a terrible battle. The air was full of screams and dashing arms. I carried on running, and then the … hope … was there again and I ran to it again.’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘And here I am,’ he concluded. ‘In this beautiful place. No longer pursued, but ignorant, lost and now, you tell me, dead.'
Antyr puffed out his cheeks. Nyriall's brief bewildering saga had raised more questions and provided no answers to the ones he already had. He did not know where to start.
Nyriall straightened up and looked out over the countryside. ‘It
When a Dream Finder's knowledge and understanding became sufficient, it was said, he could find the Gateways in the dreams of others, or sometimes directly, without the aid of a dreamer. Gateways into the worlds beyond the dreams. The myriad worlds that jostled and mixed together, yet were separate, and which were the Threshold of the Great Dream itself.
'And as the Nexus is but the echoing shadows of the dreams, so the dreams themselves are but the echoing shadows of the worlds of the Threshold. And, too, these worlds are but the echoing shadows of the Great Dream that lies beyond the Inner Portals and contains all things.'
Nyriall looked at Antyr. ‘Treatise on the Ancient and Wondrous Art of the Dream Travellers,’ he said, identifying the book that had for many generations been regarded as the definitive work on Dream Finding lore. ‘It's a long time since you've read those words, I suspect,’ he said.
Antyr nodded.
'Don't forget the rest,’ Nyriall went on. ‘And a Master may pass through the Gateways into the Threshold, and there journey through the Doorways between the worlds. But only if his skill be great, and his courage high. For he must go alone, separated from his Earth Holder. And he must suffer the travails of these worlds, even unto death.'
Antyr let out a great breath. ‘But only if his skill be great and his courage high,’ he repeated. ‘I'd have thought both those attributes precluded me.'
Nyriall shrugged. ‘Me also,’ he said. ‘But who can say what forces lie within us? Or, for that matter, manipulate us. I'm no Master. I came here perhaps by an inadvertent talent, perhaps by mischance and ignorance, and, seemingly, died for it. You, I suspect, might be different.’ He looked at Antyr regretfully. ‘But I can tell you no more than I have. Perhaps that's all you needed to learn. To be reminded of what you already knew.'
Antyr returned his gaze, but did not reply.
'Cry out for your Earth Holder, Antyr,’ Nyriall said, encouragingly, then, correcting himself, ‘Your Earth Holders. Perhaps there is a way back for you if you trust yourself enough.'
'But what about you?’ Antyr said.
Unexpectedly, Nyriall smiled. ‘This looks like a nice place. It's certainly better than the Moras. I wonder if there are people here?’ He opened his arms wide. ‘A new start at my age, Antyr. To be blunt I'd have considered myself fortunate if I'd survived another winter of Menedrion's smoke-laden fogs; I've got a cough that tears me in half. I'll see what this place has to offer. Perhaps even learn how to find the Doorways, and see what else is here.’ He paused. ‘I'll miss Grayle, though,’ he said sadly. ‘I'll miss him a lot. Look after him if you get back. Tell him I'm sorry to leave him, but it'll probably be for the best. And thank him, I couldn't have had a finer Companion.'
Antyr nodded. ‘I will,’ he said.
Then, on the soft breeze came a distant sound. It was the howling of wolves.
'Listen,’ Antyr said, leaning towards the sound urgently. ‘Grayle and Tarrian are searching. Somewhere in the darkness they're seeking me. And they're drawing nearer.'
Nyriall cocked his head on one side, listening intently. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I recognize Grayle. And that's his brother, you say? Such wonders…'
He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide and afraid, and fixed over Antyr's shoulder.
Hesitantly, Antyr turned. The landscape behind him was darkening. Black clouds were building, mountainous and massive in the blue sky. A low rumble of thunder rolled ahead of them. But the objects of Nyriall's attention were two figures … or was it one? And the coming darkness seemed almost to emanate from them.
Antyr screwed up his eyes to clarify the vision. There
The thunder came again. Antyr frowned; the storm had come from nowhere, and its apparent association with the two figures was disconcerting. He looked up at the clouds. They seemed to be both far and near and the effect was disorientating.
'I think they bring it,’ Nyriall said, following his gaze and nodding anxiously towards the two figures.
'Who are they?’ Antyr asked, though he already knew the answer. Without any prompting by Nyriall, he could feel the menace, the evil, that radiated from them.
One of the two figures waved his hand and there was a dazzling flash of lightning, followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap. As it rumbled into the distance Antyr heard a high-pitched hysterical laughter, and it seemed to him that one of the figures was swaying and bending in some obscene, motionless dance.
Antyr felt a wave of nausea overtake him. The enemy was in sight and he wanted to flee. Then he remembered Nyriall, and anger filled him at the sight of the old man's new domain defiled by these corrosive intruders.
'Run!’ he said suddenly to Nyriall. ‘They mustn't find you. This is your world now.’ He looked around. ‘Quickly. Hide in the trees over there. I'll protect you, somehow.'
So urgent was his tone that Nyriall set off immediately. He had gone only a little way, however, when he turned as if to come back. ‘But…’ he began.
Antyr waved a hand across the still sunlit land spread out in front of them. ‘This is yours now, Nyriall,’ he repeated, then, turning and pointing to the two figures, shadows now, in the ominous clouds. ‘And they are my enemies now. Go, and my thanks for your wisdom and guidance and your brief friendship. I shall tend to Grayle.'
Nyriall still hesitated.
Antyr waved him on. ‘Live well and light be with you,’ he said, the words coming unbidden.
Nyriall tilted his head on one side and looked at him curiously. ‘And with you … Master,’ he said after a long hesitation. Then, raising his hand in salute, he turned and ran towards the trees that Antyr had indicated.
Antyr could not forebear smiling. Nyriall was making good speed for an old man with a bad chest.
But the lightness passed almost immediately as the import of his actions dawned on him. He turned again to look at the two figures.
The sight made him draw in his breath. It was as if the lowering, lightning-shot clouds had drawn together and descended to focus around the strange couple totally so that they carried their own storm-tossed night with them. Antyr felt that he was looking through into another world, so intrusive was the sight amid the sunlit landscape that still fringed it at the edges of his vision.
Menacing peals of thunder rolled out to surround him and, amid the awful din, he heard again the faint strains of the shrieking laughter he had heard before. It stirred deep and frightening emotions within him and he felt his flesh crawling.
Somewhere, too, into his hearing, came again the distant howls of the two wolves. Not searching for him, though, Antyr realized. Just singing out to say that they were there, in their home, their territory, singing out to say that all was safe and to tell their kin that they could return and to tell others not to approach. And their song was louder.
'To me, Earth Holders. To me!’ Antyr shouted silently in reply.
Then, glancing quickly at the now distant and still-retreating figure of Nyriall, he started walking slowly towards the darkness.
As if his cry to his Companions, or his purposeful movement, had caused a great disturbance, the two figures turned towards him, and though Antyr could not see their faces, he knew that they were now watching him intently. He could feel their malevolence, but he walked on.
Then the attention wavered, and one of the figures raised a hand to indicate the fleeing Nyriall. Antyr sensed the storm whirling, darkening, gathering itself to launch some power against the old man. Shadowy shapes began to form in it, sinister, predatory.
'Ho!’ Antyr cried, lengthening his stride, in spite of an inner voice asking him very earnestly what he was doing. The shapes faltered.
