by Simon Kewin
“What is it?” asked Meg.
“Someone has come to see you. Insists on talking only to you.”
“And who is it?”
“A mancer. A necromancer. Thaniel is his name. Says he has important tidings about Ilminion.”
“And he's come here?”
“He's in the Temple of the Moon. We thought it best not to bring him to the Wycka. He may be a spy or an emissary of Menhroth.”
“And yet you let him climb the hill?”
“He said he had news vital to our future. We thought it best to hear him out.”
Meg chewed on the last of the bread and drained the second cup of tea. “Very well. Best go and hear what he has to say. Give me a hand up, girl. A witch's work is never done.”
The Temple of the Moon stood half a mile from the Wycka itself, atop sheer cliffs that dropped far down to the woodland floor. It was a simple stone building, open on all sides to the night air. A place for peace and solitude. Twilight was already gathering, and coloured glass jars holding candles had been hung from the ceiling of the temple, casting a flickering light. Night-time insects flitted and fluttered around them.
Thaniel paced to and fro beneath. He was a pudgy, balding man, more like a tavern keeper in appearance than a necromancer. But then, she'd never actually met a necromancer. Probably best not to make assumptions about their appearance.
“I am Black Meg,” she said. “Eldest and possibly weariest witch of Angere.”
“Thaniel. I am grateful to you for meeting me.”
“And have you come to threaten us with ritual slaughter? Demand our surrender to the dead King reborn?”
“What? No. Of course not. I've come with tidings. Something you must know. I've come to help.”
“Go on then. Tell me your news. Only, excuse me while I sit. It's been a long couple of days.”
“Of course.” Thaniel hesitated for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. Then he began. “Up until a few months ago, as you may know, I worked with Ilminion on his researches.”
“You mean, you experimented on the transfer of spirit between creatures, buying life for one with the deaths of others?”
Thaniel looked as if she'd struck him. “It truly wasn't like that, not at first. We wanted to defeat death. We wanted to end all the suffering and loss. But Ilminion … he went too far. His researches took him to dark places. He lost sight of what we'd set out to do.”
“And yet you stayed around to help.”
“I thought I could convince him to stop. He was a good man once, truly. But he changed. And then the King learned what we'd done and there was no going back.”
“Ah. Go on.”
“King Menhroth summoned Ilminion, made demands of him. There was a blazing argument. I wasn't present but I heard Ilminion's account.”
“Ilminion argued with the King? A dangerous game.”
“Perhaps. But they had power over each other. Menhroth was dying and Ilminion offered him the possibility of salvation.”
“So they come to an arrangement.”
Thaniel bobbed his head from side to side in a gesture that suggested uncertainty. “In the end Ilminion didn't have much choice. When he returned from the palace he was furious. He ranted and raged for a day at what the King had demanded. He was … quite violent. Frightening. But we carried out our work under the King's permit, and Menhroth could have cut off our supplies, had us imprisoned or killed. Ilminion had to agree. But in secret, to me, he swore he'd get his revenge, swore the King wouldn't get away with it.”
“And what exactly was the agreement they came to?”
“The King was no fool. He was well aware Ilminion would have power over him once he'd undergone the Ritual of Seven Ascensions. So, as well as giving him eternal life, Menhroth demanded Ilminion transfer the greater part of his knowledge and power. To make Menhroth the greater necromancer of the two.”
“Is that even possible?”
Thaniel looked more and more uneasy at her questions. “There are ways. By using his own blood in the rite, Ilminion was able to do as the King instructed. But he was furious about it. I think … I think perhaps he had some quiet plan to usurp the King, just as Menhroth suspected. The look in Ilminion's eye as he vowed his revenge was what finally showed me I had to leave, have no more to do with any of it.”
“And what was that look, would you say?”
“Madness.”
“And so you left. Yet you helped him all that time. You are still partly to blame for what has happened.”
Thaniel looked down to the distant ground, as if he might hurl himself to his own death then and there. “Yes. But I am here now. Doing what I can to make amends.”
