by Simon Kewin
“You should have come on to Islagray.”
“I had to pass my tidings to the dragonriders. I am theirs as much as yours.”
She hesitated. “And that was well done. But why have you lingered here?”
Ashen looked sheepish. “The truth is I was no longer sure of my welcome on the Witches' Isle.”
“You grew up there. Why would you not be welcome?”
“I am a mancer now. Not everyone on Islagray feels as you, I think.”
“Perhaps,” said Hellen. “There are fools everywhere, even on Islagray. Especially on Islagray, come to that. But it's far too late to worry about such petty differences.”
“Yes.”
“You'll return with me?”
Ashen grinned the winning grin that had got him out of trouble many times as a boy. “I will.”
She turned to the calculating gazes of the four dragonriders. She had never met any of them before. Their simmering anger filled the room like a smouldering fire. An anger driven by suppressed fear. Ashen's news had stirred them.
Beltaine cleared his throat. “My Lady, these are the chiefs of our people. This is Barion, First Rider of the Or Wing, the gold dragonriders. This is Axana, First of the Crimson Wing, the red dragonriders. Here is Jenath, First of the Verdant Wing, the green dragonriders. And here is Den, First of the Azure Wing, the blue dragonriders.”
The four chiefs bowed to her, some more enthusiastically than others.
She knew each of them by report. “Do, please, continue your argument. I am keen to join in.”
Barion spoke first. He had been a chief longer than anyone else. If the dragonriders had a leader, it was him. His head was smooth. The tattoos threaded across his scalp like a shining golden vine.
“We were debating tactics for the defence of Andar,” said Barion. His tone suggested that he didn't think Hellen would have much of use to add. From what Borrn had said, Barion rarely valued the opinions of others. He had all the dragonriders' usual guilt but very little of their humility. In him, the burden of their past had given rise to a barely-concealed rage.
Hellen raised an eyebrow and crossed to the map. There was Islagray, a green island in the middle of the Silverwater. There was Caer L'dun, north and west. Then the cities and towns of Andar, Hyrn's Oak and the rest, strung along the banks of the An up to Guilden in the north. Beyond that, the jagged teeth of the mountains and the white wastes.
“You were debating where and therefore when the undain will attack,” said Hellen. “Will they cross in the far north as soon as the first ice descends from the mountains? Or will they wait deeper into winter, until the ice freezes here and they can march directly on Caer L'dun and Islagray.” She looked up to meet Barion's eyes. “And what have you decided, First of the Or Wing? March to the defence of the northern cities or sit and wait in your fortress?”
Barion's eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared slightly. He hadn't suspected she knew about the ice, and his mistrust of witches and mancers – of any magic – was well-known. And, perhaps, understandable.
“It seems you already knew what Ashen has hurried south to tell us,” he said, his voice low. “It is a pity, Hellen Meggenwar, that you did not think to share the tidings with us.”
“I've come here in part to do that. We only learned the truth of it recently ourselves. And since then we've been busy making our own arrangements for the defence of Andar.”
“Is that so? I wasn't aware you had an army.”
“We each fight as we can.”
“That is very reassuring to know,” said Barion, his voice mocking.
“And what of Ran?” said Den, the Azure rider. “He was sent to you nearly a week ago. We have heard nothing from him since.”
“Ran consented to join a group crossing through the aether to another world.”
“Oh?” said Barion. “Has he gone to seek aid? Will he be returning with reinforcements?”
“He will not. If he returns it will be with a book. Or part of a book,” said Hellen.
“A book,” said Barion, his voice thick with disdain. “And that is all? How will a book help us now, Hellen Meggenwar? How will part of a book help us?”
Hellen considered him. Could she trust him? His commitment to defending Andar was absolute. But his mind was full of battle tactics and military formations. He would never understand about the Grimoire. He knew its history, knew more than he was pretending. But in his mind it was simple. Magic had caused their problems. Magic would make matters worse. Only strength of arms would save them. Still, somehow, they had to find a way to work together.
“The book might be our salvation,” said Hellen. “Without it we are doomed. With it we only might be doomed.”
Barion snorted and shook his head. “You think so little of us. You think we won't be able to stem the onslaught when it comes?” Even under his tattoos his face reddened. Curiously she found herself warming to him. This anger was preferable to the fawning deference of Beltaine and the rest. Borrn had shown some of that, too. His humanity. Although it had taken some teasing out.
“Tell me, Barion,” she said, “how many dragonriders are there in Andar? How many who can pick up a sword and fight?”
“Enough.”
“How many?”
“Over a thousand.”
“How far over a thousand?”
Barion at least looked sheepish now. “A few over a thousand.”
“I see. And you think that a thousand dragonriders, for all their skill and bravery and devotion, can fight off the undain? When we don't even know where and when they will be attacking?”
“Caer L'dun has never been sacked by an enemy,” said Barion.
“Caer L'dun has never been attacked by an enemy, as you are well aware,” said Hellen. “Tell me, how many undain do you think there are over there?” She nodded her head toward the western window.
“It's impossible to say.”
