Roger Taylor: Ibryen

It took the two of them a long time to descend from the ridge and make their way to the surrounded villagers. Helsarn and Vintre intercepted them. Ibryen recognized them. He looked at their soiled uniforms. ‘Commander and Captain under your new masters, I see,’ he said. ‘It seems I was right to be rid of you from my service.’

‘You only demoted me, if you remember, Count,’ Helsarn said with a sneer. ‘But their Excellencies know my true worth. Give me your sword.’

‘We are protected. Bring him here!’ The frantic impatience in the Gevethen’s voices made Helsarn start, and taking Ibryen’s arm he dragged him forward.

‘You can keep your sword too, for all the good it’ll do you, woman,’ Vintre said to Rachyl. ‘Just wait over there, you’ll probably be needed afterwards.’ He leered at her. ‘When the sport starts. I’ll look after you personally.’

Rachyl’s face was impassive.

As Ibryen approached the Gevethen, the mirror-bearers began to weave about him but he ignored the bewildering images that they made. Instead, he stared at the two large mirrors which were being brought together. As they drew closer, so the disturbance he had felt on the way down returned to him, but worse by far. It was as if the fabric of the worlds about him were being torn apart.

And these were the cause!

There were many things he had intended to say should he ever confront the Gevethen, but all he could do now was cry out as the mirrors finally came together.

‘Abomination! What foulness conceived of this… device?’

The mirror-bearers fluttered to and fro and the Gevethen became an angry, gesticulating crowd.

‘Take care, Ibryen, for you are going to open the Ways for us. His Ways. You are going to carry us to Him who made this miracle. You will not want such blasphemies on your lips when you look upon Him…’

‘… look upon Him.’

‘I will do nothing for you.’

There was almost humour in the reply. Now that Ibryen was here and trapped, the impatience had become mere excitement. ‘You will, as you know, for we will kill your people, this raggle-taggle crowd that has so sorely taxed us these past five years. As you seem to value them, we will kill them – one at a time – quickly or slowly. You do not doubt us, do you?’

Ibryen moved towards them, but the force that held Jeyan away, held him also. He stiffened. ‘No,’ he said flatly, turning away from the Gevethen, not wishing them to see the pain in his face. ‘I don’t doubt you.’

He found himself looking at Jeyan. Her face slowly brought back her name to him.

‘Jeyan?’ he said softly, leaning towards her. ‘Jeyan Dyalith? What are you doing here? I heard about your parents. I… I thought you’d been killed with them. I…’ He hesitated. ‘What are you doing in that uniform?’

The sight of the Count carried Jeyan back to years wilfully forgotten. To stand so close to the creators of all the horror that had swept those years aside and be unable to act was almost unbearable, but still she was a hunter; still, like Assh and Frey, she could wait. The moment must surely come. In the meantime she must continue her part. ‘I fled to the Ennerhald, then I killed the Lord Counsellor Hagen. Now I act in his place. I impose the will of their Excellencies upon the people.’

Ibryen stared at her, aghast, but the disturbance caused by the mirrors intruded on him again and he turned back to the Gevethen, his head inclined and his eyes narrowing as if he were facing an icy wind.

‘Andreyak, Miklan. As you served my father, and he honoured you, turn away from this. Forces are moving against you of which you know nothing.’ He pointed to the mirrors. ‘And this thing is an obscenity. Warping and twisting that which should be untouched. It should not be.’

At the sounding of their names, the Gevethen had frozen, watery eyes suddenly alive with horror. Then one of them stepped forward – an individual movement, unreflected by his brother. The mirror-bearers faltered and became still, and briefly there were but the two men facing Ibryen.

‘Enough!’ screamed the solitary figure. His brother stepped beside him and the mirror-bearers began to move again.

‘Enough! You have the gift. This we know. You will open the Ways for us. You will carry us back to Him. You will take us now!’

Ibryen snatched at the discussions he had had over the past days. ‘He is dead. Dead some fifteen years or more. As are His lieutenants. Turn away from this while you can.’

The Traveller covered his ears at the shriek of denial that followed Ibryen’s outburst. He had been carrying Ibryen’s and the Gevethen’s word to Isgyrn, but that was beyond him.

‘I heard that without your aid,’ the Dryenwr said, his face pained.

He looked up into the slowly brightening eastern sky as if for relief from the darkness below and the horror he was hearing. Suddenly he gasped. The Traveller looked at him sharply, then followed his gaze. Glowing golden in the unseen sun, was a solitary cloud.

‘No,’ Isgyrn whispered to himself, his voice agonized.

‘What’s the matter?’ the Traveller demanded urgently.

Isgyrn pointed to the cloud. The Traveller looked again. Then, as the cloud moved, he saw towers and spires glinting as they caught the sunlight. He let out a long, awe-stricken breath and closed his eyes. ‘I hear it,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the Culmadryen. Such sounds I’d never thought to hear again.’ Abruptly, he was excited and his eyes were wide. ‘Your Soarers, Isgyrn. Your Soarers. They’re here. They can rout this rabble of an army. Save the Count, and Rachyl and…’ He stopped. The Dryenwr’s face was awful. He was shaking his head.

‘Many hours,’ he said, scarcely able to speak. ‘Even defying the will of Svara as they are, it will be many hours before they are here. It will be too late. My land will come too late. At best we will have only vengeance.’

He held up both clenched fists and let out a great cry of anguish. ‘This cannot be. I am to be returned to all that I love when the man who made it possible is to fall to that carrion. I cannot allow it.’ He stepped forward to the edge and swung the Culmaren about his shoulders like a cloak. The sun topped the farthest peaks and the Culmaren shone white and brilliant at its touch. ‘Carry my words to them as you carried Ibryen’s,’ he ordered.

The Traveller closed his eyes, as though in pain, then nodded slowly.

‘Know, Gevethen, that I am Arnar Isgyrn, Dryenwr, leader of the Soarers Tahren of Endra Hornath. Know too that my land approaches. Ibryen, Count of Nesdiryn is under my protection. Release him and his people or the consequences will be terrible beyond your imagining.’

The waiting army began to shift uncomfortably as Isgyrn’s angry voice filled the Valley. The Gevethen inclined their heads, as if to listen, but did not look to see from where the voice came. ‘It seems you have more skills than we know of, Ibryen, but they will avail you nothing.’

Helsarn was less phlegmatic. First Ibryen’s voice booming across the Valley, now this. And the army was beginning to look very uneasy. They had been pushed far too hard. He scanned the far side of the Valley.

‘There is someone on the western ridge, Excellencies,’ he said. ‘Dressed in white.’

‘A mountebank accomplice of the Count’s come to play tricks on us. Nothing shall distract us now. Deal with him when we return.’ They moved towards Ibryen. He made to draw his sword, but something restrained his hand. Then they were either side of him and leading him towards the two mirrors which had now become one. The mirror-bearers began to move about frantically.