Extropia

by Robin Bootle

  ‘Ivandell!’ The enthusiasm with which Edward sprang to his feet took even him by surprise. ‘Ivandell!’ he called again as he ran towards him.

  But Ivandell barely seemed to register him, slouching vacantly on his horse as he came to a stop in the centre of the clearing. Finally, their eyes met, and Ivandell managed a strained smile. Edward made his way over uneasily. He’d never seen Ivandell like this – his rock, shattered.

  ‘We found the general,’ said Edward, hoping such simple words might lift Ivandell’s spirit. Ivandell’s head remained slumped on his chest, so he added, ‘I heard what happened at Hawkshead. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘None is sorrier than I. You have not seen the consequences of our actions, Edward. Everything I do seems to lead only to the death of the ones I love! What if more die in the name of our cause?’

  It was shocking to hear him so despondent. ‘Ivandell, if we give up now, all those who died will have died for nothing.’

  ‘But what if we all die for nothing? What if this magical rebirth of the Great Warrior results only in more death?’

  ‘What would you have us do? Surrender?’

  Ivandell stared back, long and lingeringly, and Edward realised he was actually considering just that. To end the revolution at once. To give up on Edward and both their families. To give up on Elizabeth.

  There is always hope. His father’s words forced their way into Edward’s mind. He’d been far from convinced at the time, but he knew now those words had picked him up, carried him a little further. ‘Look at us, Ivandell. We have the Great Warrior and Lord Hasgard. Surely if there was ever a time for hope, it is now, with the leaders and heroes of the Lands of the Sun reunited?’

  ‘Edward, you do not know the cruelty of Dēofol! Those who have died in Hawkshead are just the beginning! You, me, we are all responsible for the deaths of those who have had faith in us!’

  ‘But we didn’t kill them, Ivandell! Dēofol did! And he’ll keep on killing as long as we allow him to.’ With that, Edward turned and trudged away towards the northern end of the clearing. Ivandell needed time to stew. And so did he. He needed to clear his mind. The impossible choice before him was suffocating him. Whether he helped the people of Extropia to fight back, or he surrendered, people would suffer. He reached the furthest of the soldiers up the gully, so confused that he wondered if he should just keep going. Make himself disappear so that no one could ever find him.

  ‘Morgan!’ A voice cried in alarm. ‘Where is Morgan?’

  Edward turned to see that one of the men who had returned to the clearing was calling to the top of the gully, alarmed.

  ‘Morgan, do not leave your post!’ Hasgard raced towards the gully wall.

  Edward glanced up and noticed something staining the snow red. His first thought was that it was blood, that Morgan had been killed. But that thought only lasted an instant, as Morgan appeared a few yards further down, his eyes full of fear.

  ‘The mist!’ he cried. ‘The mist is forming! Run for your lives!’

  Beyond the cusp of the gully wall, floating in and out of sight, were small swirls of red. And any doubt as to what was happening was swept away as the swirls drew nearer, expanding into a cloud that was already beginning to flow down to where they stood.

  ‘Away your weapons!’ Ivandell cried as he leapt down from his horse. ‘Where is the general?’

  Edward threw his dagger to the ground. Around him, the soldiers fled north and south into the narrows of the gully. But already the mist was expanding faster than anyone could run.

  ‘General, use your ward! Protect us!’ Hasgard was near the southern entrance to the clearing, fifty yards from Edward, and rushing towards him with a flame already around his staff.

  Edward spun to see the general amid the trees twenty yards or so up the gully to the north. He set off as fast as he could as the world began to dim. He didn’t dare look up, but he couldn’t help himself. And when he did he nearly lost his footing. Already the mist was like a storm cloud of death that stretched for hundreds of yards in every direction. It began to fall, quickly and silently, suffocating the leaves and vanishing the branches.

  ‘General, put on the ring!’ cried Edward.

