Roger Taylor: Ibryen

Only now did Vintre being to grasp the awful magnitude of what had happened. There’d be more than just another purging of the citizenry, there’d be some rare jockeying for position at the highest level – for the ears of the Gevethen themselves – and who could say what benefits such a change could bring to lesser lights further down the chain of command? Vintre’s ambition, already on the wing, began to soar. Yet, like a cloud about to obscure the sun, there hovered the thought – who could have done such a thing? Not, who, after all this time, would have dared assail Hagen of all people, in broad daylight and in a busy street? Or, how many could have been involved to turn over the carriage? But what kind of a person was it who could have stood face to face with Hagen, looked into those awful eyes, and not let their weapon drop from nerveless hands?

Vintre shivered.

Then they were at the Citadel.

Vintre shivered again.

The rasp of Ibryen’s sword being drawn echoed the hiss of his sharply in-drawn breath as he leapt to his feet. Despite the violent shock of hearing a voice when he had believed himself to be quite alone, some discipline prevented Ibryen’s alarm from announcing itself any louder. The bright mountain daylight burst in upon him blindingly as he opened his eyes and, keeping his back against the rock, he held out his sword and swung it in a broad protective arc while they adjusted.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed the voice incongruously, amid this frantic scramble.

As Ibryen’s vision cleared, he found himself looking at a small figure standing well beyond his sword’s reach and shifting its balance from one foot to the other as if preparing to flee.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ the stranger said. ‘I didn’t realize…’

‘Who are you?’ Ibryen demanded brutally.

The new arrival was a man. He was dressed in simple, practical clothes, though they were of a cut unfamiliar to Ibryen, and he had a pack on his back. He stood scarcely chest height to Ibryen and was very slightly built – frail almost. Further he seemed to be quite old. But all this signified nothing. Though he asked it, Ibryen knew that his question was of no import. Whatever answer was given, he already knew the truth. Appearances notwithstanding, the man was not one of his followers and could have only come here by stealth – considerable stealth at that, to have avoided the recently alerted guards. He must thus be a Gevethen spy or, worse, an assassin. Marris’s remarks of a few hours before came back to Ibryen, now full of ominous prescience.

He could have been silently murdered while he basked idly in the sun!

Yet he hadn’t been. This ‘assassin’ had announced himself. The thought made Ibryen feel a little foolish though, keeping the stranger in view, he looked from side to side to see if anyone else had also reached the ridge unseen and unheard.

‘I’m just a traveller,’ the man replied. His voice was high-pitched but not unpleasant – indeed, it had an almost musical lilt to it. And he had an accent such as Ibryen had never heard before.

‘You’re not Dirynvolk,’ Ibryen said, instead of the question he had intended.

The little man craned forward a little as if he was having difficulty in understanding the remark, then he smiled. His smile was full of white teeth that seemed to glint in the sunlight, and his eyes sparkled. It was a happy sight, but it was not the smile of an old man. Ibryen tightened the grip on his sword to keep at bay the softening that he was beginning to feel. Though they had long discarded any pretence, the Gevethen had won as much through smooth speech and manners in the early days as through the brutality and terror they now exercised and, even before his flight into the mountains, Ibryen had long schooled himself to be wary of smiles and bland, assuring speech.

‘No,’ the man was replying. ‘I’m far, far away from where I was born.’

‘You have a name though?’

The man nodded and said something. This time it was Ibryen who leaned forward, frowning, to catch the words.

The man noted the movement and repeated his name.

Ibryen shook his head as the sound eluded him again.

‘You’re not Dirynvolk,’ he announced with finality. ‘I’ll call you Traveller.’

‘As you wish.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Ibryen returned to his earlier brusqueness. ‘Who sent you? How did you get here?’

A flicker of irritation passed over the little man’s face. ‘I don’t think I wish to be spoken to like that,’ he said. ‘Least of all at the end of a sword. I’ll go on my way if my presence offends you so.’ He made to move away. Ibryen stepped forward and placed the point of his sword on the man’s chest.

‘You’ll go nowhere until you answer my questions,’ he said starkly. ‘This is my land and strangers in it are not welcome.’

The Traveller looked down at the sword and then up at Ibryen. ‘I’d never have guessed,’ he said acidly. He waved an arm around the towering sunlit peaks that surrounded them. ‘This all belongs to you, does it, swordsman?’ He met Ibryen’s stern gaze squarely. ‘A wiser person might have been more inclined to say that he belonged to the land, don’t you think?’

Ibryen almost snarled. ‘A wiser person might perhaps be more inclined to avoid philosophy and answer my questions, in your position.’

The Traveller snorted disdainfully. ‘What I am doing here is a fundamental question of all philosophies, is it not?’ he said, even more acidly than before. ‘As to who sent me. Ha! Well! A still deeper question. Though I presume you are posing it in the sense that I might be here at the behest of some employer, or even a powerful lord – doubtless one such as yourself who owns many great mountains…’ He flicked the sword-blade contemptuously with his middle finger. ‘… and a big sword with which to menace lesser fry.’ Ibryen winced inwardly before this verbal onslaught but his expression did not change. ‘However, avoiding the greater question, to the best of my knowledge I am here at my own free will, as presumably are you. And how I came here? I used these!’ He lifted one leg off the ground in a dance-like movement, and slapped his thigh loudly. ‘Now may I go?’

There was such authority in the voice that, for a moment, Ibryen almost acceded to the request. ‘No, you may not!’ he shouted, recovering.

The Traveller grimaced and shook his head. ‘Not so loud,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘I’m not used to people and I’ve very sensitive hearing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ibryen heard himself saying. The shock of the Traveller’s sudden appearance was still unsettling him, and his mind was awash with conjecture about Gevethen treachery, but holding his sword at the chest of someone who was both older and patently no match for him physically was distressing him. His confusion was not eased by the fact that, despite his position, the Traveller did not seem to be in the least afraid. Ibryen lowered his voice when he spoke again.

‘Only a few hours ago I checked the vigilance of my guards,’ he said. ‘It isn’t possible that you came past them other than with great stealth. And stealth equals treachery in these mountains. You can only be a Gevethen spy and that means your death unless you can show why we should let you live. Now tell me who sent you and why, and how you came here. And spare me any more of your sarcasm.’

Ibryen’s quieter manner seemed to have a greater effect than his previous bluster. The Traveller screwed up his face pensively and the rancour had gone from his voice when he replied.

‘No one sent me, swordsman. I know nothing of these Gevethen you speak of, though there are ancient resonances in the word which are rather unpleasant.’ He pointed. ‘I came here on foot across the mountains. It’s the way I always travel. Fewer people, less noise. And my ancestors were mountain folk.’