More info about "Whistler"

Whistler

A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan

a Mushroom eBooks sampler

Copyright © 1994, 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 1994 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 Whistler 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.

Contents

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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor

Chapter 1

Clouds, dark and ominous, bloomed menacingly out of the north. Slowly, throughout the day, mass piled upon mass, higher and higher, as if those leading the vanguard were being overrun by panicking hordes behind.

Eyes that had been lifted casually towards them in the morning became narrowed and concerned as the day progressed, for the clouds were grimly unseasonable. Sour-natured weather was to be expected as winter fought to hold its ground against the coming spring: dark skies and blustering, buffeting winds bearing cold rains, and perhaps even yet a little snow would offer no great surprises. But this . . .?

This was surely a monstrous blizzard pending, the kind that was rare even at the heart of winter.

‘It’ll only be a thunderstorm,’ some declared, knowingly, though more to hear the reassurance in the words than from any true knowledge.

For there was no tension in the air, no tingling precursor of the tumult to come, raising the hackles of men and beasts alike.

Yet there was something hovering before this dark and massive tide, something that flickered elusively into the senses like an image caught in the corner of the eye that disappears when looked at directly. Something that was unpleasant – menacing even.

Something primitive. And awful.

None spoke of it.

* * * *

The land that lay in the advancing shade of this strange tide was a great spur that protruded south from a vast continent. It bore the name it had always borne – Gyronlandt. Once, according to legend, it had been a single mighty state glorying in its strength and prosperity, and the name still resonated with that past. Through the ages, however, that same legend declared, Gyronlandt had been riven by terrible civil strife and then by invasions of desperate peoples from across the seas, fleeing terrors and wars of their own. And despite many attempts to hold to this ancient unity – some wise, some foolish – Gyronlandt had drifted relentlessly towards what it was today, a land of a score or so different states living more or less peacefully together. A land that had been thus ever since ringing legend had dwindled into mere history and the thundering rhetoric of mythical heroes had become the ranting and mewling of an interminable list of political leaders in whose wake lay, inevitably, a long tangled skein of unfulfilled promises and broken pacts and treaties.

Nevertheless, the notion that ‘one day’ Gyronlandt would be united again still held some charm for almost all the peoples of the land, and often formed a rosy backdrop to any revels of a remotely patriotic nature. That the several states were ruled (and misruled) by as many different institutions of government, and that these institutions were frequently changed – sometimes peacefully, sometimes not – did nothing to further any cause towards such unity. Nor did the equally persistent idea that the present disunity was ‘of course’ due to ‘them’. The identity of ‘them’ varied from time to time, depending on which neighbouring state was in or out of favour, but certainly it was never ‘us’.

Gyronlandt was separated from the lands of the northern continent by an intimidating mountain range, across which only occasional traders and other desperate men would venture. The forces that had formed these mountains had also thrown up a craggy rib down the middle of Gyronlandt which culminated at its most southerly point in a region jagged with a jumble of lesser mountains. This was Canol Madreth, the smallest and most central of Gyronlandt’s states. It was also the only one whose boundaries had remained unchanged, though this was due mainly to the fact that no one saw any benefit in fighting to annex a land that consisted mainly of mountains and steep-sided valleys of uncertain fertility. Still less could anyone see any benefit in holding sway over the inhabitants of Canol Madreth – the Madren.

To the more kindly disposed of the other peoples of Gyronlandt, the Madren were said to be reserved. Others, less charitably, referred to them as rude and churlish, and frequently linked these attributes with stupidity as well. It could not be denied that the Madren’s attitude to outsiders was often an unnerving mixture of chilling politeness and open mistrust, and it did little to endear them to anyone. Not that this seemed to concern them. They considered themselves to be markedly superior to all their neighbours.

And, almost unique amongst the peoples of Gyronlandt, the Madren were religious. Indeed, they had a state religion – Ishrythan. It was a sombre-faced creed involving a stern deity, Ishryth, who together with a triumvirate of Watchers, was responsible for the creation and continuation of all things. Ishryth was forever battling against the depredations of his brother, Ahmral, who, with a trio of his own, the Uleryn, sought constantly to lead mankind astray so that in the ensuing chaos he might remake Ishryth’s creation in his own image. Ishrythan was a religion of duty and dedication, not joy or pleasure, promising bliss in the future only for appropriate behaviour now, and heavily larded with threats of eternal damnation for back-sliders. Of the other religions that existed throughout Gyronlandt, almost all derived from the same holy book as the Madren’s Ishrythan, the Santyth, though most of them held celebration at their hearts, and in so far as they considered it at all, their followers tended to look upon Ishrythan as at best a misinterpretation of the Santyth and at worst, a wilful distortion; a heresy.

Not that such thoughts were of any great significance for, even among the Madren, few in Gyronlandt held to their religion with any great proselytizing zeal. Such quarrels as existed between the various states were mercifully free from such fervour and were usually associated with trade and commerce, although occasionally tempers would flare over some long-disputed border lands. Whatever the ostensible cause of many of these disputes, there was not infrequently a large element of sheer habit in them.

At the centre of Canol Madreth stood the Ervrin Mallos, Gyronlandt’s highest peak. It rose high above its neighbours and dominated much of Canol Madreth. Indeed, its jagged broken summit could be seen from many of the surrounding states.

The Ervrin Mallos had a curiously isolated appearance, as if it did not truly belong there but had been mysteriously transported from its true home in the great northern range. The Santyth told a tale of a fearsome lord of the earth, then in human form, who had sought to destroy a great army of Ishryth’s followers who were preparing to invade the island of Gyronlandt, then an evil place.

‘. . . and, turning from this, Ishryth saw that Ahmral had given great power unto the chosen of his Uleryn who by his will now moved the isle through the waters of the ocean as though it were the merest coracle. And as the isle was driven upon the shores of the land, so the gathering army of the righteous was destroyed and buried beneath a mighty mountain range. And, so great was his pain, Ishryth cried out, his voice rending the very heavens. “As ye have given so shall ye receive,” and, reaching forth, he tore from the still trembling mountains a great peak and hurled it down upon the Uleryn, destroying his earthly form forever.’

Children’s tales, grimmer by far, told a darker, more claustrophobic story of a terrible king who was entombed for his cruelty and foul magics, and whose last cry of terror at this fate was so awful that the land above could not withstand it and rose up into a great mountain until the sound could be heard no more.

It was also said that the Ervrin Mallos was the resting place of a great prince who, at Ishryth’s will – or was it Ahmral’s? – lay sleeping until a dark, winged messenger should bring him forth at some time of need. This however, had neither the credence offered by the Santyth, nor the dark certainty of truth that lies in children’s whispered secrets, and was generally deemed to be a mere fabrication, although some said that it was in fact a true tale, but one brought by some ancient traveller from another place.

Whatever the truth, the Ervrin Mallos had an aura of deep stillness and mystery about it which had led to its being chosen as the site for the spiritual and administrative centre of Ishrythan: the Witness House. Situated halfway up the mountain, the Witness House was where the Preaching Brothers were taught, and where they returned from time to time for periods of fasting and re-affirmation. Here, too, all matters of theology were debated and decided, as were any matters of a more secular nature associated with the management of a state religion.

And as the dark storm clouds rose relentlessly in the northern sky, a particularly acrimonious debate was nearing its conclusion within the Witness House. For though the Preaching Brothers all wore the same dark garb, and though the Meeting Houses that were to be found in every Madren community were of the same simple and sombre grey-stoned architecture, Ishrythan was not totally free from internal dissension. The Santyth, like all religious books, had many passages capable of more than one interpretation.

Cassraw swept out of the Debating Hall, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. The boom of its closing mingled with the tumult of voices that its opening had released and rolled along the stone-floored passageways. Followed by Cassraw’s echoing footsteps, it was as if the clamour were trying to flee the building before its creator.

Two novice brothers pursuing their duties stepped aside hastily as the stocky, scowling figure strode past them. They bowed tentatively but did not appear to be either surprised or offended at receiving no response. They were just starting to whisper to one another when a second figure passed by them, obviously in anxious pursuit.

‘Cassraw, wait!’ Vredech called out as he reached a balcony that overlooked the entrance hall to the Witness House. There was both appeal and urgency in his voice, and Cassraw, halfway across the entrance hall, paused.

‘Please wait,’ Vredech called again.

This time, Cassraw looked up. Vredech leaned forward, resting his hands on the wide stone balustrade. Cassraw was standing at the very centre of an elaborate mosaic pattern that radiated outwards in all directions. As Vredech looked down at his friend, it seemed to him that Cassraw’s dark scowling face had replaced the image of Ishryth that was the focus of the mosaic, and that his anger was flowing out to fill the entire hall. Vredech felt a chill of foreboding rise up inside him, and for a moment was held immobile, like prey before a predator. Then Cassraw’s voice released him, or rather, tore him free.

‘Wait for what?’ he demanded.

Vredech shook his head to dispel the lingering remains of his eerie vision, then, turning, he ran towards the curving stairway. He had no idea what he was going to say when he reached his friend, but was just thankful that he had stopped his flight.

Cassraw watched him as he ran down the stairs.

‘Just wait for me,’ Vredech said lamely, in the absence of any greater inspiration as he walked across to him.

‘For what, Vredech?’ Cassraw repeated impatiently, holding out a hand as if to fend him off.

Vredech’s distress showed on his face and he turned away from the outburst. Guilt seeped into Cassraw’s expression, changing his scowl to a look of irritation. ‘Don’t do this, Vred,’ he said, turning away himself and looking up at the high-domed roof. ‘Deliberately throwing yourself in my way and getting hurt.’

‘How can you hurt . . .?’

Cassraw rounded on him. ‘I said, don’t!’ he shouted. He pointed in the direction of the Debating Hall. ‘Ishryth knows, you’re my oldest friend and I love you, but they’re wrong – and you’re wrong if you side with them. The Word is the Word.’ He plunged into a pocket of his black cassock and produced a small copy of the Santyth. He slapped the book in emphasis. ‘We reject this at our peril.’

Vredech’s heart sank and he could not keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘No one’s talking about rejecting it,’ he said. ‘Why won’t you just listen to other people’s points of view? Why are you suddenly obsessed with this need to take the Santyth so literally? You know as well as I do that it’s not without obscurity in places, even downright contradictions.’

