Roger Taylor: Ibryen

‘Everyone’s still here,’ she replied. ‘They didn’t think you’d be able to stop the army. And with Ibryen gone they decided to stay and fight to the end rather than scatter into the mountains with all of you dead.’

Hynard felt the cold mountain air filling him to choking point and, for a moment, he could not speak.

‘Did Marris have nothing to say about this?’ he asked through clenched teeth when he had recovered.

‘He was quite angry,’ came the reply.

Hynard took another deep breath and out of the desperate confusion suddenly thundering through his head, snatched one simple, dangerous order. ‘Strike your lanterns, but keep them low, and double after me as fast as you can.’

As he ran through the night, Hynard’s mind sped over countless alternatives, chief amongst which was the hope that by the time they reached the village, Marris would have managed to talk some sense into the others and get them under way.

It was not so. They were greeted by a Marris who was verging on the distraught. Like most practical men, he did not bear helplessness well. ‘I could do nothing,’ he said, at once furious and almost tearful. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with them. They just set their minds to staying. Perhaps too much has happened too quickly.’ Even as he was talking though, he was shaking off the mood, and Hynard was given no opportunity either to reproach or to console.

‘Still, we can go now,’ Marris announced.

It was too late however. The time that Hynard had won was lost as the villagers began the slow trek towards the ridges, and their vanguard was barely up the lower slopes when the army swept into the valley, the Gevethen’s black canopy billowing ahead of them like a great bat.

As the army circled about them, all those villagers who were armed formed an inner circle around the old and the young. Arrows nocked, swords, axes, pikes ready, they waited. As did the army.

‘Why aren’t they attacking?’ Hynard hissed to Marris.

An opening appeared in the ranks of the army and the Gevethen’s eerie chamber floated into it. As the Gevethen themselves came into view, several of the villagers raised their bows.

The soldiers facing them did the same.

‘No!’ Marris shouted to the villagers.

‘Where is the traitor Ibryen?’ Colder and more inhuman than even he remembered them, the Gevethen’s voices made Marris’s flesh crawl. No preamble, no bargaining, he noted. Everything now would be balanced on the finest of edges. And all he had was the truth.

‘He’s not here,’ he replied. ‘He’s been gone for several days. He…’

There was a sharp command, then the sound of a single arrow. An agonized cry followed by others, full of pain and rage, came from the crowd of villagers. Marris’s voice tragically over-topped them all as again he restrained his archers.

Jeyan, standing by the Gevethen, flinched despite her control. It seemed that the Gevethen were becoming increasingly unstable as they neared their goal. The journey up from the base camp had been a nightmare; trampling over dead and dying bodies, the mirror-bearers still somehow performing their bizarre duties sure-footedly over both flesh and rocks, and the black canopy flapping like a funeral flag. Now this. She pressed her hand against the knife secreted under her tunic, but still she could feel the unseen force that restrained her when she came too near the Gevethen.

The question came again. ‘Where is the traitor Ibryen?’ Marris made no effort to keep the desperation from his voice.

‘I tell you, he’s not here. He’d be standing where I am if he were. You know that.’

There was another sharp command, then:

‘HOLD!’

Ibryen’s voice rolled like a thunderclap out of the darkness.

High on the ridge, Ibryen, pale and shaking, stood overlooking the lake of lights surrounding his followers. By him stood the Traveller, Rachyl and Isgyrn. Talking, laughing, arguing in the spring sunshine, they had been pursuing a leisurely pace back to the village, when Marris’s runner had reached them. The remainder of the journey had been through the darkness. First the darkness that the news had spread over them, then the darkness of the night.

In the far distance, the sky was now beginning to grey.

‘Carry my voice to them again,’ Ibryen said to the Traveller.

The Traveller nodded, though he seemed weary.

‘Release my people and let them go on their way, and I shall come to you.’

The Gevethen’s heads moved from side to side as they peered into the darkness.

‘You hear us, Ibryen?’ they asked.

‘I hear you.’

‘Come to us now or we shall kill your people one at a time.’

‘You can’t go,’ Rachyl said, seizing Ibryen’s arm. ‘They’ll kill you and everyone else.’

A faint cry floated up from the Valley. The Traveller clamped his hands to his ears. ‘They’ve shot someone else,’ he said, his voice full of horror and rage. Ibryen felt him tensing.

‘Do nothing,’ he said sternly. ‘Carry my voice down again.

‘But…’

‘Do it!’

Once again, his voice echoed across the valley. ‘Hurt no one else, I am coming. Be patient, it will take me some time.’

‘I’m coming with you.’ All three of his companions spoke at once. He turned to them. ‘Rachyl, I’d rather you didn’t, there’s a fine life for you somewhere else in this world, but I know you’ll follow me regardless. Just take care, Cousin. Sooner or later we’ll come within arm’s reach of our enemy.’ Then, to the others, almost formally:

‘Traveller, Dryenwr, it’s my wish that you bear witness to what happens here and that you go your own ways, taking the tale with you so that others can be forewarned.’

‘I can’t abandon you,’ Isgyrn said fiercely.

‘Isgyrn, don’t burden me further, this is no willing choice. You swore fealty to me, and this is my order. Bear witness, and carry the news. I thank you for your company and for the knowledge you’ve given me and I hope that my call to the Culmaren will bring your land to you one day.’ He laid a hand on the Traveller’s shoulder. ‘Traveller, my thanks to you also, for more than I can find words to express. Read your Great Gate carefully when you come to it. Add our tale to it if you can.’ Then he embraced them both. ‘Look to one another. Live well and light be with you.’

He turned to Rachyl. She flicked her head to one side. ‘After you.’

Ibryen turned up the lantern he was carrying and held it high. As he moved off down the steep slope, Rachyl took Isgyrn’s hand in both hers and shook it. Then she bent down and embraced the Traveller. Isgyrn looked away. By the light of Ibryen’s retreating lantern he could see tears in both their eyes. As she moved off, Rachyl let her arm swing behind her, holding the Traveller’s hand until the last. Neither the Traveller nor Isgyrn spoke for some time, keeping their eyes on the slowly moving lantern.

‘This is beyond tolerating, to stand idly by,’ Isgyrn said eventually. ‘What would I not give for a cohort of my Soarers.’

‘What would I not give for the skill of a true Sound Carver,’ the Traveller replied.

Rachyl and Ibryen too, spoke little. ‘Remember, compliance with everything until we come within arm’s reach,’ Ibryen said. Rachyl nodded. It cut through all their many and complex concerns – focused the warrior in them on the only course that circumstances had left them. Perhaps this, after all, Ibryen thought, was the way that the Gevethen could not have imagined. Simple and direct. A knife through the heart. Yet something was disturbing him. He reached out and sensed the Ways to the other worlds that were about him. The disturbance was there but it eluded him. Something was closing them to him. Something awful. He forced his attention back to the dark hillside and Rachyl.