Chapter Two

Nobody understands dreams. Not really. Waking from a dream can often leave one with the feeling of serenity, a perfect peace in both body and mind. For Janice, the waking was so often the worst part. Her body stiff, muscles not so strong, mind not so sharp as she left it in slumber.

Sometimes, she didn’t want to awaken at all.

But she understood no matter how great her dreams could be, it was the books she read, the lands she visited, the people she met in the real world that informed the world she could shape in sleep.

And often when she awoke, it was with an eagerness to go out into that real world and find as much material as she could bring back home.

This was not one of those times. When she awoke, her arms squirmed upon cold, firm concrete. Her neck tensed. Her muscles winced in pain throughout her body, in places she’d have never thought pain could be felt.

When she finally opened her eyes, Janice looked upon a bare room. With hazy vision, she scanned the room looking for any identifying feature. Anything she could lock onto.

A table came into view. She blinked. Once, and then twice and began to push herself from the hard floor. She stretched her arms high as she rose from the ground, craning her neck side to side and feeling the comforting crack of bones, as her body adjusted from pain to relief.

Walking toward the table she could see the ornate carving in the legs, the smooth, dark wood finish. She rested weakly upon the table edge and took in her surroundings. The room was cast in the sunlight that pulsed through the open windows and open door at the far end of the room. Beautiful, multi-colored tapestries draped the stone walls, and the room was littered with bookcases.

It felt almost familiar. Almost like home. She looked behind her, beyond the table and found another door left ajar. This one led to darkness. And from that darkness Janice spotted a pool blood upon the floor.

She felt a burst of panick envelope her heart. Thoughts of confusion and pain gave way to memories. Her fall in the woods. The death of Kasper. Her mother…….

As she stiffened her body and settled her mind on escape, a scrap of parchment caught her attention from the corner of the table. Near, a bottle lay on its side, spilling ink across the top half of the page, leaving only the bottom half legible.

“You are a very special person and am very special to me. Sincerely, your cousin and friend, Joseph.”

Janice knew where she was, and knew what it all meant. Her moment of resolve shrank once again, and she felt her body, from every muscle to every joint shrivel into nothingness as she sank to the floor.

“Oh Joseph,” she whimpered. “Aunt Lisa.”

None of it seemed fair. Janice closed her eyes as if thinking herself in a dream she could so easily manipulate, from where she could so easily set herself free. And those she loved. Those she loved.

They were gone.

Motion from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she gazeed upon the open door to the outside. The sun streamed in so violently that the figure approaching seemed more like a ghost, barely visible to the eye. And from that ghastly silhouette emerged a child. A boy.

“No,” she whispered.

It was Joseph. The mop of hair, the wide-set eyes. Blood down his cheek. Pale, almost illuminescent skin. It was Joseph. And it was not.

“What are you?” She rose, but an almost primal fear gripped her reflexes and froze her in place. Again she closed her eyes. Surely she would wake. Surely she would fly free from this tomb. Burst into the sky and leave all this death and misery behind.

But as she opened her eyes, she found Joseph standing mere inches away to her left. His eyes were no longer on her but the ink-splattered note he’d penned. Perhaps his final act amongst the living.

Janice’s heart beat faster, and she could hear her breath shudder through parsed lips. Her left hand gripped the table’s edge with an intensity that brought pain cascading through her wrist and arm.

Joseph turned to her, an almost imperceptable smile upon his lips, the still dripping blood curling into his now open mouth.

He slowly placed his left hand, upon hers. His skin was almost perfect in complexion and devoid of color. A stark contrast to the grime of his shirt and trousers, and the blood that continued to pour from the open wound in his brow.

Janice winced in anticipation of his touch but felt nothing. No, she did feel something. Her breath slowed, and she found color burn back into her face. A calm seemed to soothe her body like a hot bath.

She looked upon her dead cousin, sadness replaced fear in her eyes, and tears returned to the softness of her cheeks.

“Did you help me,” she asked. He nodded once.

“You saved me from those soldiers?”

Again, he nodded.

