Dream Finder

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Shoot when you’re ready,’ he shouted. ‘Targets of discretion. Aim at the horses.’

  There was a brief lull as the archers waited for the riders to come within effective range.

  Larnss gripped his sword until his hand throbbed.

  Then the archers began to shoot. Almost immediately, the front riders in the charge, already in some disarray, began to break up. The relentless thunder of the horses’ hooves faltered and the air began to fill with the sounds of men cursing and horses screaming in terror and pain as the iron-tipped arrows struck home.

  Many stumbled, bringing down their riders, while many others reared high, forelegs flailing in an attempt to flee this cruel assault.

  Larnss watched this unexpected enemy carefully. Who were they? he asked himself again. There were flags flying among the host, but still he could see nothing he recognized. And the horses were sturdier and slightly smaller than those used by either the Bethlarii or the Serens. But, most bewildering of all, was the sheer number of riders, and, he noted, watching the line disentangle itself, brilliant riders at that, for all that their formation discipline was not particularly good.

  He’d heard of a land beyond the mountains in the far north which was said to be populated by wild tribes of horsemen, but surely . . .?

  ‘Fast!’ he shouted to the archers as the great charge came to a shambling and chaotic halt, with the front riders turning to retreat running into those at the rear who were still advancing. ‘Fast, damn it! Save your arrows for when they’re advancing, not retreating.’

  At the top of the hill, Ivaroth and his senior officers watched in dismay and disbelief as the charge squeezed itself to a halt in the corner formed by the stream, and then began to retreat raggedly under the arrow-fire from the three squares.

  Angrily, Ivaroth seized the reins of his horse and braced himself to charge down among his men. A hand reached out and caught his arm. He turned angrily. It was Endryn. His reaction had been automatic and he was about to express the concern that arrows were no respecters of person when wiser inner counsels prevailed. ‘They’ve spent too long fighting women and old men,’ he said softly so that only Ivaroth could hear. ‘It’s time they were reminded how dangerous these people can be and what a journey lies ahead to the fulfilment of your vision.’

  Ivaroth’s jaw worked agitatedly for a moment, then he nodded grimly. ‘You’re right, Endryn,’ he said. ‘A few dead will be a salutary lesson.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And it’ll save me the trouble of executing some of those blockheads myself,’ he added.

  Despite this routinely cavalier attitude towards his followers however, anxious, more conservative thoughts were increasingly occupying him. Effectively empty of fighting men, Endir, like Navra, had been subdued with ease, and now stood occupied by his army. The army too patrolled the river that ran between the mountains and Endir so that, as far as he knew, no clear news of his invasion had passed westward. Thus he was now in a position to move down into the territory of Serenstad, taking first the small city of Rendd and then the much larger city of Viernce.

  There was no reason why the tactics of careful scouting and surprise that had worked so well at Navra and Endir, and indeed, at all the smaller settlements they had encountered, should not work on Rendd and Viernce also.

  Yet it unsettled him that his knowledge of Serenstad was only a mixture of travellers’ tales, tribal lore, and such as he had been able to learn from the Bethlarii whose dreams he had ravaged. He would have preferred to have taken emotional possession of the Serenstad leadership as he had the Bethlarii, but his few attempts had been oddly unsuccessful. Further, they had shown him, albeit briefly, a vision of a people whose society was far more complex and diverse than that of the Bethlarii, and one much harder to control through the fear and superstition of a few leaders.

  Thus, with an increasing part of his army being left behind to control the conquered territory, and with a more uncertain foe and therefore the most dangerous part of the invasion before him, Ivaroth was concerned by the seeming incompetence of his men now attacking the camp below.

