Dreamweaver - Chapter 8

Forrest tucked in his chin and drew in his legs as he dropped down the shaft of the well, but he still bashed against the stone sides a couple of times before he hit the bottom.

The water was dark and cold, seeping easily through the thin layer of his pajamas, and Forrest fought panic as it closed over his head — this was supposed to be a portal to Siegbert, so he had to let it take him there, whether or not he hated water and couldn't swim.

A current swirled beneath his feet, seeming to draw him downward with invisible fingers. A current? Down here? It didn't make sense, but didn't have to — nothing did, not in this place.

Trying to remain as calm as possible, Forrest let he current pull at his nightwear, dragging him down farther and farther into the cold and quiet. It wasn't long before his chest began to ache — he'd never held his breath for this long, and he could practically feel his lungs constricting, begging for air. Panic only doubled his light-headedness — his legs began to kick in desperation, seeking relief, and one of his toes hit something soft and slimy. Was that...mud?

For the first time, Forrest opened his eyes, and for a second, his breathlessness was forgotten. He was no longer at the bottom of a well, or anywhere near it. Bright, watery sunlight streamed down from above, illuminating the hills and dips of the bottom of a lake, one forested with long-leafed, gyrating plants. Minnows shoaled around him in silvery schools, and the leaves of underwater foliage reached up towards him, as if desperate to latch onto one of his ankles and anchor him to the floor.

How the devil did I get here?

Forrest's chest suddenly contracted painfully, and with a choked cry, a mouthful of water snuck past his lips, disappearing down his esophagus. His chest now spasmed, violently — dots appeared in his vision as his body struggled to get rid of the water he inhaled. Gods! He was going to drown.

The sun shone past the dots in his vision — desperate, Forrest clawed upward towards the light, knowing that in that direction lay the surface. Lay air. He pinwheeled his arms and kicked his feet, nostrils flared and ribcage seeming to shrink down around his withered lungs. Bubbles streamed from his mouth as his lips parted — more water went down, and the spasms became harder, more violent. Forrest slashed wildly at the water, at the sun, half-mad with lack of air. Almost there...almost there...almost there. The water became lighter...fish darted out of the way as he struggled madly upward...the surface grew closer and closer, so close that he could see his own reflection mirrored in the surface...

Forrest's head broke out over the water, and was met with warm sunlight and a gentle breeze, both of which he had trouble noticing — an unnatural, strangled garbling sound met his ears, and it took Forrest a second to realize that it was coming from his own throat as his chest crunched like an accordion, forcing water out of his throat and past his lips. After that the air came — slowly, maddeningly, it eked down his throat, into his shriveled lungs, enough that he could cough in a strangled breath.

After the first few torturous breaths, Forrest's wits returned — his feet kicked in alarm at the realization that he was sinking again, and he reached out, trying to find something to anchor himself to. He'd barely managed to surface — as all of his strength was going towards breathing, he doubted he'd have the power to resurface if he went under again.

Luckily, he seemed to have surfaced near the shore — a mangrove towered overhead, casting a long shadow out onto the surface of the lake, its roots twisting down a hill and plunging into the water. Forrest reached out for one and grabbed hold. With a desperate kind of strength, he reeled the rest of his body towards the tree, until he entered a shallow, muddy pool where the roots actually entered the soil. It seemed to currently be a nursery for a colony of frogs — tadpoles circled his ankles and fled as he climbed onto dry land, and toads croaked in alarm and hopped away as he dragged himself fully onto the grass.

He flopped down onto his stomach, spent — a second later, he decided that wasn't comfortable enough and twisted over onto his back, breathing hard, gazing across the expanse of blue water that lay before him as he struggled to reinflate his lungs.

Gods! What a nightmare that had been! When he returned to reality, he was going to make sure that he had someone teach him how to swim properly. He didn't want to go through something that frightening ever again.

"Forrest!"

There was a distant splash, and seconds later a pink figure swooped overhead, trailing the scent of mountain lilies. The tome dragon landed beside Forrest and bent over him, green eyes concerned.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her snout nudging his shoulder. "You're pale as death!"

"I'm...fine..." Forrest's voice was weak. "I just...I couldn't swim, so..."

"Well, you're alive." The tome dragon's voice was curt. "That is what's important."

