Amid the ghastly flickering and screaming chaos of the blind man's Dream Nexus, Ivaroth waited. Hitherto he had had to pause there for only the merest instant, scarcely a heartbeat, before the way would become apparent and his spirit, now bearing the blind man's Dreamself, would leap towards it. He had never questioned the nature of this strange conjoining. It was just one more strange quality among the many that this profoundly strange old man possessed. And, in any event, he had found that little about the blind man responded to thoughtful analysis. It was sufficient for Ivaroth that it happened the way it did and that he was the blind man's only vehicle into the dreams of others, or the worlds beyond.
The only vehicle, that is, except for the man, if man it was, they had encountered on their last long rampage there.
Ivaroth had seen him advancing relentlessly and had quailed before the murderous savagery that had suddenly exploded from him as he had come within sword range. But the old man had seen something else. The way to the other place that he so lusted for.
It was a death sentence for someone.
Ivaroth would not be taken unawares again. Should he again carry the old man into the worlds beyond as widely as he had been wont to do, and should they again happen upon this stranger, then Ivaroth would strike him down on the instant. And the old man too, if necessary. Better dead than someone else's.
But these were thoughts now far from him as he waited at the Nexus. It was frantic and crazed beyond any he had ever found before; streaked through with countless alien images and desires, and awash with terrors. Terrors that flooded out of the long past dreams with the fearful uncontrollability of vomit.
And beneath all, relentless and ever-present, like the funereal bass note to some terrible dirge, was a dark and evil memory? … presence? … will? … that made even Ivaroth blench.
The blind man's Dream Nexus was no place for a sane man. Yet he must remain there. Remain until a way became apparent. Or until …
Scarcely had the conjecture begun to form than he felt the old man's Dreamself with him, silent, watchful, expectant. Suspiciously, no sense of injury or illness lingered around it.
Then the way appeared and, motionless, he followed it. Followed it into the shimmering clouds of dream thoughts that pervaded the camp, and the land, and … everywhere.
All around him, amid the myriad tumbling thoughts of men and women and children, Ivaroth saw, felt, the ways into the worlds beyond, the gateways to the worlds of the Threshold.
Untutored, untrained, Ivaroth did not even know that in this land he would have been called a Dream Finder. Still less did he know that he was a natural Master of the art. One who could enter dreams, enter the Threshold worlds, without the aid of a Companion.
He knew, however, that the skills he had, had been increased manyfold since his contact, his unholy communion, with the blind man.
'You must tell me what happened if I'm to bring you back,’ he said to the silent spirit beside him.
'Beyond your understanding, Mareth Hai. What you asked was too much for this frame in this world.'
'But you obeyed.'
'I obeyed.'
There was no reproach in the statement, nor rancour.
The old man was beaten!
Ivaroth could scarcely contain himself. But still, it would be a futile victory if the old man was lost to him. He had to be brought back.
'What are your needs?’ he asked.
Silence.
Longing.
Ivaroth felt abruptly generous. Holding the old man's spirit, he moved into the Threshold.
He screwed up his eyes in the dazzling glare, and, his hand on his sword hilt, turned around quickly, taking in the entire scene. He relaxed almost immediately. They stood alone on the slopes of a snow-covered mountain. Above them a brilliant sun shone in a clear blue winter sky.
Behind the two tiny figures, great white mountains disdained their insignificance and peak upon peak reached out to both horizons, while in front of them lay an undulating plain, its whiteness broken only by the scar of an occasional rocky outcrop and scattered clusters of trees. High above them, mountain birds circled leisurely, following their own, unseen pathways.
The old man threw back his hood and raised his sightless eyes wide to the sky. He let out a long, ecstatic sigh, as his arms slowly spread out and his mouth opened into an expression of gaping fulfilment.
The long bony hands uncurled so slowly and painstakingly that it seemed they would go on for ever. To Ivaroth, it was like watching the unfolding of a grotesque plant.
As he watched however, unease began to replace his habitual disgust. The old man's recovery seemed to be both total and very rapid. Instinctively, he glanced around again, warily looking for any other figures in the eye-straining whiteness, but still no one was to be seen.
Neither man moved for some time. Ivaroth, still and watchful, the blind man, arms extended, face stretched up to the sky.
Then he laughed. His sinister, gleeful, and nerve-tearing laugh.
Ivaroth smiled slightly. All was well.
