by Roger Taylor
Falling in beside Menedrion he looked about him at the purposeful activity of the company establishing its camp around them. All manner of noises filled the air: hammering and banging, shouted commands, laughter, oaths, some vigorous but tuneless singing, the occasional bark of a dog somewhere, the neighing of disturbed horses . . .
And it smelt of damp, newly crushed grass, savoury meats from an impromptu kitchen somewhere, smoke from the dozens of torches that were transforming the camp into a flickering world of brightness and shadows.
‘May I speak, sir?’ he said eventually.
Menedrion grunted.
‘I don’t think you should concern yourself with what’s happening in the dream worlds,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing you can do except follow my, or Antyr’s, advice. There’s some Dream Finder blood in your family’s veins without a doubt, that’s why you sensed the Bethlarii’s pain. But the true skill hasn’t been given to you and you’re helpless there. As helpless as I’d be these days in an infantry line.’
‘Does this have a point?’ Menedrion said.
Pandra felt the edge in his voice, but continued.
‘Strange forces are moving against us, sir,’ he said, watching Menedrion carefully. ‘Forces that none of us understand, but which will destroy us if we don’t accept their reality. And the reality is that they’re attacking you through your dreams and only a Dream Finder can truly protect you.’
A twitch of impatience made a fleeting appearance on Menedrion’s face, but Pandra went on, his voice unexpectedly forceful.
‘You know the truth of that, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ve felt it and you’re too clear-sighted to deny it.’
Menedrion did not reply.
‘The cavalry trust the infantry to split the enemy line so that they can drive into it,’ Pandra continued. ‘The infantry trust the cavalry to guard their flanks and rear. If you climb a siege tower you trust your engineers know their work and that it won’t collapse under you. So it is here. You must trust me and get on with the tasks that are yours. I’m your shield-bearer in the dream world. Kany and I might be just a rabbit and a frail old man here, but our Dreamselves are not so. We’ve more than enough skill to protect you. Kany on his own has spirit enough to quell a wolf; you’ve felt that too, I know.’
Menedrion stopped and looked at him, doubt beginning to replace his angry impatience.
‘You must fight where you fight best, sir,’ Pandra said, almost reckless now. ‘Not cloud your judgement with matters beyond your knowledge and training. Your task is to help your father avoid war with the Bethlarii, or, if that fails, to arm his army from your forges and lead it against them. If you fail in this, then we’re all lost.’
‘And if you or Antyr fail against these . . . powers . . . as you call them?’ Menedrion asked soberly.
Pandra looked into his eyes. ‘Then, too, we’re probably all lost,’ he replied slowly.
‘This isn’t easy,’ Menedrion said, expelling a noisy breath.
‘Have you ever fought a battle that was?’ Pandra retorted. ‘Or one that wasn’t different from every other? Or one that didn’t cause you pain and loss even when you won?’
Menedrion did not reply.
Pandra went on. ‘Each new weapon that’s invented, each new tactic that’s thought of, always breeds its own reply. Defences are invented that were never dreamt of before. So it is here. Despite feeling the reality of what’s happened to you, you still rebel at the idea of strange forces assailing us through our dreams. Yet, just as they came from some place beyond our knowledge, in response to them comes an equally strange, improbable defender; a poor spark of a man, seemingly hell-bent on destroying himself for most of his life, suddenly thrust forward by . . . fate . . . chance . . . who knows?’ He echoed Feranc’s words. ‘Just like some inconsequential pikeman who somehow rallies his comrades when they’re about to break.’
He hesitated. ‘I think perhaps we must accept, sir, that we may not be the principals in this conflict. We may be unwitting participants in some greater battle. But whatever, we must each face the enemies that we can face and trust others to do likewise.’
Menedrion looked up into the night sky. It was too dark to see the clouds and the air was full of rising sparks and a swirling haze of smoke from fires and torches. ‘I concede your conclusions,’ he said. ‘They’re scarcely profound. But let’s not pretend this is some “battle of the gods” we’re involved in, Dream Finder. Somewhere at the back of it all are men. What you could be usefully doing is finding them. Once you’ve done that . . .’ He slapped his sword hilt. ‘I’ll need no magic skills for dealing with them.’
