blossomed out rapidly to illuminate a narrow stone passageway. Beside him stood a woman with a hooded lantern in her hand.
As she eased past him, Antyr took in two searching sloe eyes set in a finely sculpted face, framed by a circle of lightly curled hair. She was handsome rather than pretty, and she was certainly no servant. He could make no guess at her age, but, somewhat to his surprise, the thought that came into his mind was: even the hood on the lantern is oiled for silence.
'Come this way, sir,’ the woman said. Again, though pleasant, the words came with the bored ease of long familiarity.
Tarrian set off after her immediately. ‘Oh, that's better,’ he said in ecstasy. Antyr stared after him in alarm until he realized that he was talking about his feet again.
Looking down, Antyr saw that while the walls of the passageway were rough undecorated stone, the floor was completely covered by a soft and luxurious carpet which deadened their footsteps completely.
All is silence along this path, he thought.
Other, less mysterious, details struck him as they walked. At intervals the carpet was broken by a narrow slot running across the passage. The slot continued up the walls and over the arched ceiling.
Portcullises. Antyr grimaced, remembering what little training he had done for the assaulting of castles such as this.
Should an enemy break down the door through which he and Tarrian had entered, they would be allowed so far in, then these great latticed gates would clang down, both preventing further progress and sealing the attackers in for disposal at leisure.
And there could be worse here. Stones that could be tilted to hurl the unwary into sealed and eyeless dungeons, or worse, below. Swinging blades so heavily counter-balanced that they could cleave a man in half, or take off his head without pause. The thought made him pull his head down into his shoulders. Then there might be sprung spears, falling stones …
Tarrian's indignant voice interrupted this grim catalogue.
'Will you
'Sorry, I was just remembering things,’ Antyr replied.
'Well, don't,’ Tarrian said tersely. ‘Not unless you can remember something a little less human.'
Further debate was ended by the woman opening a door at the end of the passage and bringing the procession to a momentary halt as they were obliged to pause to allow their eyes to adjust to the bright torchlight that greeted them.
They had entered another passage through a side door. It extended in both directions into an unlit gloom, but the woman, closing and locking the door-noiselessly, Antyr noted again-nodded them towards an archway opposite.
Through this was a long stone stairway which rose upwards.
Antyr's already weary legs protested at the prospect of the climb but Tarrian and the woman were already rising out of sight drawing him relentlessly forward.
The remainder of the journey was, as far as Antyr was concerned, distressingly similar to that of the previous night: an interminable maze of corridors and stairways. He made a token effort to note where they were going, but the impending future and his leaden legs soon reduced it to naught.
'Just follow the carpet,’ Tarrian said eventually, in some despair at Antyr's lack of observation.
Finally they found themselves outside a small door in a dimly lit corridor lined with large framed pictures separated by elaborately arranged clusters of shields and weapons.
But despite all the gloom there was a feeling of space and great opulence about the corridor which impinged on Antyr immediately.
'Don't forget the fee,’ Tarrian whispered urgently, sensing the same.
The woman tapped on the door gently. It opened silently and, after a few whispered words with someone, she stepped to one side and indicated with a wave of her hand that Tarrian and Antyr should enter.
Inside, Antyr found himself in a small ante-chamber. Despite its size, however, the sense of opulent splendour that had hovered subtly in the darkened corridor, cried out here. Landscape paintings all around gave Antyr the momentary impression that he was standing in the countryside on a bright summer's day. Plain, polished shelves bore delicate carvings of farm workers, the four chairs that guarded each corner of the room had embroidered backs and cushions that complemented the theme, and even the carpet underfoot felt like luxurious summer turf.
The soft click of the door closing behind him broke the spell and Antyr turned to speak to the woman. But she was gone. He had an image of her fading silently into the soft-footed darkness outside which he realized was Tarrian's, still unable fully to relinquish her pain.
In her place stood a tall, heavily built man with long black hair and a black beard. He exuded a power and menace which was totally at odds with the gentle pastoral quality of the little room that he was now dominating. And he was staring at Antyr intently.
Menedrion. Antyr needed no introduction. As with the Duke and Ciarll Feranc, the actual presence of the man overrode the impression of all other previous, distant, encounters, exposing them as mere shadows of the grim reality.
'Not his father,’ Tarrian said, his voice low even though only Antyr could hear. ‘Less sure of himself. Less disciplined. Watch your step.'
It was not reassuring, but it chimed with Antyr's own response. Oddly, however, Menedrion did not disturb him as much as the strangely ominous presence of Ciarll Feranc and the truly massive presence of the Duke. This man had more the bearing of just another loutish officer and Antyr had faced enough in his time to become a fair master at handling them when need arose.
'Look tame,’ he ordered his Companion, then he clicked his heels together and stood up straight.
A brief whiff of amused surprise from Tarrian pervaded him, but it was withdrawn immediately and replaced by sincere approval. ‘Sorry. You know your own,’ came a faint echo to him.
Menedrion, too, had apparently not expected such a response and it seemed to unbalance him slightly.
'Parade ground or field, Dream Finder,’ he said gruffly, without looking at him as he walked past towards a door opposite.
'Both sir,’ Antyr replied to his retreating back. ‘I was in the front rank at Herion…'
'Come through, man,’ came an irritable shout. ‘Let's get this over with.'
Dutifully, Antyr doubled across the ante-chamber and, with wilful deference, leaned in a little way through the open door.
The room was a more lavish version of the ante-chamber but the same decor writ large had become garish ostentation. Under other circumstances Antyr might have expected some acidic comment from Tarrian about bad taste, but he was silent. He was learning about their new client.
Menedrion was sprawled in a large chair and though dressed in a tunic and trousers that were predominantly dark green, his black hair and beard, coupled with his lowering face and hunched posture, made him look like a great black spider waiting patiently at the middle of its web.
Antyr stepped inside discreetly.
'Herion, eh?’ Menedrion said, pursing his lips and nodding pensively. ‘A hard day.'
'Yes sir,’ Antyr replied.
'You held well,’ Menedrion continued unexpectedly, beckoning him forward. ‘Broke their cavalry formation and gave me the chance to mop them up.'
Antyr's thoughts were unashamedly ambivalent. Menedrion's squadron had smashed into the broken ranks of the Bethlarii cavalry as they tried to regroup following their unsuccessful charge, and then Arwain's much smaller squadron had burst out of their cover in the woods and charged the Bethlarii infantry's now unprotected flank, breaking them utterly.
The overwhelming relief that had washed over Antyr lingered with him yet, but it was tinged with shame now, a shame that seemed to grow with time, as he also recalled his rejoicing as he had stood in the still solid ranks and watched the cavalry pursue and slaughter the routed infantry.
That the same fate would have befallen him had he and his companions not held firm held increasingly less
