by Simon Kewin
Screams echoed down the long, marble hallway that led up to the gates. A dozen or so young men and women were pulled in chains by five more dragonriders. Some of the victims were unconscious, dragged by their arms like rag-dolls. Others were awake, frantic, trying to break free from their shackles. The dragonriders forced them all forward, hauling them, jabbing at them with their swords.
The guards at the door parted to let them through. Hellen saw one, the nearest, tighten her grip on her sword, her knuckles white. This was Dervil. Glances passed between the dragonriders, an unspoken conversation. It was clear how uneasy they were. Sworn to obey their King, sworn to protect him, they were already lost. Finally, one turned and pounded on the doors with the pommel of his serpentine sword.
Footsteps came nearer and a man heaved open one of the doors. If she had met him in other circumstances she would have thought him unremarkable. He was short and bald. She might have mistaken him for a landlord in some quiet, wayside inn. A joyless, resentful landlord. But his eyes were flared wide, like an injured rabbit cornered in the woods and blood was splattered all over him. Some belonged to him, from a series of knife-cuts on his forearms, runes carved out in deep scarlet gashes.
Ilminion the necromancer shouted harsh, incomprehensible words, urging the dragonriders to bring the victims through. Over his shoulder, Hellen could see glimpses of the King's chamber. There was Menhroth himself, lying prone inside the ritual circle. He was alive again by now, his body twitching and bucking. He lay naked, his body purple-blue like a new-born baby. Near his head stood a golden lectern in the shape of an eagle, its wings outstretched, holding the open book. All around, in the ruined splendour of his throne-room, stood great iron cauldrons, and from each were thin tubes leading directly into his body.
She heard more screaming from the prisoners, an edge of panic to their cries. She had to remind herself these were old wrongs. Five hundred years later, there was nothing she could do to help.
More shouts came from the hallway, this time roars of fury rather than fear. A group of warriors, swords held before them, ran toward the doors. There were perhaps thirty of them, all wounded as if they had fought through much to make it this far.
The dragonriders moved quickly in front of the prisoners, allowing them to be hauled through the open golden door while forming a line to protect the King's chamber.
Hellen finally closed her eyes. There was nothing to be gained from watching this part again. But she was unable to block out the sounds. For long moments she listened, flinching, to the clang of metal upon metal, the screams of the attackers as they fell and the muffled cries of the prisoners from inside the chamber.
Eventually, silence returned. She opened her eyes. Bodies lay everywhere. Only the five dragonriders still stood. They were out of breath at least. They looked at each other, a wariness clear in their eyes. Guilt.
Ilminion reappeared at the doors, fresh blood on his face. He began to shout, exhaustion making his voice ragged. Hellen knew from Borrn what his words meant. The ritual was not yet finished. He needed more victims, the life of one more along with his own blood, to seal the magic.
Here at last was the moment the fate of Angere and Andar, and other worlds too, was decided. Here was the turning point.
Hellen's gaze moved to Dervil. She stood uninjured. Around her feet lay the bodies of perhaps seven attackers, as if she had built herself a nest.
Ilminion stepped through the doorway and began to kick each of the bodies on the ground. Most were dead but one groaned and tried to defend himself, arms held uselessly over his face. Despite the deep cuts to his body and neck, he lived. Hellen caught glimpses of his face. He was very young, his eyes wide with horror. He resembled Dervil a little: black hair and rich, golden-brown skin. Someone from the same part of Angere, perhaps. Ilminion dragged him into the chamber, calling to the dragonriders to help.
It was this, finally, that was too much for Dervil. Hellen could sense nothing of her mind, the stones only relaying sights, sounds and smells. Dervil's expression didn't change. The dragonriders were trained never to reveal their intentions in battle. But she turned with a dancer's elegance, her sword held out horizontally, and sliced the necromancer's head cleanly from his shoulders. In a single blow she achieved what an entire army had failed to do in weeks of fighting. The sight was horrific but also strangely comic, the headless body standing there for a moment as if confused, before crumpling to the marble floor.
