The Cloven Land Trilogy

by Simon Kewin

  Nothing. She returned to herself with a gasp. She sat down on the bank, chest heaving, waiting for her strength to return. Perhaps both Jaiin and Fer were dead.

  There was one other she could try. She had spoken to the woman of that world, Catherine, Jaiin's friend in the library, on more than one occasion over the years. Catherine's magic was weak, but there was no one else. Two years ago, Fiona, Catherine's daughter, would have been the obvious choice. Fiona's strength was considerable. For a witch of that world, remarkable. Hellen had once been convinced Fiona was the one they'd waited for. But events of two years ago had broken the woman's spirit and the magic had fled her. No, it had to be Catherine. In any case, she should be there at the library. She would know who or what had come down the shadow path from Andar.

  Summoning her strength, Hellen sought into the aether a final time.

  After long, long minutes she found the particular smudge of light she searched for. It flickered like a distant candle glimpsed through shifting trees in the night. She pulled herself toward it, reeling it in like a fish on a line. It slipped away several times, as indistinct as a twist of smoke, but each time she plunged after it, refusing to lose it. Her connection to Islagray, to Andar, stretched thinner and thinner behind her. If she went too far the line would break and her mind would be adrift in the aether, forever lost. But she had to reach further, just a little further. The pains through her stomach were sharp, now, but distant also. Such was the danger of traversing the void.

  Finally she caught up with the light. It skipped and skittered like a panicky insect, nearly fading completely before flaring again. Hellen cradled it, protected it, a candle-flame in the wind. It was a projection, a reflection of Catherine's mind and through it lay the whole world Fer had gone to. With a final effort Hellen flew into the light, letting herself be absorbed by it.

  She could tell, immediately, something was wrong. Pain flooded through the other woman's body. Something, perhaps several things, were broken. The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the air. For a moment, her mind sinking too deeply, the pain and stench merged and she couldn't tell which sensation was which. She panicked, floundering in stormy waters. Unconsciousness threatened to suck Catherine - and Hellen with her - into the depths.

  “Catherine? Can you hear me?”

  “Hellen?”

  “I'm here. What has happened?”

  Hellen steadied herself, her control of the connection improving, keeping herself distinct from, but overlapping with, the other woman. Keeping them both afloat amid that sea of pain.

  Hellen looked out through Catherine's eyes. She appeared to be lying on the stone ground of some cavern. At first she thought it was snowing, but then she saw singed scraps of paper filling the air, drifting down. Two bodies lay nearby. One was Jaiin, undoubtedly dead. Next to her, still living, but not moving, the undain.

  “I tried to protect her from it,” said Catherine, speaking out loud. “Tried to keep her safe. But I couldn't, Hellen. I had to get her involved. She's taken the book.”

  Hellen spoke to the other woman in her mind. “Who, Catherine? Who has taken the book?”

  “Cait. My darling granddaughter Cait. She's just a girl. I tried to keep her out of it, but I had no choice.”

  “Did anyone else come down the shadow path apart from the undain?”

  “No. No one.”

  So. In all likelihood, Fer and the others were dead, too. Hellen tried to think, tried to calm her mind. Across the cavern the undain stirred. Its friends in that world would be arriving soon. Nox himself, no doubt. A man almost worse than the creatures of Angere. And the Grimoire in the hands of a weak and ignorant girl. Cait wouldn't last long on her own. All Hellen's careful plans were unravelling and there was little she could do.

  They should have put a stop to Nox years ago. But they'd never been strong enough.

  “Can you stand, Catherine?”

  “No. My legs don't seem to work. I'm sorry.”

  “We will try and help,” said Hellen. “Stay with me, hold on to me.”

  She withdrew from Catherine's mind as far as she dared and let a part of herself flee back along the thread that anchored her to her own body. She ignored the unpleasant sensation of being torn in two. As she neared Andar she called out with her mind for Ariane. There was no response, her call too weak.

  She tried again, letting herself slip further from Catherine's mind, terrified of losing her completely. This time she found her old friend, collecting firewood for the infirmary in the woods of Islagray.

  “Hurry, Ariane. Come quickly. I need you.”

  At the same time she heard Catherine in the distance.

  “Hurry, Hellen. The undain is waking.”

  The two scenes, the ruined library and the trees of Islagray, overlaid each other in Hellen's vision. She struggled to maintain her connection with both. She was stretched too thin. Her mind could be cloven in two at any moment.

  Ariane arrived at a run, her face all alarm, her arms still cradling the sticks she had found.

  “Ariane,” said Hellen. “Hurry. Help me heal this woman. She is across the aether, in the other world.”

  “She's where?”

  “Just help me. You can tell me how foolish I am later.”

  Hellen flew back down the shifting pathway. Now the familiar, reassuring presence of Ariane was with her. Together they set about using their strength to heal the woman lying there on that distant, cold floor. Hellen saw better, now, what Catherine's injuries were. Her pelvis, right arm and three ribs were broken. They concentrated on these, ignoring all the bruises and cuts.

