The Last of the Wilds

The leaden sky leeched everything of color - except the blood.

The faces of the corpses were white, the hair either black or a bleached non-color. The weapons, still clutched in stiffened hands or wedged in flesh, lacked shine. The circs of the priests were a dull white.

But the stains on them were luridly bright. Thick crimson oozed from wounds and slicked blades. Pools of it gathered under the dead like a morbid carpet. Trickles of it flowed down folds in the earth. It gathered to form streams. Pooled. Soaked into the soil, so that it bubbled to the surface at every step.

Auraya tried to walk gently, tried to keep to the dry areas, but the blood welled up to coat her sandalled feet. The sickening mud sucked at her feet. She took a few more steps then found she could not move. The mud clung to her shoes. It gave beneath her. She felt herself sinking into it. Leaning on one leg to try and free the other only sent her deeper. She felt the cold moisture creeping up her legs and her heart began to race.

“You killed us,” hissed a voice.

She looked up to see corpses raising their heads to stare at her with dead eyes.

Not now, she thought. I’ve got enough problems.

“You,” another said, his partly severed head lolling on the ground. “You did this to me.”

She tried not to hear the voices, concentrating instead on getting free of the mud, which did not want to let her go. Red bubbles and froth foamed the surface. She leaned forward, desperately trying to find something to grab hold of to stop herself sinking. Something to use to lever herself out.

I’m going to drown, she thought, and fear surged up within her. I’m going to suffocate, my mouth and lungs full of bloodied soil.

There was nothing but a sea of corpses reaching out to her with clawed hands. She shrank away, felt herself sink further, then forced herself to reach out to them.

“It’s your fault I’m dead,” a woman hissed.

“Your fault!”

“Yours!”

:No.

Everything stilled. The corpses froze in position. The sucking of the mud stopped. Auraya peered around in confusion. The corpses’ eyes swivelled about in search of the voice.

This doesn’t usually happen, she mused.

:It is not her fault you are dead. If you must blame someone, blame me. Either way, you are wrong. Neither Auraya nor I dealt the blow that killed you.

A shining figure appeared. The corpses rolled or shrank away from him. He looked down at Auraya and smiled.

:Hello, Auraya.

“Chaia!”

:Yes.

He walked to the edge of the mud and held out a hand. She hesitated, then reached out to take it. Firm, warm fingers gripped her own. He pulled, and she felt the mud relinquish its hold on her legs.

:Let’s return to your room, he said.

The battlefield vanished. Suddenly she was sitting on her bed, Chaia beside her. He smiled and reached out to her face. The touch of his fingers as he traced them along her jaw sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned toward her, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

Uh oh, she thought, drawing away. It’s all very well conjuring him up to rescue me from the nightmare, but dreaming up erotic encounters is definitely going too far.

:You resist. You think this is wrong. Disrespectful.

“Yes.”

He smiled.

:But how can it be disrespectful, when I am the one kissing you?

“You’re not real. The real Chaia might be offended.”

:I’m not real? His smile widened. Are you sure?

“Yes. The real Chaia can’t touch me.”

:I can in dreams.

As Leiard had, she thought. The memory of him brought an uncomfortable rush of different emotions. Pain at his betrayal. Shame that she had taken to bed someone whom this god probably didn’t approve of. And despite this: longing. Her dream links with Leiard had seemed utterly real. She felt a flush of remembered pleasure, quickly followed by embarrassment and shame again as she remembered whose presence she was in - even if he was only a dream shadow of the god.

:Do not regret your past, Chaia told her. Everything you do teaches you something about the world and yourself. It is up to you to draw wisdom from your mistakes.

She considered him warily. He was so forgiving. But of course he was. This wasn’t Chaia. The real Chaia would... what? Scold her like a child?

Chaia laughed.

:Still convinced I’m a dream?

“Yes.”

He slid his hand behind her neck and leaned close.

:Open your eyes.

She stared at him. “What if I dream of opening my—”

He sealed her mouth with his. She stiffened with surprise. Suddenly he and her room disappeared. She was lying down, covered in blankets. In her bed. She saw only darkness. Her eyes were closed.

Awake.

But her lips tingled. She opened her eyes. A luminous face hovered over hers. The mouth widened into a smile. One eye winked.

Then the apparition vanished.

PART TWO

16

A salty breeze told Emerahl she was approaching the coast long before she saw the sea. Yet it was only when she crested a rise and saw the wide gray strip of water in the distance that she felt she was close to her destination.

At the sight of water, she sighed with relief. She sat down on a fallen log while she caught her breath. Two months of walking had made her lean and given her stamina, but the hill she stood upon was steep and it had been a long, relentless climb to get to this place.

Rozea wouldn’t recognize me now, she thought. It was not just her age that she had changed. She kept her hair dyed black now and wove it into a simple braid each morning. The dress she had on was plain and practical and over it she wore an eclectic mix of tawls, drapes, beaded jewellery and embroidered pouches. The aromas of herbs, essences and other ingredients for her cures surrounded her.

It had never been necessary to mention her trade to anyone. She simply entered a village or town, enquired of the first person she met if there was safe and decent accommodation to be found, and by the time she had settled into the suggested place the first customer arrived.

Most of the time, anyway. There had always been, and always would be, places where strangers were