Her abrupt lack of concern irked Forrest, but he didn't have the lung capacity to offer a stinging reply just yet.

"Did you...come...the...same...way...I did?" Forrest gasped.

The dragon nodded. "You mean through the well? Yes."

"Then why aren't...you wet?"

"My scales are like duck feathers," she explained. "I dry quickly. But yes, I dropped into the well as soon as I was sure you were through." She suddenly lifted her head, gazing skyward. "And it looks like it's a good thing I followed so quickly."

Still panting, Forrest followed her gaze and saw that she was staring up at a massive island floating high above him, tiny at this distance. It was floating upside down in the shadow of an even larger floating isle, and seemed to be studded with teeth — buildings. Was that the island they'd come from?

Suddenly, a massive shadow, dark as a raven's wing, swept over the islands, both the larger and the smaller, like a wave of ink, eclipsing them wholly and completely. A rumble of something like thunder echoed through the air, sending waves rippling across the lake, as the shadow, all at once, disintegrated the two islands, reducing them both to a cloud of soot and ash; after a second, the rubble faded into the sunlight, leaving a massive gap in the sky.

Forrest leapt up. "Gods! What was that?!"

"What will happen to us if we don't keep moving," tome dragon said. She glanced at him. "Are you ready? Then let's go."

"Wait!" Forrest protested as the tome dragon leapt into the sky. She circled higher, until she reached the top of the trees. Before she could sail away, Forrest roared, "STOP!"

The dragon glared down at him before twisting downwards until she hovered beneath the canopy of the mangrove again. "What?" she demanded. "I keep telling you, time is of the essence!"

"I know that!" Forrest snapped. "Believe me, I want to get to Siegbert as much as you do. But I also want to know what's going on!"

"Going on?"

"Yes!" Forrest pointed to the empty sky, where the two floating islands had once stood. "I want to know what the devil just happened to those islands! I want to know what this place is! I want to know how I got here!"

"Can that really not wait until after we have rescued Siegbert?"

Forrest grit his teeth. She was right, it could. But a nasty feeling was bubbling in Forrest's gut — a dangerous feeling that told him he was going to explode before the hour if he didn't put some order to this chaos, some truth to this perilous, incomprehensible mystery.

"At least," he said, "tell me who you are. How you know these things. You've guided me this far, and I know that I can trust you, but...I still want to know. I need to know."

The tome dragon narrowed her eyes at him. "If I tell you that much...will you keep moving?"

Forrest nodded.

"All right. As I told you before, I am an old friend of your fathers. You have never seen me before, but you have heard of me. I am Brynhildr."

--

"Bryhildr?" Forrest struggled to speak around a gaping mouth. "Brynhildr? As in...as in my father's tome? That Brynhildr?"

The dragon nodded. "Yes. As I said before, I am a tome dragon. The protective spirit of a magical medium that allows for spellcasting."

Forrest's mind reeled. "I...I've never heard of this. Spirits—dragon or otherwise—inhabiting a tome?"

"It is a knowledge long forgotten. Even the simplest tomes contain spirits. They are the bridge that connects the wielder to the realm of magic. Without spirits such as I, tomes would simply be books filled with silly, outlandish phrases. Without us, they would not have their power."

Forrest stared at the dragon as if seeing her for the first time. Gods. If what she said was true...then this was the being that Leo had used to rip through scores of enemies, annihilate bands of Faceless in one go. Despite her small form, her kind eyes, and her lack of hostility...this creature held an unfathomable amount of power that had wrought destruction in his father's hands. Forrest rubbed at his eyes, confounded. This seemingly gentle being...the source of my father's power. He found himself unable to reconcile the two ideas.

A pressing question came to mind: If what she says is true and she's the real deal...why is she here with me, in this crazy place? How did she get here? Did Father send her? Or is she here of her own volition?

Before he could voice these concerns, Brynhildr swooped upwards. "Now that I have answered your question, come along. We have no more time to waste."

"O...okay." Forrest struggled to refocus. Siegbert first. Questions later. Drenched, exhausted, and still reeling from this discovery, Forrest followed Brynhildr into the trees.

