by Roger Taylor
Ivaroth quailed inwardly under the dreadful gaze. What did this creature see with those blank white eyes? What shadowy recesses of the soul did he peer into? And what terrible ambitions had now been struck alight in him?
Ivaroth did not dwell on the questions, however. Instead, he drew his knife. It was an unfamiliar weapon taken from the body of the man who had led the soldiers at Rendd, but Ivaroth adapted to weapons quickly and his move was so swift that the point was at the blind man’s throat before he could finish his sentence.
‘You forget yourself, old man.’ Ivaroth’s voice was soft and menacing. ‘The search for that place you seek will be after we have conquered our enemies in the real world. This was our agreement. There are enemies here as well as the way to this . . . other place . . . you’re so desperate to find, and it would be folly to loiter here unprepared. I brought you here now only in the hope of curing whatever ill you’d done yourself. That done, we leave.’
Then his voice became persuasive though the knife point did not move. ‘The sooner our conquest is finished, the sooner I can bring you here to seek what you want at your leisure. Now you’re recovered, and have found even greater power, you can smash the walls of Viernce and any other city that opposes us, and our progress will be all the quicker. None will be able to stand against us.’
The old man’s manner changed as Ivaroth spoke. He lifted his hand pleadingly. ‘I do not have this power in the world you call the real one, Ivaroth Ungwyl. It is my birth world.’ He waved towards the scarred rock-face. ‘Such a deed would rend me asunder. Only in the place beyond here will I find the heart of the power. Only there will I be able to reach out across the worlds and protect my body from such harm.’
Ivaroth wavered. The old man was lying, using him, that was obvious. What was not obvious was the extent of the lying. Keep it simple, he concluded, as he glanced at the damaged outcrop.
‘One tenth of that will destroy a city wall,’ he said. ‘That you can do. We return, now!’
* * * *
Antyr screamed.
He was falling.
No. He was not moving. Yet he was being hurled along. Tumbling uncontrollably like a missile from some great siege engine, yet tossed and buffeted like a broken twig in a winter storm.
All around him, scenes flickered and streaked by and through him incoherently; rolling sunlit countryside, bleak winter plains, great smoking mountains, monstrous storm-wracked seas, black clouds streaming across blood-red skies, huge tracts of barren, sand-strewn deserts. Countless strange and eerie landscapes.
But none there for more than the blink of an eye.
If they were there at all.
And he was in all of them. Forever.
And voices tore at him; beckoning, fearful, anxious, angry, demanding. A gibbering, meaningless cascade, full of burning urgency filled his ears, his mind, his whole body.
And amid it all, he felt great forces searching for him; battling for . . . his soul . . . his skill?
They would tear him apart!
‘No!’
At his cry, the din stopped. And had never been.
A powerful blast of cold air hit him and, abruptly, he was himself again, in a solid, real world. Gasping and sobbing with rage and fear, he dropped to his knees.
They sank into snow. He slumped forward and felt his ungloved hands sinking into the cold wetness. The chill jolted him into sharp awareness and, struggling to his feet, he gazed around in confusion. He was in a snowstorm!
The biting wind cut through his tunic and, in a bizarre reaction to his terrifying passage there, his first thoughts were ironic.
I practice with my sword, I carry it with me constantly for fear of enemies. Now I’m going to freeze to death for want of a coat.
The light, however, was oddly bright for a winter storm and, further disorienting him, the wind faded away suddenly leaving the airborne snowflakes to continue on their urgent paths for a little while, and then float gently down to earth.
* * * *
Ivaroth turned like an animal which, from some inner depth, has sensed the presence of a predator.
The blind man’s storm had stopped, and the whirling, subsiding cloud of snow was alive with shifting rainbow colours and strange dark shadows.
Then the shadows merged. And out of the greyness, a figure emerged.
Ivaroth felt a chill possess him, colder by far than that of the mountain snow around him.
‘Ah!’
The figure halted as it heard the blind man’s loathsome sigh of desire.
Then all about them, the sound of hunting wolves could be heard.
