Sleepwalking

Amala struggles with her nightmares and fears

27.

Sleepwalking

 

The Orcs were never ending, they poured out of the walls, roaring with rage and attacking her from all sides.   Amala swung fiercely, her swords a blur as she pivoted and spun, chopping down every one that came at her.

But there were too many!   They piled in front of her, but kept coming, more and more, and she felt her limbs growing heavier and heavier.   From somewhere she heard her sisters scream in helplessness, but she could not see them or fight her way to them, for there were too many of the Orcs!

 

Then suddenly they weren’t Orcs but men - Redburr’s men, fellow citizens of Northmarch, but now her enemies.   She somehow saw a wizard holding a glowing red and orange orb in his hands, about to pitch it at her parents and siblings who were unaware of the danger.   She tried to scream a warning, but she had no voice.   She tried to run toward them, but her feet were stuck to the floor and there were too many men - or Orcs- in her way.   The wizard reared back with the fire orb and tossed it.

 

It grew bigger and bigger, the fire filling the room along with a roar and the screams of her family until --

 

Amala jerked awake; a slight peep, like that of a scared small animal, escaping her.   Wild-eyed and trembling, she glanced around for a few moments until she recalled where she was - it was one of the Sylvan Elves’ feast halls, which had been converted into a barracks-like sleeping chamber to accommodate the number of guests to the funeral and wedding that had occurred the past day.

 

As a sister of the new Sylvan Queen, they had almost begged her to take accommodations with the ladies-in-waiting, but she had declined.   She did not like her new-found status, so asked to be bunked with the others from Westmark, upon comfortable thick furs and quilts on the floor of one of the feast halls.

 

The fire in the central hearth had nearly burnt out, but still a comfortable warmth filled the dark room as she laid there trying to calm her nerves from the reoccurring nightmare.    She listened to the sounds of breathing and snores from others around her, but the thought of dreaming again filled her with deep dread.

 

The nightmares had started not long after her adventure at Orc Pass, but had faded to only an infrequent occurrence.   That is, until her sisters had died in the explosion of fire from one of Redburr’s wizard’s spells.   Now, almost nightly, she had very similar dreams and it had caused her to reject true sleep for the so-called ‘Elven sleep’ that all Elves sometimes used. It was a state of deep conscious reflection of past events that offered a fair degree of rest and restoration.

 

But even ‘Elven sleep’ could not fully restore a weary mind and so after many exhausting days, she sometimes succumbed to falling deeply into ‘regular’ sleep, only to be tortured by the same horrible dreams of helplessness and terror.

 

As she laid there staring at the patterns of firelight thrown on the ceiling of the room, she unknowingly found herself entering the Elven sleep stage.   Her mind had been dwelling on past battles, so to her horror, she relived her ordeal with the Orcs from two years before.

 

Though she wasn’t exactly unconscious, Amala felt herself rise up from the pallet of furs and feel for her swords, which she had hidden under the bedding to prevent the servants from taking them when they took all of the clothing, armor and weapons of the guests in order to keep the room somewhat tidy.

 

They had run out of woolen gowns for all the ladies in the Westmark group by the time they had come to her.   Amala, who recently seemed to always feel hot in temperature, had asked for something light in weight to wear and was rather annoyed and embarrassed when one of the servants had brought her a pair of negligees that her sister had rejected for her wedding night attire.

It was all they had left that was not woolen and bulky, that would fit her somewhat un-Sylvan shape, so she had chosen what seemed to be the more substantial of the two choices to wear.   She had felt utterly naked upon donning it and wondered if Snoe felt as shameful in the gown she had selected.

 

But she had wrapped a quilt around her to preserve some degree of decency and thankfully the room was dark so no-one saw her.

 

But now, in her trance-like state of Elven sleep, modesty seemed unimportant as she slipped from the furs and quilts, grabbed up her twin swords and quietly crept from the warmth of the room.   Her bare feet did not make a sound as she crossed the cold stone floor, but she did not feel it, nor the chill of the air as she slipped through the door into a dark hallway.

 

She was only mildly aware of where she was going, still she went with perfect stealth, weaving down halls and corridors and completely avoiding all palace guards until she reached her destination - a room used for training new Sylvan guards in the art of swordsmanship.

 

She slipped into the room and quietly closed the door behind her.   Swords lined the walls, hanging from pegs in neat order, while at one end of the room, a quartet of leather padded dummies, vaguely humanoid in shape, hung suspended from chains.   They were covered with cuts and holes from the swords of the recruits, but in her state of Elven sleep, Amala knew that it was the answer to her nerves.

