The Way Between the Worlds

by Ian Irvine

  “Then do you have a sensitive in mind? The wars have taken a toll of them, I know, but I could… provide you with a few suitable names.”

  “I have several in mind but I would be glad to hear of yours. Which is not to say that any sensitive would do. I must have one who can link.”

  “And one who has been proven under great pressure.”

  “Maigraith can link.”

  “But she is not a sensitive. Besides, Faelamor knows her too well.”

  “I had in mind to use someone who owes us all a debt. A triune, but a controllable one. She’s such a little, incomplete thing, is Karan.” Mendark smiled grimly.

  “Also my choice. Bring her!” Yggur said to his guard.

  Karan was led in and the matter put to her. She sat before the two stern men, afraid and intimidated. “My life has gone full circle, like it was at the beginning. Everyone wants to use me.”

  “Sadly, that is the fate of sensitives, blendings and most especially triunes,” Yggur observed without sympathy. He might have been inspecting the horses in his stable, for she seemed to warrant no more choice than they did.

  “Do I have an option? What if I should refuse?”

  “We will consider our options,” said Yggur.

  But Mendark said, “This is your reckoning, Karan! You betrayed us in Carcharon and it was only blind luck that we were not overcome there. Speaking as Magister, I say that you have no choice. Either this pays for that, or you go to trial. And since you have already admitted your guilt, you will be convicted and sentenced as is appropriate for treachery. As you have such useful skills, it is probable that the sentence would be slavery as a sensitive, rather than execution.”

  “And the first part of my slavery would be to serve as a sensitive on this mission,” said Karan.

  “Precisely.”

  Karan bowed her head. Every one of my actions has led irresistibly to the next, she thought, since this business began. What is the point in trying to resist fate? “I will be your sensitive,” she said. “When do we start?”

  “At once,” said Mendark. “Gather your illusionists, Yggur, and I will mine.”

  “So soon!” said Karan, alarmed. “How can you attack her with so little preparation?”

  “If we delay, if Faelamor is warned, we’ll never find her.”

  “There can’t be fifty Faellem there yet,” said Yggur. “I’ll take a thousand of my finest soldiers. Our strength will be overwhelming.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Karan, but they took no notice, and after that she kept silent.

  “You will remain here under guard until we go, Karan,” said Yggur. “Make a list of your gear and I’ll send for it.”

  It took the best part of a day, however, before they were all assembled—an army of a thousand soldiers, hand-picked from Yggur’s armies, all skilled at climbing and hiding. They were led by Vanhe, recently promoted to marshal again. With them went fifty-two illusionists, equal numbers of men and women, the men wearing black gowns with a short white cape over the shoulders, the women the converse. Also their baggage train and Mendark’s guard, ten of them led by Osseion of the nine fingers, and his friend Torgsted. Llian was to be the recorder.

  No one knew their destination or their purpose, save the three. Not even Llian was told until they were well out of Thurkad. They proceeded on horseback to the edge of the forest of Elludore, and thence by forced marches to their destination. A small squad guarded the entrance to the valley, to prevent any escape. The remainder climbed to the top of the dividing range, and waited.

  It was the second day of spring, though it still felt like winter. The time was midnight, and the fifty-two illusionists took their places in their darkened tent, standing in a circle like so many dominoes, black-white, white-black, black-white. Llian watched silently from a corner, memorizing the scene so he could put it in his tale. He was worried, and every so often he picked up a wave of misery from Karan, who was in an agony of terror already.

  Karan sat at the end of the tent outside the circle. Mendark stood across the circle from her with a short staff raised like a conductor’s baton. Llian watched in some trepidation. How could it go right when Karan was in such a state? How could it anyway?

  “Begin,” said Mendark. “Link to the first, Karan.”

  Karan must have found some inner reserves of calmness, for Llian did not pick up her emotions after that. Indeed she looked almost vacant as she closed her eyes, sought out with her mind and drew a link between herself and the master illusionist. The world outside, which was all fog and shadows, blurred slightly.

