Antyr felt stirrings of malevolence deep inside, but it was beyond him to formulate it into purposeful abuse and he let it lie.
'Are you awake?’ Tarrian said with deplorable heartiness, his paw poking Antyr with reckless disregard. Antyr stared at the hands that came up in front of him to deflect this unwanted attention. After a timeless interval he recognized them as his own. At the same time, his voice began to return.
'No, I don't think so,’ he replied. ‘At least I sincerely hope not.'
Slowly the pains wracking his body began to fragment and take up residence in various limbs and joints, and the memory of the purpose of this journey returned. It stood like a dark, evil forest, barring his way to the future.
He felt sick.
What madness had prompted him to join this demented dash across country to face some unknown enemy? What madness had drawn him into this whole business? He felt an overwhelming nostalgia for the familiar sounds and smells of his favourite inns, and the familiar, torchlit streets he had staggered along so often.
He put his hand to his head in imitation of the gesture he had made many times through his life on waking and finding himself regretfully reviewing his recent follies.
'Are you all right?’ someone asked.
Carefully, Antyr turned a protesting neck to see who had spoken. It was Estaan. He looked desperately weary. Under other circumstances Antyr might have replied with some mildly acid rejoinder, but he too was too weary to find solace in humour.
'Come on,’ Estaan said, bending down and unceremoniously hauling him to his feet. ‘You can take some pride in having survived this journey. We lost a few on the way.'
'Lost …?’ Antyr asked vaguely.
'Just exhausted,’ Estaan replied. ‘No fatalities fortunately. Come on, you'll feel better if you keep moving.'
Antyr's legs were reluctant to respond and he tried to slither back down on to the ground. Estaan held him upright however and then dragged him forward roughly, leaving him no alternative but to walk or fall.
Antyr uttered a feeble cry of protest and pain and there was a faint growl from Tarrian.
'Never mind growling at me, wolf,’ Estaan said brutally. ‘Get into his head and wake him up properly. If he falls, he's finished.'
Another face swam into Antyr's view before Tarrian could respond. It was Haster. He peered intently into Antyr's face for a moment and then he was gone. Abruptly, powerful hands from behind him began seeking out stiffened joints and muscles and manipulating them purposefully.
Antyr cried out again, though more loudly this time, but Tarrian did not interfere.
'It's for the best,’ he said awkwardly into Antyr's slowly clearing head. Then he was gone, and Grayle with him.
Then Haster was peering into his eyes again and driving thumbs into his shoulders. ‘I'm no expert at this,’ he said. ‘But that should help.’ He repeated Estaan's advice. ‘Keep moving.’ Adding, ‘Stand up straight as well.’ Then he too was gone.
A memory of Tarrian uttering the same rebuke when he had first met Ibris returned to Antyr and, as then, he found himself obeying without conscious thought. It helped-a little.
Tentatively, he began to test out his protesting limbs and to look beyond himself. All about him were weary- looking men, most of whom, he noted, were also trying to ease life back into stiffened limbs. The sight of this common discomfort made him feel a little ashamed of his complaining.
To a man they were grimy with travel, and their bedraggled condition was heightened by the brilliant sunshine that flooded over the scene. Steaming breaths however, confirmed the temperature that he himself was just beginning to be aware of.
Looking around he saw that they had stopped at what appeared to be a deserted farmhouse. Beyond it lay bleak rocky countryside which gave testimony to why it had been deserted. A little way off, a rough road wound down a shallow incline between two small hills and dipped straight down into a river. A ford, Antyr presumed.
In the distance, dark clouds were building.
Antyr took a long draught from his canteen. It was cold and it seemed to etch out his insides, almost painfully, as he swallowed. He drew in a sharp breath. The jolt helped to clear his mind further and the darkness looming ahead of him came into sharper focus. So too did his own position. Whatever happened now, there could be no way back to anything that had ever been before; neither the bad nor the good.
'Where are we?’ he asked Estaan after a moment.
'Somewhere south of Rendd,’ Estaan replied. ‘The farm's called Kirstfeorrd.'
'And the enemy?'
Estaan shrugged and motioned Antyr to follow him. As they wended their way through the resting men, Antyr noticed the horses being corralled at the rear of the building. A small wave of guilt passed over him. Ibris's bodyguard, he knew, took pride in tending their horses before themselves.
'My horse?’ he asked, a little shamefacedly. ‘I didn't…’ Estaan patted his arm and smiled appreciatively. ‘It's been tended. Don't worry about it.'
He walked on, but Antyr stood watching the horses. Splendid, trusting creatures, he thought. Would it ever enter your heads to treat us as slaves? To lead us into mayhem and slaughter for some whim of your own?
As he watched, one of them staggered and fell over. For a moment it thrashed about on the ground in distress, scattering the other horses. Then it lay still, foam trickling from its mouth and its eyes white and wild. Almost immediately a soldier was by its side, stroking the frightened head. Another joined him, and there was a brief discussion.
Antyr turned away, knowing the outcome. As he looked at the retreating form of Estaan, the sound of a powerful axe blow reached him. He flinched involuntarily.
Arwain was leaning over an old table examining a map when Estaan and Antyr entered the farmhouse. Ryllans and other Mantynnai were with him.
For an instant, the enormity of what had happened swept over Antyr. At his word, the finest of Ibris's army had been torn from what would undoubtedly be a fearful and vital battle, to exhaust themselves in a dash across the country to face an enemy he thought he had seen in a brief exchange with the strange warrior who was guiding the Mynedarion.
He felt cold.
Then he recalled that the two strangers, Haster and Jadric, had brought similar news at the same time and his immediate concern eased a little. He noticed that the two men were standing a little apart, watching quietly, though their manner was politely diffident rather than aloof.
He wished Tarrian and Grayle were here; he would have liked to learn more about these two men who seemingly came to threaten the Mantynnai with retribution for old misdeeds, yet who were now followed by them. And, also, who had secured the respect of the Duke almost on the instant.
They looked as travel-stained and weary as everyone else, but then, they had undertaken this journey twice within the last few days.
'This is the most likely route for a large force moving south from Rendd.’ Arwain's voice interrupted his reverie. ‘And there's no evidence that anything of any size has passed this way so far. We'll just have to hope this is the way they'll come and prepare accordingly.'
Antyr went cold again. If the army that he had seen came, he'd probably be wiped out with all the others. But if it didn't come …
The memory of the great horde in Ivaroth's mind was still vividly with him, but despite that and despite the confirmation of Haster and Jadric, he still felt disturbed by the weight of the decisions being made on the strength of his vision.
'We can send scouts out when the horses have rested a little,’ someone said.
Arwain nodded unhappily. Then he turned to Haster and Jadric. ‘We're indebted to you beyond measure for your message and your help in carrying us through the night. There's little more I can offer you by way of thanks under these circumstances, but I can't ask you to stay with us here. This isn't your war, this isn't your battle, I…'
Haster stopped him. ‘It's both our war and our battle, Lord,’ he said. ‘Had you chosen not to believe us then
