The Cloven Land Trilogy

by Simon Kewin

  Meg had no choice but to look. Their pursuers were there, marching forwards across the bridge, the four defenders trampled beneath their boots. Soldiers and the undain lord leading them.

  “We'll have to fight,” said Meg. “Those of us who can. The rest of you take Weyerd and the book and run for Andar.”

  “No,” said Liana. “I mean look that way.” She held her baby close to her with one arm, but with the other she was pointing north. “The flood. It's coming.”

  Meg turned to look upstream. For a dizzying moment she couldn't believe her own eyes. The waters of the river were rising up, as if the whole land was folding in two to crash down onto them. A mountainside of meltwater, funnelled by the narrowed banks, hurled itself forwards.

  “Run,” Meg shouted. “Get to the bank!”

  But everyone was already running, their exhaustion forgotten. Riders carrying Weyerd and Liana's baby raced ahead. In a few moments they were all splashing through puddles as the An rose to cover the bridge. Then they were wading through icy waters up to their knees, their thighs. Meg could feel the surging force behind it. A few moments and it would wash them from the bridge. Off-balance, she slipped to the ground, banging her hip hard against the wall.

  Up ahead, the banks of Andar were visible now: a line of slender trees and, above them, round hills. They'd nearly made it. Would they have reached Andar if they hadn't stopped those few times on the way across? If she hadn't waited for Liana and the others? Perhaps. It mattered little now. Freezing spray and a roaring thunder, the loudest sound she'd ever heard, filled the air.

  Then, weirdly, the flood subsided for a moment. The wave hung over them, the scale of it difficult to take in. It was a wall of water, trees stuck in it like straws. They were in the lull, the dip, before the full force of the wave hit them, like someone pulling back before throwing a punch.

  Meg tried to stand but her hip wouldn't support her weight. She collapsed to the ground. Had she broken something? Again, it didn't matter. The others were ahead of her, lost in the spray. She began to crawl, inching her way forwards. She'd done all she could. They'd so nearly made it. At least they'd tried. At least they'd saved Andar. At least…

  Then the wave struck and she was lifted up and dashed against the side of the bridge, and she knew no more.

  Faces loomed over her. She couldn't tell who or what they were at first, their lines blurred. Then features became clearer and names began to appear in her mind. Dervil. Liana. Weyerd.

  Alarm shot through her, making her sit upright. Had they failed after all then? She'd been on the bridge and now she was here. The bridge had survived. Despite everything, the terrible force of the wave, Andar hadn't been saved. She tried to speak, but could only cough and splutter with all the water she'd swallowed.

  “You're safe, Black Meg,” said Liana. “We made it. We're all safe.”

  “The bridge,” she managed. “We have to destroy it.”

  “It's gone,” said Dervil. “The flood destroyed it, just like you said.” The rider offered her an arm to lever her upright. Her hip hurt, but she could put a little weight on it. It would do. They stood upon the rocky outcrop of land that stood over the Andar bridgehead. They were all there: Weyerd, Liana and her family, the wyrm lords. There was no sign of the bridge, save for a short stretch that led out thirty yards and then stopped abruptly, going nowhere.

  “I pulled you clear,” said Dervil. “We were the last two. The stones cracked just behind us.”

  “Our pursuers?”

  “The An took them. One was very close to us, yards away. One of the undain. It was about to leap at us when the wave hit.”

  Leaning on Dervil, Meg worked her way to the edge of the outcrop where the other riders stood in silence. The swollen waters below seethed from the turbulence of the flood, boiling down the banks of the An. Whole trees were being carried along by the river, fallen trunks twisting around like twigs. But there was no sign of pursuit, no sign of any survivor. How could there be? Not too far out, mist veiled the wide waters as if to soothe the damage done. In the quiet of the moment, the croaking of crows came to her. The crows of Andar.

  “What will you do now, Dervil?” Meg asked eventually.

