Roger Taylor - Dream Finder

An array of swords, knives, spears and lances completed a motley whole, but Arwain spoke his immediate reaction to his companions. ‘These people must be able to ride and fight from the saddle like the very devil. I wouldn't want to meet them in the field without a good row of pikes in front of me.'

Both Haster and Ryllans nodded in silent acknowledgement of this judgement.

The six riders reached them and spread out in an arc. One of them spoke to the others in his own language and there was some raucous and derisive laughter. The arc opened and curled round a little further. Haster and Ryllans gently eased their mounts sideways.

'Who are you and why do you ride in armed force into my father's land?’ Arwain said.

There was a brief debate among the six riders and some pointing at Arwain and the others.

'They're deciding who's to have what booty after they've killed us,’ Haster said.

'You know their language?’ Arwain asked in surprise.

Haster shook his head and his lip curled into a brief, humourless smile. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘But what they're saying is the same in any language.'

'Fetch your leader here,’ Arwain demanded powerfully.

'Ryllans, take the three on your side, I'll take the others,’ Haster said quietly. ‘Lord Arwain, stay back unless we need you, and prepare to retreat quickly.'

Arwain was about to dispute this order with some indignation, when the six riders, without any apparent signal, spurred forward.

There was a cheer from their watching comrades.

It faded rapidly, however. At the first movement of the riders, Haster and Ryllans surged forward also. So fast was the response that they had almost closed with the attackers by the time Arwain had drawn his sword to join them.

Haster, however, had approached his first attacker empty-handed. Turning in the saddle at the last moment, he avoided a spear thrust and, seizing the shaft of the weapon, twisted it in such a way that his opponent was lifted clear from his saddle and hurled violently into his neighbour, unseating him. It looked like a display of prodigious strength, but despite the speed of the action, Arwain noted that Haster had seemed to use virtually no effort.

Without pause, however, and even as the two men were still falling, Haster swung the spear around and hurled it at his third target. It struck the man in the upper arm with such force that it pinned it to his body. He let out a great scream, and it was only some deep reflex that kept him mounted as he turned to flee. It served him little, however, as he had scarcely gone a dozen paces when he slithered from the saddle to be dragged along the rocky road by his now panic-stricken horse.

Ryllans in his turn had dispatched two of his attackers, a little more slowly, but just as effectively, with only two savage sword blows. Arwain struck down the third.

Haster rammed his horse sideways into the two men he had unhorsed, as they were struggling to their feet.

Both fell heavily and one of them stayed down, but Arwain swung low out of his saddle and seized the survivor by the collar of his tunic. He yanked him up on to his toes and placed his smoking, bloody sword blade at his throat. It was shaking. But not as much as the white-eyed tribesman.

'My father's a merciful man, that's why you're alive,’ he snarled. ‘But this is how it will be for all of you if you do not return whence you came. Pick up your dead and injured, and leave.'

He pushed him away violently and then the three of them turned rapidly and began galloping back to the farmhouse.

The sudden, explosive response by the three riders, and the rapid dispatch of their comrades, had stunned the watching tribesmen and, for a moment, there was a deep and profound silence in the wintry stillness. Then, with a roar they charged forward as one.

Estaan handed Antyr a knife. It was Larnss'. ‘This belongs with you, not me,’ he said. ‘Now break out those packed arrows and make sure everyone's well supplied.’ He looked at his charge earnestly. ‘I'll do my best to watch you, Antyr, but keep your wits about you. I…'

'Grayle and Tarrian will guard me,’ Antyr said, in an unsuccessful attempt at reassurance. ‘I'll be all right. You look to yourself.'

As he ran towards the small storage area in front of the farmhouse, Tarrian and Grayle emerged, ears laid back and tails between their legs. They ran straight to Antyr. He knelt down and put his arms around them.

Responsibility for them and their fear helped him to turn away from his own terror as the thunder of the approaching hooves and the cries of the riders grew louder.

'I'm sorry,’ he said, desperately and inadequately. ‘If I'm killed, then flee, live your lives as you should and my thanks and blessings go with you for ever.'

The sinister sound of flying arrows began to punctuate the din, followed almost immediately by the screams of terrified horses and injured men.

Antyr tightened his grip about the two animals, both trembling violently. ‘Your very natures bind you here with me, and I have no choice but to stay. I'm sorry. Let that part of you which is human guide and control that part which is wolf. And let that part of you which is human be at its worst. Remember-this day goes to the most terrible.'

From out of their whirling, tormented fears and doubts, the wolves’ voices emerged as one. ‘We understand,’ they said. Then, abruptly they were themselves again; strangely calm and alert.

Antyr released them and, with shaking hands, began to cut open the packages of arrows.

Ivaroth struck the messenger a vicious backhanded blow that knocked him from his horse.

'Endryn, Greynyr, to me,’ he shouted, and pausing only to sweep the blind man up behind him, he spurred his horse forward.

His two lieutenants caught up with him as he ploughed recklessly through the crowd of riders, striking out and swearing profusely at anyone who was slow in moving out of his way.

His face was a mask of fury and it was some time before Endryn dared risk a question.

'What's happened?’ he asked eventually.

Ivaroth waved a clenched fist forward. ‘Those donkeys and asses in the vanguard have got themselves ambushed,’ he shouted angrily. ‘Thirty dead before they knew what was happening according to that whingeing messenger!'

'We must be careful, Mareth Hai,’ Endryn said tentatively. ‘We saw at Rendd what damage these people can do…'

'Careful? Careful!’ Ivaroth's fury spilled over. ‘They've stopped the advance.’ He drove his spurs savagely into his horse's flanks, making it leap forward. ‘I'll not have my way barred further by anything. We'll make an example of whoever's caused this. If any survive I'll have them flayed alive for a month and then feed their remains to the people of Viernce.'

Endryn looked at Ivaroth strangely. The savagery of his response was nothing unusual, but there was a quality about his speech and his manner that alarmed him: a lack of control, a rage; the word came unasked for; a madness. It was something that he had seen growing ever since that fearful confrontation with the blind man.

He looked surreptitiously at the old man sitting behind Ivaroth, his face hidden by the hood of his ragged gown. One day soon, I'll rid us of you, you monstrosity, he thought. Ivaroth may dismiss the gods as he chooses, but I know a demon when I see one. Whatever bargain he's struck with you, the price is too high.

Slowly the hooded head turned towards him, and Endryn felt himself unable to tear his eyes from the darkness that faced him.

His throat began to tighten as if a great hand were squeezing it. And he could do nothing! Not even cry out.

He was going to die.

'You will show these creatures what power truly is,’ Ivaroth shouted over his shoulder.