The other dragonriders flinched, their hands going back to their swords. But they didn't stop Dervil as she marched into the King's chamber, her serpentine sword before her. She walked up to the prone King, who bellowed helplessly, without the strength to rise. Dervil stopped before him. What ran through her mind? Did it occur to her to slay the king? And if she had done so, what would the world be like now?
They would never know. Dervil lowered her sword and bowed deeply to the king, the man she had sworn to protect. Then she walked to the lectern, took the book and marched out of the chamber and down the hall, not looking backward.
The vision faded. As it wavered and collapsed back into the flames of the twig fire, most of the dragonriders at the doors followed Dervil, leaving their king, although a few stayed where they were to guard the doors.
Sunlight burst through the scene, dissipating it like early morning mist. They were back in the orchard. The sweet tang of the grass came to her. The only sound was the hissing of the small fire and a lark, twittering and twittering high up in the blue sky.
She looked around the circle. Ran was stony-faced, still standing. Fer looked weaker again and close to tears. Seleena shook her head slightly as if attempting to dislodge the sights she had just witnessed. Ariane simply looked sad, while Johnny's face was wide-eyed with shock.
“Holy hell,” he said.
“I am sorry for having to show you,” said Hellen.
“So that was the necromancer? The one in all the stories?” asked Johnny.
“Ilminion, yes,” replied Hellen. “And in the chamber, undergoing the ritual, that was Menhroth himself. The Witch King as he now calls himself.”
“So the dragonriders were like, the king's guard?” asked Johnny. He looked up at Ran, who met his gaze. The dragonrider was like someone standing outside in the rain, enjoying the sensation of it lashing against his face. He wanted their condemnation, welcomed their scorn for everything that had been done by his ancestors.
“They were,” said Hellen. “They followed their orders and allowed Ilminion to work his necromancy. It is said that over a thousand people died within the chamber as Menhroth was ritually killed and brought back as undain.”
“Yet the rite was not completed,” Ariane said quietly. “We saw. That dragonrider killed the necromancer before his work was complete. She did that at least.”
“True,” said Hellen. “And that was something. Not enough to stop Menhroth, but still.”
“So he is vulnerable,” said Fer, speaking for the first time, looking not at any of them but gazing into the distance. “It is an incomplete circle. However small, the gap must still be there.”
She was clever too, no doubt about it. She had seen it.
“Which is why the undain came here after all this time,” said Hellen.
“The book in the vision,” said Ariane. “It came for that? It is here?”
“It is. Or it was. That was the Grimoire. The book in which Ilminion detailed all the arts of his death magic.”
“All this trouble over a book written so long ago,” said Ariane.
“A book whose magic allowed Menhroth to become what he is,” said Hellen. “Allowed him, in turn, to create all the undain, all of Angere as we now know it. Everything comes back to the sorcery in it.”
“Why now though?” said Fer, still looking away, as if she was thinking out loud rather than talking. “Why have they come now?”
“Perhaps they only just found out how to work the magic to cross so much water,” said Hellen.
>
The girl looked unconvinced. As was Hellen come to that. Why now was a very good question indeed. She glanced at Johnny, who still sat upright, as if ready to make a run for it there and then. He fidgeted with his fingers, plucking at the strings of an imaginary instrument.
“Not everyone in Angere accepted what the king was doing,” said Ariane. She was angry, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening as she frowned. “We saw. Some tried to stop him.”
“Not enough,” said Hellen. “The necromancer was no fool. He chose his victims for his early experiments carefully: those that people didn't care much about, thieves and pirates and beggars. Then he set the simple beings he created to work, doing all the dangerous and dirty jobs no one else wanted to do, labouring without rest. Seeing that, the people allowed him to continue.”
“But the Witch King is no simple being,” said Ariane. “In Angere he is considered a god, all-powerful.”