Ivaroth, warrior and assassin, reacted. He seized the blind man’s arm and at the same time hurled his new-won knife at the motionless figure.
Antyr saw the whole movement as if it had been stretched through an infinity of time. Around him, he was aware of every snowflake, each with its own endless variety of points within points within points. And he was aware of his assailant and his companion. The one, short and powerful, his face like a bird of prey, was hurling the knife. Antyr felt his ruthless cruelty in his very posture, and quailed before it. But the other was worse by far. He seemed to have a presence beyond the immediate, like ominous, flickering shadows reaching back into unknowable and fearful planes of existence.
This was the Mynedarion!
White, sightless eyes sought him out. Visions of desire and power filled him. Wells of limitless ambition opened within him and gushed forth. All things could be his. Here was his guide.
‘Reach out and seize your destiny, Dream Finder.’ A myriad voices filled his head. ‘Towns and cities and all their peoples will bow down before you at your least gaze.’
Sunlight caught the blade of the knife as it left Ivaroth’s hand, and the bright light dimmed the vision. Antyr’s gaze turned to his attacker. Night-black eyes possessed him.
And then he was his attacker; gripping his treacherous wilderness companion with confused and murderous hatred and launching the blade towards the heart of the apparition that this . . . demon . . . had drawn here, before returning to . . .
There was a fleeting vision of a huge camp. And horses . . . so many horses. And a great army . . . brought over the mountains. Cities taken. Battles fought. And a land to be conquered . . . and, deep, deep below, beyond the knowledge of the man, a chorus of whispering voices demanding . . . vengeance!
And he was himself again. Powerless to move as the circling blade arced relentlessly towards him. The Mynedarion began to reach out towards him, and his mouth opened to form a cry.
Antyr’s mind urged his body, but it was too slow, too sluggish, too clouded . . .
Then there was clarity and simplicity. He was wolf. Traversing the strange world between and beyond the dreams and the Threshold, where the Companions waited and watched and hunted.
Untrained, unhindered reflexes possessed his body. It twisted and swayed to one side and its hand reached out and seized the hilt of the passing blade with almost contemptuous ease.
With a great cry of rage, Ivaroth caught the blind man and the two fell back, fading and dwindling into nothingness.
Antyr stared at the place where they had stood, then at the knife in his hand.
‘Where did you get that?’
The question was Estaan’s.
Antyr swung up from his bed in confusion, stumbling over Tarrian and Grayle who were also struggling to their feet.
Tarrian was full of excitement. ‘Those paws of yours are really awkward,’ he said. ‘And are you slow! You nearly got yourself killed, standing there like that.’
Antyr, however, could not speak. He gazed vacantly at the knife in his hand and then let it fall as he dropped back down on the bed. He leaned forward and embraced the two wolves, silently and passionately.
Estaan, white-faced, bent down and picked up the knife. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked again. ‘It was in your hand, just as you woke up, but it wasn’t there before.’ His whole mann
er was alive with concern and confusion.
Antyr raised his hands in a plea for a brief respite.
‘It’s an army knife,’ Estaan went on, unable to restrain himself. ‘A captain’s . . .’
‘I must see the Duke, right away,’ Antyr said, ignoring Estaan’s agitation and standing up again, unsteadily. Estaan pushed the knife into his own belt and reached out to support him.
There was considerable activity in and around the Duke’s tent when Antyr and Estaan arrived. Uncharacteristically, Antyr pushed his way through the guards at the doorway and entered the tent without announcement. Estaan and the two wolves followed in his wake.
Ibris turned angrily towards the interruption. The look on Antyr’s face however stifled the oath that his mouth was forming.
Antyr waited on no ceremony.
‘A great army of horsemen,’ he blurted out. ‘From the mountains. I have seen the Mynedarion and his guide. I have been the guide. They’ve come to conquer the land. Take it for their own.’
His message delivered, Antyr felt strangely emptied, then words came to him unbidden.
‘The Mynedarion is an abomination,’ he said. ‘He is in many places at once. His power is fearful, and his ambitions unfettered. He must be found and destroyed.’
He shivered and then, his mind clearing, he braced himself for a rebuke.
