Dream Finder

by Roger Taylor

  There was a long silence.

  The noises of the crackling fire and of the camp eddied idly around the two motionless figures.

  Then Nefron bowed her head slightly, and, without speaking, turned back towards the camp.

  Ryllans watched her retreating figure until she was completely out of sight, then he sat down again, his face unreadable. His hands were shaking again.

  Arwain slept.

  Lying in the camp nearby, drifting in and out of sleep were Antyr, Tarrian, and Grayle. They had arrived with Menedrion somewhat the worse for wear: Antyr sore and weary through the long-sustained ride, Tarrian and Grayle footsore and thirsty with the relentless pace that Menedrion had set.

  Despite his tiredness, however, Antyr’s increasing sensitivity felt Arwain’s sleeping thoughts and he was with him on the instant. The dreamselves of Tarrian and Grayle joined him almost as quickly.

  Estaan, sitting near Antyr’s rough bunk and idly flicking through a book, noted the change in the demeanour of the three sleeping figures. Increasingly familiar with the ways of the Dream Finder and his Companions, he knew that beneath the closed lids, Antyr’s eyes would be black as night, like deep pits, while those of the two wolves would be yellow, wild, and all-seeing. Quietly he moved his chair to the entrance of the tent so as to prevent any incautious entry.

  Arwain’s sleep was slight and flimsy, and, like Ryllans, his sensitivities raw. In the mists he felt the presence of Antyr and the wolves and he grimaced inwardly. Discreet and intangible though it was, their attention felt intrusive. The all-too-real horrors of the day had driven the strange happenings of recent nights from his mind completely, and now that he was reminded of them in his shallow, twilight slumber, they seemed to have lost any semblance of significance.

  ‘Leave me. No sleeping thoughts can harm me after today.’

  ‘We are here by your father’s will, and such a judgement is not yours to make.’

  ‘Leave me!’

  Silence.

  ‘Leave me!’

  ‘We cannot. Rest, lord, that we may rest also. This field is a distressing place for my Companions. Human barbarism frightens them at levels far beyond my comforting.’

  Anger and disbelief. ‘Wolves, frightened by killing?’

  Rasping scorn. ‘We kill to eat, lord. What do you kill for? You’d soon put a spear through my ribs if you found me eating your dead, but you made them thus, and you’d let them rot here.’

  Arwain’s mind filled with the complex maze of reasoning that he had struggled through during the day, but it foundered in the light of the wolves’ contempt. Not because it was flawed, but because it was human, and could not hope to stand against the deep wisdom and knowledge of these wild creatures.

  Gently, Antyr’s will stilled the wolves’ fears and they slipped to the boundaries of Arwain’s thoughts, beyond even his most sensitive seeing.

  Stillness.

  Then, in the far, eyeless distance, he sensed the long mournful howl of the two wolves, rich and subtle in harmony and rhythm, rising and falling in accordance with some spirit unknowable by the listener.

  In the dark stillness of his mind, Arwain looked at his image in the shining blade of his sword, now cleaned of the day’s gore.

  ‘I want to be home, at peace, with my wife, my friends. This is no way to be . . .’

  Hesitation. ‘Yet not for anything would I have been anywhere other than here this day. Standing with my companions and holding the line. Fighting the demons in myself as well as the enemy beyond. Learning.’

  The howling drifted further and further away, beautiful, longing, lost.

  From under Arwain’s closed lids, a tear emerged. It slid down his cheek, a bright, slender strand, cutting its way through the grime of battle that stained his face.

  Then, far beyond even the wolves’ howling, he heard a faint, ground-shaking thunder . . .

  He listened. It was important.

  But it was gone.

  * * * *

  Ivaroth’s army moved relentlessly southward. Certain though he was of the absence of most of the Bethlarii menfolk from the northern regions, he did not proceed rashly. The sudden, unexpected, ferocity of Magret had reminded him vividly that these were a stern and warlike people, well steeped in the ways of combat, and that to trifle with them was to risk disaster.

