by Roger Taylor
An almost universal gasp of surprise interrupted him, but he continued. ‘Within the next day or so I intend to send more senior officials to add strong persuasion to that request.’
Then he yielded to his listeners. With varying degrees of deference and bluntness, they reminded him that full voluntary mobilization was a historic relic carried down from the times when there had been only a handful of towns in the land, when armies were smaller and less disciplined, and when loyalties and boundaries were far more fluid than today. It had been retained as an idea almost for sentimental reasons and, paradoxically, it was both too heavy a response to the present crisis and also quite an impractical option for meeting a real conflict.
Except for politely curtailing those who drifted into details of what should be done, Ibris listened in silence until everyone who wished to speak had spoken.
‘You’re correct, of course, gentlemen,’ he agreed. ‘And incorrect also. Correct in your history of the idea, and, conceivably in saying that it’s not a particularly practical option. However, you are incorrect in thinking that it’s an excessive response to what’s happening.’
His raised hand forestalled opposition.
‘Why are the Bethlarii doing this?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Why, after all this time, are they preparing to launch a major war against us?’
‘They hate our guts,’ someone said, to some laughter.
‘True,’ Ibris acknowledged, smiling. ‘That’s probably always been the real reason. But they’ve always had enough political sense not to admit that openly. They’ve always sought an excuse that will at least give them a veneer of more civilized justification for unleashing mayhem.’
He looked across the watching faces and shrugged. ‘Where are their long-winded diplomatic notes setting out reasons why this or that territory is by rights theirs? Where are their complaints about “bandits and outlaws” raiding their farms and hiding on our side of the border? Where are their complaints about our traders competing unfairly with them? Our fishermen entering their waters? And so on.’
There was an uncertain silence, then someone offered, ‘They sent an envoy to complain about what was happening in Whendrak.’
Ibris conceded the point. ‘And a grotesque venture that was,’ he replied. ‘Almost every aspect of it was contrary to the treaty. The man wilfully behaved in a manner that could have got him killed. And his visit only became public knowledge because we made it so. Their complaints in the past, I need hardly remind you, have usually been loud and public. From my discussions with him, and from other information I’ve received, and not least, bearing in mind that not even the staunchest of Bethlar’s allies would give any credence to the idea that they were entitled to protect “their citizens” in Whendrak, I can only presume that his death at our hands was intended as the pretext for the war. He was to be a sacrifice to Ar-Hyrdyn.’
Everyone looked uncomfortable, but no one disagreed. The envoy’s conduct had been the topic of considerable debate and gossip, and the Duke’s conclusion was as good as anyone else’s.
‘The fact is, gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘that their actions are wholly out of character with anything they’ve ever done before. My belief is that their society has been corrupted by a fanatical form of their state religion and that the war they’re intending to unleash is, to them, a crusade: a holy war to be waged in his name.’
This conclusion, however, did provoke a response, albeit mixed. Some, who knew their history, grimaced at the prospect. There had been religious wars in the past and they had been distinguished from all other wars by their unremitting savagery and brutality. It seemed that fighting under the aegis of divine inspiration served only to rob men of any semblance of restraint and humanity. Others in the room shook their heads as if to deny the possibility.
Ibris did not argue. ‘I’m open to alternative suggestions, gentlemen,’ he said, looking round.
‘It could be no more than an elaborate ploy to distract us while their real move is made elsewhere,’ someone said.
‘My own feelings at one stage,’ Ibris replied. ‘But the Mantynnai say that the forces massing near Whendrak are very substantial, and there’s a . . .’ He gesticulated, searching for a word. ‘A feeling almost of nightmare . . . insanity . . . about all that’s happening. No logic. However . . .’ He raised a reassuring hand to the speaker, ‘the cities along the southern Bethlarii border have been alerted to such a possibility, Meck especially.’
A silence descended on the room. Ibris looked around at his men.
