by Roger Taylor
Several ragged children were playing a hectic and noisy game, elfin voices already becoming raucous with the sharp-edged accent of the Moras. As Antyr and Estaan gazed around, at a loss to know where to look next, the children were drawn inexorably to them like stray planets to a new sun. Once in arm's-length orbit, they stopped and stared up at the new arrivals curiously.
'What y'looking for?’ one of them demanded proprietorially.
'We're looking for Nyriall, the Dream Finder,’ Antyr replied courteously. ‘Do you know where he lives?'
There was a collective wrinkling of noses and shaking of heads, and some giggling mimicry of his voice.
'He's an old man,’ Antyr offered, wilfully calm and still courteous. ‘With a … dog … like this one.’ He pointed at Tarrian who looked at him balefully.
'That's a wolf, not a dog, mister,’ the boy replied contemptuously.
'Delightful child,’ Tarrian muttered caustically to Antyr. ‘I'll eat him last, I think.'
The reference to Tarrian, however, had provoked a response among the children and a huddled conference ensued with some gabbled arguments and denials, much pointing and one or two threats of violence.
'You got any money, mister,’ the leader inquired after he had silenced the group.
'Thanks, men,’ Estaan said suddenly to the children, briskly terminating the conference with a comradely salute, and taking Antyr's elbow.
Antyr resisted slightly but Estaan was unyielding. ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to a dingy building some way down the street.
'How do you know?’ Antyr said glancing back at the children who were now regaling them with cries of abuse. ‘He could live anywhere in any of these buildings.'
'They told us,’ Estaan replied with a smile. ‘You should listen more carefully.'
Antyr gave up, and contented himself with following his escort's lead.
'Wait here,’ Estaan said as they reached the building he had indicated. A short flight of uneven and worn stone steps led up to an open door and into a dark passageway. Entering first, Estaan looked round for a moment before beckoning Antyr forward.
As he reached the top of the steps Antyr hesitated in the crooked doorway. Tarrian growled.
'What's the matter?’ Estaan asked urgently, his eyes suddenly anxious.
Antyr shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I don't know,’ he said vaguely. ‘Something's … about.’ But the words were not adequate.
'What happened?’ he asked Tarrian silently.
But Tarrian was no wiser than he was. ‘I don't know,’ he echoed. ‘But I scent something nearby. Something bad. Like I felt in the distance last night, but … nearer. Take care.’ Distaste, distress and alarm leaked into Antyr's mind. Then, unexpectedly, the wolf cried out as if a careless boot had crushed his paw, and with two bounds he was up the steps and into the building.
Estaan stepped smartly to one side to allow him past, but held out a restraining hand as Antyr, overcoming his shock at Tarrian's sudden action, ran up the steps after him.
'Careful,’ he said. ‘He's gone up those stairs there and they don't look too safe.'
'Something's wrong,’ Antyr said desperately. ‘Let me past.'
'Wait,’ Estaan commanded, as he looked intently up the stairs. The sound of Tarrian's flight was floating down to them. He was half whispering, half howling.
Antyr pushed Estaan to one side and set off up the stairs two and three at a time.
'Tread lightly and keep close to the wall,’ came Estaan's urgent command as he followed behind him.
On the third storey, the stairs ended, leaving Estaan breathing deeply and Antyr gasping for breath in a long corridor lit by the occasional grimy window. Tarrian was not in sight, but his yelping was beginning to fill the entire building.
A door opened nearby and a burly figure emerged, swearing foully at the noise Tarrian was creating. Oblivious, and drawn on by Tarrian's distress, Antyr tried to push by him, only to be seized roughly and lifted up on to his toes. An angry, shouting face intruded into his alarm, filling his vision.
'Shut your blistering dog up or…’ it continued, but an upsweeping arm blow ended the imprecation and released Antyr abruptly.
As he staggered backwards into the wall, Antyr saw Estaan deliver an open-handed blow to the man's chest that lifted him clean off his feet and sent him skidding along the floor back into his room. Briefly, Estaan was silhouetted in the doorway as he reached in to take the door handle.
