Dreams of the Oracle

Chapter 12

Abdiel rode into Arcona; his powerful steed heaving with monstrous breaths as it attempted to pull air into its depleted lungs. He glanced up at the stars as they began to appear in the rapidly increasing darkness. The sleep deprived guards at the gate waved him through as he held out a signed slip of parchment from one of his pouches up to the torchlight.

The shops and houses lining the blackened streets sat quietly as the horse and rider passed. Lampposts with their dancing flames prevented total darkness and illuminated the knots of people that were the city's nightlife whether from pleasure or addiction. A drunkard vomited against the wall near Abdiel as he dismounted. Two city watchmen pounced on the offender immediately for profaning the Main Street. They dragged the groaning inebriant away one glanced up to look at Abdiel but he was already a good distance away.

He walked with deliberate steps his shadowed face set with purpose and determination. The familiar smells of smoke and dirt drifted through his nostrils. Even in the darkness, even after all this time, he knew Arcona as one knew an old friend.

He made his way from the main to the side streets leading his horse through the twists and turns of haphazard roads and paths. Alleys and passageways were just visible in the dim light that continued to fade as he made his way to the parts of town that were as yet not illuminated by lampposts or patrolled by the city watch. As memories paraded through his mind relentlessly, he approached a door he had not seen in ages. He paused before knocking. It had been a long time since he had even seen the man, but he knew the old man was still here. He was too stubborn to leave.

A light flickered beneath the door accompanied by the rustle of someone awakening. Suddenly the door flung open. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that Abdiel, on reflex, had his sword halfway out of its sheath before seeing the old man in the doorway.

Wrinkles creased his brow and slid down his lined face. Abdiel's eyes drifted down to where the hunched figure clutched a large crossbow pointed directly at his chest. Long strong hands held the weapon steady and one bony finger rested gently against the trigger.

"Denson," breathed Abdiel, sliding his sword back into its sheath. Cold, suspicious eyes ran over Abdiel's face and the crossbow rose slightly to point at his heart,

"The living are not welcome at my door," said Denson softly.

"Denson, its me," said Abdiel irritably.

"Maybe you are and maybe you're not," growled Denson.

Abdiel felt a wave of frustration, "I don't have time for this."

"What was the first lesson I taught you?" asked the old man, his eyes narrowing.

Abdiel's mind raced, "The first lesson you taught me was..." he paused staring at the crossbow, "are you a brother?"

Denson held the crossbow steady, "my brothers are dead."

"Are you a friend?"

"My friends are the dead."

"How did they die?"

"They died for the living."

"Are they honored by the living?"

"I honor them. Will you honor them?"

"I will honor them."

Denson lowered the crossbow with a smile, "Then come and join the dead."

Abdiel sighed and walked through the door. Denson's home was small and sparse, dimly lit by a couple candles. Denson placed the crossbow in a case next to the mat on the floor that served as his bed.