Solivagant

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Death hung stagnant in the air. Black clouds choked the sky, locking the field in a deep darkness. A bitter wind whistled above the shattered ground, carrying the cloying, metallic scent of blood through the air. Scraps of discarded metal—a sword, a helmet, an arrowhead—fought to catch what little light remained, gathering it up in brief pinpricks of silver.

Asher blinked, his vision hazy as he slowly got to his feet. The silence was deafening. Bodies were strewn across the dry grass, caught in their final moments of life. Beneath Asher's feet, the dirt was churned and wet with blood. He gagged, twisting around. A young man laid only a foot away from him, his legs trapped beneath the body of his horse. His fingers were still curled around the hilt of his sword. Asher gazed into the man's dark, clouded eyes. They were horribly empty, the life they should have held long since snatched away.

The world blurred, and Asher pressed a hand to his head. His thoughts were slowly pulling themselves together, resolving into awareness. He felt as if he'd just woken up, but this was certainly still a dream. Flexing his hands, Asher sharply shook himself. The battlefield was too vivid, and only growing clearer as the seconds passed. He scoured his memory, confused. He remembered huddling against the wall of his cell, his brief escape to the washroom and finally ridding himself of some of the dirt and blood that caked his skin. He hadn't thought he'd be able to sleep, but his exhaustion from the journey from the mountains must have won out.

"I was wondering if this would happen."

Asher yelped, stumbling back at the sound of Rivas' voice. His foot caught on the broken blade of a sword, sending it clattering across the ground. The man stepped into Asher's field of view, his eyes flitting from the bodies to the sky to Asher.

Asher dragged a nail across one arm. A soft sting echoed the motion, mild but very real. He swallowed, confusion blurring his thoughts.

"You're asleep, if that's what you're wondering." Rivas lightly stepped across a body, casually examining their surroundings. "I think you've slipped into my dream."

"What?" Alarm prickled across Asher's skin, chasing away the last of the fog in his mind. "That's not possible."

"And yet here we are," Rivas said, spreading his arms. "This happens occasionally between more gifted magic-users if we're close by. When we sleep, we naturally open ourselves further to magic, and our consciousnesses can sometimes travel along it. Our magic draws us to one another, whether we like it or not."

"Then why hasn't it happened before?" Asher shot back.

"Like I said, it only happens occasionally. Rivas glanced over his shoulder. "Though I do believe we've had close brushes before."

Asher opened his mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut. "I've had nightmares..."

"But you didn't remember them?" Rivas nodded. "They weren't nightmares: you sensed me. And I sensed you."

Either this was a very strange, realistic dream, or there was some truth in Rivas' words. Asher shook his head, reeling. "I can't access magic right now, though." He lifted his hands weakly. "You drugged me only a few hours ago."

Rivas shrugged. "That, I can't answer. The drug just works differently with you."

The Valkir seemed real enough. Asher bit his lip, feeling slightly nauseous as he looked back at the battlefield. That felt real, too. He wished it didn't. "This is your dream?"

"It was an old battle Soren showed me once," Rivas explained vaguely. "Awful, isn't it?"

"...Yes." Asher hugged his arms to his chest. "As all wars are."