Nightmare Lands short story

[tryst_91]

The night holds terrors no man should ever have to face. Darkness cloaks the land and brave and wise men alike seek the safety of the hearth. Superstitions abound of the unwary traveler taken unawares in the middle of the night by some supernatural fiend, born of evil and twisted in spirit. These lands that so many call home are treacherous at best when the dark of the moon rises in the sky. Only the mists themselves hold more terror in the hearts of the people. Yet sometimes… sometimes it is the darkness within that we need fear.

The young thief clung precariously to the side of the building. Winter's chill siphoned the heat from his body exhaling it in misty breaths. The icy worn stone ledge on which he was perched jutted out a mere two inches from the sheer drop four stories down. Not for the first time that night he cursed himself for a fool. He reached out a gloved hand and gripped a particularly grotesque stone cut gargoyle. Using the gaping maw for purchase he strained his frost ridden muscles and pulled himself up beside the beast. A small window wrapped in darkness and a thin layer of frost lay just within reach. It would be a tight fit but the lithe thief could shimmy in with ease, once he found a way to bypass the steel bars of course. Without effort the man slipped a small rope around the leering statue and anchored himself to the creature. Always one to be prepared, he reached into one of the many pockets lining the leather strap he wore over his black leathers. Withdrawing a small vial, he carefully unstoppered the item and lightly poured the green liquid on each of the half dozen brackets fastening the cage in place. A slight hissing sound drifted on the night wind as the acid did it’s work. He replaced the vial in the leather pouch and took hold of the weakened bars. One swift motion and the path was opened before him. The room, unsurprisingly, was left unguarded. Not even a single ward lay within the dark room. These doctors held a strong disbelief for such “primitive” things as sorcery or wizardry. Nicoli had learned long ago not to discount such things. In fact, he found that one in his profession dared not overlook such a thing if he wanted to continue breathing. One false move when it came to such forces and well… there would be no more moves at all.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Nicoli surveyed the room. He stood in a well kept study. Bookshelves lined the walls and several scrolls both rolled and open lay upon the large desk in the middle of the room. Silently, Nicoli moved to the desk and examined the files. He smiled at his luck. There among the rolled scrolls was a small leather portfolio, the file he was looking for. Scrawled in a neat hand across the binding were the words “Davram Grimshield – patient 634”. Whatever this document held was worth a fortune to the cold eyed stranger who had contacted Nicoli D’Cyre only days ago. It was more than enough to justify breaking into the insane asylum er… the Clinic for the mentally disturbed. This was almost too easy, the thief thought to himself. He moved to tuck the book into yet another pouch but hesitated at the last moment and drew it back out. What could possibly be worth that much money. Letting curiosity overwhelm him, he carefully unlaced the binding and flipped open the printed treasure.

Case file 634

After repeated sessions with Mr. Grimshield, I am at a loss to explain his particular affliction. He seems to harbor extreme guilt over the apparent death of his adventuring companions. Evidently, the group had been traveling in the mountains of mist when they came upon the ruins of a village. The entire place was in ruin. The dead littered the streets. Only a few people had survived to pass on to the companions the tale of what happened. As Mr. Grimshield put it, “A terrible beast came in the night. Like a shadow it came to feast on the life of the townsfolk. Most of the town was dead by the time anyone knew what was happening. Men ran to their deaths only to give their wives and little ones a few seconds more to flee. It was an evil thing of the darkest pits.” In our sessions, Mr. Grimshield rarely is able to get past this initial incident without bursting into sobs and curling himself into a fetal ball. To see such a wretched thing occur in one of the good dwarven folk is beyond disturbing. From all accounts, before the incident Mr. Grimshield and his companions were local heroes known for their bravery and merit especially, Mr. Grimshield who apparently was well known for his courage and fearless war against evil..

What follows next is patient 634’s personal account transcribed by me through multiple sessions.

