by Roger Taylor
Faintly, he could still sense Tarrian and Grayle howling, searching for him. But he did not know how to reach them.
His feet started to carry him forward again and he found a soldier's thinking guiding him. Whatever powers these creatures possessed, he had not been struck down. Indeed, only a sword had been drawn against him. They could not destroy him. Or chose not to!
Long-forgotten memories of sweaty training yards returned to him. Manoeuvres formed in his mind. All he had to do was get inside that sword, then …
'And he must suffer the travails of these worlds, even unto death.’ The rest of Nyriall's quotation brought him to an abrupt halt.
The lust reached out to him again.
He had not been struck down because he was wanted, he realized chillingly. He might perhaps be able to defend himself unarmed against a swordsman-perhaps, he emphasized to himself-but could he truly defend himself against whatever had the power to cause this dreadful tortured darkness? Could he prevent himself from being bound if that was its desire?
'Tarrian, Grayle,’ he whispered, desperately. ‘To me. To me.'
Still faint, but nearer, the wolves’ calls filtered into his mind; urgent, running; that leisurely lope that could carry them effortlessly for league after relentless league.
Then the figures were but a few paces from him.
They were indeed in the heart of the storm. More than ever, the lightning-etched darkness danced and whirled about them. It was like a frenzied pack of hounds, yelping and barking; waiting on their will.
Yet even so close, Antyr could not make out any details of the appearance of the two figures. As the lightning came and went, it seemed that they were like two grim, black monoliths, carvings rather than men, like ancient, enigmatic standing stones; windows into another, eternally dark place.
Though the sword was still of this world, glinting menacingly.
And the will and the desire were there too. He felt them as clear and stark around him as he could see the black silhouettes in front of him.
'Who are you? What do you want?’ he asked again, shouting into the storm, but barely able to hear his own words.
A long grasping sigh of fulfilment reached him, and one of the figures slowly extended its arms towards Antyr as if offering him an embrace. The gesture was peculiarly monstrous and again Antyr felt the hairs on his arms and neck rise up in revulsion. He tried to step back, away from this apparition and its foul intent.
But his feet would not move.
'Mine,’ said a soft, enfolding voice that seemed to freeze Antyr's limbs.
'Tarrian, Grayle. To me. To me,’ he cried out again, clinging desperately to the faint calls still ringing in his head.
'Ah…'
The figure, its arms thrown wide, like a black abyss, was closer to him, filling his vision, though he had not seen it move.
Antyr's eyes flicked from side to side, but he could see nothing except the tormented darkness and the shadows closing around him. And, try as he might to prevent it, his eyes were drawn inexorably forward until he could do no other than stare into the widening embrace of the figure.
'Even unto death.’ The words of the Treatise came to him again.
'No,’ he managed, first as a thought, then as a word, then as a denial with his whole being. The figure halted. But still it dominated his sight.
'You will be my Guide,’ said the chilling voice again.
'No!'
'No!'
Another voice coincided with Antyr's and he was aware of the flash of the sword blade.
'Tarrian, Grayle!'
Then he was plunging into the darkness, nostrils full of the familiar, homing scent, powerful limbs pushing him forward, towards the call, towards the desperate need, towards …
Himself! Standing alone, and menaced.
Antyr felt the wolf spirit of his two Companions rise up from within him and take possession of him. His limbs were free, his eyes widened and his mouth gaped, and, predator now, he leapt with a roaring snarl at the abomination that was his prey.
He had a fleeting impression of a hand in front of him, wrenching something away. Rescuing it? Then, in a time less than the blink of an eye, the menacing will and its desire vanished, and with them the storm and all its whirling horrors. It dwindled to a tiny black clamorous vortex, until, with a last frenzied, high squealing shriek like finger nails drawn down glass there was … nothing, just warm sun, blue sky, white clouds …
'Don't move! Don't move!'
The voice was Estaan's, powerful and commanding, yet frightened. The place, Nyriall's cramped room in the Moras.
Antyr put his hands to his head and blinked several times, his eyes momentarily dazzled by the brief brightness of the summer meadow.
