Ibryen
A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan
a Mushroom eBooks sampler
Copyright © 1995, Roger Taylor
Roger Taylor has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published in United Kingdom in 1995 by Headline Book Publishing.
This Edition published in 2003 by Mushroom eBooks,
an imprint of Mushroom Publishing,
Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a sampler of Ibryen by Roger Taylor. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor
The wind that brought the messenger was full of strangeness. For several days it had blown, no different from the wind that always blew at this time of year, loaded with subtle perfumes from the spring-awakening grasses and flowers that coloured the lower slopes of the mountains, and woven through with the whispering sounds of high, tumbling streams and the home-building clamour of the birds and animals that dwelt amid the towering peaks.
Yet, for Ibryen, the wind was different. It carried at its heart a faint and elusive song that possessed a cloak-tugging urgency during the day and reached into his sleep during the night, bringing him to sudden wakefulness. Thus roused, he would lie, still, silent, and expectant, with anxious magic hovering, black-winged, about him in the darkness that spanned between his sleeping world and his solitary room. But nothing came to explain this mysterious unquiet – no sudden illumination to show a way through the uncertain future before him, no new tactics to outwit the growing power of the Gevethen, no new words with which to encourage his followers. Nothing.
You expect too much, he thought irritably, on the third night of such an awakening. Or was he perhaps just tormenting himself with imaginary hopes? Was this disturbance no more than his clinging to some childish fancy that all would be well in the end? Was he deluding himself that somewhere, something was preparing to come to his aid, rather than face the dark knowledge within him that he and his cause, and his men, were probably lost?
No. Surely it couldn’t be that! Doubt was an inevitable part of leadership, he knew. It underscored his every action and he deemed himself sufficiently aware of his own nature not to have such a foe lurking in the darker recesses of the mind waiting to spring out in ambush.
Yet . . .?
He growled angrily to end the questioning. Then, though it was some three hours until dawn, he swung aside his rough blankets and, draping them about his shoulders, went to the door. As the night cold struck him, he took a deep breath and pulled the blankets tight about him. There was no moon, and the stars shone brightly through the clear air, as familiar and unchanging in their patterns as the mountains themselves.
And as ancient and indifferent, Ibryen mused, shivering despite the lingering bed-warmth in the sheets.
All about him, the camp, or, more correctly, the village, which is what the camp had developed into over the years, was quiet. Yet it would not be asleep. Around the perimeter and on the nearby peaks, eyes would be staring into the darkness, ears would be listening, waiting for that movement, that sound which would indicate the approach of some spy, or even the Gevethen’s army. Briefly, his old concerns surfaced again. Practical and tactical this time. How long could such vigilance be maintained? How long could he keep up the spirits of his own followers? How long before the Gevethen discovered this place and launched a full attack? How long . . .
Frowning, he dashed the thoughts aside and turned his mind back to whatever it was that had wakened him in the middle of the night and had been disturbing him during the day whenever he found himself in quietness between tasks. Maybe it’s just Spring coming, he thought, smiling to himself, but the whimsy did little to allay the peculiar unease that was troubling him. For it was still here – permeating the soft breeze that was drifting along the valley. Calling to him – a haunting . . .
What? He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door frame.
Urgency and appeal was all around him, faint and shifting, but distinct for all that. Yet it was not the urgency and appeal of his present predicament, nor those of his people whom he had abandoned. He curled his lip at the bitterness in the word. For a moment, memories threatened to flood in upon him, but he let the word go. That too was a well-worn debate, and that he had had no choice gave him no comfort.
The breeze returned its unsettling burden to him again. There was an almost alien quality in what he could feel – or was it, hear? It was as though he were listening to a creature from an ancient fable, articulate and intelligent, yet wholly different from him in every way. Images formed and re-formed in his mind, but none clearly, each dissolving as he turned his thoughts towards it like shapes within a swirling mist.
‘Are you all right, Count?’
The voice thundered into his inner silence, rasping, uncouth and distorted, making him start violently. Only years of silent and stealthy warfare kept him from crying out. His questioner however was as shaken as he by the response.
‘I’m sorry, Count,’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I . . .’
Ibryen raised a hand to silence him. The man’s voice was becoming normal in his ears – a tone scarcely much above a whisper – the tone he would have expected anyone to be using in the sleeping camp. He identified the speaker. It was unthinkable that he above all should have spoken as Ibryen had heard. It had been like the shattering of night vision by a sudden brilliant light. What had he been listening to with such intensity? He made no attempt to answer the question.
‘It’s all right, Marris,’ he said to the dark shape in front of him. ‘I was a little restless. I just came out to look at the stars.’
Marris cleared his throat softly. ‘Fortunate that I wasn’t one of the Gevethen’s assassins,’ he said sternly.
‘I stand rebuked,’ Ibryen replied good-naturedly. ‘Though I doubt they’ll take the trouble to send assassins if they find us.’
‘When they find us,’ Marris emphasized.
Ibryen reached out and laid his hands on the man’s shoulders. ‘I yield the field, old friend,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘I’m retreating – returning to my bed to regroup my scattered wits. Wake me at dawn if I show any signs of licking my wounds too long.’
Marris bowed slightly. ‘Sleep well, Count. The camp and all about is quiet.’
As Marris turned to move away, Ibryen said hesitantly, ‘Have you felt anything . . . strange . . . in the wind, these last few days?’
Marris paused, his head bent to one side as he searched for the Count’s face in the darkness while he considered this odd question. Then he shrugged. ‘Only Spring, Count,’ he replied. ‘Good and bad, as ever.’
Ibryen nodded. ‘Sun on our skins again, blood moving in our veins, but the passes clearing of snow and the need for renewed vigilance. Winter’s not without its advantages.’
Marris gave a low grunt by way of confirmation. ‘Twenty years since they came, five years since their treachery forced us to flee, and every year they come searching, stronger each time, and nearer finding us. Soon they’ll come in the winter also.’
Ibryen frowned. Such comments from any other would have brought a crushing response, but Marris was too close a friend for him to invoke such defences. Five years ago it had been Marris who rescued him from the mayhem when the Gevethen’s followers had stormed their country home and murdered his family. He was Ibryen’s most loyal and trusted adviser, as he had been to his father. Blunt and fearless in his opinions, he was nevertheless enough of a realist to speak such words to his Count only when no others could hear. And Ibryen too, was enough of a realist not to bluster in the face of them.
‘It’s constantly on my mind, old friend,’ he replied simply.
Marris bowed again and let the matter lie. ‘Catch what sleep you can for the rest of the night, Count,’ he said. ‘And take care, the air’s deceptively chilly.’
Then, without waiting for a dismissal, he was gone. Ibryen stood for a moment staring into the darkness after him before he turned and went back inside. He had not noticed how cold it was outside until the warmth of the room folded around him. Briefly he toyed with the idea of returning to bed as he had said, but decided against it. Marris’s unexpected arrival had completely scattered the strangely intense concentration with which he had woken, but the memory of it lingered and, as he thought about it again, so he became even less inclined to regard what he had felt as an idle fancy. Elusive and intangible it might have been, but, whatever it was, there had been a hard, shimmering sharpness at its heart which declared it to be both real and outside himself.
The conclusion unsettled him however. A practical man, surrounded by more than enough problems and responsibilities, it was inappropriate, to say the least, that he should find himself considering such foolishness. What he needed was a good dose of normality. He dragged the sheets off his shoulders and threw them on to his bed as he moved back to the door. Outside stood a large barrel, full almost to the top with water. Stars twinkled in the motionless surface and, for a moment, Ibryen felt as though he were looking down on the heavens as their creator might have done. It was a dizzying perspective. Then he scattered his tiny universe as he plunged his arms into the near-freezing water and performed a premature morning ablution. Long, deep breaths kept his shivering at bay as he went back inside and towelled himself down violently. He was glowing as he dressed.
But, despite this assault, his memory of what had happened was unchanged. Pensively he fastened his sword-belt. He felt good. His body was awake and his mind was sharp and clear . . . so how was it that a vague feeling which had been stirring at the edges of his mind should suddenly seem to him to be a call – for call it was, he was sure now, though from whom and for what he could not imagine. He had no ready answers. Strange things happened to people in the mountains, but this did not have the quality of something generated by a mind addled by shifting mists, or lack of food, or thinness of air.
It occurred to him unnervingly that perhaps it was some devilment by the Gevethen. They certainly had talents which seemed to defy logic and reason. But again, the call – he grimaced at the word – did not have the sense of viciousness, of clinging evil, which pervaded their work. Rather, it was clear and simple; beautiful, almost, despite the urgency that underlay it. All that was at fault was his confusion, his inability to listen correctly – as though he were a noisy child, pestering about something that his parents were already trying to explain. Perhaps he should stay silent, he decided, with an uncertain smile. Routine concerns were already beginning to impinge on him following his brief exchange with Marris and all too soon they would become a clamour as the village awoke and set about its daily life.
Compromise came to him. He would do two things at the same time. He would walk the outer perimeter, to check the vigilance of the guards and to encourage them, then perhaps he might clamber up on to the southern ridge to judge for himself the state of the adjoining valleys. These were necessary tasks which he could pursue without any sense of guilt, while at the same time they would give him silence and calm in which to ponder what was happening.
* * * *
Dawn was greying the sky as he began the ascent to the southern ridge. It had been a valuable exercise, walking the perimeter. He had been challenged at every guard post and was now flushed with the quiet congratulations he had been able to give. He paused and, unusually, allowed himself a little self-congratulation as well. It was no small credit to his leadership that his people were so attentive so long into the night. It helped, of course, that all here had suffered appallingly at the hands of the Gevethen and were more than well-acquainted with their cunning and treachery. They knew that should a hint of the location of this place reach the enemy, then a pitched and terrible battle would be inevitable. And there would be little doubt as to who would prevail should this happen. The Gevethen were in power now, not only because of their ability to sway others to their cause but because of their complete indifference to the fate of those same followers. Wave upon wave of attackers would be sent against the camp until sheer attrition won the day. It was a dark image and, for all it was no new one, Ibryen frowned as he turned away from it.
He glanced briefly at the lightening sky then quickly turned his eyes back to the darkness around him. He must be careful, of course. It was not necessary to fall over some craggy edge to injure oneself seriously in this terrain, a simple tumble would suffice, but by the time he would be moving from the grassy slopes on to the rocks proper it would be much lighter. For a moment he considered the wisdom of what he was doing. It was not essential that he personally viewed the adjacent valleys, any of his senior officers could have done it. But even as he hesitated, he felt again a slight tension urging him forward. Whatever it was, it would not be ignored.
He set off slowly.
Though he kept his attention focused on the shadow-scape about him, and on his every footstep, he was aware that what had been disturbing him for the past few days and nights was truly there. It permeated his relaxed awareness, growing then fading but never truly disappearing, like the sound of a distant crowd carried on the wind. Words such as ‘call’, ‘song’, floated into his mind, but none were truly adequate.
As he had estimated, the sun had risen when he came to the rockier reaches of the ridge. It was going to be a fine spring day – not warm enough for idling in the sun, and probably very cold up on the ridge, but heart-lifting for all that. He sat down, not so much to rest as to think. Far below he could make out the village, small and seemingly fragile amid the peaks. It was not difficult for him to find it, but for a less informed eye it would have been no easy task. Turfs covered both roofs and the shallow ramped walls built from the local rocks, and a random arrangement on either side of a bustling stream which twisted between large rocky outcrops ensured that the buildings were not readily distinguishable from the general terrain. A few trees and bushes completed the visual confusion. It was not perfect, but it was adequate. Caves would have been a wiser choice, but apart from there being too few suitable for the number of people involved, there was something deeply repugnant about the idea of being driven underground by the Gevethen. At least in these simple houses, Ibryen’s followers could live lives that bore some resemblance to those that they had led previously. In other valleys, such crops as could be coaxed out of the thin soil were grown, and cattle and sheep were tended. Barring discovery, they could survive here indefinitely.