To his horror, however, the Duke’s eyes widened in fear and he became aware of the tension that pervaded the atmosphere of the now-silent tent.
‘The trap closes,’ the Duke said softly, then, his composure returning, ‘How . . .?’
Antyr shook his head. ‘I was drawn there. By the Mynedarion. I think he has . . . need of me. His guide is a strange Dream Finder. For an instant I was him. I saw all these things. Then he tried to kill me.’
‘He awoke with this in his hand,’ Estaan interjected, stepping forward and proffering the knife to the Duke. ‘It’s standard issue. A captain’s knife. It came from nowhere. Just appeared.’
Ibris looked at the Mantynnai and then at the knife. Then he put his hand to his head and sank back into his chair.
‘No more!’ Menedrion’s powerful voice shattered the dreadful silence. ‘I don’t know what all this trickery’s about, but we’ve got a real enemy only a day away and we’re wasting precious time listening to this nonsense.’
‘With respect, Lord, this is not nonsense, as I suspect you well realize.’ The speaker was Haster. His face showed fatigue and his clothes were stained with the evidence of a frantic journey, but his voice was calm and quiet. Behind him stood Jadric.
Menedrion rounded on him furiously. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, stranger,’ he said savagely. ‘It’s bad enough that you sneak into our land, at the behest of some far distant king, to judge our finest warriors for some alleged crime committed years ago. Now you burst in here, ranting about an invasion from the north. By horsemen from over the mountains . . .’
He stopped abruptly with an angry gesture as he realized he was recounting Antyr’s message.
Haster withstood the onslaught without showing any signs of emotion, holding Menedrion’s gaze patiently.
‘Our monarch is a Queen now, Lord,’ he replied quietly. ‘The King was slain. And we did not come to judge the Mantynnai, as you call them. We came to find them and to tell them that an accounting is required of them.’ He turned to Ibris, still sitting with his head bowed. ‘But now, far more urgent matters are to hand.’ He pointed to Antyr. ‘This man is of your land, I presume, and I’ve no idea how he’s learned what he’s learned. None could have travelled here from Viernce as fast as we did. But what he says accords with what the soldier told us. Weigh both of us as you see fit, then decide. But do it quickly.’
Menedrion started forward angrily at Haster’s abrupt and authoritative conclusion.
‘No, Irfan.’ It was Ibris. Menedrion stopped, reluctantly, but maintained a relentless glare at Haster. The Duke looked up. His face was weary, but the tone of his voice was unequivocal. ‘These men are guests and have ridden hard to bring this news. That, you can see for yourself. Now Antyr comes to tell us the same, unasked, and stricken himself in some way if you care to look at him.’
Menedrion did not reply, but looked suspiciously from Haster to Antyr and back.
‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’ Ibris said, returning to Haster. ‘You can have learned little of us from your short stay here, and an unexpected army at our backs is of no concern to you as foreigners. Something the reservist said told you not only that he was telling the truth, but also that some greater danger threatens us all. Is that not so?’
Haster turned to Ryllans and then to Estaan and the other Mantynnai who were in the tent.
‘Your answer is important,’ Ibris said. ‘Weigh it well.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Haster said slowly. ‘You’re correct. The danger that threatens you is the power that ravaged our own land and carried us into war many years ago.’
Ibris looked at him narrowly. ‘Is there fear in your voice, Haster?’ he asked.
‘There’s fear to my very heart, Duke,’ Haster replied. ‘But it doesn’t cloud my vision. I am heartsick and weary of fighting and travelling, but what is, is, and must be faced as such, however much I’d rather sit by my hearth and wish everything otherwise.’
Ibris glanced at Ryllans. ‘I’ve been told a little of this before, but I’d been told too that your army had destroyed the source of this power.’
‘Our army destroyed only its army of men,’ Haster replied. ‘The wielder of the power was destroyed by others who came to our aid.’
‘How then is he alive again, and come here?’ Ibris asked, his voice hardening.
‘He isn’t,’ Haster replied unequivocally. ‘But there were not only followers who fled at the end. There were disciples too. Few, but skilled to some degree in the ways of their Master, and doubtless vengeful after his destruction.’
