Roger Taylor - Dream Finder

The grip vanished from Endryn's throat and he took in great draughts of the cold winter air.

Ivaroth glanced at him, his face suddenly curious. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked abruptly.

Endryn shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he gasped. Then, mustering a grin from somewhere, ‘Just battle bellyache.'

Ivaroth let out a great laugh, though, Endryn noted, that too was laced with madness.

For the remainder of the journey he kept his mind well away from any further such considerations.

Then a group of riders came towards them.

'Where?’ Ivaroth said grimly, before any of them could speak.

A shaking hand directed him towards a nearby hill. ‘They can be seen from up there, Mareth Hai.'

Ivaroth crashed past the speaker and urged his horse brutally up the hill. Endryn and Greynyr followed.

As they reached the crest, the small farmhouse below came into sight. In front of it lay the dead and dying bodies of horses and men. Behind a small wall surrounding the farmhouse stood the defenders who had halted his advance on Viernce.

'A handful,’ he said, his voice hoarse with disbelief. ‘A mere handful.'

He looked back at the blind man. ‘Destroy them,’ he said. ‘Bring that house down, tear up those trees, rend them as you rent that messenger's horse, sink them into the hard earth as you did that boy-for our later sport.'

The blind man, however, seemed distracted. He dismounted and moved forward, his head turning from side to side like a predator sniffing for prey. His hands reached out, claw-like.

Crouching silent beside Estaan, Antyr looked up at the figures that had appeared at the top of the hill. Adding to the fear that already pervaded his entire being, an ominous tremor began to develop. It was as though some dark and terrible eye were searching for him.

He reached out and took hold of Estaan's arm, childlike almost.

But Estaan himself was staring up at the figures, his face wrinkled as though he were trying to remember something. As were Haster and Jadric and the rest of the Mantynnai.

Then the figure standing at the top of the hill reached out both arms as if to embrace the entire land.

'Aaah!'

Ivaroth heard the end of his world in the blind man's sigh.

No! He would not allow it. Not now. Not after so much.

' Destroy them all! ’ he screamed to his waiting army below. ‘ Crush them utterly! '

Then he brought his sword down on the old man's head.

'It's him!’ Antyr gasped, rising to his feet and staggering backwards, his arms raised as if to protect himself from some unseen assault.

Ivaroth's horde poured out from between the hills in a vast, black, screaming tide.

The blind man turned and brushed aside Ivaroth's descending blow as if it were no more than a falling leaf.

'Come, Ivaroth Ungwyl,’ he said, his voice ecstatic with triumph. ‘Come and know your destiny. You are my way to the power that is the power of my master's master. His mantle shall be mine. He shall bow before me and I shall be all. Earth-shaker, weaver of the winds, and mover of the great tides. I shall rebuild his Great Places of Power. His enemies shall be mine, and I shall destroy all their works so completely that their memory will not linger even in the least grain of dust. Then I shall build the world anew in my image.'

Ivaroth slid from his saddle and crashed to the floor. His eyes were black, like shafts down into mines of unknowable, stygian depth.

As too were Antyr's, as he fell back and lay motionless on the winter-chilled grass.

Estaan knelt down by his side, his face desperate, but he was pushed to one side by a charging blow from Tarrian. When he recovered his balance, Tarrian and Grayle, eyes blazing yellow and feral, were pacing a watch about the Dream Finder's body.

Ivaroth's men fell like corn before the scythe as the arrows of Ibris's bodyguard relentlessly found their marks. Wounded horses stumbled, throwing their riders and bringing down the horses pressing close behind them. The air was filled with the screaming of men and horses: in pain, in fear, in battle frenzy, in death.

But the black tide was vast and as men and horses fell, others replaced them. And those who were only unhorsed, charged forward on foot. Soon sections of the wall were alive with cruel hand-to-hand combat.

* * * *

Endryn and Greynyr stared at the downed body of their leader, then, as one, reached for their swords. Both were skilled and hardened warriors, and, for all they were not young, mercilessly swift at killing when need arose.

But they knew they were defeated even as they formed their intent.

The blind man held out his hands to them. Endryn was lifted from his saddle and hurled some twenty paces away. His body bounced twice then rolled down the hill and under the hooves of the frenzied army below. Greynyr clutched at his throat, then, eyes bulging, crashed face-down on to the ground by his erstwhile master.

Arwain swung his sword down on the skull of one of the tribesmen who had reached the wall. The man tumbled forward and Arwain wrenched his blade free with an effort. With an even greater effort he wrenched his gaze from the dying man's face.

He looked around. A dozen small birds flew across the sky intent on their own needs, and bright sunlight lit the surrounding countryside with winter clarity and mocked the bleak, struggling, pageant being enacted around the old deserted farmhouse. The storm clouds drew nearer.

Despair welled up inside him. So far few of his force had been hurt, while the enemy had suffered severely. But the odds were overwhelming and these invaders fought as if death meant nothing to them.

And it was only a matter of time before all their arrows were spent. Then …

'Lord.’ It was Haster. He pushed a bundle of arrows into his hand. ‘These are the last,’ he said simply.

Arwain's order passed along the hard-pressed line. ‘Prepare to fall back!'

It was a world of whirling darkness and noise, lit only by lightning from a tormented, lowering sky. Lightning that forked from cloud to cloud. Lightning that vented its terrible spleen on the trembling ground below. Lightning that flared silent and ominous within the clouds themselves, like the gas from some long-decayed marsh. Lightning that was searing white and fevered yellow and red like the fires of a vast sword-forging furnace.

Antyr gazed around. His terror seemed to resonate with the very air about him.

In all the dreams he had walked, he had never seen such a fearful place as this. And he was alone! There was no sign, no hint of the presence of Tarrian or Grayle.

A dark, luminous mist hung over the shaking ground, obscuring it completely.

Shadows flitted around him, now clear and vivid, now vague, like wind-caught smoke.

Yet they were familiar.

As was the sound that mingled with the rolling thunder.

Then sound and images came together in Antyr's mind to form a ghastly whole. It was the battle! Wherever he had been thrown, it was no Threshold world. It was near the heart of that terrible conflict in his birth world; some tortured realm created as nightmare and reality began to merge.

'Tarrian! Grayle!’ he shouted, but though his words rang through his head, he made no sound. The shadow-filled air gibbered at him in reply.

He turned around to search for something that might help him focus his swirling, panic-stricken thoughts.

Then, scarcely a dozen paces away, he saw a figure, silhouetted dark and ominous against a frenzied, lightning-lit background.

Yet it was another person, another human, in this demented place. Antyr reached out to it in appeal.

The figure inclined its head inquiringly, then stepped forward. The sky flared red and lit the blade of the sword he was carrying. Then, Antyr felt his menace.