The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [91]
When Beltan glimpsed the shadow some distance ahead and to one side, he could not comprehend what it was. He almost turned his face away and ran on. There were no shadows in this land; there was nothing. Only the love men held in their hearts for cowards, traitors, and bastards: a cold, empty cup.
The shadow moved, raising long, gangling arms above the small blot of its head.
For the first time he could remember, Beltan slowed his pace, then came to a halt. Gray grass whispered around him, stroking his bare shins, and a great drowsiness fell over him. Lie down, the grass seemed to whisper. Let us grow over you, and in you, and we shall be you, and you us. Come, lie down.
His knees grew weak; he could feel them buckle.
The shadow gestured again; the motion seemed more urgent now. Then a queer thought struck Beltan, and his legs went rigid. Perhaps it was his shadow beckoning him. After all, he had yet to glimpse it in this land. But that didn’t seem right. The shadow was hunched and crooked, its arms too long for its body, its head too small. Beltan looked down; his own body was lean, tall, and straight. He looked up again.
The shadow was gone.
A muted sensation of dread filled him. Since he had been in this place, Beltan had run in only one direction. Now, with great effort, he turned from his path and ran in the direction of the shadow.
It was impossible to tell if he was going the right way. Everything looked the same. Was he too far to the left? He considered turning, then thought better of it. Right—it was to the right he needed to go.
Had he altered in his course three steps sooner, he would never have found the door. Instead, as he turned, his left hand grazed against something hard and solid. He halted, then reached a hand out, searching through gray air, until at last his fingers found it: smooth, dense.
The door was the exact color of the air. Even right upon the thing, it was difficult to see against the grayness all around. He only knew it was a door by touch: frame, hinges, latch. It stood alone on the empty plain.
Beltan gripped the latch, then paused. What lay beyond the door? What if it was only the same colorless landscape on the other side? But the shadow was there no longer. It had to have passed through the door.
Still he hesitated. Was this not the place he belonged? He did not remember how he knew, only that he did. He had murdered his own father through deceit, stabbing him when his back was turned. What could there possibly be beyond the door for one such as he?
But there was something. He couldn’t remember what it was, although it seemed there was a face, a voice, a name. A man. Yes, there was a man beyond the door, his eyes as gray as this land, but not empty, and not cold. The man was searching—searching for him.
Beltan let out a wordless cry. The sound rose as it issued forth from him, a great, bullish bellow, until it was like a wind that roared across the Gray Land. The grass bent down; the air trembled. He tore open the door, then flung himself through.
30.
At first Beltan thought he was still in the Gray Land. For a while he drifted; perhaps he had fallen down in the grass and was even then fading away. But the light around him was tinged scarlet, not gray, and there was sound: a rhythmic whir, as of the beating of great wings. Then shadows appeared against the light, and he knew he was no longer in Sindanan, but somewhere else.
Only after a time did he realize that the echoing sound he heard was a voice. One of the shadows was speaking.
“… at this, Doctor. There’s a three hundred percent increase in both the Alpha and Theta ranges compared to yesterday. And he’s demonstrating significant rapid eye movement. He’s entered a dream state.”
The man’s voice was oddly harsh, and the words it spoke were strange and guttural. Beltan felt he shouldn’t have been able to understand the words, except somehow he did.
The shadows shifted, and another voice answered, a woman’s, speaking the same hard, unlovely words as the first. “I’m not entirely surprised.