Instinctively, Ibryen looked up at the clear sky. When the Gevethen had first appeared, so too had a great many small, rather sinister brown birds. Among the wilder rumours that had eventually sprung up to surround the Gevethen was one that they used these birds as spies and that through their piercing yellow eyes everything in the land could be seen. It was palpable nonsense, of course; the birds had probably been carried there by accident – doubtless unusual storms on their normal migratory flights – for, a few years later they vanished as abruptly as they had arrived. Nevertheless, the influence of the Gevethen was so grim and all-pervasive, that the rumour lingered uncomfortably, and no one had seriously demurred when it was suggested that the camp be disguised in such a way that it could not easily be seen from above. After all, it couldn’t be denied that at the time of the disappearance of the birds, the Gevethen had seemed to be more uneasy, less well-informed of events, could it?
Probably coincidence, Ibryen mused unconvincingly as he returned his gaze to the camp below. Putting his hands on his knees, he levered himself upright, irritated at finding himself thinking about these old tales. He began climbing over the rocks.
The sun was well above the horizon when he finally reached the ridge. Snow-covered peaks shone far into the distance, brilliant and aloof, as if disdaining the frantic scrabblings of the mortals who flickered their tiny lives away so hysterically beneath their timeless gaze.
A cold wind struck Ibryen’s sweating face as he clambered over the last few rocks. In years past he had delighted in striding out along such ridges. Now, concealment being an almost permanent obsession, he moved carefully, keeping low or otherwise ensuring that he did not present a conspicuous silhouette against the skyline. It was just another example of the Gevethen’s pernicious influence, their gift of corroding even the smallest worthwhile thing.
Ibryen did not know what he had expected to find at the end of this journey, and the last part of the climb had been too strenuous for him to pay any need to the subtle urging that had drawn him here, but his initial response was one of disappointment. The view was, as ever, inspiring, but no great surge of understanding overwhelmed him, no sudden insight. Instead, he was just both hot and chilled, as he normally was when travelling a little too quickly in the mountains. For the same reason he was also out of breath.
‘Just take a rest, and relax,’ he said to himself. ‘Calm down. There’s still the valleys to be looked at.’
Sitting down carefully in the lee of a rock he turned his face to the sun. Perhaps he could simply luxuriate in the warmth for a little while, allow his many cares and responsibilities to fall away. But while he might do the former, the latter was almost impossible, reared as he had been to accept that responsibilities were part of his birthright as the Count of Nesdiryn – a necessary counterweight to the privileges that went with that office. His parents however, had trained him for the ruling of a relatively peaceful and ordered land. They had not remotely prepared him for dealing with a people torn from within by such as the Gevethen, except in so far as they had died for their own inability to measure the depth of the Gevethen’s treachery and inhumanity. Their deaths had been their last terrible lesson for their son.
Now, Ibryen’s duties were both simpler and more onerous. No longer was he burdened by the innumerable ties of administrative and political need that ruling a land involved. Instead, he had become a beleaguered warlord whose least error, or lapse in vigilance, could see himself and his followers destroyed utterly, and the Gevethen given full sway over the land. And always, darkening even this deep shadow, was the unspoken question – what were the Gevethen’s ultimate intentions? What could the acquisition of such political and military power as they constantly sought betoken, except ambitions beyond the borders of Nesdiryn?
However, while these considerations formed a constant, disturbing undertow to his life, none of them were immediately in Ibryen’s thoughts as he lay back against the still-cold rock and, eyes closed, turned his face towards the sun. His new life was not without pleasures . . . simple pleasures that once he would have disdained or even been oblivious to – pleasures such as the sun on his face and the solitary silence of the mountains. And he could indulge these for a few moments now that he was here and alone.
He had scarcely begun to relax however, when, unheard and unfelt, yet indisputably there, the mysterious call that had reached into his dreams to waken him and lured him to this eyrie was all about him.
But still its message eluded him. Still it shifted and changed like voices in the wind, though now perhaps it was nearer? Louder? Clearer? Again, none of the words were adequate, yet all were true. Shapes formed in the sounds that were not sounds, and danced to the rhythm of the flickering lights behind his closed eyes – now solid and whole, now intangible and vague – jumping from time to time as Ibryen resisted the warm drowsiness that was threatening to overwhelm him and jerked himself into wakefulness.
Until a pattern began to emerge, tantalizingly familiar. It echoed around a sound that suddenly was truly a sound. Ibryen’s mind lurched towards it, drawing it closer and closer, searching into it, clutching at the meaning that he could sense striving to reach him.
Abruptly it came into focus.
‘Hello,’ a voice said, close by.
Ignoring curses and ill-aimed kicks, a large mangy dog dashed purposefully between the legs of the passers-by and out into the roadway. It began to bark ferociously at a passing carriage. The horses reared at this unexpected onslaught, almost tearing the reins from the driver’s hands. The clattering hooves, the barking, and the raucous shouting of the driver – at both horses and dog – inevitably brought nearby pedestrians to a halt to watch the spectacle, and soon further cursing rose to swell the chorus as other carts, carriages and riders had to stop or take evasive action.
No one made any effort to seize the dog however, for not only was it large, it was moving very quickly, dodging the flailing hooves and the driver’s whip with ease. Further, it had a look in its eyes that would have made even the sternest hesitant to tackle it; its lip curled back to reveal teeth whose whiteness testified to the fact that, ill-kempt though it might be, it had plenty of bones to chew on. To those late afternoon citizens who had the misfortune to understand, this above all identified the dog not only as feral, but as having come from the death pits. Who could say what impulse had drawn it into the heart of the city?
And who could say what impulse continued to guide it, for instead of barking and fleeing as most dogs would have done, this one’s attacking fury seemed to grow in proportion to the uproar it was causing. The driver soon stopped trying to beat it off with his whip as he needed both hands to control the two horses. Angry shouts began to emanate from within the now swaying carriage and the watching crowd both grew and widened under the contradictory effects of curiosity and fear. Other drivers in the street stopped their cursing and started backing away from the scene.
Then further cries came from a section of the crowd and several people leapt hastily out of the way as another dog emerged to join the first in attacking the carriage. The assault redoubled, the horses became frantic and the driver lost such control as he had. The swaying of the carriage increased until, after hovering for a timeless moment, it crashed over, taking the thrashing horses with it. The driver fell heavily on to the rough cobbled roadway and lay still.
The crowd became suddenly silent, and for a while the only sound to be heard in the street was the scrabbling of the terrified horses and the ominous snarling of the dogs as they paced to and fro in front of the destruction they had wrought.
No one moved to help the fallen driver. Indeed, eyes now fearfully averted from the scene, the crowd began to melt away. Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency.
A sudden crash halted the flight. It was the carriage door being flung back by the passenger. He began to heave himself up through the opening. Though not a young man, vigorous command and capability could be read in his grim face and the very sight of him seemed to chill the crowd into immobility.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said, his voice harsh and menacing. Even the dogs fell back a little, crouching low, though their snarling muzzles were even more terrifying than before. Half emerged from the carriage, the man disdained their menace and slowly scanned the crowd. It was as if he were memorizing the face of each individual there, or worse, already knew it. Those who failed to avoid his gaze could not tear their eyes away. The street began to stink of fear while, above, the already gloomy sky seemed to darken further, adding its weight to the sense of oppression that the man’s presence exuded.
Then, into this silent interrogation came a flurry of movement and the two dogs, still snarling, began to crawl forward, their tails sweeping over the cobbles expectantly. The man in the carriage turned sharply towards the disturbance, his teeth bared as if in imitation of his attackers, but even as he did so, the cause was upon him. A lithe figure, ragged and dirty, was vaulting nimbly up on to the carriage. Disbelief came into the man’s face. It was changing to anger when the newcomer reached down, seized his hair with her left hand and jerked his head back, unbalancing him. Then with her right, she plunged a knife into him. It was a deliberately wounding stroke.
‘Just to catch your attention, Hagen,’ she hissed, wrenching his head back further and slashing savagely at his flailing arms. ‘This one should be for the Count, but really it’s for my parents. I wish I could take more time over it,’ and she stabbed him in the throat twice. ‘Rot in hell.’
A futile hand clutching his wounds, Hagen straightened momentarily, then crashed back down into the carriage, the opened door slamming behind him. Even as he disappeared from view, the woman was running back into the crowd, the two dogs at her heels and the knife trailing blood. She made no sound but neither did she hesitate and the crowd parted hastily to let her through. The movement seemed to break the spell that Hagen had cast and abruptly the street was alive with screaming, fleeing people. The city was busy at that time of day, and those trying to escape found themselves impeded by others who were pursuing their normal errands or had been drawn to the scene by the noise.
Abruptly, a shrill cry rang out above the others as a group of armed and uniformed horsemen appeared at the end of the street.
‘Guards! Citadel Guards!’
As the cry passed along, the confusion turned almost to panic. The man at the head of the column stopped and looked at the milling crowd with a mixture of irritation and disdain. He was about to say something when the rider next to him took his arm urgently and pointed towards the overturned carriage.
‘Captain! Captain Helsarn!’
The leader was about to transfer his annoyance to this new intrusion but, as he followed the trembling arm, his scornful expression suddenly became one of stark horror. He spurred his horse forward frantically, at the same time shouting out an order, his voice cracking. The Guards surged after him, and the group galloped along the street with complete disregard for whoever was standing in their way. Several people were knocked over, but none of them wasted any time in abusing the riders; rather, they redoubled their efforts to escape the scene.
Reaching the carriage, the Captain swung off his horse directly on to the upturned side. For a moment he struggled with the door before he managed to wrench it open, then he had to shield his eyes to see into the dark interior. A gasp of disbelief concluded his inspection and he dropped down into the carriage, pausing only to motion his companions forward to help him. After a brief, confused interlude of cursing and slipping, the bloodstained body of the slaughtered Hagen was lifted awkwardly from the vehicle and laid on the ground. Throughout, the Guards handled the body with a hesitant mixture of reverence and fear, as if at any moment it might spring to life and bring down some terrible wrath on them for their profanity in so touching it. The mood lingered even after the body had been laid down, as the men formed a circle about it as though preparing for a vigil.
It was Helsarn who recovered first. He glanced up and down the street and, in a sinister echo of the call that Hagen himself had made, he shouted, ‘Stay where you are, all of you!’ The crowd however, already motivated to movement by the murder of Hagen, and suddenly unified in their intention by the appearance of the Guards, had used their momentary paralysis to escape. Thus the Captain found himself addressing a dwindling number of distant and fleeing backs and a handful of individuals who were already converging on the carriage. Obediently, these all stopped, obliging him then to motion them forward angrily, while the rest continued their flight.
He opened his mouth again, but for a moment no sound came as he searched for something to say. Finally he managed to demand, ‘What’s happened here?’
There was some dumb shaking of heads but the Captain was already bringing his thoughts to more urgent needs. He turned to one of his men, a heavy-set and powerful-looking individual. ‘Low-Captain Vintre, get this carriage righted, then use it to bring the Lord Counsellor’s body back to the Citadel.’
‘And these?’ The Low-Captain indicated the remains of the crowd.
The Captain frowned as though irritated at having to deal with such obvious matters.
