Dream Finder

by Roger Taylor

  I’ve beaten you, old man, Ivaroth concluded. You’re prepared to destroy yourself at my whim because of the fear that I won’t take you to the worlds beyond again.

  It was a good feeling.

  Yet Ivaroth still had his own needs. And they were considerable. He could not keep his army idle here for much longer. Tight though his grip was on the captured territory, it was only a matter of time before news of his invasion would leak out, and then the vital element of surprise would be lost. He wanted no major encounters until the two great armies beyond Whendrak had fought one another to a standstill, leaving him only the weakened and battle-weary remnants to deal with. And, too, a sudden faltering in their advance might well turn his own people on him. And without the old man’s power he was virtually defenceless.

  Something had to be done. And he could not ask the aid of any of the tribal shamans; that would seal his fate utterly.

  The sound of voices outside the tent broke into his thoughts. Then, the door flap was pulled open and Endryn entered.

  Instantly, Ivaroth felt his lieutenant’s doubt and fear, screwed tight into anger. He went cold. It was as if the thoughts he had just had of his downfall had somehow reached out and begun their own fulfilment. Endryn was like the sudden icy wind that presaged the blizzard.

  True to his character, however, Ivaroth struck first, straight to the heart, and without hesitation. Endryn had scarcely taken a step into the tent when Ivaroth beckoned him forward urgently.

  ‘As ever, you read my mind, Endryn,’ he said, taking his arm in a powerful and urgent grip. ‘I was about to send for you.’

  He led him towards the old man. ‘He needs my aid, Endryn,’ he said. ‘He’s done much for our people that cannot be told, but now he’s been stricken by his too-zealous help to our cause.’

  Endryn looked uncertainly from Ivaroth to the unconscious form on the bed.

  Ivaroth finished his kill. ‘I can’t abandon him now,’ he said, before Endryn could speak. ‘He’s been too faithful a servant.’ Then, lest this loyalty sound too implausible, he added pragmatic self-interest. ‘And he’ll be even more so if I can save him.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Mareth Hai,’ Endryn managed at last. He ventured into the tacitly forbidden territory of Ivaroth’s relationship with the old man. ‘What has he done?’ he risked. The question provoked no rebuke, however. Instead, Ivaroth placed a hand to his forehead and sat down on a chair by the bed. ‘Many things,’ he replied. ‘Things beyond simple understanding.’ He looked earnestly at his lieutenant. The black irises of his eyes had spread to give him the terrifying gaze of the Dream Finder. Endryn, despite himself, turned away. ‘He’s a bridge to the powers that shape our destinies, Endryn.’

  ‘The gods?’ Endryn exclaimed incredulously, despite himself. ‘He’s a shaman?’

  Ivaroth shook his head irritably and waved an angry and dismissive hand. ‘Tricks and deceits for controlling the ignorant and the foolish, Endryn,’ he snarled, an unwitting echo of Endryn’s own thoughts but minutes earlier. ‘There are no gods, you know that. This man knows the ways of the true power. The power of the wind and the thunderstorm, the power that carved out the valleys and peaks of the mountains, that levelled our own endless plains. And the power that can shape the minds of our enemies.’

  Endryn, taken aback by this unexpected revelation, gazed about almost vacantly. Then, habit drew him back inexorably into his old patterns of thought and tribal loyalty.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Guard me,’ Ivaroth replied, simply. ‘I must go after him and I’d have you wait beside me while I’m searching.’ Endryn began to frown uncertainly, his mind turning incongruously to horses and search patrols. ‘Allow no one to disturb us,’ Ivaroth continued. ‘No one. I’ll seem to be asleep, but you’re not to attempt to wake me, whatever happens or however long it takes. I shall return. And he with me. Do you understand?’

  Endryn shook his head then straightened up. ‘No, Mareth Hai,’ he answered bluntly. ‘But I’ll obey your orders and I’ll guard you with my life, as ever.’

  * * * *

  Ibris’s army moved relentlessly deeper into Bethlarii territory. Increasingly, reports were coming back to him that the Bethlarii were gathering in force to meet him and, increasingly, his own doubts grew. There was a wrongness about all this.