‘This is why I’ve called for full voluntary mobilization from every community in the land,’ he said bleakly. ‘If the Bethlarii are about to launch a holy war . . .’ He stopped abruptly and lowered his head thoughtfully for a moment. When he looked up, his face was set. ‘There is no “if” about it, gentlemen,’ he said, unequivocally. ‘The Bethlarii are going to launch a holy war and the whole land must be made ready to face it. From Rendd right down to Lorris I want no one unaware of what’s about to happen and I want no one thinking that they can avoid playing some part in opposing it. I want all petty feuds and squabbles laid to rest.’ His manner became grim. ‘And god help anyone who tries to use this business for some power game of his own! The hearts and minds of the whole land must be with us.’ The room became very still. ‘And, too, the Bethlarii must learn that they’ll be facing not just armies, but an entire people.’
‘And if you’re wrong, sire?’ a lone voice asked.
‘I’m not, commander,’ Ibris replied. ‘Believe me, I’m not.’ He looked at Menedrion, and then at Arwain before turning back to the questioner. ‘But, in answer to your real question, I’d rather end my rule of this city and its dominions in ridicule and bankruptcy than risk seeing them suffocated in the obscene bigotry of Ar-Hyrdyn’s priests.’
It was a phrase that brought behind him such waverers as there were in the room, and the discussion turned rapidly towards the details of the operations that were to be mounted.
After the meeting, Ibris drew Ryllans and Feranc on one side.
‘Now is the time,’ he said quietly. ‘Walk with me.’
The two men walked beside their Duke in silence as he wandered through the halls and corridors of his palace. From time to time he stopped and looked at a painting, a statue, a rich ornate mosaic, until eventually he led them out on to the flat stone roof of a high crenellated tower.
The air was cold and damp, but fresh, and free from any taint of the yellow, acrid fog that had choked the city streets so recently. High, grey clouds reduced the sun to a bland, white disc.
Below them they could see the walls and courtyards of the palace, and beyond them, the rooftops, spires and domes of the city rising up to the cliffs of the Aphron Dennai and sloping down to the rambling disorder of the Moras district by the river. Grey mists merged land and sky in the distance.
Ibris leaned on the parapet and gazed over his city in silence for some time. ‘What do you think of my interpretation of events, Ryllans?’ he said, without turning round.
‘Accurate,’ the Mantynnai replied, without hesitation. ‘And your response is appropriate.’
Ibris turned round. ‘What do I need to know about these events that I don’t already know?’ he asked.
Ryllans looked at him. ‘I’ve no great revelations for you, sire,’ he said.
‘Tell me what you can, nevertheless.’
Ryllans nodded and began without any preamble. ‘The presence that Estaan felt when the Dream Finder . . . entered . . . the mind of the dead Nyriall, was one that he’d felt before. One we’d all felt, long ago.’ An involuntary spasm of pain distorted his face momentarily. It was reflected almost immediately in Ibris’s; the Duke had never seen the Mantynnai so openly distressed. But Ryllans continued without pause. ‘It was the presence of . . . someone . . . that we’d all once served. I’d like to say, someone who misled us, but we were then, as now, free men . . .’
He fell silent and for a moment stood looking
out over the city.
Then he shrugged, as at some inevitability. ‘An evil came to our land. An ancient evil as it transpired, although to us it was merely a man; a good friend and helper to our ailing king, as we thought.
‘Over many years, he was the king’s faithful adviser and physician, and as the king became progressively weaker he took upon himself more and more of the burdens of state; and with them, inevitably, the reins of power. And, too, he did countless small, seemingly worthwhile things that in reality began subtly to undermine the qualities that made our people strong and free.
‘Eventually, as his truer nature came nearer the surface, and voices began to be raised against his conduct, some of the most loyal lords complained directly to the king. But he was almost insane with his illness, and, in a rage, he had them imprisoned.’
He shook his head at some memory. ‘Then a man came from another land close by and exposed the evil for what it was.’