Cassraw stiffened and his hand came up again, this time to point an accusing finger. ‘That’s blasphemy,’ he said, his voice soft and hoarse. ‘Take care that . . .’

‘That what?’ Vredech interrupted, lifting his arms and then dropping them violently. ‘I’m not the one who’s in trouble. I’m not the one who called the head of the church a heretic. I’m not the one who’s being complained about incessantly by his flock. I’m not . . .’ he spluttered to a stop for a moment, then seemed to gather new strength. ‘And don’t you call me a blasphemer,’ he said, indignantly. ‘Since when is it blasphemy to speak the truth? Where there’s doubt, there’s doubt, and the blasphemy lies in not facing it, you know that well enough.’ He laid his hand on the book that Cassraw was holding. ‘These are the reports of men, Cassraw,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Wise and revered men, but like all of us, flawed. Subject to . . .’

He faltered as he sensed Cassraw retreating into the grim silence that was becoming increasingly his answer to reasoned debate – when he was not actually shouting it down. ‘All right, all right,’ he said quickly. ‘Let’s not travel over that ground again. But do let’s be practical. You’ll be lucky if Mueran doesn’t have you dismissed from your post if you carry on like this.’

‘There are others who agree with me,’ Cassraw interjected.

Vredech looked at him, worldly-wise. ‘Maybe, but they’ll disagree fast enough if their posts are threatened. For pity’s sake, put a curb on your tongue. The Church is tolerant enough to accommodate a wide range of different ideas on theological matters. Why risk everything you’ve got with this nonsense?’

He clapped a hand to his head as if that might draw back the ill-considered word, but before he could speak, Cassraw was already heading towards the main door.

‘I’m sorry,’ Vredech called out, moving after him. ‘I didn’t mean to say that. It . . .’

Cassraw had hold of the iron ring that secured the door. ‘This church is corrupted with compromise,’ he said, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the ring. ‘It must reform. Return to the truth of the Word or we’ll all be doomed. It must be made whole again.’ He tightened his grip about the ring. ‘Like this – unbroken – self-contained.’ He turned towards Vredech, his black eyes gazing piercingly. ‘Follow me or leave me, Vredech,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant. ‘Follow me, or leave me.’

Vredech was suddenly alarmed. He felt events slipping away from him. Cassraw’s outburst in the Debating Hall had been a serious matter, but it was repairable, with care: an apology, a little penitence would right it. But he saw now that something strange was happening to Cassraw. He felt a touch of the quality he had sensed in him at times when they were growing up together. A quality that he had thought as long passed as their youth itself. An obsessive, almost fanatical quality that in someone else he might have called evil, though the word did not come to him now.

He hesitated, part of him saying, ‘Leave him alone, you’re only making him worse.’ But the greater part of him forbade inaction where there was pain. He had to reach out – do something.

He laid his hand on the door to prevent Cassraw from opening it, and, with an effort, met the unnerving gaze. ‘What are you going to do?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve a wife to think of, an important position to maintain – one you strove for and won deservedly. I know you’ve got problems with some of your flock, but that happens to everyone at some time or another. You can’t jeopardize everything like this. Come back with me now. We can smooth everything over with a little care.’

But even as he spoke he knew that his words were not reaching his friend. ‘Corrupt with compromise, Vredech,’ Cassraw repeated. ‘Follow me or leave me.’ Then he pulled open the door and stepped outside.

Vredech did not resist. It would be hopeless, he knew. Cassraw had always tended to act more at the behest of his passions than his mind, and only when they were spent would his reason return to him. He’d probably calm down in an hour or so and see the sense of making his peace with Mueran and the others. Surely he wouldn’t seriously risk his post with the church? He had no trade to turn to, nor land to live off. Vredech picked up the ring and let it fall. It made a dull thud as it dropped into a well-worn groove in the door. The sound set Vredech’s thoughts cascading; they carried him back to the Debating Hall and the excuses he might use to save his friend from the punishment that was surely inevitable.

He had barely taken a step away from the door when a sharp, anguished cry came from outside and tore through his inner discourse. He yanked the door open. Cassraw was standing at the foot of the broad and well-worn stone steps that led down from the door. He was gazing back at the Witness House or, more correctly, he was staring over it, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and . . . ecstasy?

Vredech ran down the steps two at a time, his concern for his friend returning in full and mounting with each stride. Reaching him, he turned to see what he was staring at.

Stretching to the farthest horizons both east and west, the sky was filled with the clouds that been accumulating through that day. But where they had been dark they were now almost black, and what had been a threat of unseasonable ill weather had become a sight of terrible menace. The clouds were piled so high upon one another that they rendered insignificant the Ervrin Mallos and all the lesser peaks about it. Vredech felt himself swaying as his eye was carried irresistibly towards their summit.

‘Ye gods,’ he whispered, taking Cassraw’s arm to steady himself, and forgetting momentarily both his cloth and the place where he was standing.

‘No,’ he heard Cassraw whispering. ‘Not gods. But God. He is here. He is come. For me.’

And he was running towards the gate that led out of the grounds of the Witness House. By the time Vredech registered what Cassraw had said, he had disappeared from view. Vredech hurried to the gate after him. Two novice Brothers were returning from the Witness House’s garden. They were looking up at the clouds nervously.

‘Did you see Brother Cassraw?’ Vredech asked, trying not to seem too concerned.

‘See him? He nearly sent me sprawling,’ one of them replied with some indignation.

Vredech ignored the injured tone. ‘Which way did he go?’ he demanded.

The second novice pointed. Not along the winding road that led to the town below, but towards the far corner of the high wall that surrounded the Witness House. Vredech grunted an acknowledgement and set off in pursuit.

This isn’t happening, he thought, as he half-walked, half-ran, keeping close to the wall, instinctively placing it between himself and the forbidding clouds. This was supposed to be a routine Chapter meeting to discuss routine administrative matters, but somehow Cassraw had succeeded in turning it into a major theological debate. No, debate was not the word – it had been a diatribe. He had latched on to some trivial point that Mueran had made and managed to build a spiralling, self-sustaining harangue out of it. Vredech had been slightly amused at first, as this seemingly coherent string of arguments blossomed out of nothingness. It had been like a metaphor for the Creation itself; out of the emptiness came the Great Heat, and from that, all things. Nearing the end of the wall, he could not help smiling. It was still such, he reflected, for that too had gone sour.

Then he was at the corner of the wall. Puffing slightly, he leaned on it for support as he stepped round.

Judgement Day . . .

The words formed in his mind as he found himself standing alone and totally exposed before the black, billowing masses that filled the sky.

He was not aware how long he stood there and it was only with a considerable effort that he managed to drag his mind back to his friend. From here, Cassraw could have moved on down towards the valley or up towards the mountain’s shattered summit. There was a small, isolated chapel a little way down the mountainside that the Brothers sometimes used when they felt the need for quiet contemplation. But Cassraw had not run out of the Witness House grounds like a man seeking silence. Vredech scoured the ground rising steeply ahead of him, its dun colours strangely heightened by the oppressive darkness above.

‘He is coming. For me.’ Cassraw’s dreadful words returned to him. Vredech clenched his fists tightly as if the pressure could squeeze the implications of Cassraw’s utterance out of existence. The man was going insane.

A movement caught his eye. Vredech gasped; it was Cassraw. But he was so far ahead. And he was almost running up a steep grassy slope.

Vredech shook his head. He would do many things for his old friend, but charge up that mountainside after him was not one of them. It must be fifteen years or more since he had run in a mountain race, and he had done little violent exercise since, being quite content to move at a pace compatible with the dignity of his calling. He was still a little breathless simply after running from the gate.

With a sigh he turned round and headed back.

* * * *

High above the retreating Vredech, eyes wide and fixed on the boiling darkness overhead, Cassraw staggered relentlessly forward, his shoes muddied and scuffed, his cassock torn. In between rasping breaths he implored, ‘I am coming, Lord. I am coming. Have mercy on the weakness of Your faithful servant. Do not desert me.’

The darkness seemed to be reaching down towards him, listening.

A silence enfolded him.

Then a voice answered his prayer.

Chapter 2

Dowinne was pacing fretfully from room to room. An unease had been growing on her all day. It was probably the weather, she tried to convince herself, taking her cue from the grim clouds that were steadily building up over the town. But even as this thought came to her, she dismissed it. Whatever was troubling her was deeper by far than any pending storm.

It was not in Dowinne’s nature to tolerate difficulties with equanimity and, from time to time, she gritted her teeth and bared them in anger and frustration as she strode about the house. Until she caught sight of her image grimacing out at her from a mirror: it seemed to be snarling at her for this exposure of her inner feelings and she straightened up hastily and forced her face into a bewitching smile.

Something behind the image seemed to be mocking her. She moved again to the window. The Haven Parish Meeting House at Troidmallos was a well-appointed one, and the living quarters were excellent. As they should be, Dowinne thought. This was far from the poky, down-at-heel Meeting House they had begun with, way out in the wilds, ten years ago, and Cassraw’s appointment to it so young was no small achievement. Yet . . .

Yet it wasn’t enough.

She folded her arms and squeezed them hard into her body as if to contain the ambitions that for some reason were clamouring to be heard today. Then, secure in the silent stillness of her home, she gave her old desires their head. They excited her. It did not matter what she had now – she would have more. She would be important – powerful. Not just in Troidmallos, but in the whole of Canol Madreth. People would defer to her – would watch their words, their very gestures, in her presence, just as she did with others now. And they would seek her patronage. Dowinne could scarcely contain herself at the prospect of what would eventually be hers, if she managed the affairs of her husband correctly.

With remarkable perceptiveness she had seen, even in her youth, that the church in Canol Madreth wielded almost as much authority as its secular counterpart, the Heindral, and that her best hope for future wealth and security lay that way. For despite its austere protestations, the church was rich, and its senior figures, though for the most part not ostentatious in their lifestyles, were most agreeably comfortable. More significantly, in political matters the church’s opinions and discreet support were always carefully sought because of the influence it exerted over the people. Dowinne particularly appreciated the fact that the church’s utterances were substantially unburdened by popular debate and that, above all else, it did not need the affirmation of the people every four years for its continued reign.

Of course, she could not enter the church herself – that was a privilege confined exclusively to men – but she could perhaps do even better than that. By marrying and mastering the right man she could master in turn those whom he commanded. And Cassraw was the right man beyond a doubt. She had judged him to be her own restless ambition given form, and he had confirmed her judgement time after time.

