by Roger Taylor
His brief anger gave way abruptly to near panic. ‘Maybe you're right,’ he said fretfully. ‘Maybe this isn't the Threshold.’ He shook his head. ‘But wherever it is, we're lost. I know no way back for either of us. And if you say a Mantynnai guards our bodies somewhere, then he may soon find he's guarding two corpses and coping with two demented wolves. What possessed you to follow me?’ he said again.
'A way back will be found for me,’ Antyr said urgently, suddenly determined to take control of this rambling debate. ‘Perhaps even you. I don't know. All manner of strange things have happened to me these last few days.’ He, in turn, began to ramble. ‘A presence in the Duke's dream. A visitation from a figure that looked like Marastrumel. A separation from both Companion and dreamer with Menedrion. And menace in all cases. Some evil's afoot that I seem to be being drawn to. And now I'm here, as a result of who knows what impulse, perhaps to find out what had happened to you, perhaps because you have knowledge that I need. To help myself and to help others. I don't know…'
Nyriall took a pace back during this tirade, then lifted his hands to stem it.
'I hear you, Antyr,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘You look a poor soul to be Dream Finder to such wealthy and powerful men, Antyr. But I hear you. And I believe you. Calm down. I understand. Truly.'
'But…'
Nyriall waved him silent. ‘I understand because I too have felt strange things,’ he said earnestly. ‘But not just recently; over many years. Small things. As you said, a … presence … in the dreams, as if there were another Dream Finder there, watching, listening.’ He shook his head, his brow furrowed. ‘And occasionally…’ He hesitated, searching for words. ‘The feeling that the dream was being … changed … manipulated. It wasn't good.’ He looked at Antyr. ‘I know my craft, Petran's son. And I practice it well, and with caring.’ He curled his lip derisively. ‘Not like the clowns and dandies who fop around the Guild House, dancing to the whims of courtiers’ and merchants’ foolish women.'
Antyr winced at Nyriall's suddenly vitriolic tone even though he sympathized with the comments. Then he found his conscience pricking him. Perhaps if he'd spent more time practicing and studying his craft and less time carousing he too might have felt what was happening the sooner. He dismissed the reproach quickly. Whatever had been, was no more. And now was now.
A cloud drifted briefly over the sun, bringing a momentary chill to the two men.
Nyriall let his passion subside before he continued. ‘It's been getting worse, I'm sure. Then a week or so ago, it broke out like plague. And always this feeling of someone searching, or worse, someone changing things for some reason. I had one client, a middle-aged man-a sensitive, I suspect. All of a sudden, nightmares. Appalling things. As bad as any I've ever searched. And unequivocally from outside. I feared for his life; certainly his sanity.’ He shook his head, his black eyes looking at some other place far from this pastoral idyll. ‘Then … today, I suppose … I was resting, very still, very quiet. Thinking about him. What I could do or say to help him. It wouldn't be putting it too strongly to say that I was desperate. Then I felt something, nearby, and before I knew what was happening, Grayle and I were prepared.’ He turned and looked at Antyr, his voice suddenly awed. ‘We moved into a dream … but not a dream … when no dreamer was present. I've heard of such things. And not only in children's tales,’ he added. ‘Gateways through into the Threshold of the Great Dream. Accessible only to Dream Finders who had become Masters of the craft…'
He stopped and looked down at his hands. ‘But I'm no Master,’ he said. ‘Competent, yes. Perhaps above average. But no Master. Where a Master might walk with measured step, I suspect I tripped and blundered in.'
'To here?’ Antyr asked.
Nyriall shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘Some other place. Dark and barren. A great bleak plain with a bitter wind blowing across it.'
'And figures, shadows, waiting for you?’ Antyr said, unable to contain himself.
Nyriall nodded. ‘Two,’ he said. ‘And they radiated the menace that had been haunting me. Without thinking about what had happened or where I was, I just challenged them.'