  Rendd, small and sleepy, from what he had heard, should present little or no problem, but Viernce was different. Large, walled and almost certainly garrisoned, it had loomed large in Bethlarii minds as the source of a great defeat brought about by an unexpected resistance on the part of a few brave and ferocious soldiers. It would therefore have to be approached and taken with the utmost skill and speed. But taken it must be. Taken and crushed so that no vestige of resistance lay in its people and so that it could be maintained thus by a comparatively small force. He would need every one of his men to complete the most important stage of his conquest of these rich and lush southern lands, for only when Viernce was quelled would he be able to venture safely westwards towards Whendrak to annihilate whichever battle-weary army had survived the war that he and the blind man had so painstakingly engineered. After that, the pacification of the rest of the country could confidently be left in the hands of his officers while he turned his mind to the running of his new kingdom.

  The culmination of his long-planned ambition rising before him dispelled the momentary anxiety that Ivaroth had felt at the folly of his men in attacking so incompetently this small force they had come upon. Endryn was right, they’d been too long fighting women and old men. He’d bang a few heads together later, and that, coupled with the casualties these southerners were inflicting on them, would soon give them their edge again.

  Even so, came the persistent cautionary note, he must keep a careful eye on what was happening. Good horses were good horses and too valuable to be casually thrown away. The local horses were no good.

  Unaware of the brooding presence of the creator of his troubles, Larnss moved restlessly about the square, doing what he could to keep up the heart of his men.

  ‘Hold firm. No horse is going to charge a solid spear line. They’re not as stupid as men. Archers, save your arrows for the leading horses. Take your time. Don’t miss!’

  But if every arrow killed a dozen horses and a dozen men, it would be to no avail, he realized, as the brief interlude following the first charge gave his training an opportunity to exert itself and he did a quick estimate of the massive force ranged against them. It was a chilling deduction. The attackers, whoever they were, seemed to have neither archers nor infantry with which to soften up the squares, but it was asking a lot of even the finest foot soldiers to stand firm against charge after charge.

  ‘You can’t suppress the flesh,’ someone had once told him when he argued the impossibility of cavalry breaking up disciplined infantry. ‘You wait until you’ve stood there holding your pike with a line of horses charging at you. It’s a matter of whose nerve goes first.’

  And there was no question about whose nerve would go first here.

  Nevertheless, the only protection that his company had was to stand as long as they could, and to use their few archers to break up any charges while their arrows lasted. Then . . .

  The question was replaced by another before he could form the grim answer. What were these people doing here? This was clearly Serenstad territory and they had attacked his force without any semblance of warning. They must be what the Duke had feared when he ordered full voluntary mobilization and alerted all border cities and towns to watch for surprise attacks .

  Rendd!

  The vision of the little city – his responsibility – being overwhelmed by these invaders suddenly filled his mind. With a large part of its defending force tied down here, Rendd could not hope to stand against such an army.

  He must get a warning to them.

  Scarcely had the thought occurred to him than a darker one formed. Viernce! After Rendd this must surely be the destination of these riders. And from there . . .!

  He cursed himself for not bringing his horse.

  A cry drew his attention back to the riders. They had regrouped and were starting to gallop forward again. This time they were coming in two wide col
umns, presumably with the intention of sweeping through the gaps between the squares and wheeling to attack on all sides.

  It was an awesome sight and Larnss felt the panic mounting in the men around him.

  ‘First man to falter, I kill,’ he roared spitting out his own terror into the words. ‘They’re riders, not cavalrymen. Look at them! A mob! Archers, take those leading horses! Bring them down! If any get through seize the horses, we must get a message back to Rendd.’

  Roughly he yanked a junior trooper from the rear ranks. ‘You can ride, I’ve seen you,’ he shouted into the young man’s frightened face to make himself heard above the mounting din. ‘If we can get a horse, you’re to ride to Rendd and tell them . . .’ He looked around desperately. Rendd was too big to evacuate and too small to stand against this invader. ‘Tell them what’s happened here and to make whatever peace they can with these people, delaying them as much as they can. Then get a fresh horse and get to Viernce and warn the garrison there.’

  The trooper nodded vaguely, but the approaching horsemen now drew all attention.