As he focused again, he saw the dead body of Nyriall on the bed in front of him, and the memory of the old man scurrying across the sunlit grass returned to him. He touched the pained face tenderly.
Then he became aware of Tarrian and Grayle snarling and, looking up, he saw Estaan, holding two knives now, watching him wide-eyed and fearful.
'No, no, no,’ Antyr said hastily to the two wolves, at the same time lifting a reassuring hand towards the Mantynnai.
Estaan, however, did not relinquish his defensive stance. Further, Antyr noted, he was standing with his back to the door, holding it shut in addition to the chair that was wedged there. He could have fled from whatever had frightened him, but he had chosen to remain, and, presumably, to face and kill it if necessary.
'What's the matter?’ Antyr stammered, alarmed at the man's demeanour.
'Who are you?’ Estaan said, his voice strained. Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘What have you been doing?'
Tarrian, no longer snarling, but with his upper lip drawn back angrily, and his hackles lifted, wriggled forward a little towards Estaan's left. Grayle, standing, moved one very slow step in the other direction. Antyr felt a subtle hunting communication between the two, somewhere below his normal awareness. Estaan's eyes flicked between the two.
'No!’ Antyr shouted again both into his Companion's mind and out loud, for Estaan's benefit. ‘He means no harm. He's frightened. The evil we've been through must have reached him in some way. He'll hurt no one if we don't move. Come back to me.’ Neither of the wolves moved. ‘Come back, damn you!’ he thundered.
With an oath, Tarrian slithered back to Antyr's feet, and Grayle sat down, though neither took their unflinching gaze from the Mantynnai.
'He's on the edge of killing all three of us,’ Tarrian said, unequivocally, his voice resonant so that Antyr knew he was speaking also to Estaan. ‘Something's bubbling out of his past. A dreadful guilt…'
'Shut up,’ Estaan shouted. ‘And get out of my mind.'
Tarrian growled menacingly.
'We're not going to harm you, or anyone,’ Antyr said, hastily, still struggling to quieten his own inner turmoil. ‘We're going to sit very quiet and still until you can explain what's … distressed … you so.'
Antyr's words seemed to calm Estaan to some extent but, like the wolves, his dangerous posture remained. ‘Distress,’ he echoed, bitterly. ‘A poor word for…’ He stopped and looked around the room as if searching for some unseen foe. ‘But it's gone.’ He nodded to himself in confirmation. ‘The evil's gone. I'd never thought to feel its like again. I thought it had died with…'
He left the sentence unfinished and, like a great shield, the impenetrable composure that above all typified the Mantynnai, closed about him. He sheathed the knives.
'I'm sorry,’ he said simply. ‘But you must tell me what happened. You're dealing with forces of great power and great evil that I … we've encountered before. You must not … face it alone or unwary.'
'I'll tell the Duke,’ Antyr said quietly. ‘Then I'll tell you what I can if it'll ease your pain. But you must tell me what it was you saw or heard.'
'Saw? Nothing. Heard?’ Estaan shrugged. ‘Mutterings, whimperings, yelps, the occasional bark.
But felt?’ His hand came up in emphasis. ‘Suddenly, for an instant, the room was full. Full to choking point with the evil that turned us against our own and brought us to this benighted land…’ He stopped abruptly.
Antyr grimaced at the pain in his voice, but even as he did so, Estaan was calm again.
'We must attend to the old man,’ he said. ‘Then I'll take you to the Duke straight away.'
Antyr stood up slowly. He felt weak and, for a moment, the room spun around him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We must find Pandra first…'
He was interrupted by a sudden pounding on the door. ‘Open up,’ came a commanding voice. ‘Open in the Duke's name.'
Chapter 21
Arwain looked up into the grey sky, then down at the damp grey stones of the palace courtyard, then he yawned monstrously and with complete disregard for any propriety.
In answer to his father's question, could he get a platoon of his guards ready to ride to Whendrak first thing the following day, he had answered, ‘Probably.'
It had proved optimistic.