‘They’re all under arrest, of course,’ he snapped. ‘They’re witnesses. Bring them as well. They’ll have to be questioned. I’ll go ahead and tell Commander Gidlon what’s happened.’ He looked down at the body and briefly his inner fears showed through. Though he spoke softly to Vintre and did not move, his eyes flicked from side to side, as if spies and denouncers might be all around him. ‘This is unbelievable. I hope someone hasn’t struck a match in this tinderbox.’
The Low-Captain responded in kind, but more prosaically. ‘Let’s just thank our fates we weren’t Lord Hagen’s duty escort today.’
Helsarn’s cold demeanour returned as he nodded, then he remounted and, driving his spurs viciously into his horse’s flanks, galloped off down the street.
A little later, the carriage was upright again and, bearing both the injured driver and the dead body of Hagen, was following the same route as the Captain. It was a strange procession. Not that the sight of carriage, escort and prisoners was strange in Dirynhald, but normally it would provoke little or no response from the passing citizens. Now, however, despite the time of day, the streets were almost empty and such few people as were about were ill-at-ease and either stared fretfully or conspicuously averted their eyes and strode out purposefully.
It did not need Helsarn’s words, ‘match in this tinder-box’, to heighten Vintre’s nervousness further and he closed his men up and moved them to the trot, notwithstanding the discomfort of the ‘witnesses’ jogging between the two files. News of Hagen’s death had obviously run through the city as fast as legs could carry it, and who could say what consequences would ensue. It was a long time since there had been any serious, or even open opposition to the Gevethen, but though an insidious mixture of sustained terror and familiarity was gradually sapping its will, the opposition was there, brooding and ominous – in many ways very little different in its demeanour now from that of the Gevethen themselves. Vintre’s mind wandered . . . Perhaps this year they would at last find the Count and stamp out the remaining spark of resistance that his continued existence maintained.
A disturbance behind him brought Vintre sharply back to the grey street, but it was only one of the prisoners being dragged to his feet after stumbling. He reproached himself angrily for drifting into daydreams. Now was a time to be alert. Lord Counsellor Hagen had been the Gevethen’s closest adviser, and his death would undoubtedly be used as an excuse for them to tighten further their grip on the city and its people. Whatever else happened, the next few weeks were going to be busy and brutal, and there would be plenty of opportunities for an ambitious young officer, not least for one who was first upon the scene and who was bringing in witnesses. Almost certainly that alone would assure him the Gevethen’s personal attention. Excellent opportunities for sure – and a damn sight easier than trekking through the mountains searching for the Count, in constant fear of ambush.
Instinctively, Vintre straightened up and began making adjustments to his uniform. He brought his horse alongside the carriage and peered inside. Hagen’s body was draped along one of the seats while the unconscious driver had been propped up in a corner. Without realizing that he was doing it, he made his face look concerned. It was as if Hagen’s awful will, too cruel even for death’s domain, might suddenly return to his corpse and open the eyes to find himself the object of a junior officer’s ghoulish curiosity. Even in death, Hagen was frightening.
Only now did Vintre being to grasp the awful magnitude of what had happened. There’d be more than just another purging of the citizenry, there’d be some rare jockeying for position at the highest level – for the ears of the Gevethen themselves – and who could say what benefits such a change could bring to lesser lights further down the chain of command? Vintre’s ambition, already on the wing, began to soar. Yet, like a cloud about to obscure the sun, there hovered the thought – who could have done such a thing? Not, who, after all this time, would have dared assail Hagen of all people, in broad daylight and in a busy street? Or, how many could have been involved to turn over the carriage? But what kind of a person was it who could have stood face to face with Hagen, looked into those awful eyes, and not let their weapon drop from nerveless hands?
Vintre shivered.
Then they were at the Citadel.
Vintre shivered again.
The rasp of Ibryen’s sword being drawn echoed the hiss of his sharply in-drawn breath as he leapt to his feet. Despite the violent shock of hearing a voice when he had believed himself to be quite alone, some discipline prevented Ibryen’s alarm from announcing itself any louder. The bright mountain daylight burst in upon him blindingly as he opened his eyes and, keeping his back against the rock, he held out his sword and swung it in a broad protective arc while they adjusted.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed the voice incongruously, amid this frantic scramble.
As Ibryen’s vision cleared, he found himself looking at a small figure standing well beyond his sword’s reach and shifting its balance from one foot to the other as if preparing to flee.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ the stranger said. ‘I didn’t realize . . .’
‘Who are you?’ Ibryen demanded brutally.
The new arrival was a man. He was dressed in simple, practical clothes, though they were of a cut unfamiliar to Ibryen, and he had a pack on his back. He stood scarcely chest height to Ibryen and was very slightly built – frail almost. Further he seemed to be quite old. But all this signified nothing. Though he asked it, Ibryen knew that his question was of no import. Whatever answer was given, he already knew the truth. Appearances notwithstanding, the man was not one of his followers and could have only come here by stealth – considerable stealth at that, to have avoided the recently alerted guards. He must thus be a Gevethen spy or, worse, an assassin. Marris’s remarks of a few hours before came back to Ibryen, now full of ominous prescience.
He could have been silently murdered while he basked idly in the sun!
Yet he hadn’t been. This ‘assassin’ had announced himself. The thought made Ibryen feel a little foolish though, keeping the stranger in view, he looked from side to side to see if anyone else had also reached the ridge unseen and unheard.
‘I’m just a traveller,’ the man replied. His voice was high-pitched but not unpleasant – indeed, it had an almost musical lilt to it. And he had an accent such as Ibryen had never heard before.
‘You’re not Dirynvolk,’ Ibryen said, instead of the question he had intended.
The little man craned forward a little as if he was having difficulty in understanding the remark, then he smiled. His smile was full of white teeth that seemed to glint in the sunlight, and his eyes sparkled. It was a happy sight, but it was not the smile of an old man. Ibryen tightened the grip on his sword to keep at bay the softening that he was beginning to feel. Though they had long discarded any pretence, the Gevethen had won as much through smooth speech and manners in the early days as through the brutality and terror they now exercised and, even before his flight into the mountains, Ibryen had long schooled himself to be wary of smiles and bland, assuring speech.
‘No,’ the man was replying. ‘I’m far, far away from where I was born.’
‘You have a name though?’
The man nodded and said something. This time it was Ibryen who leaned forward, frowning, to catch the words.
The man noted the movement and repeated his name.
Ibryen shook his head as the sound eluded him again.
‘You’re not Dirynvolk,’ he announced with finality. ‘I’ll call you Traveller.’
‘As you wish.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Ibryen returned to his earlier brusqueness. ‘Who sent you? How did you get here?’
A flicker of irritation passed over the little man’s face. ‘I don’t think I wish to be spoken to like that,’ he said. ‘Least of all at the end of a sword. I’ll go on my way if my presence offends you so.’ He made to move away. Ibryen stepped forward and placed the point of his sword on the man’s chest.
‘You’ll go nowhere until you answer my questions,’ he said starkly. ‘This is my land and strangers in it are not welcome.’
The Traveller looked down at the sword and then up at Ibryen. ‘I’d never have guessed,’ he said acidly. He waved an arm around the towering sunlit peaks that surrounded them. ‘This all belongs to you, does it, swordsman?’ He met Ibryen’s stern gaze squarely. ‘A wiser person might have been more inclined to say that he belonged to the land, don’t you think?’
Ibryen almost snarled. ‘A wiser person might perhaps be more inclined to avoid philosophy and answer my questions, in your position.’
The Traveller snorted disdainfully. ‘What I am doing here is a fundamental question of all philosophies, is it not?’ he said, even more acidly than before. ‘As to who sent me. Ha! Well! A still deeper question. Though I presume you are posing it in the sense that I might be here at the behest of some employer, or even a powerful lord – doubtless one such as yourself who owns many great mountains . . .’ He flicked the sword-blade contemptuously with his middle finger. ‘. . . and a big sword with which to menace lesser fry.’ Ibryen winced inwardly before this verbal onslaught but his expression did not change. ‘However, avoiding the greater question, to the best of my knowledge I am here at my own free will, as presumably are you. And how I came here? I used these!’ He lifted one leg off the ground in a dance-like movement, and slapped his thigh loudly. ‘Now may I go?’
There was such authority in the voice that, for a moment, Ibryen almost acceded to the request. ‘No, you may not!’ he shouted, recovering.
The Traveller grimaced and shook his head. ‘Not so loud,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘I’m not used to people and I’ve very sensitive hearing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ibryen heard himself saying. The shock of the Traveller’s sudden appearance was still unsettling him, and his mind was awash with conjecture about Gevethen treachery, but holding his sword at the chest of someone who was both older and patently no match for him physically was distressing him. His confusion was not eased by the fact that, despite his position, the Traveller did not seem to be in the least afraid. Ibryen lowered his voice when he spoke again.
‘Only a few hours ago I checked the vigilance of my guards,’ he said. ‘It isn’t possible that you came past them other than with great stealth. And stealth equals treachery in these mountains. You can only be a Gevethen spy and that means your death unless you can show why we should let you live. Now tell me who sent you and why, and how you came here. And spare me any more of your sarcasm.’
Ibryen’s quieter manner seemed to have a greater effect than his previous bluster. The Traveller screwed up his face pensively and the rancour had gone from his voice when he replied.
‘No one sent me, swordsman. I know nothing of these Gevethen you speak of, though there are ancient resonances in the word which are rather unpleasant.’ He pointed. ‘I came here on foot across the mountains. It’s the way I always travel. Fewer people, less noise. And my ancestors were mountain folk.’
Ibryen followed the extended arm. He was unable to keep the surprise and disbelief from his face when he turned back. ‘You came from the south?’ he exclaimed. His sword began to falter, but he steadied it quickly. ‘There are supposed to be lands to the south, but the mountains are impassable even in summer. No one even attempts to go there. And certainly no one ever comes from there.’
The Traveller gave a disclaiming shrug. ‘There are many lands to the south,’ he said, as if stating the obvious. ‘All rather noisy, I’m afraid, but that’s the way it is with most people these days. As for the mountains being impassable, that’s obviously not so. Though, in all honesty, I am well used to mountains.’
Ibryen looked at the Traveller narrowly. There was nothing about him that suggested he was lying. But to travel from the south! That wasn’t possible, surely?
‘You’re lying,’ he said.
The Traveller shrugged again, but did not speak.
‘Tell me the truth,’ Ibryen said, forcing an interrogator’s concern into his voice. ‘The Gevethen have lured good men to their cause before now. What have they told you about us? What have they told you to do? How are they paying you? Or are they threatening you, or your family?’
The Traveller frowned. ‘I’ve told you once. I know nothing of these Gevethen. I know nothing of you. Not even your name.’ He became indignant. ‘It may offend your lordly dignity, owner of these hills, but you’re nothing more than a chance encounter on a long journey. A possible companion with whom I might have whiled away a little time – learned a little, perhaps taught a little – before going on my way again.’
Ibryen stared at him in silence for some time, then, for no reason that he could immediately fathom, he lowered his sword. The Traveller looked at him intently, but did not move. ‘If there’s such danger from this enemy of yours, why are you lounging in the sunshine like a noon-day lizard?’
Some quality in his voice insinuated itself deep into Ibryen and forced out an answer that he had never expected to hear uttered. ‘I thought I . . . heard . . . something,’ he said uncertainly.
The Traveller let out a long sigh of understanding. He took a pace backwards and crouched down. He motioned Ibryen to sit. ‘You heard something,’ he echoed softly. He glanced down into the valley. ‘Heard it in the night, I’d judge, from the distance to your village.’ He began to rock to and fro on his haunches, humming to himself, seemingly oblivious to Ibryen, though from time to time he looked at him shrewdly.
