I watch on in silence as the bear-like man lifts his arms menacingly towards the young boy. Deep-set grey eyes seem to darken in the dim light as a curse is muttered with a sibilant hiss. Instantly the sound of rushing wind fills the air, though not a breath of a breeze can I feel. Without a sign of even being touched, the small boy, his youthful eyes staring at the man in horror, crumples to the ground. The moment seems to last forever; the boy falling, his eyes coming to an ever-open rest, gazing stolidly at me; the large man walking almost as slowly towards me, his hand outstretched once again; my own eyes still fixed on the boy. He stops, and his lips stretch taught in a cruel imitation of a smile as he watches my futile efforts to break free of the strong binding about my person.
“Goodbye, friend.” His words, followed quickly by another murmured curse, send a freezing cold blast of wind that buffets me. I feel as though my mind is being wrenched from my body, and I try in vain to keep a grip on my physical self...
************
“Captain Maycroft, Sir!”
My eyes snap open with blessed wakefulness, and I gaze around for the source of the shrill voice. There, standing a few feet from my bed is Lieutenant Wellard, his youthful face the picture of worry as he retracts his hand from my shoulder, which I presume he had been shaking.
“What is it, Wellard?” I ask him with a sleepy tone as I haul myself into a sitting position, rubbing my sleep-crusted eyelids with the point of a knuckle.
“Well, Sir...” He steps back a bit, looking even more worried now, “you were shouting, Sir, and so I came to see what had happened... however, you were asleep. I tried to wake you, Sir, but you were thrashing around...” As he finishes speaking, my mind is involuntarily thrown back to the vividly harsh nightmare that had filled my night.
I stand up suddenly, reaching across to where my jacket lies. Grabbing it unceremoniously, I push my arms hastily into the folds of the rich red uniform. As I reach out once more for the breeches which accompany the jacket, I notice that Wellard is still looking anxiously towards me.
“Yes, Wellard? Was there something else you wished to say?” I know even as I speak the words that I sound harsh, yet the terror of my nightmare still lingers in my mind; I feel much as if I am a caged rabbit, watching as a hungry fox stalks around me.
“No, Sir.” Wellard replies quickly. He takes a sharp breath, as if he is about to say more, but lets it out with a shake of the head. “There was nothing else, Sir.”
Throughout the day, my thoughts stray repeatedly to the nightmare. I cannot erase the dead boy’s blind, staring eyes from my mind - they have been eternally branded there by my own imagination and fears. Day passes slowly to dusk; dusk retreats willingly to night. As I lie down to sleep, my eyes cast unblinkingly up towards the roof of my tent, I mull over the events of last night.
It was only a dream, I tell myself again and again. This somewhat calming thought is, for now, sufficient to allow my eyes to close and my body to settle down in wary anticipation of sleep.
Just as the final ounce of tension drifts from my body, my consciousness is snapped back to the physical realms by a sharp call from my doorway.
“Captain Maycroft!”
“Yes?” I answer blearily, dragging myself out of my bed to see the silhouette of Lieutenant Wellard in the tent’s entrance, looking, as usual lately, ever-so-slightly anxious in my presence.
“Sir, the General has asked all senior officers to report to him immediately.”
“Very well.” I quickly start to pull my uniform on with a sigh.
Five minutes later, I am standing rather uncomfortably in a large tent with the rest of the Company’s senior officers, whilst we all wait for the news for which our commander has called us all here. I find it very hard to breathe; the air is so stuffy.
“Gentlemen. Thank you all for coming at this late hour.” General Jameson says from the entrance, though his words do not sound at all grateful. “I have called you here,” he continues, wading through the crowd to the front, his wide girth looking uncomfortable in his tight uniform, “because we have a visitor from His Majesty’s Magicians.” An involuntary gasp escapes someone nearby me at the last word. The Magicians have been considered in recent times as the main force pushing the war in our favour. What could they possibly want with us mere soldiers?
“General Harrington; if you please.” Jameson gestures to the tent’s entrance, and my face blanches as I recognise instantly the man standing there, his large frame beginning to move through the crowd. Deep-set eyes scan the crowd, and as they flicker in my direction, I know that my rapidly beating heart and the sweat that beads on my neck is telling me that my eyes are not mistaken. A sudden chill clings to my spine as the scene from my dream plays over and over again in my brain, speeding up so that each replay only lasts a matter of seconds. It is then that the stark realisation forms in my mind: I am standing in the same space as the man from my worst nightmare.
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