His other hand was extended purposefully towards the still-sliding figure. ‘Stay there and be quiet,’ he said in a voice whose authority was indisputable. Then he slammed the door loudly and, turning to Antyr, nodded him in the direction of Tarrian's crying.
Not that Antyr needed urging. The sound of frenzied scratching was now accompanying Tarrian's frantic yelping, and great uncontrolled waves of distress and frustration were so filling his mind that he barely knew which of the partnership he was.
He staggered as his arms became Tarrian's flailing paws. ‘Quieten down,’ he thundered into the din of his head, but it had no effect other than to add to it.
'Here,’ Estaan's voice intruded.
Although not fully understanding what was happening, the Mantynnai could see Antyr's disorientation and, seizing him forcefully, supported him as he tottered along the corridor until they came to the foot of another narrow flight of stairs. At the top was a short landing and a single door and scrabbling frantically at it was Tarrian.
Abruptly he stopped and let out a heart-rending howl.
Estaan ran up the stairs, with Antyr, still unsteady, close behind him, almost on all fours.
For a moment, he wrestled with the door handle, then he stood back and gave the door a powerful kick. The wooden landing shook with the impact, but the door did not yield. Tarrian fell silent and Antyr saw Estaan relax before he delivered another blow. He found himself holding his breath. At the fourth kick, the door yielded and Tarrian dashed through the opening, brushing violently through Estaan's legs and unbalancing him.
Antyr, infected by Tarrian's mood, also pushed recklessly past Estaan, unbalancing him further.
Inside he came to an abrupt halt.
A single, inadequate lamp lit the room, and facing him was a wolf, its upper lip drawn back into a fearsome snarl. It was as large as Tarrian but it was thin, unkempt and savage-looking. And, to Antyr's horror, its eyes were glowing bright yellow.
Even as he sensed the wolf preparing to spring, Antyr took in his vision of an old man lying on a low bed behind the wolf. His hand hung down limply to trail on the floor, and his face was turned towards the door, his mouth gaping. His open eyes were like black pits.
A tidal wave of mingling emotions swept over Antyr; the unbridled death savagery of the Dream Finder's Companion, demented and protecting its charge; the instinctive animal reaction of Tarrian faced suddenly by a challenge from his own kind and with a threat to his own Dream Finder. All added to his own horror at the scene. And there was something else …
And amidst it all was an almost unbearable poignancy as the life and death of this old Dream Finder was borne in upon him by the simple utilitarian neatness of the few small ornaments and articles of furniture that decorated this dank, chilly room.
Then he was pushed violently to one side, and Estaan was in front of him, a long knife in his right hand. He was hastily winding his heavy cloak about his left.
The turmoil in Antyr's mind rose to an agonizing pitch as Estaan and the two wolves accelerated towards a seemingly inevitable conflict. In response, he felt some force inside him surging upwards.
It burst out suddenly.
'No!'
His voice rang out both audibly in the room and in the minds of the two wolves, overwhelming the hurtling intentions of the three antagonists.
The power and command in it shook Antyr, but it had a momentum of its own.
'No!’ it went on, as intense and dominating as before, but calmer. ‘There are no
enemies here, only frightened friends.'
Following in its wake, Antyr stepped forward quickly, gently easing past Estaan and laying a restraining hand on his knife arm.
He crouched down by Tarrian and placed a comforting arm around his hackled shoulders. The wolf's responses quietened a little at his touch.
'Carry my words to Estaan, while we try to reach Nyriall's Companion,’ Antyr said to him, still authoritative. ‘I want no misunderstandings and sudden movements.'
As Tarrian's wolf reactions began to withdraw however, so also did those of the other, although its manner was still fierce and defensive. Then Antyr felt another emotion rising up within Tarrian. And within the other wolf, he realized. It was the pain and distress that had sent Tarrian yelping through the house in a frenzy.
But now it was more coherent. And through its heart rang something else. Recognition!
