Tyler's Dream (7 page)

They continued walking but at a considerably slower pace. Tyler noticed he was not the only one who was struggling today; Varkon was also subdued. When was the last time his companion had slept?

The land folded into a series of undulating mounds. Tyler preferred the journey uphill much more than the trudge down. Although his heel was greatly improved, it still hurt badly if he applied too much weight to it – which was unavoidable when travelling down a slope.

After several forced stops for one reason or another, Varkon decided to end their hike early. For dinner they ate the last of the
krus
. Varkon promised to search for more the next day and said he would teach Tyler how to spot and dig for them. Tyler smiled politely and secretly hoped for better fare.

Tyler didn’t dream that night. Or at least if he did, he couldn’t remember. Varkon celebrated the news and vowed to spend one more day at a relaxed pace so that Tyler could fully recover.

It was noon when they arrived at a barren crease in the land that stretched from north to south. It appeared to be an old riverbed, but no trees had yet taken root upon its sandy stretch or its banks on either side.

“This place makes me uneasy,” said Varkon as he peered doubtfully from the trees. They could see for quite a distance up and down this odd rift in the otherwise continuous forest.

“See anything suspicious? The Dhimori, perhaps?”

“No,” said Varkon, missing Tyler’s sarcasm. “But I am sure that ghatuan eyes are much dimmer than a
mukwa’s
during the day.”

Suddenly keen to prove his worth, Tyler screwed up his face into a tight grimace and stared outwards to the distance. “I can’t see anything,” he said with disappointment.

“But anybody could be watching unnoticed, from a hideaway among those trees. This could be the reason why we have not been caught yet: our pursuers have been waiting for us here.”

Again Tyler looked at the wall of swaying pines on the other side of the riverbed. Varkon was right: this was extremely dangerous. “Is there any other way across?” he asked.

“There may not be. We could well walk for days or weeks to the south, only to discover that this old riverbed continues until the sea. Or we could follow it to the north and find that it curves back to meet the river from which we have just ventured.”

“So I guess we will have to cross it here,” said Tyler resolutely. “We should wait until its dark.”

“Ghatu can see better at night. It would be better to go as soon as we can. Is your foot better? Can you run?”

Tyler shifted his weight experimentally. “I can run, but perhaps only for a while.”

Varkon nodded. “Very well. Are you ready?”

Tyler nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Good. On my signal … Now!” hissed Varkon.

They burst from the pine cover and raced the few paces needed to reach the dry trench where the river used to flow. Varkon bounded over the edge and landed almost in the centre of the cracked riverbed. Tyler followed with a little more caution. The forest loomed close ahead. They were easily going to make it. Varkon crashed into the trees first, plunging within the safety of the branches as though he was diving into a pool. Tyler followed soon afterwards.

“Varkon?” Tyler gasped, breathing hard as the pine needles tickled his cheeks. There was no reply. Tyler walked a few steps further forward and then stopped. “Varkon?”

Still no answer. He took another step – to nothing. The ground caved suddenly inwards. Tyler gasped and thrashed his arms as if this would somehow help keep him floating in the air. His efforts were unrewarding. He dropped for a short time before reintroducing himself to the ground with a soft whack.

His heel swelled with fresh pain from the unexpected impact. He crawled to his knees and took in the fact that he was now located at the bottom of a large, man-made hole. Tyler used to dig similar traps for Derek, but needless to say they were never quite so deep – perhaps a foot at the most. The edge of this hole hung a lethal fourteen feet above him. It was lucky he hadn’t seriously hurt himself.

The sun hung directly above, shining as constantly as ever through the branches to illuminate Tyler’s little space.

“Varkon!” Tyler shouted. “Varkon, help!” There was no reply.

Tyler continued to shout for a while longer, but it was hopeless. It occurred to him that Varkon had probably fallen into a hole as well, and at the speed the ghatu had been moving when he had entered the woods, he was probably lying somewhere in a heap, knocked out and thus unresponsive.

The top of his hole was too high to jump to, but Tyler tried anyway, hands clawing for a crack that he could use to scamper out. Eventually he gave up and sat down with a thud. Unfortunately whoever had constructed his horrible hole had done an exceedingly good job, but he wasn’t going to accept his fate without a fight.

