Dreamweavers Among Us: Book One - Red

Dreamweavers

Among Us

RED

Book One of the Draumrs Series

By: Ross Peacock

Copyright 2018 by Ross Peacock

Smashwords eBook Edition

Smashwords Ebook Edition License

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

©2018 Ross Peacock - All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-0-9959759-0-3 

Table of Contents

Introduction

Acknowledgements

Ekans

If You Can Dream It

Lester

The First Circle

Julia

Duck

Going Up

Emma

Downstream

Red Sky at Morning

Cathedral of Trees

Leutnants

Halls of the Circles

Snow

Whiteout

Oksana

Aachen Dawn

Kriegshauf

Roger

Beaucage Camp

Do Your Best

Pay the Piper

Cherry Tree

One Step Forward

About the Author

Introduction

Dreamweavers – Red introduces the Draumr Clans, which have ancient roots, but are thriving as everyday folks in modern societies. Mostly peace-loving and gentle, the extended families share the obligation to serve the rest of humankind as the makers of dreams: the very best dreams. They also serve as humanity’s first line of defense against nightmares that can become too real.

A new generation of Draumr faces a challenge that the Clans have not seen in 75 years: a distant rogue Draumr family has gained control of the one of the most powerful politicians on earth, simply by entering his dreams. As the leader loses touch with the difference between real events and dreamed possibilities in his quest for ultimate power, the threat of global war looms once again. Past defenders, now aged, must depend on their students to prevent this disaster. The young Draumr fighters are called out to rapidly learn secret ancient skills and to step in as the last line of defense against a dream apparition that most thought was long-dead.

Dreamweavers - Red is light fantasy where the characters are just people living their lives in familiar places. As might be expected, in the dream settings, exploits are surreal and can be very sexy. An adult story with attractive female and male leads, the adventure is as much about their coming of age as it is about dangerous possibilities in the shadowy realm of controlled dreams, where fantasies are fulfilled and uncertain liaisons are always risky.

Because this novel is set in our world and includes occasional cameos by fairly familiar political leaders, there is a downside to the extended period needed to document the story. Presidential elections, can, for example, require a re-write of more than one character. And, when the gender of a newly elected leader is different from the predecessor, bedroom scenes also need updating to avoid confusion. Apologies, if some of these ‘entirely fictitious’ characters end up just one election or one uprising out-of-context; we tried our best.

RP

Acknowledgements

Contributors

Many thanks to everyone who contributed thoughts and comments on the drafts of the Draumrs books. Particular thanks to Grace Peacock, whose original manuscript provided the concepts and some of the story lines for the fascinating world of Draumrs.

Dream Weaver

Entertainers Gene Adkinson and Wade Buff were given a twice-weekly, half-hour program slot on Miami radio station WRUF in 1955. With the program ending at 10:30 p.m., they felt it appropriate to sign off with a song they had composed while in high school in 1953: It's Almost Tomorrow (words by Buff, music by Adkinson). Buff served as the lead singer, and the harmony part was sung by various female singers (Sally Sanborn, Mary Carr, Mary Rude, and others).

The announcer of the show, Chuck Murdock, couldn't figure out how to introduce the unnamed group and the song, so came up with the idea of running a contest on the show to name them. The contest winner stated that because the song they wrote was dreamy, they were weavers of dreams, thus ‘The Dream Weavers.’ Atkinson and Buff played together under that name only until the end of 1956.

John Lennon picked up the idea in his song ‘God’ in 1970 and Gary Wright made the term ubiquitous with his hit, so named, in 1975. As far as we are aware, Lennon was the only Draumr among these.

Cover Art Credit

Best Designs, iStock, Getty Images 2015, licensed for publication.

Ekans

Anasko had her hands full in a deadly struggle. She had a death grip on the thick scaly tail of the two-meter long ekans mik that was desperately trying to get away by pulling itself into the tangled underbrush. From its size and flashy markings, she knew that it was the leader of the nasty clutch of vipers that ruled the northern territory. It had brazenly come across the southern border once again, apparently believing that there was no threat to worry about. Anasko intended to kill it.

