That night, she dreamed of Marcellus.
"IT SEEMS WE MUST SAY our goodbyes." He stood against a backdrop of flames that roiled unheeded behind him. For some reason a crown adorned his head, though he did not appear to notice how the edges dug into his brow and cut into the flesh. The sky darkened when he turned and walked away. The flames followed, burning everything behind him. She felt the blistering heat, the searing inferno he placidly ignored. People shrieked as they died by the thousands, melting like candles in the fire.
She called, but he could not hear her. When she took a step toward him, the flames roared in fury. The heat almost caused her to faint. But she had to reach him. She knew many more would die if she did not. The flames rolled toward her in liquid waves, hissing as though alive. Her clothes ignited, her hair caught ablaze. She screamed as the fire licked her flesh, dragon tongues that seared and melted her skin.
Marcellus continued on, his gaze fixed ahead as a massive silhouetted shape uncoiled from the night sky and came for him. A dragon, Nyori realized. Marcellus' sword was unsheathed, glinting in the firelight.
Nyori was dying, a human candle like the others. She reached out desperately. Her hands were raw, oozing blood that sizzled as it seeped from the cracks in her flesh. Her fingers caught hold of his arm…
Suddenly the pain was gone. The fire had vanished. She was fully clothed and completely unscathed. Autumn leaves rained in myriads of red and orange shades. Marcellus stood with his back to her, facing a massive crimson dragon that hovered in the sky with its wings outstretched to blot out the sun. Marcellus' sword tumbled to the carpet of leaves as he fell to his knees before the blasphemous monstrosity.
When he turned, his face was a mask of blood. His eyes had been gouged out; his body tortured worse than King Lucretius' had been.
"Finish me," he whispered.
NYORI'S EYES SNAPPED open. She shivered and clutched the arms that held her. They were strong and instantly familiar.
"Easy, Shama." Marcellus spoke softly. "Easy. You were dreaming. It must have been terrible. I heard you cry out as I passed your tent. I grew worried when I could not wake you."
"It was…just a dream." She could not tell him the truth, for she strongly feared she had entered Everfell again. It should have been impossible, but it was not the first time she had entered the realm in between dreams by accident. Ayna had said it was a world of ever-shifting visions. Was that the future? It cannot be! The vision was too strong. The vision was too real.
"What…did you see?"
Nyori looked up. His eyes were concerned, the cold facade thawed for the moment. It was the face of the man she first met. Not the horribly disfigured face she saw only moments before.
She dropped her gaze. "It was nothing. Just a terrible dream."
Chapter 43: Marcellus
In the Grand Dining Hall of the Castle Glacia, King Theron sat in a chair elaborately constructed from moose antlers. Before him was a vast, heavy oaken table piled with roast boar, heaps of blood sausages, wild turkey, seal steaks, and juicy reindeer cuts. Steaming platters of native vegetables, kidney beans, gravy, buttered onions, and flaky, buttery bread lined the table.
The other guests had food as well.
Marcellus shook his head. He had never seen a banquet hall so gargantuan. Built from heavy timber that soared to a cavernous ceiling, it would swallow the one in the Royal Palace and have room for two more like it. The hall was filled to bursting with carousing Norlanders. Thick wooden benches were pulled to long, oaken tables overflowing with foodstuffs.
The din was near deafening as they talked over each other, hurling raucous boasts and vulgar jests about while clanking tankards, scraping plates, and fondling serving girls. Others tried to outdo each other in laughter and storytelling, or engaged in 'friendly' insult contests. The verbal combat usually ended in a brawl or two, something no Norland feast could be complete without. The air rang with slurs and jests, much of them crude, but no one cared. It was Winterfest, the time when a Norlander ate and drank his best.
And no one ate or drank with more gusto than King Theron, it seemed. He wore no royal raiment to mark him from the others. Norlanders scoffed at such things. His sleeveless jerkin had no doubt been white as snow when the meal began, but numerous stains adorned it and his thick mustache as well. The night was well along, but the feast was nowhere near ending. A Winterfest feast did not end until the host passed out. With Theron that meant the feast would last for days.
Theron was tall and broad, with long golden hair pulled back in a plaited braid. His face was a meaty slab that looked as though he regularly used it to batter down walls. His deep-set blue eyes twinkled merrily, and his bear-like roars of laughter blew back the thick mustaches that trailed past his clean-shaven chin. His arms were heavy but thick with muscle as he lifted his enormous bear-engraved chalice in another toast to his guests. He appeared to have mastered the Norlander art of talking, downing ale and devouring food at the same time.
Those dining were typical Norlanders — hearty and strong, though many, especially the men, tended to lean toward the heavy side. A few almost matched Theron in girth. Most were tall and fair-skinned with blond or reddish hair, and blue or green eyes. The men dressed similarly to Theron, in simple woolen kilts and shirts, though some wore fur capes or coats. Most of the women wore long dark skirts and light-colored embroidered blouses snug at the bodice, and cut low enough to expose a dangerous amount of pale cleavage when they leaned over. Their hair was intricately braided in loops or bows on their head, and largely cut stones hung from their wrists and necks.
Marcellus tried to shout over the din. "Perhaps we came at a bad time. The morrow might be more appropriate."
"The morrow will be much the same." Kolbjorn quaffed a pint of ale in a single swallow with an apologetic shrug. The Norland Captain wore the winter laurel of celebration on his graying locks, but unlike most, he appeared at least half sober. He was Fregeror's uncle, and had agreed to take them before the king. "As will the next day, and the next. Nay, best to do this now, while the king is at his food and drink. He is always better tempered when half drunk. I will let him know you have arrived. Wait here."
They remained at the entranceway as Kolbjorn and Fregeror shoved their way through the thickly congested hall. None took offense or even appeared to notice. Those that did paused to clap the men on the back or embrace them in bone-crushing hugs. Fregeror appeared to be popular among his brethren and lacked none for attention.
Nyori surveyed the celebration with a mixture of astonishment and embarrassment. A burly man pinned a serving wench against the wall just a few paces away, pouring wine down her bodice and plastering his face into her ample bosom while she howled with laughter. At the nearest table, one of the men regaled his fellows with a tale of a cleric, a warrior, and a Norlander whore trying to survive a night in the cold of winter. Even Marcellus' ears burned as the tale reached its climax. The surrounding Norlanders roared with laughter, offering suggestions even cruder than the story.
Han peered at the festivity with great interest, grinning as though he wanted to join in. He had never been to Norland before and insisted on accompanying them. Han's lack of height was more evident than ever in the company of Norlanders. Marcellus was a head and shoulders taller than Han, which meant the hulking Norlanders dwarfed Han completely. He didn't appear to be discomfited by the fact. Marcellus had learned there was little that could rattle Han.