True, his fierce passion had been an unexpected burden to her at first, but she had gradually redirected it into proclivities that she found more tolerable and which had subsequently proved to be useful both as goad and lure. She smiled secretively, instinctively bringing her hand to her face to hide the response even though she was alone.

She must always be careful. She must never fall into the trap of imagining that Cassraw was an ordinary man like any other; that much she had learned through the years. For all his intellect and reason, he resembled a wild animal, and as such he could perhaps be trained, but he could never be tamed.

Her unease returned as she gazed up at the Ervrin Mallos. Within the building clouds she sensed a power which seemed to echo the power she felt within her husband. Unexpectedly, a flicker of self-doubt passed through her. How could she hope to manipulate such a thing? How could she have the temerity?

She crushed the doubt ruthlessly. All storms could be weathered by those with the will.

Yet Cassraw had been behaving in an increasingly peculiar manner of late. His sharp intellect seemed to be feeding upon itself, shying away from the shrewd and subtle conspiring at which he was so adept. It was almost as though he was searching for ever more simple solutions. His preaching had become more impassioned, but more primitive, and it was not fully to the liking of all his flock, although, she mused, some of them seemed to be responding to it. Dowinne frowned. They were not the kind of people she wanted following her husband. Not only would they be of little value in furthering his progress through the church, they would probably be an outright hindrance. Still, support was support, even from malcontents and incompetents, and it must surely be usable one way or another. She made a note to turn her mind to this problem in the near future. It was always worthwhile having alternatives available. You never knew. Her thoughts returned to Cassraw. Life would be easier if she could keep him safely in the mainstream of affairs. Perhaps she had been holding the reins a little too tightly of late. Perhaps she should help him to . . . expend . . . some of his burning energy. She tapped her hand lightly on her chest. After all, it wasn’t too unpleasant a prospect these days.

But, even after this resolution, her unease lingered. She would not be able to settle until he returned from the Witness House. Cassraw had never been desperately enthusiastic about Chapter meetings and, thanks to the bleating of some of his offended flock, he had been on the receiving end of one of Mueran’s soft-spoken rebukes only a few days ago. He had laughed it off on his return, mimicking the pompous old hypocrite, but she had felt the rage beneath the mockery and, on the whole, would have preferred that he did not meet Mueran so soon afterwards.

Then, from deep inside her, came an awful intuition that something was terribly amiss. She began to shake and, for an unbelievable and giddying moment, she felt the long-built edifice of her ambitions begin to totter. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again, posture wilting, eyes haunted.

‘No!’ she cried out and, swinging round, she brought her hands down violently on the windowsill. Her right hand caught the base of a heavy metal dish and sent it clattering to the floor, but she made no outward response to the pain, letting it pass through her unhindered, to burn away this unexpected and fearful spasm of weakness.

The effort left her breathless, however. It was the storm coming, she decided. That was all – just the storm. But this explanation held no more comfort than it had earlier.

She looked out again at the mountain. She could just make out the grey stone Witness House halfway up. It had always seemed pathetically small against the rugged might of the Ervrin Mallos, but now even the mountain looked small against the ominous banks of clouds.

‘Come down, Cassraw,’ she whispered. ‘Come down. Get off the hill before the storm comes.’

* * * *

‘Come, My servant. Come closer.’

Cassraw did not so much hear the voice as feel it suffuse through him. His body began to tremble, and his mind to whirl with a maelstrom of incoherent thoughts. It was as though all that he was, all that he had ever known, was struggling frantically to escape lest it be scattered and destroyed by the power that had just touched him. A preacher both by profession and inclination, however, he instinctively reached out and found his voice. It was hoarse, broken and shaking, but it served as an anchor to which he could cling, if only for the briefest of moments.

‘Lord, I see the dust of Your mighty chariot and I am less than nothing even before that. Guide me, Lord. Guide me.’ The words seemed pathetically inadequate.

Despite the screaming demands of his body following his precipitate charge up the mountain, Cassraw held his breath through the long silence that followed. Then the voice came again.

‘Come closer.’

Cassraw’s tumbling thoughts stopped short. He gazed around desperately, not knowing what to do and fearing to repeat his plea. The clouds were above him now, but from the south some residual daylight still lit the mountain, throwing long shadows like an unnatural, pallid sunset. It made all about him unreal, ill-focused and dreamlike; a strange image seeping through to him from some other place – a place in which he did not belong. Only the darkness overhead and his own awareness were real now – the one opaque, oppressive, unbearably solid, the other guttering and feeble. He felt as though he were not standing high up on a mountainside, but cowering in some dark cavern far below, in the very roots of the mountains, with their crushing weight towering above him.

Yet he must go upwards. There the Lord waited. Waited for him.

He set off again, clambering recklessly over the rocks, heedless of the damage to his shoes and his cassock, heedless of the cuts and bruises he was gathering as he stumbled and fell repeatedly in the failing light.

Questions tormented him. What was happening? What madness was driving him? Bringing him into confrontation with the leaders of his church, jeopardizing his position both in the church and the community – jeopardizing old friendships, perhaps even his marriage? But these thoughts held no sway. All were carried along by the stark certainty of what he had felt as he had dashed out of the Witness House and turned to see the sky beyond it turned black and forbidding, like the anger of a beloved parent writ large.

And he had been right. With each step he had felt that confirmation. He was right. He was right.

And now the Lord had spoken to him; touched him. Him! Summoned him to his presence on this ancient and most mysterious of hills.

Cassraw cursed his legs for their heavy reluctance as he struggled on.

The chain of seemingly trivial events that had eventually brought him raging out of the Debating Hall flickered briefly before him, taking on the appearance now of a mighty golden pathway along which he had been propelled. ‘Your way is beyond our understanding, Lord,’ he gasped. ‘In the fall of the least mote is Your design.’

‘I have little time, servant.’

The voice raked chillingly through Cassraw, reproaching him for this momentary diversion from the call.

‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he repeated over and over in a frantic litany, as he scrambled up the piles of broken rocks that would lead him to the summit.

Then the strange daylight was gone. He was vaguely aware of a faint haziness from the south, but did not look at it for fear of losing so much as an eye-blink of time on this desperate journey.

He could not forbear a frisson of alarm and despair, however, as the darkness closed about him. But nothing must stop him. He must go forward. He must obey his Lord’s command, no matter what the cost.

Then there was light – a dancing, disturbing light that made his shadow jerk feverishly hither and thither over the rocks, but enough to see by, nonetheless. And it was coming from overhead. He made no attempt to look up at its source for fear of what he might see. Classical images of the Watchers of Ishryth, grim and terrible to doubters, filled his mind.

‘Great is Your wisdom, Lord. To You are all things known.’

Onwards, upwards, Cassraw struggled, such rational thoughts as he had being swept aside by the monstrous rapture now compelling him forward regardless of his protesting limbs and pounding heart.

And at last he was there, standing on top of the canted, broken obelisks of rock that formed the summit of the Ervrin Mallos. He dropped to his knees with a jarring impact, then immediately dragged himself to his feet again. He held out his arms and, closing his eyes, threw back his head to offer his face to the might of his god.

Such few doubts as he had known were gone now, driven out by the power he could feel all around him.

‘Lord, You will do with me as You will, but I implore You, though I am but the least of Your servants, give me the strength to fulfil Your will in the world of men. Great are the sins done there in Your name. Great is the ignorance of Your Word and great the deceit and contention with which it is read.’

He waited.

A coldness touched his mind. He started violently then willed himself to stillness.

‘Lord,’ he whispered painfully. ‘I am Yours. I will serve You with all my being.’

The coldness began to spread through him, and with it a sense of foreboding. Whatever this was, it was but the beginning.

Yet there was a strange quality about it – a human quality, it occurred to Cassraw – though he quickly disowned this blasphemous thought and concluded by praying for forgiveness. There was no response.

Still the coldness seeped through him purposefully, growing in strength as it did so.

And then it possessed him entirely.

He waited, scarcely conscious that he existed any more, though he could still sense, deep within him and far beyond his reach, doubts slithering and murmuring. Then the coldness shifted and, for a timeless, searing moment, the doubts flared up, screaming and demanding to be heard. For the feelings that were suddenly flooding into him were far from godlike. Dominating them was a terrible, almost uncontrollable anger.

Anger that so much, built so painstakingly over so long a time, should be lost so totally and so easily.

Anger towards the servants who had betrayed Him by their weakness and folly.

Anger, and something else. . .

Hatred! Deep and implacable. Hatred towards those ancient enemies who had risen to plot and scheme against Him.

And in the wake of this came an overwhelming lust for revenge, bloody and foul.

Yet, too, pervading everything was an almost unbearable sense of loss, and Cassraw could feel the clawing, scrabbling desperation of someone who must hold on to something, however slight, if He were to remain . . . here? And not plunge into . . . the void? The images eluded Cassraw but he sensed well enough the terror of slipping from this place and tumbling eternally through a nightmare of solitude and powerlessness.

Then everything was changed. As suddenly as it had come, the turmoil was ended. A new awareness moved through Cassraw. A slender hold had been found, and the terrible fall halted. All was not yet lost!

‘Be silent, My servant. I must judge you, know the true depths of your faith.’

Cassraw remained motionless, his eyes closed, his head still thrown back to face the black sky. ‘As You will, Lord,’ he whispered.

Then, where before there had been a coldness, there was now a searching warmth. Though he was waiting for a questioning, a harrowing, nothing happened. Yet something was moving within him. Like the faint rustling of distant trees, elusive and unclear. Then, fleetingly, a grim, malicious satisfaction passed through him.

‘These dark and terrible thoughts, these doubts and hatreds are yours, Cassraw,’ the voice said, deep and compassionate, though now it was more like a spoken voice than the eerie possession it had been before. ‘They are the burden I have put upon you that you might know yourself the better. But you have borne them well and you have not been found wanting.’

Cassraw was trembling again, though this time with a powerful sense of expectation.

‘It is My Will that you go forth and bring the truth of My Word to your peoples and all the peoples of this land. A great evil has arisen in the north which must be opposed lest all the world fall under its shadow. This land shall become a Citadel from which My armies will march forth again.’

Cassraw almost opened his eyes. ‘Lord, I am no warrior,’ he said prosaically. A dark amusement filled him from somewhere.

