Dust of Dreams

sparkled as corpses and carcasses shrivelled, losing their last remnants of moisture, and earth buckled, lurching upward inlong wedges of stone-hard clay that jostled bodies. Iron steamed and glowed amongst the dead.
    The sky above was devoid of all light, but the ashes drifting down were visible, as if each flake was lit from within. The pressure continued pushing everything closer to the ground, until horses and armoured men and women became flattened, rumpled forms. Weapons suddenly exploded, white-hot shards hissing.
    The hillsides groaned, visibly contracted as something swirled in the very centre of the valley, a darkness so profound as to be a solid thing.
    A hill cracked in half with a thunderous detonation. The air seemed to tear open.
    From the swirling miasma a figure emerged, first one boot then the other crunching down on desiccated flesh, hide and bone, striding out from the rent, footfalls heavy as stone.
    The darkness seethed, pulsed. The figure paused, held out a gauntleted left hand.
    Lightning spanned the blackness, a thousand crashing drums. The air itself howled, and the darkness streamed down. Withered husks that had once been living things spun upright as if reborn, only to pull free of the ground and whirl skyward like rotted autumn leaves.
    Shrieking wind, torn banners of darkness spiralling inward, wrapping, twisting, binding. Cold air rushed in like floodwaters through a crumbling dam, and all it swept through burst into dust that roiled wild in its wake.
    Hammering concussions shook the hills, sheared away slopes leaving raw cliffs, boulders tumbling and pitching through the remnants of carnage. And still the darkness streamed down, converging, coalescing into an elongated sliver forming at the end of the figure’s outstretched hand.
    A final report, loud as the snapping of a dragon’s spine, and then sudden silence.
    A sword, bleeding darkness, dripping cold.
    Overhead, late afternoon sunlight burned the sky.
    He slowly scanned the ground, even as desiccated fragments of hide and flesh began raining from the heavens, and then he stepped forward, bending down to retrieve a battered scabbard. He slid the sword home.
    A sultry wind swept down the length of the valley, gathering streamers of steam.
    He stood for a time, studying the scene on all sides.
    ‘Ah, my love. Forgive me.’
    He set out, boots crunching on the dead.
    Returned to the world.
    Draconus.

Book Four

The Path
Forever Walked

 
     
     

When your penance is done
Come find me
When all the judges cloaked in stone
Have faced away
Seek the rill beneath the bowers and strings
Of fine pearls
Down in the fold of sacred hills
Among the elms
Where animals and birds find shelter
Come find me
I am nestled in grasses never trod
By heartbroken
Knights and brothers of kings
Not a single root torn
In the bard’s trembling grief
Seek out what is freely given
Come find me
In the wake of winter’s dark flight
And take what you will
Of these blossoms
My colours lie in wait for you
And none other
     
    C OME F IND M E

F ISHER

Chapter Nineteen
    In the midst of fleeing
the unseen enemy
I heard the hollow horrors
of the wretched caught
We collected our gasps
to make ourselves a song
Let the last steps be a dance!
Before the spears strike
and the swords slash
We’ll run with torches
and write the night
with glutted indulgences
Our precious garlands
bold laughter to drown
the slaughter in the stables
of the lame and poor
Entwine hands and pitch skyward!
None will hear the dread
groans of the suffering
nor brush with tips
glistening sorrow’d cheeks
on stilled faces below
Let us flee in mad joy—
the unseen enemy draws near
behind and ahead
and none will muster
to this harbinger call
for as long as we are able
to run these perfect circles
confound the fates
all you clever killers!
I am with you!
     
    U NSEEN E NEMY

E FLIT T ARN

    M
oving like one bludgeoned, Kilmandaros slowly, by degrees, picked herself up from the ground. She leaned to one side and spat red phlegm, and then glanced over to see Errastas lying curled on the dead grasses, motionless as a stillborn calf. Off to one side stood Sechul Lath, arms wrapped tightly about his torso, face bleached of all warmth.
    She spat again. ‘It’s him.’
    ‘A summoning beyond all expectation,’ Sechul said. ‘Odd, Errastas looks less than pleased at his own efficacy.’
    Kilmandaros levered herself upright, stood unsteadily. ‘He could be subtle when he wanted,’ she said, in some