IF: Bad Dreams by Clayton Smith

Author:Clayton Smith [Smith, Clayton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Dapper Press
Published: 2019-04-15T16:00:00+00:00

An Interlude

The Royal taps his long fingers impatiently on the arm of his throne. If Roark doesn’t appear in the next ten seconds, the Royal decides, he will lock him in the burning coal pit for the rest of the week. But then Roark bursts into the hall, out of breath and sweating.

“Yes, my lord?” he wheezes, clutching at his side.

“Zeus and his archaic pantheon are harboring one of the children,” he says testily. The Greeks are quickly outstaying their welcome in the Boundarylands. He has decided that he will force them into the Nightmaring, where they will likely be consumed by the creatures of horror. But first, he will have the child.

Roark screws up his face in consternation, and the Royal knows he is considering the best way to word a question. “With so few resources, how could—er, did,” he immediately corrects himself, flushing red, “how did Zeus manage to capture one of the children?”

The Royal glowers. “Do you doubt what I say?”

“Not at all,” Roark squeaks, shaking his head vigorously. “It’s just...the Gulch is so far beyond clear sight, that I–”

He is interrupted by a loud cawing overhead. Something huge and black swoops down over Roark’s head, battering him about the face with gigantic black wings. The servant squeals and falls backward in surprise.

The Royal smiles.

“Huginn; Muninn: to me.” The ravens wheel around and fly to the Royal’s throne, where they perch majestically, one on either side. Roark sits up on the floor and actually rubs his eyes, like one of the cartoon creatures that dwell in the Boundarylands beyond Aged Hill.

“Odin’s ravens!” Roark says, incredulous. He turns his astonished eyes to the Royal. “Here? In the Pinch?”

“They’re on loan,” says a gruff, raspy voice from the shadows. The owner of the voice steps forward, a humongous mountain of a man, made even larger by the huge white werewolf pelt draped over his shoulders and the thick dragon-skin boots on his feet. He has long, silver hair and a furry beard that falls past his chest. One eye is crystal blue in color; the other is naught but leathery scar tissue. This is Odin Allfather, and he has aligned himself with the Royal. By all accounts, he is just as obsolete as his Greek counterpart, probably more so. But he is a willing ally, and those are always welcome. For a time, at least.

“They have seen Zeus’s treachery,” the Royal says, stroking the raven on his right with a pale finger. “He is hiding the child in his cave. He would use her against me.”

“Treachery’s the right word for it, lord,” Odin says. “The Greeks would stop at nothing to regain their former station. Even, it would seem, at the cost of the Royal himself.”

“I grasp the situation,” the Royal says irritably. He turns back to his faithful servant. “We must obtain the girl. Whom can we send?”

Roark furrows his brow in surprise. For all intents and purposes, the title of advisor has been largely ceremonial until now.

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