Deep Time

After eight hundred years of searching for the champion, madness descended. Pastiche screamed and waved his sword at the trees of the last ancient forest, yelling the name of the enchanter who cursed him to find the champion. Could it be the old police chief? The estranged son? The abused daughter? As thick branches creaked in the wind, mad laughter tore the sky: "Curse you, Mydrrin!" More

The usurper remembered the last battle as if it was yesterday, not eight hundred years ago. He felt the lance go through him, his life leaking out onto the ground. He had been glad it was over: the bad choices, the betrayals, the sad face of his uncle. He felt his sword cut deep into the side of the only one who had trusted him. At the last he recalled the fog clearing and the blue sky.
Then that face, that damnable wrinkled old face, blocking his view. He wore that stinking sheepskin jerkin and hat. Didn’t he know his beard always had food in it? That son of a cow Mydrrin. He was supposed to be dead, damn him. Now he was making some kind of circle in the dirt, chanting in Latin and the old tongue.
“You are being given another chance,” he said in the common tongue. “You must find the champion and help him slay the evil one.” Pastiche remembered Mydrrin smiling then. “But it’s a hasty spell. Your body parts will wear out, and you will be compelled to find now ones…”The smile widened…“from corpses. Let’s just say that part will be your penance, as the Christians would have it. Oh, and you can’t die until the champion wins.” The old man’s smile fell. “it’s all I can do,” he said and turned, shoulders slumping as he walked away.
“But how will I find him?” shouted Pastiche.
“Dreams,” came the old enchanter’s voice, seemingly on a breath of wind. “always from Dreams.”

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