'Is it an emergency, sir?’ Ryllans had asked, when Arwain had entered his private quarters a little more unceremoniously than he had intended, and blurted out his instructions, rather than calmly issued his orders.
'No,’ Arwain conceded. ‘But it's urgent, and it is my father's express command.'
Ryllans nodded sagely, his expression gently nudging Arwain into a fuller explanation of the Duke's decision.
'First thing?’ he asked, when Arwain had finished.
'First thing,’ Arwain confirmed.
Ryllans blew out his cheeks.
'What's the problem?’ Arwain asked, his brow furrowing at this familiar display.
Ryllans stood up and looked around. ‘Where are my boots?’ he asked. He spoke the question largely to himself, but involuntarily Arwain found himself gazing round the room in search of them.
'There,’ he said irritably, pointing to the offending items, lying askew by the door, where they had obviously been kicked off. Ryllans’ gracious gesture of thanks reproached him for his impatience more than any words could have.
'Nothing insurmountable, sir,’ Ryllans said, answering the question as he picked up one of the boots and began pulling it on. ‘But we'll want our best men for that kind of a journey and they're all on different duties at the moment. Some just starting, some just finishing.’ He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘And I think some are taking rest days.'
Arwain nodded as he listened to this information, but his attention was taken totally by the way Ryllans, instead of sitting, was casually standing on one leg as he pulled on his boot. He did it calmly and quietly and without any staggering or wobbling.
Ryllans caught the look. ‘Balancing exercise,’ he said, answering the unspoken question. ‘Stability is everything.’ He placed his now booted foot very gently on to the floor and equally gently transferred his weight to it. ‘And sensitivity.’ Up came the other leg. ‘Training isn't just for the yard, and what we learn there isn't just for fighting.'
Arwain frowned a little. ‘I don't understand,’ he said.
Ryllans inclined his head. ‘It doesn't matter. You train diligently and you gain the attributes you need even though you're not aware of them.’ He smiled broadly and briefly took on his authority as Arwain's instructor. ‘But don't let me see you sitting down to put on your boots again-sir.'
Arwain looked at him narrowly. ‘And don't you distract me with your Mantynnai games, Ryllans,’ he said knowingly. ‘I didn't come here for training, and besides, I've no desire to become a stork. Come back to the point. What's the difficulty about getting the right men together for a patrol up to Whendrak tomorrow?'
'None, really, sir,’ Ryllans answered, lowering his other foot. ‘Though we'll have some sour faces to deal with. And purses to fill for the extra duty, and you know what Chancellor Aaken's like.’ He took down his jacket from a hook. ‘Also it'll be fairly hard riding to get there before nightfall and, with respect, I don't think it would be too wise to go thundering into Whendrak exhausted and covered in lather and sweat if there's likely to be any … problems … to be dealt with. If I have the duty guards relieved early, and we arrange to leave a little later, then they can get some rest and if we make a short camp tomorrow night we can ride in, slow and fresh, on the following morning. Perhaps pick up a little intelligence on the way.'
As usual, Ryllans’ advice was sound, and Arwain bowed to his judgement, though not without some scowling.
It was not, however, the minor logistical problems of gathering men and materials together that had protracted Arwain's preparations, though it had taken longer than he envisaged. It was Aaken's briefing on the diplomatic formalities of approaching this neutral city and its spiky, wilful people.
Now he was by Arwain's stirrup. ‘You're certain you have the procedures clear, Lord Arwain?’ he said. Arwain stifled another yawn and managed a polite answer to this further repetition of the question.
'Yes, Aaken,’ he replied. ‘And where some detail eludes me, I'll smile and crave their indulgence.’ He demonstrated by smiling down at the narrow, worried face of the Chancellor.
'Safe journey, Ibrisson,’ Aaken grunted by way of response. ‘Stay alert.'
Then Arwain signalled to Ryllans. The Mantynnai gave a soft-spoken order, and the platoon clattered forward across the courtyard and out through the wide gates. Aaken's worried look returned as the riders disappeared from view. He had never found it easy to let others do what he considered to be his work, especially young people.