“Am I going to be ok?”

His mouth opened wide, and it was less his voice so much as the expulsion of breath across his lips that gave the response.

“No.”

Janice traveled all day through the woods. Despite the quiet and calm, she never felt alone. It was an emense feeling, as though eyes looked upon her from every shadow in the brush, from around every tree, from across the horizon of every hill.

But this did not instill fear. Janice felt a sense of calm, no doubt brought on by her sense of purpose. Her father’s estate lay five days journey away by foot. Janice did not look forward to such a reunion and all it would entail. But she was desperate. His was the only home left to her.

If she could maintain a brisk pace, limit her sleep, she could make the journey in four days. She knew at some point, food would need to be a consideration, and an inn lay in her path by the end of the day. And though she knew roads were something she needed to avoid at the moment, risks had to be taken given her lack of supplies.

By the time she reached the Giggling Infant, the sun had nearly gone. She paused to look upon the crimson sunset over the horizon, casting the large timber building in shadow. The beauty of the sight was not lost on her. But it was a beauty she could find herself no longer appreciating. And the promise of the inn’s succor gave her no solace.

It was a stopping point. No more.

While the bar had several horses tied up at the stables, activity from inside the bar seemed oddly quiet. Walking upon the isolated, rundown building, Janice took careful, quiet steps. As she creaked open the heavy wooden doors, blood rushed out from beneath. She paused for a moment but entered, nonetheless.

Five bodies littered the floor, dressed much like the men who’d attacked her. Her focus was so much on them that she failed to notice the sole live body in the room seated at the end of the bar.

“Who are you?” the stranger asked, startling Janice, who hopped inside, letting the door slam shut behind her. Her feet slipped on the blood, bringing her crashing to her knees.

“Who are you?!” she said angrily, standing to her feet and wiping the blood from her hands onto her trousers.

The stranger turned from the bar to look upon her. Long, oily strands of hair ran across a haggard, bearded face. He bore leather armor, cracked and abused.

“Is it you,” he muttered, eyeing her carefully.

Janice stepped forward, casually avoiding more blood and bodies. She scrutinized his look.

“Do I know you?”

He turned away to take a drink from the bottle before him. He set it down with a clang.

“Maybe,” he again muttered. “I don’t know.”

Janice’s patience was thin. She needed food and supplies. Not the ramblings of a drunk.

“What happened here?”

“These men had information I did not….. I didn’t like it,” he said. “It made me want to drink. But they wished to kill me. So I killed them. And I’ve been drinking as much good whiskey as I can find ever since.”

His eyes scanned behind the bar, groping blindly with one hand for another bottle. His movements were erratic, and he accidentally knocked over the bottle he had previously been drinking. It landed with a crash, spraying the remaining whiskey and glass mingling it with the already bloodied floor.

He seemed to pay it no mind as he continued to search for another bottle, now draping his entire body over the bar table, his legs dangling childlike from the floor.

Janice began her search for food, raiding the nearby cubbards. She wanted to ignore him but could not get his words out of her head.

“What information did they have? Do you know what happened last night?”

The man spoke through gritted teeth, as he continued to search for liquor, waving like a flower in the wind upon the table.

“The same thing that happened to you, happened to me, happened all over Ardennes. It was a massacre.”

She paused in the middle of filling her pack.

“Why?” None of it made sense. What could have possibly made her family a target?

“The same reason for any bloodshed. Power.”

His explanation added no clarification. It only furthered her confusion, which fed her anger. She claimed a sword from one of the dead bodies. She took a moment to gaze upon the dead man’s face. No, it was a boy. Young like her. It did not make her feel sorry for him. It did not fill her with pity. She wanted to spit upon his corpse, but her mouth had long gone too dry for such things.

As she inspected the sword, she noted its edge appeared dull and the blade was specked with dry blood, and so she began the process of cleaning it with a nearby rag.

“What are you planning to do with that,” the man asked, twisting open his new prize as he leaned back, balancing himself precariously, almost on the edge of falling from the stool he sat on.

