by Simon Kewin
Dervil's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you mean?”
“Gather the others,” said Meg, “and I will explain all.”
When she had finished telling the assembled dragonriders what the witches and mancers had done, there was silence for a moment. Above them in the air, their shadows sliding across the ground, the three lookouts remained on the wing, although Meg had made sure her words had reached them too.
“And you're sure of this?” Dervil asked. “You're sure the flood will be enough to smash aside the ancient bridge.”
She tried to sound more convinced than she was. “There can be no doubt. In three days Andar will be safe. Anyone setting off now will have to hurry with all speed to reach the other side before the flood comes. An hour or two more, perhaps, and we can be sure Menhroth has been kept out.”
“Then we must defend the bridge for at least that long,” said Dervil. “It is all we can do.”
“No,” said Meg.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, I think you should travel the bridge with me. You and the dragonless riders. There is nothing here for you now.”
“You can not ask that of us. We who failed the land will die defending it to the last.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Meg. “All very heroic, but what's that going to achieve? It makes sense for the four with dragons to remain if they must. They won't want to leave the wyrms behind. But the rest of you have to cross over. If Menhroth does throw all his forces against the bridge you won't be enough. And if he doesn't, you've lost you chance to escape to Andar. Over there, somehow, you might be able to do some good. I think we'll need you, one way or another.”
She could see the objections queuing up on Dervil's face. Before Dervil could utter any of them Meg turned to the rider who had brought her and Weyerd safely back from the far west. “Bordun, will you do this? Stay and defend the bridge? If the King does come, you and these fabulous beasts will buy us a little time.”
Bordun nodded without even pausing to consider. “We will guard the bridge.”
“Thank you. For everything. But … there is something else I must ask of you too. Another task. Harder and crueller than everything you've already done. A task I am sorry to give you. That I don't have any right to lay upon you.”
“Tell me.”
She paused for a moment. Should she stay behind to do this thing herself? Was she fleeing because she was afraid? In truth she couldn't be completely sure. But she was needed in Andar. And the girl and the book had to be taken there.
“The people we saw heading for the bridge. All those fleeing across Angere for the safety of Andar. For three days, until the bridge is destroyed, you must stop them making the crossing. By whatever means you can, fighting them if needs be. They'll attack you and they'll hate you, but it is the only way. Perhaps, somehow, they'll have a chance in Angere. But they'll have no hope on the bridge when the waters sweep it away.”
Bordun didn't reply for a moment. It was a terrible thing she was asking him to do. People would see a rider guarding the bridge and assume he was loyal to Menhroth. That he was to blame. After a few moments, saying nothing, he nodded once more and turned away to ready himself and the dragon.
“Bordun?”
“Yes?” he replied without turning round.
“We have done a great thing rescuing this girl. Whatever else happens, a lot of people may be grateful to us one day. Perhaps many years from now. They may not know our names or the part we played. But what we have done may give them a chance for salvation. Think on that as you guard the bridge.”
After a moment Bordun continued walking without replying. The dragon standing beyond Bordun snaked its head into the air and roared a huge arc of flame into the sky, hot enough on Meg's face to hurt her eyes. The beast lowered its head to regard her. For the briefest moment, unexpectedly, the hard shell around its mind disappeared and she caught a glimpse of the wyrm's true self.
There could be no doubt it was intelligent. She saw. Its mind was rich and deep and huge. Meg caught glimpses of the world as the dragon saw it; the mountains, the forests, the lakes. The rising of the sun and the dragons' dance among the clouds. There was an image of a single, vast wyrm, perhaps Xoster herself. Meg saw, too, the dragons' revulsion at what the King had done. The wyrms burned with life and the undain were the opposite of that. What Bordun had said was true: the dragons would never allow the undain to ride them. The wyrms would fight and die if need be. The sadness within the creature was cavernous: an aching loss that threatened to overwhelm Meg completely for a moment.