Then with an abrupt though not discourteous nod, he dismissed Pandra and strode off through the hectic camp, his heavy form black in the torchlight. Pandra watched him go, then turned to head back to his wagon.
‘You handled that very well,’ came a patronizing voice in his head.
‘Thank you, Kany,’ he replied. ‘And thank you for the support you gave me by pretending to be asleep all the time.’
The rabbit ignored the jibe. ‘Spirit to quell a wolf, eh?’ he preened. ‘Very poetic. And very true.’
‘No. Just very poetic,’ Pandra replied caustically. ‘I’ve a professional and patriotic obligation to keep up the morale of my client, and that allows me a little . . . licence . . . with the truth at such times.’
Kany gave a dismissive snort, then, abruptly serious, he said, ‘Do you think he understands?’
Pandra shrugged. ‘Why should he?’ he replied. ‘We don’t. Nor, for that matter, does Antyr. I just hope I told him the truth when I spoke about Antyr as our unheralded defender. What he can do awes me, but I’d feel a lot easier if I could see a little more technique and a little less luck in the proceedings.’
‘Technique? Luck?’ Kany burst out scornfully. ‘I despair of you creatures. You’re so . . .’ He struggled for a word. ‘. . . so cluttered . . . disjointed . . . unaware . . .’ He gave up. ‘Of course you told Menedrion the truth. You just weren’t listening! How you ever survived as a species, being so deaf, blind and stupid, defies me utterly. I suppose it’s MaraVestriss’s idea of a joke.’ His mood darkened. ‘In which case, with a sense of humour like that, he must be human himself. That’s a grim thought I could well have done without.’
‘Would you like a carrot?’ Pandra said into the inky silence that followed this revelation.
* * * *
Later, Pandra lay down luxuriously on his hard bed and prepared to search out the sleeping Menedrion’s mind. Had he chosen, he could have reached it instantly, but he preferred to allow his Dreamself to wander through the great cloud of whirling night thoughts that rose from the camp, rather as a general might survey the terrain he was in before moving his forces against a particular foe; though to Pandra this preliminary excursion was more like entering a great library or a beautiful garden than preparing for a battle.
Just as the smoke from the fires and torches rose into the sky and diffused and reflected their light to form a hazy, orange dome over the camp, so the thoughts and dreams of the company hovered like a shimmering golden cloud around Pandra as Kany carried him forward on the search. It was a skill that had grown immeasurably since they had met Antyr, and both revelled in it.
They drifted, timeless, weightless, unhindered.
Where they chose to listen, the noise was clamorous, and where they chose to look, the scenes were hectic and boisterous. But all was well; the company was predominantly male, and no strange shadows moved through the haze, nor untoward sounds or movements disturbed it.
Very tentatively, and despite Kany’s stern disapproval, Pandra touched the Bethlarii’s mind. It made him start: it was raw with swirling emotions, dominant among which was fear. But there was nothing untoward and Pandra abandoned it feeling slightly ashamed at his intrusion.
Then he did sense a presence. It was faint, like a star in the corner of his eye, appearing fitfully between slowly drifting clouds. It was,
however, quite definite.
Without speaking, Kany brought Pandra instantly to the fringes of Menedrion’s night thoughts.
Nothing was amiss.
Although Menedrion was not dreaming, Pandra knew that the tide of his sleep was carrying him into the dreamlight of the Nexus.
Then the presence was there also; still faint, but nevertheless sharp and hard. Pandra sensed Kany’s cruel fighting instincts preparing to defend their charge, but feeling no immediate menace himself he gently breathed a soft word of patience.
Silently, but very alert, Dream Finder and Companion waited, as Menedrion drew nearer to his dream. The presence waited also.
Pandra began to feel a sense of loss about it. Helplessness.