  Sooner or later, the knowledge of their arrival in the land would spread faster than they could move, but Ivaroth determined that this would be as late as possible, and that when, finally, major resistance was mounted against him, he would be operating from a territory extensive and secure enough to sustain his army without the need to rely on lines of supply through the mountains.

  Accordingly, the land to be passed over was well scouted before the army moved forward. Small communities and isolated farms were destroyed without hesitation, as were lone travellers, or any other potential carriers of news who found themselves in Ivaroth’s path.

  Thus the city of Navra was taken completely by surprise. ‘It’s many times bigger than the villages we’ve seen so far, with great buildings, taller than the highest trees,’ Ivaroth told his scouts as they prepared to leave. ‘And a great stone wall about the whole of it.’ They looked at him in respectful silence. The Mareth Hai’s knowledge of this land and these people was as strange as it was accurate, but this wild oratory provoked some discreet sidelong glances from the scouts as they rode off.

  ‘Ha!’ he laughed grimly as they returned, wide-eyed. ‘You took your Mareth Hai for a rambling storyteller when you left, didn’t you? But tell us what you found.’

  A flurry of anxious denials met this ominous rebuke, and details of the city with its great buildings and surrounding wall poured out over the amazed listeners.

  ‘It is thus, I tell you. We all saw it. The Mareth Hai’s sight is beyond understanding.’

  Airily accepting this adulation, Ivaroth turned his officers’ minds to the practical problems of taking such a place.

  From his travels through the dreams of the Bethlarii, he had learned a great deal about their art of war, and he knew that while it might be possible to lay siege to a city such as Navra, it would be difficult, and debilitating for his men. Further, it would tie down too much of the army and risk their premature discovery. Despite the ingenuity that had been shown in the passage through the mountains, he also had little faith in the ability of even his cleverest men to build siege towers and rock-throwing catapults.

  No. The most effective way to take a city was by surprise, or treachery. He had no friends within the city who would open the gate, so he must ensure surprise.

  And he did. A few men, posing as benighted travellers, gained access at one of the smaller gates and, quickly disposing of the unwary guards, threw the gate wide open.

  There then followed a night of slaughter and terror as the citizens of Navra were awakened by the crackle and roar of burning buildings, the clatter of hooves galloping through their stone-flagged streets, and the screams of the dying mingling with the triumphant cries of their murderers.

  The many men and women who snatched up swords and spear from their bedsides and dashed into the night to face this unheralded and nightmarish invasion, fell like wheat before the scythe under the hooves of Ivaroth’s rampaging army. Sluggards and dreamers survived.

  Those who managed to reach one of the gates found all of them sealed by these strange and savage mounted men who seemed to be without number.

  Dawn came to a crushed people. Some resistance was being offered hither and thither, not least by a company of reservists, but their obliteration was merely a matter of time, and such of the city fathers as had survived the night accepted Ivaroth’s terms . . .

  ‘Kneel or die.’

  A proud people, many of the citizens secretly denounced this spineless submission by the city’s old men, but it did not take Ivaroth long to demonstrate that he was not only a man of his word, but one of instant execution. To deter opposition to his will, he had
ten people chosen at random and then killed publicly, with the announcement that for every one of his men that was attacked, ten more would die.

  With the city sealed and the invaders present in such overwhelming numbers, overt resistance ceased almost immediately. The Bethlarii were not a cowardly people but, apart from Ivaroth’s ruthlessness, they were shocked almost to stupefaction by the sudden, hammer-blow occupation of their city.

  And too, there was a quality about the old man who was Ivaroth’s constant companion that chilled utterly those who came near him.

  Then, as his forces quelled the immediately surrounding countryside, and the citizens began to recover, Ivaroth splintered any consensus against him by showing unexpected and arbitrary flashes of mercy and kindness: executing some of his own men for rape and for looting, and punishing others in various ways for lesser offences. He appointed a new council of citizens to advise him, and began recompensing some of the citizens who had suffered loss or bereavement during the invasion.