“I really don't see how you can make amends,” said Meg. “Unless you know some terrible incantation that can turn back time and put everything right in a moment?”
“No. But there is something. It's the blood, you see.”
“What of it? Blood's blood. We all have it. And it's far too easy to spill and splash around. Nothing special about blood.”
“I explained. Ilminion had to use his blood in the rite. You must have heard the same rumours I have. Ilminion was killed before the sealing words could be uttered. Don't you see? The rite is incomplete. And that makes Menhroth vulnerable. He'll need more and more life-spirit simply to prolong his existence.”
She didn't see. Magic like that was hideous, an abomination. “The simple truth is Menhroth was brought back to life whether or not Ilminion finished mumbling his incantations. And Ilminion's dead so Menhroth can't get his hands on the blood he needs to complete this binding.”
“But he can.”
Here it was. This was what he'd come here to say. “What do you mean?”
“You see, it's not just blood. It's the blood line. That's the way it works.”
“But Ilminion has no children. Too caught up in his arcane researches that one. And I imagine a necromancer finds it hard to find love, no?”
Thaniel ignored her barb. “Actually you're wrong. Ilminion had a child three months ago. He kept it a secret because he knew it would make him vulnerable, give Menhroth a bargaining piece.”
That was news. “Ilminion had a child? A boy or a girl?”
“A girl called Weyerd. Her mother died giving birth to her.”
“Is that so? And was any help brought to the poor woman as she laboured or did Ilminion fear someone finding out too much?”
“I don't know. I'm sorry.”
“Weyerd? A name from the north.”
“Her mother was a witch of sorts from the ice plains.”
“And where is this girl?”
“In Ilminion's palace in the far west, a long way from the river and the court. But once Menhroth finds out he'll stop at nothing to seize the baby. With her blood he can complete the rite himself. Everything depends on this girl. She's Menhroth's one chance to secure complete invulnerability. But if we have her, we have a weapon against him.”
“She's a baby, necromancer. An innocent. Not a weapon.”
“Yes. Yes of course. I just meant that all our fates depend on her.”
Meg simply snorted in reply. Was that true? Perhaps it was and perhaps it wasn't. But this child was clearly in terrible danger. She pitied the girl, growing up with such a weight of destiny hanging over her. If she even got the chance to grow up. Menhroth would be sure to learn of her sooner or later and then he'd come for her, for her blood. He wouldn't care what he had to do to get it. Kill her, most likely. Which couldn't be allowed to happen. Maybe there wasn't much Meg and the other witches could do to fight the King, but they couldn't stand by and watch such horror.
“You're thinking about how you can rescue her,” said Thaniel. A sly tone she didn't like had crept into his voice. “Take her to safety somewhere? Hide her away?”
“Perhaps.”
“You don't have to go that far you know.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“We have to face facts. If the girl were
killed before Menhroth got to her we'd be safe. Ilminion's blood line would truly be ended then.”
“You're suggesting we kill this child before the King does?”
Thaniel was gripping his own hands tightly, rubbing them, uncomfortable at what he was suggesting. “A terrible notion, of course. Still, isn't one death better than the whole world being at Menhroth's mercy? Isn't one death better than many?”
For a moment she didn't know how to reply. “You really think you can count up lives and deaths like that? As if they were nothing more than stones on the ground?”
Thaniel looked as if he was about to reply, but thought better of it. He sagged visibly. “I don't know. No. I suppose not.”
“Very well,” said Meg. “We'll have no more talk like that. Thank you for coming here and telling us of the girl. We'll do what we can.”
“There is something else,” said Thaniel. “Something you should know. The King wasn't our first subject. There were many previous attempts, some more successful than others. Some lived only a few moments. Others had to be killed for everyone's sake. But some survived and these will be guarding Ilminion's home, guarding his child. Ilminion called them his undain.”
“What does that even mean?”