  As much by coincidence as by intent, several archers from the three squares loosed their arrows at the same time and a dozen or more horses at the head of each column came crashing down, unseating their riders violently and bringing down several of the horses immediately behind them.

  Nevertheless, many riders leapt over – or moved around the chaos and reached the squares. There was a brief savage interlude as the reservists wielded their spears frantically, unhorsing many of the riders and killing or injuring several others.

  The squares held again, but only just, and the riders began to retreat in disorder once more. Dragging the trooper with him, Larnss pushed through the shield wall and seized the bridle of a riderless horse.

  ‘Get on it and go!’ he roared. ‘Rendd and Viernce! As you’ve never ridden before!’ The young man hesitated, then leapt into the saddle when he saw the fury rising in Larnss’ face.

  Larnss slapped the horse and, with an awkward salute, the trooper spurred it forward towards the stream.

  ‘They’re coming again!’ came the cry.

  Larnss, however, was watching the receding rider, now guiding his horse into the hectic stream. Then to his horror, he saw two riders splashing down the stream after him. An arrow took one of them, but the other continued.

  The young trooper saw the impending danger and tried to urge his horse on, but it slipped and stumbled, unseating him.

  Without thinking, Larnss sheathed his sword and set off down the slight slope at full tilt. Both horse and trooper had regained their feet and, with one hand clasping the horse’s reins, the trooper was struggling to draw his sword to defend himself against the approaching attacker when Larnss hurled himself from the bank of the stream and brought both horse and rider crashing down heavily in a flurry of spray and flailing limbs.

  Holding his victim’s head under the water, Larnss shouted to the trooper who was wading towards him.

  ‘Go, man! Take this horse as well, and go!’

  The trooper obeyed, at some speed.

  Then, still holding the struggling rider under water with one hand, Larnss drew his sword and thrust it into the submerged body. There was a brief, bloodstained thrashing, then stillness. He relinquished his charge and the current caught it and carried it a few paces downstream before it wedged on a rock.

  Larnss paused and looked for a moment at the first man he had ever killed. He felt numb.

  But the commotion of the greater battle asserted itself over his own needs almost immediately.

  ‘No!’ he cried out desperately as he looked back towards his beleaguered command. His precipitate flight to help the messenger had been misunderstood and panic had struck the middle square even before the riders had. Now they were scattered and fleeing, with triumphant horsemen pursuing them, cutting them down with swords and axes, and skewering them on lances. The other squares, now heavily beset, were crumbling also.

  Larnss staggered out of the steam and ran towards his tent nearby. Outside it stood the flag of the Rendd reservists. He seized it and held it high.

  ‘To me! To me!’ he roared.

  A rider emerged from behind a tent and, with a malevolent grin, answered his call by levelling a lance at him. Hardly aware of what he was doing, but possessed by a terrible anger, Larnss held his ground until the last moment and then stepped to one side, at the same time bringing the standard down on the lance. Its point dipped and then plunged into the soft earth and the rider was hurled over the top of it to land several paces away with a sickening thud.

  Larnss, wrenching the spear from the ground, heard both the wind and the life go out of the man, but it was of no more interest to him than the knowledge the grass on which he stood was green. All that mattered was the next attacker.

  He was impaled on his comrade’s weapon as Larnss again stepped aside and thrust the spear straight up under his chin and then released it. He heard, sharp and clear in his now profound awareness, the clink of the point striking the inside of the man’s helmet as it passed through his skull.

  ‘To me! To me!’

  Another rider fell, this time to a savage sword cut that almost severed his arm.

  Fleeing men gravitated to Larnss’ powerful call and the waving standard. He looked around. The camp was a sea of galloping horsemen, swords rising and falling, strange, alien flags fluttering. Here and there were islands of men standing in groups, in pairs, alone, hacking and fighting.

  And the noise: the shouting, the screaming; a great paean of hatred and terror and pain.

  You are finer men than any legendary warriors of heroic saga, Larnss thought, as he slashed at the face of a nearby horse. And you deserved a better leader.

