Roger Taylor - Dream Finder

He stepped back. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he asked wordlessly.

But the figure did not reply, it moved relentlessly forward through the flickering shadows of the battle in the other world.

Trembling, Antyr drew his own sword and, holding it with two hands, offered an uncertain guard. The figure stopped and a voice full of scorn and grim humour passed through Antyr.

'And I thought you were a demon,’ Ivaroth's voice said. ‘You're just a man, as I am. It seems your guardian is as lost as mine.’ He gave a low, sinister laugh. ‘I don't know where that old fiend has plunged us with his vaunted power, but he's lost himself somewhere, for ever, I hope. While you, his lusted-after prize, the cause of all this, are here, defenceless, for me to spit like a pig.'

Antyr tried to remember Estaan's teaching but all his knowledge seemed to have evaporated. Fear dominated him.

'Tarrian! Grayle!’ He tried again, but there was no response.

Ivaroth paused for an instant at the cry, then with a roar he swung his sword at Antyr's head.

Antyr jumped back desperately, thrusting his own sword forward to parry the blow. Ivaroth's powerful cut, however, simply swept his blade aside, sending him staggering.

The shadows of the battle swirled and flitted between the two men as Ivaroth cut again and again at the elusive Dream Finder.

Antyr's every instinct was to flee. But to where? Could there be any shelter in this place? This fearful half world that seemed to have been created just for the two of them.

Ivaroth came again, his anger mounting at this scuttling, pathetic opponent from whom he had once fled. Abruptly, Antyr's terror overwhelmed him and swinging his sword furiously from side to side he charged, screaming, at Ivaroth.

Ivaroth retreated before the onslaught, though in cold caution, not fear. His moment of triumph was near now, he knew. Many a terrified creature had swung at him thus in the past. He revelled in the stink of Antyr's fear.

And there it was!

With a whirling twist of his blade, he entangled Antyr's and sent it soaring high into the dark air. The screech of metal against metal overtopped the noise of the thunder and the battle, and the blade flickered red and white and yellow as it turned and spun under the rumbling sky.

Antyr staggered back under the impact of Ivaroth's sudden counter-attack, and tumbled incongruously on to the ground. The clinging mist billowed around him.

Ivaroth levelled his sword at him, then set it to one side and bent forward, bringing his face close to Antyr's.

'Know, Dream Finder, that it is an honour to die on the sword of Ivaroth Ungwyl, Lord of all the tribes, Mareth Hai. Know.'

Antyr quailed before the night-black eyes and the night-black void that was Ivaroth's mouth. Then, scarcely aware of what he was doing, he spat into the dreadful mask of his impending death.

For an instant it seemed that all noise and movement had ceased.

Then, through the silence, Antyr saw his left hand seize Ivaroth's sword arm.

And the tumult was alive again.

Antyr's right hand drove Captain Larnss’ knife brutally up under Ivaroth's ribcage.

The blackness vanished from Ivaroth's eyes and Antyr hesitated at the bewilderment and pain he now read there.

But even as he did so he felt a response from his victim and saw their message change, to frenzied murderous rage. And, too, he heard the cry of Ryllans in the training hall.

'Don't stop! Finish him! Finish him!'

Then, Estaan's true training came forth as Antyr's whole being accepted the reality of his needs and did what was necessary for his survival.

Tightening his grip on both Ivaroth's sword arm and Larnss’ knife, he swept through his hesitation and doubts, and, levering himself up from the misty ground, he charged forward into his enemy, pushing, pushing, pushing, though his voice screamed and screamed as if that could erase forever the memory of the deed.

Then they crashed to the ground.

Antyr saw Ivaroth's life leave him as surely as he had seen his sword bounce from his hand.

And for an instant the shadows were whole and solid again. Around him the bodyguard, arrows spent, had formed a defensive ring, and images of flailing hooves, whitened eyes and hacking blades flooded into him. And with it, the terrible din.

Yet through the din came another sound. Reaching out to draw him back.

'No, Antyr, Dream Finder, my guide. That world will be no more. Your destiny lies elsewhere. You are to be my most favoured when the inner portal is found.'

Antyr hung in timeless, featureless greyness.

Before him, white, sightless eyes seeing all, was the blind man.

'Mynedarion,’ Antyr said hoarsely. ‘Abomination. I…'

The blind man reached out to him and Antyr's voice left him. ‘It was well you triumphed,’ he said. ‘Else I had been lost. Ivaroth was treacherous to the end. But the power knew of my coming, and preserved me.'

'Tarrian! Grayle!’ Antyr tried to scream, but a gesture of the long clawed hand seemed to silence even his thoughts.

'Nothing but my will prevails here, Dream Finder,’ the blind man said. ‘And my will is that you find the inner portal that will bring me to the power. It is near this place. For it has drawn you here. That I know. That I can feel. But you must guide me.’ His voice became seductive. ‘That done, then all will be yours.'

Antyr again found his mind filled with images of wealth and luxury and power. It seemed that every desire he had ever had was but a hair's breadth away from him. Some simple act away. Everything he had ever wanted.

But the mayhem of the battle and the death of Ivaroth were too close. No wealth, no luxury, no power could stand the bloody comparison with such truths.

And abruptly, he was free. Free and running through the greyness.

Yet not free. For somewhere, he knew the blind man was pursuing him.

Antyr ran and ran. All was greyness, but about him he sensed many different ways.

And then, though all was still greyness, he knew that the blind man was close upon him. Pursuing. Or just following? He felt his terrible menace reaching out to seize and bind him again.

He turned suddenly. There, ahead of him, was his escape. Hope swept over him. He dashed forward towards it.

As he passed through the inner portal, the blind man's triumphant hand closed about his shoulder.

Carried on high, distant winds, the dark storm-clouds swept in front of the sun, bringing sudden and premature night to the battleground.

The battle faltered momentarily.

Then, as if emulating the clouds themselves, Ivaroth's hordes pressed forward again. Ibris's bodyguard fought now over a terrible redoubt of dead and dying men and horses, but still the tribesmen came, an endless black tide beating at this tiny resolute rock.

Two crawled from the heap and threw themselves towards Antyr's motionless body. Estaan, bloodied and exhausted, pinned one to the ground with a spear he had wrested from someone. Grayle tore the throat out of the other in a killing frenzy.

Hackles raised like armoured spikes, teeth bared in all their bone-crushing power, eyes brighter than the noon sun, Tarrian turned to Estaan.

'Take no more of our prey, human, friend though you be.'

Estaan returned to the fray with his own kind. It was the lesser terror in that circle.

'He is here … He is here … He is here. The voices echoed through Antyr.

'The Adept … The Adept…'

Antyr was whole. He stood beside the blind man on some strange vantage.

But he looked about him with eyes that were not eyes, and saw with a sight that was not sight. Around him he knew a myriad worlds in their entirety; shifting, changing, merging. All the planes of existence that were, that could be, that would be.