‘There are many swords, My servant. Yours is your tongue. Wield it well and armies greater than your imagining will be provided. This is My Will, and it will be so. Be thou steadfast and true, and let none oppose thee.’

‘But who will listen to me, Lord? And what is this evil that has come about?’ Cassraw asked weakly.

‘All will listen to you, My servant, for I have blessed you with My Power. And where doubt of My Word exists I shall give you the true meaning.’ A hint of anger seeped into the voice. ‘All else will be revealed in due time. Seek not to question your Lord, servant. Seek only to obey and serve.’

Cassraw’s legs finally gave way, and he slumped to the ground. The small, sharp stones driving into his knees began to restore sensation to his body.

‘I must leave you now, My servant.’

The voice was fainter. The damage that Cassraw had done to himself in his reckless ascent of the mountain began to assert itself.

‘Do not leave me, Lord,’ he said, holding out his arms.

Again the amusement.

‘Know that I will be with you always, Cassraw. Always. You have but to listen.’

And Cassraw was alone.

He remained kneeling for a long time, head bowed and arms resting on a flat boulder. Then, slowly, fearfully, he opened his eyes and looked around. The sky was still dark, though now the clouds had the snow-laden greyness of winter rather than the looming menace of before. The call which had drawn Cassraw up the Ervrin Mallos was no longer there, but he could still feel the presence of his Lord echoing and resonating inside him.

He hugged himself and bent forward. ‘I was right,’ he hissed. ‘I was right, I was right.’ Over and over, in a mixture of terror and malevolent glee. ‘I am the Chosen One. His Chosen. I was right!’ Then, with a painful effort he stood up. ‘I am Yours, Lord, utterly,’ he cried out rapturously. ‘Yours! I shall gather up the righteous and bring them to Your Word, and together we shall seek out the sinners in this land and beyond, and bring them to Your Way. Or destroy them.’

Chapter 3

Vredech closed the main door of the Witness House quietly and climbed the stairs that would lead him back to the Debating Hall. He was still breathing heavily and his hands were shaking slightly. The look in Cassraw’s eyes, his final, portentous words and then his manic dash up the mountain into what must surely be a monstrous storm, hung vividly in his mind, adding to his confusion and distress.

Though he knew that Cassraw was fitter than he was, he was no youngster and must surely injure himself careening up the mountain like that. And who could say what kind of a storm those clouds presaged, or how long it would last when it broke?

He paused at the entrance to the Debating Hall to quieten his buzzing thoughts. A murmur of voices reached him and he sighed. On the whole he would have preferred to enter into an uproar. At least then he would have been able to intervene in a continuing argument. Now it seemed that the matter had been settled.

What have you done while I’ve been away, Mueran? he thought bitterly. Used your authority as Covenant Member to have him suspended? Well, not while I’ve got a tongue in my head!

With an effort he fought down his anger. He must not allow his anxiety for Cassraw to lead him into any rashness. It would be a serious mistake to charge at Mueran like a stupid mountain goat. Tact and diplomacy were required if he was to protect Cassraw from the enemies that his harsh tongue had made.

Vredech took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The Debating Hall was, like most rooms in the Witness House, plain and simple. It was free from any decoration save for the arched windows which were filled with stone traceries, into which all manner of leaves and vines and, peculiarly, slightly sinister faces had been carved. When a full Convocation was held, the assembled Preaching Brothers would sit on chairs arranged around three walls of the room, while the Chapter Members, the senior Brothers who formed the governing council of the Church of Ishryth in Canol Madreth, sat at one end. Now, however, the Chapter Members were sitting around a long, highly-polished wooden table which occupied the centre of the hall.

All eyes turned towards Vredech as he entered. He bowed slightly to acknowledge this impromptu greeting, then immediately approached Mueran. Whatever had happened in his absence, a more favourable outcome of the whole sorry business would probably be achieved if he did the right thing here, namely attended to the immediate needs of his tormented friend. He did not wait for Mueran to speak.

‘Cassraw needs our help,’ he said, simply. ‘He’s unwell. Very unwell. He seems to have had some kind of a . . . seizure.’ This provoked knowing looks from a few of the assembled Brothers, but Vredech ignored them. ‘He’s gone dashing off up the mountain, and there’s an appalling storm brewing. If he isn’t badly injured, there’s every chance that he’ll be benighted or snowed in.’

The mood in the hall changed perceptibly. Some of the Brothers showed quite open irritation at this new problem that Cassraw had brought them, but most seemed to be genuinely concerned. Vredech had the impression that Mueran was assessing which group was in the majority before replying, but he swiftly reproached himself for his lack of charity.

‘Ah,’ Mueran said neutrally, but nodding sagely.

‘The sky was looking grim this morning. We must send someone to look for him immediately.’ The speaker was Morem, a gentle, kindly man, remarkably free from the narrow-eyed shrewdness that typified most of the Chapter Members.

Vredech shook his head and moved closer to the table. He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Whatever problems Cassraw has caused us recently, he’s still a senior member of the church, and despite the occasional complaint from some of its noisier members, he is much loved and depended upon by his flock. I don’t have to tell you how greatly he’s contributed in the past and I’m sure that with help through this . . . difficulty . . . he’ll contribute as much again in the future. But he needs our help and protection, now. We can’t send out the Witness House servants to find him. It’d be all over Troidmallos within the day. We’ll have to go ourselves.’

This suggestion caused a stir. Most of the Chapter Members were manifestly too old to be wandering about the upper reaches of the mountain in any weather, let alone in a storm.

‘We could send some of the novices,’ someone offered tentatively.

Vredech shook his head again. ‘The state that Cassraw’s in, it’s not going to be easy to make him listen,’ he said. ‘I think he’s suffering some deep spiritual crisis. Apart from the common compassion of helping him through this in private, I think only we here stand any chance of being able to get through to him.’ He waved down some retorts and, looking at Mueran, became more forceful. ‘Those of us who can manage it should go up the hill and look for him, and go now before he gets too far, or that storm breaks.’

Mueran affected a look of great concern as if he were pondering the suggestion carefully. Vredech waited. He had launched his final appeal directly at Mueran simply to force the issue. It was a device he had used more than once in the past, knowing that the man disliked taking decisions but disliked being seen as indecisive even more. When faced in such a forthright and public manner, however, he could give his approval in the knowledge that, should it prove to be a mistake, he would be able to lay the greater part of any odium at the main instigator’s – the frail servant’s – feet. Should it prove to be correct, he would allow himself to bask quietly in the appreciation that would follow. Once again Vredech reproached himself for his lack of charity.

‘You’re quite right, Brother Vredech,’ Mueran said smoothly. ‘Dear Brother Cassraw’s pain must be our concern. Little is to be served by allowing this matter to become the commonplace of the gossips and still less the Sheeters.’ The word Sheeters brought angry frowns to the faces of many of his audience and there was a great deal of knowing nodding.

Mueran turned from Vredech to the others and with a regretful smile said, ‘Alas, I myself am long past trekking about the mountain, but those of you with the legs and the youth for it go with Brother Vredech now. The rest of us will wait here and pray for your safe return with our Brother.’

‘Perhaps you might also prepare a room and a warm bed for him,’ Vredech said, a little more acidly than he had intended.

Mueran’s smile barely faltered but his eyes narrowed slightly as he inclined his head regally. Mistake, Vredech thought.

‘Practical as ever, Brother Vredech,’ Mueran declared unctuously. ‘Brother Cassraw has a fine friend in you.’

It was a double-edged remark.

A little later, some eight of the Chapter Brothers were gathered outside the Witness House, clad in such heavy cloaks, scarves and gloves as they could find. There had been more than eight volunteers, but Vredech had had to dissuade several of them. There was no point in taking out such a large group, since they might have to spend more time tending their own than searching for Cassraw.

Those Brothers who were staying behind were either watching anxiously from the top of the steps, or were busily shooing novices and servants about their affairs.

Vredech looked up at the sky and then at his companions. The clouds were lower and more oppressive than ever. He could feel primitive fears stirring deep within him and, for a moment, he wanted to flee into the sanctuary of the Witness House like a frightened child. He had to make an unexpected effort to steady himself and, silently, but liberally, he blamed his friend for this disturbance.

Then he noticed that like the rest of the group, he was hunching his shoulders and bending his head forward as if the sky itself were pressing down on him. Consciously he straightened up and stared at the mountain in an attempt to focus his mind on the task at hand. The summit could not be seen from where they were, but he judged that in any case it was lost in the clouds by now. He quailed inwardly at the prospect of the bad weather ahead.

Still, it didn’t matter. Cassraw had to be found.

‘Come along, Brothers,’ he said, almost heartily. ‘We’ve nothing to gain by . . .’

‘A moment, Brother Vredech.’ Mueran’s voice interrupted him. The company at the top of the steps parted to let him through as he emerged from the Witness House. ‘I think a moment’s prayer for our lost Brother would not go amiss, don’t you?’

Anxious to be off, Vredech managed a commendably impassive expression as he bowed his head in response. He knew well enough that Mueran would take three times as long gently remonstrating with him if he debated the worth of this small exercise.

However, as Mueran, hands clasped and features studiously humble, tilted his head back into his usual preaching position, the lowering sky out-faced him, and for a moment he faltered.

‘Ishryth . . . we beseech You . . . guide the feet of our Brothers in their . . . and . . . keep our beloved Brother Cassraw from all harm . . . in his torment . . .’ He was both stuttering and gabbling.

Vredech took advantage of a momentary pause. ‘Thus let it be,’ he said firmly, in case Mueran should recover and begin his usual flow. The traditional response echoed uncertainly through the group, several of the Brothers casting sidelong glances at their revered leader to confirm that he had indeed finished.

Vredech bowed respectfully, then briskly motioned his party forward.

As they walked, there was some discussion about what exactly they should do. Should they divide into two or three parties, or stay together?

‘We’d better stay together for now,’ Vredech concluded. ‘Perhaps when we’re nearer the top we might split up – it depends what the weather’s like. We must be careful. We’re none of us as young as we were and it will certainly reach the Sheeters if we aggravate matters by getting lost ourselves and Mueran has to call in a rescue party from the town.’

They plodded on, stopping occasionally to allow the slower ones to catch up and recover their breath. The sky pressed down on them and the darkness deepened. It seeped inevitably into their conversation.

