Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Ibryen did not reply.

  Marris plucked the blade of grass then sat up and rested his chin in his hand. ‘That noise you made—or made me hear, Traveller—the rockfall. Brought back memories. Thoughts I haven't had in years.’ He smiled to himself. ‘When I was a child, I used to think what could be the smallest thing that would start an avalanche. What could it possibly be that would send boulders the size of a house crashing down a mountainside? I remember I decided in the end that it might be nothing more than dust blown by the wind.’ He held his thumb and forefinger slightly apart. ‘One tiny speck rolls into its neighbours, which roll into their neighbours, and so on and so on until down comes everything. Then I thought, but what could cause the breeze?’ He pursed his lips and blew the blade of grass from his extended palm. It twisted and turned erratically as it floated to the ground to meet its approaching shadow. ‘Then I gave up. So many tiny things, each smaller than the last, where could it possibly end?'

  Ibryen looked at him uncertainly. Marris caught his expression. ‘Don't worry, Count,’ he said, smiling. ‘My brains aren't addled yet though I'll concede they're well stirred up.’ He pointed at the Traveller. ‘Dust in the wind, aren't you, old man?’ he said. ‘Come to start an avalanche.’ The Traveller tilted his head on one side. ‘It's very strange,’ Marris went on. ‘Only a few hours ago, the future was merely a dim reflection of the past, dwindling into the far distance. Things would go on as they've always gone on since we came here. We'd fight and run, hide and prepare, think, fret. Then fight and run, hide and prepare. Over and over. Until in the end ...’ He pointed at the Traveller again. ‘... like he said. We'd lose. We'd make a mistake. They'd find us and crush us. Or, more likely, a stray arrow would bring you down—a missed footing—anything. Then me, Rachyl, Hynard, all the rest, one after the other. Inevitable, sooner or later.’ His demeanour, at odds with the content of his speech, was almost jovial, then it became suddenly dark, and he ground his fist into his palm. ‘We set our future in stone. Made it immutable, unavoidable.’ He looked up at Ibryen and his voice was vicious with self-reproach. ‘We nearly betrayed our people, Count. When we closed these mountains about us for protection we closed our minds as well. Ye gods, how could we have done it?'

  As Marris spoke, Ibryen felt the words cutting through his own confusion—the confusion that had been growing since the eerie skill of the Traveller had been demonstrated and which had worsened abruptly with the Traveller's revelation. But it was not easy to accept.

  'We could have done nothing else,’ he said defensively, holding on to matters he understood.

  Marris levered himself to his feet and recanted a little. ‘Perhaps not, who can say? But it's not important. We are where we are, and how we came here's of no consequence except in so far as we can learn from it. What matters is that from here we can change the future we'd set for ourselves.'

  Marris's sudden and uncharacteristic optimism chimed with something in Ibryen but it was nameless and unspecific, and years of patient, cautious opposition to the Gevethen prevented it from soaring. ‘Obviously we're where we are,’ he conceded. ‘But what's different?'

  Marris pointed at the Traveller again. ‘He is,’ he said. ‘He's slithered through our precious defences—from a direction we thought impossible, on the rare occasions we thought about it at all—to remind us that there's a world beyond here and Dirynhald—that there are powers other than sword and spear—that somewhere the great cloudlands still fly.'

  'All of which means what?’ Ibryen was almost shouting.

  Marris sagged a little. ‘I don't know,’ he said, more quietly. ‘Except that if he slipped under our guard, perhaps we can slip under theirs. Somewhere there'll be a way. We mustn't continue doing what we've always done just because we've survived so far doing it. We must find a way that's ...’ He looked upwards as though the answer might be written in the sky for him. ‘... different,’ he decided, though with a look of anti-climax on his face. ‘A way that doesn't fight them on their terms. A way that slips by them, through them, unnoticed—that finds them dozing in the sun on the ridge, thinking themselves safe.'

  'But ...'

  Marris held up his hand to prevent Ibryen's response. ‘Let me finish,’ he said, very softly. ‘Please. I must say this while it's in my mind, even though it's still forming.'

  Ibryen waited.

