by Roger Taylor
Into his darkness, however, other thoughts rose to sustain him, albeit faintly.
Don’t break. Hold your ground, hold your ground. Or die. He had survived. He hadn’t been casually swept aside by this unholy city-crushing power. And, indeed, as Ibris had cruelly summarized, he had no choice. He could not knowingly enter the Threshold, but the Mynedarion could seemingly draw him there at will.
He felt Tarrian and Grayle leaning against his legs slightly, as if for comfort. The wolves’ fears reached out to mingle with his own. In turn he reached out to be with his two Companions. Ironically, their fear reassured him; it gave him a measure of the rightness of his own emotions. Both the animals were pack leaders by nature. But they were thus only because they were not afraid of their fear, and faced danger wholeheartedly when need arose. Indeed it was necessity, and necessity only, that was the driving force of their terrible ferocity and courage.
And, threading through their fear, Antyr felt that necessity asserting itself. From their own inner well-springs the two wolves had drawn the same conclusion as Ibris before he had spoken it to Antyr. They were trapped, cornered. Now they must hold their ground. Fight or die.
Antyr became angry. And he had started none of this!
He opened his eyes and met the Duke’s gaze forcefully. ‘Make what dispositions you must to face this new enemy, Ibris,’ he said. ‘Tonight, to aid you, Pandra and I and our Companions will assail the Bethlarii as best we can.
‘Then I shall turn about and hunt those who so far have seen fit to hunt me.’
Chapter 39
There was stunned silence in the tent as, with a stiff, almost military bow, and without seeking the Duke’s permission, Antyr turned and left.
Estaan hesitated for a moment uncertainly before following him.
Then uproar broke out. Menedrion strode forward to confront his father.
‘Who the devil does he think . . .?’
Ibris laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, at once restraining and reassuring. With the rest of the gathering he was more abrupt.
‘Silence!’
His voice rose above the noise and descended on it like a great bird of prey, extinguishing it completely.
‘The man goes to fight alone against an enemy about whom he knows nothing except that he possesses a terrible power. He bears a greater burden than any of us, but he’s Serens, perhaps even Mantynnai now – he’ll do what he must and what he can though it destroy him. We can do no less. The lapse of a few niceties of protocol are forgivable.’
He beckoned Arwain forward and placed his other hand on his shoulder.
‘We here have to help him by concerning ourselves with the enemies we can see. With the strategy and tactics we’re going to need to deal with two enemies instead of one.’ He glanced round at his listeners, his look and voice designed to stamp out their alarm and replace it with stern purpose.
‘We don’t know where this force of northerners is, save that it’s somewhere between Rendd and Viernce. We may assume that if its leader – a Dream Finder, I’d remind you . . . is at this moment tending the needs of his . . . client . . . then the force is presumably camped.’
Arwain made to speak, but Ibris, still holding his shoulder, shook him silent gently, and continued.
‘That situation may, and probably will, change rapidly now that there’s been this encounter with Antyr, but still we have a little time, and we must use it to the full.’
He released his two sons and walked across to a table littered with maps and charts.
‘Obviously we can’t move a large infantry force so far across country either quickly enough or without giving the day here to the Bethlarii. Equally obviously, we can’t allow this force to fall on Viernce.’
Arwain’s question escaped. ‘Surely they’ll not attack a walled city with just cavalry?’ he said.
Ibris nodded pensively. ‘One would imagine not,’ he said. ‘But from what little I know about the plains’ people, there are many tribes, and they spend much of their time quarrelling among themselves. It’s fair to assume, therefore, that if a leader has arisen capable of uniting these tribes and bringing a large cavalry force over the mountains, then he’s a man not to be underestimated. My immediate feeling is that such a man will use stealth and cunning where he can. Good tactics against a walled city. But he may have siege engines and skilled sappers for all we know.’
He tapped a chart absently with his finger, his face grave. ‘Besides, perhaps walls are no hindrance to this . . . Mynedarion . . . and his strange power.’