‘I’ve never seen clouds like this before. They’re neither snow, rain, nor thunder clouds.’ The speaker was Horld, a tall lanky individual who alone among the group seemed to be suffering no physical distress as they climbed. Once a blacksmith, he had turned to the church quite late in life after miraculously escaping from a disastrous fire at his forge. He was famous for the vividness of his preaching, which was permeated by the smoke, heat and clamour of his past trade, and though his pewside manner was the terror of his flock, his compassion and his practical pastoral care made him as much loved as he was feared. Vredech was glad that he had been at the Chapter meeting.

‘Judgement Day.’

Vredech started at these words which echoed the thoughts that had come when he had stepped out of the lee of the Witness House wall to stand alone and exposed before the gathering clouds.

‘An ominous phrase, Laffran,’ he said, struggling with a suddenly dry throat to affect a lightness that he did not feel.

‘Just came into my mind, Brother,’ Laffran said.

Horld grunted. ‘Judgement Day will be darker, hotter and noisier than this,’ he said dismissively, but there was an uneasy tension in his manner as he urged the group forward with an impatient gesture.

‘Yes, I’m sure it will. And I do believe that Ishryth would have given us some kind of a hint beforehand.’ Morem’s mild irreverence brought a stern frown from Horld, but seeing his older colleague suffering noticeably with the effort of the climb, he merely put an arm out to help him.

Vredech brought the conversation back to safer ground. ‘They are strange, though, these clouds,’ he said. ‘They must be piled unbelievably high to be so dark.’ He looked at Horld. ‘And you’re right, they don’t feel like rain or snow, and certainly not like thunder. Let’s just hope that whatever they are, they pass away as quietly as they’ve come.’

No one seemed inclined to pursue the matter, and the party moved slowly on up the increasingly steep ground. The light was beginning to fade. Vredech cursed himself for not bringing any lanterns, but he had not envisaged such darkness. He had been caught in the clouds many times before now, sometimes in extremely bad visibility, but this was almost like night-time.

‘We’ll have to stop,’ he said eventually. ‘This light’s appalling. It’s becoming too dangerous to carry on. One of us is going to be hurt if we do.’

‘We can’t just abandon Cassraw,’ Laffran objected.

‘No, Vredech’s right,’ Horld said gloomily. ‘We need lights. It’s going to be difficult enough just getting back to the Witness House, let alone trying to go on, and still less to actually look for Cassraw.’

There was a reluctance to accept this simple practical logic, however, and for a few minutes the party remained where they were, some resting on the rocks, others peering intently into the gloom.

Abruptly, Horld took Vredech’s arm and pointed. His hand was little more than a white blur now.

‘There,’ he whispered, as though afraid that the others might hear. Vredech screwed his eyes tight and leaned forward but could make nothing out. He shrugged.

‘Light,’ Horld said, still whispering. ‘Up there – see?’

Vredech was about to contradict him when he realized that there was indeed light coming from somewhere. In fact, it was coming from everywhere. Dim, but with a yellowish and, it seemed to Vredech, unhealthy tint, it was marking out the skyline ahead of them. The sight temporarily disorientated him, and for a moment he felt as though he were not truly there. He shook his head to clear his wits.

‘What is it?’ Laffran asked, his voice unsteady.

‘It’s the clouds near the summit,’ Vredech said slowly. ‘They seem to be shining. As if there’s something . . .’ He hesitated. ‘As if there’s something . . .’ Inside them, he found himself wanting to say. Something . . . evil. Thoughts flooded into his mind, imbued with a tingling, unreasoning alarm.

Judgement Day.

God is here.

He is come.

For me.

You’re like a child in the dark, he shouted silently to himself in an attempt to deafen this mounting inner clamour. He was only partially successful and when he concluded his remark with a lame, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he had difficulty in keeping his voice steady.

Horld grunted and with brusque practicality anchored Vredech back into solid reality. ‘Probably some kind of lightning,’ he announced. ‘Shall we go on?’

Vredech thought for a moment. Dark, half-formed fears were wrestling with his concern for Cassraw and, all too aware that he was mimicking Mueran, he looked around the group in an attempt to assess the consensus. Though he could see faces in the dim light, however, he could read no expressions. And, disturbingly, all eyes were turned into deep black sockets.

‘A little way,’ he decided. ‘But move carefully, and keep together.’

And the group was off again, moving hesitantly through the eerie light.

‘I wonder what it could be,’ Morem mused out loud.

‘It’s Ishryth’s will.’

Vredech turned to the speaker. It was Laffran. To his horror, a violent urge bubbled up within him to curse at Laffran for his stupidity. They were on this wretched and now dangerous trail because of Cassraw’s ridiculous superstition, and they wanted none of their own to confuse their judgement. The thought was almost heretical, but it was the force of his anger that shocked him and he turned away from Laffran sharply. ‘All things are Ishryth’s will,’ he muttered.

‘Thus let it be,’ he heard Laffran responding.

Vredech lifted a hand to his forehead. He felt as though he were suffocating. Judgement Day. The words returned to him again and this time refused to leave him.

‘Are you all right?’ Morem’s voice was anxious.

‘Yes,’ he replied as casually as he could manage. ‘Just a little shaky. Not as fit as I thought I was.’ But deep inside him something was turning and heaving, like vomit.

Then he saw them . . .

Shadows.

He froze.

They were moving towards him, black against the unnatural darkness.

Weaving . . .

Swaying . . .

Chapter 4

Vredech stood motionless, paralysed by the conflict between the primitive terror welling up within him and the promptings of his rational mind telling him that what he was seeing was some strange optical illusion. He must be suffering a trick of the senses brought about by the unfamiliar exertion of clambering up the mountain in this bizarre, disturbing light.

He rubbed his arm across his eyes. The gesture should have been comforting but it felt alien and unnatural, as if the arm was not his any more, but some empty shell. And there was worse. He drew in a sharp breath. In the momentary, private gloom behind his closed eyes, where he had sought shelter, the shadows were there also; dancing, at once seductive and repellent, through the dull lights and patterns that hovered there. He opened his eyes in terror. He could feel the cold mountain air filling his chest but it did nothing to restore him. The shadows were still there. They were both beyond and within him, and all sense of normality was gone.

Yet still his reason clung on. Were these something real, or was he indeed suffering from some form of mountain sickness? He should turn to his companions and speak to them, ask them what they thought was happening; ask them what they could see. But he could not. He was unable to move, unable to cry out . . .

The shadows suddenly closed about him.

In the darkness that was not darkness and the now that was not now, a clamour of voices cascaded through Vredech. Voices full of hope rekindled, of an appalling fate avoided. Voices raised in raucous thanksgiving.

But there was no glory in the sound . . . if sound it was. It was more the gloating triumph of barbarian warriors revelling in the slaughter of a weaker foe. No! It was worse even than that. It was something primeval. Something out of the darkest reaches of the human mind. Something from a time before humanity was humanity.

Something to shrivel the mind of even the most depraved.

Under the impact of this revelation, Vredech lashed out, searching for some anchor that might hold him sane and whole amid this horror. Prayer came to him.

Ishryth protect me.

The words formed silently in the darkness.

The tumult did not so much falter as change character at the sounding of this slight clarion. It took on a jagged, unreal quality. Vredech became vaguely aware of his own breathing, shallow and fearful. It focused his awareness still further.

‘What is this? ’

Vredech felt the question rather than heard it, though its utterance was cold and awful, the very essence of the terrible celebration that hung now in the background.

Then the darkness was passing through him, searching. There were hints of sudden doubt and fear in it. And a burgeoning, terrifying rage. Yet, all too human though these emotions were, there was a quality in them such as could not be sounded by any ordinary measure. Through his growing terror, Vredech sensed his hands trying to move, trying to rise up and protect him from some sudden and unexpected attack. But nothing could prevail against what held him now. Into the silence another prayer came to him, a prayer of denunciation. He roared it into the darkness.

‘Leave me, Ahmral’s spawn! Leave me!’

It echoed futilely about him, inconsequential beyond reckoning. And yet, around its tiny impact something formed.

A dark amusement?

Then . . . relief?

And, abruptly, he was dismissed. He was less than nothing. The merest mote.

Briefly the doubt returned, chilling Vredech utterly.

And he was dismissed again.

He was falling. Plummeting into the darkness.

‘Vredech! Vredech!’

Voices all about him broke into the darkness and buoyed him up. As did arms wrapped about him.

Vredech’s eyes opened on to the lesser darkness that was pervading the mountain. It seemed almost dazzling, so stark was the contrast with . . . wherever he had been.

‘Vredech, what’s the matter? Are you all right?’ The voice restored him further. It was Horld’s, as were the powerful arms holding him. He realized that his fellow Brother was sustaining his entire weight. He willed his legs to support him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, his voice strange in his own ears.

‘Are you all right?’ the question came again.

He nodded and gently unwound Horld’s arms from about himself. ‘Did you see that, hear that?’ he asked, looking round at his companions.

‘See what? Hear what?’

‘The shadows. That terrible sound. That presence. His voice faded as normality settled further about him. There was an awkward silence.

‘I only saw you suddenly wave your arms then start to collapse,’ Horld said, looking at him anxiously. ‘You’ve probably been walking too fast. You’re not as fit as . . .’

‘No,’ Vredech interrupted, stepping away from him and gazing intently into the gloom. ‘There was something here . . . shadows, moving. You must have seen them!’ He put his hand to his head. ‘And something worse. Something . . . alive. And awful. And it was in my mind as well.’

Morem took his arm gently. ‘I think we’d better head back, Vred,’ he said, though the remark was addressed to the others. ‘There were no shadows, or anything else. All we saw was Horld grabbing you.’

Vredech wanted to argue. He might not be the man he was but he was fitter than all of them here, save perhaps Horld, and he hadn’t suffered some hallucination brought on by exhaustion. Ishryth knows, he’d walked the mountains often enough! And he had seen what he had seen, heard what he had heard. Worse, he could still feel inside him a lingering after-shadow of the fearful presence that had touched him. It was all he could do to avoid shuddering. Yet he had been too long a member of the Chapter not to be able to stand apart from himself and view his conduct as it would be seen by his companions, with all that that implied. Obviously what had happened had happened to him alone, and if he persisted in questioning the others about it then they would assume, not unreasonably, that he was raving. Infected perhaps in some way by his contact with Cassraw. This little expedition would have to be abandoned and another arranged, which must inevitably involve the Witness House servants or the novices, and which would thus find its way down into the town gossip where Cassraw’s spectacular flight would be lavishly embellished with tales of his own apparent derangement. It was unlikely to cost him his place in the Chapter, but it would undermine his authority there and, by the same token, increase that of Mueran and the other timeservers. This was not in the best interests of the church. And as for what the Sheeters would make of it . . .