  'We mustn't be afraid of this wild thinking, Count. Somewhere in it there's victory for us. Yet even now I can feel the last five years of careful habit clamouring to dash it away, to keep everything as it was, to carry on as normal. But—it's wrong—so obviously wrong. And it grieves me that I, who had the arrogance to act as your mentor in such matters, shouldn't have seen it sooner.'

  Ibryen interrupted him. ‘I'll accept no self-recrimination from you, Corel,’ he said. ‘Few of our decisions have been made without the thoughts of us all being well-aired, but I accept responsibility for everything we do. We're safe, we're strong, our casualties have been comparatively slight and, as far as we can judge, our presence disturbs the Gevethen constantly, slowing down whatever plans it is they have against our neighbours. What we've done—what we do—isn't something that can be lightly cast aside.'

  Marris took his arm. ‘No, of course it isn't,’ he said. ‘But it's not enough. It's not enough to survive and slow the Gevethen down. To defeat them, to free our people, we have to do what we do, and more. And it's on that more that we must concentrate.’ He turned to the Traveller. ‘What you did to us, can you use it against the Gevethen's forces?'

  The Traveller retreated a step, arms extended. ‘No,’ he said unequivocally. ‘I'm no fighter. Besides, what I did was an abuse of my gift. Using it like that in the heat of the moment is one thing, wilfully using it as a weapon is another.'

  'You said you'd help.'

  'And I will, if I can.'

  'But ...'

  'No!'

  There was refusal in his tone that few could have gainsaid, but Marris was not one to surrender easily. ‘What can you do then?’ he demanded angrily.

  The Traveller looked at him a little uneasily. ‘I think I've already done two things,’ he replied. ‘One by accident, one deliberately. You yourself said that just by coming here I've made you think. Made you turn your minds to things that you never dreamed existed. Shaken loose thoughts that have been stagnant for years.’ Ibryen found himself being studied. ‘That was the accident,’ the Traveller went on. ‘The deliberate help I've given you, I suspect, is the message I gave you before. The message that gave form to what you'd already heard.'

  'What!’ Marris exclaimed. ‘That nonsense about the Culmadryen?'

  'Was what you said just moments ago only air, then?’ the Traveller responded, himself suddenly angry. ‘Have your everyday needs swamped you already? Have you so soon given up your search for the way that can't exist, that'll bring you the Gevethen?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘I don't know what the call I heard means for any of us, but that's what it said—"Help me, I am nearly spent".’ He levelled a finger at Ibryen. ‘And he heard it in ways as alien to me, as my ways are to you. That's where your way lies, Count. Into the Unknown. That's the direction that cannot be—that is at right angles to all the others no matter which way you turn—and that's where you must go.'

  'What are you talking about?’ Marris stormed. ‘You must be the way. You could use this power of yours to distract their forces. Unhorse their riders, scatter their infantry. Don't you realize what a weapon like that ...'

  'No!’ There was force in the voice now that even Marris could not oppose. ‘I am not a warrior. I do not fight, except in need, and then only to escape. Do not mention this again.’ His final emphasis slammed Marris's mouth shut.

  A cloud moved across the sun, throwing the group into shadow. Only when the sun returned did Ibryen find a response. ‘Neither of us understand,’ he said, stepping to the defence of his silenced Councillor. ‘You overwhelmed both of us effortlessly. You must explain.'

&nb
sp; For a moment the Traveller seemed inclined to turn and walk away, then he gave a helpless shrug. ‘By its very nature, a way that doesn't exist, a direction that cannot be, isn't amenable to explanation, is it?’ he said. ‘It's to be stumbled upon. It's to be the Unseen already clearly before you. I spoke as I was moved, and you must act as you are moved. I can't add anything further.’ He held out a peace offering to Marris. ‘If I were able to attack the Gevethen's forces in some way, would it really be any different from what you've already been doing? Perhaps there would be a temporary advantage, who can say? But if not, where would you be then? Still doomed.’ Marris bridled, but did not reply. The Traveller went on. ‘To you, my gift is strange and powerful. To me, it's something delicate and fragile, easily damaged—a trust to be cherished and tended as I constantly strive to improve my poor skills. It's neither weapon nor magical power. There is no magic—nothing that just wishing makes it so; you know that, you're not children. There are only those many wonders which for the moment lie beyond our knowledge.’ A hint of reproach came into his manner. ‘And didn't you say that the Gevethen themselves have strange gifts—powers, if you must—of their own? Powers which you also do not understand, presumably, yet which you'd have me ride to war against. Would you ask me to die for your cause?'