  “To the second, Karan.” Twirling his staff, Mendark pointed it somewhat theatrically at the second illusionist.

  Karan wrinkled her forehead, then sent the link to the second.

  “To the third, Karan!”

  On he went, around the circle and Karan following him, until each of the illusionists was linked to the next and finally, with a thump that knocked her sideways, back to Karan. Pale as a ghost, she swayed forward and had to support herself on a tent pole.

  Mendark spoke to the master. “Remember, you have only two tasks. Your first and most important is to maintain a cloak over the army—to render them invisible in the fog.”

  “That is done,” said the master in a rather foggy voice. “The conditions make it easy.”

  “Never underestimate this foe!” Mendark snapped. “And the second, to keep watch for any illusion that Faelamor may make to hide the way from us, and to break that illusion whatever it takes.”

  “We sense such an illusion already,” said the master in sepulchral tones, “but it is weak—a nothing!”

  “Beware!” said Mendark. “She’s probably had a protection in place ever since Shand and Yggur were there. But if she senses you, it will grow so strong that all of you together will be troubled to overcome it. Are you ready? And you,” he said to Llian, “do nothing to disturb Karan. Don’t even touch her, lest it shiver the link.”

  The master nodded. “Now is the time!” said Mendark to Yggur’s shabby little adjutant, Dolodha, who hurried out to give the word to the messengers. They ran along to the waiting army, who were to proceed in single file to the cliff track.

  Mendark, walking as though his joints bothered him, followed down to where Yggur waited with Vanhe and his lieutenants.

  “As soon as I give the signal, Tallia, you will lead the first squad down. Careful, it’s a dangerous path. Torgsted,” he said quietly, “you have always served me faithfully. Will you go down with the army and be my eyes and ears on this mission?”

  “I—” Torgsted hesitated. He looked to Osseion.

  “I need someone there that I can rely on utterly,” said Mendark.

  Torgsted’s hand shook. “I feel… there’s something not right here, Magister.”

  “Are you a sensitive, Torgsted?” Mendark asked with a trace of irritation.

  “No, though my mother had the second sight… No, it’s nothing! Of course I will go.”

  “Good. Osseion, go back up, position your troops around the tent and be ready for anything.”

  Osseion shook hands with Torgsted and turned away. The soldiers made no more than a rustle on the path, then silence fell again.

  Llian stood in the entrance to the tent, watching Karan. She neither moved nor spoke, but once or twice she swayed on her chair. The illusionists were deathly quiet. The cold moon, an angry crescent, shone on the tent and the fog.

  Then the master illusionist sang out. “She knows! Feel the strength of her illusion!”

  Suddenly everything went dull. The room might have been pumped full of mist. Someone groaned.

  “Ah!” cried the master. “It is hard. Oh! Oh! Hold! HOLD!” she roared. “HOLD! We’re losing the way.”

  The silence lasted a full minute, then suddenly the mist in the room vanished. “We’ve done it,” whispered the master. “We’ve broken her concealment. Look, there is the path.”

  For a few brief seconds, L
lian saw a vision in his mind’s eye, a coal-black track winding through the snow and the trees. It was the top of the path that their scouts had marked out that afternoon.

  The way down to the assembly point was harder to find than they had expected, in the fog, but in the end Faelamor’s illusions proved to be, somehow, not very potent. The soldiers mocked their enemy as they assembled among the trees. They had not been there long before the chief illusionist sent a messenger running to Mendark, crowing the victory.

  “She was a cunning foe, but we have mastered her. We are too many and too strong. The way is cleared.”

  “I always thought she was overrated with large groups,” said Mendark to Yggur, “though no doubt that she is peerless one to one. Tallia, are you ready?”

  “I am. I have my six with me.”

  “You know your orders. You are to go first and get into position. When the army creates a diversion, you will find the gold and bring it back.”

  “Vanhe?” Yggur said softly. “Are you ready?”