“Over long years, Ilminion perfected the Ritual of the Seven Ascensions, as he named it,” said Hellen. “It is described in the books. He offered Menhroth eternal life and inhuman power. Offered him all the powers of necromancy, too.”
“Still, to let yourself be killed,” said Ariane. “To let yourself become what he is, that abomination. It's unthinkable.”
“Is it?” asked Hellen. “The king was old and afraid of dying. Many people would have been tempted, I dare say.”
“Look, what does it matter?” said Johnny, half-shouting, his agitation finally boiling over. “What does any of it matter? They have the book now. They can finish the hocus-pocus. They can do whatever they want! When the war comes, they'll be unstoppable. Andar - everything - will fall. Don't you see?”
There it was. The great weight of dread she had sensed on the banks of the An. She had shocked it out of him, brought it to the surface like poison drawn from a wound. Now things might become clearer.
There was silence in the circle. Everyone there, everyone in the coven, watched him.
“War?” said Hellen. “An interesting word, Johnny Electric. That is the first time anyone has talked of war.”
9. Snow on the Northern Hills
Hellen searched into Johnny's mind. But it was hard to see anything through the fog of his fear.
“I just thought that … well, an invasion's bound to happen isn't it?” he said. “I mean, like, sooner or later?”
“You have forgotten the An,” said Ariane. “It has kept us safe for many hundreds of years. A single miraculous flight is one thing, an invasion quite another.”
He opened his mouth. He prepared to speak, but he stopped himself.
“You have heard the Song,” Hellen said to him. “You have heard the beauty of it.”
He looked haunted. “I have.”
“The song is the land,” said Hellen. “The land is the song. There is no difference. They are like the sound of the river and the river itself. You heard the discord in it?”
He looked down. “Yes.”
“Sometimes there are breaks in the rhythm, complete pauses in the music. One day soon, if we don't act, perhaps the singing will stop completely.”
He said nothing.
“Johnny Electric, I think you should tell us your story,” said Hellen. “Before you leave Andar, tell us what you are running from.”
He was silent for a moment more, staring into the sky. High above, the lark still hovered, warbling its long, beautiful song to the world.
“Then I can go?” he asked.
“Then you can leave Andar, yes,” said Hellen.
He sighed. “OK.”
He scratched his chin where a thin beard grew. He folded his legs, glancing at each of them.
“I was in Guilden for the Proclamation two weeks ago,” Johnny began. “The talk in the taverns was all of the Ice Fair. Everyone said there would be one this winter. The place was buzzing. Minstrels and mummers and acrobats juggling fire on every corner. All sorts of weird stuff going on. And all this just for the announcement about the Ice Fair, yeah?
“The three mancers that make the observations had returned from the far north the day before, all their arcane calculations complete. They appeared on this ornate balcony overlooking the Golden Square bang in the centre of Guilden. The place was full from first light. It was heaving. I didn't know there were so many people in Andar. So, they make the Proclamation through these great brass megaphones. When the voice of the oldest guy boomed out there would be an Ice Fair, the place exploded. The sound of the crowd cheering and shouting was amazing. It was like … well, it was really loud.
“But I happened to know the youngest of the three. I met him at the court of the Doge of Guilden a few times. He wasn't on the balcony. I came across him later that day in a quiet back street. He was plainly dressed, no flashy purple robes or regalia, upon a horse-drawn wagon that was well laden.
“I asked him where he was going, what with all the partying and excitement. He looked troubled. I think he just needed to tell someone what had happened. Seems there'd been arguments amongst the three of them. He said the observations they made had been strange. Extreme was the word he used. He told me how the first snow normally appears on the distant peak of Howl Hill around the autumn equinox, how they chart its progress over two weeks to predict the winter. This year, when they got there, the entire slope was covered. Howl Hill and all the northern peaks. The three of them couldn't agree what this meant. The young mancer foresaw things the others did not. In the end, the other two overruled him and simply announced there would be an Ice Fair, nothing more. But he was leaving Guilden, heading south, because of what he said was coming.”