 

Many times in Westmark she would slip out in the night, following such nightmares, to drain off the energy that filled her by practicing her swordsmanship against similar practice dummies.   It was somewhat therapeutic for her to lash out physically as her brain replayed the same action from months before.   She hoped no one would hear her or find her, but in her semi-conscious state, she really didn’t care right then.

 

Pulling the swords from their scabbards, moments later she was fiercely slashing and thrusting at all four of the practice dummies, her swords whistling in the crisp air of the empty, dark chamber.

 

She knew she wasn’t really battling any living thing and that it all was part of the Elven sleep, but there was something healing in the action, so she let herself go as intensely as she could.

 

In another sleeping chamber - his own, for he lived in the palace- Mattleos was awakened by the sounds of someone very feverishly practicing their swordsmanship.   Yet it was in the middle of the night and whoever was practicing was hitting the dummies quick and hard with two swords.

 

He quickly rose from his bed, threw a robe over him and crept from his room.   At the door to the drill room stood a handful of the night guards, all staring in very intense wonderment at whoever was practicing within.

 

Mattleos could tell from their sheepish grins, they were not merely watching one of their own practicing.   They moved aside slightly to allow him to look into the room.   Through one of the high windows, light amplified by the newly fallen snow allowed Mattleos and the guards to dimly discern the dark form gracefully battling the practice dummies.

 

She was a surprising sight to see, a beautiful, short haired Drow woman, wearing a translucent Sylvan gown meant for a warmer season, fiercely attacking two of the heavy practice dummies at the same time, as if her left hand and right hand were controlled by two separate minds.    Her red eyes glowed bright red in the darkness of the room, but even from across the room, Mattleos could see that she was in the state of Elven sleep that some of their race used for rest.

 

It was a state not unlike very deep thought, though the memories that flooded the mind were somewhat more akin to dreams in intensity.    The dreamer was only partially conscious of their surroundings in this state, but usually knew when others were nearby.

 

In this case, he wasn’t sure, for the girl was fighting against the practice dummies as if desperate for her life.   Never had he seen such intense and masterful swordsmanship.   She spun and moved like a court dancer with seemingly endless energy and speed.

 

After watching her for a few moments, he turned to the guards with a gentle reprimand, “This is Princess Amala, you realize.   The sister to our new Queen and the eldest surviving child of him, whom the White Raven has prophesized will be the King of Marksylvania.   I think, as she is rather immodestly dressed, it would be best for us to respect her privacy and leave her to her waking dream.”

 

Mattleos held his gaze until the guards bowed and somewhat reluctantly went back to their posts at other places in the palace.   He watched them disappear and then turned to quietly close the door in order to give the girl privacy.

 

But her dark form was too intriguing for him to easily look away.   Somehow she combined the fit, strong look of (what he was told) was typical of the Drow noblewomen of the Underdark.   But her sensuous feminine curves were maddingly hypnotic to him, so the young Lord stood there quietly in the hallway, enraptured at her martial display.

 

Her war against the leather practice dummies lasted for nearly half an hour and she nearly panted like an exhausted panther toward the end.   Still her swords wove a deadly and yet artistic dance.   Never had he seen a woman fight with such skill and energy, and yet somehow grow more lovely by the minute.

 

With a last massive chop to one of the dummies, suddenly she stopped; her swords crossed at her waist as she gulped in air and stared at them.

She caught her breath for a moment and then squatted down to retrieve the weapons’ scabbards.   Sheathing the swords, she stared at them in her hands for a long moment, and then, to Mattleos’ surprise, began to weep bitterly.

 

He felt himself tense up to go into the room to comfort her, but he knew his voyeurism would probably anger her (and rightly so), so he just stood there helpless to aid her.

 

Her battle maiden persona had disappeared as if it had been a mist, and now he beheld a young, emotionally weary, unsure girl that - at that moment- reminded Mattleos of her younger sister, Snoe.   It shocked him, for he had never seen the tomboy seem so fragile and scared.   She wept quietly, but passionately, wrapping her arms around her form as if trying to comfort herself.

 

He knew she was thinking of her fallen sisters, and just how he knew this was a mystery to him, but the knowledge made his heart ache for her.   Amala blamed herself for their deaths.   He had no idea how she could take that blame upon herself, but he knew it to be true.

