Terror consumed him.
He was running through the cold darkness. His feet were numb. He looked down and saw bare feet in the snow. No, more than bare feet. He was naked. I can’t stop or they’ll catch me. Kill me. Through dark timber he continued on, breath coming in ragged gasps, eyes half blinded by the heavy snow that blew sideways as it fell. His ears throbbed from the cold, his throat burned. Suddenly, red lights winked ahead through the trees. The windows of a tiny cottage. Safety. Then he saw their tracks in the light wisps of snow swirling around the doorstep and a wail of despair escaped his throat.
They’re here.
His body racked with shivers. He couldn’t take the cold much longer. His fear welled up from within but he stepped inside, his heart pounding. Immediately he heard their bloodcurdling screams. A baby’s voice cried out, but it sounded strange, possessed by evil. Guttural howls in a strange tongue. So many voices. Thousands of voices. He cowered from them; frantically searched for a place to hide. He knew why they were here. Knew what they wanted. If they caught him they’d rip it from him as they shredded his body in a spray of blood. He grabbed the amethyst key that hung from his neck; tried to remove it, to throw it away. It wouldn’t come off. It draws them. He knew what they wanted. It wasn’t the key. It was his soul.
They’re here.
Some say evil things stalk the dimly lit world between wakefulness and sleep; evil, monstrous things lurk unseen in the shadows. They have no idea. When children suffered night terrors they could see, sometimes, what he always saw. Lurking in the shadows. Waiting. Watching. He could almost feel the fetid breath on his cheek, see the burning eyes, hear the black, razor sharp claws clenching with eager anticipation for the chance to rend bodies and spill entrails slick with blood. If children saw the shadows they’d be caught. Their deaths would be horrible. He’d seen what they could do. Watched their work. Night after night after night.
They’re here.
He shook with fear. He crouched in the dark hallway just inside the door. The guttural cursing grew closer. High-pitched screams came from just around a corner. There’s nowhere to hide. He thought to turn away, back through the door to the cold darkness outside, take his chances in the snow. He reached for the knob but the timbered door was locked. I’m trapped. He turned and saw their shadows then, dark shapes in the red firelight dancing upon the wall. He was terrified. His heart was in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. They’re going to learn my secret.
They were almost upon him. When they rounded the corner, he’d lose his soul. Forever. I’m going to die. Tears streamed from his eyes; he wanted so badly to wake up from this nightmare. He couldn’t. It’s not a dream. He was not asleep. He was Zanevon Ryke of the Scoth clan, and he could always see the dimly lit world between sleep and wakefulness. He could see the demons. He could see the living shadows. They were everywhere. They grew close now. They’re going to catch me. He had but one hope. I’ll hide it from them. He would not let them discover his curse. If they learned of his spirit-sight they would have him. They could not know.
The cottage grew strangely quiet. He swallowed, his throat dry as dust, and he moved quietly down the hall. Have they gone? Had they fled and left him alone? He rounded the corner and his grey eyes discovered thousands of them. Demons and shadows poured from a tear in the veil.
Oh, Creator, they’re here.
Slowly, red eyes turned and locked with his. The demon nearest him curled the corner of charred fleshy lip in an evil smile. His chest tightened in a stark realization of terror. One thought frightened him above all others. My secret. My spirit-sight. They know!
The throng were on him in seconds, but then, strangely, they went by him and into a room at the end of the hall. He turned and followed, and saw a girl lying in a bed. The demons huddled around her, and a dark shadow descended upon her. Her eyes stayed closed, but she opened her mouth as if to scream. Nothing came out. He felt her suffocating. He fell to the wooden floor, overcome by fear. I have failed! Despite his years working to overcome a lack of self-confidence, now, in this bedroom, his fear of failure came roaring back. He felt like everything he had ever tried had been a miserable disaster. He was a failure. He heard the voices in Cheyne berating him again for his inability to master any skill; the headmaster chiding him for his poor grades. He withdrew into himself. Tears began to fall. I won’t try for knighthood. I’m not good enough, I’ll only look the fool. I’ll never be rid of this curse. I’ll never find immortality. I’m going to die. I’m going to burn. I can’t save this girl.