  It’s hardly surprising that Dream Finders are involved in this, he thought with dark amusement. It has all the qualities of nightmare about it. The unannounced and seemingly demented envoy, Grygyr Ast-Darvad; the explosive deterioration of government at Whendrak; the news of the Bethlarii’s massive mobilization, and his own response to it. The killing of heralds.

  He shook his head. So many things, large and small.

  And not least among these was the presence of Antyr with his strange, burgeoning powers and his fears and doubts. And too, the mysterious shadow from the past that so unsettled the Mantynnai.

  Each day, he and his advisers efficiently and skilfully dealt with the many and complex problems that arose in the moving of a great army and the simultaneous ruling of a land. To his relief, much of the internecine squabbling between his dominion cities had indeed faded in the face of this common threat. Yet for all the reassurance he found in this, he had the feeling, as he had remarked to Arwain at the arrival of Grygyr Ast-Darvad, that he was actually riding an avalanche, and that he was doing no more than keep an unsteady balance. One slip and . . .?

  Somehow, from somewhere, he – and the Bethlarii – were being manipulated. And all of them were trapped.

  He called Antyr to him.

  Antyr was pale when he entered the command tent. And Tarrian and Grayle remained watchfully beside him where previously they would fawn mockingly about the Duke. Estaan stood a discreet distance away. Despite his Mantynnai control, he looked tense and uncertain.

  Ibris’s broader concerns slipped from him. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked immediately.

  Antyr shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘All through the day I’ve felt . . . a tension . . . an unease, growing.’ There was fear in his voice, and his hand was opening and closing nervously about the pommel of his sword which was now always about his waist.

  Ibris stood up and moved towards him, but there was a hint of a curl in Tarrian’s lip, and Antyr raised a hand to keep him away.

  ‘I feel I’m being . . . drawn away,’ he said. ‘Nyriall said something like that happened to him . . .’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t know what it is. But . . . whatever happens . . . just put some men around me . . . under Estaan . . . he understands as well as anyone. If I fall, no matter where, just guard me. That’s all. Don’t touch me. The wolves can do no other than protect me, though they die for it, and if they die, then wherever I am, I too am lost.’

  Concern filled Ibris’s face. His mind swam with questions, but he knew that Antyr had told all he could.

  ‘I’ll do as you say,’ he said as reassuringly as he could. ‘You’ll be ringed with spears and shields at all times. As safe as I can make you. I . . .’

  Ryllans entered the tent, cutting Ibris short. Uncharacteristically, his face was flushed. He hesitated as he caught sight of Antyr and his face became anxious as he noted his demeanour. The momentum of his news however, drew him back to the Duke.

  ‘They’re barely half a day away,’ he said without preliminary. ‘Shuffling around, picking their battle order. Waiting.’

  The Duke closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. Avalanche or no, he knew beyond doubt what had to be done now.

  ‘Antyr, go to your quarters and wait . . . for whatever it is.’ He glanced at Ryllans. ‘His own battle is starting. He’s to be as closely protected as if he were me, and he’s to be given whatever he asks for. Estaan will be in absolute charge of the guard.’ Ryllans nodded in acknowledgement and Antyr and Estaan left.

  Ibris looked at him. ‘Senior officers’ meeting, now,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to go through the different r
esponses to . . .’

  He was interrupted again. This time it was a guard who entered. Ibris nodded to him impatiently.

  ‘Two strangers, foreigners, have approached the west perimeter of the camp, sire,’ the man said. ‘They’re asking to see you, sire, and they’ve a letter bearing your insignia and what seems to be Commander Feranc’s signature, but I thought I’d better check before I brought them to you.’

  ‘You did right, guard,’ Ibris said. ‘Tell me what they’re like before you bring them here.’

  The guard pursed his lips. ‘Hard to say, sire,’ he replied. ‘They’ve been riding like the devil. But under the grime, there’s fine clothes and fine horses . . . very fine horses.’ He hesitated. ‘They seem polite enough, but they’ve got . . . a way about them . . . a fighting man’s way . . . a little like Commander Feranc. And, with respect,’ he nodded to Ryllans. ‘They sound like Mantynnai. But with very strong accents.’