‘What could you have heard that would bring you from your bed and make you climb up here in the darkness?’ The question was not addressed to Ibryen, it was simply voiced. Then one eye closed and the other opened wide and stared directly at Ibryen. ‘A call, perhaps? A distant cry carried on the underside of the wind, clinging to the rustling of the leaves and the hissing of the grasses? Bubbling in the chatter of the streams?’
The Traveller’s voice brought vivid images into Ibryen’s mind and a profound curiosity that over-mastered his concern at the sudden appearance of this stranger. He stepped forward and knelt down by the man’s side.
‘You heard it too,’ he whispered. ‘What is it?’
‘I heard what I heard. The question is, what did you hear?’
Some of Ibryen’s caution began to return. ‘Enough to draw me here as you guessed,’ he replied.
The Traveller’s face became unreadable. ‘Indulge me, lord. Tell me what you heard,’ he said after a moment. ‘It may be important.’
Ibryen hesitated, then, ‘I’m not sure that I heard anything, although sound is the only word that can describe what I . . . felt. It was as though something were calling out . . . for help.’
The Traveller looked out across the valley. ‘Help,’ he said softly, turning the word over thoughtfully. ‘You could be right. How strange. You seem to hear more keenly than I do.’ Then he frowned as if at the deep foolishness of such a remark. ‘Or . . . perhaps you hear beyond where I can. Perhaps you’re . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘I think I’d like to know more about you, swordsman. May I impose on your hospitality for a little while? I can work – or entertain the children with stories. And I’m an interesting cook.’
Ibryen started at this sudden appeal. Despite his curiosity about the Traveller, there had never been any doubt in his mind but that the little man would be experiencing their hospitality for a while, whether he wanted to or not. Probably much longer than he intended. Whatever this man might be – spy or innocent traveller – his knowledge of the village’s location made him a threat and he could not be allowed to leave the valley. Ibryen kept this from his face however, as he stood up and sheathed his sword. ‘You may indeed,’ he replied.
* * * *
They had attracted considerable attention by the time they reached the lower slopes of the mountain and a growing crowd was emerging from the village. The Traveller paused and furrowed his brow unhappily. ‘A moment,’ he said, laying a hand on Ibryen’s arm. Ibryen stopped, wondering briefly whether the little man was at last about to flee. He had been a pleasant, if silent, walking companion during their descent, with a keen eye for the easy way and, Ibryen noticed, a feeling for the right pace for his companion. But that had been just another puzzle, for though he seemed to be an old man, the Traveller was quite untroubled by the descent. ‘I’m not used to so many people,’ he went on. He was anxiously searching in the pockets of his tunic. ‘Do forgive me. Ah!’ Two small rolls of material appeared from somewhere and, after kneading them briefly between his thumb and finger, he put one in each ear. ‘That’s better,’ he announced, with conspicuous relief, and strode out again.
Two riders were heading towards them. ‘I’m afraid I’m causing a bit of a stir,’ the Traveller said, manipulating the material in one ear. ‘Your people are very alarmed.’
‘You’ll understand why when you’ve been here a little while,’ Ibryen told him.
The riders, a man and a woman, reached them and dismounted in a great flurry. Both were red-faced and flustered.
‘Count . . .’
Ibryen waved them silent. ‘No fault of yours that I can see, cousins. The Traveller here has a tale to tell that should be worth listening to. He’s come some distance and he’s asked if he might stay with us for a while. I’ve offered him our hospitality.’ Neither of the two arrivals made any attempt to keep the surprise from their faces, but Ibryen ignored the response and turned to the Traveller. ‘Hynard is the son of my father’s brother, and Rachyl the daughter of my mother’s sister. They’ll look after you while you’re with us.’
The surprised expressions became indignant, then confused, as the Traveller advanced on them, hands extended in greeting. Rachyl’s hand flickered uneasily about a knife in her belt, but before it could decide what to do the Traveller encased it in both of his and smiled at her. ‘A delight to meet you,’ he said. His tone forced a hesitant smile on to Rachyl’s grim face but she looked at Ibryen unhappily as the Traveller turned to Hynard and greeted him similarly.
‘If you’ll allow me a moment, I must give my cousins their instructions,’ Ibryen intervened, motioning the Traveller to stay where he was while he moved Hynard and Rachyl some distance away.
‘How the devil . . .?’
Ibryen beat down Hynard’s voice with a furious gesture. Hynard continued in an equally furious whisper. ‘How the devil did he get through the passes?’ he hissed.
‘And why didn’t you kill him right away?’ Rachyl added, grasping his arm.
‘I’d neither inclination nor justification for killing him,’ Ibryen snapped back angrily.
‘That he’s here is justification enough!’
‘That he’s here is justification enough for keeping him alive, Rachyl. Use your head.’ Rachyl’s jaw came out fiercely, but Ibryen ignored the challenge. ‘He’s got a wild tale to tell and I think we should listen to it. If it transpires he’s lying, then we need more than ever to know how he came here, don’t we? Especially if there are ways to this place that even we don’t know about. For pity’s sake, we can kill him any time. He’s hardly a fighting man, is he?’ The two cousins cast a glance at the Traveller standing patiently some way away, apparently looking round at the mountains. Ibryen’s reasoning was impeccable, but a stranger in the valley was nerve-wracking for all that.
‘What do you want us to do with him?’ Rachyl conceded surlily.
For an instant, Ibryen’s face bore the expression of a man facing insurmountable odds as he looked at his glowering cousin.
‘Be pleasant. Be polite,’ he said, with an effort. ‘Watch him all the time. And watch what he watches. Listen to what he says and take note of everything he asks you. Tell him as little as possible but remember what you do tell him. And tell everyone else to keep away from him.’
‘And if he tries to escape?’ Rachyl asked expectantly.
‘Don’t let him!’ Ibryen’s tone was final. ‘I hold you responsible for his well-being until we decide what to do with him. Is that clear?’ Rachyl nodded curtly.
Ibryen returned to the Traveller. ‘You have my protection, but there’s no point pretending you’re welcome here. We’re under siege from a terrible enemy and have been for many years now. People who appear from nowhere strike a deep fear into us all.’
‘I understand.’
‘I doubt it,’ Ibryen retorted. ‘Go with Rachyl and Hynard, they’ll find somewhere for you to stay.’
‘And they’ll keep an eye on me.’
Ibryen nodded. ‘And they’ll protect you until we can talk further.’
‘I’m grateful,’ the Traveller replied.
‘Do whatever they tell you to do and don’t wander away from them.’
‘I will. They both look very . . . determined.’
Ibryen looked down at the Traveller. It would have needed no great perception to read the expressions on the faces of Hynard and Rachyl when they first arrived, for all they were now endeavouring to appear civil, and, in his brief acquaintance he had not found the Traveller to be anything other than very astute. He must know the danger he’s in, he thought, yet his last remark was almost flippant. Either he’s a complete fool, or he has greater resources than he appears to have.
He abandoned his debate and without further comment took Rachyl’s horse and turned it towards the approaching crowd.
Every part of Jeyan cried out for continued flight. She wanted to run and run until Hagen’s corpse, the Guards, the city, this whole damned land was far behind her. But, well away from the scene of the murder now, she forced herself to slow to a walk as she emerged from an alleyway into the busy street. The two dogs, Assh and Frey, who had been running ahead, slowed without turning round. Long-developed habit made Jeyan slouch and lower her head to take on the semblance of one of the many indigent street-dwellers that littered the city. But it was difficult. Her whole body was shaking violently and she felt as though her inner turmoil must surely be resounding through the afternoon crowd like a clarion, drawing all eyes towards her. Grimly she made herself stand still for a moment while she stared at the ground, nudging a mound of rubbish with her foot, as though searching for something. Her passion and hatred had done their part in giving her the courage to stare into the face of that creature, Hagen, and slay him – her shaking increased at the recollection – but now her wits must ensure her escape. And running was not the way. Running was the way that would indeed draw all eyes, and hencethe Guards, to her. She allowed herself to start walking again, carefully maintaining her slovenly posture. At the same time she signalled to the dogs to move away. They obeyed immediately, Assh surreptitiously trotting ahead and busying himself sniffing amongst the piles of refuse that lined the street, and Frey dropping back and crossing to the other side to do the same. Though they were soon weaving casually through the passers-by, Jeyan knew they would be watching and listening, waiting for her least signal. She, in her turn, was listening for the sounds of pursuit or, worse, for the sounds of the street purging that must surely follow what she had done. In the shivering chill that followed the heat of her slaughter of Hagen, colder counsels were emerging from time to time. Much more than a street purging would follow on such a deed. How many innocent people had she condemned with her act? What trials had she unleashed on the city?
She gritted her teeth. No more than the city deserved, she thought. Hadn’t the city stood by, timid and compliant, when her parents were hounded with lies and petty persecutions before finally being selected for trial and execution? Trial – the word made her want to spit – what an obscenity! All the forms and procedures, full of dignity and pomp, glibly displayed to cover and at once reveal the Gevethen’s grinding cruelty. But that was the way they ruled – paying obsessive attention to the superficial details of the Law, while wilfully corrupting its very heart. Turning it into just another subtle instrument of torture and so tainting it that even if the Count should return, he would find its ancient face disfigured beyond repair.
There would be plenty of trials after today’s work. Jeyan had known this from the moment she began to contemplate it, but it was of no concern to her. Only by the merest chance had she been absent from her parents’ home when the Citadel Guards came . . . and it was the cowardly response of her erstwhile ‘friends’ that had set her on the inexorable way to today’s deed. One after another, once welcoming doors had remained implacably shut against her tearful pleadings as, frantic, she had gone searching for help. Angry voices had spurned her, threats had been made to hold her for the Guards, dogs had been set upon her. The greatest kindness she had received that day had been a loaf of bread thrust through a briefly opened shutter, and even that had been accompanied by a fearful, whispered injunction to go at once, to flee the city.
And there had been little kindness or help since, so frightened were the people. For once the Count had been swept aside and his remaining followers silenced, the secret denunciation had become the Gevethen’s most insidious weapon. So pervasive had it become that spouse feared spouse, parents feared children, each feared his neighbour. Where there had been debate and laughter, there was now sullen silence. Where there had been warm and open faces there were now suspicious, uneasy glances. Even the least whisper seemed to reach the ears of the Gevethen, and the whisperer would be pursued and brought to account. There would be a well-rehearsed public trial, or the offender would simply be no more . . .
Those who saw the Guards marching at night turned their faces away.
Yet Jeyan had survived. She had eaten the loaf while softly cursing the giver, then, with the vague idea that perhaps she might meet survivors from the massacre of the Count’s followers, she had fled into the Ennerhald: the labyrinth of crooked streets, broken buildings and crumbling cellars that were the remains of the old city from which grew Dirynhald. She had found only such as herself there however, together with those who had no place under either the Count’s rule or the Gevethen’s – petty thieves and pathetic rogues and others whose grasp on the direction of their lives was, at best, tenuous.
For a little while, as the daughter of one of the Count’s staunchest allies, she had found herself the focus of a group who talked boldly about rising up and ridding the land of the Gevethen. She was no longer alone. Hope blossomed again. But just as her father’s name drew this band about her, so too it drew the attention of the Gevethen and soon a whispering betrayer brought the Citadel Guards upon them. Jeyan’s revolutionaries had neither the stomach nor the skill for such a conflict, and those who had not fled, had died.
It was the final severing of Jeyan from her former life . . . a terrible, learning time.
