Roger Taylor - Dream Finder

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.