Dream Finder cohs-1

by Roger Taylor

  Ibris wavered.

  'They can tie me to my horse if I look like falling off,’ Antyr pressed.

  'And the wolves?’ Ibris asked. ‘They can't run all that way.'

  'Throw them in panniers,’ Antyr replied shortly.

  'What!’ Tarrian's indignation was considerable.

  'Throw them in panniers,’ Antyr repeated firmly. ‘They can sleep. They'll need to be fresh when the hunt starts.'

  Tarrian's indignation faded slightly.

  Haster walked across to them. ‘If it's your wish that he goes, Lord, we'll tend him,’ he said. ‘He can ride between us, he'll be no burden.'

  'But you must be exhausted yourselves,’ Ibris protested.

  'We're tired certainly, but we've finer horses than yours, lord,’ Haster said. Unexpectedly he smiled. ‘And we've learned the art of sleeping as we ride.'

  Ibris growled and then gave a resigned shrug. ‘As you wish, Dream Finder. You must go where your heart leads you. Take care. And my thanks to you.'

  A little later, Antyr found himself mounted between the two strangers, with Tarrian and Grayle ensconced in panniers.

  Tarrian had protested more than a little at the indignity of being lifted into his, but was now almost asleep. Grayle was as silent and deep as ever.

  Antyr watched Ibris and then Menedrion embracing Arwain, then, almost before he realized what was happening, Arwain had swung up into his saddle and, with a stomach-churning lurch, his horse surged forward into the night.

  Chapter 40

  The day was full of winter brightness. A cloudless blue sky, brilliant sun, and a windless cold.

  It was a day for brisk walking through ragged, leafless country lanes or along hilly ridges or across manicured parks.

  A day for warm reassuring clothes and a warm fireside and warm company to return to.

  It was a day especially apt for celebrating life, but, albeit reluctantly, Ibris's army had risen to a misty dawn, to celebrate death. It had risen shivering with the cold and the fear: the fear of impending battle, the fear of showing fear, the fear of failing in command, the fear of edges and points, of missiles and flailing hooves, of looking into the face of the unthinking, fear-spawned, personal hatred of the enemy and, worst of all, of random, cruel chance.

  Quickly the army had drawn noise and bustling activity over its nakedness like a familiar blanket.

  And now it moved across the rolling Bethlarii landscape in battle formation; the sun glinting off spear points and armour, shields and harness, and brightening the surcoats and pennants and flags emblazoned with their many devices.

  The air was filled with the soft clatter of marching and riding men, punctuated occasionally by shouted orders to maintain the line, and made purposeful by the ominous tattoo of the pace drums. A dark green trail marked the passing of the host as the dew-damped grass was relentlessly crushed under hoof and foot.

  Visibility being good, and being some way from the Bethlarii position, Ibris and Menedrion rode at the front of the line with several other senior officers and aides. No one spoke.

  A small group of riders appeared in the distance. Ibris motioned a signaller to halt the advance.

  The pace drums stopped with startling suddenness and for a moment it seemed to Ibris that the ensuing silence was absolute.

  As the riders drew nearer, the noise of the thousands of now waiting men began to assert itself.

  'It's Feranc's patrol,’ Menedrion said.

  Ibris nodded and clicked his horse forward, motioning Menedrion to follow him.

  As Feranc's men reached them, Ibris sent the men back to the waiting officers to make their reports. Even as he did so, he saw Feranc's eyes flicking along the length of the waiting army.

  'Your bodyguard, the Mantynnai, Arwain?’ he asked as Ibris turned back to him.

  Ibris told him what had happened the previous night. After he had heard the tale, Feranc lowered his head. Ibris waited for his reaction, concerned.

  'The Dream Finder has gone with them?’ Feranc said, after a long pause.

  Ibris nodded awkwardly, somewhat taken aback at this unexpected response.

  Feranc grimaced in sympathy. ‘It'll be a bad journey for him,’ he said. ‘A dark grim night he'll not forget.'

  'You'd rather you were with them?’ Ibris said, cutting across this digression and anxiously voicing what he felt would be Feranc's unspoken reproach.