  The look on the general’s face was half fear, half awe, as if he was stunned by the sight of the mist and oblivious to their cries.

  Edward tore his staff from his back as he ran. He cast a ball of fire towards the branches near the general’s head. The flame exploded into fiery fragments that fell and faded into nothing. He fired again, the sickness already filling his body. The flame flew narrowly past the trunk of the tree. He tumbled exhausted to the ground, ten yards short of the general.

  ‘Put on the ring!’ he whimpered. Arms extended in front of him, he raised his staff up from the snow. A ball of flame tore forth. A few yards away, it crashed into the uneven snow in front.

  And as the light of the world faded to crimson, the last thing Edward saw was the general staring back at him, his eyes wide with terror.

  * * *

  He felt winded, like he’d been punched in the solar plexus. His lungs were screaming for oxygen. The air tasted like acid, cold and searing as it burned through his mouth and down into his throat. Cries, groans and the neighing of horses filled his ears. All he could see was red.

  He couldn’t remember the feeling of being happy, even though he knew that a moment ago he’d been elated at the sight of Ivandell. But now he knew that happiness had been misplaced. The mist was like a cure. A cure from his stupidity and his naivety. After so long following blindly he was seeing clearly again, just like he had in the woods.

  It could be no coincidence that Ivandell had slithered back amongst them just as the mist had descended, with his golden locks and innocent good looks, and his love for his son. Even in his anger Edward could sympathise; Ivandell just wanted his son back. Why not sacrifice a boy he had known only for a week? The first time, the mist had appeared outside the hut the very same night that they had met. And now here, in the mountains. Ivandell must have been some kind of beacon, telling Dēofol where they were. Just as Hasgard had put it, Ivandell’s mind was not his own.

  Someone had to stop him.

  How clever Ivandell had been to disarm them all as the mist was falling. Now Edward only had his staff, no more than a useless piece of wood in his incapacitation. The very thought of creating fire made him retch.

  Somewhere up the gully the general cried out. As the mist had fallen, Ivandell hadn’t even bothered to mask his intentions, running sword in hand straight for the general.

  Edward stumbled with outstretched arms, feeling for the trees, using the sound of the general’s voice to pinpoint his location. But already the general’s cries of agony had softened to a mere gurgle and Edward could only imagine that Ivandell had slit his throat.

  He tripped on something and fell down. Looking back, he saw a foot. Above, he could just about make out the general’s shadow, a faint silhouette darker than the rest of the mist by only a fraction. ‘General Aidēs!’

  But the general didn’t seem to see or hear him. Instead, he was muttering towards the sky and clawing wildly at his own throat. Cut open, no doubt, and he was now trying to stem the flow of blood.

  ‘General!’ He reached for the old man’s throat, hoping to press his hands against the wound, but the general pulled away, or fell, from his grasp and Edward’s fingers slid helplessly down his neck and chest, catching on something hard and cold on the way down. Something slight, like a tiny stone.

  Something thumped Edward in the head. He groaned as he fell back into the snow. Where the general had been a moment ago now he could see only mist. He heard another scream, further away. Another man howled. Long and tormented like a lone wolf cursing its fate.

  Ivandell was killing them all.

  He needed a weapon.
On all fours, he fumbled through the snow until his hand brushed against something firm. He grappled for it. The handle of a blade.

  He gripped it as his mind filled with a hundred Ivandells, eyes red like a demon’s, ready to devour Edward’s soul. He lashed out, again and again into the mist.

  ‘Aris, Isabella!’ Ivandell sobbed just a few feet away.

  There! The demon had revealed itself. With a wrist thrust into the snow, Edward tried to push himself up. Something jabbed against his knuckles. He grabbed it instinctively. He lifted his hand and opened his palm so close to his face that he almost poked himself in the eye. But now he could see it. Some kind of ring – a rectangular sapphire marshalled on either side by two diamonds and the ring itself locked to a gold necklace.

