The Return of the Sword tcoh-5

by Roger Taylor

  Antyr frowned. ‘Yes, but it works well enough, especially when your superior strength allows you to kill me with impunity.’

  Oslang’s face became serious. ‘Yes indeed. I apologize. I didn’t mean to trivialize what you said. Ethriss knows, we above all understand it’s a fundamental mistake to imagine that violence solves nothing. Indeed, it’s perhaps because we have such a frightening measure of the power that can be made available for the terrorizing – the destroying – of others that we set such store by our way.’

  ‘Aha. By your solemn faces I see you’ve been putting the world to rights in my absence.’ It was Andawyr. He sat down next to Antyr and clapped his hands jovially.

  ‘And who better to do it?’ Oslang said emphatically, relaxing back into his chair. ‘We were just coming to defining the purpose of humanity.’

  Andawyr made a disparaging face. ‘Oh, an easy one, eh? Our purpose – the purpose of humanity – is to discover all the secrets of the universe, and to find out both where we came from and where we’re going to. Next question!’

  Antyr risked entering into the spirit of their exchange. ‘And will we do it?’ he asked.

  Andawyr’s reply was unexpectedly serious. ‘Oh yes,’ he said with a calm smile. ‘Without a doubt. It may take some time, though.’

  A scornful sound, not dissimilar to a raspberry, filled the minds of Antyr and Andawyr. It came from the two wolves. Grayle had his head on his paws and was staring at them, Tarrian was scratching himself vigorously.

  ‘Would you like to join in the debate?’ Andawyr asked caustically.

  ‘You’re not ready for it yet,’ Tarrian replied. ‘Carry on. We’ll join in as soon as you’ve something interesting to say.’

  Antyr gave a disclaiming shrug.

  ‘Well, it’s another perspective, I suppose,’ Andawyr said, looking at the wolves enigmatically. Then he took Antyr’s arm. ‘Are you fully recovered?’ he asked. ‘No after-effects of any kind?’

  ‘No, none at all. And you?’

  ‘Still puzzled, that’s all. And concerned.’ He leaned his chair perilously backwards and reached out to take some papers from a nearby chest of drawers. Dropping them on the table he rifled into his gown and finally produced a pen. He began doodling idly.

  ‘A first-order Warning set off, Oslang. Highly localized. Your initial thoughts.’

  Oslang drummed his fingers on the table. ‘First and last thoughts, I’m afraid – none,’ he replied. Andawyr continued to look at him expectantly. Apparently cornered by this, Oslang gave a noisy sigh. ‘I’d have thought it impossible,’ he said. ‘But I saw and heard it, therefore it isn’t. So I’d have to say that it was a very unlikely event – low probability. But even then, I’m not sure where to start looking.’

  ‘To find an unlikely event, look in an unlikely place, presumably. Your thoughts, Antyr.’

  The suddenness of the question startled Antyr. ‘I’ve no idea.’ The words blustered out. ‘I told you. It was mainly reflexes that brought us back. There was precious little conscious thought. But it makes no more sense to me than it seems to do for you. Nothing was unusual about the dream other than the absence of the control you normally have – hardly a disturbing thing in itself. Tarrian and Grayle have found nothing untoward or they’d have told me by now. Whatever it was, it came out of nowhere and without any warning, and my feeling – and that’s all it is – is that it was associated with that sword.’

  Andawyr nodded, but, as he had with Oslang, kept on looking at Antyr as if expecting more. Antyr dithered. He pointed to the Beacon symbols by the door. ‘Just how do those things work? Exactly what is it they detect?’ he asked.

  Andawyr followed his gaze thoughtfully, then turned back to him. He did not address the question, however. ‘You’re here, in this strange place, so far from your own land, because you’re no ordinary Dream Finder, are you? You told us that somehow you’d been able to move to worlds that were as real as this but different from it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What control do you have over this ability?’

  ‘None that I’m aware of. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I’m here.’ He glanced at Oslang. ‘My ignorance burdens me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Again Andawyr’s question startled Antyr, though the Cadwanwr did not wait for an answer. ‘Why shouldn’t this ability be a source of excitement and liberation to you? An opportunity to explore realms that few others can even dream of, let alone travel to.’

