Stalking Darkness

Valerius’ magical herbs, Alec ran headlong down the bare passageway. There were no doors, no windows, just endless walls of stone as he turned corner after corner, following the splashes of dark blood on the floor and the wracking sound of his father’s labored breathing. But no matter how fast he ran, Alec couldn’t catch up with him
.
    “Father, wait,” he pleaded, blinded by tears of frustration. “I found a drysian. Let me help you. Why are you running away?”
    The hoarse wheezing changed as his father tried to speak, then fell deathly silent
.
    In the awful stillness, Alec heard a new and ominous sound, the soft tread of footsteps behind him, echoing his pace. When he stopped the sound disappeared; when he went on, they dogged him
.
    “Father?” he whispered, hesitating again
.
    The sound of footsteps continued this time, and suddenly he was mortally afraid. Over his shoulder he saw only empty passageway behind him, stretching away until another bend cut off the line of vision. And still the footsteps came on, closer and louder
.
    The flesh between Alec’s shoulder blades
tightened as he fled, expecting any moment to be grabbed from behind. The sound of pursuit grew nearer, closed in behind him
.
    Wresting his sword clumsily from its sheath, Alec whirled to fight. Instead of his sword, however, he found himself grasping a blunt arrow shaft
.
    And facing a wall of darkness
.
    Alec lurched up in bed and hugged his knees to his chest, shivering. His nightshirt was soaked with icy sweat and his cheeks were wet with tears. Outside, a storm had blown up. The wind made a lonely moaning in the chimney and lashed rain against the windows.
    His chest hurt as if he really had been running. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he focused on the red glow of the hearth and tried to exorcise the nightmare’s bitter imagery. His heart had almost slowed to normal when he heard a floorboard creak across the room.
    “That’s the third time this week, isn’t it?” Seregil asked, stepping into the glow of the hearth. His cloak looked sodden, and water dripped from his tangled hair.
    “Damn, you startled me!” Alec gasped, hastily wiping his eyes on a corner of the blanket. “I didn’t expect to see you back tonight.”
    It had been nearly a week since Rythel’s death and none of them, not even Nysander, had been able to find evidence tying the smith to anything other than the sewer sabotage and a few indiscretions at various gambling houses. Everyone had given up by now except Seregil, who’d grown increasingly short-tempered as he pursued one false scent after another. Lately Alec had found it wiser to keep out of his way when they weren’t working. He’d taken it as a hopeful sign this evening when Seregil slouched off to the Street of Lights in search of consolation; his untimely reappearance now didn’t bode well.
    But Alec saw nothing but genuine concern in his friend’s expression as Seregil fetched cups and the decanter of Zengati brandy from the mantel shelf. Sitting down on the foot of Alec’s bed, he poured out liberal doses for them both.
    “Bad dreams again, eh?” he asked.
    “You knew?”
    “You’ve been thrashing in your sleep all week. Drink up. You’re as pale as old ashes.”
    The brandy warmed Alec’s belly, but his nightshirt was clammy against his back. Tugging a blanket around his shoulders, he sipped in silence and listened to the wind sobbing under the eaves.
    “Want to talk about it?”
    Alec stared down into the shadows in his cup. “It’s just a dream I keep having.”
    “The same one?”
    He nodded. “Four or five times this week.”
    “You should have said something.”
    “You haven’t exactly been approachable lately,” Alec replied quietly.
    “Ah, well—” Seregil pushed his fingers back through his hair. “I never was very gracious in defeat.”
    “I’m sorry about the map.” The thought of it had plagued Alec through the long, unhappy week. “I should have taken it when I had the chance.”
    “No, you did the right thing at the time,” Seregil assured him. “We just seemed to have a lot of bad timing with this business. If I’d gone after Rythel sooner, or if he’d held off getting killed another half an hour, we’d have had him. There’s no changing what happened, though. Now tell me about this dream.”
    Alec took another sip of brandy, then set the half-finished cup aside and recounted all the details he could remember.
    “It