The Cloven Land Trilogy

by Simon Kewin

  She held out her hand to touch him on the shoulder. “Really? And how do you know that?”

  He rose to his feet, leaving his sword on the ground, and offered a hand to her. He was tall, his grip strong. He moved with the controlled grace of all dragonriders. Leather armour covered his torso, legs and arms, but she could see the tattoos on his head and hands, red as blood, the intricate whorls and spirals that would cover his whole body. His hair was shaved short. In his left ear were three silver studs to denote his rank. Around his neck, the gold chain studded with its string of small red gems. Penitence Stones. His eyes were a rich brown. If he wasn't so sombre he'd be quite handsome. Ah, if only she was one hundred and thirty years younger …

  “Borrn spoke of you. How you aided him once,” said Beltaine.

  “Hah! That was twenty years ago. And we helped each other.”

  “Even so, we do not forget. We have few friends in Andar.”

  “Anyone hostile to you has forgotten the stories they were told as children. Or they were never told them in the first place.”

  He shrugged. “No matter.”

  “Maybe. But I have often thought it's time you stopped feeling so guilty for the mistakes of your grandparents' grandparents.” She glanced at the broken bones around her. “But there, perhaps you'll get the chance to make amends very soon.”

  “Perhaps. Something stirs. This is not the first flight across the An we have heard of.”

  “That's news. How many others?”

  “Two. Further north.”

  Was it possible the armies of the Witch King were gathering, only a hundred miles from where they stood? Even she, after all these years, found it hard to believe. The waters of the An looked so peaceful.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Why have you been waiting here?”

  “In case the other undain returns.”

  Her stomach went cold for a moment, as if the river's chill had crept into her.

  “The other undain?”

  “The rider. Small, skulking creature. Its tracks led south, following the cart.”

  “You are sure?”

  “We are.”

  She should have realised. Ariane was right; she was an old fool. But what did it mean? To make this miraculous flight across the An and land next to a witch. Was that bad luck or good luck?

  “I must return to Islagray,” she said.

  “The cart went there?”

  “It came in the middle of the night.”

  He nodded, his expression still dour. “We will stay here. The rider may still return.”

  “If it does, can you defeat it?” asked Hellen.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then I wish you luck. Send word to Islagray if you learn anything more. Or if you need our help.”

  “I will.”

  “In what is coming, we will all have to learn to work together, I think,” said Hellen.

  “Then let me help now,” he said. “Three of us followed the cart and rider. A day behind, but if they are still alive they should be at Islagray by now. Ran leads them. Say to him Dethnior unthwai sen thain and he will know he can trust you. If you have need of him he will help.”

  She smiled in acknowledgement. “I shall do so.”

  She turned to go. But another matter came to mind: unimportant, perhaps, in the scheme of things, but a thing she could put right.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Were there any sacks of spice lying round here when you arrived?”

  “By the road. We stacked them out of sight.”

  She unstrung the leather pouch from her belt and held it up. “Then before I leave, could you possibly pop them into this?”

  Beltaine looked at the small bag. He nearly objected, but then chose to say nothing. He made some intricate gestures in the air, speaking their hand-language. Two of the hidden dragonriders, a woman and a man, materialised from the trees and strode to him. He spoke brief, quiet orders. They took the pouch and hurried off through the trees.

  Hellen turned back to gaze out over the An. The water sparkled and danced in the brightening sun. The mists had lifted a little, but it wasn't possible to see even the middle of the river. Beltaine stood next to her. He watched the haze over the river with suspicion, as if he expected an army to loom out at any moment.

  She saw the suggestion of a dragon in the tattoos about his neck and head: a shimmering creature of fire woven from lines of red. Borrn had been the same. It was as if the dragon was there, living beneath his skin. In Angere, five hundred years ago, they'd ridden dragons. Were the tattoos merely a memory, a mark of that? Borrn had said they were an armour, but against what she didn't know.