She had very nearly gotten in position to lope its head off in open ground, but even though surprised, the spitting and striking ekans had eluded her sabre swings; then it had made a break for the low underbrush at the border. In a split second, Anasko had to decide to either miss her opportunity entirely or to drop the sabre and leap onto the back of the disappearing ekans. She managed to grab on to the tail at the edge of the brush and to brace her legs against the first stout branches. Her decision now left her in a deadly tug of war with the poisonous beast and without her sabre. Every instinct said to let it go, but she could see no break in the thick brush before the wires that signified the border that she could not cross. If the ekans got back across the line, she would have forfeited her best chance so far to kill the world’s most dangerous pest.

The stupid part of the argument in her head was that she could just walk away and leave the damn ekans to its own business with no further threat to her. The last thing the beast was going to do was to turn and come back at her on its own. It knew that she was too fast to be struck. It also knew that only the lucky proximity to the brush had saved it from being sliced up in the first encounter. The ekans preferred helpless prey, or at least prey that didn’t carry sabres. Across the border, the mik ekans was considered a god among the timid species that lived in paralyzing fear of its crushing bite. It could live happily enough over there as long as the border stood as a barrier to its only real enemies in the south, who saw the creature as the nuisance that it was. But, ekans loved the warm sun of the south and this one would surely continue to test the strength of the border defenses again.

Anasko could feel her muscles cramping-up and weakening. The ekans was all muscle and it had leverage inside the woody bushes. There was no way to pull it back. Her sabre lay out of reach and for some stupid reason, she wasn’t carrying a knife. Normally, she travelled with one on her belt and one in her boot. Even a small knife would have been useful as she could either have gutted the ekans or at least given it a reason to come back to fight. She considered whether sinking her teeth into it might achieve the same response. But the reptile wasn’t that dumb. It had little concern for human teeth that probably couldn’t penetrate its tough scales anyway.

Anasko also remembered that the back end of the ekans featured its asshole. For some reason the beast hadn’t unloaded on her yet, but this was just a matter of time. Pretty soon she would lose her grip anyway, while being covered in a stream of stinking poo.

Now the old man in blue robes came over to her. He had periodically walked into the scene in past dreams and here he was again. It was the last goddamn thing that she needed to deal with right now. He was useless in the fight as he apparently had some sympathy for the ekans and apologetically begged off as only a neutral observer. She knew that he would never kick her sabre over to her.

Neutrality didn’t stop him from making entirely useless suggestions however. Anasko doubted that she had the patience to engage him in his riddles and truisms, but she couldn’t just walk away either. She was stuck as much as the ekans was until one of them gave up the fight.

The old man opened his hands to her as he observed the situation and spoke. Would it be so bad if your foe lived another day? You will surely get another chance.

He might mean the ekans gripped in her arms or he might mean the leader of an army in some parable of war. Anasko had to guess the context of the question first, or face mild rebuke for not seeing the problem correctly. Fuck it, I only have one enemy right now.

She barked back at him, Yes, it would. For every day that this piece-of-shit lives, a hundred innocents die to feed it and its nest. She was gasping for air as the struggle wore her muscles down. The burning pain was making breathing difficult. I may never catch this fat little fucker out in the open again. I can’t just let him slither back home.

But, he means you no harm. The old man now shook his head and smiled, as if acting as an emissary for the ekans. In fact, if you hadn’t attacked him, he might just have kept on sunning himself and done no harm to anyone out here. After all, he only eats over there.

The old man in blue pointed across the border wires.

The few stands of rusty wire on rickety posts designated the border that separated the north from the south. The south, while a ruthless and demanding place, at least provided some measure of balance in its ecology. Most species could find a niche to occupy that didn’t unduly threaten the survival of others. Those that wished to grow fat and lazy could usually find some protected spot to call home. Those that chose to be lean and energetic could expect to command a wealth of resources and to multiply their numbers. The warm and fertile south stood in stark contrast to the forbidding north.

North of the border, a mountainous terrain crept up into cold and mostly barren lands that provided only bare survival means. A limited variety of species scrabbled for enough to eat and for a place they could defend against numerous hostile predators. The most vicious of the predators: the mik ekans, chose to exploit the weakness of lesser species, killing and consuming young and old, while stealing meagre resources from those healthy enough to escape its attack.