Antyr's eyes widened as the revelations spread through him also. The wolf opposite was Tarrian's brother.
As the thought formed in Antyr's mind, the other wolf's expression changed suddenly, becoming placid and submissive. It dropped on to its belly and crawled towards Tarrian who bent down and sniffed it intently. Antyr withdrew from the mind of his Companion.
'What's happening?’ Estaan asked softly.
Antyr stood up slowly, raising a hand for silence.
Estaan looked significantly towards the old man. Antyr shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘His Companion's still dangerous.'
Then the wolf wriggled to its feet, and for a few seconds the two animals romped and wrestled like pups. Images leapt unsought into Antyr's mind from their excitement. Images of laughter and echoing chambers. Of strange haunting song, though not, oddly, human. Images of sunlit mountains and valleys, of people and animals unafraid, of great peace and harmony. Then came sadder images of parting and travelling … endless travelling …
Then the images faded as the two wolves returned to the grim present. Gradually they became still. Tarrian stood for some time with his head held over his brother's bowed neck.
Antyr waited.
Eventually, Tarrian spoke, the resonance in his voice showing that he spoke to Estaan also. He said, ‘This is…’ The word he uttered was rich in subtle meanings. Antyr had never heard the like before. ‘We share dam and sire. Nyriall called him Grayle.'
Estaan looked round uncertainly, lifting his hands to his head.
'Don't be afraid,’ Antyr said. ‘You're being granted a rare privilege. Just listen, this is important.'
He looked at Grayle, but made no attempt to speak to him. Then he turned again to Tarrian. ‘What's happened here?’ he asked.
'I don't know,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Grayle's shocked and barely coherent. He's talking about Nyriall being separated from him. Like we were. And about being attacked somehow. Powers, forces, searching. Nothing clear though.'
Antyr looked at the old man. ‘Ask him if we can attend to Nyriall, would you?’ he said gently.
'You may,’ Tarrian replied immediately.
Antyr nodded to Estaan who, still watching Grayle warily, sheathed his knife and disentangled his cloak from his arm as he walked over to the bed. Sitting on the edge, he lifted Nyriall's dangling arm, felt for a pulse and then laid it across his chest with a shake of his head. Almost tenderly he laid a hand on the dead man's face.
'He's still warm,’ he said. ‘It feels to me as if he's only just died.’ He examined the body. ‘I can't see any signs of violence, and he doesn't look as though he's been poisoned. Perhaps some shock burst his heart.'
Grayle started to whimper uncontrollably.
Antyr looked down at the dead man and his night-black eyes. Why had he and his Companion been prepared for the search when from the state of his clothes he had not been intending to go out?
Shapeless questions flitted darkly about his mind like gibbering bats. This was the man from whom he had hoped to obtain explanations of recent events. It had been a slender hope at best, but now where was he to turn?
He frowned.
And yet, Nyriall's strange death showed that perhaps it had not been such a slender hope after all. A frightening thought began to form.
It grew with appalling rapidity until it filled his mind like a black cloud.
'No!’ Tarrian shouted at him fearfully. ‘No. You can't.'
Antyr felt all his options run out. He had no choice. It seemed that all the wandering of his life had been but to bring him to this, in this tired, simple little room in the Moras.
'Tarrian, remind your brother of his duty. Grief is for later and we've little time left,’ he said, sternly.
He turned to Estaan, who was trying to keep his bewilderment from his face. ‘Estaan, guard the door. Make sure no one disturbs us, and under no circumstances must you touch me. The wolves will kill you, or you them, if you're lucky and fast, and then all could well be lost. If anything untoward happens, Tarrian will speak to you. If he can't, then seal this room as well as you're able and go for the Dream Finder Pandra.'
Estaan's bewilderment had become concern. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked anxiously.
Antyr looked at the dead Nyriall again, then he pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.
'I must learn what killed him,’ he said. ‘I must enter the dead man's dream.'
Chapter 19
Ivaroth Ungwyl came to the crest of the hill and looked down at the blazing encampment. The fire was so hot that the thick black smoke was propelled to a considerable height before the cold plains’ wind could begin to snatch it away and disperse it against the grey backdrop of the wintry sky.