'A failing,’ the Duke would reproach him. ‘The young take power if you don't give it to them. You should know that.’ And he would laugh. ‘We did.'
Aaken took such comments with an ill grace. ‘My head knows it, sire,’ then he would pat his stomach. ‘But my belly …?'
Still, he mused, turning away and walking up the broad steps that led back into the palace, the head was right and the belly did not object too strongly to remaining in the warm palace while others bounced in their saddles through the wintry chill.
Almost the exact thought was passing through Arwain's mind as he passed the Ibrian monument and set off down the long avenue that led from the palace square. The weather was cold and raw. Autumn becoming winter was not his favourite time of year; neither scented mists and dusty sunsets, nor sharp, ice-sparkling cold with the prospect of smothering snow and the glittering anticipation of the Winterfest at its heart.
A breeze started to blow, taunting him as it lowered the temperature even further. With a grimace he drew his cloak tighter about him then glanced at Ryllans. The Mantynnai too was adjusting his cloak, but he seemed to be largely impervious to the weather, riding now just as he would on a warm summer's day-relaxed and easy.
Arwain resolved to do the same. He did not pretend to understand all that the Mantynnai tried to teach him, but he had already learned that just copying them was often worthwhile.
Despite the fact that the places of power and gossip in the city were alive with talk about the Bethlarii envoy and his outrageous conduct, the appearance of a platoon of palace guards passing through the streets in casual, not to say ragged, formation, caused no great stir among those who saw it. Such comings and goings were unexceptional; there were always new recruits being taken out on training patrols, or groups going to relieve soldiers garrisoned out in Serenstad's dominion cities.
Their route out of the city took them down towards the river and through the busiest part of the Moras district. The press of people, riders, pack horses, and every conceivable type of cart and wagon, travelling in every direction, coupled with the efforts of the Way Liktors to control this disorderly throng at the many busy junctions along the way, reduced their progress to less than walking speed.
Ryllans turned to Arwain with a grin, after a while, and shrugged his shoulders. Then he let his reins fall and, sitting back, gently urged his horse on with his legs as opportunity permitted. Arwain looked s
kyward in reply. He really should speak to his father about these Way Liktors. Whenever they appeared to take up their duties at the busiest time of the day, they always seemed to bring the admittedly slow-moving traffic to a complete halt in every direction.
Still, he consoled himself, it would only be a few minutes’ delay, for all it felt like much more, and it would make no difference to the time when they would reach Whendrak. It was not as if he were expected.
'Ho, Ryllans.’ A voice reached him above the noise of the crowd as they waited. Arwain looked around but could not at first identify the caller. Then he caught sight of a man nearby, waving urgently. He was being escorted by two large Liktors. So apparently was his companion, a scruffy-looking individual with two large dogs.
One of the Liktors remonstrated with the man, who, after a brief debate, waved again to Ryllans, beckoning him forward.
Ryllans turned to Arwain. ‘It's Estaan,’ he said. ‘He seems to be having some problem with the Liktors, may I …?'
Arwain signalled his agreement before the request was made. Briefly, Ryllans tried to turn his horse towards the beleaguered Estaan, then he gave up and dismounted.
Arwain watched Ryllans’ rolling gait and gently sweeping arms carry him as smoothly through the press as if he were swimming in a calm lake. Making landfall, as it were, at his destination, there was some explanation from Estaan followed by a debate with the Liktors, during which Ryllans appeared to be vouching for Estaan, opening his cloak to reveal his field uniform and insignia, and discreetly pointing back to Arwain once or twice.
There was some earnest pouting and brow-furrowing by the Liktors, but seemingly Ryllans succeeded in his plea as the two eventually nodded to him and, after turning and saluting to Arwain, allowed themselves to be drawn into the crowd again.
Arwain smiled slightly. Though not a talkative person, Ryllans could be most persuasive when the need arose. He did not, however, immediately start the journey back to his horse again, for Estaan took hold of him vigorously by the arms and began speaking to him with some passion.