  Though the words were spoken simply and without rancour, Marris closed his eyes and turned away as if he had been winded.

  'I'm sorry,’ he said, after a long silence. ‘I didn't think.’ He shifted uneasily. ‘I started the day worried enough because the Count had wandered up on to the ridge in the dark—something he's never felt the need to do before. Since then, confusion's followed on confusion.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I was afraid.'

  'Ah.’ The Traveller breathed out the exclamation as if he were recognizing an old friend. He fiddled with the cloth in his ears. ‘Fear, everyone understands,’ he said. ‘It's been a strange and difficult day for all of us, Corel Marris. I'd not expected to find myself cramped in a valley and involved in a war when I came across a stranger enjoying the morning sun. I was merely going to pass the time of day with a fellow traveller.'

  The two men looked at one another in silence for a long time.

  'What would the dust know of the avalanche?’ Marris asked rhetorically.

  The Traveller did not reply, but frowned and reached up to adjust the cloth in his ears again. ‘Someone's whistling,’ he said. Both Ibryen and Marris stiffened. The Traveller looked up and pointed. ‘Over there. It's getting closer.

  With increasing concern the two men turned to follow his gaze. Almost immediately a faint, staccato whistling reached them. Ibryen straightened up and motioned the Traveller to follow him. ‘It's the alarm,’ he said. ‘Someone's approaching.'

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Some instinct stopped Jeyan from reaching for her knife as she saw the three soldiers. Instead, she casually pulled her ragged jacket about her to ensure it remained out of sight. A picture of what must have happened formed in her mind in an instant. It was almost certain that those purging the city knew two dogs had played a part in the killing of Hagen. Even though she had seen people frantically fleeing the scene as she herself had fled, there would have been plenty present who would willingly have provided that information later. That, and the fact that it had been a lone assassin. So although small packs of death-pit dogs were not all that uncommon, and despite the mayhem that those two had wrought to this trio's comrades, whoever was in charge had had wit enough at least to consider the possibility that perhaps the tower was occupied by more than them alone. He'd also had sufficient sense not to risk any more men on those narrow stairs.

  She began to tremble again—a mixture of genuine terror and blazing fury at having allowed herself to be trapped. Her eyes flickered across the three men and their levelled swords. A sudden dash, low and fast between them and she could be away.

  Perhaps.

  But the men were watching her both intently and calmly, as though whatever she chose to do, they were a match for it. As well they might be, probably mistaking her for a scrawny youth. And they kept moving—as did their swords—not in a jerky and tense manner, betraying alarm, but almost relaxed. Gaps came and went, but the scrutiny never faltered.

  She couldn't do it! There was too much rubble and tangled foliage on the ground for her to risk scrambling between them, she told herself, but part of her knew that the moment for action had simply slipped from her and her fury flared anew.

  But she had other resources, and when she spoke she lowered her voice slightly and slurred her words to make them difficult to understand. If they thought her a youth, so much the better, and it would be useful if they thought she was simple; heaven knew, there were enough such in the Ennerhald. She did not have to fake the tremor in her voice.

  'Have they gone? Have you killed them?'

  'What?’ said the nearest soldier, a large man wearing an insignia on his uniform that marked him out as some kind of leader. He leaned forward as he spoke, but did not lower his blade.

  'Have they gone? Have you killed them?’ she repeated. ‘The dogs.’ She made her eyes vacant and let her mouth drop open. ‘They chased me in here.’ She pointed shakily up the stairs and began to gabble. ‘I'd to go right to the top. I nearly fell through a hole in the floor. They ran off when you came. I heard a lot of noise. I was frightened.'