Shortly afterwards, half-crazed at the destruction of this, her second family, she crossed another awful threshold by killing the betrayer. She gave him neither warning nor mercy and he had Gevethen coins in his mouth when he was found. Tales began to circulate of a wild, vengeful spirit that flitted through the night shadows of Dirynhald. A spirit that was as cruel as the Gevethen themselves.
By a dark irony, it was this notoriety that made those involved in the soft, silent network of opposition to the Gevethen reluctant to pursue their search for her.
From then on, Jeyan had walked alone, living by the harsh code of the Ennerhald, watching, listening, lying, stealing, and making only such acquaintances as need dictated. And Ennerhald society, like any other, having its own hierarchy, she also learned to defend herself against those who would have preyed on her. She became horribly proficient with the knife she carried – agile and fast but, worst of all, quite without hesitation. She was greatly feared.
Not that she was even aware of the opinions of others for, above all other things, her thoughts were dominated by a single vision – a vision of the Gevethen, dead, and dead by her hand. She nurtured it obsessively. Only the rumours and, later, the knowledge that the Count had survived and was in the mountains with many of his followers, prevented her from sinking into rambling insanity.
Now the obsession and the skills and the temper that the Ennerhald had bred in her had come together and set her on the road to attaining that vision. And she had taken that first simple, practical and bloody step with relish. She had struck a blow close to the Gevethen’s heart. It was a rehearsal for a future event. Consequences were irrelevant.
Rain began to fall, a few large drops heralding a spring downpour as the clouds that had been lowering over the city all day abruptly released their charge. The pace of the street changed and, with considerable relief, Jeyan took the opportunity to change her shambling gait to one more matching her mood. It carried her through the now bustling crowd without remark. The two dogs went their own way; in so far as they were noted at all, they were assiduously avoided.
Then Jeyan was gone from view. It would have taken a keen observer to note her action, as she disappeared down an opening that gaped in front of a derelict building. Free of the public gaze at last, she slipped nimbly under the stone steps that led down from the street and, wriggling through a hole in the wall, scarcely visible in the gloom, resorted again to outright flight.
Sharp eyes and practised but cautious feet carried her through a confusion of dank and disused cellars, lit only by occasional shafts of light which struggled through long-forgotten windows and gratings, and the holes and cracks that years of neglect had brought to the wooden floors above. Such slight sound as she made was well-hidden by the incessant dripping and splashing of the rainwater which found its way into the darkness through a myriad more devious and destructive routes.
Once or twice she caught a glimpse of other shadowy figures moving through this twilight world but she paid them no heed, nor they her, save to avoid her.
Away from the open street and moving at her own pace through ever more familiar terrain, Jeyan’s trembling began to abate. A cloak of unreality still hung about her however, as the enormity of what she had actually done seeped into her.
Hagen dead!
And by her hand!
The Gevethen’s cruellest lieutenant no more.
How many murdered innocents had she avenged today? Hundreds . . . thousands? It didn’t matter. He was gone.
Abruptly she stopped. Alone in the darkness she found herself searching for a flicker of regret, remorse. But the only regret she could truly feel was that Hagen’s death had been so quick, so merciful. Worse, it had been banal and ordinary, just like that of any other man – now alive and thinking himself so for ever – now gone, all fears faced, all fleshly needs and ills ended, all ambitions dust. His face had shown only surprise and . . . irritation.
Rage filled her. Irritation! He should have suffered more. He should have been harrowed as he harrowed others, should have felt himself dying slowly from the inside out as his victims did, felt his screams choking him because he was too afraid to utter them.
Her victory was not enough.
She swore under her breath and clenched her teeth. She was rambling, thinking thoughts such as these. It was sufficient that he was dead. It was sufficient that the people would know that the authority the Gevethen vested in him and which, in his arrogance, he had deemed to be a shield against all ills, had failed him. It was sufficient too that the Gevethen would know that. Would know that their protection was imperfect, that a random stone might unshoe a horse and bring down a king.
She took out the knife and gripped it tightly until her arm ached. Would that she could come within arm’s reach of them as well.
The moment was cathartic, and as it passed she felt much calmer, although a faint tremor still seemed to be shaking her whole person – body and mind. She sheathed the knife and set off again.
Within a short while she came to a place where the floor above had collapsed completely. The destruction was old. Well-established bushes and shrubs now grew out of the cellar floor and swathes of grasses and climbers festooned the ramps of rubble and broken timbers that partly filled the opening. The rain had stopped but the air was filled with an elaborate tattoo as the vegetation above continued to shed the water that it had intercepted.
Despite the gloomy sky, the area seemed unusually bright after the darkness of the cellars and, as was her normal habit, Jeyan waited, silent and still, all senses alert until she was quite satisfied that nothing was to be seen, heard, or felt there that should not be. Then she clambered through the dripping foliage and, pausing again to reassure herself further that all was safe, she emerged into the remains of one of the buildings that lay at the fringe of the Ennerhald. Around her were the decaying remains of the roof and floors that had collapsed many years before. Like the debris in the cellar they were scarcely recognizable under the vegetation that was repossessing the site.
From here, Jeyan moved through a large and spacious hall. Who could say what it might once have been?
Banqueting Hall, Meeting Hall, Court? Perhaps it was not even part of the old city, for, just as the Gevethen rotted Dirynhald society from within, so people edged nervously away from the unsettling presence of the Ennerhald and thus it spread outwards, slowly but relentlessly encroaching on the city that had supplanted it. Now, whatever its past, the roofless building, its stained and lichened walls perforated by circular openings and pocked with holes where floor and roof beams had once rested, was just a chasm – another way from here to there; its only significance now as a quick escape route – should need arise.
Vaulting through a window, Jeyan glanced from side to side quickly, then straightened up. All around were other, smaller buildings, all decaying. Here and there some had collapsed across the narrow street, while others leaned forward as though to whisper profundities to their neighbour opposite, and were actually touching one another. They formed bizarre arcades. Once the Ennerhald had been as distant from her life as the moon, but now it was her land. Here, the Gevethen’s writ faltered, whether by design or through indifference did not matter. Here no Citadel Guards, no soldiers, strutted and brutalized, no officials of the new order wove their endless webs of petty regulations to control the every deed of every individual. The only enemies here would be her own kind, and few of those troubled her now.
As she walked along, she put her fingers to her mouth and gave a loud but very short whistle. The sound bounced sharply from wall to wall, stirring the silence. Somewhere a bird fluttered up in alarm. Within a few moments, Frey and Assh appeared, one bounding through a window, the other sneaking up silently, belly low, behind her. Jeyan knelt down and embraced them. Tails wagging, they nuzzled her. These were allies that she could truly trust. Their damp fur stank but Jeyan was a long way from being disturbed by unpleasant smells now.
‘Well done,’ she whispered passionately. ‘Well done. Tonight we’ll celebrate. We’ll eat.’
It was some time before she reached her destination. She had, in fact, many places which she had made suitable for living in, and many other places which she knew to be safe from anything other than the most determined search. Today however, she had chosen the one she liked the most, the one she was inclined to call home and where she preferred to spend most of her time. It was situated at the southernmost edge of the Ennerhald, farthest from the city. Just as the Ennerhald at its opposite end seemed to be encroaching on the city, so here the forest that ran south towards the mountains also seemed intent on repossessing its ancient terrain. The strange atmosphere that pervaded the deserted city became eerie and watchful here as root and branch did their work, and man-made shapes gradually crumbled or disappeared under foliage and vegetation.
Further south, the forest was bounded by a fast-moving and dangerous river that tumbled violently out of the mountains. Further south still, the empty land that lay between the river and the mountains was regularly patrolled by the Gevethen’s army for fear that the Count might perhaps seek to ford the river and move through the forest to attack the city. But the forest, like the Ennerhald itself was ignored – or avoided.
At one time, Jeyan had considered moving into the forest completely, but she rejected the idea. While perhaps it might have been safer, it would have provided an even more alien and isolated existence than the one she now had; also, there would have been a feeling of desertion, treachery almost, in abandoning the city completely; she could see no life ahead of her that did not involve active opposition to the Gevethen. As it was, she had acquired enough forest lore to trap the occasional animal or bird, and forage roots and fruit to carry her over those times when a street purging or a curfew or some other activity that brought unusual numbers of Citadel Guards on to the streets, made venturing into the city to steal food too dangerous.
Her chosen sanctuary was in the centre of a long block of buildings that had once perhaps been dwelling houses, though there was so little in common between the architecture of the Ennerhald and that of Dirynhald that few could have argued the point. Certainly the buildings were unusual: a motley arrangement of unsymmetrical roofs covered them while inside was to be found a seemingly incoherent mixture of large and small rooms, set at many levels and joined by twisting stairways and winding corridors. Some of the rooms reached up through two and more storeys to disappear into the elaborate roof space, some had curved and undulating walls, while others were rigorously straight. Here and there the faint remains of huge wall paintings could be made out and cold-eyed carvings of both people and outlandish creatures guarded unexpected places. Not that the history of the buildings or their builders concerned Jeyan. It was sufficient that parts could be made warm and dry and that they had many entrances and exits which could be well disguised.
Before she slipped through the bushes that were growing out of an opening in the wall, she routinely looked to see if a particular loose branch had been disturbed. It never had been in the past, but that did not prevent her from always checking. Then she sent the dogs in. Branch or no branch, if someone more cunning than she had gained access then they could debate their cleverness with Assh and Frey first. She heard the dogs scuttling around noisily, sniffing as though they had never been there before, then they ran back out to her. All was well.
Later, as night rolled over the forest and into the Ennerhald, Jeyan pondered the day. Dried from the soaking she had received earlier, and warmed by the food she had eaten, she had expected to feel replete and relaxed, able to stretch out like the two dogs, and rejoice in what she had achieved. But no ease came. Instead, a shadow of the trembling that had possessed her as she fled from the city, remained. Its buzzing insect persistence filled her entire body, keeping her restless and tense, almost as though a thunderstorm was pending.
Perhaps one was, she thought. Regrets at what she might have unleashed flickered briefly again at the edges of her mind, but were overshadowed by both a cold satisfaction and the simple survivor’s acceptance that what was done was done, for better or worse. All that mattered were the consequences for herself.
Consequences.
Now there would be change. The whole structure would have been shaken. Not damaged beyond repair, by any means – there would be others to take Hagen’s place – but where change existed, so did chance, and so did opportunity. But so too did danger. None of the crowd would have recognized her, of that she was sure, and most would have presumed her to be a man. But word must inevitably reach the Gevethen that Hagen’s killer was a street creature, and from that it would be but a step to presume that she hailed from the Ennerhald. The only question that remained was how determinedly would the Gevethen seek out the murderer of their closest and most able counsellor. Forays into the Ennerhald had been made in the past, but its winding streets and innumerable buildings and hiding places would have absorbed an army far larger than the Gevethen’s city companies, and rarely had such ventures yielded anything other than a handful of pathetic souls too feeble or witless to run.
But this time, it would be different. This time, vengeance would be sought.
The trembling threatened to return. Out of hard-learned habit, Jeyan used it to bring herself to her feet and, snuffing out two of the candles that illuminated her adopted sanctuary, she moved across the room to the pile of blankets that served as a bed. As she sat down, she clicked her fingers and the two dogs woke immediately and looked at her, ears pricked. She beckoned them and embraced them when they came to her.
‘We must be careful, dogs. More than ever. Watch and listen. Smell them coming.’
Assh yawned and Frey scratched herself and, with a final squeeze, Jeyan dismissed them. Both of them slumped down alongside her. The physical contact with the dogs was important to her. If only she could be as they were, she thought, lying back. Unaware of the future, and probably the past, also. Responding only to the needs of the moment. Now awake, now asleep; now fierce, now quiet. Their calm seeped into her. The single, tiny candle that remained reduced her world to a small domed enclave surrounded by darkness. For a moment, memories of times long gone returned. Times when the world was not only safe but inviolable, when the only danger was an angry look from a loving parent. Once, such memories used to make her weep. Then she had learned to sneer at her youthful naivety. Now she felt only anger and sadness.
