Dream Finder

by Roger Taylor

  Then after a timeless interlude of blood-strewn, whirling mayhem, the air was abruptly filled with horn calls.

  Bethlarii horns. Arwain’s heart sank. Reinforcements! As if they needed any. More from the camp, come to see the sport. But his grip tightened around his sword and even as the thoughts taunted him he reached over the shields and struck down a Bethlarii trooper with a blow that cleaved clean through his helmet.

  As he struggled to wrench the blade free, he was searching for his next adversary. But there was none. A space had opened between the Bethlarii and the shield wall. Groping pathetically at his head for some futile measure of the terrible injury Arwain had done, the Bethlarii fell back, not into the arms of his still fighting comrades, but on the heaped bodies of the dead he was soon to join.

  ‘They’re retreating,’ someone next to Arwain said, his voice low with disbelief.

  The noise of the avenging army faded and that of the calling horns rose to dominate the valley. The gap between the two forces widened.

  ‘They are retreating,’ came needless confirmation from several voices simultaneously.

  Arwain became aware of his own raucous breathing and gradually his mind slowed sufficiently to accommodate this new pace of events. The army must have arrived, he realized ecstatically. But turning round, such of the valley that he could see was still deserted.

  Then a hand took his elbow and he found himself looking along someone’s pointing arm up on to the southern ridge. Clearly visible in the pale wintry sun was a long marching column.

  ‘And the north ridge too, look!’ someone called.

  A cheer began to rise up from the square, but a powerful voice stilled it.

  ‘Hold your positions! Strict battle order! Archers – priests and officers, targets of opportunity.’

  It was Ryllans, teaching still.

  Chapter 35

  ‘Got yourself in a fine mess there, brother,’ Menedrion said as he unexpectedly embraced Arwain. Then he looked him up and down appraisingly. ‘How much of that is yours?’ he asked.

  Arwain followed his half-brother’s gaze, looking first at his hands and then at his clothes. In common with his companions, he was covered in blood. Tentatively he felt about himself.

  ‘None, I think,’ he concluded after a moment. ‘Or not much anyway.’

  Menedrion shook his head and reached up to touch Arwain’s helmet. He ran a finger along an indentation. ‘It’s a wonder,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to be the thinker, Arwain. Has it never occurred to you that blocking stones and sword blows with your head is not the wisest of things to do?’

  There was little time for such exchanges, however. Menedrion’s reaction on hearing of his half-brother’s intention to launch an attack on the vastly superior Bethlarii force had been the same as everyone else’s, namely, considerable alarm, and this had manifested itself in the speed at which he had led his two divisions to Arwain’s aid.

  However, it had been no mindless charge and, noting Arwain’s information that the ridges had not been taken by the Bethlarii, Menedrion had sent gallopers ahead to tell the infantry from the approaching Stor division to move along the north ridge, while the infantry from one of his own divisions moved along the south. The remaining infantry and all the cavalry were to follow them along the valley floor.

  The tactic was intended to look like a large-scale encirclement of the forces around Whendrak, and would indeed have served as such had opportunity presented itself. Menedrion, however, harboured only moderate hopes that this would happen, as the ridge routes were not easy and were too visible from below to allow surprise. Further, the mountain weather was, untypically, clear that day.

  Nevertheless, the prospect of such an assault had been sufficient to make those Bethlarii attacking Arwain withdraw at full speed.

  Now, it was essential that the three arms of the attacking force continue towards Whendrak, the valley force in particular chasing the Bethlarii back to their camp and, with good fortune, causing panic there that might lead to a precipitate withdrawal from the valley.

  ‘I can’t see that happening, to be honest,’ Menedrion said to Arwain. ‘But at least they’ll have to pull back from the city before they make a stand and that’ll be some gain. Wait here until father arrives or until you hear from me.’

  Briefly Arwain had considered protesting at being left behind, but the thought expired almost as it was born. He was exhausted, thirsty, hungry, shocked, and now cold, as the frenzy of the battle faded away. His men were the same and they must be looked to before he himself could even think of rest.