Menedrion frowned and, stepping close to Ibris, half whispered the thought that no one else dared to voice. ‘You don’t believe this nonsense about him being able to destroy a city with his bare hands?’
‘I can do no other,’ Ibris answered starkly but equally softly. ‘Twice I’ve heard it and the first time was from a witness whose word I know is beyond dispute.’
Menedrion stared into his father’s face, for an instant his eyes were those of a frightened eight year old. Ibris nodded in understanding. ‘One step at a time, Irfan,’ he said, taking his son’s arm in a purposeful grip. ‘I don’t know what game is being played here, or by whom, but I know that your part is to smash the Bethlarii army. I know also that you’re the only one who can do it.’
Menedrion’s face hardened again as the grim leader within him gradually reasserted itself. He stepped back with a curt bow of acknowledgement and Ibris continued.
‘However, their intended tactics at Viernce are of little relevance. What we must do is stop them reaching the city.’
He raised his hand to forestall the inevitable questions.
‘Time is against us now. Accordingly, tomorrow, or as soon as is possible, the army, under Menedrion, will march at full speed against the Bethlarii and engage them immediately with a view to winning as rapid a victory as possible.’
The announcement swept away the uncertainties cloying the atmosphere.
Ibris ploughed on. ‘And, tonight, leaving as soon as they’re ready, my personal bodyguard will ride across country to oppose this new enemy. They’ll be under the command of Arwain, and accompanied by Haster and Jadric if they’re willing.’
There were murmurs of concern.
‘To move so fast, such a force could carry little in the way of weapons, what use would they be against a large cavalry force?’
‘Your bodyguard is the heart of our army.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Ibris said sternly, before the debate gathered momentum. ‘The bodyguard have their swords and they will take their bows and as many arrows as they can carry. In their hands these will offer defence against both cavalry and infantry. They’ll seek out the enemy and hold him for as long as they can by whatever means. At the same time messengers will be sent to Viernce, Drew, Stor and Serenstad to warn them to levy all remaining reservists to go to their aid.’
‘That’s damn near the women and children,’ someone muttered, but Ibris ignored this remark.
‘As for the Bethlarii, they’re obviously preparing for a set-piece battle. They’ve not harassed us or our supply lines, tried to sway our weaker allies by either force or argument, launched diversionary assaults elsewhere along the border.’ His voice became bitter. ‘Their actions still make little sense, but I imagine they’re looking for one huge, and final, encounter. Something that will be looked on with favour by Ar-Hyrdyn.’ He paused for a moment to let his anger subside. ‘Such a battle, as you know, will be won by the most disciplined side, and my bodyguard could add little to what we already possess. On the other hand, no one other than they could move overland and oppose these new invaders with any semblance of a chance of holding them until larger forces can be raised.’
There was silence when he had finished speaking. Whatever reservations any of his advisers might have had about his decision, they were insufficient to overcome the combination of his analysis and his will.
* * * *
Pandra listened to Antyr’s tale
with increasing distress.
‘What can I do?’ he asked when it was finished.
Antyr pulled his chair closer to the old man and leaned forward urgently. ‘Just help me tonight, Pandra,’ he replied. ‘We have to set aside everything we’ve ever held precious about our craft. We have to go into the Bethlarii dreams and tell them the truth about how they’ve been misled.’
Pandra shook his head anxiously. ‘We’re not Mynedarion, Antyr,’ he said. ‘We can’t change what they’re dreaming. We . . .’
‘We can enter their dreams, and speak to them,’ Antyr interrupted. ‘Nothing more.’
‘Speaking to a dreamer to reassure him when he’s asked you to be there is one thing. Blazing in like some sweating messenger is another,’ Pandra rejoined. ‘Anyway, they’ll probably just wake up.’
‘Maybe,’ Antyr agreed. ‘But we must do it nonetheless. I promised Ibris I’d do something before I went hunting for the cause of all this . . . horror.’
‘Before what?’ Pandra exclaimed, half standing.
Antyr repeated his intention awkwardly.
‘High time too!’ The voice was Kany’s.