And again, hatred for those who had brought this about. As it did almost every night, her vision of the Gevethen perishing at her hand returned to soothe all ills and to sustain her. Tonight, it was more intense than ever. Jeyan was more like her dogs than she knew; she had tasted her prey’s blood and she wanted more.
As she felt sleep overtaking her, she reached out and extinguished the remaining candle.
Across the room, resting on a makeshift table, lay a small mirror which she had stolen one day – hardship had not laid vanity fully to rest. For a brief moment, the blackness that the mirror reflected shifted and changed. When it stilled, staring out from the mirror, cold and unblinking, was a solitary watery eye.
Even as Vintre looked at the dark gates of the Citadel, they opened. The sudden movement made him start. He had not even considered the greeting that would be waiting for him as a result of the news that Helsarn had carried ahead, but the absence of the rigid formality associated with the opening of the gates disturbed him, so imbued was he with the Gevethen’s obsessive insistence on order in all things. Further, for a moment, it seemed to him that the gates were gaping like the mouth of some ancient creature come to take vengeance on those who had had the temerity to so handle the murdered body of the Lord Counsellor. The impression was so vivid that it made him gasp and he raised his hand quickly to his mouth to disguise the response as a clearing of his throat.
Silently he reproached himself for this foolishness. The reaction however, gave him a measure of the shock he was suffering at this ominous event. Be careful, he thought sternly. Very careful. Keep hold of the reality of what’s happening. For all the aura that had hung about him – that indeed had been assiduously cultivated by him – Hagen had been only a man, and now he was just another corpse, one person less in authority to be feared. Doubtless an awful vengeance for his slaying would be determined by the Gevethen, but that was a mere detail. All he had to remember was to look for opportunities in the re-ordering that must occur in the immediate future.
He took one advantage immediately. In the absence of the usual formal challenges, he led the column through the gates without stopping. The outer courtyard was crowded with people – Guards, officials, servants – but Vintre ignored them as he rode on, causing them to scatter. He had already noted Helsarn standing on the steps that led to the guardhouse by the inner gate. Just joining him was the bulky figure of Commander Gidlon, the most senior of the five Commanders of the Citadel Guards. He was red-faced and struggling frantically to button his tunic.
Fooling around with the servants again, eh, Commander? Vintre thought caustically. Getting caught out at that, plus the shock that Helsarn had just delivered to him – and a little good fortune – might well see another gap being made in the higher ranks of the Gevethen’s aides, he mused. But Vintre kept any sign of this speculation from his face, adopting an expression of stony-faced shock as he halted the column and dismounted.
Gidlon, tunic awry, ignored his salute. He ran clumsily down the steps and threw open the carriage door. The driver’s unconscious body slowly tumbled out into his arms. Gidlon uttered a startled cry at this unexpected embrace, for a moment fearing that it was Hagen himself. It took all Vintre’s self-control to bite back an hysterical laugh at the sight. By the time he had reached his flustered Commander, the driver’s body was sprawled on the ground.
‘Get this offal out of here,’ Gidlon was shouting at no one in particular, kicking the body.
Helsarn stepped forward, quickly selecting three gaping Guards from the gathering crowd. ‘Take him to the physician straight away, and stay with him,’ he ordered, his manner cold and forceful and markedly at odds with his Commander’s. ‘Mind how you carry him. Tell the physician he’s to be tended carefully – he’ll have to be questioned thoroughly later.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘The rest of you, get about your duties.’ Unusually, the order had only a limited effect. For a moment Helsarn considered repeating it then rejected the idea. It was perfectly obvious that though he had only spoken to Commander Gidlon, the news of Hagen’s death had flown through the city faster than he had galloped. Even now it would be spreading through the Citadel like a cold wind bringing news of premature winter.
As the men set about removing the driver, Gidlon swung himself up into the carriage. Its springs creaked a little and the horses’ hooves clattered as they responded, then there was a sudden silence across the whole courtyard. The sounds of the city outside drifted in to fill it. When Gidlon emerged, there was blood on his hands, and his face was as pale as previously it had been flushed. Very slowly he stepped down from the carriage. Vintre noted that his tunic was now straight and that he had regained much of his normal control. For a moment, he felt a twinge of sympathy for his Commander. He would not have relished breaking such news to the Gevethen, and it certainly wasn’t a matter that could be left to some underling.
Gidlon looked at Helsarn. ‘Get the physician here immediately,’ he said. Helsarn motioned urgently to Vintre, who ran off in the direction taken by the men carrying the driver. Gidlon gestured towards the people that Helsarn had arrested.
‘They did this?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Probably not,’ Helsarn replied discreetly. ‘It was only people running away that made me turn into the street. These were all that were left by the time we realized what had happened – the nosy and the stupid.’
Gidlon scowled and bared his clenched teeth viciously. ‘I told him repeatedly not to go into the city without his duty escort,’ he said, though he was talking to himself, weighing consequences.
‘Lord Hagen was Lord Hagen,’ Helsarn sympathized coldly. ‘More than once he’s dismissed me and my men, and he wasn’t a man to be argued with. There’s no reason why any reproach should be levelled at you, or any of us.’
‘Reason doesn’t come into it,’ Gidlon snarled. ‘Get these people locked up, we’ll question them later. Then start making preparations for a full purge of that part of the city. That’ll be the least that follows this.’
He looked into the carriage again as if for confirmation of what he had to do next. Then, preening his tunic nervously and straightening up, he said, ‘I’ll have to go and tell them what’s happened.’ Helsarn said nothing. Gidlon took a deep breath. ‘Find the other Commanders and tell them to meet me outside the Watching Chamber right away.’
‘And the Lord Hagen’s body?’ Helsarn asked uncertainly.
‘Do whatever the physician says when he gets here,’ Gidlon said over his shoulder as he walked with heavy deliberation towards the inner gate.
It took Helsarn only a few moments to set in train the instructions that Gidlon had given, then he turned his attention again to the watching crowd. No grief was to be seen. That was not unexpected. It was highly unlikely that anyone felt any but, in any event, those who worked in the service of the Gevethen soon learned to become masters of their faces. Nevertheless, he could smell their uncertainty and fear. Who could have done such a thing? That was indeed a frightening thought which he himself did not care to reflect on too deeply at the moment. And who could guess what would flow from it and who would be arbitrarily snatched up in it? His first instinct was to scatter them with a blasting order, but instead, he said quietly, ‘Go about your duties. Say nothing and encourage no gossip. All that is necessary for you to know will be revealed in due course. It will be expected of you at such a time in particular to fulfil your duties without deviation and without error.’
This simple, cold statement had more effect than any amount of raucous bawling. Everyone there knew that mistakes, however slight, could sometimes be used as the basis for all manner of accusations. The crowd slowly melted away, leaving Helsarn with the carriage and the remainder of his Watch. Others drawn to the gathering turned about when they saw the crowd dispersing and then the courtyard was empty except for the occasional individual earnestly pursuing some errand with his eyes fixed firmly forwards.
As he surveyed the effect of his words, Helsarn reminded himself that he too was not inviolable in these changed circumstances. Better perform his duties as near as possible to what was normal, he thought. He dismissed six of the Guards to attend to the stabling of the horses and formed the others into an honour guard about the carriage.
Then came an interval of eerie silence. Even the sounds from beyond the wall were waning, as if the whole city was beginning to hold its breath.
The sound of footsteps broke into Helsarn’s thoughts. He recognized them before the person making them appeared. Physician Harik’s strides, like the man himself, were long, relentless and purposeful. They never varied. He could hear too the fainter sound of Vintre trying to match this testing stride without too much loss of dignity. The soft-soled boots for the Citadel Guards had been one of the Gevethen’s whims. ‘Best the people do not hear you coming,’ they had said. Perhaps it was a dark joke, but no one laughed.
Harik’s tall, lank form came through the wicket in the inner gate, with Vintre slightly behind and burdened not only by his shorter stature but by a long and awkward bundle that Harik had obviously thrust upon him. Helsarn flicked an order to two of the Guards who rushed forward and relieved their Low Captain of his charge. It was a stretcher. Harik cast a glance over the scene then acknowledged Helsarn with a cursory nod before turning to the carriage. He laid a reassuring hand on one of the horses then moved to the open door and stepped inside. Helsarn wanted to walk forward and see what was happening, but Harik intimidated him almost as much as the Gevethen, albeit in a different way.
Harik’s face was, as ever, expressionless when he emerged. Taller than Helsarn he bent forward, bringing his face very close. ‘Gone to whatever hell he’s made for himself,’ he said. ‘Long gone.’
Helsarn had difficulty in meeting the enigmatic grey-eyed gaze but he could not restrain a flicker of surprise. Harik was the last person from whom a remark such as that might be expected.
‘What shall we do with the . . . his . . . the Lord Counsellor’s body?’ he said, cursing himself inwardly for stumbling thus.
‘Bring him to my Examining Room.’
Helsarn confirmed the order with a nod to Vintre. ‘Will anything about his wounds tell you what happened?’ he asked, still unsettled by Harik’s manner and anxious to sound coherent and in control.
‘Little other than the precise manner of his dying,’ Harik replied, looking directly at him again. ‘But doubtless they’ll wish to hear it.’ Harik rarely referred to the Gevethen as anything other than ‘they’, and though he gave the word no special inflection, it was nonetheless full of meaning. ‘I doubt the wounds will tell me much about who did it.’ His gaze intensified. ‘Your province, I think.’
Hagen’s body was gingerly taken from the carriage and placed on the stretcher. Harik looked down at him, bending only at the neck, as if to distance himself from the sight, then he produced a cloth from somewhere within his robe and placed it over the dead man’s face. The tension amongst the watching men seemed to lighten perceptibly. It lightened further as the body was carried away.
Helsarn stared after it for a moment, then, cursing himself again for his folly, he dismissed the Watch with an order to remain in their quarters and, leaving a solitary Guard to tell Gidlon where he was going, he set off after the retreating physician. A rare figure he’d have cut, standing on the steps waiting for something to happen when Gidlon returned! Whether he liked it or not, he had become the Lord Counsellor’s escort and he must attend his every moment for, sure as fate, he would be interrogated about it by the Gevethen themselves.
By the time he caught up with the stretcher party, they had passed through a broad-arched doorway in the inner wall of the Citadel and were moving along the corridor that led to Harik’s Examining Room. This was the same room that Harik had used when he was the Count’s Physician, and the area around it still had an open and airy feeling that had long passed from the rest of the Citadel. It was many years since Helsarn had been here and, as he took in the scents of the place, they transported him back to the time when he had been a wide-eyed and ambitious junior cadet in the Count’s Guard. He scowled under the assault of the peculiarly vivid memories that were suddenly surging through him. Far too much darkness lay between that time and now. Far too much pain, too much cruel learning.
‘You’re troubled?’ Harik asked, noting the change in countenance.
The question brought Helsarn sharply back to the present. He tested the question for treachery. There would be none, he decided. Whatever else he was, Harik was beyond all Citadel politics. Nevertheless, caution was essential.
‘How could I not be after such an atrocity?’ he replied stiffly. He thought he saw a hint of a smile on the physician’s face – or was it a sneer? But if there was anything there at all, it did not linger, and Harik was merely nodding when Helsarn looked more carefully. The short journey was completed in silence.