  Menedrion left some of his pioneers and commissary staff behind as he moved off along the valley. Soon they were pitching tents, lighting fires, rigging kitchens, and, the most wretched of their tasks, clearing the battlefield.

  Later, their men tended as their needs demanded, Ryllans and Arwain sat leaning against a rock by an open fire.

  ‘How are you?’ Ryllans asked, looking at his pupil.

  Arwain was about to utter a conventional platitude when he caught Ryllans’ eye.

  ‘Sick,’ he answered truthfully. ‘And bewildered. My head’s still ringing with the noise, my arms twitching with hesitant sword and shield strokes, and my eyes and my legs are still watching for arrows and spears falling out of the sky. And thoughts are circling my mind as relentlessly as the Bethlarii did our square. It’s as if the least slip on my part would bring them crashing down on me.’ He picked up a small twig from the edge of the fire and tossed it into the flames. ‘I want to be back home with my wife, fretting about my training and my duties and palace politics . . .’

  Ryllans smiled slightly and nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Don’t be concerned about your thoughts. While you can see them, and while you’re that honest with yourself, they’re not going to hurt you. Your mind has to twitch just like your body after such a shock. And you’re not alone, Duke’s son.’

  He held out his hand. It was shaking.

  Arwain looked at it in some surprise. ‘Every time I looked at you, you seemed so calm,’ he said.

  ‘As did you,’ Ryllans replied. ‘Indeed, as we both were, given the circumstances. But being calm in battle isn’t the same as being calm by one’s fireside.’

  Arwain remembered his own legs shaking as he had confronted the Bethlarii priest between the two armies.

  ‘You’ve a way with the obvious,’ he said with a slight laugh that cracked and died.

  Ryllans’ head came forward a little and he stared at Arwain intently. ‘You’re right, I do have a way with the obvious,’ he said. ‘And for good reason. One man’s obvious is another man’s ignorance.’ He reached out and took Arwain’s arm, to catch his attention. Arwain turned and met his gaze. ‘All the battles you’ve fought before have been as a cavalry officer, Arwain,’ he went on. ‘You’ve no measure of what it’s like in the line, no measure of the obvious. So I’ll tell you now, I’ve been in battles longer and bloodier than this by far, but I’ve never known anything as terrifying. Not even at Viernce. Never been so frightened of that random arrow or spear, of my own weakness, my inadequacy. The thoughts circling my head are saying, “How did we hold so long?” Over and over.’ His grip on Arwain’s arm tightened. ‘They’ll pass, I know, but believe me, tales of this brief little battle here will ring down through history. Storytellers will eat well, making their listeners sweat and shiver with the excitement and the bravery of it.’

  Arwain continued looking at him as this revelation broke over him. It should not be thus; it should be the terror and horror of it that persisted, not the vicarious excitement and misunderstood bravery. But that, he knew, was a matter beyond any controlling.

  Then a dark thought emerged into the light. ‘The stuff of tales it might have been, but it was a mistake for all that,’ he said.

  Ryllans did not respond.

  ‘I misjudged completely the speed of their column and the speed at which we could withdraw.’ Arwain’s guilt found words. ‘We sho
uld never have had to stand and face them.’

  Ryllans seemed unconcerned. ‘We both misjudged them,’ he said abruptly. ‘But we were neither foolish nor careless and that’s all the solace you’re going to get. War is misjudgement writ large, and chance, let alone misjudgement, runs riot. That’s why we train. So that we can respond to the unforeseeable with some hope of surviving. Just concentrate on learning what’s to be learnt.’

  His guilt cauterized by Ryllans’ words, rather than purged, Arwain sat silent, gazing into the crackling fire.

  Ryllans stared out over the empty, scarred ground that had been so bitterly fought over but an hour ago.

  He scowled.

  ‘We’ve got nine dead and twelve, maybe fifteen, seriously injured,’ he said, half to himself. ‘But they must have lost perhaps seventy or eighty dead, including at least one of their precious priests. And god knows how many more were badly injured.’

  Arwain turned to him. Ryllans’ words stirred something that was on the edge of his own thoughts.

  ‘It was a cruel ambush we launched against them,’ he said.