  Antyr was shaking his head. ‘You don’t understand. There’s a subtle feeling of wrongness about being in another world.’ He stopped. ‘No, that’s not correct. There was a subtle feeling of wrongness about me when I was in another world. A feeling of… inadequacy… inappropriateness. This gift, if gift it is, and however it came to me, was – presumably still is – substantially beyond my control. I didn’t know what I was doing. What I did I did by instinct. I was parted from my Earth Holders. They were hunting through a realm that was separate from me – somewhere between the worlds. For all I know I could’ve been lost in one of those worlds for ever – my body here perhaps neither dead nor alive.’ He shuddered as fears he had not experienced for a long time returned to him. ‘I’d forgotten how awful it was. And, too, in those worlds there was a deep feeling of intruding, of my presence having consequences that I couldn’t see.’

  Andawyr’s eyes reflected his pain. ‘And now my ignorance burdens you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been worse than thoughtless. I was so intrigued by your story that I’ve behaved appallingly. After such a journey, the least you were entitled to was a little time doing nothing. And there I go, imposing on you. Dragging you into my dreams, of all places. Now questioning you into the deep hours of the night.’ He brushed the papers to one side and slapped the table. ‘The Beacons are all quiet. Nothing untoward’s happening. I can’t apologize too abjectly for my disgraceful conduct. Get off to your bed and some rest. Tomorrow you can lounge in it all day or wander about to your heart’s content. We can talk about all this some other time, whenever you feel like it.’

  He made to stand up, but Antyr stopped. ‘No. I am tired, but I doubt I’d be able to sleep after what’s happened. I’d rather talk for the time being.’ He looked at Andawyr shrewdly. ‘Why didn’t you answer my question about the Beacons? That’s the second one you’ve avoided.’

  This time it was Andawyr who was startled. He fidgeted with the papers for a moment and threw a quick glance at the Beacon before replying. ‘You’re right. I was going to say that I was distracted, but I think that might be a lie – a conversational sop. The truth is, I’m not sure why I didn’t answer your question.’ He frowned. ‘There’s nothing about the way the Beacons work that needs to be hidden from common knowledge.’

  ‘Perhaps the other place to look for an unlikely event is under our noses,’ Oslang said.

  Andawyr nodded. ‘Indeed, we should know that by now, shouldn’t we?’

  He went over to the Beacon, motioning the others to follow him. Humming quietly to himself he touched the panel. Antyr let out an incongruous, ‘Oh!’ as the panel and a section of the wall around it became alive with symbols and numbers. Tarrian and Grayle wandered over to see what was happening.

  For several minutes Andawyr and Oslang studied the panel intently. Occasionally one of them would touch one of the symbols, bringing about a cascade of change amongst the others. Finally Antyr could not restrain himself. ‘What does all that mean?’ he asked.

  Andawyr puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’m not avoiding your question this time, Antyr, truly, but I can’t begin to explain this to you. You just don’t know enough.’

  ‘I think I’m in the same position,’ Oslang said, resting a finger on a long string of figures and shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘These seem to confirm our original conclusion.’

  ‘That what happened was impossible?’

  Oslang muttered something under his breath that made Andawyr raise his eyebrows and click
his tongue censoriously.

  ‘Oslang’s a student of some very interesting old languages,’ he said to Antyr by way of explanation. Oslang coloured and cleared his throat.

  ‘We’re just going to have to study these at leisure and in great detail,’ he said, ignoring Andawyr’s amusement. ‘There are anomalies – paradoxes – in these figures that simply shouldn’t be there. It’s almost as if…’

  Andawyr caught his arm and turned quickly to Antyr. ‘Your question,’ he said. ‘What do the Beacons detect? Oslang touched on it before. They detect uses of the Power that are either from other than one of us, or directed to some divergent – destructive – end. They do nothing that we can’t do as individuals, but they do it better, continuously, thoroughly – without flagging and with great sensitivity and accuracy. Under our noses, Oslang. Under our noses. That’s where it is, I can smell it.’ He jabbed a finger towards the panel. ‘For an instant there must have been a source of the Power here. A considerable source.’