Harik’s examination of the body did not take long and Helsarn stood through it with stoical impassivity, though it was an effort. Not that he was particularly squeamish about knife wounds or, for that matter, most forms of violent injury, but there was a disturbing quality about Harik’s combination of cold-blooded efficiency and delicate gentleness.
Harik straightened up when he had finished and pulled a cloth oven the body. He stood for some time looking down at the now anonymous form. ‘Doubtless they’ll want his body accorded some special respect,’ he said eventually, without looking up. ‘Have your men take him to the buriers. Tell them to put him in the cold room until I have instructions about what’s to be done.’ He paused and tapped the edge of the examination table thoughtfully. ‘Take him now. There’s nothing else to be done and I must take them a report straight away.’
‘Did you discover how he was killed?’ Helsarn asked bluntly.
‘There was a knife wound in his shoulder, but he died from two stab wounds to the throat. I doubt you needed my expertise to tell you that,’ Harik replied.
‘I didn’t examine him other than to confirm that he was dead.’
Harik continued. ‘They were delivered from above, very powerfully.’
‘A big man, then? Strong?’
Harik looked straight at him. Once again Helsarn found it difficult to hold the grey-eyed gaze. ‘Strength lies unseen in many unexpected places, Captain. It merely awaits the right key to release it.’
Helsarn frowned. ‘A big man, though?’ he persisted.
Harik turned away, a faintly weary expression on his face. ‘Probably,’ he said off-handedly. ‘And it was done with a knife about so long and so wide.’ His two forefingers then a finger and thumb demonstrated. ‘About the same size as the daggers that your Guards carry.’
Helsarn’s stomach lurched and his knees started to shake. Casual remarks such as that could be disastrous. In present circumstances they could spiral out of control and lead to any conclusion – even a purging of the Guards. His voice was almost trembling when he spoke. ‘Knives like that are carried by every thief in the city, not to mention all the old Count’s Guards,’ he said, too quickly. He cleared his throat. ‘It won’t be necessary for you to make such a . . . comparison . . . in your report, will it?’
Harik eyed him again. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘Just a statement of the size. Conjecture will be for others. As will everything else. Such as I can do I’ve done.’
As he was about to leave, Helsarn remembered the driver of Hagen’s carriage. He inquired about him.
Harik indicated a door. ‘He’s in there, with your Guards. I only had time for a cursory examination when he arrived. I’m going to have a proper look at him now. He seems to have had a severe blow to the head. He may not regain consciousness, and if he does there’s no guarantee he’ll remember what happened.’
‘You must do whatever’s . . .’
Helsarn’s words froze as Harik’s gaze fixed him again. There was no mistaking the anger in it, for all that it was gone almost immediately. He left the sentence unfinished. The driver was in secure hands and he could be dealt with any time. All that mattered now was being ready for the Gevethen’s response to what had happened.
When Helsarn had left, Harik began cleaning the examination table. Part way through he stopped and his impassive face became briefly both tragic and triumphant. ‘Still there,’ he said, very softly. ‘Strength lying unseen. Still there. Waiting for the right key.’ Then he was himself again, cleaning up the debris left by the Lord Counsellor Hagen.
Helsarn was not unrelieved to be leaving Harik’s rooms. The atmosphere of the place still tugged him back to times long gone and he did not like it. As he and the men carrying the stretcher returned to the inner courtyard, he felt the old associations drop away from him. In their place came a renewed unease. It took him only a moment to realize what it was. Silence. Normally the Citadel was alive with activity as officials, Guards, servants went about their business. In addition, he felt as though he were being watched. That, however, was no great mystery. He was being watched. As he glanced around at the buildings lining the courtyard, faces quickly vanished from almost every window.
It occurred to him then, that the silence was wrong. Gidlon must have informed the Gevethen about what had happened by now. There should have been a massive response. Why wasn’t the Citadel alive with the sound of clattering feet and rattling weapons as the Guards prepared to set out on a major purge?
A deep, echoing boom scattered his thoughts and made him jump violently. Though he had not heard it for many years, he recognized it immediately. It was the great Dohrum Bell, a growling, unbalanced and ill-tuned monster that hung from the rafters of the Citadel’s main tower. It had not been rung for so long because the vibrations it caused shook the very fabric of the tower itself. Now however, its rumbling tones seemed appropriate to the event.
Nine times it tolled, and when it fell silent its fading resonances seemed to draw time after them, stretching each measuring heartbeat out into an eternity.
Helsarn and the stretcher-bearers had slowly come to a halt as the bell rang, and now stood motionless in the middle of the courtyard. He was about to order them to move off again when a high-pitched voice, cold, gratingly soft and quite unmistakable, folded itself around him. It merged with and was followed by another.
‘Carry him on your shoulders, my children . . .’
‘. . . my children.’
‘Such as he should not ride so near the dusty earth . . .’
‘. . . the dusty earth.’
Helsarn stiffened as he turned towards the voices, then slowly dropped down on to one knee and lowered his head in submission. Standing at the top of a broad flight of steps leading to an ornately canopied doorway, their mirror-bearers about them, stood the Gevethen.
Ibryen found the crowd in the same mood as Hynard and Rachyl when he reached it. A bubbling mixture of anger and guilt and no small amount of fear that a stranger should have apparently breached their careful defences.
He did not dismount, but beat down their many questions with a forceful gesture.
‘I don’t know who this man is or how he came here,’ he shouted. ‘But he’s come down off the ridge of his own free will when he could easily have fled, and for what it’s worth, my feeling is that he’s no enemy.’
His words addressed their fears, but did not allay them, and the questions surged up again. He became sterner. ‘What I learn, you’ll learn, in so far as it’s safe for many to know, as with everything we do,’ he said. ‘But I’ll need to question him carefully and at length. For the time being he thinks he’s a guest and he’ll be treated as such . . .’ There were cries of disbelief and some scornful laughter. Ibryen scowled. ‘That he’s here at all tells you he’s someone unusual,’ he said forcefully. ‘Perhaps our defences are not what we thought. Perhaps some of us may have earned a reproach for carelessness. I don’t know. I’d have sworn not, only a few hours ago, but I’ll find out more and quicker if this man is treated as a would-be ally than as a definite foe.’
It was not a popular conclusion, but the questioning faded into an uneasy silence.
Ibryen moved his horse to start shepherding the crowd back down the hill.
‘Go back to your normal duties now, there’s nothing to be done here.’ There was still some hesitancy. He paused, and looked at the crowd intently. His voice was kinder, more resigned, when he spoke. ‘Besides, guest or no, enemy or no, he’s confined to the valley now, like the rest of us. He’ll not leave until we all leave.’ He twisted round in his saddle and pointed back to the approaching trio. ‘Unless you think he’s capable of escaping from Rachyl’s care,’ he added, grinning. All eyes turned towards the approaching Traveller and his escort. Rachyl was taller than Ibryen and powerful as only a woman so inclined can be. Few of the men in the valley would have aspired to match her combination of strength, mobile athleticism and sheer brutality in unarmed combat. Even fewer would have been inclined to match her armed. The sight of the Traveller’s slight frame between Rachyl and Hynard – himself not a small man – together with Ibryen’s abrupt change of manner broke what tension there was left in the crowd and it began to disperse.
Ibryen rode on down towards the village, motioning the growing number of new arrivals to turn about. Just before he reached the village he saw the form he had been expecting from the beginning. He reined his horse to a halt and dismounted.
‘Someone woke you,’ he grinned.
‘How can a man sleep when his Lord prowls about the night, climbs alone to the ridge and then returns with a stranger?’ Marris replied. ‘Not to mention the din of the entire village talking about it. I’d be surprised if they don’t hear it in Dirynhald.’
Ibryen’s lightness vanished and he laid a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. Gently he turned him round and began walking with him towards the village, leading his horse. ‘I prowled the camp last night because something was troubling me. While I was thinking about it, I took the opportunity to test some of the sentries. They were awake and alert. Then I went up on to the ridge because I was still troubled.’ He made his voice reassuring. ‘It was no foolish act. I was careful and I knew that even if I didn’t solve my . . . problem . . . I’d at least be able to see the state of the passes. Incidentally, they’re clearing rapidly, we must extend the posts again.’ Marris’s face began to wrinkle irritably at what he took to be a distracting ploy. Ibryen made a gesture which asked him to be patient, then told him quickly and without embellishment, of his encounter with the Traveller.
Marris’s eyes opened wide. ‘From the south?’ he said. ‘Ye gods, it’s not possible. He must be some kind of spy. Some foreign mercenary the Gevethen have found. An assassin.’
Ibryen shrugged slightly. ‘Except for the fact that he could have killed me while I was half-dozing in the sun, and he didn’t.’
‘He was that close?’ There was both concern and reproach in the question.
‘That close,’ Ibryen admitted, offering no excuse.
‘Perhaps he didn’t know who you were,’ Marris said, but dismissed the conclusion even as he spoke it. The Gevethen were hardly likely to send out an assassin without giving him a likeness of the victim. ‘He’s probably just a spy, then. Thinks he’s going to be able to get away from here when he’s learned enough.’
‘Possibly,’ Ibryen conceded. ‘But what’s to be learned here, that couldn’t be learned from up on the ridge? All the Gevethen need to know is where we are. Our numbers and dispositions are of no interest to them. Besides, he could have walked past me as easily as stop and speak to me.’
They walked on in silence for some way.
‘I need to talk to him,’ Marris said eventually.
‘We all need to talk to him,’ Ibryen agreed, then, as an afterthought, ‘It’ll be interesting to see what effect he’s had on Rachyl by the time they get here. She was all for killing him on the spot.’ He chuckled, and Marris cast a glance skywards.
They had reached the building that served as headquarters for the organizing of the Count’s new domain. Irreverently dubbed ‘the shippen’ by most in the village, though still assiduously referred to as ‘the Council Hall’ by the Count, this was set at the foot of what was apparently a small knoll. It was largely covered by grassy ramps, and looked little different from any of the other buildings in the village. Inside however, it consisted of a large and roughly circular hall with several smaller rooms leading from it. These served as temporary sleeping quarters for duty guards, or as stores, meeting rooms or whatever suited the current need – some were kitchens and washrooms using water diverted from the stream that wound through the village. The walls of the hall, though of roughly hewn stone, were closely jointed, and rose up to form a high curved ceiling before continuing downwards to find support on a single central column. During the day the whole was lit by daylight carried in by ingenious arrays of mirrors and lenses – a common feature of Nesdiryn architecture. The Council Hall was a considerable achievement, especially considering the haste with which it had been built and the difficulties then facing the newly arrived and bewildered fugitives.
Ibryen gave his horse to a man who emerged from the deep-set doorway, then entered the hall. Silence greeted him. Gone was the constant sound of the stream and the irreducible murmur of the many tiny sounds of the valley. It was a feature of the place that Ibryen particularly appreciated, for although the village was not a noisy place, his followers being all too aware of the need for silence in the echoing mountains, such noise as there was could not penetrate the hall’s dense walls.
He motioned Marris towards a long, solidly built wooden table. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ he said, sitting down and leaning forward on to his elbows.
Without preamble, Marris asked, ‘What problem was troubling you so badly that it dragged you out of bed and sent you wandering the valley and the ridges?’
The sudden question caught Ibryen unawares. He stammered as he replied. ‘Nothing . . . I . . . nothing important. I just . . .’ The reply foundered under Marris’s gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ he ended flatly. He knew that he could not keep his concern from Marris for long. The old counsellor knew him too well, and would pry gently but relentlessly into the reasons for his seemingly eccentric actions until he obtained satisfactory answers. More importantly, Ibryen felt the need to talk to someone about what had happened. But where to start? And what to say?
