DREAMWIELDER Book 1 of The Dreamwielder Chronicles

Chapter 6: A SACRIFICE FROM THE SEA

The scent-hound bayed, waking the High Houndkeeper in Col Sargoth with a start.

The second howl was so loud the houndkeeper jumped to his feet and stood paralyzed for a moment before remembering what he was supposed to do. When his wits returned, he released the lever that held the inner ring of the giant compass in place, and the scent-hound swung about on the axle protruding through her navel—steel bearings screeching with protest—only to lurch to a sudden halt pointing southeast. The hound bayed again and began whining as her nose centered in on what she smelled. When the compass quit moving altogether, the houndkeeper checked the coordinates, then went to the sprawling map of the Sargothian Empire hanging on one wall. The coordinates were the same as last time: 140 arc degrees off north. The scent-hound was still whining though, whereas last time she'd only fussed for a moment. Whatever this dreamwielder was doing, it was big.

The houndkeeper snatched up one of the steel balls from a rack below the map and rushed to a U-shaped flue pipe in the corner of the chamber that looped up through the flagstone floor and back down again. He opened the door hatch on the flue and placed the ball inside as steam billowed from the opening. He then closed the hatch and turned the valve lever, and a burst of steam shot through the pipe, hurling the steel ball down the flue toward the bottom of the tower where the alarm would be sounded.

The scent-hound bayed again. Yes, whatever this dreamwielder is doing, it's big, the houndkeeper thought. And this time she's given herself away. Wulfram is going be pleased. Very pleased.

~~~~

Parmo lay on the beach with his eyes open for a long time before he realized he was alive. There were no stars, only lightless clouds above him, but in the distance a thin swath of the black veil was illuminated gray with the promise of an imminent sunrise. He had not expected to ever open his eyes again, and he didn't trust his senses at first. He could hear the surf at his feet though, and he could smell the salty air and feel Makarria curled up at his side, sleeping in the crook of his left arm. He was surprised to find that he could move his free hand with ease and brush her hair from her face. His breaths came to him in a painless, natural manner. The more he thought about it, the more he realized nothing was causing him pain except for the tingling sensation of his arm falling asleep beneath Makarria's head.

"Makarria?"

He shook her gently, but she woke with a start and gasp.

"Grampy?"

"I'm here."

Makarria sat up with the sick feeling that she'd done something horrible, that something bad had happened. When she looked at her grandfather though, she saw that he was alive and well—more than alive and well. Even in the predawn darkness, she could see that he was no longer old and sick, but rather the young man she had seen in her mind. She remembered having fallen asleep with that image burning through her.

"You're not old anymore," she said simply.

"What?" Parmo asked, incredulous but realizing even as she said it that it was true. He ran his fingers over his face. The wrinkles were gone. He felt his arms, stout with the sinews of a seafaring man. He breathed in deeply the sea air, and his lungs did not protest. How is this possible? I was dying.

"Grampy?" Makarria said, suddenly noticing the hundreds of small dark shapes on the beach around them. "What's happened?"

Parmo stood and followed her gaze. All around them—covering the beach for a mile in either direction—were sea creatures. Dead sea creatures. Fish, crabs, squid, gulls, swallows, turtles, jellyfish, starfish, oysters, snails, all of them dead.