He wrapped his arms about himself and his face became drawn. ‘They seemed surprised as they turned to look at me…’ His voice became hoarse and he shuddered at the memory. ‘I panicked. Suddenly I was aware that Grayle was gone and that I was in this awful place with these strange, frightening people. I had to escape. I ran. They followed, hissing, whispering. Then I felt … hope … in front of me. I ran towards it and suddenly I was in the bright daylight.'
He caught Antyr's look, but shook his head. ‘No, not here. It was bright and sunny, but I was on the fringes of a terrible battle. The air was full of screams and dashing arms. I carried on running, and then the … hope … was there again and I ran to it again.’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘And here I am,’ he concluded. ‘In this beautiful place. No longer pursued, but ignorant, lost and now, you tell me, dead.'
Antyr puffed out his cheeks. Nyriall's brief bewildering saga had raised more questions and provided no answers to the ones he already had. He did not know where to start.
Nyriall straightened up and looked out over the countryside. ‘It is the Threshold,’ he said quietly. ‘Scorn the idea how you will.’ Antyr raised a hand of denial. Nyriall's tale had shaken loose much Dream Finding lore that he had either long forgotten, or dismissed as old-fashioned foolishness.
When a Dream Finder's knowledge and understanding became sufficient, it was said, he could find the Gateways in the dreams of others, or sometimes directly, without the aid of a dreamer. Gateways into the worlds beyond the dreams. The myriad worlds that jostled and mixed together, yet were separate, and which were the Threshold of the Great Dream itself.
'And as the Nexus is but the echoing shadows of the dreams, so the dreams themselves are but the echoing shadows of the worlds of the Threshold. And, too, these worlds are but the echoing shadows of the Great Dream that lies beyond the Inner Portals and contains all things.'
Nyriall looked at Antyr. ‘Treatise on the Ancient and Wondrous Art of the Dream Travellers,’ he said, identifying the book that had for many generations been regarded as the definitive work on Dream Finding lore. ‘It's a long time since you've read those words, I suspect,’ he said.
Antyr nodded.
'Don't forget the rest,’ Nyriall went on. ‘And a Master may pass through the Gateways into the Threshold, and there journey through the Doorways between the worlds. But only if his skill be great, and his courage high. For he must go alone, separated from his Earth Holder. And he must suffer the travails of these worlds, even unto death.'
Antyr let out a great breath. ‘But only if his skill be great and his courage high,’ he repeated. ‘I'd have thought both those attributes precluded me.'
Nyriall shrugged. ‘Me also,’ he said. ‘But who can say what forces lie within us? Or, for that matter, manipulate us. I'm no Master. I came here perhaps by an inadvertent talent, perhaps by mischance and ignorance, and, seemingly, died for it. You, I suspect, might be different.’ He looked at Antyr regretfully. ‘But I can tell you no more than I have. Perhaps that's all you needed to learn. To be reminded of what you already knew.'
Antyr returned his gaze, but did not reply.
'Cry out for your Earth Holder, Antyr,’ Nyriall said, encouragingly, then, correcting himself, ‘Your Earth Holders. Perhaps there is a way back for you if you trust yourself enough.'
'But what about you?’ Antyr said.
Unexpectedly, Nyriall smiled. ‘This looks like a nice place. It's certainly better than the Moras. I wonder if there are people here?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘A new start at my age, Antyr. To be blunt I'd have considered myself fortunate if I'd survived another winter of Menedrion's smoke-laden fogs; I've got a cough that tears me in half. I'll see what this place has to offer. Perhaps even learn how to find the Doorways, and see what else is here.’ He paused. ‘I'll miss Grayle, though,’ he said sadly. ‘I'll
miss him a lot. Look after him if you get back. Tell him I'm sorry to leave him, but it'll probably be for the best. And thank him, I couldn't have had a finer Companion.'
Antyr nodded. ‘I will,’ he said.
Then, on the soft breeze came a distant sound. It was the howling of wolves.
'Listen,’ Antyr said, leaning towards the sound urgently. ‘Grayle and Tarrian are searching. Somewhere in the darkness they're seeking me. And they're drawing nearer.'
Nyriall cocked his head on one side, listening intently. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I recognize Grayle. And that's his brother, you say? Such wonders…'
He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide and afraid, and fixed over Antyr's shoulder.