The setting of Anasko’s dream was similar to the geographic and ecological makeup of several extended peninsula regions in the world, where a thousand kilometers of latitude and a few thousand meters of altitude essentially produced these characteristics in the natural biosphere. The difference here was the predominance of nearly-human creatures that exhibited the worst of real human behaviors. The nastiest of these behaviors was the deadly defense of the border wires. Armed, biped reptiles on both sides kept any movement across the wires to a minimum, as the open space on either side of the border was essentially a free-fire zone. The capable noom alig in the south were unlikely to kill an innocent escapee from the north. But, they would happily shoot any rotagilla that challenged them across the wires.

Fortunately, the shooting scenario was never played out, as the rotagilla sentries of the north watched their own territory most closely and killed any lesser species caught approaching the border wires from the north. They postured and threatened well outside rifle range of the southern sentries, but in many decades, had not attempted to breach the border.

The question of whether they might similarly shoot a human crossing the wires in the opposite direction remained unanswered. They were terrified of humans for good reason. Humans killed ekans mik and rotagilla on sight. Anasko believed that the ‘rots’ would certainly open fire if she charged across in pursuit of their spiritual leader.

How Anasko knew all of this was a mystery to her. There was no guide to her dream and she had never actually encountered any humans other than the old men: one in blue and one in red. She almost always entered the dreamscape in a stealthy stalking approach to the same fat, sleeping mik ekans. She had tried different tactics, sometimes quietly sneaking up and sometimes just bursting forward in a screaming rage of sabre slashes. Each time she missed her prey, who usually just slithered away and got back across the border. Sometimes she got in behind it, cutting off the path to the border; but then she had to dance away from vicious strikes of the poisons fangs.

She had yet to get into a position to deliver a killing blow. Each time, she couldn’t prevent the escape. Then, sitting in the dirt, she either got a lesson in the form of an opaque life parable from the old man in blue or an explicit lecture on her technical ineffectiveness from the old man in red.

This was the first time that she had tried just tackling the retreating ekans. It was also the first time that he hadn’t just escaped. Not yet, anyway. But she couldn’t see how that wasn’t going to be the outcome this time as well. Maybe I just needed that knife. Can I bring it next time?

As she was considering the possibilities, the ekans finally did let go with its considerable colon, covering her in stinking reptile shit. She closed her mouth and eyes just in time to avoid an intrusion of the nasty stuff inside her body. As she expected, the beast now renewed its struggle to get free and eventually forced her hands down to the slippery scales of its extended tail. One more violent shake and it was gone. She saw the scrub bushes parting as the fat reptile slithered under the border wires and escaped north, yet again. She was left sitting in the dirt once more, this time covered in shit and already attracting flies.

Will you give me a knife next time, father?

Anasko hadn’t looked up, but knew that the shadow that had entered her field of vision was the old man in red: her father Olikim. He created these fucking dreams over and over, seemingly presenting unwinnable scenarios that were designed to frustrate her and to draw out her best abilities in a life and death situation.

Possibly there may be one to be had, but nothing just given to you would have sufficient value in your heart. The better question is: how you can acquire a knife, if that is the secret to winning this fight?

Anasko shook her head as she wiped shit off her face. She wouldn’t be released from this dream until Olikim believed that she had learned enough of herself.

I took a big risk in grappling with the poisonous beast; this alone should be all the effort needed to earn the means to end this battle. Isn’t risk taken the true determination of rewards earned?

Olikim hadn’t been smiling, but now his countenance turned visibly sullen.

Can you tell me that your embrace of the ekans was done in anticipation of a future dream where you will possess the knife; or was it a desperate and poorly thought-out last gasp in order to convince yourself of your current superiority? What if the beast had turned? You were helpless on the ground with your weapon out of reach. I might argue that it is only because of its fear and stupidity that you are alive at all. Other enemies are neither stupid nor fearful.

He paused, then concluded, You should have taken the blue man’s advice. Certainly, once you had gained the critical bit of knowledge, even if acquired at considerable risk, your priority should have been surviving long enough to apply it. You should have let the beast go before it learned its new tactic: the stinking one that now covers you.

Anasko felt like the shit she was covered in. Her momentary elation at apparently gaining some advantage had now evaporated under the valid criticism delivered by her father. She had let her pride get the better of her wits. Certainly, she was following a course that might eventually lead to victory, but she had made mistakes that should have been obvious and would now prolong the dangerous fight.