  Was it something that belonged to Mum? Yes, her engagement ring. Another stupid memory of Dad’s littered about to taunt him.

  He noticed with horrified fascination that the tips of his fingers were turning grey, as though some kind of infection was spreading through his blood. The ring! The ring is turning you into one of them! He went to throw it away, but something made his fingers snap to his palm as he did so.

  Put it on! A whisper in his head, like the distant memory of a person he used to know. When Dēofol’s magic strikes… ‘Put it on!’ he cried aloud.

  So he did. Like an infant playing with a new toy, he slipped it onto the greying middle finger of his left hand. An eruption of blue filled his vision and conquered his mind, sending him spinning down into the snow.

  * * *

  When he opened his eyes again, the mist was gone. The white clouds in the sky had never floated so beautifully. He could remember so clearly the chaos bounding around his mind. He shivered as he recalled thrusting his dagger into the mist in an attempt to stab Ivandell, and all those horrible things he’d thought about him.

  Alarmed, he studied his fingers. The mist had been so strong it had begun to transform him into one of Dēofol’s own, and the thought left his mouth dry. Now as he watched them, he could see the grey tint in his skin fading, as though the mist’s poison was being forced away.

  Voices came from behind. He went to push himself up but his hand made contact with something warm and moist. He brought his hand before his eyes, and his body convulsed in disgust. It was covered in dark red blood. Right beside him, one of Hasgard’s men lay with his head twisted awkwardly and his side cut through.

  He prayed as he reached for the sword he’d found. But there was no sword, only an inch-thick twig. Had he in his delirium believed it to be a sword? At least he could be certain he wasn’t the murderer. He felt no relief, however, for as he scrambled to his feet he saw two more men lying motionless on the ground, slashed and bloodied. Dead.

  Beyond them, Ivandell was straddling the general, pinning him to the ground. Gripped in his hands was his blood-soaked sword. Around his throat, the general’s hands struggled in vain to force him away.

  With a groan, Ivandell thrust down with his sword, plunging it deep into the general’s chest.

  24

  Return to Hawkshead

  Hasgard ground to a halt besides Ivandell, his old face drawn in anguish and his lungs still bawling his disbelief. Beside Hasgard, Ivandell’s hands were limp on the guard of his sword, his head slumped between his elbows.

  Edward was too stunned to speak. Too devastated to move. Kill the traitor, his mind screamed, but no words would come out. And nor did Hasgard follow his telepathic command. Instead, Hasgard knelt down and squeezed the old man’s gloved hand. His eyes were locked on the general and seemingly indifferent to Ivandell, as if Ivandell had done nothing wrong.

  When Hasgard spoke, his words were burdened with grief. ‘After so long in solitude, the general’s mind could not withstand such an attack. And the others… I can only assume they were too frail after such a long journey. Easy prey for the mist.’

  A knot tightened in the pit of Edward’s stomach. Only then did he notice the skin on the general’s face was grey and crinkled, his nose crooked, his teeth rotten and his eyes deep red as though every vessel had burst its blood.

  The knot rose into his chest, stifling his breath. His knees buckled and he put out a hand to support himself. He forced a deep inhalation, arching his neck and screaming long and hard towards the sky. Birds deserted their perches high in the trees to escape the sound.

  ‘I have failed you both.’ Ivandell’s back shook in rhythm with his sobs. ‘Just as I have failed my family, and all those I try to help!’

  ‘You must know this wasn’t you, Ivandell,’ pleaded Edward, desperate for his friend to recover his strength. ‘You’re a hero. You saved our lives. If it wasn’t your sword in the general then it would have been his in any one of us.’

  ‘Edward is right,’ added Hasgard. ‘You are a hero in a world of fools and cowards. And I am one of them, cowering for a year while my brother yet lived, now a fool to have let him die so easily.’ With an effort Hasgard got to his feet. ‘But my brother’s death shall not be in vain, this I swear to you all.’ He turned to his soldiers. ‘He must be avenged. No matter how long and far we must ride, with the General’s Ward we will build an army to send Dēofol’s own running in fear. Will you join me, friends, and finally we may let Dēofol know the suffering he so wantonly craves?’

