Dream Finder cohs-1

by Roger Taylor

  'And one such might be here?'

  'Someone with his … skills … is here,’ Ryllans answered.

  His unequivocal tone seemed to strike Ibris clear through and he felt a whirl of fear twist in his stomach. In spite of himself he exorcised it with a reproach. ‘How could you and the others have followed this … man … when you learned the truth?’ he asked.

  Ryllans bowed his head slightly, then looked at him squarely. ‘We erred,’ he said, though with neither excuse nor plea in his voice. ‘Now we atone as best we can.'

  As he knew it would when the question left his lips, Ibris's reproach rebounded on him. ‘You are punished by your sins not for them,’ he had once heard a philosopher say scornfully to a priest extolling the punitive wrath of his deity.

  Thus is Ryllans punished, and so am I now, he thought.

  He reached out and took Ryllans’ arm. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

  Ryllans laid his hand over the Duke's in acknowledgement. ‘There is more,’ he said.

  'Tell it,’ Ibris said quietly. ‘Then we will gather it all and consider.'

  He was aware of both Ryllans and Feranc looking at him sharply, but the moment was gone before he could question them, and Ryllans was speaking again.

  'When our army broke and scattered, no pursuers were sent after us to cut us down in vengeance and hatred. Our opponents … our own people and their allies … were savage and fearsome in combat, but they stayed their hand in victory.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was there we began to learn,’ he said softly.

  'But it is the way, the law, of our people to demand an accounting from wrongdoers, and they will allow neither time nor distance to remit that.'

  Ibris frowned. Arwain's remark about the two men returned to him. It had slipped from him in the turmoil of the past few days.

  'The men that Arwain spoke of,’ he said. ‘The ones on the bridge. They're your countrymen?'

  Ryllans nodded. ‘From their bearing, their clothes, their horses, they were king's men, beyond a doubt.'

  Feranc turned away suddenly but Ibris did not notice the movement.

  He opened his arms in a gesture of dismissive indifference. ‘This is my domain, Ryllans,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘You, all of you, probably above all my subjects, are under my protection. I cede my jurisdiction to no foreign monarch.'

  He turned to Feranc before Ryllans could reply. ‘Have these … king's men … made any representations at the palace for audience?’ he asked.

  Feranc shook his head, but did not speak. Ibris turned back to Ryllans. ‘Could you have been mistaken?’ he asked, his voice softening. ‘Many people come to the city. Perhaps they were simply foreign merchants. You'd not long received Estaan's news. You were upset…'

  'There was no mistake,’ Ryllans replied. ‘They were king's men, and they must surely be here searching for us.'

  Ibris spun on his heel and slapped his hands down violently on the stone parapet. A large part of him wanted to curse these intruders into oblivion. Two men, in the name of sanity! Come to his city to drag his Mantynnai back in chains! They'd need their mighty army!

  But the wiser part of his nature recognized his anger as fear.

  Fear at whatever it was about these king's men that could so disconcert-not frighten, he noted-his Mantynnai: the men who had fought and died for him. The men whose gradual influence had improved beyond recognition the fighting qualities of his army. The men whose loyalty had given him the sureness and stability to lead his people forward, away from the endless debilitating cycle of internecine warfare and futile, waiting peace.

  His anger left him suddenly, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

  'Ciarll, find these men urgently. It shouldn't be difficult, by all accounts. Bring them … ask them … if they would be kind enough to attend on me as soon as possible.'

  He turned back to Ryllans. ‘I note the pain that this tale has cost you, my friend, and, as ever, I stand in debt to your courage and honesty,’ he said. ‘But we're on the verge of war. Organizing the greatest mobilization ever, to face who knows what strange dangers. I can allow nothing … nothing … to interfere with our preparations. Thousands of lives depend on us. Whatever your countrymen want, I shall listen to … we shall listen to. And we shall decide what action must be taken.’ He levelled a forefinger at the Mantynnai. ‘But these are ancient sins and your … accounting … having kept this long will keep a while longer. Whatever they wish, whatever you wish, nothing will be done until this war is over and the peace well begun.'