Even though it was all just a dream, she would now feel the weight of the failed effort as grief for all the souls violently destroyed by the mik ekans until their next fight. How many more would die horribly? How many hundreds of death screams would echo in the reaches of her mind before she could finally shake off the nightmare that kept bringing her back to this place?

The intense memory of the screams only faded from her consciousness as she greeted her father, wide-awake and coming down for breakfast together. She knew someday she would face a mik ekans for real and then the screams would be real too. She must be ready.

Almost there, daughter. We’re almost there. They hugged and smiled.

If You Can Dream It

Will Green considered the flickering warning light on the banged-up cockpit instrument panel in front of him. The engine failure alert didn't seem sure if it should be on or not. The old-style incandescent bulb under the small amber lens wasn't binary like today's electronic displays. It could sort of be on, while sort of being off. But now, it was definitely more on than off; Will knew that he had a little problem.

A visual check of other dials and gauges showed a slight variation in RPM and some uncertainty in the engine output. There was plenty of fuel in the tanks, but, for some reason, not enough was consistently getting to the cylinder injectors to satisfy the needs of the decades-old deHavilland Beaver float plane that he was flying today. He listened carefully to the rumble and whine of the engine and to the hum of the prop. She was a little off-key from her normal perfect pitch.

Next, he checked his position on the lined and weary plastic-coated map clipped to his flight book. He was a long way from an airport, but unlike wheeled aircraft, the Beaver had landing ability just about anywhere there was water. The step-wise process for getting down safely began to roll out in his head.

Will finally looked out the window. He calmly scanned the unbroken green carpet of trees far below. None of these observations gave him any immediate solutions to the failing engine, but each was part of his practiced routine for landing the big plane. The only obvious thing missing was some open water. I need to find a place to park her; probably better sooner than later.

He was flying back home from his last bush camp drop-off at a Northern Ontario lake an hour behind him. He was taking a direct route back to his base at the south end of Georgian Bay with almost no baggage and half a tank of fuel. The open water of the Bay was still a considerable way ahead. His chosen route should have made for a quick, safe flight. Of course, if he had known that he was going to have engine trouble, he could have taken a less direct route that kept him closer to a service center or at least closer to lakes that he knew. But, lakes and flat rivers were so common east of Lake Superior, that this route itself should have been fairly foolproof. Now, seeing nothing but green, he briefly wondered if he had outsmarted himself by flying over the only totally dry spot in the whole province.

It was late in the day, but that was nothing more than inconvenient. The sun was still above the horizon and a bright blue sky would last for a long time after sunset. The day was waning, but he trusted that the clear horizon should still give him enough working time for a visual sighting and landing. From his map position, he calculated that he would need approximately 30 minutes flying time to get to the dock at the Burnt Lodge Lake camp, if he could keep his airspeed up.

He rolled over 35˚ to head straight there. While he still had mostly full power, he pulled the bush plane into as much of a climb as he thought she would tolerate. The extra altitude might prove useful down the road.

Will had in mind tying up to a dock with lights and maybe getting a helping hand to hold a flashlight or tool while he figured out her problem. With luck, he might be up again in a few hours. Or he might enjoy the camp's hospitality for the night. A hot coffee, at the least, would be nice.

Just as he was about to radio Sault St. Marie ATC with his necessary, but not emergency, change of plans, he felt the first full cough from the engine. A misfire at a full throttle on the rotary turbine sounds like a bomb going off, but he knew that the engine was quite capable of regaining its composure. For a few more seconds, he hoped that he had full power back. Then a second cough and a definite loss of power told him he wasn't going to make a normal landing at Burnt Lodge. Tipping the Beaver slightly back on wing to start a wide arc, he scanned for any suitable lake in sight. There hadn't been one visible minutes early, but he was an optimist. He had wheels if needed, but a landing strip out here was even less likely.

As he scanned the horizon, he spotted an oblong of silver among the green, a few kilometers to the west. It was water, reflecting the bright sky. The little lake could be his out of a tricky situation. He patted the dash of the vintage plane and said a near silent, Not tonight then, eh? As if in agreement, the Beaver rumbled on as if nothing at all was wrong. It couldn't talk, but it could certainly provide hugs when needed.