“He was originally from the southern deserts. In his native tongue it means something like the new people or the next people. You must be very careful. Some of these creatures are truly fearsome. Not much human left in them.”
“Well. That's just lovely,” said Meg. She held out a hand to Thaniel.
For a moment he didn't act, puzzled at what he was supposed to do. Then he helped haul her to her feet.
“Best get started then,” said Meg. “You're welcome to stay the night if you wish. We don't get many necromancers here but now that I've had a look at you, you don't seem too terrible. Be warned though. Try any death magic, do so much as utter a few syllables under your breath, and you won't see the morning. You have my word.”
“I believe you.”
She was about to say more when she heard pounding footsteps.
Fyr raced up, out of breath, face flushed. “Black Meg. You're needed. It's the Andar witches. They've given their reply.”
Meg glanced at Thaniel, listening with a puzzled look on his face. Meg strode away, leading Fyr by the arm so they couldn't be overheard. “They've decided not to help, is that right?”
It was probably just as well now. They had no chance of rescuing this baby in a week. It would take at least that long to travel into the far west, and the same again to make the return journey. It would be the better part of a month before they could get the child safely to Andar. By then the crossing wouldn't be possible, the bridge held by Menhroth, the witches all dead or enslaved. But there was nothing to be done.
“No,” said Fyr, her voice all excitement. “No, they've agreed to help. They're already preparing to move north and begin the spellcraft. Alice Beetle says she's sending word ahead to all the witches and mancers she trusts, telling them to gather at the ice. Now we can do the same. If we leave immediately we can easily make it within the week. Isn't it wonderful?”
Early the following morning, Meg stood alone at the vast stone archway that crowned the steep hill known as Wyrmfell. It was the nearest of the dragonriders' gateways to Morvale Wycka, and she'd come to meet a dragon and a rider.
Was she doing the right thing? The other witches had already set off, striking northeast so they could pick up the bank of the An and, hopefully, assemble more and more spellweavers as they raced to the ice. She should have gone with them. They would need all the magical strength they had. But this innocent baby girl, Ilminion's daughter, changed everything. Meg needed to rescue her, bring her to safety. And she had to do so in one week. They could spare no others in the attempt.
Seeing no other course she'd turned to the riders, or at least those few that were opposed to Menhroth. She'd found Dervil's presence in the aether after only an hour of seeking. In the dead of night, questing out with her mind, she'd found the particular glowing light in the darkness that represented the rider.
Dervil. I have urgent need of your help.
Dervil's mind, unusually, was open to her. Pain and anger burned brightly in the rider, her thoughts little more than a jumble of tattered emotions. Rage. Despair. Loss. It soon became clear why. Her dragon was dead, slain in battle with the King's riders. Dervil's raw anguish echoed in the aether, terrible to touch, the colours swirling storm-cloud purple and blood-red. Meg offered what comfort she could, although it was precious little. To the riders, the dragons were everything.
It took most of an hour to soothe Dervil, bring her back. Meg waited as patiently as she could. Some hurts were too deep. Eventually she was able to get sense out of the rider, piece together what had happened. Dervil and two others had been attacked by a wing of dragonriders loyal to the King, ten or twelve of them. Dervil's crimson dragon had been ripped to shreds, one wing torn from its body in mid-flight. Dervil had barely escaped alive, the dragon's last act to cushion her fall to the ground with its own body.
Did you know them? Meg asked. The riders who attacked you?
We knew them all. A week ago they were trusted friends. Now they are killing us, and we are killing them in payment. Wyrms a thousand years old or more have seen their last sunrises.
And Ilminion's book. Do you still have it? More than ever she wished she'd taken it now, brought it to Morvale Wycka. Done something. How costly might that mistake be?
I have it still, said Dervil. We escaped the dragons attacking us, fled into the woods where they couldn't follow.
And where are you taking the book?
Akbar is with a rebel army ten or twenty miles Anwards. I will take it to him. As you instructed.