Hesitantly, Antyr turned. The landscape behind him was darkening. Black clouds were building, mountainous and massive in the blue sky. A low rumble of thunder rolled ahead of them. But the objects of Nyriall's attention were two figures … or was it one? And the coming darkness seemed almost to emanate from them.
Antyr screwed up his eyes to clarify the vision. There were two figures.
The thunder came again. Antyr frowned; the storm had come from nowhere, and its apparent association with the two figures was disconcerting. He looked up at the clouds. They seemed to be both far and near and the effect was disorientating.
'I think they bring it,’ Nyriall said, following his gaze and nodding anxiously towards the two figures.
'Who are they?’ Antyr asked, though he already knew the answer. Without any prompting by Nyriall, he could feel the menace, the evil, that radiated from them.
One of the two figures waved his hand and there was a dazzling flash of lightning, followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap. As it rumbled into the distance Antyr heard a high-pitched hysterical laughter, and it seemed to him that one of the figures was swaying and bending in some obscene, motionless dance.
Antyr felt a wave of nausea overtake him. The enemy was in sight and he wanted to flee. Then he remembered Nyriall, and anger filled him at the sight of the old man's new domain defiled by these corrosive intruders.
'Run!’ he said suddenly to Nyriall. ‘They mustn't find you. This is your world now.’ He looked around. ‘Quickly. Hide in the trees over there. I'll protect you, somehow.'
So urgent was his tone that Nyriall set off immediately. He had gone only a little way, however, when he turned as if to come back. ‘But…’ he began.
Antyr waved a hand across the still sunlit land spread out in front of them. ‘This is yours now, Nyriall,’ he repeated, then, turning and pointing to the two figures, shadows now, in the ominous clouds. ‘And they are my enemies now. Go, and my thanks for your wisdom and guidance and your brief friendship. I shall tend to Grayle.'
Nyriall still hesitated.
Antyr waved him on. ‘Live well and light be with you,’ he said, the words coming unbidden.
Nyriall tilted his head on one side and looked at him curiously. ‘And with you … Master,’ he said after a long hesitation. Then, raising his hand in salute, he turned and ran towards the trees that Antyr had indicated.
Antyr could not forebear smiling. Nyriall was making good speed for an old man with a bad chest.
But the lightness passed almost immediately as the import of his actions dawned on him. He turned again to look at the two figures.
The sight made him draw in his breath. It was as if the lowering, lightning-shot clouds had drawn together and descended to focus around the strange couple totally so that they carried their own storm-tossed night with them. Antyr felt that he was looking through into another world, so intrusive was the sight amid the sunlit landscape that still fringed it at the edges of his vision.
Menacing peals of thunder rolled out to surround him and, amid the awful din, he heard again the faint strains of the shrieking laughter he had heard before. It stirred deep and frightening emotions within him and he felt his flesh crawling.
Somewhere, too, into his hearing, came again the distant howls of the two wolves. Not searching for him, though, Antyr realized. Just singing out to say that they were there, in their home, their territory, singing out to say that all was safe and to tell their kin that they could return and to tell others not to approach. And their song was louder.
'To me, Earth Holders. To me!’ Antyr shouted silently in reply.
Then, glancing quickly at the now distant and still-retreating figure of Nyriall, he started walking slowly towards the darkness.
As if his cry to his Companions, or his purposeful movement, had caused a great disturbance, the two figures turned towards him, and though Antyr could not see their faces, he knew that they were now watching him intently. He could feel their malevolence, but he walked on.
Then the attention wavered, and one of the figures raised a hand to indicate the fleeing Nyriall. Antyr sensed the storm whirling, darkening, gathering itself to launch some power against the old man. Shadowy shapes began to form in it, sinister, predatory.
'Ho!’ Antyr cried, lengthening his stride, in spite of an inner voice asking him very earnestly what he was doing. The shapes faltered.
The sound of Tarrian and Grayle grew louder.
He called again. ‘You do not belong here,’ he shouted. ‘Who are you and why do you bring this uproar and destruction with you? Why do you pursue the innocent and why do you search for me?'