  The squat, bullet-headed marshal nodded.

  “Remember, you’re on probation, Vanhe. Fail me again and you go back to being a common soldier, for good!”

  The pain showed in Vanhe’s eyes, then he turned to his officers and began to issue orders.

  Tallia and her group set off down the track. The fog grew thicker. She had to use all her bushcraft to keep to the path she had trod just that afternoon. And if that was not trouble enough, she found that, despite the boasts of the master illusionist, the valley was still protected with glamors that fogged her brain and made her doubt her own memory. She stopped abruptly. Which way was it here? Right or left, after these two giant trees? Right, of course, but nonetheless she stepped warily down the track, fretting that what she knew to be right was wrong.

  Now the track slanted back to the left, running along a narrow ledge below the cliff top, down at the end then along the cliff ledge below that in the same direction. Tallia felt the edge of the precipice tugging at her and waited until the last of her six appeared.

  “Now the path goes down the cliff and one misstep means death. We will rope together, and everyone must follow the one ahead, no matter what. If you get confused, don’t step right, just STOP!”

  They continued, and the glamors whirled so thick about them that even Tallia was sorely pressed to withstand them. Many times they stopped while one or other of her six was guided into the confidence that to step forward was the right thing to do.

  “What would it be like without the protection of our illusionists?” said Tallia to the fellow behind her. He said nothing, but she could see the whites of his eyes.

  Eventually they got down, and insofar as they could tell, in their correct position somewhere above and to the right of Faelamor’s caves.

  “Now we wait,” said Tallia. “The army will split at the top, and half will come down a little further up the valley, the remainder on the downhill side of the caves. They will attack from both sides, creating the diversion that will let us into the caves. Not many of Faelamor’s people are here yet, otherwise it would be impossible.”

  That would be the easy part. Tallia was less confident about her own job. She knew that Faelamor would never leave the treasure unguarded. Even if they found it they would still have to deal with her, and find the way out again.

  “It won’t be long now,” she said, some time after the signals were due.

  “It won’t be long now,” she said again, a long time later.

  Later still, when she was growing desperately worried, she said, “I can’t wait. I’m going to spy out the caves. Keep watch and if I shout, flee at once.”

  She knew they wouldn’t flee. They were elite soldiers and here to protect her. But they obeyed orders and remained where they were.

  She was scarcely out of sight when she heard, faint through the fog, the sound of a horn blowing the recall. Something had gone wrong. The army must have been spotted. They would never come to her aid now.

  Tallia hesitated. She was so close to her goal. Maybe she could still use this as the diversion she needed. After Faelamor’s battle with the illusionists she would be weak, perhaps already struggling with aftersickness. Tallia went on.

  The soldiers were moving restlessly, wanting to go. Vanhe and his lieutenants had already walked the winding path that afternoon, making sure that there could be no possibility of confusion. Vanhe paced back and forth, anxious about the mission and his own future. He could not afford any mistake. The soldiers began to move along the path, tramping the snow down into the black soil. The track led over knife edged ridges, along cliffs that guarded the valley on all sides, between two giant trees, and turned down the cliff path. Vanhe paused between the trunks for a second. He looked around, at the shadowed ranks behind him, at the path ahead. He felt paralyzed by the responsibility.

  Behind him, one of his lieutenants whispered, “We must keep to time, sir!”

  Vanhe spun around. There was only one way they could go. The moon dimly illuminated the path, a winding track of black through the snow as if it was made of crushed anthracite. Yet still he hesitated.

  “Sir!” called another of his lieutenants.

  Vanhe gave the word. He moved out from between the two trees, turned left and disappeared into the fog. The soldiers followed close behind. They marched forward, silent and proud, the elite of four armies, confident in the leaders and their arts.

  “Careful now,” said the master illusionist. “Faelamor is strong and cunning—she may renew the attack at any moment. Here it comes now. Hold the path against her. Hold the path!”