  The men's demeanour changed perceptibly, and they exchanged knowing glances, though they came no closer, nor conspicuously lessened their guard.

  'What would they be chasing a half-wit like you for?’ asked the leader.

  'For the bones probably,’ one of the others interjected, a stocky individual with broken and discoloured teeth that made him look peculiarly repellent. ‘There's no meat on it.'

  The others laughed unpleasantly.

  'You can't get meat here, sirs,’ Jeyan started off again. ‘Not meat. I have to beg to eat, sirs. In the streets. The Guards allow it. I don't bother anyone. But I've never had meat for a long time. People don't give you meat—not fresh anyway. Sometimes there's some around the stalls and at the back of the shops, when they can't sell it. It's not nice, but ...'

  'Shut up,’ said the leader irritably. ‘Don't speak unless you're told to.'

  'No sir, I won't. I won't.’ She looked around anxiously. ‘Did you kill them? I heard a lot of noise. They were death-pit dogs, you know. When they bite you, they ...'

  'I told you to shut up!'

  Jeyan cowered, hands twitching to her head and face.

  There was a brief consultation between the soldiers. ‘Is there anyone else up there?’ one of them asked. Jeyan shook her head dumbly. ‘Are you sure?’ She nodded.

  There was more consultation. ‘Finish the damn thing off and let's get out of here. They're a pox, these people. This place needs a real cleaning out, it's a cesspit.'

  'Maybe, but sooner you than me. It's a big place and I wouldn't fancy working round the pits. We'd better take this one in with the rest of the rubbish we've found down here; there's no saying who's checking up on us today. Let the officers sort out who's who.'

  'Can I go now?’ Jeyan intervened.

  The leader sheathed his sword and stepped towards her, his hand drawn back to strike her. She cowered again. He relented at the last moment and seized her arm instead.

  'You can go to the Citadel with the rest of your friends,’ he said, yanking her towards the doorway.

  Jeyan dug her heels in and began wriggling fearfully. ‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘Have you killed them? I'm not going outside unless you've killed them. They chased me. They're death-pit dogs. They're ...’ The soldier swore and tightened his grip about her arm. ‘You're hurting. You're hurting. Are they dead? Are they dead?'

  The other soldiers were laughing at their comrade's plight and, for a moment, Jeyan thought that he was going to lose his temper and start beating her. She lessened her struggling and began leaning on him.

  'Thump it for pity's sake, and let'
s get off.'

  'Yes, and you can carry it,’ retorted Jeyan's assailant, transferring his anger to his adviser. ‘Come on, damn you,’ he said, returning to Jeyan. ‘It's all right. We killed the dogs. They're not there any more.'

  'Where are they?'

  'They're outside. Come on.’ The last remark was accompanied by a violent jerk that pulled Jeyan off her feet. The others sheathed their swords and, still laughing, followed them out into the sunlight.

  'Where are they?’ Jeyan demanded, looking round anxiously. She began resisting again.

  The leader stopped and made a pantomime of looking around. ‘Oh dear, they mustn't have been as dead as we thought,’ he intoned to the increasing mirth of his friends. ‘Now come on!’ He swung his hand at Jeyan's head, but in partly releasing her to do this she slipped away from him slightly and the blow barely caught her. She tumbled to the ground however, howling, thinking frantically how she could elude her captors now that she was out in the open.

  'They'll come back,’ she whined. ‘They'll come back. They'll tell him what's happened and he'll send them back for me. They kill people. He's taught them to. They always do what he tells them.'

  The laughter faded abruptly and the three men looked at one another significantly. ‘Who are you talking about?’ said the leader, bending down and dragging her to her feet. ‘Who'll send them back?'

  'Don't hit me, please.'

  'I'll do more than hit you, you dozy little sod. Just answer my question. Who'll send the dogs back?'

  'Him!’ Jeyan exclaimed fearfully, pointing. ‘Him. The big man they belong to.'

  There was such alarm in her voice that all three spun round in the direction she was pointing as if expecting to see Hagen's murderer about to fall on them. One partly drew his sword. Jeyan found herself pulled off her feet again. ‘Who're you talking about?'