Confusion.
Then, as he had always been, he was Menedrion. He was alone and desolate, and sitting on the Ducal throne amid a deserted and decaying palace. A group of crows were bickering noisily around a gaping hole in the ceiling; the floor was littered with debris and the remains of broken furniture; pictures were defaced and statues smashed, and beyond the lichen-stained walls, he knew, lay a country ravaged by plague, famine, and war.
Pandra did not speak, but let his reassuring presence be felt. The scene, though grim, was no more than might be expected from a leader facing unknown responsibilities.
And yet, there was more. The presence was there also, but now it was in the dream; of the dream; he, Menedrion, felt it. Yet still it had no menace.
Kany waited. On the instant, he would snatch Menedrion back to wide-eyed wakefulness.
Then he was outside the palace, walking through the wrecked streets of Serenstad. Some of the houses were burning and the air rang with the cries of the sick and the dying. Here and there, groups of people were running from building to building. Looters.
Pandra reeled. He was no longer Menedrion! He was . . . Arwain!
And yet he was Menedrion!
He was both! He was inside the palace, surrounded by decay, and he was outside, walking the ruined streets.
Sensitives. Kany formed the word in his mind. Ibris’s bloodline. The dreams of the half-brothers had come together. Arwain it must have been who unwittingly rescued Menedrion from the Threshold three nights ago, Pandra realized.
What shall I do? Pandra thought softly to Kany.
Nothing, came the reply. Watch and wait. There’s no danger . . . so far.
Menedrion rose from the throne and walked down the steps of the dais on which it stood. Dust and rubble crunched under his feet. Angrily he kicked away a silver goblet and it clattered noisily along the floor until it came to rest against an overturned table.
Arwain wandered, bemused and lost. Beggars held out their arms to him; mothers, their sick children. Smoke drifted into the street adding an acrid edge to the sweet smell of decay and death. He felt so weary, so sick. Somewhere was an answer to all this; but where? All the streets were familiar, but they were not where they had been – it was as if they had been shuffled and rejoined like the pieces of some child’s game. He moved from place to place that should not have been together and yet were, and always had been.
Menedrion stepped up on to the fallen gates of the palace and looked across the palace square at the jagged, broken remains of the Ibrian monument. The square was surrounded by broken walls and charred ruins.
Rage boiled up within him. ‘No!’ he thundered. ‘I will not have this.’
He started to run.
Arwain also began to run. His head pounded.
Menedrion felt the city streets moving under his feet as though he were motionless on a great treadmill. It came to him that, run as he might, he would not be able to escape.
Arwain, however, ran faster and faster, his breath gasping, his heart racing. He had to escape the destruction around him, the pain in his head. He had to escape.
Then a strange feeling of hope seemed to be just ahead of him.
Pandra felt Kany stiffening then releasing himself for movement. Nyriall had run towards hope in the Threshold, and moved from world to world!
‘We must waken them,’ Kany said urgently.
‘No,’ Pandra replied. ‘Not yet. They need each other.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
Arwain reached a small archway. It was a focus; the end of his chase. He reached out his arms to touch both sides then he leaned forward into it.
Beyond, brilliant against the begrimed horror of the destroyed city, was a beautiful land, with rolling countryside and forests through which great rivers flowed, shining silver and gold under the bright summer sun. He breathed in the heavy scents of grasses and trees that came to him softly on a warm summer breeze. Two paces more and he could lie down and rest his pulsing head among flowers and clovers.
Menedrion began to turn and turn, making the city whirl about him.
‘No!’ he shouted again. Then, ‘Arwain! To me! To me! This must not be. To me!’
Abruptly, he stopped.
Arwain turned.
Ibris’s sons faced one another. Behind Menedrion lay ruined Serenstad like a crumpled map. Behind Arwain stood the archway, blue with summer sky and bright with the hope of a world beyond that of men.
Arwain beckoned Menedrion forward, gesturing towards the archway.