  She wondered where Borrn was now, what had happened to him in the wilds of the north. There’d been no word from him for a long time. Both of them caught up in their own lives.

  A fish leaped from the river, catching a fly. The waters swallowed it with a wet gulp, leaving a widening set of rings on the surface. A frown on the face of the An.

  “You know,” she said. “I believe you're only the second person ever to have charged at me wielding a sword.”

  “What befell the other?”

  “Oh, you know, within a year or two he was good as new.”

  He almost smiled. She was about to speak again, to tell him the old tale, try and coax that smile out onto his face, when she felt a new presence, distant but clear.

  Beltaine's eyes narrowed, questioning her.

  “More vultures circling the corpse,” she said. “Someone comes. Someone on the river.”

  “On the river?” Even as Beltaine spoke he was signalling to the remaining two waiting out of sight. “Who?”

  “I don't know,” said Hellen. “It is strange. There is a man, certainly, but he seems to be asleep. His dreams are outlandish, vast buildings and great machines. Very loud noise. There is another mind there, too. Something magical, the work of mancers.”

  Beltaine reached for his sword once more.

  “Wait,” said Hellen, placing a hand on his arm. “I don't think you'll need that. See.”

  Upstream, the shore became lost in shadows. Old, twisted willow trees dipped long branches into the river as if sipping from the water. In the shifting, dappled light it was hard to make out detail. Hellen and Beltaine stood in silence, peering through the branches, waiting for the newcomer.

  The prow of a small boat peeked through the trees. It drifted toward the bank without oar or sail. A clear wake fanned out behind it.

  The craft was perhaps five yards long, a housing taking up its forward half and an open space the rear. A small, golden figurehead in the shape of a man adorned its prow, leaning as if in flight. The figurehead's eyes flicked left and right and she knew, then, this was the magical presence she had sensed. The boat itself. It was painted all over with a glossy tangle of vines and rambling brambles. Tiny painted flowers, purple and yellow and red, as well as iridescent butterflies, were dotted here and there. Hellen found herself smiling at the shining beauty of it, so unexpected there on the waters of the river.

  Inside lay a man. His wide-brimmed, floppy hat covered his face as he slept. He looked tall, and was dressed in colourful clothes, a tattered patchwork of greens and gold.

  Another body in another boat. Strange how these patterns form.

  The boat touched its port side to the bank near the remains of the undain. The eyes of the figurehead closed. A few moments later, awoken by the lack of motion, or as if he could only wake when the boat slept, the man inside stirred.

  He lifted his hat from his eyes, squinting up at the two of them. Then he sat up sharply and, all wiry energy, hopped to his feet. He was young, tall and thin, with a good-natured face, a wide smile. His hair was long and ragged. His eyes sparkled. He could have been a scarecrow taken from some sunny field and brought to life.

  “A witch and a wyrm lord stood by the An,” he said, grinning. “Hey, a good first line for a song. Or perhaps an amusing story.”

  “You are a singer?�
�� asked Hellen.

  “I am. A wandering minstrel. A bard, a busker, a jongleur. Dances, banquets and parties a speciality. Songs written to order to suit any occasion. Jokes told and magic performed. Fire-eating and juggling with knives. My name is Johnny. Johnny Electric.” He bowed low, theatrically, the boat swaying beneath him.

  “A strange name,” said Hellen. “It suits you.”

  The man smiled.

  “This magic,” said Beltaine, his mind cold suspicion. “You are a mancer?”

  “Mere tricks, my friend: simple entertainments for children and grown-ups alike.”

  “The boat is not your own creation?”

  “Smoke on the Water? No. A … gift from a grateful fan.”

  “A fan? I do not understand.”

  “Someone who liked my singing.”

  “They must have liked it a lot,” said Hellen.

  “I try, my Lady, I try.” He sat back down. “Truth is, Smoke on the Water is more my companion than my possession.”

  “What brings you here?” asked Beltaine. Hellen could feel his mistrust although he kept his voice neutral.