  Ryllans bowed and Ibris turned towards the tower doorway, beckoning the two men to follow him.

  As they walked down the tower's stone steps, Ibris welcomed the clatter of their feet as it further dispelled the disturbing atmosphere of Ryllans’ tale and, he realized abruptly, Feranc's deep withdrawal.

  'Do you wish me to begin looking for these men immediately?’ Feranc said, his voice matter of fact, and giving the lie to Ibris's thoughts even as they occurred.

  'Yes,’ he said, with a slight start, then, ‘No. No. Not yet. I think we should talk to Antyr first. This old enemy of Ryllans is assailing us, and the Bethlarii, through our dreams, for some end of its own, and while Antyr's quite frank about not understanding what's happening, he's nevertheless the one who knows the most about it, whether he realizes it or not. I think we-you-Ryllans, should tell him all that you can.'

  'Yes,’ Ryllans replied.

  They left the tower through a heavy wooden door carved with a great battle scene; two huge armies locked in conflict and the air above them full of fighting birds. The carving was extraordinarily vivid and lifelike and spread out from the door across the stone jambs that framed it.

  Ryllans pulled the door shut with an echoing boom which resonated around the hall they had entered. He looked down at the door's great iron ring, then briefly squeezed it, as if for comfort, before letting it fall. As it struck the door, it made an unusually melodic note which lingered in the air and seemed to follow the trio as they strode away.

  Gradually, the corridors became busier and Ibris felt the new, hectic routine of the palace beginning to close around him-a familiar armour.

  He did not allow it to seal him off from his new revelation, however. Indeed he allowed his thoughts about Ryllans’ tale to eddy to and fro freely, knowing that this alone would enable them to find some equilibrium in time. For the moment he resolved to consider only the simple practical matter of the two foreigners searching out his Mantynnai.

  The whole affair seemed to him to be at once both trivial and profound. The wish of some distant and unknown monarch for retribution for offences committed so long ago was not worthy of the slightest consideration when set against the present dangers now threatening the land. Even the Mantynnai's offence, presumably treason, was of no great import in the context of a civil war. All countries had such conflicts at one time or another, and generally only the principals suffered punishment when they were resolved.

  And what could two men achieve?

  Yet these two who had come quite openly and yet so quietly to his city, had disturbed the Mantynnai more than he had ever known.

  They reached the small hall where Estaan had been training his charge, and Ibris set his concerns aside for the moment.

  As they entered, Antyr, red-faced and panting, was laying about him with a wooden training sword and Estaan was parrying and avoiding the blows. Antyr had eventually overcome his reservations about attacking correctly, and, for the most part, his blows were accurately placed and purposeful. Estaan moved around and through them with an ease and quietness which, while frustrating, not to say, infuriating, for Antyr, was wholly deceptive.

  Ibris placed his finger to his lips for silence as they entered and, for a little while, the three of them watched the two protagonists. As they did so, Tarrian and Grayle sidled stealthily over to them and began fawning about the Duke.

  Feranc smiled slightly.

  'That's eno
ugh, you rascals,’ Ibris said, bending down to stroke them. ‘Don't think that I don't know how to deal with flattering courtiers…'

  At the sound of his voice, Estaan turned slightly and Antyr slipped past his blade and charged him heavily. The Mantynnai went sprawling across the floor. Both Ryllans and Feranc laughed and clapped spontaneously, but Antyr, startled either by his temerity or his success, stopped suddenly and put his hand to his mouth like an errant child.

  Immediately, Ryllans cried out, almost as if in pain. ‘Don't stop! Finish him! Finish him!’ he shouted, striding forward urgently. But it was too late. Estaan had rapidly regained his feet, and before Antyr could respond his sword had been brushed aside and the Mantynnai's sword run across his midriff.

  He looked set to compound his mistake by apologizing, but Ryllans had wrapped a strong arm about his shoulders and was instructing him before he could speak.

