Estaan sat down. He had positioned his chair so that he was in the shade, and, with a turn of his head, could look through the grimy window, or at the broken door, which he had wedged shut with another chair, or at Antyr and the two wolves sitting and lying by the dead Nyriall.
He drew his knife and slipped it under the folds of his cloak. Then he steadied his breathing. A silence filled the room which seemed to act as a focus for the random noises that reverberated through the tired fabric of the old building. A distant door slammed; a dog barked; voices, unclear, came and went, some conversational, some angry, some laughing; the thin sound of the children in the street filtered through occasionally; footsteps too, came and went, pattering, pounding, running. And boards creaked treacherously. But Estaan remained still; watching, listening, guarding.
Antyr's instructions had been unequivocal and he had repeated them more than once. Do not interfere. If anything goes amiss, seal the room and seek out the Dream Finder Pandra. Do not interfere.
Then, his eyes black and frightening, he had taken Nyriall's hands, while the two wolves had lain at his feet and seemingly gone to sleep.
Estaan waited; watching, listening, guarding, learning.
At once motionless and mobile in the darkness of Nyriall's mind, Antyr was hurtling forward recklessly.
He could not afford the luxury of thinking too closely about the folly of what he was doing. His father had died searching for the dreams of a dying man. Nyriall was dead. It was as if some inner force had taken control of him and was propelling him onward under the urging of a desperate need that he could not begin to fathom.
Tarrian was by him, nervous and unsettled, but faithful and trusting; and grimly determined, the hunter in him wild and hungry. And with him too was Grayle, quiet and strange, barely perceptible, running by the side and in the shadow of his newly found brother; his older, more powerful brother. Yet though Grayle was not the dominant Companion, he was, ironically, foremost in this precipitate chase; his slight, silent presence disturbing-eerie even.
Then how could it be otherwise? Antyr thought. Prepared by Nyriall for a search of a dreamer who was not there. Then torn from his Dream Finder by death under who knew what circumstances.
And, more prosaically, searching with a new Companion was always a strange, unsettling experience, so intimately linked were their thoughts and emotions.
'Don't fret, I'm with you, and whole.’ The voice startled Antyr. So much of its tone and aura was Tarrian's, yet it was very different. And it was hung about with grief and the dreadful turmoil of emotions that follow in its wake.
'I will grieve when my duties are done.’ Grayle answered the unspoken question, though Antyr could sense all too human traits of vengeance fringing the wolf's words.
'We'll all grieve, Grayle,’ Antyr replied. ‘But now we must hurry. Run with your brother to wherever your instincts take you. My faith in you is total…'
'Yes,’ Grayle said, interrupting him. Antyr sensed Tarrian's surprise. ‘Your faith is total, and it strengthens mine and sharpens my every sense. You're stronger and more skilled even than Nyriall, and I'd have judged him almost a Master. You above all can search out what has happened, and what has been happening. My brother and I will guard you where we can, and will watch and call for you when you go from us. Have no fear, you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength.'
'What do you mean, go from you?’ Antyr asked.
But Grayle did not reply.
On through the blackness they sped. Antyr alone and motionless yet drawn along by the surging, hunting wolves; a nothingness in the darkness save for his bright, sharp awareness, intangible yet as purposeful as a flying arrow.
On they plunged.
No familiar flickering wisps of light and sound came to greet them, to dance and shimmer and whisper. For this was the inner realm of a Dream Finder and there were no dreams to leak into the darkness of his hidden nature and form the bright and shimmering nexus to draw the Companions forward.
Yet Antyr had set off in pursuit of the dream that could not be. Fear began to buffet him, a stinging, dust-laden wind in his face.
'No,’ he cried out, denouncing it. Each step we take through life is into the darkness, he knew. It cannot be otherwise. And fear of the darkness was fear of life.
Knowledge alone could light the way and we must not fear to enter the darkness to seek it. And where knowledge stopped while need yet existed, then we must follow the deeper reasoning that our prattling minds make us deaf to, until we reach the light again.
His thoughts seemed to be part of a huge chorus of other voices, coming from both within and without.
Then he was alone!
The wolves were gone. Gone utterly. No sound. No faint, lingering hints of their presence. Just silence. And darkness.
They had been gone forever. Indeed, they had never been. And he was in a bright sunlit field, strewn with swathes of white flowers like the stars on a clear summer's night. Above him a scattered flotilla of small white clouds drifted leisurely across a blue sky at the indifferent behest of some scarcely felt wind.
