With a scream he awoke for a second time, this time in truth. Beyond the windows was the same old night, deep, sultry, and clammy.
He lit the candles with trembling hands. Shuffling his bare feet, he drifted around the room from corner to corner, clutching his shivering shoulders with his hands. What if this were yet another dream? What if he was doomed until the end of his years to live in ghastly dreams and to awake only to exchange one nightmare for another? What would happen tomorrow? What dreams would tomorrow bring?
Dawn found him lying in his couch, doubled up, haggard, and trembling.
A few days later, it was his turn to do his duty on night patrol. He rejoiced; since that unforgettable dream, the very sight of his bed was disagreeable to him. It was far better to spend the night in the saddle with his weapons at hand than to struggle against the treacherous desire to leave the candles burning until morning!
There were five of them on guard: Egert who, as a lieutenant, was the leader of the patrol; Karver; Lagan; and two very young guards, about sixteen years old.
The patrol was a traditional part of the nighttime existence of Kavarren. Any shopkeeper would declare without pride that he slept more peacefully when he could hear the clip-clop of hooves and the voices of the sentries beneath his windows. There was rarely anything serious to attend to; there were just not enough nocturnal thieves, and those who did decide to thieve went about their work quietly and apprehensively: the gentlemen of the guards were very serious about their task.
Having received, as was usual, parting words from their captain, the guards set out. Egert and Karver rode in front, and behind them rode Lagan and the two younglings, Ol and Bonifor. Having taken a turn through the streets that surrounded the Town Hall, they made their way toward the city gates. One after another, the lights in the windows went out. The rasps of latching dead bolts and the clatters of shutters swinging shut could be heard from all around. The tavern by the gate was wide awake; the cavalcade hovered in front of the wide oak doors, trying to decide whether or not to stop in for a minute and visit the landlady who ruled over the lovely Ita and Feta. In the end, duty triumphed over temptation and the patrol was about to continue on its way when a drunk, lurching, stumbled out of the doors of the tavern.
In the darkness and in his intoxication, the reveler had neither family nor name: it was impossible to determine whether he was an aristocrat or a commoner. Jauntily whooping, Karver rode his horse toward the drunk. Cantering at nearly full tilt, he raised his steed onto its hind legs right in front of the stupefied drunkard, not touching the poor man, but letting the hot breath of his horse pour over him and thus terrifying him half to death. The guards laughed. Emitting a strange, distressed cry, the drunk sank down onto the pavement, but Karver was satisfied, and he returned to his companions, all the while peering over at Egert. Egert had once taught his friend that particular jest.
They moved on. The town lay in darkness. Only the torches in the hands of the patrol and the rare stars that shone weakly through the openings in the clouds illuminated the black façades of the sleeping houses. They rode silently. The pavement rang out under the hooves of their horses, and Egert, who found it unpleasant to watch the shadows that danced along the street, focused on the worn stones passing by under his horse.
The pavement below him suddenly seemed like a river undergoing the first thaw of the year: the cobblestones thronged without order; they cracked and jutted over one another, raising their jagged edges as if waiting for victims. Egert felt a chill, and he suddenly understood something he had never realized before; he understood and was astounded by his former blindness: the stones of the pavement were hostile, deadly, and dangerous, and a man who fell on them from a height, even if from the back of a horse, would most certainly be doomed.
The cavalcade continued on its way, and Egert’s stallion clip-clopped his hooves along with all the others, but his rider could no longer see anything around him. Squeezing the reins with sweaty palms, Egert Soll, a natural-born horseman, nearly died from the fear of falling off his horse.
The crunch of a broken neck kept repeating in his ears. The stones of the pavement thrust upward lasciviously, as if anticipating the moment when the head of the brave lieutenant would burst like a ripe melon on their burnished edges. An avalanche of sweat rolled down Egert’s back even though the night was brisk, almost cold. In the space of two blocks, he managed to die a thousand times until, finally, his horse began to sense that something was wrong, as if the perturbation of his rider had been transferred to him as well.
The cavalcade whirled around suddenly. The agitated stallion jerked, and this unexpected movement was enough to unseat the celebrated equestrian Egert.
Egert did not understand how it happened. He had long ago forgotten how to fall from a horse; the last time it had happened to him, he was only ten years old. He felt only a momentary horror; then the black sky with its smattering of stars flashed before his eyes and was followed by a painful but, to Egert’s astonishment, nonfatal blow.
He was lying on his side. All he could see in front of him were his horse’s hooves and the torch that had flown from his hand as he fell. It now sputtered in a puddle to his left. He heard astounded questions somewhere in the distance, which caused him to comprehend suddenly what had happened. Egert was thankful for the blessing of being able to pretend he had lost consciousness.
What could possibly cause a lieutenant of the guards, especially Egert Soll, to fall from a horse that was going no faster than a walk? Only death, thought Egert as he lay there, and he wished to die.
“Egert! Hey, help me, Lagan! It’s like he’s dead! What happened?”
He felt someone’s hands grasp him by the shoulders and turn him over so he was facing upward, but he did not give any signs of life.
“The canteen, Bonifor, the canteen, quickly!”
A small stream of water spilled over his face. After waiting a bit longer, he groaned and opened his eyes.
In the light of the torches, he could see Karver, Lagan, Ol, and Bonifor bending over him; their faces were all surprised, and those of the younger guards were still frightened.
“He’s alive,” Ol noted with relief.
“How did this happen to him?” Lagan asked stolidly. “Egert, are you drunk, or what?”
“When we set off for the night, he was sober,” Karver retorted. “Unless, while we were riding, he somehow managed to…”
“While on duty?” asked Lagan good-naturedly.
“Well, he doesn’t smell of drink,” growled Bonifor.
Egert was quite embarrassed to be lying on his back and serving as an object of general interest; besides, the pavement stones, which had waited for their chance, were sticking into his back. Fidgeting, he raised himself up onto his elbow, and at the same time a few hands immediately helped him stand up.
“What’s wrong with you?” Karver asked finally.
Egert did not know what was wrong with him, but he had no plans to give the other guards a detailed account of what had happened.
“I don’t remember,” he lied, trying to make his voice sound as hoarse as possible. “I remember we were riding. Then everything went dark, obscure, and then I was lying on the ground.”
The other guards exchanged looks.
“That’s not good,” said Lagan. “You should go see a doctor.”
Egert did not answer. Suppressing a shiver, he reluctantly climbed back on his horse. The night patrol continued, but until the early morning hours, Egert kept catching inquisitive glances thrown at him by his comrades, as if they were waiting for him to fall from his horse again.