  The injured horse reared in panic and threw its rider, but its flailing hoof caught the Rendd reservists’ acting commander in the face and killed him instantly.

  High on the hill, Endryn and the others watched the massacre enviously.

  Endryn nodded appreciatively. ‘They fought well, these southlanders,’ he said. ‘No cowardice at the end. They fell like stones, each man in his place.’

  He turned to Ivaroth. The Mareth Hai, however, was in no mood for singing the praises of a gallant foe. His face was livid. Endryn involuntarily edged away from him.

  ‘Stop him,’ Ivaroth was saying, his trembling hand pointing towards the retreating figure of Larnss’ messenger. ‘Stop him.’

  ‘We can’t. He’s too far away,’ Endryn exclaimed, immediately wishing he had simply galloped off on the futile errand instead and bracing himself for a savage rebuke, if not worse, for his folly.

  But Ivaroth was not talking to him, he was talking to the old man standing by his saddle. The old man, his face hooded, looked up at him and slowly shook his head.

  Ivaroth bent down and hissed at him. ‘If he reaches Rendd, then the news of our coming reaches Viernce also. And you see how these people fight. Without Viernce secure at our back we can’t move to destroy whoever’s left at Whendrak and all fails. Stop him.’

  Still the old man did not move.

  Ivaroth lowered his voice further, his black eyes peering relentlessly into the dark void of the hood. ‘If we do not win this land, then my own kind will kill me, let alone the enemy. And without me, you’ll not be able to reach the places beyond or the other place you’re so anxious to find.’

  The blind man seemed to ponder for a moment, then he looked up and turned towards the fleeing messenger. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his hands, as if reaching out to him.

  A low rumbling filled the air, and the riders at the top of the hill found themselves struggling to control their mounts as the ground beneath them began to shake.

  The rumbling faded, or rather, retreated. Watching the distant rider, Ivaroth saw a swathe of destruction following after him. Soil and turf, shrubs and plants were torn up and thrown bodily aside as if by some unseen giant hand. The messenger reached the top of a small incline and l
ooked over his shoulder briefly.

  Then he disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Ivaroth’s eyes shone with satisfaction.

  ‘Mareth Hai!’

  Ivaroth turned round sharply at the alarm in the voice, but before he noted the speaker, he felt the old man leaning against his leg.

  Then the mentor and dark angel, who had brought him this far, slithered to the ground.

  Chapter 37

  The atmosphere in Ivaroth’s camp was tense and uneasy. What should have been a raucous celebration of the destruction of the Rendd reservists was dampened by Ivaroth’s fury at the losses they had sustained.

  But Endryn knew that the fury, justified though it might have been, was not what it seemed. In reality it was a transmutation of the fear that had struck Ivaroth when the old man had collapsed.

  Pacing up and down his tent, he tried to push the memory of the fear in Ivaroth’s eyes from his mind as, yet again, it returned to torment him. He could not remember ever having seen Ivaroth afraid before. Even when they were children together, it had been Ivaroth, the younger, who had been the leader, riding the wildest of the horses, taking the hardest of the falls, sneaking close towards the camps of hostile tribes, and unflinchingly, contemptuously even, accepting whatever punishments the adults had meted out from time to time.

  Endryn wiped his brow. Two questions bayed at his heels. Who else had seen the look in the Mareth Hai’s eyes and, worse for him personally, did Ivaroth know that he, Endryn, had seen the look?

  He had flicked his eyes away from Ivaroth’s face on the instant, and turned them to the collapsing man, for fear of Ivaroth’s dreadful response to the witness of such weakness, but . . .?

  And who was this old man, with his blind white eyes and his flesh-crawling presence, to induce such a reaction in Ivaroth? The oft-asked question rose to displace Endryn’s immediate concerns. It came now with an urgency more pressing than ever before. Not that he had ever dared to ask it. Such few as had, had received no answer other than Ivaroth’s terrifying black-eyed gaze, and those foolish enough to misinterpret this and to press their inquiries had died for their pains.