He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. His voice was calm but noticeably controlled when he continued. ‘Great harm was done to our city that day. Buildings broken and crushed like so many children’s toys. Hundreds died.’
‘This man came with an army? Laid siege to you?’ Ibris inquired, confused by the remark and also anxious to say something that might relieve Ryllans of some of his burden.
Ryllans turned and looked straight at him. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘He came with only one companion, and faced the king’s . . . physician . . . on the palace steps. The damage to the city was wrought by no more than a wave of the hand.’
Ibris’s brow furrowed and, despite himself, he glanced at Feranc. His bodyguard, however, made no response, and his face was unreadable.
‘A wave of the hand, Ibris,’ Ryllans repeated, stepping outside the protocol of their relationship to emphasize the truth of what he was saying. At the same time, he pointed to his eyes. ‘I was there, wearing the livery of the man as he did the deed and showed himself for the demon he truly was. And showed us the power that he commanded and that could be ours also.’
Ibris could not contain himself. ‘I know neither gods nor devils, Ryllans. Only men with godlike and diabolical ways . . .’
Feranc laid a hand gently on his arm and motioned him to silence.
Ryllans looked at him again. ‘The word was ill chosen,’ he said. ‘It came from my stomach, not my head. Such as I’ve learned about him since is that he was indeed a man but that his . . . soul . . . was wholly corrupted by his possession of a great and ancient power.’
He paused briefly.
‘After this terrible meeting, he slew the king and took possession of the land, with such as ourselves at his side. Then came civil strife and all the horrors that that implies; kin against kin; treachery, mistrust; darkness. And in the end the loyal lords raised an army and marched to meet us.’ He shook his head reflectively. ‘Some said that his crushing power was bound in some way, but, whatever the cause, he withheld it and we were defeated. The lords broke our army and he fled. Fled into the cold mist-land to the north with us at his heels.’
He fell silent again for some time, and his voice was very soft when he spoke again, as if afraid it might be overheard. His slight accent became more pronounced.
‘There we learned that the one we followed was but the servant of another. A great source of evil that felt as if it had come from the beginning of all time.’
‘A man?’ Ibris asked, his eyes wide at the continuing pain in Ryllans’ voice.
The Mantynnai made a dismissive gesture. ‘No one ever saw him, or even his citadel, but his will was everywhere . . .’ He looked at the Duke. ‘Both feeding on and nurturing the devils in men. It was said that his malevolence had spanned the ages and had once spanned the world, and that, reawakened, he was preparing to do so again.’
He shuddered suddenly and swayed violently. Instinctively, both Ibris and Feranc reached out to catch him, but he set them aside gently at the same time as he accepted their support.
‘But the lords and their allies followed us with a great army. Larger than anything this land has ever known.’ An expression almost of pride came on to his face. ‘As it stood against us, it stretched far beyond the sight into the dank mists and teeming rain. Rank upon rank. They, like us, were drenched and chilled and their colourful pennants and flags hung limp and lifeless, but we could feel their will assailing us across the plain even as we waited. Waited with many times their number in savage readiness, and with his will charging our spirits. Soon the enemy would be utterly defeated and we would sweep out into the world and to power and wealth.
‘But it was we who were defeated, despite our numbers and our cruel troops. And somewhere, beyond our seeing, our master and his master were . . . taken from the battle . . . I don’t how . . . suddenly, they were gone, and we were lost.
‘Then, we scattered and fled, over mountains and plains, through deserts and wildernesses. Through the years. And as we fled, we gained a little wisdom. And finally we came here and saw a faint echo of our homeland and its king. Here we resolved that we must stand and seek to serve where previously we had sought to rule. Here we must atone.’
Ryllans fell silent, his eerie tale finished. Ibris wrapped his arms about himself as if infected by the chill mists and rain that had fallen on that last battle. There had been such power in Ryllans’ telling that for a moment he felt himself small and utterly defenceless; a pawn in some greater game; his life’s achievements mean, tawdry and pathetic.
