Roger Taylor: Ibryen

Ibryen watched as his own image and that of the Gevethen moved towards him. The mirrors were more and more like a terrible rent in the reality about him. A hideous maw. They filled his entire being with emotions he had no words for. He struggled desperately but to no effect.

‘Do not resist, Ibryen. Your destiny is with us, why else would He have brought us to your land? Why else would He have brought us together in the Ways? When you come to Him, bend your knee, prostrate yourself, show humility. He is most generous to those who serve Him well.’

Ibryen wrenched his head away as, slowly, he and the Gevethen began to merge into their own reflections.

Eyes shielded, Isgyrn peered down into the Valley. The darkness there was deeper than ever now that the sun had risen. Far in the distance, the Culmadryen seemed to be no nearer.

Then, in a fury, Isgyrn drew his sword. It glinted bright in the sun.

The Traveller, slumped wearily at his feet, looked up at him. ‘You can’t do anything,’ he said weakly. ‘You mustn’t go down there. We must do what Ibryen asked of us, however hard.’

‘Carry my voice to them again,’ Isgyrn said.

‘My skill isn’t sufficient, Dryenwr. I’m spent. Within the hour, perhaps, but…’

Isgyrn glanced down at him. The Traveller looked suddenly very old. Isgyrn reached down and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘You’ve done all you can, I see that. But I’ll not have such a man walk alone into the darkness. I will send him what small aid I can.’

He held out his sword at arm’s length, the hilt in one hand, the point in the other.

Helsarn, intent on the distant newcomer, put up his hand to protect his eyes from the sudden brilliant flash. As he turned away from it a movement caught his attention. It was one of the mirror-bearers. He was staggering as though he had been struck. Then he saw that the light from Isgyrn’s sword was reflecting from mirror to mirror and flickering all about the inside of the gloomy canopy like captive lightning. The mirror-bearers seemed at once terrified by it and unable to prevent its jagged progress. They became increasingly agitated.

Then the light struck the large mirror, just as Ibryen and the Gevethen disappeared into it. A terrible scream went up and one of the six bearers supporting the large mirrors tumbled backwards on to the ground. He twitched briefly then lay still. The two halves began to swing together like a great book. It was as though they had a life of their own, like a monstrous eye come suddenly into the daylight after aeons in the darkness. They were being held open only by the desperate efforts of their bearers. The light struck the mirror again and a second bearer fell.

Helsarn watched, helpless as the four remaining bearers fought to keep the mirrors apart. He did not know what was happening, nor what to do. One of the lesser mirror-bearers crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The light from Isgyrn’s sword shone still. Scrambling to his feet, Helsarn drew his own sword and, pointing to the distant figure, screamed, ‘Get up there! Stop him, now! Stop him!’

Citadel Guards, always wary of the moods of their officers, obeyed the order immediately and started running across the Valley in the direction of Isgyrn, despite the distance and the climb that would be involved in reaching him. A few soldiers started to move after them, then an increasing number. The restlessness in the watching army grew.

Jeyan too, was watching the scene in confusion, though for her it was dominated by the fading images of Ibryen and the Gevethen in the tottering mirror. Suddenly she realized that she was free. She snatched the knife from her belt and, weaving between the now frenzied mirror-bearers, she stabbed one of the four still supporting the closing mirrors. She was stabbing him again when Helsarn’s cry stopped her.

‘What are you doing?’ he roared, running towards her.

With Ennerhald-bred fleetness she moved around him, and without hesitation, plunged into the mirrors. Helsarn dashed after her, but stopped fearfully in front of the mirror she had entered. He saw nothing but his reflection, eyes terrified and arms extended in futility. Tentatively he touched the mirror. It was cold and hard. Then, like something in a nightmare, Jeyan’s hand emerged from the mirror and her knife slashed at his throat. Only reflexes he was unaware of saved him.

The knife was gone as suddenly as it appeared, but Helsarn, white-faced, backed away, sword extended.

Every fibre of Ibryen’s being rebelled against the place he was in. It was beyond him that anything so appalling could have been constructed – for that is what it was – a construct – a mechanism – a device – something that tore out what should be gently yielded, forced a way where none should be. Yet, even worse, he realized, it was alive! What souls were being tormented to sustain this thing? The thought did not bear thinking. Desperately he pushed it away. He must concern himself only with the destruction of the Gevethen, no matter what the cost. Their creation, if theirs it was, was failing. Battering impacts shook it, lightning flashes filled it. He must destroy it utterly, as he might destroy an injured animal. Yet, despite this resolve, a part of him reached out in an attempt to quieten the tumult, to ease the pain about him.

‘He is with us, brother,’ he heard one of the Gevethen saying. ‘Have faith. Soon we will be at His feet, our testing over.’

Then another sound came through the uproar. Dogs howling?

He felt the Gevethen hesitate and their hold on him lessen.

‘Assh, Frey, to me!’

The piercing voice was right behind him. And amid the searing lights, there came another: a blade, slashing and stabbing. He had a fleeting impression of Jeyan, manic and murderous, and amid fluttering hands, snarling moon faces and skeins of blood, the Gevethen’s hold on him was suddenly gone. A powerful hand seized him and dragged him violently backwards.

And then he was rolling on the mountain turf, a different uproar all about him. In a glance he took in the mirror-bearers, frantic and screaming, as they tried in vain to escape from the light that Isgyrn’s flashing sword had brought to them. And too, there was tumult from beyond the canopy as the din within it spread out to feed the growing unrest in the army, now in increasing disarray.

‘Close the mirrors, Count! Close the mirrors! Seal them in the endless reflections.’

He looked up. Faint, behind the mirrors, he saw Jeyan’s desperate face.

‘Close the mirrors!’ she cried again, her voice distant and fearful. ‘Do it! Do it now! We can’t hold them longer.’

So urgent was her plea that Ibryen immediately hurled himself at the remaining bearer supporting one of the large mirrors. Whatever power was invested in these strange individuals, it was considerable, for Ibryen found himself tossed aside as if he had been no more than a child’s toy. He drew his sword, then hesitated. He could not cut down this wretched, unarmed creature, bound to its grotesque life by who could say what treachery.

Then he saw the image of one of the Gevethen forming in the tottering mirror. Their eyes met and Ibryen suddenly felt the power that had bound him before, returning. He spun round and with a single stroke cut off the head of the struggling bearer.

As the man fell, so the two mirrors slowly swung to. Ibryen fell to his knees as he felt the Gevethen’s construction collapsing. It was as if he too were being crushed and ground into nothingness by the convergence of the countless worlds that it had held apart.

But even as it faded, something remained. A screeching, clinging, refusal to die.