“We had followed the beast to it’s layer. From the descriptions we gathered from the handful of survivors Garith (the ranger) assumed it to be some type of undead demon. Amelia Meredy prayed to the good lady Ezra for protections and strength for us all as we descended into the darkness of the cavern. The darkness was so bloody thick we couldn't see more'n 10 paces or so into the pit. Berk (the magic user) used his mumbo jumbo on the lot o' us so we can see in the blasted dark. It helped some. The farther down our band moved the darker and more smotherin' the place was. It was as if the whole o' the cavern was suffocating but dared not ta breathe. th' air was thick an' pregnant with dread. Garith got more and more figity too, said somethin' felt wrong about th' place. Bloody right it did! Just to draw a breath in the place gave ya a foul feelin' like your lungs was full o' bile. Seems our lady cleric was getting th' jitters about too. Keep mutterin' about her feelin' like her goddess wanted ta weep or some such. I told her there that if her bloody lady felt like sittin' this one out she could wait at th' village, but I was not goin' ta back down from a little dark cave. Bloody clerics always seem to carry a streak o' yellow when it comes to real fightin'. Bah, bloody wench was right though. We all shoulda sat this one out.”

*At this point Davram fell into an uncontrollable fit of sobbing and had to be restrained and medicated. Only by forced use of hypnosis was any success made in advancing past this point.

“The tunnel opened up into a wide cavern the size o' which we couldn't make out in the darkness. It was huge though. A whole bloody village woulda fit in there like one o' those tinkers snow globes. A black lake fountained out o' the black stone. The choking gurgle o' th' water was th' only sound. The scent o' something dark and evil clawed at our noses. Of all the beasties we had fought and killed, trolls, undead, werewolves, none o'em felt this wrong.
It happened so fast. Garith wanted to check out th' water line. We watched him stalk down towards th' edge and suddenly he wasn't there no more. The wet thud o' his body hittin' the wall near 20 feet away ta th' side was th' only way we found him. Looked like somethin' giant had clawed out half o' his body. All of us knew he was dead without needed to check. Amelia cried out at th' sight but none o' the rest o' us could do naught but stare.

"Come on out and meet yer fate demon" I cried. "That was a friend o' mine and I aim to take it out o' your flesh!" the darkness... it moved. It just moved. It weren't no creature hidin' in it, no invisible thing.. but the darkness itself. The black shifted and the features o' a great dragon formed up out o' the shadows. Amelia called out ta her Lady, Berk cursed... I... I couldn't do a thing but stare in awe. I couldn't breath. The majesty an' terror o' the beast paralyzed my bones.
Berk moved first spell speakin' a flood o' light into the cavern. The shadow fiend stood stark in the brightness, terrible beauty and horror exquisite in nightmarish clarity. It bloody grinned. Quicker than a snake and a hunard times more graceful it rose up some 40 feet. Shadows trailed from its scales and from it's nostrils. Somethin' wet ran down my leg as my clan forged war axe dropped to the cold stone floor. Vaguely I hear Berk callin' my name, shoutin' about protecting Amelia. I just couldn't move. What were we before this great creature? Nothin'. Nothin' we were. I could only look on as the livin' shadow coiled and lashed out with it's great tail, sweeping the cleric from her feet. Bones crunched so loudly the sound echoed off the cavern walls. The beast reared up again and sucked in a huge breath o' air just as Berk rushed to his fallen wife. I... I wasn't ready to die. Not here, not in this foul place.
The next thing i know is I am runnin', runnin' for my very life. I had to get out o' there. Berk screamed but it seemed so far away. The sound ripped into me like a dagger, twisting and rending. It would not stop. Surely he should be dead by now... surely... die... DIE! Shut up and bloody DIE! His scream never stopped. It won't ever stop. I hear it in my dreams. He screams and screams and won't die. Why won't he die?