  “Nothing other than the wide, slow An brings me here. I don't even know where here is. I'm sailing south from Guilden. As I see it, I am bound to pass every point along the bank. Smoke on the Water saw you and, being friendly, pulled in to say hi.”

  Guilden again, too. She hadn't heard the place mentioned for months and now two strangers had talked of it on the same day. Two strangers in two boats.

  “The mancer who made it was powerful,” said Beltaine.

  Johnny lay back down with his hands behind his head and grinned up at them, as if this was all a fine joke. The rocking of the boat swayed him gently. “Don't worry, no humans or animals were harmed in the making of this boat. If you must know, if it will persuade you not to slice me into pieces with that sword of yours, he was powerful, yes. But also old and broken with disease. He couldn't even walk. And yet he longed to travel the world. See the things he had neglected to see. So he came up with this.” He patted the boat a few times. The eyes of the figurehead flickered open briefly.

  “Then … the boat is the mancer?” asked Hellen. “He transformed himself into this?”

  “Sure. And now he takes me about, I sing to him, and we see the world together. Smoke on the Water is, you understand, just my name for him.”

  He wasn't lying, she could tell. He seemed relaxed, completely self-assured. She felt no malice in either him or the boat. And although she disliked the unnatural arts of the mancers, she had to admit she sympathised with what this one had done. Was it really so different from the witches? All those bent old trees in the orchard back on Islagray?

  Beltaine, however, remained unconvinced. “And this boat, it can …”

  “He,” cut in Johnny.

  “He can sail on the An safely? Can he fight serpents, too?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. He can avoid rocks and banks under the water. He can feel the currents and ride them. But as for serpents, probably not. He knows when they're coming and we make a dash for the shore.”

  “Serpents aren't the only danger,” said Hellen.

  “What else is there to fear in this wide and beautiful land?”

  Hellen said nothing, but nodded at the bones on the bank.

  The man kneeled up to see where she pointed. He was silent for a while.

  “What was it?” he said, quietly.

  There, no doubt about it. A foggy, looming fear she had sensed in him had come sharply into focus. His merry exterior was genuine enough but he was also afraid of something. Something from which he fled.

  “An undain. From over the An,” said Hellen.

  He fell silent again. The urgency rose within him. But very little surprise. He did not seem shocked at what she had told him.

  “I must be on my way,” he said simply.

  “You sail away from Guilden?” said Hellen. “Now that is strange. I would have thought you should be sailing to Guilden. The midwinter festivals will be rich with paying customers.”

  “My lady, you are right. But I have decided to sail south. Sail all the way out of Andar. See if this river really does have an end.” There it was again, the fear in him clear.

  “You flee from something.”

  “No. Not really. Lady, the story is long and time is short. But I – we – have decided to leave.”

  There was a part of the puzzle here, she was sure. There were things she needed to know about. Not just what he fled from, but who he was. He spoke like no one else she had ever met. She had never heard of anyone with the family name Electric. But her time was short, too. She had to return to Islagray to warn them about the undain rider.

  “You know, it would be a shame to leave without ever hearing the Song,” she said.

  He was silent for a moment. He was tempted, no doubt about it.

  “It really exists?”

  “Of course. Sung unceasingly at Islagray for years uncounted. Andar itself given voice. The spirit of the land. The beauty of it, the life and death of it.”

  “I would be allowed to hear?”

  “Oh, we aren't nearly so terrible as you have heard. And you have a story to tell, young man. A story I would like to hear.”

  His grin returned. “I would like to hear the Song. I think I maybe heard an echo of it once. But winter is coming on. I'll consider it, OK?”

  “Very well. I can ask no more,” said Hellen. “Half a day south of here the Gleaming joins the An. A further half day up there and you reach the Silverwater and the island of the witches. Come if you can. You would be welcome, Johnny Electric.”

  He nodded. At the same time, the eyes on the figurehead reopened, as if, between them, they had decided to move.