The blind man brought his arms down and then briefly closed his eyes. The snow some way in front of him erupted in a great white cloud. Opening his eyes he stared, unseeing, at his handiwork. The fine snow settled slowly and gracefully, then it erupted again … and again … and again, as if the very presence of such harmony were an offence in itself.
Sustained by the old man's will, the snow rose higher and higher into the bright sky, twisting and turning, whirling and swooping, seemingly obedient to his least whim, though Ivaroth, as ever, could see no outward sign of how this power was manipulated.
Then, as the snow moved faster and faster, there came the sound of a great wind. Though no breeze struck the two watchers, it grew in intensity until, screaming and howling, it was like the worst of winter's bleak excesses marching to and fro along the mountainside at the behest of its creator. The blind man's laughter increased frenziedly to mingle with the din.
Ivaroth's unease returned.
'You're soon recovered,’ he shouted.
The old man did not reply immediately, then, ‘Yes, Ivaroth Ungwyl,’ he said. Ivaroth's eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Mareth Hai,’ the old man added, conciliatory. ‘These worlds are nearer the heart of the power. It has weakened me to be so long from them, but now…'
He turned towards a nearby outcrop. As Ivaroth followed the sightless gaze, the air shimmered as it would over a fire, then there was an ear-splitting crack and a massive slab separated from the rock face. Slowly it tumbled down into the snow, fragmenting as it did so. Ivaroth staggered slightly as the thunderous noise of the collapse reached him, and the impact of the collapsing mass shook the ground.
In these worlds beyond, he had seen the old man create storms, rend trees, make the earth shake and buck like a tormented horse, even create monstrous likenesses of Ar-Hyrdyn to bind the minds of the Bethlarii priests. But he had never seen such a display of elemental power as this. Two things came to his mind simultaneously. The old man must die sooner rather than later. Whether he had always had such power and had only now decided to reveal it, or whether he had suddenly acquired it, did not matter. What mattered was that the possessor of such power in one world would not rest until he had found it in another, and with such power he would be beyond all control. The other thought, he spoke out loud, ‘You could bring down the walls of a city with such power,’ he cried excitedly.
The blind man, however, did not seem to be listening. He was staring into the streams of snow and rock still sliding and clattering down the mountainside.
'I shall be as him,’ he said, though to himself. ‘I shall be the earth shaker.’ Then he paused and a look of realization spread across his face that made Ivaroth lay his hand on the hilt of the knife in his belt.
The old man turned to him, his face alight ecstatically. Ivaroth found himself fixed by the terrible sightless eyes. ‘We must find the other place, now,’ the blind man hissed his demand. ‘If I can be as my mentor here, then in the other place I shall be as his master.'
He began rubbing his hands together and his voice fell to an awestricken whisper. ‘Yes, yes. That is my destiny. It is fitting. My blinding, my wandering, but trials. All is clear. I am to displace him. I need only the key, and…'
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 manner 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?’ he 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.
Into his darkness, however, other thoughts rose to sustain him, albeit faintly.
Don't break. Hold your ground, hold your ground. Or die. He had survived. He hadn't been casually swept aside by this unholy city-crushing power. And, indeed, as Ibris had cruelly summarized, he had no choice. He could not knowingly enter the Threshold, but the Mynedarion could seemingly draw him there at will.
He felt Tarrian and Grayle leaning against his legs slightly, as if for comfort. The wolves’ fears reached out to mingle with his own. In turn he reached out to be with his two Companions. Ironically, their fear reassured him; it gave him a measure of the rightness of his own emotions. Both the animals were pack leaders by nature. But they were thus only because they were not afraid of their fear, and faced danger wholeheartedly when need arose. Indeed it was necessity, and necessity only, that was the driving force of their terrible ferocity and courage.
And, threading through their fear, Antyr felt that necessity asserting itself. From their own inner well-springs the two wolves had drawn the same conclusion as Ibris before he had spoken it to Antyr. They were trapped, cornered. Now they must hold their ground. Fight or die.
Antyr became angry. And he had started none of this!
He opened his eyes and met the Duke's gaze forcefully. ‘Make what dispositions you must to face this new enemy, Ibris,’ he said. ‘Tonight, to aid you, Pandra and I and our Companions will assail the Bethlarii as best we can.
'Then I shall turn about and hunt those who so far have seen fit to hunt me.'