No. He was not moving. Yet he was being hurled along. Tumbling uncontrollably like a missile from some great siege engine, yet tossed and buffeted like a broken twig in a winter storm.
All around him, scenes flickered and streaked by and through him incoherently; rolling sunlit countryside, bleak winter plains, great smoking mountains, monstrous storm-wracked seas, black clouds streaming across blood-red skies, huge tracts of barren, sand-strewn deserts. Countless strange and eerie landscapes.
But none there for more than the blink of an eye.
If they were there at all.
And he was in all of them. Forever.
And voices tore at him; beckoning, fearful, anxious, angry, demanding. A gibbering, meaningless cascade, full of burning urgency filled his ears, his mind, his whole body.
And amid it all, he felt great forces searching for him; battling for … his soul … his skill?
They would tear him apart!
'No!'
At his cry, the din stopped. And had never been.
A powerful blast of cold air hit him and, abruptly, he was himself again, in a solid, real world. Gasping and sobbing with rage and fear, he dropped to his knees.
They sank into snow. He slumped forward and felt his ungloved hands sinking into the cold wetness. The chill jolted him into sharp awareness and, struggling to his feet, he gazed around in confusion. He was in a snowstorm!
The biting wind cut through his tunic and, in a bizarre reaction to his terrifying passage there, his first thoughts were ironic.
I practice with my sword, I carry it with me constantly for fear of enemies. Now I'm going to freeze to death for want of a coat.
The light, however, was oddly bright for a winter storm and, further disorienting him, the wind faded away suddenly leaving the airborne snowflakes to continue on their urgent paths for a little while, and then float gently down to earth.
Ivaroth turned like an animal which, from some inner depth, has sensed the presence of a predator.
The blind man's storm had stopped, and the whirling, subsiding cloud of snow was alive with shifting rainbow colours and strange dark shadows.
Then the shadows merged. And out of the greyness, a figure emerged.
Ivaroth felt a chill possess him, colder by far than that of the mountain snow around him.
'Ah!'
The figure halted as it heard the blind man's loathsome sigh of desire.
Then all about them, the sound of hunting wolves could be heard.
Ivaroth, warrior and assassin, reacted. He seized the blind man's arm and at the same time hurled his new- won knife at the motionless figure.
Antyr saw the whole movement as if it had been stretched through an infinity of time. Around him, he was aware of every snowflake, each with its own endless variety of points within points within points. And he was aware of his assailant and his companion. The one, short and powerful, his face like a bird of prey, was hurling the knife. Antyr felt his ruthless cruelty in his very posture, and quailed before it. But the other was worse by far. He seemed to have a presence beyond the immediate, like ominous, flickering shadows reaching back into unknowable and fearful planes of existence.
This was the Mynedarion!
White, sightless eyes sought him out. Visions of desire and power filled him. Wells of limitless ambition opened within him and gushed forth. All things could be his. Here was his guide.
'Reach out and seize your destiny, Dream Finder.’ A myriad voices filled his head. ‘Towns and cities and all their peoples will bow down before you at your least gaze.'
Sunlight caught the blade of the knife as it left Ivaroth's hand, and the bright light dimmed the vision. Antyr's gaze turned to his attacker. Night-black eyes possessed him.
And then he was his attacker; gripping his treacherous wilderness companion with confused and murderous hatred and launching the blade towards the heart of the apparition that this … demon … had drawn here, before returning to …
There was a fleeting vision of a huge camp. And horses … so many horses. And a great army … brought over the mountains. Cities taken. Battles fought. And a land to be conquered … and, deep, deep below, beyond the knowledge of the man, a chorus of whispering voices demanding … vengeance!
And he was himself again. Powerless to move as the circling blade arced relentlessly towards him. The Mynedarion began to reach out towards him, and his mouth opened to form a cry.
Antyr's mind urged his body, but it was too slow, too sluggish, too clouded …
Then there was clarity and simplicity. He was wolf. Traversing the strange world between and beyond the dreams and the Threshold, where the Companions waited and watched and hunted.
Untrained, unhindered reflexes possessed his body. It twisted and swayed to one side and its hand reached out and seized the hilt of the passing blade with almost contemptuous ease.
With a great cry of rage, Ivaroth caught the blind man and the two fell back, fading and dwindling into nothingness.
Antyr stared at the place where they had stood, then at the knife in his hand.
'Where did you get that?'
The question was Estaan's.
Antyr swung up from his bed in confusion, stumbling over Tarrian and Grayle who were also struggling to their feet.
Tarrian was full of excitement. ‘Those paws of yours are really awkward,’ he said. ‘And are you slow! You nearly got yourself killed, standing there like that.'
Antyr, however, could not speak. He gazed vacantly at the knife in his hand and then let it fall as he dropped back down on the bed. He leaned forward and embraced the two wolves, silently and passionately.
Estaan, white-faced, bent down and picked up the knife. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked again. ‘It was in your hand, just as you woke up, but it wasn't there before.’ His whole manner was alive with concern and confusion.
Antyr raised his hands in a plea for a brief respite.
'It's an army knife,’ Estaan went on, unable to restrain himself. ‘A captain's…'
'I must see the Duke, right away,’ Antyr said, ignoring Estaan's agitation and standing up again, unsteadily. Estaan pushed the knife into his own belt and reached out to support him.
There was considerable activity in and around the Duke's tent when Antyr and Estaan arrived. Uncharacteristically, Antyr pushed his way through the guards at the doorway and entered the tent without announcement. Estaan and the two wolves followed in his wake.
Ibris turned angrily towards the interruption. The look on Antyr's face however stifled the oath that his mouth was forming.
Antyr waited on no ceremony.
'A great army of horsemen,’ he blurted out. ‘From the mountains. I have seen the Mynedarion and his guide. I have
His message delivered, Antyr felt strangely emptied, then words came to him unbidden.
'The Mynedarion is an abomination,’ he said. ‘He is in many places at once. His power is fearful, and his ambitions unfettered. He must be found and destroyed.'
He shivered and then, his mind clearing, he braced himself for a rebuke.
To his horror, however, the Duke's eyes widened in fear and he became aware of the tension that pervaded the atmosphere of the now-silent tent.
'The trap closes,’ the Duke said softly, then, his composure returning, ‘How …?'
Antyr shook his head. ‘I was drawn there. By the Mynedarion. I think he has … need of me. His guide is a strange Dream Finder. For an instant I was him. I saw all these things. Then he tried to kill me.'
'He awoke with this in his hand,’ Estaan interjected, stepping forward and proffering the knife to the Duke.