“Would you like to know the number I have in my head?”
“If you wish. It can only be a wild guess.”
“Perhaps. But I can feel the undain massing even if I can't see them. And I can count. The undain are born, but they don't die. Not properly. How many do you think there are after all this time?”
“Many,” he conceded, glancing at the map.
“Yes,” said Hellen. “Many. Tell me, can a dragonrider fight a hundred foes?”
“Of course not.”
“Then that is a shame. Because I think each of you will have to.”
“A hundred thousand undain? Are you mad?”
“I don't believe I am, no. Of course, if you still had your dragons the odds might be closer. If you had even one it would be something. But as things stand it looks hopeless. The undain will slaughter you. They will slaughter us all.”
“And what help may we expect from you?” said Axana, speaking for the first time. Her eyes were an intense blue, contrasting with the red swirls of ink across her skin. “What real help? Five hundred years ago the witches and mancers unleashed the great flood that swept away the bridge. Can we rely on something similar this time?”
Hellen shook her head. “I wish we could. But unleashing a flood is one thing. Holding back the winter is quite another. And there are fewer of us now. Then there were witches and mancers on both sides of the An.”
“So why are you here, if it is so hopeless?” asked Axana.
“Because it isn't hopeless,” said Hellen. “I didn't say that. I said we couldn't defeat the undain in battle.”
“But why trouble us if you think our numbers so worthless?” asked Barion.
She shook her head. They were making this deliberately hard. “We must fight them, of course. And we must hope it buys us time. But that is all we can hope for. Force of arms will not be enough. They will win in the end.”
“Unless we acquire this book,” said Den. His hair was long and thick, but silver-grey over his blue tattoos. There was an intelligence in his eyes, his mind, she hadn't
noticed at first. He had been watching her closely, assessing her. “You do not name it but we all know to what you refer. The Shadow Grimoire, Ilminion's book of necromancy.”
“That is correct.”
“And so your plan is to use the undains' death magic against them,” said Den. “To turn us into those nightmares so we can fight back. That would be no victory, I think. That would be worse than death. Perhaps using this evil knowledge is precisely what they want. To do their work for them.”
“There is dangerous knowledge in the book,” said Hellen. “There are terrible things in it. But we need all the help we can get. And knowledge is neither evil nor good. It becomes one or the other when it is put to use.”
“I do not see how necromancy could be put to a good use,” said Barion.
“It may if it is used to counter necromancy,” said Hellen. “But that aside, what matters is that the undain hunger for this book. I do not fully know why, but there must be a reason. They need it urgently. And that is why we must make sure they don't get it.”
Barion snorted. “Books and legends! By the horns of Hyrn, they mean nothing, old woman. It is swords we need. Swords and spears. If we have to fight a hundred undain to a man we will do so.”
“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” said Hellen. “And if you call me old woman again I'll strip your finely tattooed skin from your bones where you stand, First Rider of the Or Wing or not.”
Barion glowered at her. A prickly silence filled the room. Their guilt and rage seethed within them, and for a moment she thought it would boil over. That she'd lost them. Their willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice was an almost solid presence. That was their choice, but she wanted to live. Somehow, against these terrible odds, they had to survive. Either with the dragonriders help or without it.
It was Jenath who spoke, her quiet voice filling the silence. She was the youngest of the four chiefs and the most favourable to working with others, if Borrn was to be believed. Her easy smile dispelled some of the tension crackling through the room. “It would be a shame to slay Barion. Then there would be one fewer dragonrider and the odds would be even worse. We have a common enemy. We may disagree over the means, but we must fight together.”
The words were directed at Hellen, but meant for the other chiefs. Hellen studied their faces as she replied. “You are right, Jenath. And I promise you we of Islagray will do what we can to help you.”
“As we will for you,” said Jenath. “Barion?”
Barion took several moments to find his reply. “Of course. So long as it doesn't take more riders from us we will do what we can.”
“Excellent,” said Hellen. “Then, since we are being so helpful, I do have something to ask of you.”
“Go on,” said Den, the suspicion clear in his voice.
“You dismiss ancient books as unimportant and yet you keep one here,” said Hellen. “Akbar's Journal, brought by your forebears across the An with the Grimoire. I have seen mention of it in our own ancient texts. His account of those events and of the necromancy he read in the book before he clove it in two. I would like to read his journal. There may be something useful in it.”
“That book is useless,” said Barion. “No one has ever been able to make any sense of it.”
“Then you won't miss it if I take it with me. I know of someone who may be able to read it.”
“And if we give you this treasure, what will you offer in return?”
“The only thing we can give,” said Hellen. “The promise that we of Islagray will fight beside you to defeat the undain. That we will fight and die at your side.”
Barion studied her for a moment and then looked through the westerly window. “Very well. Take the book if you think it will help you. Then we may return to forming our battle plans.”
Hellen dipped her head in thanks, although Barion didn't see.
“I am grateful,” she said. “But on that matter you still haven't answered my question.”
“Question?”
“Will you march north or wait here?”
Barion shrugged. Looks passed between the four dragonriders. Clearly this had been the source of much debate.