Will felt surrounded in calm capability, as if he was getting an assist from every pilot who had ever sat in his seat and asked the old girl to just get him or her through the next ten minutes. Now fairly confident of the opportunity for a safe landing, he gave up the hard-won altitude and speed, setting a direct course for the lake that was now forming in the silver blue exception ahead.

He was pleased to see a good-sized lake coming up below him. There should be lots of room to land and get up again. He decided that he could risk one pass to be certain that it wasn't full of tree stumps, gravel bars or moose grass, all of which tended to interfere with float plane landings in a most unpleasant way.

As he was making his pass, he also managed to get a short message off to Sault ATC confirming his GPS coordinates and status; he added a simple statement on his immediate requirement to land. He was still fairly confident of a spot repair and full-power take-off, but probably wouldn't have daylight to complete it. He would definitely be down for the night. He didn't indicate any emergency codes and said he would get right back.

At only a few hundred feet off the surface on his last turn to approach, the engine suddenly died entirely, leaving him to dead stick it in. He could handle the plane as a glider, particularly as he was flying mostly empty of cargo, but dropping without power certainly wasn't his preferred method of getting onto the water. He knew that there would be a rather sudden stop when the floats grabbed the surface. He braced for it and dropped the plane onto the inky water. He had to keep a nose-up attitude to ensure that the rear of the pontoons touched first to get the maximum counterbalance to the heavy engine up front. Somewhat like an inelegant goose, the Beaver completed an ungainly three-point touchdown, with the tail just clipping the water. With no engine noise, the splash of the floats was louder than normal, but everything quickly turned to silence as the plane came to a complete stop mid-lake. The splashdown waves spread out in all directions and slowly dissipated. Eventually all was calm. There was no wind, so they sat quietly bobbing on the shore return of their own waves just about where they had stopped moving.

Will made sure that all switches were off, calmly logged his coordinates and landing time, unbuckled and climbed out onto the float. Following a practiced routine, he checked for any visible damage and then patted the plane's side in silent thanks. Yes, they were a good team. He took the opportunity to stretch and pee. Peeing in swimming pools was bad. One man peeing in a remote lake was just marking territory and celebrating his dry pants.

Only after about ten deep breaths did he allow a mental review of the possibilities that hadn't happened: no lake, shutdown much earlier, miserable weather, pilot screw-up. Bad luck came in a lot of shapes and sizes. Each could be a precursor to a smoking wreck in the bush. None had been the case here though, so he spent no more time thinking about them. He knew he was good enough to handle any challenge; being lucky was a bonus.

After thoroughly shaking off any shivers, Will climbed forward to examine the underside of the engine cowling. Sure enough, while he watched, a single drip of gas formed at one of the seams. As he had suspected, the old girl had probably shaken a fuel line coupling loose. With tools in the back and some daylight to find and reset the weepy joint, the fix should be no more than a few minutes. He found a rag and carefully wiped the gas drip away several times until it didn't appear again. Even one drop of gas in any lake was against his principles.

Another call to ATC confirmed that he was down safely at the lake's coordinates and expecting to leave again after daybreak. The helpful flight specialist on duty congratulated him for not making the night too exciting and then said that she would pass the message along by phone to Will's home airfield and to his employer. She checked her detailed topographical map at the GPS coordinates Will had given her and indicated that there was no marked lake at the location. This information left Will puzzled, as this lake was certainly permanent and big enough to rate a mention in the maps. Will suggested that it should be called Good Luck Lake, if and when someone got around to correcting the map. They signed off with a laugh.

Down on the water, shadowed darkness was quickly closing in as the sun was now well below the trees. He would get an unplanned, but relaxing night of sleep in the back of the plane. Rummaging in the storage hold, he extracted a small anchor and line. Tossing it in, he found that the little lake was only about ten feet deep. Just a glacial puddle, apparently left here for his exclusive use, as there was no sign of habitation anywhere around the lake. He tied-off the nose of the float to the anchor line. If enough wind came up to drag the anchor, he preferred to be backed into shore, so he wouldn't have to turn the plane around to fire it up. It was dead calm with a clear sky. He didn't anticipate any weather problems.

As he stared down into the pristine water, he wondered about a fish for supper. He had his tackle tucked in the back too. Catching a fish was one thing, eating it would mean inflating the dingy and paddling to shore, starting a fire and, possibly, doing battle with crazed and carnivorous mosquitoes. Even with all that downside, the delicious reward of a fresh walleye was almost tempting enough.