‘And we have one such here, now?’ Ibris asked.
‘An old man, lean and cadaverous, blind, his eyes white,’ Antyr said before Haster could reply.
Jadric caught Haster’s arm and there was a short exchange between the two men.
Haster nodded. ‘That one, I fear, we may have heard of – from others who encountered him,’ he said, a brief flash of pain and distress suffusing his face.
Ibris glanced from Antyr to Haster. ‘Can we face this power?’ he asked.
Haster did not answer immediately. ‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘From the mere hands of this blind man’s master, it tore apart one of our greatest cities. Though afterwards, he was strangely bound.’
There was a murmur of disbelief from the listeners at this, but Ibris silenced it with an angry flick of his hand. The memory of this same tale being told to him by Ryllans, high up on one of the palace towers, echoed through him like a waking nightmare. He motioned Haster to continue.
‘We found that other forces beyond our understanding had awakened at the same time as the evil. In the end though, we had to face the armed might as best we could while others faced the power. Perhaps it will be so here also.’ Imperceptibly, Haster’s tone had lightened a little, as if his own thoughts were just clearing and a faint hope had glimmered briefly. He looked intently at Antyr.
‘You may well be right,’ Ibris said. ‘For the first time since Grygyr Ast-Darvad appeared, I feel an order, a pattern, emerging, albeit malign and dangerous.’ He paused for a moment, his face both anxious and resigned. ‘But it’s little consolation. With what others have told me and with Antyr’s tale, I must accept your story of these invaders from the north, however strange. But that being so, our position is truly grim. We’re caught between two armies. One is just ahead, and known to be ferocious, while the other is already ravaging our land and is both days away and completely unknown to us. And above the whole a sinister will hovers, wielding a power we can’t begin to understand.’ He looked at Haster and Jadric. ‘Will you help us further?’ h
e asked simply.
Haster nodded. ‘We have no choice, Lord,’ he replied. ‘But we’re only two swords to add to your many. We know little or nothing of your army, its organization, its arms and fighting methods, and still less do we know anything about your land . . . its roads, passes, terrain . . .’
Ibris waved the reservations aside. ‘You have knowledge of this power,’ he said.
‘Only to recognize it,’ Haster interjected quickly. ‘Not of how to oppose it. That task will lie with your man here.’ He pointed to Antyr, who started violently.
Ibris nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘He’s no great warrior by our normal measure, but he’s stronger and more gifted than he knows.’
Antyr spluttered. ‘Sire, I can’t . . .’
Ibris cut him short. ‘You’ve less choice than any of us, Antyr,’ he said. ‘You’ve been lifted . . . snatched . . . from obscurity and decadence, against your will and your inclination, to find yourself among my closest advisers. Your skills have increased beyond your imaginings in a matter of only weeks. Twice now, perhaps three times, you’ve been drawn into the Threshold to face this . . . Mynedarion. Whether you like it or not, you’ll be drawn to him again to . . . Get him a chair someone.’
Antyr had turned white, and was swaying uncertainly. The Duke’s sudden command seemed to steady him a little. ‘No, no, I’m all right. I can stand,’ he said, suddenly embarrassed by his public display of weakness.
Ibris stared at him earnestly, his look both fatherly and full of the icy calculation of a commanding officer committing his troops. ‘I told you before, Antyr, that whatever happens to you, you’ll be protected here completely. And whatever happens to you . . .’ He raised a finger vaguely, but his voice was steady and powerful. ‘. . . there, don’t forget, you’ve met him before, and survived. And he’s at odds with his guide. You’re facing a divided enemy, Dream Finder. Remember. That’s important.’
Embarrassment or no, Antyr closed his eyes and began breathing deeply to quieten his quaking insides. He wanted to run away, to be sick, to shout and scream, to be back in his old wasted ways, to be anywhere other than here, to be anything other than what it seemed he was: the sole hope of the Serens against this unseen, insane, and malevolent foe; the single tiny pivot bearing so crucially such a crushing burden.