‘Shut up,’ Pandra said sharply, slapping his pocket.
‘And how do you propose to hunt this . . . creature?’ he went on, returning to Antyr.
Antyr reached out and placed a hand on Pandra’s arm. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘But somewhere there’s a way to him other than being drawn in by him. And I must find it. My every nerve feels alive and raw with expectation. It’s as if the whole dreamscape around us is crying out under some assault. Since I saw that abomination so close, so clear, I’ve felt a terrible presentiment. I feel powers gathering like those that must have shaped the world itself.’
Pandra’s face creased into unhappiness. ‘You’re imagining things,’ he said, without conviction. ‘You’re just tired and frightened. After all . . .’
Antyr shook his head. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘I’m frightened, certainly. But I’m imagining nothing. My mind’s clear and sharp. Bars are being forged that will cage us all, or beat us into nothingness, and only I can do anything about it.’
Pandra fell silent.
‘What can I say?’ he asked after a moment.
Antyr shrugged. ‘I don’t think there’s anything,’ he replied. ‘Just help me tonight, and then keep watch as you’ve done every other night.’
Pandra allowed himself a small sigh of resignation. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I’m not even sure I can reach the Bethlarii from so far away.’
‘You will.’ It was Tarrian who answered his doubts. ‘Your skill has grown from its closeness to Antyr. As has Kany’s, and ours. His very presence clears the ways, strips away our blindness and confusion, opens up vistas . . .’
An impatient snarl interrupted his eulogy. ‘Never mind the poetry, dog. Let’s get on with it. Let’s get our teeth into those Bethlarii behinds and give them a good shaking.’
‘Ah. Ever the sensitive observer of our condition, Kany,’ Pandra said as Tarrian’s ears went back before this onslaught.
Quite suddenly, his eyes filled with night and he looked at Antyr. ‘At your pleasure,’ he said.
Estaan watched the two men, Pandra lying motionless on a rough camp-bed, Antyr seated on a chair beside him. Pandra, eyes closed, was apparently asleep, but Antyr’s eyes were wide open, as if he were both present in the tent and flitting through the night ways at the same time. Even for the Mantynnai who knew and liked him, he was a fearful sight.
Worse, however, were Tarrian and Grayle. Their eyes too were wide and watching, their bright sun-blazing glare seeming to penetrate into his very soul. Wherever else they might be, they were unequivocally here as well and profoundly dangerous. After a while, he turned away.
The dreamscape around and through the Bethlarii camp was like a great shimmering mirage: a glittering, iridescent cloud of shifting colours and images that were there and not there; silent sounds that rang and clamoured, incoherent yet full of meaning; time that was and that will be, and that never could have been . . .
Pandra breathed a long, low sigh of wonder at this vision.
‘Now.’ Antyr’s will formed silently within him.
Throughout the night, sleeping Bethlarii snapped sharply into wakefulness, their dreams untypically fresh and vivid in their minds, and words, sacrilegious words, ringing in their ears.
‘You have been deceived by false prophets. The horsemen from the north ravage your land while you dally here, facing an enemy here only at your provocation. Abandon this field, tend to your true needs.’
* * * *
Endryn waited outside Ivaroth’s tent. In front of him the vast camp was almost invisible in the darkness. A few fires burned here and there and an occasional torch flickered as someone moved about between the rough lines of tents, but there was nothing that indicated the true size of the force waiting there.
Endryn, however, had little thought for such images. Fiercely he seized one hand with the other in an attempt to stop them both from trembling. He was glad of the enveloping darkness; he had little doubt that fear was written all over him.
There was silence in the tent at his back now, but nothing could have persuaded him to look into it to see the outcome of the turmoil that had erupted so terrifyingly.
In a time less than the blinking of an eye, a great blast of bitterly cold air had filled the tent, and two motionless figures had sprung screaming to life: Ivaroth’s black eyes like pits of doom in his vengeful face, and the old man’s sightless orbs ablaze with hatred and anger.