That settled it. Whatever strangeness had just touched him must be left for later consideration. Now he must attend to the matter in hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, affecting a heartiness that he certainly did not feel. ‘It was just a little dizziness.’ He nodded towards Horld. ‘You’re probably right. I was walking too fast and fretting about Cassraw, and all in this awful light. I’m fine now. Let’s press on a little further.’

Horld grunted non-committally. Vredech was certain that had the light been better he would have seen doubt written all over the tall man’s face, so he avoided the risk of any further debate by striding out purposefully. The hasty scuffling from behind told him that his immediate problem was over; his decisive action had ended any further interrogation and ensured the continuation of the search. Though the questions set in train by what had just happened were clamouring frantically for attention, he somehow forced them to one side. He was on the Ervrin Mallos, in the dark, looking for his demented friend, in the company of none too robust a team of walkers. He must remain alert, watch and listen for any signs of Cassraw or distress amongst his companions and, not least, he reminded himself, watch his every footstep. Carelessness here could see him pitched over some crag, thereby enabling him to learn the answer to some of life’s great mysteries the hard way. The notion made him smile to himself despite his concerns.

‘Not so fast, Vred,’ came a reproachful cry from behind. He turned to see his companions some way back, dim figures struggling through the gloom. Reaching out, he rested his hand on a nearby rock. Its cold damp touch felt reassuring. It was here, now, and so was he. He felt lighter.

‘Sorry,’ he shouted back. ‘Must have got my second wind.’

There were complaints when everyone finally caught up.

‘We should have gone back for some lanterns . . .’

‘And more help . . .’

Vredech looked up at the clouds before replying. The dull, wavering yellow light still pervaded them. It had a sickly hue and it illuminated little, but at least it kept total darkness at bay. For a brief, dizzying moment he felt that he was looking not up, but down: down into some terrible pit, into the very eye of whatever it was that had touched him. He jerked his attention back to his companions.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve come a long way and there’s just about enough light to carry on with if we’re careful. I’m loath to turn back without making a little more of an effort to find Cassraw. He could be in desperate straits by now.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Someone’s got to find him, sooner or later,’ Morem said eventually.

Horld was looking up at the faintly glimmering clouds. ‘That’s not a happy sight,’ he said. ‘I’d dearly like to know what’s causing it. I’ve never seen the like, ever.’

‘None of us have,’ Vredech ventured. ‘But light is light. We should use it while we can.’

‘And if it goes out?’

Laffran’s cold query silenced the group again for a moment. Vredech waited, deliberately saying nothing.

Horld shook his head. ‘It won’t go out,’ he declared. ‘Whatever’s causing it, it’s too vast to be turned on and off like a Meeting House lamp. No, it won’t go out.’

There was a hint of the practical man’s contempt in his voice and Laffran bridled. ‘And if these clouds choose to empty their load on us? Rain, snow, wind – what then?’ he demanded. ‘It’s getting colder, you might have noticed.’

‘Then we’ll get wetter and colder,’ Horld countered, speaking with wilful slowness.

The two held one another in brotherly esteem, as was fitting for men in their position, but there was little affection wasted between them and Chapter meetings were not infrequently enlivened by their petty arguments. Vredech intervened hastily before one developed here. ‘To Ishryth’s lawn then,’ he said, half-suggestion, half-instruction. ‘It’s not far now. We can review our position there.’

Ishryth’s lawn was a gently sloping grassy area where many walkers chose to pause and rest before venturing on the final rocky scramble to the summit. It was sheltered and very pleasant and, given the right weather, offered splendid panoramas of Canol Madreth’s mountains.

Laffran and Horld seemed to have no great heart for continuing their argument and, no one objecting to this compromise, the party set off again. Vredech, still strangely buoyed up, paced himself more carefully this time.

As Horld had observed, the light from above showed no signs of diminishing, though it continued to vary in intensity, pulsing slowly and erratically to some indefinable rhythm. Few of the walkers chose to look up at it however, ostensibly being more concerned with watching where they were putting their feet. As they walked on, it grew colder. Not the sharp coldness of a winter frost, but a clinging, damp unpleasantness.

Vredech looked about him at the familiar landscape now made alien. Night in day, a graveyard chill and the whole lit by a light that came from neither sun nor moon, but was . . .? The word diseased came to mind but he abandoned it immediately and, reproaching himself for allowing his mind to wander, turned his attention back to where he was walking.

Then, after a slithering and alarming clamber up a narrow gulley down which a small stream was still running, they were walking on to Ishryth’s lawn.

‘It’s brighter,’ Morem said in some surprise.

‘It’s probably because we’ve just come out of the gulley,’ Horld said, though more gently than he would have addressed such a remark to Laffran.

‘Either way, it’s no pleasanter,’ Vredech said. There was a unanimous nodding of heads from the eight dark-shadowed forms as they each looked around at the soft green grass now rendered dull and lifeless by the touch of the eerie cloudlight.

Motioning his companions to remain where they were, Vredech moved across the clearing towards a rocky edge which he knew would give him a view out over the valley. Only when he reached it did he realize that he was hoping to see Troidmallos far below, its lights shining up to him like tiny welcoming beacons. The town must surely be alive with lights by now, if this vast bank of clouds had moved so far as to cover the peak of the mountain. But there was nothing. Just an impenetrable darkness. There was not even the faint greyness of daylight seeping through to show the edge of the clouds where they had arched over the mountain.

Nothing.

Just blackness.

And silence. No faint murmur of sounds from the valley below, no occasional bird cry, no breeze.

Nothing.

It was as if the world had ended and he and his companions were alone in an endless, empty void.

Vredech did shudder this time. Partly because of the increasing cold, partly from some deeper need. He wanted to pray again, but he steeled himself against the urge. It’s just freak weather conditions, he forced himself to think. That’s all. I’m not some superstitious savage who retreats into mindless ritual when faced with the unknown. I use the mind that Ishryth gave me. I think. I learn. I strive to fathom his mysteries.

It was true. But it didn’t stop him from shuddering again.

The others began to join him. They stood arrayed around him, gazing out into the darkness. There was a little foot-stamping and arm-beating, but it gradually faded away.

‘It’s frightening.’

Morem’s simple admission made Vredech feel slightly ashamed.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is. I suppose we’ll just have to be grateful that we’re not in the thick of a blizzard or a thunderstorm.’

‘Yet,’ Laffran added. His slightly sour tone made Vredech smile.

‘Now,’ he said, turning his back on the emptiness and facing his companions, ‘in case the weather has any more surprises for us we’d better decide what to do next. I don’t want to leave without a determined search for Cassraw, but the ground’s much steeper and rougher from here on and there’s precious little in the way of a clearly marked path. We could miss him easily enough and we could end up in difficulties ourselves. And I’m concerned about the temperature.’

‘What was Cassraw wearing?’ someone asked.

Vredech grimaced. There were no real choices ahead after all. ‘Just what he stormed out of the Debating Hall in. No top coat, cloak, nothing.’

‘Then some of us will have to go on,’ Horld announced. ‘The darkness is a bad enough problem, but if it keeps on getting colder then Cassraw’s soon going to be in very serious trouble, tough though he is.’

‘You’re right,’ Vredech said. He looked at the group, wishing that he could see their faces, read their thoughts. ‘While there’s still some visibility we’ll have to go on.’

‘I don’t think I can go much further,’ Morem confessed. ‘That gulley was quite a struggle.’

‘We’ll split up,’ Vredech said, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Horld and I still have some wind left. We’ll go on to the summit. The rest of you stay here and try to keep warm. Listen for any sound of Cassraw coming back in case we miss him.’

There was no dissent.

‘Are you all right?’ Horld said softly as they moved away from the group and began cautiously working their way over the shattered rocks that would lead them to the summit.

‘I’m fine,’ Vredech said. ‘Not happy, not warm and not comfortable, but fine for all that.’

Horld grunted. ‘That was a very strange turn you had before,’ he said.

‘It’s a strange day,’ Vredech replied evasively.

‘There’s no denying that,’ Horld agreed. ‘What do you think happened to Cassraw to send him off like that?’

Vredech shrugged his shoulders unhappily. He did not want to discuss Cassraw’s behaviour. Indeed, he did not want to discuss anything. Once his thoughts started to run he was far from certain that he would be able to contain them. It was only the physical discipline involved in struggling over the rocks in the darkness that was keeping a torment of his own at bay. But still, he must reply.

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘He’s always been rather . . . intense. Perhaps it’s the problems he’s been having with his flock. Some of them are a bit of a pain, and he takes things to heart much more than people realize.’

‘I said at the time that I thought he was too young for the Haven parish,’ Horld fretted. ‘It’s a big responsibility. He should’ve served a year or two more as a Chapter Member before coming to anything like that.’

There was nothing new in Horld’s comments. He was quite conservative in his thinking and although he himself had only been a little longer in the church than Cassraw, he was cautious, even suspicious, of younger men coming along too quickly. But he had always spoken his views openly and without acrimony and they were well known.

Vredech had the feeling that, untypically, he was talking around some topic instead of tackling it head on. Taking a risk, he changed the subject abruptly.

‘This cold’s getting worse. It’s starting to cut right through me,’ he said.

Horld walked on a little way without replying. Again Vredech sensed an unease within him. Then he stopped suddenly. ‘Look,’ he whispered. Vredech could dimly make out Horld’s arm pointing up into the darkness. He peered after it, but could see nothing.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘There,’ Horld said impatiently. ‘Look – that light.’

Slowly, Vredech’s eyes adjusted. Ahead he saw that a part of the sky was noticeably brighter than the rest. It offered no greater illumination, however. Rather it seemed to be a concentration of all that was unpleasant in the strange cloudlight. He felt a chill of fear as if something might be lurking behind the rocks now silhouetted along the skyline.

‘What is it, do you think?’ he said, whispering, as Horld had.