He held up his hand in a plea for a tolerant and silent listening. ‘Something’s been disturbing me for a few days now,’ he began. ‘Even waking me up in the night. I’ve no way of describing it. I’d call it a sound, but I can’t hear it . . . not as I normally hear things, anyway. I’d call it a feeling, but it’s sharper and clearer than that. I thought at first . . .’ He shrugged unhappily. ‘I don’t know what I thought. One of the reasons I went up on the ridge was to be completely alone for a while, to think – to listen – to clear my mind.’ He fell silent.
‘And?’ Marris prompted after a short pause.
‘And I’m not a great deal wiser,’ Ibryen replied. He looked at Marris directly, knowing that he was looking at someone who, if necessary, would put his loyalty to the Dirynvolk, and certainly to the people of the village, before any personal loyalty if he judged that his Count was no longer fit to lead. ‘Except that I’m certain now that, whatever it is, it’s not some folly on my part – a pending sickness, or the remains of some unspoken fancy. For all it’s intangible and elusive, it’s real. Just like the wind blowing on your face is real, even though it can’t be seen, or grasped, or smelt.’
‘But we all feel the wind,’ Marris said.
Ibryen nodded slowly in agreement.
‘Perhaps we could all hear this if we knew how to listen,’ Ibryen retorted, adding thoughtfully, ‘if we had the right faculties. Some of us have keener senses than others. Can see better, hear, even smell.’
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Hynard and Rachyl, escorting the Traveller.
‘We must talk again. I’ll need to think about what you’ve told me,’ Marris said hurriedly as the trio walked over to them.
‘I’d not have mentioned it to you otherwise,’ Ibryen replied firmly. ‘I need your thoughts. But do nothing until you’ve spoken with this man. When I mentioned the sound to him, he . . .’
‘You mentioned this to a stranger?’ Marris’s eyes widened in horror. Ibryen quickly waved him silent as he stood up to greet the new arrivals.
The Traveller was gazing about the place with undisguised curiosity. Rachyl’s face, already grim when she entered, darkened further at what she obviously took to be yet more spying by this intruder. She shot an angry look at Ibryen who returned it with one of his own that told her to keep her thoughts out of her face.
‘Traveller, this is Corel Marris,’ Ibryen said.
The Traveller bent forward slightly as if listening for something as he took Marris’s rather tentative outstretched hand. ‘Corel,’ he said softly, pronouncing it in an oddly ringing fashion as though he were testing it in some way. He seemed satisfied. ‘This is an interesting place,’ he went on, his manner genial. Reaching up, he very cautiously, and only partially, removed one of the small rolls of cloth from his ear. Ibryen and the others watched him uncertainly and in complete silence. After a moment, the Traveller nodded. ‘More interesting than I think you realize,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there are Sound Carvers in your lineage somewhere too.’ He hummed a few notes, very softly, nodding to himself as he did so. His smile broadened appreciatively.
Rachyl, fretful still, shifted her feet and cleared her throat quietly. The Traveller jumped and, with a sharp in-drawn whistle of distress, hastily thrust the cloth back into his ear. There was an awkward pause.
‘Please sit down,’ Ibryen said, to end it. ‘Would you like some food, or something to drink?’
‘A little water, perhaps.’
Ibryen glanced the request towards Hynard, meticulously avoiding Rachyl’s gaze.
‘It’s many years since I’ve been in this part of the world,’ the Traveller said, before anyone else could speak. ‘But seeing this place brings back many memories.’ His manner became quite intense. ‘Circumstances have constrained you to such simplicity here that the underlying roots of your architecture are exposed quite vividly. There are signs of many cultures here. All made distinctly yours.’ He hummed to himself tunelessly for a moment as he looked around the Hall again. ‘And your use of mirror stones is very good. A marked improvement.’
Ibryen felt an uncomfortable mixture of pride and irritation at this unexpected praise.
‘It serves our needs,’ he said simply. ‘We’re quite pleased with it.’
The Traveller stopped humming then uttered a series of soft but very rapid whistles. As he finished, his eyes widened and his face broke into a broad smile, as yet again he glanced around the Hall. This time however, his movements were sudden and erratic, as if he were following the fate of the sounds he had just made. Both Rachyl and Marris found themselves imitating the man as they tried to follow his gaze.
Then he was still, and looking at Ibryen. ‘You should be more than pleased, Count,’ he said. ‘There are ancient traits running strong in your people yet. You’ve built more than you know here. Perhaps one day . . .’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, smiling at his hosts. ‘I’m not used to people – to talking so much. I’m afraid I’m chattering on about things you’re not interested in when you probably want to ask me all manner of questions.’
Rachyl cleared her throat again.
Marris nodded, as if to accept the point, but unbalanced by this voluble newcomer, he merely made a vague circling gesture about his ear. ‘Are your ears troubling you?’ he asked. ‘We’ve a good physician here.’
The Traveller looked puzzled for a moment, then his hand went to the cloths sealing his ears. ‘Oh no,’ he replied. ‘My ears are fine. It’s just that with being in the mountains so long, my hearing’s . . . very sensitive.’
Another awkward silence descended on the group. It was broken by Hynard returning with a large ewer of water and a handful of earthenware beakers. Catching Ibryen’s eye, he filled one and offered it to the Traveller, who took it gratefully.
‘Who are you? Who sent you? And how did you get here?’ Rachyl’s impatience got the better of her as she seized one of the beakers and filled it hastily, splashing water on the table.
The Traveller’s eyes shone as he peered over the top of his beaker. ‘Ah, you have the gift of creation, young woman. Look, jewels as bright as your eyes, to form a necklace for your lovely neck.’ He pointed to a string of water drops arcing across the table. They shone brilliantly in the sunlight that was being carried into the Hall, and cast rainbow shadows.
Marris and Ibryen exchanged identical wide-eyed glances full of equal proportions of surprise, amusement and anticipation. Hynard’s mouth dropped open. As did Rachyl’s, the beaker clattering against her teeth. Then, after a moment’s uncertainty, she caught the looks of her comrades, and coloured. She brought the beaker down on to the table with a bang, sending another small fountain of water into the air. Her mouth slammed shut and her jaw stiffened as she jabbed a determined forefinger into the table. Her words had to fight their way past clenched teeth.
‘Don’t you . . .’
The Traveller reached forward and laid a hand briefly on Rachyl’s. ‘Don’t be angry,’ he said gently. ‘It was just a compliment.’
Ibryen interceded quickly. ‘Compliments are a rarity here,’ he said. ‘And, sadly, confined for the most part to praising fighting attributes rather than anything else.’ He became more purposeful. ‘But Rachyl’s questions are as valid as when I asked them up on the ridge, and we need to know your answers.’
The Traveller nodded. ‘I can appreciate that more now,’ he said. ‘But my answers are unchanged. I am . . .’ He pronounced his name. As Ibryen had done when he first heard it, the other three listeners leaned forward to catch it, then shook their heads and looked at one another in confusion.
‘Well, you’re not from anywhere around here, that’s for sure,’ Marris said after a moment.
‘We’ll continue to call you Traveller,’ Ibryen said authoritatively and a little impatiently. He motioned him to continue.
‘My homeland’s a long way from here. I’ve travelled to and through many places over the years, but I’ve come here now from the land you probably know as Girnlant.’
The reaction was as Ibryen’s had been.
‘Girnlant’s supposed to be to the south,’ Rachyl burst out. ‘It probably doesn’t even exist. No one could possibly get over the mountains.’
The Traveller snorted slightly. ‘Girnlant exists well enough,’ he said, and dipping a finger in his water he began drawing a crude map on the table. At the top were a series of peaks representing the mountains. ‘You’re here,’ he announced, poking a glistening spot above them. ‘And Girnlant’s down here.’ A broad sweep finished the map. ‘It used to be one land once, but there are about twenty or more states there now . . . all of them at least as big as Nesdiryn.’ He sat back, adding with some heat, ‘Just because you can’t walk to the moon doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, girl.’ Rachyl bridled at the word ‘girl’ but Ibryen’s look kept her silent. The Traveller fumbled in a purse at his waist and eventually produced a coin. He put it on the table and flicked it towards Rachyl. ‘That’s from one of them. Somewhere in the middle. Here.’ He prodded the map again. ‘I can’t remember the name of the place.’ Rachyl examined the coin cursorily then handed it to Ibryen. On one side was a mountain, on the other a ring with a number in it.
‘It’s not gold,’ he said, handing it to Marris.
The Traveller chuckled. ‘Not a golden people, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Somewhat burdened by their religion.’ His mood became suddenly sadder. ‘Heavily burdened when I left them, although before I headed north I did hear that the individual who was causing the problem had died, or been killed, so maybe all’s well now.’ He shrugged to himself reflectively. ‘People have a great capacity both for self-deception and for doing harm to themselves. It’s such a shame when you look at what other things they can do.’
‘Some foreign coin tells us nothing,’ Rachyl sneered.
‘It tells us he’s been somewhere a long way from here,’ Marris said, fingering the coin thoughtfully. ‘It’s vaguely familiar. I’ve seen something like this before. When I was a boy, I think. It certainly doesn’t come from any of our immediate neighbours, nor from any land that I’ve ever been to.’
‘It means nothing,’ Rachyl insisted forcefully. ‘Except that he’s a foreigner, which we can tell just by listening to him. What we need to know is who sent him and why.’
‘I’d swear he never got past the sentries.’ It was the first time Hynard had spoken. He had been in command of the inner posts through the night and, though less forthcoming than Rachyl, he was deeply disturbed by the mysterious arrival of the Traveller. ‘They were fully alert when you came round, Ibryen, and they were even more so afterwards. He’s either better than anyone I’ve ever known, or he got up on to that ridge by some unknown route.’
‘Or he came from the south,’ Ibryen offered.
The Traveller did not speak. Silence seemed to radiate out from him, deepening further that which already filled the Hall.
‘Why are you here, Traveller?’ Ibryen asked, almost whispering into the heavy stillness. For the first time since he had arrived at the Hall, the Traveller seemed uncertain. ‘No flippant answers, please,’ Ibryen added. ‘I’m sure you’ve got some measure of our problem here by now, and our natural concerns about you.’
The Traveller looked straight at him. When he spoke, his voice was strange and his words seemed to contain more than they said. ‘Do you not think that you and I should discuss this alone?’
‘No!’ Rachyl and Hynard replied urgently at the same time, albeit almost whispering, like their lord.
Ibryen held out a restraining hand, and thought for a moment. He reached a decision. ‘I make no excuses for my lack of care, other than that I’d no cause to imagine anyone would be up on the ridge. But I was idling in the sun – eyes closed, half-dozing – when he spoke to me. I was quite unaware of anyone near me. He could have killed me, or turned and left, just as easily as speak to me.’
Hynard and Rachyl watched him unhappily. He turned to the Traveller. ‘I trust the judgement of my friends and kin here completely. That’s how we’ve survived so long against the Gevethen. Whatever it is that drew us together up there, whatever you and I have to discuss, we can . . . we must . . . discuss it before them.’ He glanced quickly at Marris. ‘However strange.’ There was reservation in Marris’s eyes, but he said nothing.
The Traveller gave a disclaiming gesture. ‘As you wish, Count, but in such matters, the reactions of those who lack understanding can be . . . unpredictable.’
Ibryen looked round at the others. ‘Say what you have to say, Traveller,’ he said.
That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
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The Call of the Sword
The Fall of Fyorlund
The Waking of Orthlund
Into Narsindal
Dream Finder
Farnor
Valderen
Whistler
Ibryen
Arash-Felloren
Caddoran
The Return of the Sword
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