  * * * *

  Back in his quarters, Antyr dropped wearily on to his bed.

  ‘Do you want anything?’ Estaan asked.

  Antyr shook his head as he closed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said, absently checking his sword. Then, opening his eyes, now black as night, he said, ‘Thank you, Estaan. For our instruction and your patience.’

  Estaan smiled a disclaimer. ‘You were easier to teach than many I’ve had to deal with,’ he said.

  But Antyr did not hear the reply. A great wind had drawn him into another place.

  Chapter 38

  Amid the ghastly flickering and screaming chaos of the blind man’s Dream Nexus, Ivaroth waited. Hitherto he had had to pause there for only the merest instant, scarcely a heartbeat, before the way would become apparent and his spirit, now bearing the blind man’s Dreamself, would leap towards it. He had never questioned the nature of this strange conjoining. It was just one more strange quality among the many that this profoundly strange old man possessed. And, in any event, he had found that little about the blind man responded to thoughtful analysis. It was sufficient for Ivaroth that it happened the way it did and that he was the blind man’s only vehicle into the dreams of others, or the worlds beyond.

  The only vehicle, that is, except for the man, if man it was, they had encountered on their last long rampage there.

  Ivaroth had seen him advancing relentlessly and had quailed before the murderous savagery that had suddenly exploded from him as he had come within sword range. But the old man had seen something else. The way to the other place that he so lusted for.

  It was a death sentence for someone.

  Ivaroth would not be taken unawares again. Should he again carry the old man into the worlds beyond as widely as he had been wont to do, and should they again happen upon this stranger, then Ivaroth would strike him down on the instant. And the old man too, if necessary. Better dead than someone else’s.

  But these were thoughts now far from him as he waited at the Nexus. It was frantic and crazed beyond any he had ever found before; streaked through with countless alien images and desires, and awash with terrors. Terrors that flooded out of the long past dreams with the fearful uncontrollability of vomit.

  And beneath all, relentless and ever-present, like the funereal bass note to some terrible dirge, was a dark and evil memory? . . . presence? . . . will?. . . that made even Ivaroth blench.

  The blind man’s Dream Nexus was no place for a sane man. Yet he must remain there. Remain until a way became apparent. Or until . . .

  Scarcely had the conjecture begun to form than he felt the old man’s Dreamself with him, silent, watchful, expectant. Suspiciously, no sense of injury or illness lingered around it.

  Then the way appeared and, motionless, he followed it. Followed it into the shimmering clouds of dream thoughts that pervaded the camp, and the land, and . . . everywhere.

  All around him, amid the myriad tumbling thoughts of men and women and children, Ivaroth saw, felt, the ways into the worlds beyond, the gateways to the worlds of the Threshold.

  Untutored, untrained, Ivaroth did not even know that in this land he would have been called a Dream Finder. Still less did he know that he was a natural Master of the art. One who could enter dreams, enter the Threshold worlds, without the aid of a Companion.

  He knew, however, that the skills he had, had been increased manyfold since his contact, his unholy communion, with the blind man.

  ‘You must tell me what happened if I’m to bring you back,’ he said to the silent spirit beside him.

  ‘Beyond your understanding, Mareth Hai. What you asked was too much for this frame in this world.’

  ‘But you obeyed.’

  ‘I obeyed.’

  There was no reproach in the statement, nor rancour.

  The old man was beaten!

  Ivaroth could scarcely contain himself. But still, it would be a futile victory if the old man was lost to him. He had to be brought back.

  ‘What are your needs?’ he asked.

  Silence.

  Longing.

  Ivaroth felt abruptly generous. Holding the old man’s spirit, he moved into the Threshold.

  He screwed up his eyes in the dazzling glare, and, his hand on his sword hilt, turned around quickly, taking in the entire scene. He relaxed almost immediately. They stood alone on the slopes of a snow-covered mountain. Above them a brilliant sun shone in a clear blue winter sky.

