Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  What he had learned over the past few days was obviously of profound significance, but how it related to the immediate needs of his conflict with the Gevethen he could not begin to see. The message that he had given to Iscar that he would come on them from a direction which they did not even know existed returned to reproach him constantly. Particularly so as it had proved to be almost prophetic. Strange Ways did exist. He could even enter them, though with little conscious knowledge of what he did or how he did it. But what were they? Where were they? How could he use them? Was there a way in which he could travel them that would bring him to a known destination? He had answers to none of these, nor any of the many other questions that kept arising to disturb him. Not that he was given a great deal of time for meditation as it transpired. The small tent was very full and, in the absence of anything to do, conversation ranged over many and varied topics. Ibryen told Isgyrn and the Traveller more fully about his land and the rise to power of the Gevethen and their subsequent depredations. Isgyrn told his own similar tale, though he was reticent about the cause and the telling distressed him. The Traveller yarned of many places and deeds, and Rachyl just asked questions and, as the youngest there, allowed herself at times an air of mildly smug tolerance as her elders rambled on.

  It was one of the tales that the Traveller had told that prompted Isgyrn to tell the Dryenvolk's story of the creation of the Culmadryen. His stern face had come alive as he spoke and his manner had held the others spellbound. The Traveller in particular leaned forward and listened intently.

  'I've heard many such tales,’ the Traveller said, taking up Ibryen's rhetorical question. ‘All with too many things in common to allow them to be lightly set aside as mere myths.'

  'I'm not inclined to dismiss any tale, however fanciful, after everything that's happened since I met you on the ridge,’ Ibryen said. He pulled a rueful face. ‘I wish I could see to a time when we'd all have the leisure to pursue such matters further. Scholarship is infinitely preferable to swordsmanship.'

  'To neglect either is a serious mistake, although I'm as guilty of the latter as many another.’ The Traveller's tone was unexpectedly dark. He clapped his hands straight away to dispel the effect. ‘But let's pursue just one small piece of scholarship while we've the chance.’ He turned to Isgyrn. ‘Tell us how the joyous world of the Shapers became the flawed world of today,’ he said.

  Isgyrn grimaced. ‘I'm rather as Ibryen now,’ he said. ‘The story of Astrith has always been regarded as significant but allegorical, and the story of the Coming of Samral even more so. “Red and baleful, He too came from the Great Heat, with lesser figures at His heels, carrying an ancient corruption with Him from what had gone ... before..."'

  Isgyrn stopped with an unhappy wave of his hand. ‘I can't speak it any more. Its a tale of treachery and deceit, of the seduction of people by fair words and seemingly fair deeds into dark folly while the Shapers slept. It was a tale to make fledglings shiver with delight and fear, and curl up in warmth and security, knowing that in truth, all was well. But now ...’ He fell silent. No one spoke. ‘Now,’ he went on after a long interval, ‘I must accept that it was not an allegory, but perhaps an historical truth.’ He looked round at the others, his eyes pained. ‘Samral came again. It was His agent, one of the three Ahriel, who racked our lands, while the others racked the middle depths. I felt His very presence in His white-eyed agent.’ He shivered. ‘I saw deeds done, powers used, beyond anything we've ever known.’ He looked at Ibryen. ‘Yet He must indeed have been defeated or sorely wounded in the war that brought me here, or He'd surely have swept out across the world in these last fifteen years, and all would have known of Him. All. His purpose knows no bounds.'

  'I can't doubt that you believe what you say,’ Ibryen said uncomfortably. ‘But it's a difficult tale to accept. We've many stories ourselves of giants and ogres in days long gone. And tales of how the world was made, but ...'