The girl in the bed screamed, her eyes open but unseeing, and he knew she was having a night terror. The shadow still lay on her, violating her, filling her with fear. Her scream was answered by shouts, and soldiers rushed into the room. Then the girl in the bed began to glow. She turned a brilliant emerald green. The light she gave off grew stronger and stronger until he could no longer see anything but the light. There was only the blinding green effulgence.
The light slowly faded, and he was alone, still naked, standing in the snow. White flakes swirled around him. He stood before a large dais upon topped by a large pedestal, and upon that was the statue of a man. He looked around and finally exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath. There were no demons anywhere. The girl was gone. The cottage was gone. His tears were frozen to his cheeks. His breath formed clouds in the cold night air. All was still around him, bathed in an orange glow. He was down on the field of a huge open coliseum, standing at one end, where a giant statue stood like a sentinel holding up a large clear crystal as if offering it to the Gods. He looked around at the source of the orange glow. At the very top tier of the huge arena, a thousand steps above, huge braziers burned with glowing fires at points all around.
Something shuffled around from behind the dais and he saw an old, stooped man bundled in thick furs. He carried a long pole capped with straw brushes. Zane shivered in the cold night air, but the stranger didn’t see him. The man struggled to climb the dais, where he began to brush the snow off the statue. As Zane watched him, he suddenly felt a strange burning sensation on his chest. He rubbed where the amethyst key dangled around his neck. He watched the man brushing snow from the marble figure. Suddenly, a green glow began to emanate from the jeweled crystal the figure held aloft. At first Zane wasn’t sure there was any light at all, but the emerald light slowly grew in intensity. Finally, the old man saw it from the corner of his eye, and he looked up at the crystal offering. It glowed a bright green, reflected in the snowflakes that drifted down from the black sky.
The old man froze for a moment, then dropped the brush and staggered backwards. He pawed at his clothes, seemed to struggle to find words, and then he cried out, “Greenfire!”
The man turned and ran off the dais, plowing straight into Zane. He didn’t notice Zane was naked and shivering as he grabbed him by the shoulders. “The Greenfire! The Keystones live! Praise Aradun, the Zadahrathi lives!” The man released him and ran away from the statue, screaming his discovery until his voice faded. “Greenfire! The Keystones! The Zadahrathi lives!”
The coliseum grew silent again. Huge snowflakes fell quietly in the orange glow of the braziers, now tinged with green from the glowing emerald crystal. Greenfire. Shivers racked Zane’s body. Suddenly he felt strange eyes upon him. He looked to the stone benches that encircled him, rising up in endless tiers. Most of the rows were dark, with shadows in the corners. Shadows. Zane concentrated on the dark recesses, and the hairs stood up on his arms. His mouth watered and he felt like throwing up. Red eyes stared from the dark. Rephan shadows were everywhere.
They see me.
He clutched the amethyst key at his chest. There was another flash of light, and he was alone in a cottage again. This time he was really alone. There were no guttural curses, no demons, no rend in the veil. He stood next to his tiny feather bed. A hundred firefly lamps burned all around the room, casting a warm glow. He walked to the other room and his mother still lay there, her ragged breathing raising the covers only slightly in the dim light of a single lamp. Zane returned to his room, put on his nightshirt and climbed into bed. The small fire in the fireplace burned low but he did not get up to stoke it. He lay and watched the door to his room until the first light of dawn came through the window. Only the light of day could chase the shadows of terror from his sight. Only in daylight could he relax his guard. Only in daylight did he dare close his eyes.
As he lay under the covers he thought about the glowing crystal held aloft by the statue. He knew where he’d been. The coliseum on the Greensward at Hearthside. Eight hundred leagues away. Today the water parchment would announce the news. All of Cheyne would hear of the Greenfire. He rubbed the key around his neck and swallowed hard. A single thought resonated in his mind. Zadahrathi. A fearful whisper escaped his lips. “Don’t let it be me.”
