Roger Taylor - Dream Finder

'Anything unusual in the line?’ Ibris asked. ‘Chariots? Artillery? Cover for ambushing cavalry? Treacherous ground?'

Feranc shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nor anything to be seen in the surrounding countryside. Though there seemed to be quite a lot of activity along the line. Messengers running to and fro.'

Menedrion shrugged slightly. ‘Probably last-minute preparations,’ he suggested. ‘They know we'll be on them before noon.'

He looked at Feranc and then his father. ‘I can see no reason to alter any of the tactics we've decided on. Can you?'

Ibris looked at him quizzically. ‘Why the uncertainty?’ he asked.

Menedrion frowned. ‘I'm uncertain because I still can't believe they're doing this,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Throughout this whole campaign they've shown none of the war-craft that we know they have. Even now, at the end, they've made no special effort to choose advantageous ground, there's no evidence of flanking forces in the area, nothing that seems to indicate a real will to conquer. It makes no sense.'

Ibris could offer him no clearer vision.

Feranc spoke. ‘They're preparing to fight the battle of the end of the world,’ he said. ‘The final battle in which all other conflicts will be resolved and from which Ar-Hyrdyn will choose those destined to join the great heroes of legend who occupy his Golden Hall.'

Menedrion puffed out a long steaming breath into the cold air. ‘It's as logical as anything else I've heard,’ he said resignedly. ‘But where does that leave us earth-bound souls?'

'Facing an enemy that's liable to fight to the death, rather than break and run,’ Feranc replied starkly.

Menedrion's lip curled. ‘You can't suppress the flesh, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘Fear is fear. We'll see how their faith sustains them when our arrows are falling about them.'

Feranc nodded. ‘True,’ he said. ‘But we mustn't underestimate them. This day is going to be long, hard, bitter and bloody.'

'Yes,’ Ibris agreed, his voice sad. ‘And it will be the end of their world. Whatever corruption in their society has brought them to this, all will indeed be resolved today.'

Menedrion cut the discussion short. ‘It's still their choice, father,’ he said. ‘Don't forget the heralds they killed. If their sickness … can't be swayed away with reason and logic, then we must do it the physician's way. We must lance it. And quickly, if there's another enemy at our back.'

He reached up and pulled down the visor of his helm, then held out his mailed hands to Feranc who took them in both his own.

'Strength to your arm, Feranc the shield, Feranc the slayer. Here's to tomorrow's sunrise.'

'Light be with you, Irfan Menedrion,’ Feranc replied, then, taking the Duke's hands, ‘And with you, my Lord. Guard our backs well. And put me to the sword if I flee.'

Finally, Menedrion embraced his father in silence.

Then the three parted to ride to their allotted positions.

As he rode back towards the army, Menedrion drew his sword and waved it high above his head with a great shout. His cry echoed over the Bethlarii plain and into the bright sky and the cry of the entire army rose to follow it.

They had stopped. But the world was still filled with pain. He had never known anything but pain, nor ever would for all eternity to come.

No part of Antyr's body gave him any other message. Who would have thought that the human frame could travel so fast for so long, or that men could remain in the saddle throughout?

He had vague recollections of an occasional voice penetrating the haze of agony with the advice that he should, ‘Just relax, don't fight the horse.’ Then, more sternly. ‘Relax, you're tiring the horse.’ He had recollections too, that there had been other brief pauses punctuating this lifetime of pounding impact he had been living, though, as now, they had offered little comfort.

Even the dawn had brought no relief. Indeed the bright golden wash that had splashed into his face seemed to pass straight through him and illuminate his pain, so frail had he become.

He had no recollection of the strong hands that had reached out and supported him as he slithered into the unconsciousness from which he was now emerging.

'You've done well,’ an echoing voice was telling him from far away.

Mysteriously he floated out of his saddle and propped himself up against something … a tree, he realized, as he managed to look up through the intricate tracery of winter-bared branches.

Something damp and cold touched his face and sniffed inquiringly, then there was a vigorous splashing sound nearby.

'That's better.'

Antyr winced as Tarrian's relieved voice boomed into his head like a cascade of tumbling boulders. ‘That wasn't too bad a journey after all, was it? Slept most of the way. If you ever get a horse I think I'll travel more like that. It's very comfortable. And quite stylish in its way.'

Antyr felt stirrings of malevolence deep inside, but it was beyond him to formulate it into purposeful abuse and he let it lie.

'Are you awake?’ Tarrian said with deplorable heartiness, his paw poking Antyr with reckless disregard. Antyr stared at the hands that came up in front of him to deflect this unwanted attention. After a timeless interval he recognized them as his own. At the same time, his voice began to return.

'No, I don't think so,’ he replied. ‘At least I sincerely hope not.'

Slowly the pains wracking his body began to fragment and take up residence in various limbs and joints, and the memory of the purpose of this journey returned. It stood like a dark, evil forest, barring his way to the future.

He felt sick.

What madness had prompted him to join this demented dash across country to face some unknown enemy? What madness had drawn him into this whole business? He felt an overwhelming nostalgia for the familiar sounds and smells of his favourite inns, and the familiar, torchlit streets he had staggered along so often.

He put his hand to his head in imitation of the gesture he had made many times through his life on waking and finding himself regretfully reviewing his recent follies.

'Are you all right?’ someone asked.

Carefully, Antyr turned a protesting neck to see who had spoken. It was Estaan. He looked desperately weary. Under other circumstances Antyr might have replied with some mildly acid rejoinder, but he too was too weary to find solace in humour.

'Come on,’ Estaan said, bending down and unceremoniously hauling him to his feet. ‘You can take some pride in having survived this journey. We lost a few on the way.'

'Lost …?’ Antyr asked vaguely.

'Just exhausted,’ Estaan replied. ‘No fatalities fortunately. Come on, you'll feel better if you keep moving.'

Antyr's legs were reluctant to respond and he tried to slither back down on to the ground. Estaan held him upright however and then dragged him forward roughly, leaving him no alternative but to walk or fall.

Antyr uttered a feeble cry of protest and pain and there was a faint growl from Tarrian.

'Never mind growling at me, wolf,’ Estaan said brutally. ‘Get into his head and wake him up properly. If he falls, he's finished.'

Another face swam into Antyr's view before Tarrian could respond. It was Haster. He peered intently into Antyr's face for a moment and then he was gone. Abruptly, powerful hands from behind him began seeking out stiffened joints and muscles and manipulating them purposefully.

Antyr cried out again, though more loudly this time, but Tarrian did not interfere.

'It's for the best,’ he said awkwardly into Antyr's slowly clearing head. Then he was gone, and Grayle with him.

Then Haster was peering into his eyes again and driving thumbs into his shoulders. ‘I'm no expert at this,’ he said. ‘But that should help.’ He repeated Estaan's advice. ‘Keep moving.’ Adding, ‘Stand up straight as well.’ Then he too was gone.