He swung a calculating gaze around his prison but found only purple bulging roots and brown soil. The bottom of the hole was covered with a thin layer of hay. “That’s helpful,” he whispered bitterly. “At least whoever built this wanted me to be comfortable after I broke my neck from the fall.”

He sifted through the straw, searching for something hard that he could use to dig himself out with, but the architects of this place had been meticulous. Perhaps the ghatu had dug a scattering of traps, and at night they would check on them. He glanced upwards; the sun had slipped out of sight, and his hole was now plunged into shadow.

But why would the ghatu spend vast amounts of time digging holes on the off chance that Varkon or Tyler would fall into one? What were the chances that both he and his companion would fall into different holes so that they had no chance of helping one another?

“Varkon?” he cried out again, hopefully. Nothing.

Well, he’d be damned if he was going to sit about idly. His hole could have been dug years ago and forgotten for some reason. Tyler wasn’t sure which was worse: being captured by the Dhimori or starving slowly to death.

There was a scuffle from above, but before he could turn to look, something cracked against his head, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PIT

Tyler groaned and opened his eyes. For a time nothing registered. He stared blankly up at the rustling branches above him, and the sky.
The sky
…
That meant he was on his back. Good, his brain was still working – although it appeared somebody had carefully replaced it with a brick. He groaned again, louder this time, and put up a tentative hand to touch the back of his head. Pain blasted through his skull. He could feel an impressive lump there as big as a finger knuckle. Gurgling with shock, he managed to sit up and look around with cross-eyed bliss.

He was in a small cage clamped around the trunk of a tree around thirty or so feet from the ground. His heart leapt at a familiar silhouette.

“Varkon!”

The ghatu was lying in his own separate cage, in an adjacent tree a stone’s throw away. His face was turned to the side so that only his powerful back was visible, pressed up against his bars, but it was undoubtedly his companion.

“Varkon, wake up! I’m over here!” Tyler shouted happily.

He was poked hard in the ribs. He yelled and jarred his head, and then he yelled again at the pain of moving his skull too quickly.

A little man was standing outside his cage, holding a long blunt stick. The tip of his head was barely three feet high, and his face hung low with loose skin and wizened features. Stranger still, with his spine severely bent, this oddity’s neck was forced to hook violently upwards to keep his eyes level.

So this was the mysterious architect of the trap.

“Hello,” said Tyler gently. “My name—”

The little man jabbed him in the ribs. “Dino umo gun,” it explained viciously.

“That hurt. What—”

The midget whacked his stick into Tyler again. That last jab was especially painful. He crouched over and raised a hand to acknowledge he would not speak out of turn again. The little beast smiled with victory, revealing two rows of tiny teeth. “Ano duno ora,” he called loudly, his pinched lips leaping widely across his cheeks.

“Hut ti gon no wi,” came the voice of another dwarf-like creature as it galloped onto the platform from the crooked ladder. He was similar to the first little man except that he had an indelible air of authority.

“Dis rio!” exclaimed the first man, in greeting.

The newcomer nodded his head in what Tyler supposed must pass for severity.

“Tu far wah tuk,” the first continued, obviously referring to Tyler.

“I mean no harm,” Tyler breathed as soothingly as possible, holding up both his palms.

The man with the stick screeched and thumped Tyler’s stomach much harder than his first two blows. Both impish creatures let out a long cackle of laugher as they watched Tyler roll on the floor in agony.

Nobody could hear him
–
he was trapped. Only a few more moments until his fate was assured. The money in his pocket felt suddenly meaningless. He would die here, and no one was going to
care.

“Tik Tik,” chirped a loud voice. “Yu wha!”

Tyler blinked open his eyes. So his dreams had not ended. They still filled his sleep like endless voices whispering into his ear.

“Yu wha!”

He groaned as he rose to his feet. His head still hurt, but otherwise he felt fine.

“Yu wha! Lov tuk weha!”