* Mr. Grimshield was found by the remaining villagers several days later in a feral state. Clearly he was unwell and could not care from himself so when the survivors finished packing up what was left of their belonging they brought him to us. Mr. Grimshield has proved very difficult to work with and despite our best efforts he has shown only moderate recovery. His dreams seem to center around the loss of his friends and his cowardice act of running from them. Further studies into his interaction with his former companions have only served to magnify the dreams instead of bringing closure.
The dream itself seems to be almost repetitive. Almost without fail he begins the dream in a tavern with his companions all drinking and laughing. In his dream Amelia is pregnant though whether she was in life actually with child or if it is just another facet of the dream is uncertain. The dream progresses past the joyful news into a scene of chaos as the town is then attacked by the shadow dragon. Everything is suddenly plunged into darkness and only gradually lightens to the confines of the dragon's cave lair but instead of silence as there was in reality, now the cave is filled with the sound of weeping, presumably that of the surviving townspeople. His companions then charge into the darkness weapons held at the ready but when Grimshield tries to raise his axe to charge in as well, he finds the blade enormously too heavy. He can only drag it behind him as he follows his friends. The dwarf calls out after his friends but only the weeping fills the air. Finally after what seems like forever to the troubled dwarf, he comes to the cavern with the lake only this time it is a shadow filled like of souls filled with the wailing spirits of the dead townsfolk. The beast rises from the black waters aglow in dark light. Oddly, in a few of the dreams there is a strange figure glimpsed only briefly behind the dragon. The figure is a young girl, possibly human or fey-born, in some type of bloody ballerina outfit. She is never a prominent figure and only rarely appears. My colleges and I have ascertained that she may have been a childhood friend or acquaintance of the dreamer, though the significance of her showing up here is unknown.
The battle plays out as it did in the waking world with Garith the ranger being struck first with the clawed talons of the beast. However as he falls, the torn ranger reaches out to Grimshield and pledges that he save him. Next, the cleric, this time obviously pregnant, falls to the lash of the creature’s tail. Her death is tolled by the cry of a newborn babe. The scream of the infant is then added to that of the rest of the dead townsfolk in the black lake. By now, Grimshield can no longer hold his weapon and it falls to the floor where it shatters as if made of glass. This is significant as the axe is an heirloom from the Grimshield clan and so represents the severing of the link of bravery of his kin. His companion Berk again rushes to the side of his fallen wife and child and is smothered in the shadowy breath of the beast. Grimshield tries to run but his feet are frozen to the stone. He looks down to see why and realizes with horror that it is the phantoms of his two dead companions that cling to his legs preventing his movement. The ghost of the baby emerges from that of the cleric and begins clawing its way up his body. He screams and tries to slap the ghost way but to no avail. The shadows clear to reveal the shade of Berk staring into the dwarfs tear-filled eyes.
“Murderer! Coward!” the spirit cries as he reaches out to the terrified dwarf with cold dead hands. That lifeless, wintry touch burns into Davram’s skin, leaching the warmth from his body. He struggles to breathe as his lungs freeze. Always, he wakes up screaming.

Nicoli slammed the journal shut and a shiver flew up his spine. His breath misted in the air. Was it his imagination or could it really be that much colder in the room. The thief shook his head and marked himself a fool. The bloody insane gave him the willies and he was letting it affect him. Foolish. Nicoli re-pocketed the book and took his leave of the madhouse through the same window into the frigid winter night.
Hours later he stood in the dark dead end alley where his employer was to meet him. His feet and hands were almost numb from the cold. Shuffling his feet and rubbing his hands generated almost no heat and gave no relief. Finally, the bell tolled 4am. Again Nicoli cursed himself for a fool. The appointed hour arrived and he was left in the forsaken cold to freeze with no sign of his contact. He waited in stubborn indignation for several minutes more but no one appeared in the mouth of the alley way. A light snow began to drift upon the winds. The air itself seemed to chill several degrees as the snowflakes fluttered around him. In outrage the thief cursed once more for punctuation and made for the street.
“You have it?” came an icy voice from behind him, a voice that sounded like frozen death. He whirled with daggers in hand, ready to let loose. A cloaked figure stood only a few feet from where he himself had been standing only moments ago. Nicoli struggled to hide his surprise at the man’s entrance. The alley ended in a four story dead end with no windows or perches in which to find a foothold. Shivering, he answered the man.
“Aye, I have it. Cost me dearly to get it too. This blasted cold could have been the death of me. Maybe I might be needing a bit of compensation for my troubles.” The figure made no move and it was too dark to see the man’s expression with the collar of his cloak pulled up and his hat pulled down. After a moment the figured nodded once.
The cold continued to sink into his bones and he soon began to shiver. “Let us be done with it then and get someplace warm.” The figure tossed a bag into the snow at the thief’s feet where it landed with a loud jingle. “The agreed sum plus compensation.” With that the cloaked one strode past the kneeling thief towards the alley mouth.
“What is so important about the bloody ramblings of a madman anyway?” The figure stopped where he stood and slowly looked back over his shoulder. His collar fell back revealing slightly fey-like features, those of a half elf. “When hunting nightmares, the words of a madman may be the only sanity left to you.”