The sound of Tarrian and Grayle grew louder.
He called again. ‘You do not belong here,’ he shouted. ‘Who are you and why do you bring this uproar and destruction with you? Why do you pursue the innocent and why do you search for me?'
Abruptly, it seemed that the storm was rearing up like a ravening animal, battering frenziedly against some flimsy barrier in an attempt to reach and rend him.
The demented laughter, however, had stopped. In its place, Antyr heard a sound like the gurgling, lusting anticipation of some evil child. It was worse by far than the laughter.
And he had felt it in Menedrion's dream.
Somehow, he maintained his progress forward, though the sound of the thunder was pouring about him now with the pounding intensity of a rock fall and he felt that at any moment it might crush him utterly.
Then he was in the darkness. A darkness lit blue by cascades of forking lightning and riven by a howling wind that snatched and tore at his cloak, thrashed his hair into his face and momentarily buffeted him to a standstill. The strange dark shapes flitted about him, circling, swooping suddenly and veering away. Watching, waiting for the moment to pounce.
Antyr straightened up and, gritting his teeth, forced one foot in front of the other.
'This is folly,’ cried his inner voice, louder now. ‘You don't know who or what these creatures are, but you see their power, and you feel their evil. You can't stand against them. Run while you can.'
'I will hold. I will hold.’ He muttered the phrase to himself like a litany. It had sustained him in battle, it would …
'There you had companions at your side and your back, and a spear to your front,’ came the reply. ‘There you fought for your homeland. There you faced men.'
He faltered. The thundering storm raged about him. The shadows danced, faster and faster, lusting.
'Nyriall,’ said some other part of him. ‘He is lost in this place and he is in your care.'
His feet began to move again.
Looking ahead, he caught occasional glimpses of the two figures-stark black silhouettes in the purple, lightning-lit darkness-watching, waiting, also.
Was he being drawn to them? Or pushed? Either way, it seemed to him that his feet were being moved by some will other than his own.
And what he was doing was folly, beyond a doubt.
Desperately, he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were full of their usual clutter and he realized that he was in this place exactly as he had been when he had left Nyriall's room in Serenstad. And the only thing he had that could be used as a weapon was a small knife and that would be of little use against anyone, let alone these … creatures … and their seemingly elemental powers.
It came to him, unhelpfully, that the ancient traditional formal dress of the Dream Finder included two knives and a sword. He knew why now!
His hand went to his belt, but he did not even have his weighted club with him. That had been left behind when Feranc had called to bring him to the Duke, and set him on this increasingly terrifying slide into the unknown.
And was that barely two days ago?
Momentarily, he was in two places at once. Here, in this thunderous, haunted turmoil, and sitting in Nyriall's room in the Moras, Tarrian and Grayle whimpering and twitching at his feet, and Estaan sitting on the edge of his seat by the window and staring at him wide-eyed.
'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.’ Nyriall's quotation from the Treatise came back to him. A Master must be his own Earth Holder, he realized suddenly, though again, the knowledge was of no value to him.
'And he must suffer the travails of these worlds, even unto death.’ The final sentence brought him sharply back to his present predicament.
One of the shadows made a movement and Antyr saw a sword blade glisten in the flickering lightning. It was oddly reassuring. Some part of these creatures was mortal despite the darkness they had brought. Then he felt a will reaching out to him, greedily, wanting him, needing him. It was repellent.
He stopped. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he shouted above the din.
There was no reply, but the noise and power of the storm increased. And the searching will increased in intensity. Antyr felt an anger forming within him. ‘Speak, or go from here and trouble us no more,’ he heard himself saying.
Then the skin-tearing laughter returned, this time low and loathsome with dark glee.
Anger and terror rose to fill Antyr's mind in equal proportions.
'Tarrian! Grayle!’ he roared inside his head. ‘To me! To me!'
It seemed to him that the figures and the shadows retreated a little before his call, but he could not see clearly enough in the constantly shifting light.
He cried out again.
This time, he felt the storm itself lessen in intensity, though a sudden flash of lightning revealed the figures to him. Still motionless.
Faintly, he could still sense Tarrian and Grayle howling, searching for him. But he did not know how to reach them.
His feet started to carry him forward again and he found a soldier's thinking guiding him. Whatever powers these creatures possessed, he had not been struck down. Indeed, only a sword had been drawn against him. They could not destroy him. Or chose not to!
Long-forgotten memories of sweaty training yards returned to him. Manoeuvres formed in his mind. All he had to do was get inside that sword, then …
'And he must suffer the travails of these worlds, even unto death.’ The rest of Nyriall's quotation brought him to an abrupt halt.
The lust reached out to him again.
He had not been struck down because he was wanted, he realized chillingly. He might perhaps be able to defend himself unarmed against a swordsman-perhaps, he emphasized to himself-but could he truly defend himself against whatever had the power to cause this dreadful tortured darkness? Could he prevent himself from being bound if that was its desire?
'Tarrian, Grayle,’ he whispered, desperately. ‘To me. To me.'
Still faint, but nearer, the wolves’ calls filtered into his mind; urgent, running; that leisurely lope that could carry them effortlessly for league after relentless league.
Then the figures were but a few paces from him.
They were indeed in the heart of the storm. More than ever, the lightning-etched darkness danced and whirled about them. It was like a frenzied pack of hounds, yelping and barking; waiting on their will.
Yet even so close, Antyr could not make out any details of the appearance of the two figures. As the lightning came and went, it seemed that they were like two grim, black monoliths, carvings rather than men, like ancient, enigmatic standing stones; windows into another, eternally dark place.
Though the sword was still of this world, glinting menacingly.
And the will and the desire were there too. He felt them as clear and stark around him as he could see the black silhouettes in front of him.
'Who are you? What do you want?’ he asked again, shouting into the storm, but barely able to hear his own words.
A long grasping sigh of fulfilment reached him, and one of the figures slowly extended its arms towards Antyr as if offering him an embrace. The gesture was peculiarly monstrous and again Antyr felt the hairs on his arms and neck rise up in revulsion. He tried to step back, away from this apparition and its foul intent.
But his feet would not move.
'Mine,’ said a soft, enfolding voice that seemed to freeze Antyr's limbs.
'Tarrian, Grayle. To me. To me,’ he cried out again, clinging desperately to the faint calls still ringing in his head.
'Ah…'