--

The forest on this island was thinner than the one from the Castle Krakenburg isle, and the soil was dark and warm underfoot, heated by the sunlight drifting down through the trees. A cheery sight after seeing those two islands disintegrate in the sky, but spooky all the same, as there should have been squirrels skittering about and birdsong filling the air, both of which there was none. Save for the trees, the forest was about as empty as the shopping plaza and town-island had been, silent and indifferent to Forrest's presence. In fact, it seemed to amplify the sound of his footfalls, of the crunch of twigs and pine needles underfoot. So when Brynhildr's voice suddenly cut through the quiet, Forrest nearly soiled himself in surprise.

"We are here." The tome dragon dropped down low, circling beneath the canopy. Climbing over a lichen-coated log, Forrest took in their surroundings — the forest floor had bowed down into a sort of hollow, partially shrouded from view by a cluster of shrubs and leafy bushes. A deep shadow lay a yard or so away from the log — it took Forrest a second to realize that it wasn't just a shadow, it was a hole: a large opening in the earth, cut out in a nearly perfect circle.

"Down there?" he asked Brynhildr, who was still floating above.

"Yes. The king's son is down there."

Forrest throat dried as he cautiously peered down into the opening in the earth. He couldn't see a thing — sunlight seemed to shy away from it, so he couldn't tell how long it was, or whether or not the inner canal formed a tunnel or a sheer drop. He was praying it wasn't the latter.

"Y-you're coming, right?" he asked Brynhildr.

"Of course," the tome dragon said. "If you like, I will go first."

Nodding gratefully, Forrest sat back, and she swept forward without hesitation, disappearing in the darkness. Forrest waited for a few seconds, wondering if he should wait until she deemed it safe or simply plunge in after her.

After a second, her voice drifted up to him: "You may follow, now."

Her voice echoed — there was a larger chamber somewhere down below. Well, that's a relief! The last thing Forrest wanted was to climb in only to find the tunnel narrow in on him.

Taking a deep breath, Forrest squared his shoulders and crawled into the hole. He scrambled for a few feet then froze — walls of earth scraped his shoulders on either side, and the back of his head tapped the earthy ceiling. What the— The tunnel was getting narrow, just as he'd feared! His stomach cramped at the thought of getting stuck and being unable to move forward or back. Calm down. Maybe it widens further down the line. Taking a deep breath, Forrest forged ahead, digging the balls of his feet into the tunnel floor and driving himself forward when the tunnel continued to close in on his shoulders.

But it was no us e —a few feet later, the tunnel had Forrest's wingspan clamped in an earthen vice, trapping his arms against the floor and rendering him immobile. His panic tripled when his head bumped against the ceiling again, causing a shower of dirt to rain down on his face. He choked, spewing soil, and it stung his eyes and crept up his nose. The knowledge that he was going to be buried alive filled his chest, hot and toxic.

"Brynhildr!" he cried, his voice small and dull in this earthen prison. "Help! Help!"

"It's all right." Brynhildr's voice came to him, clear and close — Forrest's body blocked out any source of light, so he could not see whether or not she was two feet away or twenty. "Dig in your feet," she instructed. "And give one hard push. The tunnel opens up in about a foot or so and drops down onto a slope."

Forrest grit his teeth, trying to hold back the panicked mewling eking up his throat. Don't panic! Don't panic! Just another foot...just another foot... Digging his nails, all ten of them, into the earth, Forrest put every scrap of energy he possessed into his calves and the balls of his feet, heaving himself forward with a snarling cry.

It worked — the earth packed at either shoulder yielded to Forrest's strength, allowing him deeper into the darkness. Abruptly, the walls retreated, ballooning into a larger earthen corridor that slumped downward in a rocky slope. With a startled cry, Forrest hit it hard, rolling shoulder over shoulder down the incline and landing in a lump at the bottom.

"Forrest?" The scent of mountain lilies — the young noble opened his eyes to find Brynhildr crouched over him, eyes anxious. He was surprised that he could actually see her — light glowed somewhere behind her, casting her reptilian figure into a dark silhouette.

Coughing dirt out of his lungs, Forrest sat up. "I'm okay," he said, voice gritty. And he was — relief at not being buried alive or stuck in a tiny, narrow tunnel gave him strength. "Where are we?"

"Close," Brynhildr replied, jumping into the air. "Come. Your friend is but yards away."

