Kerry Schafer - Wakeworld

Zee didn’t want to be here when the author and creator of this place showed up. This was either a Dreamworld or the Between—had to be, judging by the stars—so the body housing the devious serial-killer mind that had dreamed up a place like this could be literally anything. He was not strong enough to fight right now, which meant fleeing as far and as fast as his body would tolerate.

When he tried to stand, it seemed at first that he wouldn’t be going anywhere at all. The earth under his feet wobbled and swayed and threatened to swing up to meet him, but he braced himself on the stone slab until he got his balance.

Gripping the sword in his left hand, he managed to get his feet moving and made his way out of the circle of the tombs, past the monoliths, and out into a wider space on top of a hill.

Nothing moved. There was no sound other than the harshness of his own breath. The stars shed just enough light for him to see a new pair of standing stones that towered over him, each carved into the shape of a dragon. A wide road sloped away down the left side of the hill. It was paved by outsized cobblestones, each as big as a small car. Walls barricaded it on either side, higher than his head.

He didn’t like it, he’d be trapped if anything came after him, but unless he wanted to walk back through the circle of tombs it was the only option. The thought of going back made his skin crawl, so he staggered off down the road, about as in control of his body as if he’d been thoroughly drunk.

Dim shapes arose out of the shadows ahead, huge, menacing, and he stopped his erratic footsteps to be still and pay attention. Another set of dragons. Only stone, but still his hand tightened on the sword hilt, ready for battle in case the things turned out not to be stone after all. Dragons had magic he didn’t understand, and it wouldn’t have surprised him at all if they came to life and followed behind him. Weak and injured as he was, his blood heated at the thought of dragons, but he knew there was no hope that he could win such a fight and he kept walking.

The road curved, and then curved again, spiraling ever tighter, marked at intervals by the stone dragons. At last an archway loomed out of the darkness, twice Zee’s height and wide enough for the largest of dragons to pass through with ease. Through the arch a soft glow illuminated a spacious pavement, revealing vibrant jewel tones. At the center of the expanse was a bench, made from the same jewel-colored stones.

Zee’s muscles quivered with weakness. He was parched with thirst; the pain of his wounds had grown intense. It would be good to sit and rest. As he passed beneath the arch, a bell toned one deep-throated peal. He paused, looking about him in wonder and alarm. There was no bell to be seen. He could not identify the source of the light, soft and gentle to his eyes, but it provided full illumination. The stones beneath his feet were truly cut from gems—slabs of ruby and jade and other stones he didn’t know, with lines of beaten gold to seal them together.

He became conscious of his feet, muddy and bloodstained. If there had been water, he would have stopped to wash them, despite weakness and pain. As he neared the bench he noticed a bucket and rope, and realized that within the circle of the bench there was a well.

One more step, and he could smell the water. Not as one smells a river or a lake, nor yet the salt tang of the sea; this carried the scent of rain falling on green grass, of an iced glass at the end of a long, hot day.

Thirst grew into obsession. He laid the sword down on the stone bench, grateful to be free of its weight, and dropped the wooden bucket into the well. For what seemed to him an eternity he watched the rope uncoil, marking the bucket’s progress downward. At last the rope stopped moving and he heard a small splash. A moment to let the bucket fill, and then he began pulling it up, hand over hand. The motion opened the wound in his right arm and it began to bleed again. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that he slake his thirst.

Somewhere in the back of his mind his own voice clamored objections, but still he drew up the rope, hand over hand, until he held the dripping bucket. The liquid that filled it made water as he knew it a pale shadow of the real thing. Never had he desired anything with this level of intensity. Even his love for Vivian seemed a small thing in comparison.

And that made him hesitate.

He needed water and soon, or he would die. But this craving was beyond any thirst he had ever experienced. It had a compulsion about it; the bucket was halfway to his lips already and he hadn’t made the choice to drink.

An image of the six men lying dead on the stone slabs flashed across his mind. They had not died in battle, or of wounds unhealed, or of loss of blood. The blackening of their skin, the agony etched into their faces even in death—that spoke of poison.

His hands began to shake with the realization of what he held.

If he was going to die, it wouldn’t be because he had given in to an enchantment. He would set the bucket down and walk away.

And yet it remained in his hands, and the drive to bury his face in the icy water was almost overpowering.

A sweet voice behind him said, “Why do you tarry? It is permitted for you to drink.”

She came around to face him, a woman with eyes like the mist when the sun shines through. He saw no evil in her lovely face, no lines of cruelty or secrecy, and his heart leaped with hope at her words.

Between the demands of his pain and the energy required to resist the water, it was difficult to speak. “I fear it is enchanted,” he managed to say.

The maiden laughed, a liquid trill that reminded him of birdsong. “Of course it is enchanted. It will heal you. After you drink, you may bathe your wounds and it will ease your pain. Let me help you.”

Light and graceful as a leaf on the wind she approached him. A slim white hand dipped a cup into the bucket and held it up to his lips. “Drink.”

A drop spilled over the rim of the cup and rolled down his chin. He was vividly conscious of its path along his jaw; it was icy cold and held an unexpected weight. When it dripped from his skin, he followed its course with his eyes, watching it fall, jewel bright, and strike the stone pavement. It bounced and came to rest on top of a disc, perfectly round, mirror smooth. It was black, yet it refracted the light into a rainbow brightness. In it he saw his own face, and that of the woman.

“Drink,” she said again.

His breath caught in his throat and he became deeply aware that he had set aside his sword and stood weakened and weaponless, at her mercy.

With an effort of will, he turned his head away from the tempting cup. “No. Thank you for the offer.”

“There will be no help for you if you do not drink. No shelter. No water. No remedy for your hurts.”

“And if I do drink, I will die.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “perhaps not. There are things worse than death.”

“I do not choose this death.”

“If you drink and live, I promise rest, shelter, and healing.”

His whole body shook with weakness. The water continued to summon him. But what he had seen mirrored in the reflecting disc, and something about the disc itself, held him back. The maiden turned her face up to his, and as the light shifted something on her cheek shone diamond bright.

It was perfectly round, reflecting rainbows of light. Just like the large disc on the pavement.

Zee put out his hand and caught the shining thing on his fingertip.

A tiny dragon scale.

It all came together in an upswell of hate—the stone dragons, the precious stones, the shining black disc at his feet.

Summoning all of his strength he swung the bucket at her head, letting the momentum carry his body forward and then down onto the pavement, rolling away from her and the tide of water that hissed as it touched the stone.