  Dervil didn't reply for several moments. Finally she spoke. “Rebuild here. This is the closest point to Angere. We'll build on this headland. Reuse the stones of the bridge to raise a watchtower. To look for the coming of the undain.”

  “And if they come?”

  “Then we will be ready to fight them. We failed Angere. We won't fail Andar.” Her voice was level. This wasn't bragging; she was simply stating facts as she saw them. And what would the folk of Andar make of these dragonriders without dragons? These protectors who'd failed to protect? Tolerate them. Maybe even welcome them. But embrace them? That remained to be seen.

  Dervil pulled something red and gold from inside her cloak. For the third time she offered Ilminion's book to Meg.

  “Will you take it this time?”

  “Yes. It needs to go to Islagray Wycka. We might need it one day. Us or those who come after us.”

  “And what will you do?” asked Dervil. “This is no more your home than ours.”

  “First things first,” said Meg. “People need healing. They need food, shelter, a home. The rest can wait. Young Liana's taken a shine to Weyerd, and maybe that'll work out nicely, but they'll all need a place to live and fields to work. Them and others. Alice and the other witches, those that survived, will return in a few days. We have plans to make. We'll make a start, although others may have to finish things. Somehow I don't think this story will be over any time soon. And I need to write down everything I've seen or heard. One day it may be of use.”

  “I thought you said you knew nothing about writing and spell books.”

  Meg thought about Bordun, and everything he'd sacrificed. She thought about the undain woman who'd nursed Weyerd, and the troubling magic used to despatch her. “No. I don't. But perhaps I should. The world's changed and we have to change with it. Just as you have. We have to be prepared. Healing people's agues and persuading rain clouds to fly elsewhere is all very well, but that won't do anything in the face of those horrors. We've been like children, asleep while monsters throng to our door. We can't do that any more. The witches have to be ready when the nightmares come, too. And if that means delving into the darkness to understand them, use their power against them even, so be it.”

  Dervil grasped Meg's arm, a gesture of respect. Respect or farewell. Then she turned and strode purposefully away, as if she planned to start laying the foundation stones of the new tower then and there.

  Shaking her head at the sight of the rider, Black Meg turned and limped to Liana and her family.

  “Can you walk?” Liana's mother asked. “We can wait here until you're better, sleep under the trees. We're safe now.”

  “Don't worry about me,” said Meg. She held out her arms to take her turn carrying Weyerd. After a moment, Liana's mother relented and handed the child over.

  “Very well,” said Meg. “Let us go.” The six of them - the four adults and the two children - set off on the trek south and east.

  As they walked, Meg glanced aside again and again, out across the An. What was happening through those mists, over there in Angere? What of Hyrn? What of the dragons and their riders? And what of Menhroth? Would they come one day, those horrors, those undain, to scour beautiful Andar as they were scouring Angere? And would they find other worlds to invade and enslave as well, down those ancient roads across the aether?

  Perhaps. For now, though, she was safe, and Weyerd was safe, and there was much to do. Singing to the baby she carried, the sun on her face, Black Meg hobbled through the glowing woods of Andar towards Islagray Wycka.

  Hedge Witch

  The Cloven Land Trilogy, Book 1

  Simon Kewin

  1. Cait

  Manchester, England

  Cait pushed her way through the crowded tram and just made it t
o the doors before they slid shut. Outside, she stood for a moment and breathed. Her eyes had closed more than once on the journey into Manchester, the result of a long, hot day at school and the rocking of the carriage as it rattled into the city. A breeze blew down Mosley Street but it did little to lift the oppressive weight of the air. The weather forecast had predicted thunderstorms. There was no sign of them yet.

  The street was busy: office workers sweating in their suits and ties, shoppers burdened with purchases, rowdy children clouting each other with their backpacks. Beyond them all rose the grey, curving walls of the Central Library, like a round fortress built in the heart of the city.

