'Immediately,’ he echoed dutifully.
Chapter 8
Antyr threw his wringing cloak on to the floor, dropped into his chair and let out a pitiful groan. His back was aching, his legs were aching, his feet were burning and he was soaked to the skin and chilled to the marrow.
He sat motionless, gazing blankly up at a familiar smoke stain on the ceiling immediately above a lamp. Acute self-pity at his physical plight had long since driven all other concerns from his mind and it was some time before coherent thoughts began to seep back again. When they did, they were rudimentary and primitive and he was moved to speak them out loud.
'I'm dying,’ he said to the smoke stain. ‘If not dead. Tarrian, wherever you are, don't come back, there'll only be my exhausted corpse waiting for you. You faithless hound, leaving me to die of exposure.'
'Stop moaning, and open this door.’ The unexpected reply rang sharply in his head, making him jump.
Despite this, however, and his previous complaint, Antyr felt a sense of relief stirring somewhere underneath his fatigue. Then, closing his eyes, he pushed himself up out of his chair with a monumental effort. His sluggishness was greeted by an impatient scratching on the front door.
'Stop that,’ he shouted. ‘That door's damaged enough with your impatience.'
A short but eloquent string of abuse from Tarrian entered his mind, embellishing the information that he was not the only one who was cold and weary. From its tone Antyr deemed it wiser not to reply. Instead, he stepped well back and lifted the latch of the door. It was a routine precaution based on previous experience and its value was confirmed as Tarrian crashed the door open even more violently than usual on his way towards the kitchen.
Antyr cast a brief, irritated, glance at the well-scratched door, then, wincing at its screech, slowly closed it and walked down the passageway after the wolf. He felt much easier now that Tarrian was back; there was always the risk of his being killed by hunters or farmers outside the city.
The thought was pushed aside by a spasm of disgust from his Companion. ‘I'd rather take my chance with the farmers and hunters,’ Tarrian declaimed. ‘At least they wouldn't either try to starve or poison me.'
'What do you mean?’ Antyr said in some indignation, recognizing the complaint.
'You know perfectly well what I mean,’ Tarrian replied. ‘When was the last time you ate dried-up, two-day-old food?'
'You ate well enough last night,’ Antyr replied unsympathetically. ‘And I've no doubt you found something fresher outside.’ The image of a desperately fleeing rabbit flashed suddenly through Antyr's mind but was cut off sharply.
'Ah-hah,’ he said significantly.
'Shut up,’ came the swift reply. ‘You can get me some fresh water at least. And give me a brush, I'm a mess. And do something about the stink in here, it's appalling.'
On that point, Antyr had to agree. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, picking up the bucket he had vomited into the previous night and carrying it to the door.
'It seems a long time ago,’ he said, wrinkling his nose as he threw the evil-smelling contents down the drain and vigorously worked the pump handle to send a cold, glittering spray of water after them.
There was a short silence, then Tarrian spoke again, ‘Come back in and brush me, Antyr.’ His voice was unexpectedly gentle. Antyr looked up in surprise. Tarrian was standing at the open door, gazing at him earnestly. Antyr stroked his damp head as he stepped inside and Tarrian leaned against him briefly.
They did not speak for some time after that. Antyr found a dry cloth and wiped Tarrian down before rekindling the fire. Then he dried and changed himself and set about brushing his Companion.
Grooming the wolf was a strange, satisfying experience. Antyr knew he was touching on some quality that came from deep within the wolf's being, somewhere far below where Tarrian could take him, or indeed where he would wish to go.
'A pack thing,’ Tarrian would say when he chose to speak of such matters at all. It was sufficient and they both understood. Tarrian knew himself for a wolf, just as Antyr knew himself for a man, and though they also knew themselves to be strange amongst their kind, they were still just that, wolf and man. Where they touched and talked to one another more or less as equals was little more than an uncertain tide-swept causeway that joined two great and alien lands.
After a while, Antyr felt Tarrian's mind rising to the surface again, relaxed and quiet.
'I told them at the Norstseren Gate that you'd be back on your own,’ Antyr said casually as the spell dispersed.
'Yes. Thank you,’ Tarrian replied lazily. ‘I caught the thought as I came in, but I sneaked through out of habit.'
There was an element of amusement in the answer, but Antyr did not ask.
'I came in with a flock of sheep,’ Tarrian volunteered, chuckling and rolling over to have his stomach brushed. ‘What a dozy shepherd. And as for those dogs. They've no idea. I'm surprised you're not up to your ears in my kin, the living must be so easy out there.'
'Dozy or not, the poor beggar's probably had to pay Gate Tax on you, you know,’ Antyr said, trying to sound reproachful, but laughing in spite of himself.
Tarrian pondered. ‘Yes,’ he concluded. ‘Now I think about it, the shepherd was arguing quite heatedly with the Exactor when I left.'
He rolled over again and, clambering to his feet, shook himself massively. ‘Very pleasant,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed that.'
'But …?’ Antyr said, catching the doubt in the thought as he hoisted himself on to his chair.
'But we must talk,’ Tarrian said soberly.
Antyr found himself looking into the wolf's grey eyes. ‘Do you want to go out for a drink?’ Tarrian asked.
The question was unexpected, indeed unique in their relationship.
'I don't know,’ Antyr said after a long hesitation. ‘The day's been … so long … so full of change. Being marched through the fog by the Duke's guards, Ciarll Feranc, Aaken Uhr Candessa, searching the Duke's dreams…’ He paused as the unease about the Duke's dream returned to him, followed on the instant by the memory of the sinister dark figure that he had woken to find examining him, and, worst of all, the terrifying absence of his Companion, his Earth Holder. Tarrian let out a slight whine.
'Then walking mile after weary mile through the rain and the cold greyness, something changed,’ Antyr went on. ‘Something in me is different. A part of me is crying out to run away, to run while I can. Run anywhere, into a bottle, down to Farlan and on to some foreign boat, anywhere, just get away. But it's a distant wailing infant. I can't pay it any real heed. The rest of me is saying, remember your drills, keep your pike held firm, hold your ground for everyone's sake. Ever seen a horse run on to a pike? Ever seen what cavalry does to fleeing infantry?’ He fell silent.
'Fleeing infantry,’ he muttered softly after a long silence. ‘Easier than a rabbit to a wolf. And they keep on coming … no matter how fast you run … hacking people down … spear and sword. Don't break whatever you do.'
'Do you want to go out for a drink?’ Tarrian repeated his question softly, penetratingly, as a lull came into this almost whispered catalogue of memories.
Antyr's eyes widened and he shook his head slowly. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘I'm frightened. I don't know what I want. Except for the fear to go away.'
He looked at Tarrian. The wolf was lying very low on the floor, his ears flattened back along his head. ‘You too?’ he asked.
'Me too,’ Tarrian admitted. ‘But by your battle memories not by what's happened today. At least that might be understandable if we think about it. Humans never will be.'
'I'm sorry,’ Antyr said.
'Don't be, it's my fault,’ Tarrian replied, his manner easing. ‘I should be used to people by now.'