by Simon Kewin
By weaving and wheeling around they made it through the first six archways unscathed. But as they dived towards the seventh, a huge green dragon rose to meet them, filling the arc of the gateway, wings beating hard to hold the great beast stationary in the air. It roared a wide cone of red flame directly at them.
Meg let go of the dragon and, holding her left hand forwards, palm flat, unleashed a blast of cold air to meet the fire. It was purely instinctive. Working the magic cost her. Sharp pains cut through her head and down her neck as her ice met the green dragon's fire.
She bought them only a moment's respite, but it was enough for Bordun to duck beneath the flame. Speeding to the ground they banked, their dragon's wings vertical once more. Meg felt herself coming loose from the creature's back, but the dizzying tightness of their turn held her in place. Her head swam. A headache thundered between her eyes and for a moment the world threatened to fade to grey. Terrified she might fall from the dragon's back, she fought against the fog, willing herself to stay awake, stay alert.
The clashing, roaring world rushed back to engulf her. She saw what Bordun was attempting. They were looping hard around the archway's upright, attempting to enter it from the reverse side without slowing down. It was surely impossible. The dragon's wings were still vertical but even so it didn't seem they could turn tightly enough. They were slipping to the ground, staying in the air only because of their speed, the dragon's skyward wings giving them no lift.
Their loop tightened as Bordun attempted to cut inside the archway. The green dragon was turning, flapping awkwardly, preparing to unleash more flame on them. Meg tried to summon more threads of magic, work a gale to fend off the fire. But she couldn't think straight, couldn't form the shapes in her mind. The darkness rushed in again to consume her and this time there was nothing she could do to hold it off.
The troubled world slipped away from her.
Bordun's iron grip on her shoulder brought her back to herself. They were still alive, still flying. Flying horizontally, too. Somehow they'd made it. Bordun had steered them through the archway.
The baby. Alarm shot through her. How long had she lost her senses? But the reassuring weight at her breast was still there, the sling holding the infant in place. She pulled aside the cloths and the baby's wide-eyed face smiled back at her, as if nothing had happened and they'd never been in any danger. Marvelling, Meg stroked the baby's cheek, then returned to holding tightly onto the dragon's neck.
“Are they pursuing us?” she called over her shoulder.
Bordun's voice was strangely close to her ear as he replied. “No. They have let us be for a moment.”
“Why? Why would they do that?”
“They were mustering into attack formation, ready for an assault on the bridge. Lord Charis was there, the King's Chancellor. They think to take us in battle at the An.”
If that was so it must mean news of their rescue of the baby girl hadn't spread this far east. Perhaps they had a chance after all. In the far distance, a sparkling line of blue, the An, waited for them. They were nearly there. For the moment they were safe and alone, and that was very welcome. Meg forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, trying to calm the ache that lingered in her head.
The dragon's outstretched wings beat steadily, propelling them forwards. The babe in her arms closed its eyes and fell into sudden sleep. Perhaps it was the surging motion of the dragon. Meg smiled to herself. In all her years of trying to get babies to shut their eyes, she'd never once thought about trying a ride on a wyrm.
She reached out with her mind, questing northwards through the aether to try and find the gathered witches and mancers at the ice. If they hadn't made it that far north, or if their combined strength wasn't enough, then it made little difference whether she and Bordun reached the bridge or not.
She hoped to find one of the older witches, those with whom she'd been friends for many decades. Mother Crookall or Esme Cobb. Instead it was the girl, young Fyr, she found. A wavering candle-flame in the grey of the aether, almost flickering out as if set too near a draught. Meg drew nearer, cautious. It was a delicate business making contact with another witch. There was always the risk the touch would be perceived as an attack. But unexpectedly, with no resistance offered, Meg found herself looking out through the girl's eyes.
This far north the broadleaf trees she was used to, oak and elm and ash, had given way to spiky conifers, dark green despite the cold air. It was said the river was a little narrower here, the waters running fast and deep, but still the far shore was invisible. A crust of ice had formed on the An, stopping a few yards out where it met the full force of the flow. It was just a good thing winters were never severe enough for the ice to creep all the way across. Some said the great river had no beginning and no end; that its waters moved in an endless ring around the world. If that was true, Andar would be safe once they'd destroyed the bridge.
Except, that wasn't to be. She saw now. All around her, the towering slopes stepped away into the far north, and the vast fields of ice and snow upon them lay dazzling in their white brilliance. But all pristine, all untouched.
Fyr? she said. What has happened? Can you hear me?
Black Meg. You're still alive. That is good. The girl sounded exhausted, the words limping from her.
What has happened, said Meg again. Have you unleashed the ice?
See, said Fyr.
The girl was too exhausted to speak longer. Pain coloured her thoughts. Pain and horror. When her gaze shifted and Meg saw the field of snow all around the girl, she understood why.
Witches and mancers lay all around, scattered on the icy bank of the An as if they'd simply fallen asleep. But Meg knew, immediately, they were gone. Expressions of frozen agony twisted their faces. So many of them, so much strength and life spent on trying to crack the ice and send it crashing into the water. So many old friends she would never see again.