The distant sound of screams and shouts rode on that same wind to greet him, and he smiled at both the sound and the sight. It was a familiar chorus and a familiar scene. And there would be few more such for him to relish in the future, if any-at least on the plains. When they moved south, that would be a different matter, but that was a little way off yet.
Nevertheless, he clenched his teeth in a savage leer in anticipation of the spectacle that the sack of a city must surely make. And sacked they would be until all bowed their necks to his yoke and begged to serve the peoples that their ancestors had dispossessed in the ancient times.
A powerful concussion reached him, making his horse shy a little and rudely dispelling his vision. From the centre of the encampment below, a ball of flame began to rise into the sky supported on a pillar of black smoke.
There was a chuckle beside him. ‘Well, they wouldn't have been wanting lamps this winter anyway,’ said its creator.
'Indeed they wouldn't, Greynyr,’ Ivaroth said. ‘The light of the Ensceini will be gone from the plains forever soon, and with it the last flicker of opposition to my rule.'
His companion nodded appreciatively. ‘All the tribes united,’ he said quietly. ‘I'd never thought to see the like in my lifetime. These are truly times of greatness, Lord. Your shadow will darken the whole world in the years to come.'
Ivaroth smiled and, once again, the burning camp became a burning city, and the great anticipation returned.
Down below he could see figures running to and fro, vainly trying to flee from his horsemen. The sight of their flight released his predatory instinct and he turned to his entourage.
'I'm in the mood for a little sport today, my friends,’ he said. ‘We must make sure that the Ensceini hunters have nothing to return to, and our men down there may be getting weary by now, you know how Endryn's sword arm troubles him after a while.'
Raucous laughter and cheering greeted this sally and, catching it at its peak, Ivaroth raised his spear with a great cry and spurred his horse forward towards the encampment. The wind blew cold and vigorous in his face, and the pounding hooves of the galloping horses behind him filled the air with their own special thunder to accompany the lightning of his army's countless spears and swords. And all were merely extensions of his will; his to command. To launch or to stay. This was the way it was destined to be. It had been wr
itten into his soul before he had been born and with each heartbeat he drew ever nearer to its final glorious apotheosis.
Your shadow will darken the whole world, Greynyr had said.
Yes! The whole world!
A figure appeared in front of him, rising up from behind a small bush like a startled bird. It was a woman, he noted indifferently, wild-eyed and distraught in her flight. And with a child in her arms? He was unsure. Not that it affected anything.
Without thinking about the action, his practiced arm spitted her on his spear, then he twisted agilely in the saddle to withdraw it swiftly and cleanly as he galloped past.
His horse did not even break step and there was a cheer of appreciation at the deed from his companions. Ivaroth joined in, waving the bloodied spear high. One of the followers reached down and seized the woman's hair as she pirouetted from the impetus of Ivaroth's blow, but such was the speed of the riders that her hair tore out by the roots and the body disappeared under the flailing hooves amid further cheering and scornful laughter.
Then they were at the camp, joining with the riders who had launched the attack. The air was full of the cries and screams of both the slayers and the slain, a tangled skein of death songs written above the bass roar of the blazing tents.
There had been little or no opposition to Ivaroth's assault. How could there have been? The men of the tribe were out wandering the plains, hunting for the food that would tide them and their families through the coming winter. The occupants of the camp were old men, young boys, women and babes.
They had come out offering their traditional hospitality to the approaching riders. And they had died. Slain like the animals their menfolk were hunting but with greater relish and less respect.
By an irony, however, Ivaroth's frenzied entrance into the blood-letting spared them the crueller excesses of the many forms of slow dying that stained the ways of the plains’ tribes and to which a more leisured assault would have brought them.
'I want no survivors,’ was his command. ‘Let the bodies lie where they fall, for the foxes and the birds, and let their men see this pyre from the far ends of the plains and know then what it is to defy the will of Ivaroth Ungwyl.'