  Also, many of the city’s most respected priests, those too old to be with the army, began to speak of dreams which revealed to them that this seeming scourge was nothing less than the will of Ar-Hyrdyn and that the Bethlarii’s true future lay with those who had the vision to see the true worth of this great and powerful leader from the cold plains beyond the mountains; this Mareth Hai.

  ‘Who could have brought such an army through the mountains without the blessing of Ar-Hyrdyn?’

  It was thus a completely subdued Navra that Ivaroth left behind when he set off with an army towards his next goal, the river town of Endir.

  Nonetheless, he took a liberal sprinkling of hostages and left a substantial garrison to tend the city.

  * * * *

  Ibris frowned a little at Feranc’s news.

  ‘The two men have left Serenstad and are believed to be going to Viernce.’

  ‘You said they’d not be found if they didn’t wish it, didn’t you?’ Ibris said.

  ‘They’re not hiding, or they’d have disappeared without trace,’ Feranc replied. ‘They’ve been quite open and straightforward in their movements, the Liktors only missed them because of the confusion of the mobilization. I’ve sent messages on to Viernce asking for them to join us here. I’d be surprised if they didn’t come.’

  Ibris’s irritation showed. ‘What the devil do they want in Viernce?’ he said angrily.

  ‘Probably more information about the Mantynnai,’ Feranc answered. ‘From the reports I’ve had about them, that seems to be why they’re here.’

  Ibris slapped his hand on the table impatiently. ‘Damn it, I’m not prepared to have these strangers . . .’ He stopped and levelled a finger at Feranc. ‘Are you sure you’re looking for these countrymen of yours properly?’ he demanded.

  Unexpectedly, Feranc smiled and then chuckled in the face of this unwarranted reproach. ‘I am, sire,’ he said with some mild irony around the title. ‘But admittedly not with the urgency that I’m helping you prosecute this war.’

  Ibris scowled by way of apology. ‘I feel the need to talk to them, Ciarll,’ he said, more soberly. ‘Particularly after this.’ He fingered a paper on the table in front of him. It was a message from Menedrion. The Bethlarii had decamped from Whendrak with scarcely a token resistance. ‘It makes no sense.’

  Feranc gave a slight shrug. ‘They may have misjudged the size of the forces coming along the ridges,’ he said. ‘Arwain said that their dispositions around Whendrak and their general discipline showed a remarkable degree of negligence.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ibris replied. ‘But remember, according to what Antyr saw in the envoy’s dream, Whendrak is the lure. They may be retreating to draw us forward, extend our lines and then cut them and encircle us, or begin their true offensive in another region.’

  Feranc looked at Ibris, but offered no comment.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Ibris said into the silence. ‘We’ve been over this twenty times if we’ve been over it once, and all the precautions that can be taken have been taken, but . . .’ He blew out a long, unsettled breath and tapped the paper again. ‘The Bethlarii don’t yield like this. It all seems too easy.’

  Feranc’s expression changed. ‘Not for Arwain and Ryllans it wasn’t,’ he said sternly. ‘That was a rare stand they made.’

  Ibris waved an apologetic hand. ‘Yes. But you understand what I mean.’

  ‘I think you’re too concerned,’ Feranc replied. ‘There’s a limit to the amount of guessing and out-guessing an enemy that can be done sensibly. From what Arwain and his officers have said, my feeling is that in their rise to power, these priests have had to purge much of the army’s officer elite and install their own people. Ignorance won’t tolerate knowledge. And now the army’s paying the price in incompetent leadership.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Ciarll,’ Ibris said. ‘But I’d like you to raise the search for these two men a little higher in your priorities, if you would.’

  Over the following days, Ibris’s army, reinforced by the force from Tellar, moved westward along the Whendrak valley towards Bethlarii territory. Reports reached him from all over the land about the progress of the full voluntary mobilization. Generally it was proceeding well, though not without opposition of varying degrees in certain cities.