  'That was a good move…'

  Estaan, rubbing his ribs, nodded in agreement.

  ’ … but you forgot what you were doing. You weren't fighting him for fun, for exercise. You were fighting him to stop him from killing you. The instant that threat was dealt with you should have looked to ensure he did not repeat it. In this case you should have had your foot on his sword and your blade at his throat. Then, perhaps you might have been able to pause a little, if it was only him you were dealing with.'

  'I know, I know,’ Antyr managed to stammer.

  'Only here,’ Ryllans said, tapping Antyr's head. ‘You've got to know it here.’ He tapped his stomach. ‘Or you're dead.'

  Antyr nodded energetically.

  'Learn this, Antyr,’ Ryllans went on, still holding Antyr tightly as if to squeeze the lesson into him. ‘The most dangerous time in close-quarter fighting is when your opponent goes down. You relax, thinking it's over. He however, is galvanized by his danger and…’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘Fighting is cruel and horrible beyond belief. The difference between living and dying depends on your willingness to accept and implement immediately, whatever your survival demands. You must understand this totally if you're going to carry a sword with a view to defending yourself with it.'

  He released his pupil, who muttered an awkward acknowledgement.

  'How is he?’ Ryllans asked Estaan bluntly. ‘I see he's graduated to a training sword.'

  Estaan smiled and nodded. ‘He's no sword-master, nor ever likely to be, but he's better than average,’ he replied. ‘And much better than he was a few days ago. I think he has a more realistic measure of his own worth now. He knows to run away unless he's cornered and he's had enough battle experience to realize that other resources will come to his aid if that happens.'

  Ryllans nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Keep him at it.'

  Antyr glanced from one to the other as they spoke, like someone awaiting sentence, then he turned to the Duke as if to a higher court.

  But Ibris deemed the matter beyond his jurisdiction. ‘I apologize, Antyr,’ he said. ‘I should have known the Mantynnai would knock you into shape when I gave them the job of looking after you. They take it as part of their protection for you that you have to be trained to look after yourself.'

  'I think I volunteered for it, sir,’ Antyr replied.

  The Duke seemed doubtful. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But you'd have ended up doing it anyway.'

  He signalled an end to the discussion with a gesture and then motioned Antyr towards a bench at the side of the hall.

  'I want you to listen to Ryllans’ tale,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘I doubt you'll understand it any more than I did, but ask him any questions you like and don't feel obliged to make any comment about what you hear. I just want you to know everything that I know about this business. Whether or not it's important remains to be seen.'

  Later, the Duke spoke privately with Feranc.

  'Have you anything to tell me that I need to know?’ he asked.

  Feranc shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, simply.

  Ibris looked at him anxiously. ‘Your land has suffered greatly and strangely since you left, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘Armies raised, battles fought, civil war. Strange powers at work. Haven't you to tell me that you regret leaving; that perhaps if you'd stayed, events might have been different?'

  Unexpectedly, Feranc smiled, though sadly. ‘I've no regrets,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Events would have been different if I'd stayed, but for better or for worse, who can say? Who can say which side I'd have joined? I'd no close kin, and I was young and tormented.'

  Ibris opened his mouth to speak, but Feranc continued. ‘I'm curious to know what happened, very curious, and perhaps one day I'll be able to speak with Ryllans and the others about it at leisure. But it's of no importance.’ He turned to the Duke. ‘More important at the moment is the presence of the two men that Ryllans saw.'

  'Could they be your countrymen looking to bring their old enemies to justice?’ Ibris asked incredulously.

  Feranc nodded. ‘It's possible,’ he replied. ‘But we'll know for sure if we find them.'

  'If we find them?'

  'If they've come so far, then they're no ordinary king's men and if they're who I think they are, then if they don't wish to be found, they won't be,’ Feranc said.

  A brief look of irritation passed over Ibris's face. ‘You're their kind, Ciarll. Just find them. And soon.'

  Feranc looked mildly surprised at Ibris's tone.

