down to a lying position. He might as well try to get some real rest…