Johnny stopped speaking, looking back up into the sky.
“And what was that?” asked Hellen. “Didn't this young mancer think there would be an Ice Fair, too?” Across the circle, she saw, Ariane scowled slightly, mistrustful of the wisdom of mancers.
“Oh yeah,” said Johnny. “No problem there. He told me there was definitely a cold winter coming. But a really, really cold winter: worse, he said, than any in the records. Andar will be locked in ice and the An …”
He stopped again. Hellen wondered who the young mancer from Guilden was. She had an inkling about that, too. But all in good time.
“Go on,” she said.
“He said the An will freeze. I mean, freeze right over. Bank to bank. Not just the little area in the bay near Guilden, but the whole thing.”
“No!” said Ariane.
“Yeah. No doubt about it. The An is going to freeze over. The undain army can just march across the ice and destroy us all. And there's not a damn thing we can do.”
There. That was it. Now it all made sense. There was the great mass of fear that drove him from Andar. It made many things clear. Things really were moving at last. It explained the book. It explained all the little coincidences. It explained the Song.
Perhaps, she thought, it even explained why Merdoc had found Forness so terrible in winter, a detail that had been troubling her. Forness was the closest point to Angere, south of Guilden. Had the undain been amassing across the wide waters? Waiting for the winter? Had some whisper come across the river on the wind to haunt the nights of those that lived there?
She looked around her. It was strange how beautiful the day remained. It seemed as if nothing had changed. The blue sky, the skylark singing. But the air of the orchard murmured, now, with the troubled thoughts of the trees. In truth, everything had changed. Most of all, Hellen felt relief. Now, at least, they could act.
“Well,” she said, looking at each of them in turn. “We are getting somewhere. That is some good news at least.”
“What?” said Johnny, genuine shock on his face. “Good news? How can any of that be good news? Are you mad? Didn't you hear what I said?”
He turned to the others in disbelief. Fer stared at the ground, her body slumped. Seleena and Ariane watched Hellen, uncomprehending. Only Ran met Johnny's gaze, his expression unchanged.
Hellen felt t
heir despair. In truth, it was difficult to feel anything else. But she smiled at each of them.
“Consider this,” she said. “They have shown their hand. They want the book. Perhaps they need it for the completion of their plans. Perhaps it is a danger to them. They could have destroyed their half and removed that threat. By coming here they have told us they haven't done so.”
“But they are going to invade!” said Johnny, agitated now, half-shouting. “An army of undead supermen is going to waltz across the ice this winter and kill us all. Turn us into zombies. Slaughter us in terrible rites, yeah? I mean, it's the whole Dark Lord trip.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hellen. “Of course. That's all been obvious for years. But they need the book, don't you see? I couldn't be sure. The question is why. If they are going to cross the An this winter, why go to all this trouble?” She indicated Islagray with a wave of her hand.
“OK then,” said Johnny. “Why?”
“I think they're planning ahead. They want to be sure we don't destroy our half of the book when we see them coming. Maybe they have plans beyond Andar and there is magic in it they need. Or, then again, maybe they need it in order to attack us at all. To cross the An. Something in the necromancy we don't understand.”
“Half the book,” Ariane interjected. “You keep saying half the book. That makes no sense. You told us it was here, now you're saying only part of it was.”
She was angry at being left out of all these secrets. Really, it was understandable.
“Ran,” said Hellen. “Could you bear to show us the vision of another of your penance stones? The cleaving of the book?”
The dragonrider sprang to his feet, fingers counting the red stones like someone working an abacus. Hellen turned her attention to the smouldering fire. With a stick she poked the first jewel onto the grass. It was cold as she picked it up and handed it to Ran. Then she rearranged the twigs and, adding some more kindling, blew on the glow to bring it back into life. When there were flames once more, Ran dropped in the second stone.