  Isgyrn levelled a warning finger at him. ‘I understand your doubts. They're the doubts of any rational man, and the Dryenvolk are nothing if not a rational people. But had we thought and researched more and wallowed in doubt less, perhaps matters would have been greatly different and many lives spared. Trust me in this, Ibryen. Whether He has been defeated or not, I felt Samral in your Gevethen. Powerful and awful. They are not Ahriel, but it's said that He always had many human servants, equally as foul. The Gevethen are His, I'm sure. From what you've said, they possess the kind of power He bestows, albeit they use it rarely. They do His work, and they'll not stop with the enslavement of your land alone. We must never sleep again.’ His tone was grim, but Ibryen could not keep the doubts from his face. ‘I've stood where you stand, Ibryen,’ Isgyrn went on. ‘And I take no offence at your doubts. But whether you believe me or not, base your actions on the assumption that I'm correct.'

  A gust of wind buffeted the tent, dispelling the dark mood that Isgyrn's story had created.

  The conversation moved on.

  From time to time the Traveller brought bouncing, whistling tunes into the damp twilight of the tent which allowed no foot to remain still. Isgyrn made no further reference to his tale and no one questioned him about it and, gradually, the debate settled on to Ibryen's immediate problems. Here, Isgyrn proved to be a determined inquisitor as he sought out knowledge of the fighting techniques that armies could use in this strange world where all battles had to be fought on one plane. He found it difficult, though he proved to be a perceptive listener, more than once making both Ibryen and Rachyl retreat into earnest thought with questions which obliged them to look at some long-established practice from an unusual perspective.

  Eventually however, Ibryen's darker concerns about what was to be done on their return to the village began to surface and he could do no other than voice them. Isgyrn tried to reassure him as he had when they were preparing to leave the ridge the previous day. He had touched his enemy, change had been set in motion, who could say what would ensue? But practicalities were closing about Ibryen, binding him.

  'Each step from now takes me nearer to my people,’ he said. ‘They'll need to hear how we intend to attack and defeat the Gevethen. As Rachyl said—dispositions, logistics. My people fight well because we not only have a common purpose, we think alike. Each is as much a leader as follower. If we here have come to accept the inevitability of our decline if we continue as we are, then it's only a matter of time before the entire village reaches the same conclusion. I can't allow that to happen; we'll all perish for sure.'

  But Isgyrn persisted. ‘You mustn't encumber yourself thus,’ he urged. ‘Many changes will have happened and you can only deal with them as you find them. You can foresee none of them.'

  'Go blindly and with faith?’ Ibryen said ironically.

  'I'm afraid so,’ Isgyrn replied.

  'It's no comfort.'

  'It wasn't meant to be, but it's all you'll get. It's simply a statement of the reality of your position. The warrior's way, the warrior's burden. Dealing with the now, whatever it is, because others cannot.'

  * * * *

  That night, Ibryen slipped silently from the tent. The rain had stopped and the darkness was alive with rich, fresh-washed forest perfumes. A chorus of tiny insect sounds and dripping water seemed like an earthly echo of the brilliant array of stars that covered the sharp, clear sky and peered down through the forest canopy.

  He was uncertain why he had left the tent, other than that his circling thoughts and the idle day had left him unable to sleep; the tossing and turning that threatened to take him over would be too much for the others in such narrow confines.

  Yet it was more than that, surely, and more even than the leaden foreboding that had been weighing on him all day. It wasn't the awful tension of pending battle—that, he was familiar with. It wasn't even guilt at the deception he had left behind as an excuse for this strange journey, although this would have to be accounted for soon, and he did not relish the prospect. It occurred to him that in fac
t he had told no lie. The very abandoning of the old procedures within the village could only lead to a new destiny, a way which none could have imagined. Perhaps what was disturbing him was no more than as Isgyrn had said, a reluctance to accept that all ahead was unknowable.

