Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

All were breathing, all had good pulses. While this was so, all would be well, she told herself, over and over, continuing her steady, sustaining ritual of checking them.

Then Antyr’s pulse began to falter.

‘As you see and feel, so shall we,’ Antyr said, speaking the words from long habit rather than from any clear intention.

But, he realized immediately, it was no ordinary dreamer he was addressing, nor any ordinary dream that he and Vredech had entered. When he had confronted Ivaroth and the blind man, a strength had come out of depths within him that he did not know existed. From those depths came now the terrible knowledge.

‘This is the dream of the dead.’

It was Vredech who voiced it.

‘The long-dead,’ Antyr added.

Row upon row of figures extended in every direction to an unseen horizon. They were all staring in the same direction, their faces lit by a bright and unnatural light, though no source was apparent in the black and lifeless sky. Although no one of them seemed to move, a slow rippling constantly disturbed the whole and a low moaning rose and fell. It might have been a winter wind blowing across an empty and snowbound land but Antyr knew that it was not. It was the plaint of this multitude.

‘How have we come here?’ Vredech’s question mingled with the shifting sound.

‘Perhaps we should ask why we’ve brought ourselves here,’ Antyr replied. ‘We are the dreamer, we are the dead. The dead should not dream like this – joined, sharing, lingering through time so long. We will become as them if we linger too.’

Tarrian! Grayle!

Antyr roared the names of his Earth Holders in the silence of his mind but only the song of this place echoed back to him.

‘Nertha’s slipping from us.’ Vredech was suddenly fearful.

‘Cling to her,’ Antyr said urgently. ‘As you love her, cling to her, like a child to its mother. And call for Tarrian and Grayle… they’ll be hunting for us. You must hold us both while I seek an answer.’

He was walking among the vast crowd.

Each one he looked at seemed to be the same, yet at the edges of his vision they were all different – men, women, many ages, many races – all locked in this suffocating dream.

What had brought them to this?

He remembered Thyrn’s account of the Great Searing. A brightness moving across the land – reshaping, remaking.

And in that remaking had been born the flaw that had set all this in train.

It came to him that some part of the will of these people had not been remade – some part persisted past what should have been death.

And it had called to him and Vredech at a depth beyond their hearing. Whatever else might be happening, there was a need here.

Yet what was it?

Antyr felt his thoughts mingling with the sighing song. Bewilderment, anger, cries for vengeance, many things were there, but somewhere, tantalizingly, a truer meaning lured him on.

Then there was stillness, and the meaning was there.

Darker than the black sky that over-arched this moving throng of unmoving people.

This was not just the dream of the long dead, it was the deep dream of those now alive. A living remnant of the ancient times that had spawned the horror that had become the Great Searing – a sink of ignorance and fear that bound all of them to that terrible past…

And that might draw it back.

The sound was all about him, passing over and through him. There was no mistaking its truth.

But now it held him.

And fear began to pervade him.

The ancient song was engulfing him.

Breathing heavily and still holding his stomach from the impact of catching Andawyr, Isloman clambered to his feet and moved to place himself between the approaching rider and the fallen Cadwanwr. He had taken barely two steps, however, when he was pushed violently against the walls of the passage. Though not capable of using the Power himself he recognized it immediately and knew that nothing was to be gained by trying to oppose it. He relaxed and the force holding him left him instantly.

Andawyr was opening his eyes when the rider stopped in front of him. He stiffened as he saw the angular head of the horse-creature swaying above him, malevolent eyes and twitching nostrils searching him. For an instant there was stark fear in his face. He had seen its like before, ridden by Oklar.

Like his mount, the rider too was leaning forward and staring at him.

Another champion gave Andawyr a little more time to recover.

‘Who are you?’ Usche demanded angrily of the rider.

Oslang reached out to stop her but it was too late. The same force that had knocked Isloman down struck her also, though being much lighter than the big carver it almost lifted her off her feet. Isloman managed to catch her and prevent what would probably have been serious injury had she struck the wall. He thrust her behind him before she had time to protest. Ar-Billan’s jaw jutted and he made to move forward but Atelon jerked him back forcefully.

The rider spoke. His voice was cold and inhuman, but its inflection was all too human, laden as it was with viciousness and malice.

‘You have defiled the most holy of His places. The place where the Great Way will open, to bring us to Him. Punishment for this will need great and special reflection. Who are you and how did you come here?’

Andawyr tried to push himself backwards with the intention of standing but the creature brought its head closer and uttered a low growl. Andawyr wrinkled his nose in disgust as its breath wafted over him. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he punched it squarely on the muzzle.

Everyone started, not least the animal, which jerked its head back and reared slightly. The rider had obvious difficulty in preventing it from lunging at the now standing Cadwanwr.

‘You’ll punish no one, you obscenity.’ Andawyr’s voice burst through the clatter of skittering hooves. ‘You’ll go the way all His servants go – to some dismal doom – lost and howling.’

A hissing came from the dark figure as he finally gained control over his mount but Andawyr did not allow him to speak.

‘That we’re here – in His most holy of places…’ He spat contemptuously. ‘Is a measure of how flawed His plans are – how inadequate His will.’

Oslang and Atelon, badly shaken by this raucous and uncharacteristic challenge, exchanged glances both bewildered and desperate.

The hissing faded into an insect whine and the rider inclined his head slightly. Slowly, he removed his helm to reveal the thin, haggard face of an old man. It was framed with lank, lifeless hair and, though the pervasive blue light could not disguise its unhealthy pallor, it was lit with an unnatural energy. The eyes Andawyr found himself looking into were white and cloudy as though vision had fled from them at the sight of some terrible truth.

The rider, like his mount, was moving his head from side to side inquiringly. The movement, both birdlike and serpentine, was repellent.

Then Andawyr let out a sigh of recognition and understanding.

‘I had wondered,’ he said, more quietly. ‘When I heard Antyr’s tale, blind man. And it is you. The one who tried to blind Hawklan at the Gretmearc so long ago. Oklar’s sorry vassal – his miserable apprentice.’ He became dismissive. ‘I’d thought you dead at his hand long ago – he’d little tolerance for failure.’

The rider’s hands tightened about the reins, pulling the head of his mount down until it let out a screeching whimper. Usche moved out from behind Isloman, but his arm came out to stop her going any further.

‘Better he had killed you,’ Andawyr pressed. ‘Than that you should’ve fallen to this depravity. It seems you learned nothing from what I showed you.’