Out loud, he said, Thanks for the offer, but another time maybe. He grinned at the shore and sky, adding: Oh, and thank-you for putting this beautiful little unnamed lake right here. Both of us really appreciate that. He patted the silver and yellow sheet metal side of the Beaver as he smiled. He waited, but no-one answered back. No crows cawed, nor did an angry beaver smack the water. Silence from the spirits was generally taken to mean: You're welcome. They were good.

He was suddenly very tired. He knew that the sudden stress of an emergency landing took more of a toll than he would admit. Sleep was always his best friend when he needed to recharge. Considering the rapid approach of full dark in the surrounding trees, he gave in to the prospect of some welcome rest. Cold thermos tea, a granola bar and a bounced-around apple would do for both supper and breakfast.

Will had always had vivid dreams. Other people talked of fuzzy encounters and flighty fantasies that half-played out and then faded into convoluted scenarios of frantic airport gate runs or unprepared high school exams. Their descriptions often puzzled Will, as he felt very much in control of what he dreamed and of how the plots worked themselves out. He could recall many great dreams, some of which seemed like well-scripted plays of passion or intrigue. He met and recognized people in his dreams, sometimes walking or sitting with them for long discussions.

When he awoke, he often smiled at a joke that grandfather or father had told. Extended family members came and went. And of course, he regularly had great sex in his dreams with a variety of women; some were known, but some were complete strangers, apparently. He had occasionally been slightly embarrassed to meet a distant cousin face-to-face and realize that he had made out with her doppelganger just a few nights earlier. But, only in his dreams of course, so it was his secret.

Will could also take a problem to sleep with him and work through possible solutions in a planned and managed dream. This ability worked particularly well for designing engineering solutions, as he could build a system, float above it or pass through it, and see both flaws and perfections in the design. Visualization was his own little CAD system. Or as he joked, to himself: 'Dream Aided Design' system. He didn't let on to profs or bosses how he could master new information or techniques so quickly. Just a quick study, I guess, was his usual answer. He wasn't going to let his secret advantage out of the bag.

This evening, he got himself ready to mentally walk through the fuel line connectors, pumps and relays on the old Beaver. He would work through the potential repair spots in advance, hopefully ensuring that there wouldn't be any surprises in the morning. It seemed like a good plan as he turned off the small interior cabin lamp and pulled up the zipper on his sleeping bag.

Almost immediately, it seemed, Will found himself standing on the shore of the small lake looking out at the anchored Beaver a hundred meters off-shore. He knew that he was dreaming, so attempted to put his location into some sort of context. Should he be seeing something about the plane? Was there something over here that was relevant to his upcoming repair? It didn't seem likely.

Looking around, he couldn't see the dingy on shore, so was pretty sure that he wasn't supposed to attempt to get back to the plane. He scratched at a couple of new mosquito bites and silently cursed the reality factor of his dreams. We could do without the bugs, please. He hoped that the message would get through to his sleeping brain.

As he surveyed the bush around him, Will was surprised to discover a well-worn path leading directly into the trees. The wide path was obviously not just a large animal watering route. Looking closely, he saw that there were some cleanly cut-off branches extending the path into the forest beyond: the passage was human-made. He now assumed that the path was the connection to this location; maybe someone lived near this lake after all. As it was bright as high noon in the dream, he guessed that he was meant to walk the path to see what was there. Checking his direction against the western horizon where the sun had set last night he headed off due-south into the bush.

The path stayed level only until it was full enclosed by the forest, then it immediately turned steeply upward over a series of flat rock plateaus. Will scratched his sleeping head again. The actual land around this lake was fairly flat. This dream rise in the land was here for some other purpose. After many small climbs over rock ledges and switchbacks across steep slopes, Will reached the top of the climb. He emerged into a small clearing that overlooked a wide valley. There was a convenient rock to sit on; he immediately plunked down to rest. He was actually a little winded from the climb. This was another strange twist, as he was never exhausted in dreams, no matter how strenuous.

Just below him was a flat granite plane, maybe 200 meters wide, ending at a cliff edge. Misty air beyond the cliff indicated an open chasm perhaps a half-kilometer wide. The air was still and warm, under a cloudless sky. Will picked up the distinct smell of