  But none of these carefully crafted arguments could bring him any peace, and he stood for a long time in the cool darkness, leaning against a tree, pondering the unease that tugged at him. He could not believe the story that Isgyrn had told, yet neither could he casually discount it. Isgyrn clearly believed it and even during the short time he had known him he judged the Dryenwr to be clear-thinking, lucid and logical. And his conclusion had been open and honest—base your actions on the assumption that I'm correct. He couldn't argue with that. And it was as though his concerns came from beyond himself, as though he were the unknowing focus of events which were moving in ways beyond his control. And too, he was vastly different from the man who had been the Count of Nesdiryn scarcely a week ago. But what value was this change that had come over him?

  He had no answer.

  He had answers for nothing.

  Weary, he let all questions slip away.

  At the edges of his consciousness he could sense the Ways that would lead him into the worlds beyond. For a moment it came to him that he could simply slip from here and search out a place where horrors such as the Gevethen did not exist, where men might look at a sword and think it a farm implement. Was there such a place? He found it hard to imagine. Perhaps that sunlit forest had been one such? But it might simply have been somewhere else in this world. Nothing there had been disturbingly different, not the trees and the vegetation, not even the unusual carvings, and certainly not the fine bridge. And even there, the Gevethen had come. Or worse, he had drawn them there. That brought a coldly awful thought—that he should be the herald of the evil in some untrammelled new world. It laid a dead hand on his brief flight of fancy and carried him to the conclusion that he had known was always there; how could he live any kind of a life elsewhere, knowing what he had left behind?

  There was no escape. There never had been. Whatever was afoot, and whatever his part in it, it could not be resolved by flight. Sooner or later—he corrected the thought—soon, he would have to confront and destroy the Gevethen or die in the attempt.

  Knowing he could not leave, he closed his eyes and slipped into the place of lights and sounds where only his awareness existed. The confusion about him was beyond any describing, but it no longer disturbed him. He could feel Ways all about him that would leave his sleeping form here and carry him to places far beyond this rain-scented forest. And too, he suddenly sensed, there were still other worlds. Worlds that were ill-formed and vague. Ephemera that did not truly exist yet were there for him to enter. Are these dreams? he thought. Other people's dreams? He had never dreamed.

  A cry stirred within him. He did not want to hear it, but it could not be stilled.

  I should be free to roam these worlds.

  I should not have to die in battle, in fear and pain.

  I should not have this burden to carry.

  LET ME GO!

  * * * *

  The cry echoed into an unknown distance, tailing off slowly into a sigh which became the stirring of the trees about him.

  'Are you all right?'

  Briefly he was once more at the door of his quarters in the village, being startled by Marris's inquiry out of the chilly night. Then he was in the forest, identifying the voice as that of the Traveller.

  'Are you all right?’ The question came again, and a slight movement showed him the deeper shadow within shadow that was the inquirer.

  'Yes, I'm fine,’ he replied, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing Rachyl and Isgyrn.

  'I thought I heard you calling out,’ the Traveller said. ‘But it was far away.’ He sounded puzzled.

  Ibryen smiled, a faint whiteness greying the gloom. ‘Your hearing goes further than you realize.’ He did not elaborate. ‘Couldn't you sleep either?'

  'I don't sleep much,’ the Traveller replied. ‘I've just been playing with the sounds of the forest. There's such a richness about us.'

  There were resonances in his last sentence that brought Ibryen almost to tears. ‘Indeed there is,’ he said. Though he did not know why, his mind was clearer. Slowly he drew his sword. Resting it on the palms of his two hands he held it out at arm's length, as if offering it to the darkness. Stars were reflected faintly in the blade. ‘I pledge myself again to my people,’ he said quietly. The Traveller remained silent.