  She sighed. She'd promised herself she wouldn't get off here. She thought about Devi, Rachel, Val and Jen, the friends she'd promised to meet one stop up the line at the Arndale Shopping Centre. She watched the tram thundering off that way, ploughing through the traffic toward Piccadilly Square. They'd be there already, cruising through the crowds, laughing and shouting, never bothering to move out of anyone's way. As a group they were invincible. She imagined them veering from shop window to shop window, shouting their disgust at this, their burning desire for that. And no one, no grown-up, no security guard, would dare confront them.

  She loved them all, but in her mind she saw herself at the back of the group, saying nothing, not involved. It was like that some days. She would look at them from a distance, marvelling at how they all talked at once but still seemed to hear what each other said. Other times, without really knowing how, she was a part of that. But not today. She couldn't face them today.

  She looked down the tracks the way the tram had come. The rails gleamed in the sun, running past the oblong bulk of the war memorial and out of the city, south toward the suburbs.

  Her mother would be getting home about now. Cait imagined her switching on the television, pulling steaming food from the microwave. She should be there, too. Another promise. But she couldn't face going home either. She'd left a message, done the right thing. She'd go back later.

  She sighed again. The tram had vanished and she hadn't moved. She couldn't just stand there, people would stare. Come on, Cait. Back to the real world.

  She thought about last Saturday, her disastrous attempt to secure a weekend job at Bling Thing. He'd said that, the manager, as he explained to her why she was so unsuitable for the role.

  “Look, love. You have to live in the real world. You have to smile, be happy to serve the customers. Be enthusiastic about the products. Be excited by them.”

  His words had amused her, then annoyed her. He'd wanted her to be something she wasn't. She'd felt trapped, had to fight down the urge to flee. It was all so mundane. Where was the beauty in it? Where was the magic? She'd imagined the man would be old but he was in his twenties or something. He was smartly dressed, polite, but his staring eyes, the way he droned on about retailing, made her shudder and say little.

  His office was a square, shabby room at the back of the store, its walls concrete blocks painted lime-green. On the floor, a kettle and a jar of instant coffee sat on a tray. Boxes of stock were strewn all around, in contrast to the manicured layout of the shop. When he took off his jacket, she saw the sweat-rings creeping around his armpits, circles widening toward the white stains of past sweat-rings. She thought of herself still at Bling Thing in five, ten years' time. Interviewing some other poor soul for a job. Would she sound like him by then?

  A poster on the wall, the blu-tac holding it up visible as dark smudges in each corner, said Smile - it costs nothing. It wasn't true. Right then, a smile would have cost her more than she could give. And what she actually said to him was, “Hmm.”

  And so she hadn't got the job. She was a failure, it was clear. She was no good at school. She tried, she really did, but she always ended up antagonizing her teachers for some reason. Now she couldn't even cut it as a Saturday girl in Bling Thing. She was a failure, going nowhere. Already her life was over.

  She threw her rucksack over one shoulder and set off, a small pile of text books cradled in one arm. How she hated her black school uniform. She'd tried to subvert it with blue in her hair and piercings that contravened all the rules. None of it helped. She hated how she looked. She scowled as she walked, warning everyone not to bother her.

  Slumped against the grey stone wall of the library, out of the way of hurrying feet and the light of the sun, a man sat on a piece of tatty cardboard. A threadbare blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. On the ground before him lay a hat containing a paltry four or five coins, all coppers. He held a sign in his hands that said simply, Please. The rest of the message, whatever he was begging for, had been torn away. He was asleep, his head nodding forward, long, matted hair covering his face. The crowd ignored him, probably didn't even see him.

  She wondered who he was, where he'd come from, what his story was. Perhaps he was one of the few who'd escaped the fire: the factory blaze that had killed her father. This man had limped out, choking, his clothes smoking, his skin burned. He was disfigured now, unable to work, unable to do anything but sit and beg. The formless pleading of that single word on his sign.