Instructed? Was that how it seemed? Perhaps you should just destroy the book instead, Meg said across the aether. While you still can.
No. It may still be useful. One day, somehow, we may have need of it. I shall take it to Akbar. Or die trying.
It was clear Dervil wasn't going to be persuaded. Clear, also, that she couldn't help Meg reach the far west. The wyrm roads opened to the riders even when they were without their dragons, but Dervil was two days from the nearest archway at walking-pace.
And so another rider had come to Meg's help, at Dervil's request. This was Bordun, Red Wing like Dervil. His dragon, when it exploded out of the archway, wings wide and swept back for full-speed flight, was like the oncoming storm, huge and terrible as it roared searing flame. But as it blasted through the air above Meg she could see that it, too, was hurt. Blackened scorch-marks patterned its torso. One of its wings was holed, the skin ripped right through.
The dragon arced into the sky. For a moment Meg thought they were going to fly away, ignore her. Then she saw they were manoeuvring to lose speed. She'd seen birds of prey perform similar acrobatics. The dragon climbed, slowed and then, its wings pulled in close to its body, stalled. It began to fall from the sky. But after a few moments, with exquisite skill, it extended its wings, one more than the other so that it spiralled to slow its descent. All the time Bordun remained on its back, leaning into the tight turns, rider and dragon in perfect harmony. At the last moment, as she thought they would thump into the ground in a jumble of broken bones, the wyrm fanned out both wings fully and beat the air with huge downdraughts, the blast strong enough to make Meg step backwards. For the briefest moment the dragon hung in mid-air, perfectly stationary a few feet above the ground. Then it dropped the short distance and landed gently upon its four feet.
Meg approached them warily. It always surprised her how big the wyrms were close-up. The creature's scarlet scales were beautiful, iridescent like the wings of a butterfly, each a slightly different hue. The dragon's horned head was as big as she was. It turned to regard her. Were they intelligent? Or simply huge and terrible beasts? She had no idea. Its jewel eyes were impenetrable, its mind hidden. But the familiar aura of despair washed over her as she approached. She was
so insignificant, so weak. How could she ever hope to do anything, achieve anything, in the face of such might?
Once again, with an effort, Meg set the feelings aside. She'd learned over the years not to fight the crippling gloom, not to try and blot it out, but to accept and ignore it. To simply watch it encroaching from one side, and by doing so rob it of its power. In truth it wasn't always easy to do.
In one fluid motion, Bordun slid from the wyrm's back and strode towards her. His armour, red like the dragon's, was scraped and charred.
“I am Bordun of the Crimson Wing. Dervil asked me to come to your assistance.”
His manner was terse, impatient, as if helping her was an inconvenience.
“You were with Dervil when she was attacked? When her dragon died?”
“Yes. And I should be hunting those responsible for that act now.”
“I understand. And I am grateful, Bordun. To you and your dragon. But my need is great.”
“And what is this terrible emergency?” His tone of voice remained level as he spoke. Nevertheless it was clear he didn't think her need great at all.
“I have to travel to the far west of Angere to find someone. Then bring them safely back to the bridge. And such speed over such huge distances is possible only to a rider who can fly down the wyrm roads.”
“And who is this person who requires rescuing?”
Could she trust this angry rider? She had little choice. Dervil said she had complete faith in him. “A baby girl. Her name is Weyerd.”
Bordun didn't reply for a moment. She thought he was going to turn and walk away there and then. Or worse. But eventually he controlled himself enough to reply. “I have fled the battlefield to hare off into the west to rescue a baby girl?”
“You were sworn to protect the land and all its people, I believe?”
“Which is why I have been fighting the dragons loyal to the monster the King has become for the last two days. Fighting and fleeing and fighting again. We can't stop every time some bawling child is in danger.”
His anger was clear in his eyes. He must have come close to death many times recently. And he was being torn in two; caught between his oath to the King he'd sworn to protect and his revulsion for the thing Menhroth had become. She shouldn't have riled him.