A few paces in front of him and facing away from him, a figure was crouching. He was looking at the flowers; touching them gently. Antyr coughed. The figure started violently and, turning, stood up, almost tumbling over in the process.
Antyr drew in a sharp breath. The figure was Nyriall, his face fearful and his eyes still like pools of night.
'Who are you, Dream Finder?’ Nyriall said, his voice shaking and his posture defensive despite his age. ‘And why do you pursue me?'
'I'm sorry I frightened you, Nyriall,’ Antyr replied hastily, concerned at this response from the old man. ‘Please don't be afraid. I mean you no harm. I'm Antyr, son of Petran. I'm not pursuing you. I came after you to find out what had happened.'
Nyriall looked at him narrowly for a moment then put his hand to his head as if trying to remember something. ‘You came to find…’ he muttered vaguely.
Antyr waited.
'I remember now, I think,’ Nyriall said slowly. ‘Grayle was suddenly no more. Not torn from me. Just no more.’ He took Antyr's hand anxiously. ‘Where is Grayle, how is he?'
'He's safe,’ Antyr said, as reassuringly as he could. ‘He's lying in your room with my own Companion, his brother, Tarrian, by his side. And I'm there too. And one of the Duke's own Mantynnai guards the door.'
Nyriall touched his head again. ‘Room?’ he said, puzzled, then, ‘Mantynnai? Mantynnai? Yes … The Viernce mercenaries … Serenstad … Ibris.’ His voice grew louder. ‘What are you doing here?’ he burst out suddenly.
'We found you…’ Antyr hesitated. ‘We found you, in your room, in the Moras. You were…’ He changed direction. ‘You were … unwell … but searching … and with no dreamer. I was anxious about you so I followed. With Grayle and Tarrian. I don't know how I came here. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.'
Nyriall seemed to be recovering from his confusion. ‘You found me?’ he said. ‘Unwell?’ Antyr nodded unhappily. Then, very calmly, Nyriall said, ‘I was dead, wasn't I? They killed me. Severed me from Grayle and from that reality.'
Antyr felt suddenly cold, but there was no comfort to be found for him. ‘Yes,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘I'm sorry. There was no sign of life in you … your body when we arrived. And Grayle was greatly disturbed.'
He retreated into the reassuringly practical. ‘Tarrian managed to calm him somehow. He didn't hurt anyone.'
Nyriall was silent for some time then his mouth dropped open and he looked at Antyr. ‘And you followed me?’ he said in disbelief. ‘I'm a Dream Finder, I don't dream. And you followed me? Into a dream that I couldn't have had? And a death dream at that? What possessed you?'
'I don't know,’ Antyr said, a little irritated at Nyriall's tone. ‘And I didn't question. I just followed an impulse. Tell me what happened to you, Nyriall. I don't know how much time I have. Where are we? How did you come here? Who … killed you? … and how? Your room was empty and Grayle uninjured.'
Nyriall looked around at the field. Sunlit meadows and forests rolled into the distance towards white-topped mountains. He breathed in deeply. Antyr copied his actions. The air was sweet and cool and laden with the scents of rich grasses and flowers. It was a beautiful place.
'I don't know where I am,’ Nyriall said softly. ‘Nor can I answer any of your questions. My mind is still … scattered … confused. Something to do with dying, I suppose,’ he added with an unexpected flash of humour.
It faded rapidly however. ‘And if I could answer, how would you return to … Serenstad … with the knowledge? This is no dream, man. I think this is … one of the dreams beyond dreams. A place that only the likes of us can reach, and then perhaps only by chance.’ He took Antyr's arm, unexpectedly excited. ‘I think this is part of the Threshold, the ante-chamber of the Great Dream itself.'
Antyr grimaced. ‘I want no children's tales,’ he began. ‘I want an explanation…'
Nyriall rounded on him before he could continue. ‘Children's tales!’ he said angrily. ‘Look around you, man. Do you doubt what you see? Ask yourself why I'm here, when you say I'm lying dead in Serenstad. And ask why you're here, real and solid, crushing the grass beneath your feet and feeling the sun on your face, when you're sitting next to my corpse.’ He reached out and slapped Antyr's face lightly as he spoke. ‘And if your Earth Holders rest in my room with you, where are their dreamselves, Dream Finder?'
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.
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.'