  ‘But you and I would have felt something that was strong enough to cause such a Warning.’

  ‘Not if that instant was very short.’

  ‘Veryshort,’ Oslang confirmed.

  ‘Perhaps even between the moments,’ Andawyr said, looking at him significantly.

  Oslang straightened up and returned his gaze with a challenging one of his own. He made two attempts at starting before he finally managed to speak. ‘That is highly conjectural, to say the least. But even if I allow it – which I don’t – it still leaves us with the problem of where such a manifestation could come from.’

  ‘It’s not that conjectural,’ Andawyr rebutted. ‘It’s just that you’re reluctant to accept the implications.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Maybe, but that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? It wouldn’t be the first time everything we think we know has been upended.’

  ‘Just make your point.’

  ‘My point is that the only explanation or at least the best so far – is that Antyr, with his strange ability, which he admits he cannot control, reached out and brought into this world, for that moment between the moments, Hawklan’s sword.’

  Oslang shook his head, not in denial, but as if to clear it. ‘Too fast, too fast. Too many unfounded leaps.’ He grimaced guiltily and gave Antyr an apologetic glance. ‘We don’t know what Antyr’s ability is. What he’s experienced isn’t necessarily what he thinks he’s experienced. We need to talk with him at length. We…’

  ‘We need to take it at face value for the moment,’ Andawyr interrupted. ‘We already have some interesting hard facts from Yatsu and Jaldaric, and even from this evening’s limited exercise I can tell you that Antyr has an ability that’s…’ He gesticulated wildly. ‘At right angles to every direction we know.’ He became excited. ‘Antyr, is it possible…’

  He stopped.

  Antyr, eyes closed, was swaying unsteadily.

  Tarrian and Grayle moved menacingly to his side.

  Chapter 9

  Andawyr stepped forward instinctively towards the swaying figure of Antyr but Oslang, remembering the urgency of Yatsu’s hand as it prevented him from leaving his seat when Andawyr and Antyr had burst so suddenly from their dream, seized his arm quickly. He remembered, too, the sight of the wolves, their eyes bright, yellow and baleful.

  ‘No, don’t go near him.’

  Briefly Andawyr resisted Oslang’s restraint but, even as he made to pull his arm free, Tarrian’s hackles began to rise and his upper lip curled back to reveal glinting and powerful teeth. The sight was accompanied by a rumbling growl.

  Oslang’s grip tightened, as much now to seek protection as to give it.

  Andawyr stopped his struggle and froze as Grayle joined his brother by Antyr’s side.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr said to all three of them, vainly trying to keep his voice casual. Antyr, still swaying, did not reply, but violent and disturbing images flooded into Andawyr’s mind that patently came from Tarrian. Among them was a faint and rapidly fading hint of regret, then Andawyr sensed the wolf withdrawing into his wilder self.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, slowly moving backwards in response to Oslang’s urging. ‘This is what you are. You have no choice. We will guard him also.’

  There was no reply other than the continued growling.

  Andawyr, his eyes fixed on the wolves, groped behind him for a chair. He motioned Oslang to sit down also.

  ‘We’ll seem to be less of a threat if we look smaller,’ he said.

  Despite the fact that it was he who had pulled Andawyr back, Oslang hissed, ‘We can’t just sit here. Antyr’s ill.’

  ‘I don’t think we can do anything else under the circumstances,’ Andawyr replied.

  Oslang grimaced. ‘Perhaps we could restrain them,’ he suggested, making a discreet gesture with his hand.

  ‘No, no.’ Andawyr seized it. ‘Not yet, at least. Not unless we’re actually threatened with harm or if he’s obviously in danger.’ He spoke his thoughts as they came to him, a hurried descant to the broken growling of the two wolves. ‘We don’t know enough about any of them except that they mix uneasily with the Power. There’s no saying what might happen if we use it directly against any of them.’