Then the dragon's mind closed to Meg again. It took her a moment to regain herself from those huge, seething emotions. Had she been granted this insight deliberately or was it mere chance? She didn't know. Perhaps the wyrm, knowing what was coming, had been bidding farewell. Or asking Meg to remember it. The death of such ancient and noble creatures seemed suddenly unbearable. One more sorrow to add to the tally.
Meg sighed once more and turned away. She had work to do in Andar, especially with so many witches lost. She turned to the waiting riders. All Wings were there: gold, red, blue and green. One or two, also, wore black insignia: the colours of the King's own guard. Some of them had turned against Menhroth as well. She could see the doubt in them. They were all abandoning Angere.
“Dervil?” she said. “Are you ready? Will you come? You can carry the book while I take the child.”
Cradling Weyerd in her arms, Meg climbed the stone steps that led up onto the great bridge. She glanced back at the ring of riders. After a moment's hesitation Dervil stepped forwards. One by one, then in groups, the others followed, leaving only Bordun and the other three whose wyrms still lived.
They were a few hundred yards out, the shores of Angere already fading into the An's ever-present mists, when Meg heard the shouting. Voices rich with anger and fear. For a moment she thought it was Menhroth attacking. But no. This was no army. A family from somewhere in Angere, hurrying to the bridge only to find it blocked by the riders and their dragons.
A part of her wanted to turn back, allow the new arrivals onto the bridge. There might still be time to cross. But then others would arrive, and then others. Where would it stop? She strode on, gaze on the stones of the ancient bridge, worn smooth by the passage of so many feet.
“Black Meg! Please!”
Someone who knew her was trying to climb onto the bridge. Someone she'd once healed or helped. She tried to ignore the voice, put it out of her mind. There was no time.
“Black Meg! It's me! Liana!”
Liana. The girl and the baby boy she'd helped deliver ten days previously. It was too much. She couldn't walk away from them. Cursing her own foolishness she stopped. She put a hand on Dervil's shoulder. “Run back. Tell the riders to let them through. But these must be the last.”
Dervil nodded, relief clear on her face, and raced away. After a few moments the angry shouts subsided and Meg saw Liana and her family, her mother and the lad who was the baby's father, ascend the steps onto the bridge. Behind them, the great bulks of the dragons that had landed to block their passage took to the sky again. Liana approached, her face red, out of breath. In her arms, just like Meg, she cradled a baby.
“Thank you,” said Liana. “I thought they weren't going to let us through.”
Meg nearly didn't explain why. But she had to. “Because I told them not to.”
“But … but why?”
“You don't know? You haven't heard about the flood?”
“What flood?”
“Ah. Good. Well, let us hurry eastwards to Andar and I'll tell you all about it as we go. Baby well? Eating and sleeping?”
“Mostly. More sleeping would be good for all of us.”
“Yes. Well I'm sorry, but there will be little rest for the next three days. We must hurry across the An as quickly as we can.”
Meg, Liana's family, Dervil and the other dragonless riders trudged along the bridge all that day, o
ccasionally passing families aboard trundling carts or even herding small flocks of sheep. Many people had been left stranded in Angere, but many had reached the bridge, too. The sight of each was a joy, a blessing. Meg hurried them all along, explaining about the floodwaters.
When night fell they pressed on for several more hours, Meg always conscious of the swell of the black waters below them, imagining it rising up at any moment to smash the ancient stones aside.
Stone Wayhouses had been built into the bridge at regular intervals, their floors overhanging the waters, supported by heavy wooden stays angled into the side of the bridge. Eventually Meg agreed to stop for a few hours sleep. Liana and her family lay down gratefully and were soon slumbering, although the baby whimpered occasionally, as if nightmares were besieging its mind. Weyerd, too, slept. The riders lay in regimented lines along the bridge, although they also took it in turns to watch for attack from Angere. But Meg, bone-weary as she was, could find no rest. She sat with Dervil on the wall of the bridge, feet hanging in the darkness, swapping tales of their lives and their fears for what was to follow.
