could overcome any foe should need arise.
The last darkness fell from him and he breathed in the cold river air and patted his horse encouragingly. Ryllans caught his eye and smiled slightly.
At the north end of the harbour was the largest of the bridges that served the city. A dozen or so arching, elaborately carved, masonry spans came from each shore and culminated in a soaring latticework of iron and timber, to carry a wide road high over the river. It was a matter of considerable pride to Ibris that this bridge had been built in his time and at his behest to replace its crumbling and dangerous predecessor. It was a matter of considerable pride to Menedrion that his forges and workshops had formed much of the iron.
With its building, yet more trade had come to the city and, like the harbour and the Moras, it was invariably crowded with all manner of traffic.
Thus when the riders turned on to it they were still obliged to move at the same leisurely pace they had been maintaining through the latter part of their journey.
When they were about halfway across, Arwain paused for a moment to look out over the busy harbour with its boats and ships plying to and fro through the cold grey water. From there, his eyes rose inevitably to the city, its rooftops and towers and spires rising above the wall and the ragged confusion of the Moras, and then disappearing up into the soft mist that clung to the sides of the valley.
Thousands of people beyond his sight would be pursuing their untidy, everyday lives there, carrying their myriad, personal, grumbling burdens, be they real or imaginary. And while many would deny that they achieved a great deal with their day's toil, the city slowly became more beautiful, lives slowly became more easy. Greater happiness and contentment were approached.
And, Arwain mused, his actions now, his awareness, his touch on affairs, might help draw these souls out into bloody and fearful conflict. There would be progress there too. Into his mind came the picture of his wife, smiling to hide her concern as she kissed him at their parting scarcely an hour before. The memory hurt him.
'It's only for a couple of days…'
'Take care, my love…'
But the progress that grew from conflict was the progress of grim necessity, of men struggling to climb out of the mire that their darker nature and foolishness had led them into. There were better ways by far.
Arwain realized that he was resting his hand on his sword hilt. A grim paradox. Without the sword, Serenstad, its peoples, its buildings, its questing knowledge, would fall, beyond a doubt, just as would any man unarmed among villains. Yet, having it, did it not draw forth the swords of others?
He made no attempt to answer the question. He had tried before, walking over victorious battle fields, amid the bodies of friends and enemies alike. Seeing ghastly wounds, trampled faces, strewn entrails being squabbled over by carrion. Listening to terrible sounds; some, high, shrieking; others, soft, nauseating. And then there was the awful dispatching of the too grievously hurt …
And in his exhilaration, he had wrought such horror himself with triumphant relish.
There were better ways by far, indeed. And whatever the answer to the question, if answer there was, it was part of his lot to have both the knowledge of his sword and the knowledge of those ways. One could not be found without the other, nor could anything survive without both. That much he had learned.
Gently he pulled his horse's head about and clicked it forward. He was aware of the platoon moving after him, but as he looked into the throng ahead, two approaching figures caught his attention.
Why they should have, he could not say. They were just two riders among many and they were making no special stir in their progress.
As they drew nearer he watched them carefully, puzzled at what impulse might have drawn his eye to them. Certainly there was nothing immediately apparent. They were bare-headed and wearing simple, unostentatious riding cloaks, though, he noted, these seemed to be of a high quality and a slightly unusual cut. And they rode well; very relaxed and easy in their manner; even more so than the Mantynnai perhaps.
And their horses were magnificent, he noted, as the animals too came more clearly into view. Then he became aware that the two men had also attracted the attention of Ryllans.
'Fine horses,’ he said.
Ryllans started, almost violently. ‘Y-yes,’ he stammered. Arwain stared at him. His face was even more alarmed than when he had spoken to Estaan.
'What's the matter?’ Arwain asked urgently.
'Nothing,’ Ryllans said quickly. ‘I thought it was someone I once knew, but … it wasn't.'
He was lying, Arwain knew, but he knew also that having taken the trouble to lie so readily, Ryllans would not part with the truth until he was ready, no matter what demands were made of him.
The two men were alongside. Still for no reason that he could see, their fine horses notwithstanding, they made an impression on Arwain. One of them turned towards him and, catching his eye, gave a slight nod of acknowledgement at this seemingly inadvertent happening. Then his gaze turned to Ryllans, who was looking wilfully forward. There was inquiry in the stranger's eyes, and a brief touch on his partner's arm.
Discreetly, Arwain watched the two men as they passed by the platoon. They seemed to be looking at the guards with open but casual interest.
Foreigners, he surmised. Curious to look at our famous soldiers. But the conclusion was unsatisfactory. He turned in his saddle and peered after them. They were talking to one another and pointing towards the city. Foreigners, definitely, Arwain decided. But as he turned back, he caught a ripple of unease among the guards. No; among the Mantynnai. It was gone before he could truly register it.
Something stirred within him. He had the feeling of events moving that he could not identify. Ryllans visibly shaken by a few brief words from one of his own, then deliberately lying about the two strangers; two strangers who also provoked some response from the other Mantynnai.
It could only be something from the past of these men, these still, watching, men.
With an effort he set the ill-formed questions aside. Ryllans’ earlier remarks were still pertinent. They were on a delicate, perhaps dangerous mission to Whendrak. Whatever lay in the past lay in the past. The present was all that mattered now. And if that were fouled, then the future might be truly grim.
Still …?
He cast another quick glance backwards, but the two men were out of sight amid the swaying wagons and the bobbing heads of other travellers on the bridge.
'Trot!'
They had reached the end of the bridge and the congestion was easing as the traffic spread out like a river delta, each strand going its separate way out into the widespread dominions of Serenstad.
Ryllans’ command brought Arwain to the present again and in line of column, the platoon set off along the road to Whendrak.
Chapter 22
'Oh god, he's got two of the damn things with him now,’ was Kany's greeting as Pandra opened the door to Antyr and Estaan.
Tarrian's ears went back, and his tail drooped, as did Grayle's.
'Now, now, Kany,’ Pandra said reproachfully, before Antyr could explain their errand. ‘They are what they are, just as you are what you are.'
Kany gave a scornful growl and muttered something inaudible, concluding, gracelessly, ‘Still, I suppose you'd better let them in. You'll freeze the place out leaving the door open.'
Then he sniffed, and a faint hint of sympathy entered his voice. ‘And they seem a bit fraught about something.'
Pandra gave an apologetic smile as he picked Kany up, put him in his pocket, and motioned his guests to enter.
He pointed towards a half-open door as he lingered briefly to see the two hesitant wolves safely in. Antyr stepped through it to find himself in a warm, well-lit room. It was small and rather cluttered, but it was homely and pleasant, and, like the outside of the house, indicated that the old Dream Finder had had a modestly successful
