through a forest.
And throughout, the hooded figure swayed steadily, revelling in its own, obscene, music.
Abruptly, it was over. The lines had broken and fled before this whirling, elemental force could complete its work, and Ivaroth stood triumphant amid the groaning, dying wreckage of his short journey.
The sound of the conflict seemed to roll away into the distance, like messengers carrying the news across the plains, then there was silence.
Ivaroth turned and looked at the watching elders. ‘Thus I abide by the ways of our people,’ he said. ‘And thus shall I lead them ever. This is my vow. No longer will we quarrel among ourselves like bickering children. All the tribes shall become as one under my hand.'
'To what end, Ivaroth Ungwyl?’ one of the elders managed to say, his voice faint with shock at the sight of what had just passed, but still defiant.
Ivaroth looked at him and then round at the stunned crowd. ‘To vengeance and our destiny,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘We go to the land where there are fields and pastures and slaves for all. Where the wind doesn't strip faces and hands raw. Where the snow doesn't cover the earth for half the year and the sun doesn't hang low in the sky like a weeping maid's face…’ The elder stepped forward as if to oppose him, but Ivaroth's words were bludgeoning their way into the hearts of the crowd. ‘…We go to the rich land beyond the mountains that the sea people so foully tore from our forefathers in times long forgotten.'
He crouched low and picked up a fallen staff, then stood up suddenly, holding it high. ‘Now!’ he demanded. ‘Who rides with me? Your chieftain by blood and by ordeal? Who rides with Ivaroth Ungwyl?'
As the crowd's roar of acclamation rose up into the cold morning air, the hooded figure's swaying became faster and faster, until it was almost an ecstatic trembling.
'Ivaroth Ungwyl!’ the crowd roared. ‘Ivaroth Ungwyl!'
'Ivaroth, Mareth Hai! Ivaroth, Mareth Hai!'
The echo of the memory merged with the present as Ivaroth started out of his reverie, and found himself leading his caravan into Carthak amid excited milling crowds. Repeating the gesture of that distant day, he drew his spear from its scabbard and standing high in his stirrups, lifted it triumphantly over his head.
Now, we are ready, he thought. The last threat to his own power was gone. Now the people could be told the truth about the imminence of the assault on the south. Except for his closest aides, none knew how advanced were the preparations. And no one, save he and the blind man, knew of the strange, unwitting, allies that they had.
Chapter 20
Estaan sat down. He had positioned his chair so that he was in the shade, and, with a turn of his head, could look through the grimy window, or at the broken door, which he had wedged shut with another chair, or at Antyr and the two wolves sitting and lying by the dead Nyriall.
He drew his knife and slipped it under the folds of his cloak. Then he steadied his breathing. A silence filled the room which seemed to act as a focus for the random noises that reverberated through the tired fabric of the old building. A distant door slammed; a dog barked; voices, unclear, came and went, some conversational, some angry, some laughing; the thin sound of the children in the street filtered through occasionally; footsteps too, came and went, pattering, pounding, running. And boards creaked treacherously. But Estaan remained still; watching, listening, guarding.
Antyr's instructions had been unequivocal and he had repeated them more than once. Do not interfere. If anything goes amiss, seal the room and seek out the Dream Finder Pandra. Do not interfere.
Then, his eyes black and frightening, he had taken Nyriall's hands, while the two wolves had lain at his feet and seemingly gone to sleep.
Estaan waited; watching, listening, guarding, learning.
At once motionless and mobile in the darkness of Nyriall's mind, Antyr was hurtling forward recklessly.
He could not afford the luxury of thinking too closely about the folly of what he was doing. His father had died searching for the dreams of a dying man. Nyriall was dead. It was as if some inner force had taken control of him and was propelling him onward under the urging of a desperate need that he could not begin to fathom.
Tarrian was by him, nervous and unsettled, but faithful and trusting; and grimly determined, the hunter in him wild and hungry. And with him too was Grayle, quiet and strange, barely perceptible, running by the side and in the shadow of his newly found brother; his older, more powerful brother. Yet though Grayle was not the dominant Companion, he was, ironically, foremost in this precipitate chase; his slight, silent presence disturbing-eerie even.
Then how could it be otherwise? Antyr thought. Prepared by Nyriall for a search of a dreamer who was not there. Then torn from his Dream Finder by death under who knew what circumstances.
And, more prosaically, searching with a new Companion was always a strange, unsettling experience, so intimately linked were their thoughts and emotions.
'Don't fret, I'm with you, and whole.’ The voice startled Antyr. So much of its tone and aura was Tarrian's, yet it was very different. And it was hung about with grief and the dreadful turmoil of emotions that follow in its wake.
'I will grieve when my duties are done.’ Grayle answered the unspoken question, though Antyr could sense all too human traits of vengeance fringing the wolf's words.
'We'll all grieve, Grayle,’ Antyr replied. ‘But now we must hurry. Run with your brother to wherever your instincts take you. My faith in you is total…'
'Yes,’ Grayle said, interrupting him. Antyr sensed Tarrian's surprise. ‘Your faith is total, and it strengthens mine and sharpens my every sense. You're stronger and more skilled even than Nyriall, and I'd have judged him almost a Master. You above all can search out what has happened, and what has been happening. My brother and I will guard you where we can, and will watch and call for you when you go from us. Have no fear, you are guarded in all places by a great and ancient strength.'
'What do you mean, go from you?’ Antyr asked.
But Grayle did not reply.
On through the blackness they sped. Antyr alone and motionless yet drawn along by the surging, hunting wolves; a nothingness in the darkness save for his bright, sharp awareness, intangible yet as purposeful as a flying arrow.
On they plunged.
No familiar flickering wisps of light and sound came to greet them, to dance and shimmer and whisper. For this was the inner realm of a Dream Finder and there were no dreams to leak into the darkness of his hidden nature and form the bright and shimmering nexus to draw the Companions forward.
Yet Antyr had set off in pursuit of the dream that could not be. Fear began to buffet him, a stinging, dust- laden wind in his face.
'No,’ he cried out, denouncing it. Each step we take through life is into the darkness, he knew. It cannot be otherwise. And fear of the darkness was fear of life.
Knowledge alone could light the way and we must not fear to enter the darkness to seek it. And where knowledge stopped while need yet existed, then we must follow the deeper reasoning that our prattling minds make us deaf to, until we reach the light again.
His thoughts seemed to be part of a huge chorus of other voices, coming from both within and without.
Then he was alone!
The wolves were gone. Gone utterly. No sound. No faint, lingering hints of their presence. Just silence. And darkness.
They had been gone forever. Indeed, they had never been. And he was in a bright sunlit field, strewn with swathes of white flowers like the stars on a clear summer's night. Above him a scattered flotilla of small white clouds drifted leisurely across a blue sky at the indifferent behest of some scarcely felt wind.
A few paces in front of him and facing away from him, a figure was crouching. He was looking at the flowers; touching them gently. Antyr coughed. The figure started violently and, turning, stood up, almost tumbling over in