“The cities have their own watches and militia,” said Barion. “They must defend themselves. We can not be everywhere. We are strongest at Caer L'dun.”
Hellen nodded. The city watches were capable of handling a few drunken revellers on a 'tweenweek night. They would not be able to fend off an approaching undain army and they all knew it.
“Much that is fair and beautiful will be lost,” said Hellen.
Barion nodded but didn't reply.
“Very well, then,” said Hellen. “I must return to Islagray. There is much to do. And perhaps either there or here will see the final battle for Andar when the undain come. Then we will stand together and fight.”
She nodded and turned to leave. Ashen, grinning once more, bowed low to the dragonriders and followed her.
At the foot of the spiral stairs she halted and waited for him. Really, the meeting had gone as well as could be expected. She knew now how matters stood with the dragonriders. And the conversation had helped her to come to a realisation. What she had to ask of Ashen. And Ariane. It seemed she was forever sending people into danger and trouble. At least this time she would go, too.
“Would you really have skinned Barion alive?” asked Ashen as he joined her.
“What do you think?”
“I don't think you know any such magic.”
Hellen smiled. “True. I know little of the terrible arts of the mancers. But thankfully he didn't know that.”
“But what you said about us being slaughtered. You meant every word of that, yes?”
She put her hand on his shoulder. He was taller than her, as tall as his father. “I did. Nothing is certain, but that's the most likely outcome. You were one of the mancers who measured the winter ice on Howl Hill, weren't you? You know what's coming. That's why you're here and not in Guilden.”
He nodded. “How did you know that? Some powerful farseeing magic?”
“Johnny told me.”
“The minstrel? He's at Islagray already?”
“You met him leaving Guilden didn't you? Told him about the ice. He was at Islagray, but now he isn't. There is much to explain. Much we need to say to each other. I must return to the Isle. We can talk as we make our way there.”
“But surely you'll be flying? I'm afraid my terrible powers don't extend to such things. I have to tramp along on my blisters.”
She was in a hurry. Time was running out. Still, events had conspired to give her this time with her son. Her only child. Perhaps it was unwise, but she would seize the opportunity. The beauty and glory of Andar could look after itself for a while.
“Let's walk together,” she said. “We may not get another chance in what is to come.”
“My Lady!” Beltaine arrived, racing down the spiral stairs three at a time. “My Lady, my apologies for what happened. You are our guests, and we should have treated you better. The Wings have been arguing for many weeks over what we should do. We would not normally be so unwelcoming.”
She waved away his apologies. “We have more to worry about than a few angry words.”
“We haven't even offered you refreshment,” said the dragonrider. “Will you at least take food and drink?”
“And the Journal?”
“I've been instructed to give it to you. I will retrieve it while you eat. Also, I thought you should know, both of you, that there is no news of Borrn.”
It was as she'd expected. There's been no news of Borrn for a long time. Ashen looked troubled, although it was mostly worry for her. He'd barely known his father.
“Are they still arguing up there?” asked Hellen.
“They are. You might like to know that some want to abandon Caer L'dun and put our strength into defending Islagray. The Songroom. That is the true heart of Andar, not this stone fortress.”
“Jenath?”
>
Beltaine nodded. “Yes. But another of the Wings wishes to march north and meet the oncoming army.”
“Which?”
“The Azure. Den.”
“But he was persuaded?”
“He was. For all we know the entire undain army may wait until Midwinter and attack us here.”
“Well,” said Hellen. “For what it's worth I think you've made the right choice. You will be harder to defeat in the Caer.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps the undain will pass us by and slay everyone else while we sit watching from our walls.”
“I don't think you need worry about that. The undain aren't going to leave you alone. They aren't going to leave anyone alone.”
Two days later, Ashen sat with his mother and Ariane on the soft grass of the orchard on Islagray. The sun gave them light but little heat. A thin breeze blew about the hill, occasionally sending withered leaves spinning to the ground from the wizened trees. The damp air smelled of rotting leaves and wood smoke. Ashen gazed around, remembering adventures from his childhood. He'd had the run of the Isle. Climbing these particular trees had been strictly forbidden, of course. That hadn't always stopped him. The ancient spirits of the dead witches had whispered and creaked their outrage, but he'd climbed anyway.
“So,” said Ariane, “you've finished telling the dragonriders what to do and now it's our turn, is that right? I know that look in your eyes, Hellen Meggenwar.”
“Only if you've finished hiding your head in the sand and hoping Angere goes away,” said his mother.
Ashen looked between them but didn't speak. Ariane had been an aunt to him growing up, had looked after him nearly as much as his mother had. The two of them always sparred. It was what they did. Their fighting brought more fond memories flooding back. In a weird way it made him feel safe. They loved each other dearly.
Ariane didn't look well, though. She'd been through some ordeal, and now her chestnut skin was pinched and drawn. There was silver in her black hair, although her smile at seeing him had been as wide as ever.
“But you do have some dark and secret plan for us, I'll wager,” said Ariane. “Or did you drag us up here to admire the view?”
