Roger Taylor - Dream Finder

From his past came long-forgotten memories of men he had met on occasions during his army service. Men who seemed to see through to a truer, more basic reality in whatever they looked at. Men who acted without hesitation but with a strange economy of effort and totality of purpose. Men who were perhaps not always comfortable to be with, but with whom he was profoundly relieved to lock shields when the arrows and spears were flying. This man was one such, beyond a doubt.

And the wolf had called him a pack leader, he remembered. Then he noticed that Tarrian was trotting by the side of the officer and a small spur of pride goaded him forward to join them.

As he followed the man's easy stride, he tried to make a note of the route they were travelling, but after some three changes of direction, he gave up. In any event his impending meeting with the Duke, and whatever that might imply, was looming across his future like a dark and unclimbable rock-face and he could no more think beyond it than fly.

Despite this however, and despite the low night-time lamplight illuminating the tall vaulted corridors through which they were passing, Antyr found himself gazing around in some awe. Apart from the architecture itself, the walls were lined with pictures and carvings of extraordinary quality. He knew that the Duke was a patron of many artists and craftsmen, but had never before thought about the extent of this patronage.

'This is overwhelming,’ he said softly, largely to himself. Again the man did not reply, but he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the remark.

The corridors were largely deserted, but the occasional servant they passed would stop and bow to the officer, and sentries stiffened at their posts.

Eventually the pace slowed a little and the elaborate tiled floor gave way to a soft, patterned carpeting. Apart from other, more subtle changes in the decoration, the muffling of their marching footsteps in itself made the atmosphere more intimate, and Antyr's stomach began to churn painfully as he realized he must be in or near the Duke's private quarters. He licked his lips uneasily, but his mouth was dry.

No more ale in future, he thought piteously, wincing a little as the word ‘future’ seemed to mock him.

'Be calm,’ Tarrian offered gently, but to little avail.

Then they stopped. Outside an imposing double door set inside a deep archway, Antyr noted that the sentries who stood either side of it wore a livery similar to that of his guide.

'Excuse me,’ the man said to him, unexpectedly polite. ‘Stand still.'

Before Antyr could protest, the man was running his hands over him; expert searching hands. Around his neck, down his arms, his back, front, sides …

There was a pause.

'Empty your pockets,’ came the soft command.

Antyr obeyed without thinking, emptying his keys, coins, scraps of paper, a small knife, bottle opener, and various other oddments on to a small, immaculately polished table nearby. A small flicker of irritation-or was it distaste? — passed over the man's face as the untidy little heap grew.

'I've no weapons on me,’ Antyr said reassuringly but with an in-drawn breath as the man completed his search with an examination of his legs that left the Dream Finder balancing gingerly on his toes.

The man nodded curtly.

'Do you want to search my Companion?’ said Antyr, scarcely believing the note of injured dignity that had crept into his voice.

This time, however, he saw the man wilfully suppress a smile.

'No, no,’ he said. ‘The wolf might be fiercer than you but treachery's the danger here, not ferocity, eh wolf?’ And he reached down as if to stroke Tarrian's head. Without thinking, Antyr reached out quickly and stopped him. As the Dream Finder's hand closed about his arm, the man looked up sharply and Antyr felt his balance subtly wavering. This time, however, although he held Antyr's gaze, his guide flinched a little.

'My mistake,’ he said softly as Antyr shook his head in mute appeal.

Then one of the sentries opened the door and the officer walked through, signalling Antyr to follow.

'Feranc,’ came a voice as the man stepped inside. ‘At last. Have you found him?'

Feranc! Antyr thought. Ye gods! Ciarll Feranc; variously Feranc the shield and Feranc the slayer, and bearer of many other, harsher names in the mouths of those who had opposed the Duke with force. Not one of the Duke's bodyguard, but their commander. A man whose name alone had sent shivers through the armies of the city's enemies and stiffened the resolve of its allies more than the arrival of an entire division on the battlefield.

And I tried to talk to him about the weather … twitted him about searching Tarrian. And grabbed his arm! The last residue of moisture in Antyr's mouth dried up.

'I have, sire,’ Antyr just heard Feranc reply through the noise of his pounding heart. ‘This is he.'

Then the shield had stepped to one side and Antyr found himself staring open-mouthed at a figure stretched out casually on a long couch, his face largely hidden in the shadows thrown by the three lamps that strove to illuminate the room.

'You're gawping!’ came Tarrian's furious thought abruptly. ‘Bow smartly and then stand up properly!'

Somehow, Antyr managed to obey his Companion's instruction. Then the lounging figure reached out and beckoned the Dream Finder and his Companion forward.

Menedrion, eldest son to Duke Ibris, started upright, suddenly wide awake. His heart was pounding with terror, and he was bathed in sweat.

For a moment he flailed his arms about wildly as if fending off a multitude of closing enemies. Then quite suddenly he stopped as awareness joined his wakefulness and familiar surroundings began to take shape around him in the faint glow of the small night-lamp.

Pulling up his knees he wrapped his arms around them and dropped his head forward. He stayed thus for some time until both his breathing and his heartbeat had quietened. Wilfully he kept his mind from returning to contemplate the nightmare which had just wakened him. He would think about it in a moment-when time had interposed a little more safety.

Eventually, still resting his head on his knees, he turned and looked at the night-lamp. It stood on a nearby table and a soft yellow halo surrounded its flame to tell him that not even the guarded depths of the palace were proof against the assault of such an intangible enemy as the fog. But he was oblivious to such a conclusion. For a moment he was a child again, seeking the comfort of the light in the darkness.

Yet that very comfort angered him. Menedrion frightened in the dark! Frightened by a dream! Almost guiltily he glanced quickly from side to side as if fearful that this lapse might have been observed. Then his mouth curled viciously. It wasn't possible. It couldn't have happened. He would not be unmanned by the unbridled ramblings of his own imaginings.

But it was not in Menedrion's nature to accept blame or any form of self-reproach and, clenching his fist, he lashed out angrily at the body next to him.

It landed with a satisfying thud and was followed almost immediately by a desperate cry of pain and terror. The sound rose like a spectre to mock him with the fear he was trying to excise and in a fury he struck again.

'No, please, Irfan,’ came a fearful, trembling voice out of the darkness. In the gloom a figure was struggling to evade this unprovoked onslaught. ‘Please, I…'

Menedrion lashed out again, ending the plaint by inadvertently catching the speaker in the mouth. Teeth grazed his hand painfully, and with a snarl he brought his other hand round, open-palmed, to deliver a merciless slap to the face of his victim.

The body crashed down on to the pillow and, swinging round, Menedrion straddled it and seized it by the throat.