‘I don’t know,’ Horld replied. ‘But you’re right, this cold seems to be getting worse with each step. Come on.’ And he was off, moving swiftly.

‘Wait,’ Vredech called out, though still softly.

But Horld did not seem to be listening. It was almost as though he was being drawn forward by something.

‘Wait!’ Vredech called again, more insistently. His voice sounded harsh in the cold darkness and Horld stopped and turned.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled as Vredech reached him.

Vredech felt a spasm of irritation. ‘For pity’s sake, Horld, we must keep together! One lost on the mountain is bad enough.’ Immediately, regret flooded through him, but he could not find the words to express it. The two men stood staring at one another silently, aware of each other only as darkness within darkness.

Then that very darkness was changing. Sombre shadows were being carved out to give form and depth, though still more was hidden than illuminated. Both men looked upwards instinctively. Vredech drew in a sharp breath, while Horld circled his forefinger over his heart. It was an old gesture invoking Ishryth’s protection, long out of favour with the church but much used by many of its followers.

The sky was alive with flickering lights. The dank coldness that pervaded Vredech moved to and fro within him in compulsive harmony with the sight: rising, falling, sucking his breath away with its awful chill. It seemed to him once again that he was in the presence of a great multitude, whirling and dancing in an unholy celebration. Yet was it a multitude? He had the fleeting impression of a single entity, broken and shattered; a myriad gibbering shards trying to become whole again. His body filled with shivering echoes of the pernicious touch he had felt earlier and he raised a hand not only to fend it off but as if, in some way, he could deny the awful synthesis he could feel happening.

‘Ishryth,’ he heard Horld murmuring, awe-stricken.

The word rang through Vredech and from somewhere deep within him came a great denial. But he could find no voice for it. He was impotent.

The lights danced on, weaving movements growing ever faster and more complex while Vredech sank into despair, consumed by the knowledge that there was something he could do – should do – if he had but the knowledge.

Then, briefly, the lights converged to become like a single star, unbearably bright to the two men after their long journey through the darkness.

And it was over.

The star was gone.

All the light was gone.

Darkness returned, total and absolute.

Both men cried out at their sudden blindness, and reached out wildly to one another. Their hands met fortuitously and tightened upon one another in desperation. Vredech could not have said for how long they stood thus, primitive fears clamouring at them, but eventually he heard his own voice, trembling and breathless, saying, ‘We must go down. Very slowly, carefully, step by step. Feeling the way. And we must keep hold of one another.’ The sound helped him to regain some control over the screeching tumult filling his mind. Horld made no reply, but his grip tightened further about Vredech’s hand. Yet, despite the simple practicality of his suggestion, neither man moved.

‘I think I can see again.’

Horld’s voice was the merest whisper.

Vredech strained forward to hear him, then he, too, began to see that the greyness which he had taken to be a response by his eyes to the sudden darkness was, in fact, real. He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

Then Horld’s punishing grip was gone and his companion was once again a figure standing next to him, gazing upwards into the dull mottled grey of an ordinary winter sky. The rocks about them emerged from their entombment. The chill about them became the chill of a late winter’s day on the mountains, and a slight breeze began to blow.

Relief swept through Vredech, purging away the last few minutes of terror almost as if they had never been.

‘It’s over,’ he said, not knowing what he meant. ‘It’s over.’

A hand closed powerfully about his shoulder and a familiar, yet unfamiliar voice spoke.

‘No, my friends. It begins. It begins.’

Chapter 5

Both men started violently and spun round. Horld lost his balance as he did so, but Cassraw’s hand on his shoulder stayed his fall and steadied him effortlessly. So heightened were Vredech’s senses by this sudden shock that he took in Cassraw’s entire appearance instantly. He saw the formal black cassock, elegant and well-made, torn and stained beyond repair, with bloody weals showing through several of the larger rents. He noted the grimy face and tousled hair, the scratched and bleeding hands. But, distressing though all this was, to Vredech it appeared to be only the surface manifestation of a far more profound change. For, despite his dark and soiled attire, Cassraw’s presence seemed to cut through the gloom as though a light from some distant place were shining on him, like unexpected sunlight striking through storm clouds.

And his eyes . . . Vredech started.

Were they black . . .

Not just the irises, but the entire orbs . . .

Like pits of night.

Vredech had scarcely registered this chilling impression than it was gone and Cassraw was again nothing more than his familiar friend, battered and bruised but seemingly whole, and carefully supporting Horld.

Horld, however, was less than grateful, for all that Cassraw had probably saved him from an unpleasant fall. He yanked his arm free and the blacksmith in him opened his mouth and began to abuse Cassraw roundly for the folly of his sudden and silent approach. Cassraw did not respond, but merely stared at him and smiled absently. Meeting no opposition, Horld’s tirade foundered awkwardly and the obligations of his latter day calling returned to reproach him for his intemperance. Thus, after a few terse but vivid sentences, his rebukes began to be leavened with more charitable and concerned observations about his returned colleague. Still Cassraw made no reply, though his smile became knowing, like an understanding parent waiting patiently for his clamouring children to fall silent.

‘Where have you been? What’s happened to you?’ Vredech asked a few times while Horld’s tirade was plunging on, but even as this faltered into silence so his own questions died. He would receive no answers; he knew this as plainly as if Cassraw had placed his dirt-stained hand across his mouth to silence him.

Then Cassraw was holding their arms and motioning them down the mountain. His grip, though not painful, was quite irresistible and, for a little way, Horld and Vredech found themselves carried along by it. The ground was too uneven for walking thus for long, and after a little while Cassraw released his charges and set off on his own. His pace was not that of a man who had just careened recklessly up a mountain or suffered some great ordeal, and Vredech and Horld fell steadily further behind him.

When he reached the rest of the group waiting on Ishryth’s lawn, Cassraw was not only quite a way ahead of his would-be rescuers, but he looked much fresher than they did.

The Chapter Brothers milled around him, bombarding him with questions, but he did not acknowledge any of them other than by nodding occasionally and smiling mysteriously. The questions were redirected towards Horld and Vredech as soon as they arrived but all they could do was shrug.

‘We didn’t find him, he found us. He was there behind us when the darkness vanished. And no, he hasn’t said anything since then,’ they replied several times, by some common consent not referring to the enigmatic remark with which he had greeted them.

Morem had trained as a physician when younger and though he had subsequently chosen the church as his vocation, he still had considerable skill as a healer. ‘He’s probably in shock,’ he offered quietly. ‘It takes people in odd ways. He looks an awful mess but at least he doesn’t appear to be seriously injured. We shouldn’t pester him. He may be more fragile than he looks. I think perhaps we should just go back and let things take their course. He’ll tell us what happened when he’s ready.’

Even as he was speaking however, Cassraw was moving off again. He went to the rocky edge where, a little earlier, Vredech had stood and stared out into a terrifying black emptiness. Now, though the light was grey and wintry, the scene was more familiar. The lights of Troidmallos could be seen twinkling far below, and the shapes of most of the adjacent mountains could be made out. Cassraw’s head moved from side to side as he reviewed the dull panorama, then he nodded to himself very slowly and unfolded his arms until they were held out wide as though he wished to embrace the entire country.

His companions watched in silence, not so much following Morem’s advice as simply not knowing what to do. They had little time to ponder, however, for, his brief contemplation over, Cassraw was once again determining the course of events. Striding across Ishryth’s lawn he headed towards the gully that would start the descent back to the Witness House.

The return journey gave the Brothers no great insight into Cassraw’s condition. In fact, it served only to compound their confusion as Cassraw, though remaining relentlessly silent, continued to take effective command of the group, moving back and forth amongst them, patiently supporting and helping the frailer Brothers who were now beginning to feel the strain of their strange journey.

Finally the Witness House was in sight.

Cassraw stopped on a rocky spur and looked down at it in an almost proprietorial manner, then he turned and stared towards the summit of the Ervrin Mallos. After a moment he nodded to himself as he had at the edge of Ishryth’s lawn. It seemed to Vredech that Cassraw was making a decision.

As the group, moving slowly and wearily now, wended its way down the final slopes towards the Witness House, they were greeted by Mueran and several of the other Chapter Members. Mueran had led them forth when the darkness had disappeared, after carefully ensuring that all the novices and servants were kept occupied elsewhere in the building. Vredech thought he noticed a momentary flash of anger in Cassraw’s eyes as he caught sight of the Covenant Member approaching, but it was gone before he could register it fully.

He could read the debate in Mueran’s eyes, however, even if it lasted only a little longer than Cassraw’s seeming anger. Was his greeting to be a rebuke, or a welcome?

Mueran’s face became pained and he opened his arms wide. It was to be a welcome.

‘Brother Cassraw,’ he said. ‘We’ve been greatly alarmed for you.’ He looked around at the others. ‘For all of you. The darkness seemed to deepen so after you’d left.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘I never thought I’d be so glad to see such a dismal wintry sky, but . . .’ He chuckled genially in an attempt to lessen the tension but the sound jarred and he concluded awkwardly, ‘Ishryth be praised for carrying the darkness from us anyway.’

Cassraw fixed him with a stern gaze. ‘Ishryth’s will is written on this day truly,’ he said, unexpectedly breaking his silence.

Unnerved by Cassraw’s stare and uncertain how to respond, Mueran nodded non-committally and said weakly, ‘We’ve warm food and a good fire for you all inside.’

Cassraw’s response was an authoritative gesture, which motioned everyone towards the Witness House. A frown flickered across Mueran’s face at this cavalier action, but he turned with the rest and, after a short, none too dignified sprint, caught up with Cassraw who was now striding out boldly, his flock abandoned.

Once inside the Witness House, Cassraw maintained the same vigorous pace in the direction of the Debating Hall, drawing the group after him, noisy but too flustered to question him. He seemed to be gathering energy with every step. Mueran was no longer even trying to keep up with him, and kept looking around anxiously for fear that any novices or servants might have strayed from their carefully allotted tasks and be witnessing this scuttling procession. From time to time he lifted his hand as if he were about to call out to Cassraw, but no sound came.

Suddenly, Vredech had had enough. Tired and drained after the ordeal of struggling up the mountain through the darkness, and the strain of the bizarre descent, his patience abruptly evaporated. He ran forward as Cassraw reached the Debating Hall and, stepping in front of him, placed his hand firmly on the door.