  'Yes, it's that important,’ Ibris said sharply, answering the implied reproach. ‘Despite my curiosity about these shades from times long gone, my real concern is still for the problems we have here and now. And these people-if they're Ryllans’ people, your people-have faced and defeated this … power … that assails us. We must recruit them as allies.'

  Chapter 32

  It was a cold, bright, sunny day when the first divisions of Ibris's army marched out of Serenstad on their journey to Whendrak. The sky was cloudless, and a slight breeze fluttered the buntings and pennants that had been draped about the city for this occasion.

  A flag-draped podium had been erected on a rocky outcrop on the far side of the river, and from it, Ibris and various other dignitaries were reviewing the troops as they passed over the bridge.

  A large crowd had gathered and the many boats in the harbour were also crowded with spectators. There was a comforting amount of cheering and applause, but it was encouraging in tone, not joyous, and the predominant mood was one of anxiety.

  After so many years of comparative peace and growing prosperity, the sudden flaring of Bethlarii hostility had come as a peculiarly awful shock to the Serens, and many could still not yet properly accept it.

  It did not help that nothing had presaged this adventure; no increasingly acrimonious exchanges between envoys, no rumours of villages being raided, or trades routes blockaded, no formal denunciations, challenges or declarations. In fact, nothing which would serve to rouse the population into a mood unequivocally in favour of military action.

  But it was the possibility that the reason for the aggression might be religious which caused the real concern. Trade and land were matters that the Serens could understand fighting for if need arose. But some bizarre deity …?

  'This is the information I have received, and it is beyond dispute,’ Ibris told a subdued and hushed joint meeting of the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy following the return of Arwain's Mantynnai with their unhappy confirmation of the Bethlarii's intent.

  'I need hardly mention that when many of us here were younger, fighting the Bethlarii was almost an annual occurrence, on one pretext or another. Fortunately, times have changed and we've all become a little wiser. Indeed, I'm sure that, despite our many differences, no one here will dispute that these are enlightened times. Times in which the sword and the bow are no longer regarded as acceptable tools of disputation. Fortunately too, however, despite this absence of hostilities, we have remembered that no city, no community, no man even, can lightly set aside those same tools or turn complet
ely away from the idea of such conflict, as there will always be those who would seek to impose their will upon us by such means.'

  There were murmurs of agreement about the chamber.

  'Thus we have continued to give due note to martial skills, maintaining our army and making service a necessary social duty for all our young men. Not to menace our neighbours. But to show that as we value the hope of the future, so, by maintaining our strength, we remember the lessons of the past.'

  He had concluded his speech by an appeal for unity between the many quarrelsome factions of the two governing houses and the other city institutions.

  'This conflict, however, my friends, will be like no other there has been within our lifetimes. The Bethlarii have turned away from light, and reason, and knowledge, and have been possessed by a dark and ghastly bigotry. They will know no rest until they have spread this monstrous creed across the whole land unless they are shown the folly of their ways. And they will know that folly only when they have been decisively, conclusively, stopped.'

  He paused and looked slowly over the silent, watching, representatives of his people.

  'It will be a grim conflict we send our young men to,’ he went on, after a long pause. ‘And we must stand as they stand. Shield to shield. Stirrup to stirrup. We ask them to stand and suppress the weakness of their flesh in the face of missiles and charging cavalry. To stand even when their comrades fall wounded and dying about them. Thus we too must suppress our own weaknesses and petty differences and stand firm in the face of those among us who would seek to use this tragedy for their own ends, or worse, who would seek to appease this tyranny of ignorance which the Bethlarii have chosen to accept.'

  There had been a little uncomfortable shuffling at these last remarks, but Ibris had won the unanimous support he had asked for.

  'For now,’ Aaken added cryptically.

  'Now's the important time,’ Ibris replied.

  He had been obliged, however, to make a sacrifice of his own in the wake of this appeal, and standing beside him now on the podium was his wife Nefron: ‘Much recovered from the long and exhausting illness which had confined her to the Erin-Mal, and standing true and strong beside her husband in the land's great time of need.'