“You’re here to drink like me,” he said with a cracked voice. He took a pull from the bottle, guzzling for several seconds until a quarter was already gone. “Not this one. Yeck! I’ll get us another.” He tossed it into the corner, not even registering the crash of the bottle, as he bent over the bar to grab another.

“I’m not here for a drink or to listen to the bumblings of a fool.”

The man paused and sat staring at the table.

“Is it true,” he whispered.

“What?” Janice finished cleaning the sword and tossed the rag aside. She holstered the scabbard, and for the first time since the previous night felt a renewed thirst for blood. The goal of safety at her father’s estate suddenly felt like a pointless routine. She looked upon the bodies at her feet, the bodies of men who’d perhaps had a hand in killing her family, and all thoughts of security and warmth in the love of others vanished.

She felt the heaviness in her chest, the image of her mother in her mind. Long, dark hair…..

“I loved her,” the man said. “I love her,” he corrected. “Always.”

Janice looked upon him and saw the tears in his eyes. He now cradled a bottle in his arms but did not drink from it. And for a moment, she did not see a drunk. Merely another broken soul.

She approached him, placing a hand near his side at the bar.

“Where are you from,” she asked.

“North. Far north,” he said.

“Are you from the Drift?”

He shook his head.

“Close. No, I don’t know. Where is home anymore?” He took a deep breath and looked Janice up and down. He seemed to want to speak more, but the words caught in his mouth, and he choked them back with a gutteral hack.

“Well, good luck to you, sir,” she said turning to leave.

“Lawrence. My name is Lawrence,” he said.

“Good luck, Lawrence.”

“Janice,” he said.

She paused and looked back. A hand instinctually went to the hilt of her sword. She did not fear him, even if the evidence of his prowess lay at their very feet. She wanted the test and met his gaze with an icy resolve.

“Where are you going,” he asked.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know you,” he said, and took a step down from the stool. It took a moment for him to steady his balance, and Janice huffed with impatience. Night was coming, and it would soon become cold. And Janice could now feel the rumblings of a day without food in her stomach. Her hand clenched the hilt even tighter.

“How do you know my name?”

“I knew you when you were…. young.” Lawrence held out a hand and nearly stumbled forward as he knelt nearer to the ground to signify a height less than half his own. “You wouldn’t remember me.”

“Ok, so? What do you want? Why are you really here?”

Lawrence ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the side of his head. A slight grimace marred his face, as he closed his eyes. Janice could not tell if he was deep in thought or merely in pain. Or perhaps he had forgotten where he was entirely. But the answer held little value, as did the answer to her previous questions, she realised.

With a flourish, Janice turned and left the bar. As she approached the stabled horses, she heard the inn’s doors crash open, and the panicked steps of Lawrence following close behind.

“Wait,” he cried. “I can help you. More men are out there looking for blood. I can escort you wherever you go. Your father’s, perhaps?”

Throwing a saddle onto one of the horses, Janice ignored his pleas as she effortlessly mounted her ride.

“I don’t need an escort,” she said. “And certainly not from you.”

“There’s more,” he said speaking now with more lucidity. “Something in those woods. I don’t know what it is. It isn’t right out there. Your mother, she’d have kn…...”

“I feel it too,” she interupted. “The spirits are…. overpowering almost…. I do not fear it. Whatever acquaintence we once had, you owe nothing to me or my family. Good luck, Mr. Lawrence.”

With a kick of her heels, the horse jogged away, leaving the drunken, stumbling man in the distance.

“I am a knight, you know,” he shouted after.

“Good luck, Sir Lawrence,” she cried over her shoulder but never gave him a second glance. She did not look to see if he followed. And she did not care. Her focus was now on the journey ahead. The dark would not deter her. Nor would the threat of more out to kill her. She had no fear indeed.

And as the darkness of the woods enveloped her, her mind reached a supernatural calm. She felt the eyes in the emptiness about her, souls flowing on the wind and whispering through the trees. No, her father’s estate was not home. This was home. And it would channel her to safety.