‘Enough, Cassraw. Enough.’ He was out of breath but his voice was nevertheless powerful and angry. The others fell silent. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing, or even if you know what you’re doing, but some of us who came out to find you are in a sorry state as a result. They need rest and attention now.’ He looked Cassraw up and down and his tone softened. ‘As do you, for pity’s sake. Whatever’s keeping you on your feet, there’ll be a price to pay if you don’t get some rest.’ Without waiting for a reply he turned to Mueran. ‘Warm food and a fire, you said. Where?’

Mueran nodded hesitantly. ‘In the Guest Room, next to the Refectory. I . . .’

‘Then let’s get up there,’ Vredech interrupted. ‘Let’s wait until we’re cleaned up and fed and we’ve got some normality around us again before we do any talking about what’s happened here.’

Several voices spoke out in agreement.

‘Of course,’ Mueran said. ‘You’re quite right, Brother Vredech. We must . . .’

‘No!’ Cassraw had not moved since Vredech had stepped in front of him. Now, as his voice rang out, his frame became alive with agitation. Vredech winced away from the sound which had been spoken directly into his face, but immediately returned his gaze to meet Cassraw’s.

‘There are things which you must know,’ Cassraw went on, apparently addressing everyone present but still speaking directly and forcefully into Vredech’s face. ‘Matters of great import. Matters concerning . . .’

‘Enough, I said, Cassraw!’ Vredech shouted. ‘And I mean it. You’ve caused enough problems today. You’re not well – you need rest. We all need rest.’

Cassraw’s eyes suddenly blazed and he reached past Vredech to take hold of the handle of the door to the Debating Hall. For an instant, as he stared into his old friend’s black eyes, Vredech felt that he was looking into the very heart of the darkness that had loomed so terribly over them that day. The memory of the dancing shadows and the menacing presence that had reached into him flitted around the edges of his consciousness, threatening to bring with it the babbling host of questions that so far he had been able to hold at bay. But, as during the final part of his journey up the mountain, something else stirred within him, something deep and resolute. And then there was no Mueran, no Brothers, no Witness Hall. Nothing except himself and Cassraw.

And while Cassraw was his friend, he must nonetheless be opposed.

Will against will.

No reason sustained this knowledge. It was simply a truth.

He must not yield.

But it was not a raging power that came to him. He simply said, ‘No,’ very softly. ‘As I love you, my old friend. No.’

And he was once again standing outside the Debating Hall, suddenly noisy now with his fellow Brothers rushing forward to catch the falling Cassraw.

* * * *

‘The people’s faith is our charge,’ Mueran said at the hastily-convened meeting that followed Cassraw’s collapse into unconsciousness. ‘We must do what we can to protect the church. News that one of our Brothers has become . . . deranged, because he may have been burdened with too much too soon will give rise to great doubts and distress amongst our flocks.’ Then he struck nearer to his true thinking. ‘And who can say what the Sheeters will make of it? The truth’s going to present us with enough problems, let alone what they’ll say. The last thing we need is any more controversy about the Haven Parish.’

His assessment of Cassraw’s condition was not accepted unopposed however.

‘Cassraw’s not deranged, he’s possessed,’ Laffran declared harshly. ‘Some servant of Ahmral has entered into him.’

There was uproar around the table, but Vredech, normally a vigorous opponent of such opinions, remained strangely silent even though many heads were turned towards him expectantly.

By default, Mueran spoke on his behalf. ‘Those are precisely the kind of remarks we must avoid, Brother Laffran,’ he said. ‘Possession is an area fraught with difficulty, not least because even today it still carries with it lingering memories of . . . less happy times.’ This was Mueran’s euphemism for the time of the Court of the Provers, when methods of appalling brutality had been used in the search for Ahmral’s servants. A dark time, when the church had been at once more powerful and less civilized, a time before reason had fought its way through to curb the excesses of superstition. An institution set up by the church to protect the faith and maintain its purity, the Court of the Provers had eventually led to the persecution of thousands for the least of deviations from the True Way. It had finally been swept aside by the forces of an increasingly nervous secular state empowered by a sickened populace, but its name lingered as a byword for terror, sadism and savagery, and all that is foul in human nature. It was an era that the modern church of Ishryth earnestly disowned though it was still apt to become overly defensive when reluctantly drawn into debates about it.

Laffran made to interrupt but Mueran ploughed on. ‘I’m not going to allow a discussion on that matter now,’ he said, with uncharacteristic firmness. ‘The church’s position is quite clear. The Santyth is, at best, ambiguous on the matter and we favour the search for rational causes for sickness before we invoke Ahmral’s personal intervention.’

Though Mueran was merely stating the church’s official view on such matters, he was far from happy. Laffran’s remark could pitch the gathering into the deepest theological waters and he desperately wanted to keep their discussion on the simple pragmatic level of a sick colleague presenting an awkward administrative problem.

He was spared any further debate by the entry of Morem, who had been attending to Cassraw. He went straight to his seat, dropped down in it heavily and put his face in his hands. When he looked up he started a little, as if surprised to find himself where he was.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was preoccupied.’

Mueran’s concerns were not eased by Morem’s manner. ‘How is Brother Cassraw?’ he asked, only just managing to keep his voice calm.

Morem frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He’s covered in cuts and bruises. Presumably he must have fallen over a good number of times when he was going up the mountain, but he’s suffered no blows to the head or anything else that I can see that should affect him this way.’

Laffran cleared his throat noisily, his jaw taut. Mueran glowered at him. ‘Could he just be exhausted?’ he tried hopefully.

‘We’re all exhausted, Mueran,’ Morem replied, unusually sour. ‘It’s been far from the day any of us thought it was going to be. But no one’s anywhere near the point of collapse. And Cassraw’s probably the fittest amongst us.’

There was an awkward silence. Mueran was at a loss to know what to ask and Morem seemed disinclined to offer any suggestions as to the nature of Cassraw’s condition. Vredech looked up. He was having difficulty in concentrating. He wanted to be away from here. He needed to think about everything that had happened today; needed to let loose the questions that were clamouring for release and preventing him from thinking clearly. He turned towards Morem. ‘No reflection on you, Morem, but do you think we should call in his physician?’ he asked.

Mueran’s finger tapped the table nervously.

‘I don’t think so,’ Morem said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Cassraw will be in some pain for a while, thanks to the knocking about he’s given himself, but I’ve examined him very thoroughly and nothing’s broken. Nor is he losing blood. Everything that really matters seems to be all right. Pulses, breathing – calmer and steadier than mine, for what it’s worth. Reflexes – fine.’ He rubbed his thighs gingerly. ‘He should be wide awake and grumbling like the rest of us, not lying there motionless.’

‘Well, we’ve got to do something,’ Mueran said pointlessly.

‘Perhaps his wife might be able to help,’ Morem said, his face lightening a little.

The atmosphere around the table changed. ‘We can’t bring a woman into the Witness House, just like that,’ Laffran exclaimed, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s . . .’ He floundered.

‘It’s a good idea,’ Vredech heard himself saying, cutting through Laffran’s confusion. ‘If Morem says he’s not badly injured that’s good enough for me. And if there’s nothing physically wrong with him then it’s head or heart.’ He tapped his head, then his chest. ‘Either way, his wife’s better equipped to reach him, wherever he is, than any of us.’ He became practical. ‘Besides, Cassraw would have gone home tonight. She’ll be expecting him.’

Thus it was that, despite his reservations about the matter, Laffran found himself escorting Dowinne to the Witness House. Reluctantly, after his announcement that Cassraw had ‘had a bit of an accident’ he had found it necessary to give Dowinne some assurance that nothing serious had happened to him but that Mueran thought it would be helpful if she were with him. It was near enough to a lie to make him decidedly uncomfortable, and he could do little except smile at her rather weakly in the dim lamplight whenever he caught her eye as they swayed from side to side in the carriage.

It did not occur to Dowinne that it was odd that she should be travelling in one of the church carriages with the blinds pulled down. Had she thought about it at all, she would perhaps have reasoned that although those appalling black clouds had dispersed, it was still very gloomy and near night-time anyway. The reality was that Mueran wanted no indication of anything untoward reaching anyone other than those who already knew, and the sight of Cassraw’s wife being driven through the streets towards the Witness House would be around the town within the hour.

Her thoughts were elsewhere, however. After the initial shock of Laffran’s news, she tried to work out what might have happened in order to decide how she must behave when she arrived at the Witness House. But to no avail. Apart from one or two servants, women were rarely allowed into the Witness House, and then usually on special ceremonial occasions. Thus, despite Laffran’s assurances, she knew that something serious must have happened even though it might not involve any physical injury to her husband. Once or twice she questioned Laffran, but he was evasive and obviously under instructions not to say anything. After a while she leaned back into the corner of her seat and, lifting her hand, rested her head on it. The action relieved Laffran greatly as he had been looking all around the carriage in an attempt to avoid her gaze. Dowinne had always made him feel uncomfortable and being confined with her under these circumstances was proving to be a considerable ordeal.

In the darkness behind her hand, Dowinne did not find the calm reflection she was seeking. Unthinkingly, she lifted her other hand and tested the bruise where she had inadvertently struck the metal dish earlier. The slight pain brought back the thoughts that had been troubling her all day; the feeling that something bad was about to happen, that forces beyond her and her husband’s control were in motion. It was not something that was susceptible to logic, but it was real nonetheless and it was some measure of Dowinne that not the slightest sign appeared on her face, as she faced this unknown, unreasoned intrusion and determined that she would deal with whatever had happened, however grim or strange.

Alert, but calm and clear in her mind now, she lowered her hand and examined her companion. He smiled feebly yet again, and she acknowledged him with an uncertain but calculated smile of her own. ‘Not much further now,’ he said needlessly, assuming his professional sick-visiting manner.

Part of Dowinne’s old self had already noted the discreet luxury of the carriage, but now she became aware of the even more discreet quality embedded in its design, as shown by the fact that she had not noticed when they had begun the final uphill climb. It reaffirmed her new intent. She would deal with this pending problem without losing sight of her long-term ambition for a single moment.

When they finally drew to a halt in front of the Witness House, Laffran helped Dowinne down the carriage steps. She had never felt more assured. It wasn’t something bad that was going to happen – or had happened – it was only something disturbing, something that brought change in its wake. And that could only be to her advantage.

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Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor

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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