Ibryen

by Roger Taylor

  ‘… 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.

  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.

  As he looked up, he saw a solitary hand protruding from between the mirrors. And still he could feel the Gevethen’s malevolent power reaching out to him.

  He cut off the hand.

  Still clawing, it moved almost two paces towards him before it stopped.

  There was a fearful, echoing scream, then the mirrors came together and, with a sound like a long sigh, they bent and twisted and folded, and were gone.

  Faintly, Ibryen heard dogs barking and a woman’s triumphant laughter. Part of him reached briefly into the fading world where they were and touched them. It was a healing touch – a blessing.

  Then they too were gone.

  As was the darkness as the black fabric of the canopy floated to the ground. Ibryen needed to examine no bodies to know that the mirror-bearers and the Gevethen’s other servants had died with their masters. The morning light washed over their enslaved bodies, now finally free.

  As Ibryen came fully to himself he instinctively braced himself for combat. The Gevethen might be gone, but danger was still around him. The collapse of the canopy and the disappearance of the Gevethen however, merely completed the disintegration of the army and few even noticed him as he walked towards his followers. None raised a hand against him.

  None save Vintre.

  Ibryen saw him approaching and knew that he was virtually defenceless. Even had he not been drained from his ordeal, he was no match for Vintre, a skilled and vicious fighter. He levelled his sword at him.

  ‘Put down your sword and surrender,’ he shouted. ‘You know you’ll get a fair trial from me.’

  ‘I’ll forego the pleasure of that,Count.’ Vintre spat the word. ‘There are always people who value the kind of skills I have. I just want the satisfaction of killing you then I’ll fade into the crowd here.’

  ‘No!’

  Vintre looked casually over his shoulder. Rachyl, sword drawn, was walking down a slope towards him. ‘You said I might be needed later,’ she said.

  Vintre waved a dismissive arm and, with a sneer, turned back to Ibryen.

  ‘Don’t turn away from me, you rat’s vomit,’ Rachyl blasted. ‘Or are you too afraid to face me?’

  Vintre’s eyes narrowed and he turned again.

  ‘You first, then, girl. I’d rather have had some fun with you before I finished you off but this’ll be as good.’ He took his sword in both hands and waited with scornful patience. Suddenly, with an incongruous little cry, Rachyl tripped. Arms flailing wildly, she took two ungainly strides but failed to catch her balance. The third stride sent her headlong down the slope. Vintre’s lips curled in derision and he raised his sword to strike her when she had stopped. Rachyl’s fall however, proved to be a wilful dive, and before Vintre could react she had rolled up on to her feet and run her sword clean through him in a single mov
ement.

  Gripping his sword hilt, for fear of any dying stroke, Rachyl looked at his face, riven with both shock and rage. He was trying to say something.

  ‘Bitch, is the word you’re looking for, Captain,’ she said. Then she yanked her sword free and dropped him.

  It was the last killing that day.

  Chapter 35

  In the days immediately following the destruction of the Gevethen, there was much disorder as the largely conscripted army disintegrated together with a great deal of what passed for Nesdiryn’s civil administration. Many old scores were brutally settled. It was thus more than fortunate that Isgyrn’s Culmadryen arrived and came to rest over the mountains. Visible even from parts of the city, its glittering tower and spires slowly changed and shifted at the touch of the sun and the wind, while beneath it, like the white haze of a distant snowstorm, the Culmaren reached down to touch the highest peaks, drawing such that it needed from them, yet leaving them apparently unchanged. It was a sight to instil awe and silence in the most garrulous, though talk of it was to last for generations. Its massive and mysterious presence seemed to spread a strange balm over the Dirynvolk as they looked up in their pain to find themselves free again, and when eventually it was gone, the horror of the memory of the Gevethen’s rule was less.

  Ibryen’s return to Dirynhald was deliberately unspectacular. He knew that after the years of the Gevethen’s domination it would be a long time before his country bore any resemblance to the one he had been ousted from, and that progress towards it would be best achieved slowly and quietly.

  His first concern was that justice should forestall retribution and, to that end, only the more conspicuous of the Gevethen’s followers were immediately arrested. As is the way with such people however, several were not to be found, not least amongst them being Helsarn. Reading matters more shrewdly than his erstwhile ally, Vintre, and also being sorely shaken by what had happened to him in front of the Gevethen’s mirror, the Commander had shed his uniform and quietly slipped away with the rapidly dispersing army.