Abruptly, it seemed that the storm was rearing up like a ravening animal, battering frenziedly against some flimsy barrier in an attempt to reach and rend him.
The demented laughter, however, had stopped. In its place, Antyr heard a sound like the gurgling, lusting anticipation of some evil child. It was worse by far than the laughter.
And he had felt it in Menedrion's dream.
Somehow, he maintained his progress forward, though the sound of the thunder was pouring about him now with the pounding intensity of a rock fall and he felt that at any moment it might crush him utterly.
Then he was in the darkness. A darkness lit blue by cascades of forking lightning and riven by a howling wind that snatched and tore at his cloak, thrashed his hair into his face and momentarily buffeted him to a standstill. The strange dark shapes flitted about him, circling, swooping suddenly and veering away. Watching, waiting for the moment to pounce.
Antyr straightened up and, gritting his teeth, forced one foot in front of the other.
'This is folly,’ cried his inner voice, louder now. ‘You don't know who or what these creatures are, but you see their power, and you feel their evil. You can't stand against them. Run while you can.'
'I will hold. I will hold.’ He muttered the phrase to himself like a litany. It had sustained him in battle, it would …
'There you had companions at your side and your back, and a spear to your front,’ came the reply. ‘There you fought for your homeland. There you faced men.'
He faltered. The thundering storm raged about him. The shadows danced, faster and faster, lusting.
'Nyriall,’ said some other part of him. ‘He is lost in this place and he is in your care.'
His feet began to move again.
Looking ahead, he caught occasional glimpses of the two figures-stark black silhouettes in the purple, lightning-lit darkness-watching, waiting, also.
Was he being drawn to them? Or pushed? Either way, it seemed to him that his feet were being moved by some will other than his own.
And what he was doing was folly, beyond a doubt.
Desperately, he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were full of their usual clutter and he realized that he was in this place exactly as he had been when he had left Nyriall's room in Serenstad. And the only thing he had that could be used as a weapon was a small knife and that would be of little use against anyone, let alone these … creatures … and their seemingly elemental powers.
It came to him, unhelpfully, that the ancient traditional formal dress of the Dream Finder included two knives and a sword. He knew why now!
His hand went to his belt,
but he did not even have his weighted club with him. That had been left behind when Feranc had called to bring him to the Duke, and set him on this increasingly terrifying slide into the unknown.
And was that barely two days ago?
Momentarily, he was in two places at once. Here, in this thunderous, haunted turmoil, and sitting in Nyriall's room in the Moras, Tarrian and Grayle whimpering and twitching at his feet, and Estaan sitting on the edge of his seat by the window and staring at him wide-eyed.
'And a Master may pass through the Gateways into the Threshold, and there journey through the Doorways between the worlds. But only if his skill be great, and his courage high. For he must go alone, separated from his Earth Holder.’ Nyriall's quotation from the Treatise came back to him. A Master must be his own Earth Holder, he realized suddenly, though again, the knowledge was of no value to him.
'And he must suffer the travails of these worlds, even unto death.’ The final sentence brought him sharply back to his present predicament.
One of the shadows made a movement and Antyr saw a sword blade glisten in the flickering lightning. It was oddly reassuring. Some part of these creatures was mortal despite the darkness they had brought. Then he felt a will reaching out to him, greedily, wanting him, needing him. It was repellent.
He stopped. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he shouted above the din.
There was no reply, but the noise and power of the storm increased. And the searching will increased in intensity. Antyr felt an anger forming within him. ‘Speak, or go from here and trouble us no more,’ he heard himself saying.
Then the skin-tearing laughter returned, this time low and loathsome with dark glee.
Anger and terror rose to fill Antyr's mind in equal proportions.
'Tarrian! Grayle!’ he roared inside his head. ‘To me! To me!'
It seemed to him that the figures and the shadows retreated a little before his call, but he could not see clearly enough in the constantly shifting light.
He cried out again.
This time, he felt the storm itself lessen in intensity, though a sudden flash of lightning revealed the figures to him. Still motionless.