His guard had not moved; he was still standing with his long stick in both hands, eyes staring fixedly at Tyler, and he grinned. Tyler ignored him and peered over the side of his cage to seek the source of the voice, squashing his face close to the bars to peer at the ground. Underneath him the most unusual scene was playing out in almost total silence: about a hundred imps were bartering, buying, and exchanging items in a makeshift marketplace. A dozen stalls had been set up displaying rows of strange vegetables. Most of the food seemed grey and bland, unlike the dazzling colours that peppered Tyler’s memory, but this did not impede the throng of milling imps from eagerly scooping them up.

There was no laughing, shouting, screaming, crying, or music. Except for the initial cry by an ancient imp crooning the sale of her trinkets, Tyler failed to pick up another word. Only the sound of scampering, tiny feet was audible, or the occasional twitter of a bird darting between the branches.

“Tyler!” growled a familiar voice.

He turned to see Varkon, crouching low to fit within the boundaries of his tiny cage. It seemed the imps had considered the ghatu a larger threat – not without merit. He had two armed guards to watch over him. Both smacked down their poles for his daring utterance.

Tyler smiled and gave Varkon a thumbs-up sign. Varkon nodded slowly back, wincing ever so slightly with pain. Tyler realised that the ghatu probably hadn’t the faintest idea what a thumb stuck into the air meant. Varkon’s attention turned to the busy imps far below, and Tyler followed his gaze, happier now that his companion was awake.

Night approached without any change. No torches were put out for people see by; the imps simply disappeared into their nondescript burrows. He glanced at Varkon, who shook his head with unsuppressed weariness and lay down to sleep. Tyler remained watching his companion for a while. Varkon had not been allowed a decent rest for a long time. He vowed that if they were ever freed from this place, he would share the night watch and allow the ghatu his fair share of sleep.

A week passed.
Seven whole days.
Two imp guards watched over Tyler, rotating at daybreak. He suspected the two were engaged in a competition to see who could be the most violent to him. He hated the imps. Why were they keeping him here? What was the reason for his imprisonment? Once a day he was allowed out of his cage and onto the ground. An escort of imps was always there to meet him, armed with much deadlier weapons than his usual guard. He was fed twice a day, and the meal was always the same: a slushy gruel that was the most revolting dish he had ever had the misfortune to sample. He nevertheless finished every drop to appease his constant hunger.

“Git ai wav!” the guard with his rat-teeth leered whenever he was handed his meal.

“Get a chance, and I’ll a kick you out of this tree!” retorted Tyler the first time this happened. He received a firm smack for his efforts.

His dreams continued. Tyler experienced on average three per night, but he did not meet again with the Dhimori, and for that at least he was thankful.

On the morning of the eighth day, Tyler rose and lazily propped himself onto an elbow to peer at the imps who were usually crowding about the marketplace by now. Not a midget was to be seen.

Bang!
The lock to his cage door was abruptly lifted. His guard stood at the door with an escort of five of his kind. Tyler heaved himself to his feet and stepped up to meet the forest of pointing spears. He tipped an imaginary hat at the imps before descending to the ground.

Varkon was waiting at the bottom, surrounded by fifteen imps armed with long spears. Tyler nodded grimly to Varkon as they were led away. They were escorted through the trees until a well-concealed hole suddenly became apparent at the base of a low slope. Tyler could not help but admire the well-practiced subterfuge of these little creeps as they forced Varkon and him down into a gloomy passage.

They soon reached an apparent dead-end, but the spears still pressed at their backs. For a short while the confusing nature of the moment lingered, until with screech, the wall ahead of them flew up. It was a gate, and the throng of imps dug their spear tips into the companions’ backs to force them onward.

They found themselves at the bottom of an enormous, circular pit along with four snivelling imps that stood with them. Twenty feet higher, a huge crowd of imps glared down at them from the lip of the hole. When the crowed saw Tyler and Varkon, they gave a deafening, mad cry and broke into cheers. The sheer volume after days of utter silence came as a shock to Tyler.

On the opposite side of the pit was a giant, crude gate set into the mud wall. Above this stood the important imp Tyler had seen on the first day. He was smiling and waving a lazy hand at the bawling spectators. The din subsided to characteristic silence.

“Uki uh?” jeered the imp. “
Ari h
a ro!”

More loud cheers, and the imps beat the ground with their feet. Tyler glared about defiantly.