  Behind the two tiny figures, great white mountains disdained their insignificance and peak upon peak reached out to both horizons, while in front of them lay an undulating plain, its whiteness broken only by the scar of an occasional rocky outcrop and scattered clusters of trees. High above them, mountain birds circled leisurely, following their own, unseen pathways.

  The old man threw back his hood and raised his sightless eyes wide to the sky. He let out a long, ecstatic sigh, as his arms slowly spread out and his mouth opened into an expression of gaping fulfilment.

  The long bony hands uncurled so slowly and painstakingly that it seemed they would go on for ever. To Ivaroth, it was like watching the unfolding of a grotesque plant.

  As he watched however, unease began to replace his habitual disgust. The old man’s recovery seemed to be both total and very rapid. Instinctively, he glanced around again, warily looking for any other figures in the eye-straining whiteness, but still no one was to be seen.

  Neither man moved for some time. Ivaroth, still and watchful, the blind man, arms extended, face stretched up to the sky.

  Then he laughed. His sinister, gleeful, and nerve-tearing laugh.

  Ivaroth smiled slightly. All was well.

  The blind man brought his arms down and then briefly closed his eyes. The snow some way in front of him erupted in a great white cloud. Opening his eyes he stared, unseeing, at his handiwork. The fine snow settled slowly and gracefully, then it erupted again . . . and again . . . and again, as if the very presence of such harmony were an offence in itself.

  Sustained by the old man’s will, the snow rose higher and higher into the bright sky, twisting and turning, whirling and swooping, seemingly obedient to his least whim, though Ivaroth, as ever, could see no outward sign of how this power was manipulated.

  Then, as the snow moved faster and faster, there came the sound of a great wind. Though no breeze struck the two watchers, it grew in intensity until, screaming and howling, it was like the worst of winter’s bleak excesses marching to and fro along the mountainside at the behest of its creator. The blind man’s laughter increased frenziedly to mingle with the din.

  Ivaroth’s unease returned.

  ‘You’re soon recovered,’ he shouted.

  The old man did not reply immediately, then, ‘Yes, Ivaroth Ungwyl,’ he said. Ivaroth’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Mareth Hai,’ the old man added, conciliatory. ‘These worlds are nearer the heart of the power. It has weakened me to be so long from them, but now . . .’

  He turned towards a nearby outcrop. As Ivaroth followed the sightless gaze, the air shimmered as
it would over a fire, then there was an ear-splitting crack and a massive slab separated from the rock face. Slowly it tumbled down into the snow, fragmenting as it did so. Ivaroth staggered slightly as the thunderous noise of the collapse reached him, and the impact of the collapsing mass shook the ground.

  In these worlds beyond, he had seen the old man create storms, rend trees, make the earth shake and buck like a tormented horse, even create monstrous likenesses of Ar-Hyrdyn to bind the minds of the Bethlarii priests. But he had never seen such a display of elemental power as this. Two things came to his mind simultaneously. The old man must die sooner rather than later. Whether he had always had such power and had only now decided to reveal it, or whether he had suddenly acquired it, did not matter. What mattered was that the possessor of such power in one world would not rest until he had found it in another, and with such power he would be beyond all control. The other thought, he spoke out loud, ‘You could bring down the walls of a city with such power,’ he cried excitedly.

  The blind man, however, did not seem to be listening. He was staring into the streams of snow and rock still sliding and clattering down the mountainside.

  ‘I shall be as him,’ he said, though to himself. ‘I shall be the earth shaker.’ Then he paused and a look of realization spread across his face that made Ivaroth lay his hand on the hilt of the knife in his belt.

  The old man turned to him, his face alight ecstatically. Ivaroth found himself fixed by the terrible sightless eyes. ‘We must find the other place, now,’ the blind man hissed his demand. ‘If I can be as my mentor here, then in the other place I shall be as his master.’

  He began rubbing his hands together and his voice fell to an awestricken whisper. ‘Yes, yes. That is my destiny. It is fitting. My blinding, my wandering, but trials. All is clear. I am to displace him. I need only the key, and . . .’