  Ryllans nodded. ‘But their response was absurd nevertheless. All those men killed for virtually nothing. All they had to do once we chose to stand was to surround us, bring up more archers from the camp, and use us for shooting practice.’ He shook his head. ‘They could have destroyed us utterly without losing a single man.’ He gave a slightly bitter smile. ‘They’d even have got all their arrows back afterwards.’

  ‘They didn’t have time with the army so close,’ Arwain offered, glad to be exercising his mind with practicalities.

  ‘It wouldn’t have taken long,’ Ryllans answered, brutally. ‘And anyway, they didn’t know the army was coming. If they didn’t even bother to post proper sentries, it’s highly unlikely they’d done any reconnaissance beyond the valley.’

  Arwain had no reply. Ryllans was right. The Bethlarii had been well disciplined in the defence of their marching column, but wildly reckless in their assault on the square. And no amount of anger, however justified, should have turned disciplined fighters into such a disordered rabble.

  Ryllans’ eyes narrowed. ‘They’re possessed utterly by this religion of theirs,’ he said. ‘Logic and reason have gone and they’re going back to what they must have been centuries ago: ignorant, vicious barbarians.’

  Arwain held out his hands to the fire.

  ‘No attempt to secure the ridges, no lookouts along the valley, inadequate sentries. It’s certainly bad, and it’s certainly not typical of them,’ he mused. ‘But I’m not sure what it tells us, except that such carelessness may be to our advantage.’

  ‘It tells us that they’re unpredictable and thus perhaps more dangerous than they’ve ever been,’ Ryllans said starkly. ‘I’ve seen religious fanatics take a score of arrows and still kill people before they died. It’s not good for morale I can assure you. But . . .’ He raised a finger to forestall a question. ‘While we’re aware of the problem, we can deal with it. Thought and calmness in action, coupled with a steadfastness of purpose . . .’

  ‘Murderous ruthlessness, you mean,’ Arwain interrupted.

  Ryllans nodded and continued. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Thought and calmness and murderous ruthlessness will give us the day.’

  The two men fell silent and, after a moment, Arwain drifted off to sleep. Ryllans reached across and pulled his cloak about him, then settled back against the rock and closed his eyes.

  To a casual observer, it would have appeared that the Mantynnai had fallen asleep like his Lord, but at the sound of a soft footfall nearby, a thin bright line appeared under the seemingly closed lids.

  He was surrounded by his own kind and those that they trained, but his hand eased itself inconspicuously into his cloak and towards one of his knives. There was something odd about the sound; it was too soft, and there was no call for stealth in this place.

  The reason for the softness manifested itself almost immediately as a woman emerged into view around the rock. It could have been one of the nurses from the medical corps, but Ryllans’ hand did not move from his knife, and for an instant there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

  ‘Lady Nefron,’ he said.

  The woman drew in a sharp breath and lifted her hand to her heart as she turned quickly towards him.

  ‘You startled me,’ she said.

  Ryllans made no apology, but he stood up and stepped towards her, placing himself between her and the sleeping Arwain.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, politely, but authoritatively. ‘This may yet be a battleground again. Do you have the Duke’s permission to be here?’

  Nefron’s eyes blazed. ‘Of course,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Do you imagine I’m free just because I’m no longer in the Erin-Mal? I can do nothing without his word, nor go anywhere without an escort of stone-faced troopers following me. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you? As you and your kind trained them.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ryllans replied.

  Nefron flinched as if her own venom had rebounded from Ryllans’ flat reply. ‘I asked to come because I thought I’d be able to help your wounded,’ she went on. ‘That’s what I’ve been dragged along for, isn’t it?’

  ‘The Duke doesn’t consult me on such matters,’ Ryllans said. ‘But the men will appreciate your concern. Fighting is a cruel matter, all solace is welcome.’

  Nefron looked at him intently.

  ‘I can’t read you, Mantynnai,’ she said after a moment. ‘Most men I can read, manipulate if I have to. But not you; none of you. Always you elude me. What are you thinking? Why are you the way you are? Foreigners dying for this land, this man, my husband?’

  ‘We are what we are,’ Ryllans answered. ‘Who can say why?’