“Yo rok we
hue man
!” said the head imp, pointing at Tyler. The crowd erupted into laughter. “Yo rok we
ga to
!” mocked the imp, aiming his finger at Varkon. Snarling with pleasure at his own enormous wit, he gave a signal, and with that the massive gate below was wrenched open by six heavily perspiring imps.

Smoke swirled from two fires that had been built on either side of the black mouth of the gate. Varkon stepped ahead to offer his protection against the unknown. The four doomed imps to their right whimpered and drew together.

Two wolves slunk out, padding the ground with their front paws wearily before they risked applying the remainder of their weight. A snow lion followed them – Tyler’s snow lion. The imps must have caught it in one of their traps. Lastly, the most thunderous roar from the crowd yet was reserved for the arrival of a great bear. Tyler wound his fists together and clenched his teeth.
Be
strong
, he thought.
For Har
gill
.

The situation was hopeless. The imps cheered.

Varkon crouched low and pulled out a short stick, which had been tucked into his waist. A terrible hissing started from the watching crowd; this was not part of the day’s events. A fierce pride took Tyler then, and he felt strangely sad to see how fearless and loyal his companion was, standing between him and his enemies. How Varkon had managed to acquire a weapon under such close guard was beyond him.

The bear looked malnourished; its fur was missing, and ugly scars ran across its skin. Startled by the collective hissing of the imps, it snapped its teeth and then charged with blind rage. A wolf scampered quickly for its life, long tongue wagging reproachfully. Tyler hoped the beasts would kill each other off.

The bear let escape a roar like grinding thunder. Foam lathered its black snout as it launched itself directly at the group of doomed imps. They scattered, scrawny legs propelling them forward in a kind of rapid straddle. As they ran, bouncing off the walls like hot rubber, the wolves decided to take their chances, pouncing on the hurtling creatures as they whipped by. The crowd jeered at the plight of their fallen comrades.

All this happened as though it were far away; Tyler was otherwise engaged. His eyes were glued to the snow lion, and it in turn was focused on him as it padded aggressively close, wary of the protective ghatu.

The bear raised itself onto its back legs, slashing the air with its overbearing front claws as spittle ran from its jaws. It then dropped back on its haunches, abruptly changed direction, and charged straight towards Tyler.

But Varkon was in its way, side-stepping to meet the stampeding creature. The bear reached up one mallet-sized paw to swat the ghatu aside. Varkon ducked low with impressive reflexes and then stood with equal speed, ramming his stick with both hands into the bear’s exposed throat. Reeling, the bear staggered to the right and fell heavily on its shoulder, Varkon’s stick protruding like a toothpick from its neck. This momentary weakness lasted for only a moment, and although obviously stunned, the bear swiped wildly at Varkon again.

As soon as Varkon left Tyler’s side, the snow lion had ceased its taunting patrol and instead began to stalk towards him, heavy shoulders pushing well ahead of its slanting eyes, gathering pace. Suddenly the lion kicked its powerful legs at the ground and sprang forward with complete extension.

Tyler leapt to one side and was only just quick enough. The snow lion’s razor claws tore at Tyler’s clothes so that his shirt and jacket ripped open; three crimson scratches now contrasted against the white of his skin. Tyler was knocked back onto the sand with a crunch. The lion landed on the sand behind him and then swung around, its body coiled with rage, ready to deal the killing blow. Tyler skittered backwards on his hands and feet until his back collided with the edge of the pit. The crowd roared.

The snow lion paused, its yellow eyes staring at the grey spider-rock on Tyler’s exposed chest. The snow lion was transfixed by it. Slowly its body loosened and its breathing slowed.

The bear roared in the background, but neither Tyler nor the lion noticed. The snow lion’s eyes were
changing
. Its pupils contracted to the size of pepper grains, and the wildness ebbed from them. The deep yellow shifted to a hazel brown. Something was there which had been lacking before … Intelligence? That predatory gaze had now certainly vanished.

The bear roared again. Tyler looked up as it crashed through the wooden gate by which it had entered the pit. The imps above screamed with dismay – Varkon had provided a passage to freedom. The snow lion dipped its head. Tyler flinched, still expecting a final, killing blow. Instead the beast shrugged back its shoulders and crouched very low. Tyler scrambled to his feet.