We weren't enough, said Fyr. We spent all we had but we weren't enough.
What of Alice Beetle and the Andar witches? asked Meg.
They threw everything into it. Many died from the effort there, too.
And Hyrn?
I don't know. Perhaps I sensed something. Like a great light. But then I lost sight of it as we came together and battled.
And did any ice hit the water? Will there be any flood at all?
None. We have failed. Utterly failed. I am sorry.
Shocked, Meg withdrew, leaving the northern ice for the sunlit woods of Angere beneath her. It had all been for nothing. The great wyrm's wings beat the air, propelling them eastwards to the An. What did it matter now? Menhroth could take Andar whenever it suited him. Take the baby girl. Everything was lost. Despite their efforts, the deaths of so many, everything was lost.
The baby she carried in her arms made a snuffling sound, almost inquisitive, as if asking Meg what was wrong. Meg looked down at the child. Her eyes were open, staring at Meg with something like wonder. Meg stroked the baby's soft cheek. The girl could never understand, but they had failed her. Failed everyone.
The baby, oblivious, made a sound that was something like a chortle of laughter. A moment of simple delight at Meg's touch perhaps.
The sound stirred something in Meg's heart. What was she thinking? Despair was so easy, but there was always hope. Hope for the future. Hope in new life. This was no time for giving in. This was a time to fight back.
Reaching into the aether she found Fyr once more.
How many or you are left? Meg asked.
One or two. Not many.
And in Andar?
Alice and a few others.
Then … let us try one more time. Perhaps we are close. Perhaps you weakened the ice on the slopes and it is ready to fall. I will lend my strength to it.
You are too far away.
We have no choice. Let us try. Let me work through you, give you my strength. If we all die, what does it matter?
After a moment, she felt Fyr relenting, agreein
g to make one final effort. Very well. It is all we can do.
Opening her eyes, Meg called back to Bordun. “If I pass Weyerd to you can you carry her and fly the dragon at the same time?”
It took Bordun a moment to reply. “You want me to hold the baby?”
“You'll have to tie the sling around you. Can you fly with one hand?”
“Yes. But why?”
“I'm about to attempt something. It may not go well. I may black out or fall. It's quite possible I won't survive it. If I don't you must take the girl to the bridgehead, see she's taken to Andar without delay. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Very well. Don't try any aerobatics while I pass her to you.”
“Yes, but…”
“There's no time. I'm holding her now. Untie the sling. Good. Now knot it securely about your neck. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Here she is. Wrap her up tight. Not so tight she can't breathe. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, if you talk to me I may not respond for a time.”
“But…”
“Hush, now. Fly your dragon.”
The effort and pain of what Meg went through over the following minutes nearly killed her. She offered up the strength within her to Fyr, letting the girl draw on it, add it to her own. Sharp pains coursed through Meg as if her insides were burning, but she kept herself open, refusing to relent. Fyr and the other remaining witches sent their fire into the ice, attempting again to weaken it at its base. Dimly Meg was aware of Bordun's grasp on her shoulder, holding her in place on the back of the wyrm.
When she had given all she had she screamed in agony and fear, although whether it was through her own mouth or Fyr's she couldn't tell. A moment of absolute silence followed, filling the world. She'd done all she could. There was nothing more to give.
The moment stretched out, unending, as if the whole land waited to see what would happen. Here was another turning point. Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps nothing would change and they could do nothing but cower away to await the inevitable end. Still the moment stretched on.
Then a sharp crack, louder than lightning striking the ground, broke in the air around Fyr. The huge sound echoed around the mountainsides. On the slopes, a jagged line appeared in the ice, a fault in the pristine white. Nothing else moved. Had they failed after all? Managed only to break the ice that small amount?
Then she saw that the slopes were moving. Slipping downwards. Slowly at first, then gathering speed as the undercut ice higher up began to fall. More weight brought down more and more ice. In a few moments it was unstoppable, mountainsides of snow crashing down to smash into the An, filling the air with a fury of snow and spray. The river seethed and boiled, sending a huge wave of water and ice surging southwards to engulf the lands.
Meg felt her connection to the girl slipping away. Only a handful of witches had survived in the north and the girl was among them. They'd worked this terrible magic to save Andar, but now Fyr and the others were lost, cut off forever. Perhaps they could stay in the north, hide away. It was the only hope for them Meg could see.
We will save Andar, Meg said to Fyr with the last of her strength. We have bought that, at least.
Yes, said Fyr. We have done that. That was a good thing to do.
Good bye, girl.
Good bye, Black Meg.
Meg's link to Fyr's mind fell away and she was back on the dragon again. She panted heavily, sharp pains cutting through her as if she'd suffered terrible injuries. Hopefully, given time, her wounds would heal.
“What happened?” Bordun shouted to her against the wind. “Can you hold on?” He knew nothing of her struggles and what had just been achieved. He would learn soon.
“I'm well,” she called over her shoulder. “Is Weyerd safe?”
“She's fine. For some reason she finds me amusing. She keeps laughing at me.”
Despite her agonies Meg smiled to herself at his words. “Very well. Let's get to the bridge.”