  She wanted to go to him, sit with him, talk to him. She felt suddenly closer to him than all the people around her. They had so much in common, this shared bond of not belonging to the crowd. She stopped walking. A woman dressed in a smart blue business-suit, her gold necklace expensive, white earphones in her ears, tutted loudly at Cait for being in the way.

  A flap of the beggar's cardboard seat caught the breeze and she saw the words This Way Up in red letters. Underneath, smaller, the name of some company.

  The man looked up sharply at her. Or rather, through her to something beyond, as if he couldn't focus his eyes properly. He was young. He couldn't possibly have worked with her father. Of course. His skin was unscarred, his features thin and pale. Anger flashed through her, an anger that was part adrenaline. The stupid ideas she had. What was she thinking?

  “The hunt! The hunt is coming! Monsters! Run and hide, run and hide!” the man shouted. No one paid him any attention. “They'll chase you down, corner you. You'll see! Sleep safe in your beds, that's when they come. The dead of night, down these streets, knives flashing. Run and hide, run and hide …” He trailed off, his head lolling again as if he was a toy whose battery had run down.

  Cait stood for a moment, feeling ridiculous. He was just some loser, disgusting, probably mad.

  Then he looked up, this time directly at her, focusing on her. A look of surprise filled his face.

  “You?” he said, not shouting now, but still speaking loudly. “Here?”

  Concern, then fear, then amusement flashed across his features. He started shouting again, pointing at her.

  “They will hunt you! Once they find you, who you are and what you are, they will come! Day or night! You … here all along! All along!”

  He started to laugh. A crazy, utterly uninhibited sound. He flicked his head from side to side, expecting everyone to see the joke.

  It was too much for Cait. She turned and ran for the library, eyes down, shutting out the beggar, his words knives in her mind.

  2. Forbidden Books

  A line of pillars guarded the entrance to the library, like a great, gap-toothed mouth. Cait hurried through. She breathed deeply, her heart thundering in her chest. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting the crazy tramp to be following her like a zombie in some ridiculous horror movie. But there was no one. She was safe.

  A security guard eyed her. He was tall and heavily built, but with more fat than muscle. He looked like an ex-soldier past his prime. He kept his hair closely cropped but there was a sadness in his eyes, as if he couldn't believe how his life had worked out. His uniform was shabby, the trousers a slightly different shade of blue to his tunic, his cuffs and the peak of his cap threadbare. He said nothing, not moving. She sometimes thought they were all asleep, slumbering away the long, poorly-paid hours with their eyes open. She smiled at him as reassurin
gly as she could, holding up her textbooks to make it clear she belonged in a library.

  The large, circular reading-room that took up most of the ground-floor was a maze of desks and shelves. If you knew the path, the dead-ends to avoid, you could reach the sanctuary of the middle, the island of desks where the librarians stamped and piled books. If not, you could get lost and wind up in the dead-end of Ancient History, the wastelands of Chemistry.

  Cait relished the familiar, busy hush. The sound of people concentrating, turning pages, scribbling. It was cooler in here. Controlled. She loved the aroma of the books, of all that paper and leather. She started to relax.

  She looked for her gran and spotted her across the floor, her head appearing above a high bookcase as if she were a giant the library employed to reach the top shelves.

  Cait set off across the great circle, between huge tables carpeted with open newspapers. She walked along passageways, between high walls of books, wondering what they all said. So much knowledge, how could she ever hope to make sense of things? She couldn't read a thousandth of what was written here.

  She weaved her way through the labyrinth until she reached the foot of the step-ladders where her gran perched.

  “Hi,” said Cait.

  Her grandmother was always pleased to see her. Always had time for her. Still, she managed to make it quite clear when Cait had done something she disapproved of. It was never anything she said; she just made her eyes glint in a certain way. How did she do that? The look was there now as she peered down at Cait through her gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Cait, love. I didn't expect to see you.” She stepped down holding three large, dusty books in one arm. Her pendant earrings, tear-shaped gold mesh clasping nuggets of polished amber, swayed in time with each tread. “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine. Just wanted to drop by. You know.”