in hopes they would stay dry. Clad only in
his nethers, he secured his sword and armor to the saddle, then wrapped the
reins securely around his hand and urged the horse forward. It flinched and
resisted, the whites of its eyes glimmering, but he shouted at it and tugged.
Finally it plunged forward, nearly knocking him off balance.
Caelan kept
shouting, to encourage himself as much as the horse. He pushed his way forward,
and the water deepened quickly until it came up to his chest. He felt as though
he’d been plunged into ice. The water was so cold it stole his breath. After
another step the bottom dropped out from beneath him. He swam awkwardly,
keeping his chin and mouth as high above the surface as he could. The stench
was bad enough to turn his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what the
water contained to make it smell thus.
Snorting, the
horse swam beside him. The current grew stronger, and Caelan stayed close
against the horse, clinging to a strap of the saddle and trying to steer the
animal straight instead of letting the current carry them downstream.
A ghost-pale mist
formed on the surface of the water ahead of them, swirling and circling as
though alive. Caelan’s sense of danger grew stronger. He did not want to swim
into the mist. Yet he could not turn back.
When the clammy
fog wrapped its tendrils around his face, Caelan felt himself in sudden,
unexpected contact with a torrent of emotions, none of which were his own. They
swept over him in a deluge, and the faint sound of weeping and piteous cries
filled his ears. He had entered some kind of miasma of human misery. He wanted
to weep with the voices. Their agony and torment were unbearable, drowning him.
He lost all sense of himself, feeling instead this terrible sorrow and grief
that encompassed his soul.
“No,” he said
aloud, struggling with the last remnants of his will. “No!”
He severed, isolating himself, and at once there was only roaring silence in his ears
instead of anguished wailing. The tendrils of fog melted away, and a light of
sorts—very white and pure—shone down on him as though moonlight had somehow
reached to the bowels of the earth.
The horse surged
ahead of him, lunging up and out of the water onto the bank. Snorting and
stamping, it switched its dripping tail and shook itself violently.
Caelan followed,
gaining ground only to find his knees buckling beneath him. Despite severance, he had little strength left. But at least he had sweet peace—no
tormented emotions, no cries of misery, no pervading coldness, no stench of
foul water. Gasping for breath, he collapsed on the ground and passed out.
Chapter Four
A low, chattering
sound stirred through his mind, half rousing him. He listened, uncaring, then
sank away from the noise.
Something nudged
him, blowing hard and nervously on the bare skin of his back. It tickled, this
warm breath. Caelan came awake reluctantly. He was nudged again, and something
twitched through his hair, brushing over the back of his skull.
Swearing in alarm,
he rolled over and sat up.
The horse snorted
and whirled away from him, then stopped at the edge of the water, pawing and
tossing its head.
Elandra, like a
ghost figure, remained on its back.
Breathing hard,
Caelan blinked himself fully awake and sat up. The strange, pale light
continued to fill the cavern area next to the river. It was white and silvery,
almost like moonlight, yet unnatural. The shapes of the horse, the walls, the
scattered stones all seemed flattened, without dimension, and without color. It
made everything feel like a dream, yet would he smell the pungent river in his
dream? Would he feel this cold and stiff in his dream? Caelan rubbed his face
and shoved back his hair, then climbed to his feet.
He untied his
sword and breastplate from the saddle, letting them crash onto the ground, then
took down his bundle of clothing eagerly. He was freezing, as cold as when he’d
first climbed out of the icy water. Rubbing
his nethers, he secured his sword and armor to the saddle, then wrapped the
reins securely around his hand and urged the horse forward. It flinched and
resisted, the whites of its eyes glimmering, but he shouted at it and tugged.
Finally it plunged forward, nearly knocking him off balance.
Caelan kept
shouting, to encourage himself as much as the horse. He pushed his way forward,
and the water deepened quickly until it came up to his chest. He felt as though
he’d been plunged into ice. The water was so cold it stole his breath. After
another step the bottom dropped out from beneath him. He swam awkwardly,
keeping his chin and mouth as high above the surface as he could. The stench
was bad enough to turn his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what the
water contained to make it smell thus.
Snorting, the
horse swam beside him. The current grew stronger, and Caelan stayed close
against the horse, clinging to a strap of the saddle and trying to steer the
animal straight instead of letting the current carry them downstream.
A ghost-pale mist
formed on the surface of the water ahead of them, swirling and circling as
though alive. Caelan’s sense of danger grew stronger. He did not want to swim
into the mist. Yet he could not turn back.
When the clammy
fog wrapped its tendrils around his face, Caelan felt himself in sudden,
unexpected contact with a torrent of emotions, none of which were his own. They
swept over him in a deluge, and the faint sound of weeping and piteous cries
filled his ears. He had entered some kind of miasma of human misery. He wanted
to weep with the voices. Their agony and torment were unbearable, drowning him.
He lost all sense of himself, feeling instead this terrible sorrow and grief
that encompassed his soul.
“No,” he said
aloud, struggling with the last remnants of his will. “No!”
He severed, isolating himself, and at once there was only roaring silence in his ears
instead of anguished wailing. The tendrils of fog melted away, and a light of
sorts—very white and pure—shone down on him as though moonlight had somehow
reached to the bowels of the earth.
The horse surged
ahead of him, lunging up and out of the water onto the bank. Snorting and
stamping, it switched its dripping tail and shook itself violently.
Caelan followed,
gaining ground only to find his knees buckling beneath him. Despite severance, he had little strength left. But at least he had sweet peace—no
tormented emotions, no cries of misery, no pervading coldness, no stench of
foul water. Gasping for breath, he collapsed on the ground and passed out.
Chapter Four
A low, chattering
sound stirred through his mind, half rousing him. He listened, uncaring, then
sank away from the noise.
Something nudged
him, blowing hard and nervously on the bare skin of his back. It tickled, this
warm breath. Caelan came awake reluctantly. He was nudged again, and something
twitched through his hair, brushing over the back of his skull.
Swearing in alarm,
he rolled over and sat up.
The horse snorted
and whirled away from him, then stopped at the edge of the water, pawing and
tossing its head.
Elandra, like a
ghost figure, remained on its back.
Breathing hard,
Caelan blinked himself fully awake and sat up. The strange, pale light
continued to fill the cavern area next to the river. It was white and silvery,
almost like moonlight, yet unnatural. The shapes of the horse, the walls, the
scattered stones all seemed flattened, without dimension, and without color. It
made everything feel like a dream, yet would he smell the pungent river in his
dream? Would he feel this cold and stiff in his dream? Caelan rubbed his face
and shoved back his hair, then climbed to his feet.
He untied his
sword and breastplate from the saddle, letting them crash onto the ground, then
took down his bundle of clothing eagerly. He was freezing, as cold as when he’d
first climbed out of the icy water. Rubbing
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