Beneath them lay the familiar patchwork of fields and woods and hills. Villages and hamlets she'd visited often in her travels. The countless dwellings she'd spent her days and nights in, tending to the sick, easing the passage of newborns into the world and the passage of the old from it. There was movement down there. A lot of movement. The streaming air made her eyes water, but it was clear enough what she was seeing. People were flocking along the roads and tracks and paths towards the river.
It struck her this was the last she would see of any of it. Whatever happened, the land she'd lived her whole life in, save for the occasional journey over the bridge, was dying. One whole half of the world was dying, the people of Angere draining from the land like water from a basin.
It was clear not everyone would make it. In three days, if they had it right, the great swell of water would seethe its way southwards to engulf them. But the one hundred mile crossing took at least that long. Which meant anyone not already at the bridge wouldn't have time to reach the safety of the other side. Time was up for Angere and its people.
Bordun touched her on the shoulder, telling her something. They were nearing the river. She could see the delicate line of the bridge, its stone archways striding into the mists.
And over the bridgehead, hanging in the air like huge birds of prey, flew three dragons. Menhroth, it seemed, held the crossing. Bordun's wyrm blasted out an arc of fire in their direction, as if warning them or trying to intimidate them. Bordun angled to fly directly at them, losing height and gaining speed, spearing into the attack. Wearily, aware she would be of little use, Meg tried to summon what scattered tatters of magic were left within her. Somehow they had to make it through.
But Bordun must have sensed what she was doing. He shouted to her again. “No. They're friends. We've made it.”
The three dragons, seeing who they were, stopped hovering, and broke into glides, circling in wide spirals above the bridgehead. There were others, too, down on the ground. A ring of defenders around the steps that led onto the bridge. Dragonless riders, perhaps a few hundred of them. They still held the crossing. As she watched, the line parted to let a knot of people up onto the bridge. If the King chose to throw all his strength at them they wouldn't last long, but clearly Menhroth was in no hurry. It appeared he didn't know about the flood thundering southwards either. In that small ignorance lay Andar's hope.
The dragon landed beside the ring of defenders with a bone-rattling thump. Bordun passed Weyerd back to Meg and slid from the wyrm's scaly back.
The dragon that had borne them across Angere stretched out its vast wings once more, allowing Bordun to inspect them for fresh wounds. While he did so, another rider left the ring of defenders and approached.
“You made it,” said Dervil.
“Just about. Thanks to Bordun.”
Dervil frowned when she saw what Meg was carrying. There was a sadness and also an edge of hardness to her features that hadn't been there before. “And this is the one you sought in the west?”
“Her name is Weyerd.”
“She's a child. A baby.”
“Yes she is.”
“Why is she so important?”
“I will tell you, Dervil, I promise. There are things I need to explain. And things I need to warn you about, too. But first, tell me. What happened to the book? Did you find Akbar?”
“We found him. We were hard-pressed and there was little time, but he took the Grimoire and cut it in half. Magically I mean, so that each half was useless without the other but would be reunited if brought back together.”
“Why would he do that?” She didn't know such a thing was possible.
“Menhroth's forces were all around. Dividing the book meant they'd have to capture both of us. I took half and Akbar the other.”
“And you still have yours?”
“It is here.” As before, Dervil pulled the book from inside her cloak. It looked the same, complete, but when Meg o
pened it she saw what Akbar had done. Words, sentences and whole paragraphs were missing, mostly from the right-hand pages. Diagrams were half-complete, and some leaves were completely blank. With this half of the Grimoire, it might be possible to attempt the incantations and rites, but it would require much guesswork. Probably very dangerous guesswork.
Were the sealing words Thaniel had described contained within this half of the book? Perhaps. They would need to study it, try and understand it. Grim as the prospect of doing so was. The girl, Weyerd, would need to be told all about it as well. When she was ready. The secrets and horrors in the book were her secrets, her family's secrets.
“Will you take it this time?” Dervil asked. “Across the bridge to Andar?”
“I will,” said Meg. “As perhaps I should have before. Although, given where I've been, perhaps it was for the best. But, hold onto it for a while longer, will you?”
She looked puzzled, but relented. “Very well.”
“And what of Akbar? I don't see him here. Is there any word?”
“He was lost. The army he was with tried to battle their way down the Meltwater, but they were overrun and slaughtered a few hours after we left them.”
“Akbar was killed?”
“He was. All we found of him was a journal written in his hand. His diary.”
“And his half of the Grimoire?”
“Gone. We must assume Menhroth has it. By cleaving the book in two Akbar at least made sure the King doesn't have access to all Ilminion's foul arts.”
She was right. Losing half of the book was a great blow. But it was nowhere near the catastrophe that would have engulfed them if Menhroth held the complete book. Akbar's act had saved them. Strange how everyone's fate could hang by such simple threads.
“Very well,” said Meg. “We must take the book to Andar. The book and the child.”
“It won't be safe there for long.”
Meg studied Dervil for a moment. She really didn't know anything about the flood. They had kept their secrets well. “Actually, that's not quite true. I have every reason to believe Andar will be safe.”