After a while, Meg reached into the dark north with her mind, afraid of finding the flood thundering towards them. The long effort of it was exhausting, but there was nothing else to be done. If the waters came now, if their calculations were wrong, they'd have to flee for Andar with all haste. Any minute she could buy them would be vital.
“Can you sense them?” Dervil asked after a long silence. “Menhroth's forces. The undain. Are they on the bridge?”
Meg returned to herself, always a disorientating experience. There was no sign of the flood. She let her mind expand outwards once more, taking in the whole of their surroundings.
The north remained an emptiness. To the east, Andar was a distant glow. But there was something to the south, a faint presence. Intrigued, she quested that way, the effort of moving over the water even in thought sending niggles of pain through her mind.
An island. There was an island in the An, downriver of the bridge. A thing she'd never heard of. She tried to see what the island was, who or what lived there. For an anxious moment she thought it might be Menhroth, some attack on Andar they'd missed. There were mists about the place, veils in the aether as if the island was deliberately hidden. For some reason she could see it now. She sensed trees, woodland creatures, and there, something else. A bright light, shaded but unmistakable.
Hyrn. Hyrn or a part of him at least, sitting on an unknown island in the An, a refuge from Angere and Andar. A place to watch the river and the serpents in the deeps. A refuge or a prison, depending on how you looked at it. She could sense the hurt in him clearly, the wound running wide through him. But he was alive.
Marvelling, she moved on, questing westwards with her mind's eye along the narrow line of the bridge towards Angere. She sought out more lights in the aether, the glows that meant people. And not only them. She looked also for the moving shadows. The unlights in the night that represented the horrors under Menhroth's command. The deeper shadows in the night. It didn't take long to find them, moving nearer each moment. The shock of the discovery cut through her. They were on the bridge. She studied them for a moment, picking through them as she might sort through rotting fruit in a basket.
But it was clear what it meant. Bordun was dead. He and the others would have fought to the end. She'd thought that somehow, impossibly, the wyrm lords would survive. That the strong, fearless riders on their fabulous beasts wouldn't be defeated despite the overwhelming odds. That was how it would have gone in a fireside tale. But this was no tale. Bordun was dead. The fact, more than anything she'd seen or heard in the past few weeks, brought home to her how everything had changed. How the world was being turned on its head and much that was fine and right was being lost or corrupted. Many had died, and many more would die yet, but for some reason it was the loss of this quiet, stern wyrm lord, a man she barely knew, that seemed to her unbearable. What chance was there for any of them if one such as he was gone?
It was a moment before she could speak. She murmured to Dervil in a low whisper in case anyone else was listening. “They are coming. Eight or ten hours behind I'd say. But moving all the time.”
“So the riders defending the bridge were overrun.”
“Yes. They bought us a few hours' lead at least. We'll never be able to thank them for that.”
“But will the waters come before they reach Andar? Before they reach us?”
“I don't know. I can only hope. We should move on. It seems our pursuers aren't stopping to rest at all.”
Dervil nodded and rose to rouse the others from the Wayhouse.
When dawn came, the waters beneath the ancient stones of the bridge remained smooth and calm. The bright sun lit up the mists into a diffuse glow. There was no sign of their pursuers, but the pearly air concealed more that it revealed, and Meg was constantly aware of their enemy's approach, like a low thrum she couldn't shake from her head.
They hurried as quickly as they could. Liana was still exhausted and sore, so they moved at her pace. The riders walked behind, ready to defend them if attack came. With only the mist and the stones of the bridge to look at, Meg slipped into a walking half-dream where they were trapped by some magic to cross the same section of the bridge over and over. With an effort she shook herself out of it.