He held out his hand and looked at it, then at his city. That men, even good men, could follow evil leaders, he knew all too well. But could a man possess a power that could crush a city with the merest wave? It wasn’t possible . . .
But he could not dismiss such a witness as Ryllans. And the Mantynnai had not spoken in allegory and metaphor. He had seen what he had seen and he had told of it truthfully.
Ibris’s thoughts whirled. Feranc offered no support. Indeed, his whole manner seemed to have become more distant and enigmatic than ever as he had listened to Ryllans’ tale.
Not possible! The words echoed around his head, clung to his thoughts like a crawling, suffocating creeper clings to a tree.
His knowledge of Ryllans hacked at them. Just as his city seen from this tower was not the city that would be seen from the streets below, so he knew that he had to stand where Ryllans stood to see what he saw.
Had not he himself believed Antyr with his tale of worlds beyond this one, where a dead man lived again, and strange men possessing a power to change by means not understandable to ordinary men, moved freely and manipulated his enemies? Had he not believed him strongly enough to mobilize his entire country for war as never before, and to jeopardize his own position as ruler?
‘Your story verges on the unbelievable, Ryllans,’ he admitted simply, at last. ‘But I’ve known you too long to do other than believe you totally. Time will perhaps reconcile me to the strangeness of it.’
To break the unreal atmosphere pervading their high eyrie, he became practical.
‘You fear that this . . . man . . . and his master are perhaps come here after fleeing the field?’ he asked.
Ryllans frowned thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head definitely. ‘They were gone utterly. Not just fled. Gone from inside us, never to return. There were other powers fighting that day. We were but part of a greater battle. My master and the one he served both fell to some other hand, I’m sure, but I could not say they were . . . dead . . . slain. Could you slay the sky, the wind? But they were gone.’
‘Then what’s so distressed you all?’ Ibris asked.
‘The power is there for all to use, who can master it,’ Ryllans replied. ‘And there were darker followers than we in those days. Disciples.’
‘And one such might be here?’
‘Someone with his . . . skills . . . is here,’ Ryllans answered.
His unequivocal tone seemed to strike Ibris clear through and he felt a whirl of fea
r twist in his stomach. In spite of himself he exorcised it with a reproach. ‘How could you and the others have followed this . . . man . . . when you learned the truth?’ he asked.
Ryllans bowed his head slightly, then looked at him squarely. ‘We erred,’ he said, though with neither excuse nor plea in his voice. ‘Now we atone as best we can.’
As he knew it would when the question left his lips, Ibris’s reproach rebounded on him. ‘You are punished by your sins not for them,’ he had once heard a philosopher say scornfully to a priest extolling the punitive wrath of his deity.
Thus is Ryllans punished, and so am I now, he thought.
He reached out and took Ryllans’ arm. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.
Ryllans laid his hand over the Duke’s in acknowledgement. ‘There is more,’ he said.
‘Tell it,’ Ibris said quietly. ‘Then we will gather it all and consider.’
He was aware of both Ryllans and Feranc looking at him sharply, but the moment was gone before he could question them, and Ryllans was speaking again.
‘When our army broke and scattered, no pursuers were sent after us to cut us down in vengeance and hatred. Our opponents . . . our own people and their allies . . . were savage and fearsome in combat, but they stayed their hand in victory.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was there we began to learn,’ he said softly.
‘But it is the way, the law, of our people to demand an accounting from wrongdoers, and they will allow neither time nor distance to remit that.’
Ibris frowned. Arwain’s remark about the two men returned to him. It had slipped from him in the turmoil of the past few days.
‘The men that Arwain spoke of,’ he said. ‘The ones on the bridge. They’re your countrymen?’
Ryllans nodded. ‘From their bearing, their clothes, their horses, they were king’s men, beyond a doubt.’
Feranc turned away suddenly but Ibris did not notice the movement.