The old man’s hands were reaching claw-like towards Ivaroth, while the Mareth Hai was drawing a knife from his belt, as Endryn retreated, full of superstitious terror.
Inside the tent, however, the pandemonium had fallen to the merest whisper, and Ivaroth was resealing his bargain with his erstwhile wilderness companion.
His murderous reflexes had brought his knife blade to the old man’s throat at almost the instant of return.
‘Your need for me is greater than mine for you, old man,’ he hissed. ‘If need arises my army can conquer this land without you now, while you will never find your special world without me.’
The blind man had not replied. It was not necessary. Regardless of the truth of Ivaroth’s words, both knew also that, act of folly or no, Ivaroth would kill now, on the least whim, regardless of regrets later. The blind man became very still.
‘Seek to deceive me like that again, and you’ll die before your next heartbeat, old man,’ Ivaroth said. ‘Seek to disobey me, and you’ll die no less quickly. Obey me, and, despite your treachery, I’ll still take you to look for this place you cherish so.’
‘But the true power lies there, Ivaroth Ungwyl. With it, we can conquer worlds beyond your . . .’
Ivaroth bared his teeth. ‘The true power lies here, old man,’ he said softly, pressing the point of his knife into the blind man’s throat. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll hold a brief ceremony, to celebrate your recovery,’ he went on. ‘Then we march to Viernce. I’ll look to take it by stealth at night if possible, but if not, your power will be used to destroy its walls. If it takes a toll of you, I’ll see you’re properly tended, have no fear.’
Slowly, he removed the knife from the old man’s throat. Then, casually, he tossed it into the air. Flickering in the lamplight, it reached its zenith and began twisting downwards. Abruptly, Ivaroth seized it and brought it plunging down towards the old man. It tore through the soiled blankets and embedded itself in the planks below, its edge just touching the old man’s throat.
It was a brief but terrifying display of his natural prowess and speed with such weapons.
Without speaking, he yanked the knife free, and walked out of the tent.
Endryn started at the sound behind him.
‘He’s quite recovered,’ Ivaroth said, almost affably. ‘All is well. Tomorrow we begin preparations for the taking of Viernce. The men have rested enough.’
/> Again, Endryn was glad of the darkness to hide the riot of conflicting emotions on his face. Contradictory though it was, not least among the prayers he had uttered into the night was that Ivaroth would have slain this . . . demon . . . that had battened on to him.
‘As you command, Mareth Hai,’ he replied briskly.
Ivaroth turned to return to the tent, then paused.
‘There are people in this land who ply a trade known as Dream Finding, Endryn,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Send to Rendd and our other cities. Anyone practicing this peculiar skill is to be executed immediately. See to it now.’
* * * *
Estaan raised a cautionary hand to the messenger who had entered Pandra’s tent.
‘Stay where you are, and make no sudden movements,’ he said.
The messenger needed no prompting, having seen the two yellow-eyed wolves immediately on entering the tent. He bent forward and whispered in Estaan’s ear.
Estaan frowned slightly, and, thanking the messenger, cast a glance at Antyr.
‘What’s the matter?’ Antyr asked, his voice, distant but clear, echoing in Estaan’s head.
The Mantynnai drew in a sharp breath. ‘I thought you were . . . asleep,’ he said, out loud.
Antyr chuckled. ‘I’m in other people’s sleep,’ he said. ‘But I can see your concern. What was the message?’
Estaan hesitated for a moment. ‘Arwain and the bodyguard are preparing to leave for Viernce,’ he said. ‘I . . .’
‘Should be with them.’ Antyr finished his sentence for him.
Estaan looked pained. ‘Yes . . . No . . . I . . .’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Antyr said. ‘Give me a moment.’ Inside the dream thoughts of the Bethlarii, Antyr watched the startled Estaan, and at the same time touched Pandra, diligently pursuing his task.
‘I must leave you, Pandra, Kany,’ he said. ‘I’m needed elsewhere. Keep on with this task for as long as you can. The truth must lighten their darkness eventually. Thank you for your help and friendship.’