Liana was visibly struggling, panting deeply. The boy, the baby's father, carried their child. As he walked he studied Liana with growing alarm, seemingly afraid she might collapse at any moment. Meg called a brief halt while they let down one of the chained buckets set along the bridge to haul up water. Liana nodded her thanks but didn't speak. While they drank, Dervil offered to carry Weyerd. After a moment's hesitation Meg handed the child over. She was worn out too. All the twinges and pains in her body had joined into one unfocused ache, filling her up.
When evening finally came, Meg found their pursuers were much closer, only an hour or two behind. The rough cobbles of the bridge weren't good for horses, but either Menhroth's forces were riding regardless or were able to run and run without resting. She thought, briefly, about stopping, working what magic she could muster to block their pursuers while Dervil and Liana and the rest fled. It would be her final act. She put the notion out of her mind. Not because she was afraid - she was too exhausted for fear - but because she was so spent. If she tried to summon up a gale to throw their pursuers from the bridge, she'd probably succeed only in ruffling their hair. It would be a pointless sacrifice. All they could do was race for the shore.
“We can't stop,” she told them, even as they slumped to the ground in another Wayhouse. “If we rest they'll be upon us. I'm sorry, we have to keep going.” She stooped beside Liana. “Can you walk? The riders could carry you perhaps, or…”
“No.” Liana stood, refusing to give in. There was a fierceness in her eyes. “We'll walk through the night. They won't have us. I'd jump into the An first.”
“Well,” said Meg. “Hopefully it won't come to that. We can rest a few minutes and then we'll continue.”
“Yes.”
The march through the night was interminable. Now it seemed they weren't moving forward at all, that the world was an endless darkness, nothing more. The only sounds were the shuffle of their footsteps and the gurgle of the An somewhere below. Meg was too exhausted to craft a guide light for them, but one of the riders lit a flaming torch and strode in front. They followed the wavering smudge of yellow, each footstep an effort.
When the next morning came, the third and final day of their crossing, the mists had lifted a little, scattered by a cold wind blowing from the north. Meg didn't need to quest with her mind to find their pursuers any more. Sunlight glinted off their metal armour in the distance behind them. Was this an invasion of Andar? That seemed unlikely so early on in Menhroth's new world. Most likely he'd sent a force across to hold the eastern end of the bridge, as well as to capture any attempting the crossing.
“Andar is only a few mile
s away,” she said. “We'll be able to see the hills of Faerness soon. We'll be safe when we get there.”
“We'll buy you some time,” said Dervil. “We're going to stop here and try to hold the bridge.”
“Don't be ridiculous. You're hugely outnumbered. And I told you. You'll be needed in Andar.”
“It won't take all of us,” said Dervil. “The bridge is narrow. A few of us could hold off an army.”
“Nonsense. For a few minutes, maybe, but no more. It would be certain death.”
“Yes. It would. But it's been decided. One from each Wing will stop here to face Menhroth's army. See.”
Meg saw. Their pursuers were almost upon them. She could see their faces, see the long line of them snaking back along the bridge. See the undain lord who led them. But four riders had stopped and were standing in two ranks of two upon the bridge, serpentine swords drawn. It was madness. But there was also a certain defiance beyond all hope to it that lifted her spirits.
“Can the riders be dissuaded from this folly?” she asked.
“No. They'll buy us what minutes they can.”
Black Meg sighed. “Very well. We must make the most of their sacrifice.”
They raced for Andar at a half-run, no one speaking. The first cries and shouts, the first clang of metal on metal came only a few moments later. A scream and then another cut through the air. The sounds of fighting faded away behind them before cutting out completely. Meg thought the riders had been overrun, but then a fresh cry rang through the mists. The fighting continued. She tried not to think about the scene of carnage unfolding such a short way behind.
Eventually silence fell and there were no more shouts. Meg didn't dare look back, as if doing so would make their pursuers more real, summon them from the mists. All she could do was put one foot in front of the other. They were so close to safety.
“Look,” called Liana. The edge of panic in her voice was clear.