  * * * *

  Jeyan leaned on the parapet of the balcony. In the distance, stark against the evening sky, like the fingers of a dead, warning hand, she could see the towers in the Ennerhald from which she had spied on the city to see the effects of her murder of Hagen. The train of events that had led her from there to where she now was, passed through her mind many times. There was a grim irony in them which she savoured, together with rich veins of self-justification. She had been right to stay in the Ennerhald for all those years. Had she fled to the Count, she would not now have been in a position to strike such a blow for him. She pressed a hand against the knife beneath her tunic. Or for her slaughtered parents. She pressed the knife harder until the pommel dug into her painfully. Or for herself. Yet, too, another irony was dogging her that day, for she had been unable to find the Gevethen. It did not help that she was quite unfamiliar with the rambling intricacies of the ancient and much added-to Citadel, and that the cold exterior she felt the need to maintain prevented her from flitting quickly about the place and, still less, from asking help of anyone. All she had been able to do was watch and listen. She had however, relished the effect that her presence had wherever she went. Any questioning glances directed her way had been inadvertent and had, without exception, been rapidly lowered as knees had hastily buckled. She had moved through crowds like a scythe through a field of tall corn. It was good. It was fitting that these people who sustained the Gevethen should bend before her.

  You've done your work well, Hagen, she thought. The very terror of your office strips all protection away from those it was intended to guard.

  But the Gevethen eluded her all that day, though the effects of their presence could be seen vividly all around. The activity she had first encountered as she emerged from the silent corridors into the hallway was as nothing to what developed as the entire administration of the Citadel was marshalled to implement the Gevethen's order for the committal of every resource to the immediate capture of the Count. Only one senior Army officer, it transpired, had suggested that the proposal was perhaps unwise and that not only would the cost in lives be appalling, but control across the whole of Nesdiryn and its borders might be dangerously loosened. The Gevethen had watched him coldly, then turned away with a casual gesture. The man had collapsed, writhing in pain. It had taken him an hour to die and he had died screaming such that even the hardest of the men around him were to be troubled in their dreams for long after. It had been a considerable time since the Gevethen had demonstrated their own frightening power, and news of it spread through the Citadel and to every army outpost faster than any other message delivered that day. All reservations about what was happening were subsequently spoken with the softest of voices and only in the presence of the most trusted of friends. Better to take your chance in the mountains than face certain death here. Catching the tale in transit, Jeyan stored it away as a reminder that the Gevethen were not without personal resource and that when finally she struck she must strike quickly, for there would be no second chance.

  The net effect of the Gevethen's order however, was confusion and disorder, for there were no procedures established for undertaking such a venture. Even those like Helsarn who managed to keep their minds clearly focused on the Gevethen's intentions spent most of their time explaining to bewildered underlings and civilian officials, confirming messages to exhausted gallopers, and countermanding the orders of his more confused fellow officers. Nev
ertheless, the Gevethen's will gradually took shape and soon, albeit raggedly, men and materiel were following in the wake of those who had been sent immediately to establish a base camp.

  Jeyan remained on the balcony for a long time after the Ennerhald towers had faded into the night. Raised voices, the clatter of hooves and the rattle of carts rose in an incessant clamour from the courtyard below, and the city streets were alive with moving lights. As the darkness deepened, she began to see a faint glow in the sky beyond the city as a transit camp for the incoming forces grew ever larger.

  Eventually, the night cold made itself felt and she was shivering when she retreated inside. The gloomy corridors seemed almost welcoming after peering so long into the darkness. Uncertain about what she should do, she decided to return to her room. If the Gevethen wanted her they would presumably look there first. It took a great deal of finding as, even after wandering the Citadel for several hours, she was far from familiar with the place. On her rambling way there, an opportunity presented itself to satisfy a simpler appetite and her Ennerhald habits had her steal some food when she found herself in the kitchens.

  She was still eating when she finally located her room. Nothing had been changed since she left it. What had happened to her ever-watchful servants? she wondered. She stepped back out of the room and looked up and down the corridor. There were several doors each set back in a deep alcove. After a brief hesitation she went to the nearest and boldly seized the handle. The door opened silently to reveal a darkened room. She took a lantern from the corridor and turned up the light. The room was completely empty. She stopped after a couple of paces as her footsteps bounced back hollowly. Moving to the next door she found the same, and so it proved with all the other rooms, though some were furnished and some looked as if they might have been offices at one time.