  Just then Karan began to tremble. It became an uncontrollable shake then vanished just as suddenly. “N-n-n!” she mouthed, trying to say something but unable to get the words out. “N-n-n-n!”

  Llian ran to her side but was afraid to touch her, mindful of Mendark’s warnings.

  “N-n-n-n!” Karan’s eyelids were beating like the wings of a butterfly. Her jaw clenched, she screamed out, “No!” and collapsed on the floor.

  Llian tried to lift her up but she was in a stupor so deep that he could not rouse her. He looked up fearfully at the master. “How is the link?”

  “It holds,” she intoned. “I think we are over the worst. Most of the army is down already.”

  “That was quick,” Llian said. “I must have lost track of time.”

  At that moment the master illusionist sighed and fell down on her face. The second shrieked under the pressure, bringing Osseion running in. He felt the master illusionist’s throat.

  “No pulse,” he shouted over his shoulder to Dolodha. “Get a message to Mendark.”

  Now the second illusionist was writhing on the floor, seemingly trying to heave his bowels up through his mouth. His eyes rolled back into his head, he shuddered and went rigid.

  “He’s still alive, at least,” said Osseion, as Dolodha ran back in. “Where’s Mendark?”

  “With Yggur. Down at the cliff top by now, I’d say.”

  “Did you pass the word for him?”

  “Yes, but without alerting the enemy…” She held her hands out in a sign of helplessness. “It’ll take some time.”

  The remaining illusionists still held the circle, black on white, white on black, all the way around, but their eyes were staring under the strain.

  “I don’t like this,” said Osseion.

  Shortly a messenger came running back, a little young woman with a cap of yellow hair. “What’s the matter?” she gasped, bursting into the tent.

  “Karan is unconscious, though she still holds the link. The master is dead, and the second—” Dolodha indicated the floor. “I have the worst feeling…”

  The messenger gasped, holding her side. “It hurts! What is the message? They’ve gone down already. If I have to give the alarm the whole mission must fail.”

  Osseion and Dolodha exchanged glances. “Should we call it off or not?”

  “To sound the recall when they’r
e halfway down might be worse,” Osseion said. “We’ll wait another minute.”

  Just then the third illusionist choked. Dark blood burst out her nose and she went rigid as a domino. Throwing her arms above her head she slowly fell backward. Then the man behind her did the same, throwing his arms up and toppling backward too, black on white, white on black, until like a row of dominoes each one knocked over the next. Soon there was not an illusionist standing.

  Dolodha and Osseion watched in horror, then turned as one and raced for the flap of the tent. Dolodha got out first and did not wait for the order. “Fall back! Fall back!” she screamed and raced down the path.

  Osseion pounded to the command tent, snatched a horn out of its rack and blew a blast that echoed off cliff and valley, back and forth, so low that it was like the groaning of tumbrel wheels.

  There came no response. No shouts. No cries. He ran down the anthracite-black path, blowing and blowing the retreat until he had no breath left. Around a corner in the path he skidded in the mud, uncertain which way to take, then turned left. He ran down the track in the fog. A dark clad figure loomed out of the mist, its arms outstretched across the path.

  “Too late,” Mendark said dolefully.

  The mist began to clear and Osseion said in wonderment, “But… this is not the way we scouted. How—”

  “What proud fools we were!” said Mendark. Further down the track a shadow moved. Their feet clapped the mud down to Yggur.

  “It’s over,” said Yggur in a dead voice, standing up on the edge of the precipice. “It’s all over.”

  “What…?” Osseion began.

  “They’re dead, every one,” said Yggur, teetering as if to follow them. Dolodha caught his hand and eased him back. “They marched straight over the cliff in the fog and never knew it until they smashed on the rocks below. We have met a foe beyond us. Faelamor has crushed us utterly.”

  An updraft carried the tang of blood. “I’ll go up,” said Osseion, wanting to be anywhere but here, where a thousand of Yggur’s finest, and Torgsted, the dearest friend he’d ever had, had just fallen to their deaths.