  Feranc looked up at the blue sky, thoughtfully. ‘Your reasoning was sound, Lord,’ he said eventually. ‘And it was a decision only you could make.'

  The two men looked at one another.

  'Thank you,’ Ibris said softly.

  'Talking of difficult decisions…’ Menedrion broke the silence and gave Feranc a significant look. ‘As commander I've decided that you, father, will take command of the reserve cavalry…'

  Ibris turned to him, his face darkening.

  'You're too old for the front line,’ Menedrion continued hastily, and more bluntly than he had intended.

  'I can ride and fight you into the ground yet,’ Ibris blustered noisily.

  'Not these last ten years, you can't,’ Menedrion retaliated vehemently, leaning forward towards his father, chin jutting.

  Feranc coughed.

  Ibris turned to him. ‘Ciarll?’ he appealed.

  'Commander's decision,’ Feranc replied simply.

  'Ciarll!'

  'Please, father. Your will has brought us this far. You're the heart of all our dominions. If you fall today, then…'

  He flicked his head towards the waiting army. ‘They'll evaporate, disappear. We'll all be lost. And city after city will fall in our wake.'

  Ibris looked at his son narrowly. ‘Think you can out-talk me as well, do you?’ he said darkly.

  Menedrion scowled impatiently. ‘No, damn it,’ he said. ‘I'm trying to tell you what you already know. I want all eyes forward. I don't want anyone risking themselves and their companions playing unofficial bodyguard to you.’ His expression became embarrassed. ‘Besides I've told all the company commanders you'll be protecting the rear, and that's what they've told the men. Everyone's happy with that. It'll not help their morale if they see you at the front. They'll think it's because Arwain and the others leaving has seriously weakened us.'

  Ibris's eyes narrowed further and his mouth tightened.

  'Yes, I know,’ he said abruptly.

  Menedrion started at the unexpected reply.

  'Do you think I don't know what's going on in my own army?’ Ibris continued, not without some relish. ‘I was just wondering when you were going to get round to telling me about it, that's all.'

  Menedrion looked as if he were considering a wide range of replies to this revelation, but in the end, without taking his gaze from his father, he spoke to Feranc.

  'Tell us the enemy's latest dispositions, Commander,’ he said.

  Feranc replied without preamble. ‘Substantially unchanged from earlier reports. The traditional Bethlarii battle order. Predominantly heavy infantry in phalanx, with cavalry and light infantry protecting the flanks and rear. At least twice our number in all.'

  'Anything unusual in the line?’ Ibris asked. ‘Chariots? Artillery? Cover for ambushing cavalry? Treacherous ground?'

  Feranc shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nor anything to be seen in the surrounding countryside. Though there seemed to be quite a lot of activity along the line. Messengers running to and fro.'

  Menedrion shrugged slightly. ‘Probably last-minute preparations,’ he suggested. ‘They know we'll be on them before noon.'

  He looked at Feranc and then his father. ‘I can see no reason to alter any of the tactics we've decided on. Can you?'

  Ibris looked at him quizzically. ‘Why the uncertainty?’ he asked.

  Menedrion frowned. ‘I'm uncertain because I still can't believe they're doing this,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Throughout this whole campaign they've shown none of the war-craft that we know they have. Even now, a
t the end, they've made no special effort to choose advantageous ground, there's no evidence of flanking forces in the area, nothing that seems to indicate a real will to conquer. It makes no sense.'

  Ibris could offer him no clearer vision.

  Feranc spoke. ‘They're preparing to fight the battle of the end of the world,’ he said. ‘The final battle in which all other conflicts will be resolved and from which Ar-Hyrdyn will choose those destined to join the great heroes of legend who occupy his Golden Hall.'

  Menedrion puffed out a long steaming breath into the cold air. ‘It's as logical as anything else I've heard,’ he said resignedly. ‘But where does that leave us earth-bound souls?'

  'Facing an enemy that's liable to fight to the death, rather than break and run,’ Feranc replied starkly.