  Oslang’s eyes flicked towards the Beacon, then back to the two wolves.

  ‘Don’t stare directly at them,’ Andawyr said urgently.

  ‘I know. But their eyes aren’t the same as when… oh.’

  Even as he spoke, the eyes of the wolves became suddenly and unnaturally bright again. Andawyr drew in a sharp breath at the sight. The growling slowly faded and Antyr, his eyes still closed, sank to his knees and slowly lay down. It was the measured movement of a man still sufficiently in control to protect himself from a fall before he lost consciousness. The wolves lay down beside him. Their appearance now was even more frightening than it had been before and, though they had stopped growling, the ensuing silence increased rather than eased the tension in the room. It did not lessen even when they both closed their eyes.

  ‘That’s what happened when Antyr entered your dream,’ Oslang whispered. He repeated the stern warnings that Antyr had given about leaving him undisturbed but, with the memory of the touch of the wolves’ wild natures fresh in his mind, Andawyr needed little convincing.

  The two men looked at one another helplessly.

  ‘I suppose all we can do is wait,’ Andawyr said eventually, reluctantly voicing their common thought. Nevertheless, he leaned forward carefully and looked intently at Antyr, seeking for any signs of distress in the motionless body. One of Tarrian’s eyelids moved slightly to reveal a sharp, thin yellow line. Unnecessarily, Oslang reached out to prevent his friend from moving any further.

  ‘He just seems to be asleep,’ Andawyr said softly as he responded to this restraint.

  Oslang nodded, but his attention now was on the Beacon. Though it was making no sound, the symbols and arrays of numbers surrounding it were changing – changing so quickly that they were little more than a blur.

  * * * *

  All was darkness. Antyr stood very still. He was whole. And, too, he was aware of his body lying motionless in Andawyr’s study, guarded by his Earth Holders. As he was there, so he was here. It had always been thus at such times. For, wherever he might be, he was not in someone’s dream. This place was real. That he knew. Somehow, and without any sense of transition or conscious effort on his part, he had been drawn through a Gateway just as he had been in his desperate struggles with Ivaroth and the blind man.

  He was afraid. And afraid in many different ways. Primitive fears: what dangers were there here, what knives, what strangling ropes, what malice lay in the darkness? Then more rational ones: how had he come here? Had it been at some unwitting bidding of his own? Had it been at the will of some other agency and, if so, who, or what, and not least, why? Perhaps most frightening of all, had it been at the whim of mere chance – as a falling roof tile might strike one man and miss
his companion? And tumbling in the wake of these, the question, how could he escape this place?

  He was trembling.

  When he had finally faced the blind man and all his terrible power in that place beyond all places, the voices of the others imprisoned there had rung out in triumph, calling him Adept. Yet, too, at the same time, they had despised him. He was ‘Scarce an apprentice.’

  He had little doubt that whatever the former meant, the latter was true. All he knew was that somewhere Tarrian and Grayle would be searching for him, and searching frantically, their predatory natures hunting through the ringing, turbulent spaces between the worlds, through tides of chaos and change, in places beyond his imagining; beyond any imagining.

  Tarrian, Grayle, he cried out silently.

  Fleetingly, there was a hint of distant howling.

  To me! To me!

  You are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength. Silently he mouthed the ritual reassurance that all Dream Finders gave to their clients. Its emptiness heightened his sense of futility. Panic curled into the fringes of his mind but he managed to hold it at bay with a battery of carefully ordered reasons. Had he not always returned from such translations? Had not some inner resource carried him through the direst of threats both in his own world and in the worlds beyond? And was it probable that he would succumb now, after the terrible enemies who had sought to destroy or enslave him had been destroyed? And when he had finally reached the Cadwanen, the goal of his journey? A place that, even with his limited knowledge of it, he could see was full of hope and inquiry and that used the light of the past and the present to illuminate the future. Nothing save hard walking, bad weather and seasickness had threatened him since he had left his home; surely nothing could threaten him now?

  Nor did anything… that he could sense.