  ‘You can,’ Nefron answered unequivocally. Ryllans did not reply.

  Nefron blew out a long irritated breath, then shivered. She hunched her shoulders and pulled her cloak about her tightly. Involuntarily, Ryllans’ hand reached out to help her.

  ‘Careful, Mantynnai,’ she said tartly, her lip curling. ‘That was a touch of humanity.’

  There was a brief flash of terrible anger in Ryllans’ eyes. ‘You waste your life in this futile railing at your own pain, Nefron,’ he said, his voice quiet but very powerful. ‘You ask who I am, who we are, the Mantynnai. You should first ask who you are, before you concern yourself with others.’

  Nefron’s eyes widened at this unexpected rebuke and she drew herself up angrily. Before she could respond, however, Ryllans was standing in front of her with a knife in his hand. He had drawn it with a movement so swift and skilful that she had scarcely seen it.

  Terror replaced the anger in her face, but the hand that came up was as defiant as it was defensive.

  Ryllans grasped it forcefully and placed the knife in it, his own hand tightening her fingers around its hilt.

  ‘Kill him,’ he said with a casual nod towards the sleeping Arwain that belied the immovability of his grip. ‘Have your heart’s desire. The object of your endless scheming. Fulfil your darkest ambitions. I’ll not hinder you, on my word.’

  Nefron’s lean, handsome face had become contorted with shock and bewilderment and she began to sway. Ryllans put a powerful arm around her and jerked her upright. ‘No, Nefron, there’s no escape on the battlefield, you kill or you are killed,’ he said, his foreign accent suddenly strong. The hand holding the knife in hers pointed it towards Arwain.

  ‘Kill him now,’ he said. ‘As you’ve always wanted. Destroy the product of your husband’s divided, perhaps foolish, love; his few stolen couplings with your sister.’ He bent her forward. ‘What’s a little more blood this day? It’s soon done. I can show you how to do it. Show you where to plunge the point, turn the blade so as not to make too much mess, see . . .’

  The knife was almost at Arwain’s throat.

  With a strangled cry and a prodigious effort, Nefron wrenched herself upright and stepped back. Calmly, Ryllans r
eleased her hand and stood staring at her.

  She hurled the knife away with a mixture of fury and revulsion, then she turned on her unexpected tormentor. Her mouth was working, but no sounds came. A lesser woman, a mere Lord’s wife, would have screamed and sobbed, protested about such unwarranted and brutal handling. But instead she managed to gasp out, after a long, agonizing struggle, ‘How did you know?’

  Ryllans held her gaze. ‘Mud stains over the bloodstains on your elegant cloak. Fine-crafted shoes soiled beyond repair. Blood on your hands . . . and on your face.’ He pointed, and Nefron lifted a hand to her face, though she lowered it before it reached its destination. ‘You’ve been wandering this field, oblivious to where you were. Doubtless you rushed here on the pretext of comforting our wounded for some subtle, scheming reason of your own. Perhaps you even came as a mother anxious about Menedrion. Or perhaps you came to see if your long, wearisome vengeance had been wrought at last, and Arwain killed.’ Nefron could not turn away and Ryllans continued relentlessly. ‘But you’ve seen the dead and their fearful mutilations. Seen men’s entrails and precious limbs scattered across the mountain turf, with birds and animals waiting to snuffle among them, but hopping and scuttling to one side as you approach; deferential, fearful in the presence of one of the great predators. You’ve seen the faces of the dead, with their shocked, unbelieving eyes. And you’ve seen the terrible, screaming wounds of the maimed.’ He leaned forward towards her. ‘But worst of all, you’ve seen into their eyes, and into the eyes of all the men who fought here.’

  ‘How did you know?’ She mouthed the phrase distantly, as if it were all she had left to hold on to.

  ‘It’s in your eyes now,’ Ryllans said. ‘But I know because I myself am not yet returned from the raw, bloody edge of today’s events. I’m still in the killing vein. Life, death, a flick of the wrist.’ He made the gesture in front of her face. ‘My sight is still too sharp, too clear. It sees into your soul and cannot do other than kill the monstrous folly it sees dwelling there.’