  Menedrion's lip curled. ‘You can't suppress the flesh, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘Fear is fear. We'll see how their faith sustains them when our arrows are falling about them.'

  Feranc nodded. ‘True,’ he said. ‘But we mustn't underestimate them. This day is going to be long, hard, bitter and bloody.'

  'Yes,’ Ibris agreed, his voice sad. ‘And it will be the end of their world. Whatever corruption in their society has brought them to this, all will indeed be resolved today.'

  Menedrion cut the discussion short. ‘It's still their choice, father,’ he said. ‘Don't forget the heralds they killed. If their sickness … can't be swayed away with reason and logic, then we must do it the physician's way. We must lance it. And quickly, if there's another enemy at our back.'

  He reached up and pulled down the visor of his helm, then held out his mailed hands to Feranc who took them in both his own.

  'Strength to your arm, Feranc the shield, Feranc the slayer. Here's to tomorrow's sunrise.'

  'Light be with you, Irfan Menedrion,’ Feranc replied, then, taking the Duke's hands, ‘And with you, my Lord. Guard our backs well. And put me to the sword if I flee.'

  Finally, Menedrion embraced his father in silence.

  Then the three parted to ride to their allotted positions.

  As he rode back towards the army, Menedrion drew his sword and waved it high above his head with a great shout. His cry echoed over the Bethlarii plain and into the bright sky and the cry of the entire army rose to follow it.

  They had stopped. But the world was still filled with pain. He had never known anything but pain, nor ever would for all eternity to come.

  No part of Antyr's body gave him any other message. Who would have thought that the human frame could travel so fast for so long, or that men could remain in the saddle throughout?

  He had vague recollections of an occasional voice penetrating the haze of agony with the advice that he should, ‘Just relax, don't fight the horse.’ Then, more sternly. ‘Relax, you're tiring the horse.’ He had recollections too, that there had been other brief pauses punctuating this lifetime of pounding impact he had been living, though, as now, they had offered little comfort.

  Even the dawn had brought no relief. Indeed the bright golden wash that had splashed into his face seemed to pass straight through him and illuminate his pain, so frail had he become.

  He had no recollection of the strong hands that had reached out and supported him as he slithered into the unconsciousness from which he was now emerging.

  'You've done well,’ an echoing voice was telling him from far away.

  Mysteriously he floated out of his saddle and propped himself up against something … a tree, he realized, as he managed to look up through the intricate tracery of winter-bared branches.

  Something damp and cold touched his face and sniffed inquiringly, then there was a vigorous splashing sound nearby.

  'That's better.'

  Antyr winced as Tarrian's relieved voice boomed into his head like a cascade of tumbling boulders. ‘That wasn't too bad a journey after all, was it? Slept most of the way. If you ever get a horse I think I'll travel more like that. It's very comfortable. And quite stylish in its way.'

  Antyr felt stirrings of malevolence deep inside, but it was beyond him to formulate it into purposeful abuse and he let it lie.

  'Are you awake?’ Tarrian said with deplorable heartiness, his paw poking Antyr with reckless disregard. Antyr stared at the hands that came up in front of him to deflect this unwanted attention. After a timeless interval he recognized them as his own. At the same time, his voice began to return.

  'No, I don't think so,’ he replied. ‘At least I sincerely hope not.'

  Slowly the pains wracking his body began to fragment and take up residence in various limbs and joints, and the memory of the purpose of this journey returned. It stood like a dark, evil forest, barring his way to the future.

  He felt sick.

  What madness had prompted him to join this demented dash across country to face some unknown enemy? What madness had drawn him into this whole business? He felt an overwhelming nostalgia for the familiar sounds and smells of his favourite inns, and the familiar, torchlit streets he had staggered along so often.

  He put his hand to his head in imitation of the gesture he had made many times through his life on waking and finding himself regretfully reviewing his recent follies.

  'Are you all right?’ someone asked.

  Carefully, Antyr turned a protesting neck to see who had spoken. It was Estaan. He looked desperately weary. Under other circumstances Antyr might have replied with some mildly acid rejoinder, but he too was too weary to find solace in humour.