  Hellen turned to Beltaine. “Well then. Let us all hope to meet again soon.”

  Beltaine handed her the pouch, filled now with all the sacks of spices. It was no larger or heavier.

  She took it, nodded at both of them, then stepped into the air, climbing up over the trees.

  As she flew away, she slipped lightly into Beltaine's mind for a moment, curious about both of them.

  Beltaine said nothing, simply stooping to pick up his sword. Johnny stood gazing upward, watching her disappear into the sky.

  “Cool,” he said. He nodded to Beltaine, then cast his gaze downriver as Smoke on the Water moved off.

  Hellen, leaving the dragonrider's mind, looked onward, toward the east.

  7. Islagray Wycka

  From afar, Islagray looked peaceful.

  The Silverwater filled the world below her, shining all the way to its distant banks. The moon shone solid again now, hanging low over the land. In the middle of the lake, directly ahead, lay the island of the witches. Trees covered its slopes so that it resembled a clump of moss there on the water. Around it, darkness gathered.

  Hellen flew downward. She ached with weariness. Flying over water always exhausted her. The cold made her cheeks hurt sharply. She began to hear the raucous calling of the island's crows, louder and louder, as if they were becoming more and more angry. The spire of Islagray Wycka jutted out from the tree-tops. She would soon be home.

  Thoughts jostled in her mind, so many that she couldn't focus on any one of them before another distracted her. She had so much to do. She kept returning to the same nagging worry. Was she ready for all this? After all this time, could she face it? Did she have the strength to even try? Beyond the Wycka, atop a small rise in the land, an open space appeared, dotted with small black trees, each bent and crooked as if growing in the teeth of a fierce gale. The Orchard of Witches.

  Some day soon, she thought. Some day soon.

  But then a wave of panic and fear washed through her. It rose off the island like an invisible hand seizing hold of her insides. Three hundred witches united in their pain. Something was terribly wrong on Islagray. She sought out Ariane among the hubbub of voices and found her standing among the trees. Hellen spoke t
o her from afar, mind to mind.

  “Ariane.”

  “Hellen. You are safe. Thank the stars. We were afraid for you.” Ariane's relief was clear, as was her distress.

  “Tell me what has happened.”

  “Something is on the island. Two witches were attacked a few hours after you left. Both were killed. More than just killed, Hellen. Sucked dry. There is an undain here.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Shireen and Diane.”

  “Ah. Both so young.” She was close now. Individuals hurried to-and-fro on the ground.

  “The hedge witch,” continued Hellen. “Fer. Is she safe?”

  “She is,” replied Ariane. “And the merchant. Neither has stirred.”

  “That is good. She may be very important in all this. Perhaps the key to it.”

  Hellen landed, stepping lightly onto the ground outside the main door of Islagray Wycka. A small clearing lay in the trees there, with paths leading off in all directions, including the one they had walked along from the quay early that morning. Ariane emerged at a run from the nearby oaks, her face drawn into hard lines. She continued the conversation out loud, as if they had been walking side-by-side all along.

  “We thought about waking them. We thought perhaps it was one of them. Their souls wandering. Something possessing them.”

  “Tell me how the two died,” said Hellen.

  “Shireen was killed near here. We thought she must have been in the way of something trying to get out. Then we heard Diane screaming from inside. We were there in moments but it was no use.”

  Hellen put her arms around Ariane and they held each other for a moment, eyes shut.

  “An undain,” said Ariane, the shock clear in her voice. “Here, of all places.”

  “It flew across the An, travelled here in Merdoc's cart,” said Hellen. “The one the merchant saw was just its mount. It was the rider Fer tried to warn us about. A powerful undain lord.”

  “It must have been there with us this morning,” said Ariane. “Close to us all and we didn't know.”

  “And now it is inside,” said Hellen. “We must hurry to the archive.”

  Hellen strode up the steps toward the open doorway. But Ariane did not move.