  ‘I notice that apathy increases with the distance from Bethlar,’ he said acidly, looking at two almost identical returns from opposite ends of the land, Torrenstad and Lorris. ‘And I see the Guilds are organizing marches against it in Lingren.’ He paused and then became abruptly angry. ‘These people aren’t fit to be fought for! What chance would the Guilds have of surviving if Bethlar took control?’ His anger mounted explosively. ‘Ye gods, we’ve had good men killed already. Ciarll, send to Aaken, tell him to have the leaders of this opposition arrested and conscripted under whatever war regulation he can find. If they want the power and benefits of leadership, then they can earn them by leading from the front. And tell him to make the Sened’s and Gythrin-Dy’s displeasure well known in Torrenstad and Lorris . . .’ He sent a sheaf of papers scattering across the table. ‘And all the others who’re dragging their feet and hiding behind our shields.’

  Then, as suddenly as he had erupted, he became calm. ‘And send our thanks and congratulations to the others. Especially Crowhell.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘They’re rogues to a man down there, but they’re realists. They know what Bethlar would do to their vaunted independence, not to mention their sea trade. They’ve done well. Money and men!’

  Reports also reached him from Meck and Nestar and other cities along the border. Still no surprise Bethlarii incursions had occurred. Increasingly it seemed that they were gathering their forces somewhere west of Whendrak for a major battle.

  Before moving the main part of his army past Whendrak, however, Ibris observed the letter of the treaty meticulously, going in person unarmed to the city gate with a small, flagged escort.

  He was greeted by Haynar. The Maeran’s face was drawn and weary, and his eyes were full of anger and bitterness.

  Ibris had carefully memorized the formal greeting that was required of him in these circumstances, but when he looked at Haynar, he said simply, ‘If you will allow us, we will give you whatever aid you need to repair the damage that has been wrought on your city and your people, Maeran. And we will help you deal with your internal dissension if you wish.’

  Haynar’s angry look did not soften, but no anger reached his voice when he spoke. ‘Part of me would bring down a curse on both your camps for this horror, Duke,’ he said. ‘But I judge this was none, or little, of your doing, and I accept your help for our wounded and sick, with thanks. As for our . . . internal dissension . . . as you choose to call it, little now remains.’ His mouth became a hard line. ‘The instigators have been sent to their precious deity for his judgement in the matter. Whendrak can . . . and will . . . tend its own problems of government.’ Before Ibris could reply, Haynar went on. ‘You have our
permission for your army to pass by the city.’

  These were the words required of the treaty.

  Ibris bowed, but instead of departing, he clicked his horse forward until he was by Haynar’s side. Leaning forward, he laid a hand on the Maeran’s arm.

  Haynar met his gaze forcefully and a grim determination filled his face. ‘This will never be again, Ibris,’ he said. ‘This city has not survived this ordeal to risk being at any time again a pawn in the ancient madness between your two peoples. I give you due warning that we shall fortify our city and arm our people, and use every device at our disposal to increase our power and influence, until we become the third great power in this land.’

  Ibris nodded. ‘This you told my son,’ he replied. ‘It is your right; your duty, even. And while your sword hangs by your Threshold and not at your belt, you’ll have nothing other than friendship and help from Serenstad.’

  ‘This your son told me,’ Haynar replied.

  Eventually, the army reached the end of the valley, and Ibris found himself looking out over the fertile plains that marked the eastern extremity of Bethlarii territory.

  There he waited until he received word about Hyndrak to the north. Hyndrak was a substantial garrison city, and divisions from the cities of Stor and Drew had been sent there directly to seal it and prevent any assault on Ibris’s supply lines as he moved towards Bethlar. This action would also protect their own cities from any direct assaults by the Hyndrak regiments through the mountains.

  ‘Hyndrak has been surrounded. There has been no resistance,’ the message said when it came, adding significantly, ‘We suspect that the Hyndrak regiment has decamped and that there are only reservists here.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Ibris acknowledged flatly. ‘Send word to remind the commanders there that there’s to be no attempt to take or subdue the city.’

  Feranc bowed. ‘All is clear then,’ he said flatly.

  Ibris pulled open the flap of the command tent, and looked out across the rolling Bethlarii pains.