  'Come on,’ Estaan said, bending down and unceremoniously hauling him to his feet. ‘You can take some pride in having survived this journey. We lost a few on the way.'

  'Lost …?’ Antyr asked vaguely.

  'Just exhausted,’ Estaan replied. ‘No fatalities fortunately. Come on, you'll feel better if you keep moving.'

  Antyr's legs were reluctant to respond and he tried to slither back down on to the ground. Estaan held him upright however and then dragged him forward roughly, leaving him no alternative but to walk or fall.

  Antyr uttered a feeble cry of protest and pain and there was a faint growl from Tarrian.

  'Never mind growling at me, wolf,’ Estaan said brutally. ‘Get into his head and wake him up properly. If he falls, he's finished.'

  Another face swam into Antyr's view before Tarrian could respond. It was Haster. He peered intently into Antyr's face for a moment and then he was gone. Abruptly, powerful hands from behind him began seeking out stiffened joints and muscles and manipulating them purposefully.

  Antyr cried out again, though more loudly this time, but Tarrian did not interfere.

  'It's for the best,’ he said awkwardly into Antyr's slowly clearing head. Then he was gone, and Grayle with him.

  Then Haster was peering into his eyes again and driving thumbs into his shoulders. ‘I'm no expert at this,’ he said. ‘But that should help.’ He repeated Estaan's advice. ‘Keep moving.’ Adding, ‘Stand up straight as well.’ Then he too was gone.

  A memory of Tarrian uttering the same rebuke when he had first met Ibris returned to Antyr and, as then, he found himself obeying without conscious thought. It helped-a little.

  Tentatively, he began to test out his protesting limbs and to look beyond himself. All about him were weary-looking men, most of whom, he noted, were also trying to ease life back into stiffened limbs. The sight of this common discomfort made him feel a little ashamed of his complaining.

  To a man they were grimy with travel, and their bedraggled condition was heightened by the brilliant sunshine that flooded over the scene. Steaming breaths however, confirmed the temperature that he himself was just beginning to be aware of.

  Looking around he saw that they had stopped at what appeared to be a deserted farmhouse. Beyond it lay bleak rocky countryside which gave testimony to why it had been deserted. A little way off, a rough road wound down a shallow incline between two small hills and dipped straight down into a river. A ford, Antyr presumed.

  In the distance,
dark clouds were building.

  Antyr took a long draught from his canteen. It was cold and it seemed to etch out his insides, almost painfully, as he swallowed. He drew in a sharp breath. The jolt helped to clear his mind further and the darkness looming ahead of him came into sharper focus. So too did his own position. Whatever happened now, there could be no way back to anything that had ever been before; neither the bad nor the good.

  'Where are we?’ he asked Estaan after a moment.

  'Somewhere south of Rendd,’ Estaan replied. ‘The farm's called Kirstfeorrd.'

  'And the enemy?'

  Estaan shrugged and motioned Antyr to follow him. As they wended their way through the resting men, Antyr noticed the horses being corralled at the rear of the building. A small wave of guilt passed over him. Ibris's bodyguard, he knew, took pride in tending their horses before themselves.

  'My horse?’ he asked, a little shamefacedly. ‘I didn't…’ Estaan patted his arm and smiled appreciatively. ‘It's been tended. Don't worry about it.'

  He walked on, but Antyr stood watching the horses. Splendid, trusting creatures, he thought. Would it ever enter your heads to treat us as slaves? To lead us into mayhem and slaughter for some whim of your own?

  As he watched, one of them staggered and fell over. For a moment it thrashed about on the ground in distress, scattering the other horses. Then it lay still, foam trickling from its mouth and its eyes white and wild. Almost immediately a soldier was by its side, stroking the frightened head. Another joined him, and there was a brief discussion.

  Antyr turned away, knowing the outcome. As he looked at the retreating form of Estaan, the sound of a powerful axe blow reached him. He flinched involuntarily.

  Arwain was leaning over an old table examining a map when Estaan and Antyr entered the farmhouse. Ryllans and other Mantynnai were with him.