The Duke closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. Avalanche or no, he knew beyond doubt what had to be done now.
'Antyr, go to your quarters and wait … for whatever it is.’ He glanced at Ryllans. ‘His own battle is starting. He's to be as closely protected as if he were me, and he's to be given whatever he asks for. Estaan will be in absolute charge of the guard.’ Ryllans nodded in acknowledgement and Antyr and Estaan left.
Ibris looked at him. ‘Senior officers’ meeting, now,’ he said. ‘We'll have to go through the different responses to…'
He was interrupted again. This time it was a guard who entered. Ibris nodded to him impatiently.
'Two strangers, foreigners, have approached the west perimeter of the camp, sire,’ the man said. ‘They're asking to see you, sire, and they've a letter bearing your insignia and what seems to be Commander Feranc's signature, but I thought I'd better check before I brought them to you.'
'You did right, guard,’ Ibris said. ‘Tell me what they're like before you bring them here.'
The guard pursed his lips. ‘Hard to say, sire,’ he replied. ‘They've been riding like the devil. But under the grime, there's fine clothes and fine horses … very fine horses.’ He hesitated. ‘They seem polite enough, but they've got … a way about them … a fighting man's way … a little like Commander Feranc. And, with respect,’ he nodded to Ryllans. ‘They sound like Mantynnai. But with very strong accents.'
Back in his quarters, Antyr dropped wearily on to his bed.
'Do you want anything?’ Estaan asked.
Antyr shook his head as he closed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said, absently checking his sword. Then, opening his eyes, now black as night, he said, ‘Thank you, Estaan. For our instruction and your patience.'
Estaan smiled a disclaimer. ‘You were easier to teach than many I've had to deal with,’ he said.
But Antyr did not hear the reply. A great wind had drawn him into another place.
Chapter 38
Amid the ghastly flickering and screaming chaos of the blind man's Dream Nexus, Ivaroth waited. Hitherto he had had to pause there for only the merest instant, scarcely a heartbeat, before the way would become apparent and his spirit, now bearing the blind man's Dreamself, would leap towards it. He had never questioned the nature of this strange conjoining. It was just one more strange quality among the many that this profoundly strange old man possessed. And, in any event, he had found that little about the blind man responded to thoughtful analysis. It was sufficient for Ivaroth that it happened the way it did and that he was the blind man's only vehicle into the dreams of others, or the worlds beyond.
The only vehicle, that is, except for the man, if man it was, they had encountered on their last long rampage there.
Ivaroth had seen him advancing relentlessly and had quailed before the murderous savagery that had suddenly exploded from him as he had come within sword range. But the old man had seen something else. The way to the other place that he so lusted for.
It was a death sentence for someone.
Ivaroth would not be taken unawares again. Should he again carry the old man into the worlds beyond as widely as he had been wont to do, and should they again happen upon this stranger, then Ivaroth would strike him down on the instant. And the old man too, if necessary. Better dead than someone else's.
But these were thoughts now far from him as he waited at the Nexus. It was frantic and crazed beyond any he had ever found before; streaked through with countless alien images and desires, and awash with terrors. Terrors that flooded out of the long past dreams with the fearful uncontrollability of vomit.
And beneath all, relentless and ever-present, like the funereal bass note to some terrible dirge, was a dark and evil memory? … presence? … will? … that made even Ivaroth blench.
The blind man's Dream Nexus was no place for a sane man. Yet he must remain there. Remain until a way became apparent. Or until …
Scarcely had the conjecture begun to form than he felt the old man's Dreamself with him, silent, watchful, expectant. Suspiciously, no sense of injury or illness lingered around it.
Then the way appeared and, motionless, he followed it. Followed it into the shimmering clouds of dream thoughts that pervaded the camp, and the land, and … everywhere.
All around him, amid the myriad tumbling thoughts of men and women and children, Ivaroth saw, felt, the ways into the worlds beyond, the gateways to the worlds of the Threshold.
Untutored, untrained, Ivaroth did not even know that in this land he would have been called a Dream Finder. Still less did he know that he was a natural Master of the art. One who could enter dreams, enter the Threshold worlds, without the aid of a Companion.
He knew, however, that the skills he had, had been increased manyfold since his contact, his unholy communion, with the blind man.
'You must tell me what happened if I'm to bring you back,’ he said to the silent spirit beside him.
'Beyond your understanding, Mareth Hai. What you asked was too much for this frame in this world.'
'But you obeyed.'
'I obeyed.'
There was no reproach in the statement, nor rancour.
The old man was beaten!
Ivaroth could scarcely contain himself. But still, it would be a futile victory if the old man was lost to him. He had to be brought back.
'What are your needs?’ he asked.
Silence.
Longing.
Ivaroth felt abruptly generous. Holding the old man's spirit, he moved into the Threshold.
He screwed up his eyes in the dazzling glare, and, his hand on his sword hilt, turned around quickly, taking in the entire scene. He relaxed almost immediately. They stood alone on the slopes of a snow-covered mountain. Above them a brilliant sun shone in a clear blue winter sky.
Behind the two tiny figures, great white mountains disdained their insignificance and peak upon peak reached out to both horizons, while in front of them lay an undulating plain, its whiteness broken only by the scar of an occasional rocky outcrop and scattered clusters of trees. High above them, mountain birds circled leisurely, following their own, unseen pathways.
The old man threw back his hood and raised his sightless eyes wide to the sky. He let out a long, ecstatic sigh, as his arms slowly spread out and his mouth opened into an expression of gaping fulfilment.
The long bony hands uncurled so slowly and painstakingly that it seemed they would go on for ever. To Ivaroth, it was like watching the unfolding of a grotesque plant.
As he watched however, unease began to replace his habitual disgust. The old man's recovery seemed to be both total and very rapid. Instinctively, he glanced around again, warily looking for any other figures in the eye-straining whiteness, but still no one was to be seen.
Neither man moved for some time. Ivaroth, still and watchful, the blind man, arms extended, face stretched up to the sky.
Then he laughed. His sinister, gleeful, and nerve-tearing laugh.
Ivaroth smiled slightly. All was well.
The blind man brought his arms down and then briefly closed his eyes. The snow some way in front of him erupted in a great white cloud. Opening his eyes he stared, unseeing, at his handiwork. The fine snow settled slowly and gracefully, then it erupted again … and again … and again, as if the very presence of such harmony were an offence in itself.
Sustained by the old man's will, the snow rose higher and higher into the bright sky, twisting and turning, whirling and swooping, seemingly obedient to his least whim, though Ivaroth, as ever, could see no outward sign of how this power was manipulated.
Then, as the snow moved faster and faster, there came the sound of a great wind. Though no breeze struck the two watchers, it grew in intensity until, screaming and howling, it was like the worst of winter's bleak excesses marching to and fro along the mountainside at the behest of its creator. The blind man's laughter increased frenziedly to mingle with the din.