Galvanized, Forrest jumped to his feet and took in his new surroundings. They were in another tunnel, but this one was large, very much so — the ceiling lay several feet above Forrest's head, giving him plenty of room to stand up, and was pock-marked with holes — sunlight streamed through them, lighting up the rocky floor like spotlights.

But it wasn't long before the sunlight ended — the last crack in the ceiling passed overhead, and Forrest and Brynhildr were plunged once again into darkness. And not just darkness — a nauseating scent reached Forrest's nostrils as he followed the trail of Brynhildr's glowing pink mist, a scent he hadn't experienced since the tail end of Anankos's War: the scent of death, of decay. Anxiety gripped Forrest's heart like a fist of cast iron — Siegbert was in this direction? Towards the smell of death? Gods, please let him be all right!

He bumped into a curve in the tunnel, and then light appeared ahead, halfway blinding Forrest. His footfalls began to echo again as they entered a larger chamber. Forrest gazed around, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing: he was standing at the foot of what seemed to be a massive rocky chimney. The floor was about the size of a small amphitheater, and dropped into a deep dip in the middle, which was infested by withered, singed weeds and black, crumbling plants which, oddly enough, seemed to be the source of the scent of death. The earth rose in a ring around them, the rugged walls rising until they yielded to the sky far, far above.

A web of shadows crossed the floor of the chimney, blotting out some of the sunlight — glancing upward, Forrest froze when he saw that it actually was a web, a massive one crisscrossing in a lattice of spider silk far above him, covering the chimney's massive opening like a sieve. Forrest felt chilled just looking at it — he shuddered to think of the size of the arachnid that had constructed such a large net.

And then, something near the center of the spider's web drew his attention. He shrieked when he realized what — who — it was.

"Siegbert!" he cried, rushing towards the far wall. His cousin hung a hundred or so feet above him, suspended upside down by a sticky sheath of spider silk coating both of his armored boots. He hung listlessly, seemingly lifelessly — cold spread through Forrest at the possibility.

"Is he...dead?" he said, barely able to say the words.

"No." Brynhildr's voice was firm. "Not yet. But he is close. You must help him."

"Okay, but how? What do I do? Cut him down?"

Brynhildr nodded. "Yes. But hurry."

Forrest faced the wall of the earthen chute. It was laced with roots and vines, providing perfect handholds. Without hesitating, Forrest grabbed ahold, digging his toes into the soil of the wall and testing to be sure that it would support his weight before driving himself upward by the balls of his feet.

It was an easy climb — barely a minute had passed before Forrest reached the height of Siegbert's hanging, still form. The problem now was that his cousin hung almost fifteen yards away, towards the center of the gigantic spider's web, well out of arm's reach. How was he supposed to get him down from there?

Experimentally, Forrest tapped a thick thread of the web that was anchored a foot or so above his head. He was surprised when he found that the material wasn't sticky so much as it was pliable. Pliable enough to stand on? On any other day of the week, Forrest would never have dreamed of taking such a reckless risk, but the current situation demanded it — it was either that, or let Siegbert die, which wasn't an option.

The things I do for you, Siegbert!

Climbing a little higher, Forrest sent a quick prayer up to the Gods, wondering if they could hear him in this strange place, and then dropped down onto the web. It bobbed dangerously under his weight — he lost his balance and pitched forward, thankfully on the strand's thicker torso. It bounced and swayed with the added weight like a trampoline, and, with a terrified cry, Forrest locked both arms around the web, frightened at the thought of being jostled off and tumbling down into the hundred foot drop to the chute floor. Closing his eyes and trying to beat back a wave of bile, he waited for the wobbling spider silk to settle. It did, after a terrifying minute — when Forrest chanced open an eye, he found that the world was no longer shaking. Breathing hard, he thought about standing up, and quickly decided against it — he doubted that he'd be able to keep his balance for long on a material this yielding. So, straddling the strand of silk and locking his ankles together, he inched forward like a caterpillar on a twig, never taking his eyes off of Siegbert — or, at least, his armored boots, the part of his cousin attached to the rest of the web.

It was slow going, but smooth sailing — it wasn't long before Forrest was close enough to touch Siegbert's boots. He reached out, intending to grab his cousin's ankle...

And at that precise moment, the spider appeared.