Pandra, bound to each of the Dreamselves, found their two desires, needs, resonating with his own. This was, beyond a doubt, a Gateway to the Threshold. How it came to be found by a dreamer unaided was a question that could perhaps never be answered . . .
He is sensitive, he is injured, and he has travelled here before, came Kany’s thoughts, colder, less awed than the Dream Finder’s, but fearful for all that.
. . . but he had found it, and just as Arwain, bruised and hurt, sought the seeming solace of the world it opened on to, so Pandra, the Dream Finder, was drawn almost irresistibly to step through into the world he knew he might never find again. Yet too he knew that dangers lay beyond the Gateway with which he was not equipped to contend. And to step through would be to enter a world from which he might not be able to return, leaving his body perhaps to perish here.
And it was not the way, Menedrion knew. Here was where they both belonged. Fighting to bring the beauty of the world beyond to this world here. Fighting to prevent the horrors about them. Not chasing after vague shadows; resting while their people suffered.
Pandra was surprised at Menedrion’s perceptiveness and his deep feeling for his future role.
The situation, however, was dangerous and, to his horror, caught in both Dreamselves, Pandra knew he could do nothing. He could speak to either, but he could not instruct the dreamer; the Dreamself was not the real self and would not necessarily be directed by reason.
And, in any event, he was as torn as they were. The desires of the half-brothers began to mingle. Both felt the lure of the beautiful world beyond, both knew that they did not belong there.
Then the archway began to grow larger. Arwain staggered towards the brightness.
Menedrion’s hand closed about his brother’s in the instant that Kany’s powerful reflexes, beyond all conscious control now, tore away the veils of sleep.
Chapter 29
Pandra dashed through the camp, accompanied by the guard who had been posted outside his wagon. The air was cold and damp and, after only a few paces, the dew-sodden grass had soaked his feet and the hem of his robe.
The dull red remains of camp fires, and the guttering efforts of a few torches were all that lit their way, though, to the east, the sky was greying slightly.
The guard, still bewildered by Pandra’s abrupt and explosive emergence from the wagon, was leading the way.
‘There, sir,’ he said, pointing towards a large tent.
Menedrion’s tent, however, needed no identification, for the entrance flap had been thrown back and the Duke’s son was standing there, illuminated by lamplight from within. He was berating two sentries who were making a desperate attempt to rekindle a fire.
Pandra
stopped and raised his hands in relief.
‘Sir!’ he shouted. Menedrion started and peered into the gloom. Pandra stepped forward and without any courtesies took Menedrion’s elbow and guided him back into the tent.
Inside, Menedrion yanked his arm free. ‘I was about to send for you, general,’ he said acidly. ‘I have the feeling that you left our retreat a little late there, or am I mistaken?’ Then, angrily, ‘What in thunder’s name is going on? And why was Arwain there? And where is he now?’
Pandra dropped down into a nearby chair and leaned forward, breathing heavily.
‘Give him a chance to catch his breath, man,’ Kany’s voice snapped angrily into Menedrion’s mind. ‘He’s older than your father, you know. He shouldn’t be being bounced about the countryside in a cart like a pig going to market. And even less should he be running around at this time of night to be roared at by ungracious louts. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t catch a chill.’
Menedrion started back at Kany’s commanding tone and began to raise his hand apologetically. Then he clenched his fists and, after taking a long breath, burst out furiously, ‘I won’t be spoken to like that by a . . . a . . . rabbit! By a . . . pie filling!’
Kany struggled out of one of Pandra’s pockets. Pandra was still catching his breath, but he placed a restraining hand on his Companion’s indignant head. It was to little avail.
‘I’d give you a rare belly ache, Irfan Menedrion,’ Kany retorted furiously. ‘It’s me you can thank for getting you out of there at all.’
Menedrion’s jaw came out and he raised a menacing finger.
‘Enough, enough,’ Pandra managed at last. ‘No more, please. It’s like being in a sack with a cat and a dog with you two. Please give a moment then we’ll talk quietly, and calmly.’