 

Amala wept as fiercely as she had fought, minutes before, and he was just about steeled up enough to boldly enter and go to her when she seemed to almost put a mask on.   She stopped weeping with only a few sniffles and dried her eyes with the back of her arms as she stood up.

 

Mattleos lost all courage then and quickly zipped down the hallway on feet quieter than a mouse.   He slipped silently into his room, closing the door with next to no noise before he heard her exiting from the practice chamber.

 

He could just barely hear the swish of her sheer gown as she slipped down the hallway and he smiled, smug that he had evaded detection.

 

But suddenly she stopped just outside of his door.

“The next time, Lord Mattleos, that you want to watch me, at least have the decency to come openly.”  She whispered loudly through the door, “I had thought that you would have far too many young ladies of the court to flirt with to have to find your amusement watching a Drow in a ridiculous Sylvan gown practicing her swordsmanship.   Hopefully you found something to satisfy you. “

 

Horrified, he froze for a moment, but then pushed himself forward to open the door and apologize, but she was gone from sight but certainly not from his mind.

 

***

 

They were all around him, soldiers and dragons, vampires and ghosts, reaching and clawing, swiping and thrusting weapons at him.   Gamel roared in rage as he met them hotly, spinning around like a top to face each of them.   A thousand wounds found him through his armor, but still he swung and screamed defiance to them.

From within the faceless mass of enemies, he heard a sinister voice taunt him, “You cannot win.   Magic or not, you cannot defeat me.   You don’t even know who I am, dark elf.   I will consume you, and your family!”

 

He howled like a wolf as a reply and lunged forward, into the mass of enemies, chopping and slashing, throwing them back and down as they pulled him down with them.   Then they were over him, suffocating him with their mass, pinning his arms and legs, crushing him with their weight while the voice laughed from somewhere at his helplessness.

 

Darkness, pain, agony, and then, as suddenly as it had formed in his unconscious mind, it faded, leaving him in the midst of a huge battlefield, surrounded by walls and mounds of corpses of the fallen.

 

“I do not fear you!”   He yelled to the emptiness, “Come and fight me!”

His voice echoing was his only response.

 

Then, in the full moonlight of the scene he saw her, walking among the dead, a basket in one hand and a knife in the other.   She knelt periodically among the corpses and would cut something free from fingers or necks.

 

As she plundered the dead, he heard her sing, a mournful, eerie sound in the still as she casually moved from one to another.   It was Valimai, but she was now young and beautiful, with her fiery red hair and hypnotic greenish-blue eyes.

 

She slowly came to him, watching him with almost mother-like amusement as she picked off jewelry of the dead with her knife and placed the booty into her basket as if she was harvesting mushrooms.

“Do you fear death, Gamel?”   Her familiar voice spoke to him as she knelt and cut off the finger of a corpse, which she held up for him to see as she waited for his response.

“I don’t seek it, but I do not fear it.”   He replied, walking toward her.

“You should, for there is much death waiting in the Vale of Helios. “

“We have few choices left to us.”   He replied, now standing before her as she slipped the finger and its’ ring into her basket.

“Do you know what I am, Gamel?”

“A witch.”

 

She smiled as if he had flattered her greatly and laughed, “Yes, that and so much more!”

“Is this another test?”

“No, only a warning.”

“Go on.”

“Once you have entered Helios the Mad’s tower, there is no outside magic that will be able to come to your rescue.    You must take all that you need with you.   Not even the Watchers can penetrate Helios’ magic.”

“So what do you suggest that we take, then?”

“Much healing potions and preventive magic.   Your brother-in-law will seek to leave your sister at home to protect her.   That must not occur! “

“Why?”

 

She just smiled mysteriously, coming close to him, almost near enough to touch.   He found as she neared that he really wanted to reach for her - to feel her skin against his and her lips touching his.   But she stopped and in a singing voice said,      

“Helios built a mighty tower,

Filled it with great arcane power,

To enter in, a game you’ll play,

For there is no other way,

This is what you need to know,

To gain access, play not slow,

Reluctant King,

Virgin Queen,

Bishop Forsook,

Deadly Rook,

Blackest Knight,

Pawns of Light,”

 

Then she was gone and Gamel was sitting up in bed in one of the guest chambers of the Sylvan palace, with her song echoing in his head.

 

Reviews

[Elina]

"Amala jerked awake, a slight peep, like that of a scared small animal escaping her." It may work better if you change the first comma to a semi-colon and then add a comma between "animal" and "escaping."

Another wonderful chapter...as always.

[Eddie Davis]

Thank you, Elina.