  Hasgard’s men cheered, punching their fists into the air as if Hasgard’s ambition was without question.

  ‘And what of you, Ivandell?’ Hasgard continued. ‘Will you see these wrongs put right?’

  Ivandell looked to Edward. ‘I made a promise to the Skylar that I would lead Edward to his brother, and keep him safe. But I cannot follow you into battle, my Lord. Once Edward is safe, I must devote myself to the safety of those from Hawkshead who now shelter in the woods, my friends whose lives have been ruined by my actions. They are all that remain for me.’

  Edward could feel Hasgard watching him, waiting for him to pledge his support for the campaign. He looked away, ashamed. ‘I have to find my brother and take him home.’ After all Hasgard had done for him, was he really prepared to just walk away once his own needs had been met?

  ‘Very well,’ said Hasgard. ‘Do what you must. I must say that I would prefer to have you by my side in battle. But you have both already played your part.’ He turned again to his men. ‘All remains as was written: The boy has come, the Great Warrior has been rescued, and through his sacrifice delivered to us his ward. His ring alone will unite the people. Let us ride now – the people must know what has happened here. The time for revolution is come!’

  * * *

  Edward continued on the back of Hasgard’s horse as they meandered down through the gully. At the top of the gully wall, Morgan carried on watching the path below on behalf of the others. The pace was slow; the hard layer of ice was turning rapidly into sticky slush.

  Edward gazed vacantly at the small, glistening stream of melt-water winding down the gully’s side, unable to free his mind from the memory of the mist, and the horror in the general’s eyes. At least they had the ward now, he thought, and his fingers subconsciously went to check it was still hanging around his neck. He rolled it between his thumb and index finger, imagining the moment when he might have to use it again, and how quickly he would ram it onto his finger.

  He rested his head against Hasgard’s back, and his eyelids slipped closed in drowsiness. As he slept, all he could see was the mist falling, time and again. Every time he went for the ring, but no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t slip it onto his finger, as if his fingertip was magnetised and pushing the ring away. First his hands then his arms faded to grey. The silver death oozed its way to his throat and up his chin. He tried to lean his head away as though it might delay the moment his mind was turned. At last the grey forced its way between his sealed lips, and an acidic chill ran down his throat.

  He jerked awak
e as Hasgard’s horse came to a stop. They had reached the end of the gully and were approaching the rock face that Edward had climbed early the day before. The snow had all but fallen from the pines, the heat of the sun clearing the leaves and allowing their deep green to bask in its light. In the distance lay the blackened remains of Hawkshead.

  ‘Morgan,’ Hasgard called to the top of the gully, ‘it is time.’ He lifted a hand and Morgan and his horse were lifted into the air, the horse kicking and neighing as it struggled to find the ground beneath its hooves. ‘Ride to Force Crag. Tell them of the General’s Ward, and that any that are able should make ready for battle and head to the tower. The rest of us will travel to the villages of the Circle and round up those brave enough to fight. The sight of the General’s Ward alone will have us an army large enough to rival Dēofol’s, I am certain.’

  They carried on to the bottom of the valley, the snow beneath them reduced to sparse, slushy clumps that had survived in the shadows of rocks and trees. Ahead, the rubble of Hawkshead was only a few hundred yards off.

  Ivandell called them to a halt. ‘There may yet be soldiers.’ He pulled a telescope from his bag and scanned slowly from right to left. His telescope angled towards the church, the only building that appeared to remain in any way intact, and stopped. His face filled with the end of the world. ‘No! It cannot be!’ Before anyone had the chance to ask him what he’d seen, he kicked into his horse’s side, sending it galloping across the field.