  Hellen heard a distinct clack as they worked the long bones of an arm together. She heard Catherine cry out with pain, felt a jarring echo of it in her own mind. They didn't stop. Normally they would put the injured person into a deep sleep, keep them there with magic and herbs while they worked slow, careful healing. They had no time for that now. They laboured on, the two of them, despite the cramping and bruising of their own bodies back in Andar, despite the repeated cries from the other world. They closed up the long, thin crack in Catherine's pelvis and knitted her broken ribs back together as best they could. They healed torn muscles and staunched flows of blood.

  When they finished, their exhausted minds fled the other world, returning to the haven of their own bodies. Hellen had sunk to her knees by the Silverwater. She sucked in lungfuls of air. Beside her, her sticks dropped and scattered, Ariane lay curled on the ground, barely conscious from the effort.

  Another witch, thought Hellen, broken beside the water.

  “Catherine?” she said, her voice hoarse, speaking out loud as well as down the shadow path. “Is it enough?”

  There was silence for a moment. Then the reply came along the slender thread connecting them.

  “I think … I think I can stand now,” said Catherine.

  “Catherine. The book. Destroy it if you must, but we may need it yet. It is a terrible weapon. Better burned than used against us but better still if we can use it.”

  “We'll do what we can. Tell me, is Andar overrun?”

  “No. Not yet. But the time draws near. Events move quickly. There is much to tell you and no time to do it. But one thing. Another young witch – Fer – went there to retrieve the book. She may be dead already but … she met and defeated an undain here. She, I'm not sure, she may be of the blood, too.”

  “I understand,” said Catherine.

  “I will stay with you as long as I can,” said Hellen. “Offer you what strength I have. But I am nearly spent. It is up to you now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hellen closed her eyes and saw, distantly, what the woman from the other world saw, heard what she heard. But the connection between them was fading, flickering. In truth, she could do nothing to help. She could only look on until the line between them snapped.

  She watched Catherine stand, swaying on wobbly legs. On the ground nearby, the undain writhed through a series of sha
pes as if trying to escape a sheet it had become entangled in. Lights came on, and she heard the whirr of machinery. Someone was coming. Hellen clearly felt Catherine's alarm. The woman set off, limping from the lights. She passed a series of metal doors, all of them staved in by a massive force. Scattered books and torn paper lay everywhere.

  Three times as she walked Catherine stopped, briefly, to touch the wall with her finger, drawing an invisible pattern. Hellen smiled. The charms were a small thing, probably pointless, but they might do some good. At least they meant she wasn't fleeing helplessly.

  The woman arrived at a square, metal grille set in the floor of an alcove. A heavy iron padlock secured it. She fished keys from her pocket. They must have kept the padlock well-oiled as it opened easily. An iron bar leaning against the wall nearby allowed her to lever up the grille. She switched on a tiny flameless light attached to some keys and shone it down into the shaft. Iron steps led down into the darkness. Hellen felt, briefly, the sensation of cold air on her face, a foul smell.

  Catherine began to descend, the metal torch held in her mouth, keys dangling against her chin. Hellen caught glimpses of her fear, her barely-controlled panic. She was being pursued; the forces of Angere were close. For a moment Catherine talked to herself, reassuring herself. You can do this. You can do this. The woman's face was level with the ground when movement appeared up the corridor. Running boots, many pairs, coming for her. Hellen was about to shout a warning when the connection through the aether finally snapped.

  Catherine felt the Andar witch fleeing her mind. Well, she would have to manage on her own. Her pursuers were near. Soldiers, bristling with weapons and high-tech gadgetry, surged down the corridor.

  She reached up to a handle that protruded from the underside of the grille. She braced herself on the ladder and pulled hard, grunting with the effort, sharp pains blazing across her shoulders. After a moment when it seemed nothing was happening, the grille crashed down into place above her head with a resonating clang.

  She paused to calm herself. Think. Remember the plan. She fumbled for the padlock in her pocket then looked up to point the spot of yellow light from the torch onto the grille. A strong iron latch protruded from the wall near her head. A large eye, fastened underneath the grid, fitted through it. Terrified that she might drop the padlock, she reached up to thread it through the eye. She missed the first time, the light from the torch dim, her fingers shaking. Then she managed to hook it through. With a click, she had the padlock shut. It wouldn't stop them for long but it would give her a few extra moments.

  She set off down the iron ladder. There were thirteen steps. As she felt her way down each rung, the muscles in her legs and back complained, stretched too far. She counted as she went, trying not to think of what pursued her from above.

  At the bottom she paused for a moment to catch her breath. She and Jane had studied all the old municipal maps of the maze of tunnels that spread beneath the streets of Manchester. There were a great many of them, some in use, some long-abandoned. There were old mine workings, natural caves, Victorian sewers, wartime air-raid shelters and quite a few whose origins were unclear. But they all interconnected.

  Together they had plotted the best escape route. They had imagined themselves fleeing down here with the book, pursued by someone or something from Angere. As it was she was alone and didn't have the book but still, the plan was the same.

  She had the layout of the tunnels carefully memorized. An old Victorian sewer tunnel, now used to capture storm run-off, led toward Piccadilly Gardens. It was tall enough to walk in if you stooped. It was completely circular in cross-section, built from countless thousands of red bricks.

  She moved as quickly as she could, against the flow, the trickle of water deep enough to cover her ankles even in summer. Her feet were soon numb from the cold. The smell was vile but she consoled herself it might help put her pursuers off her scent. The light from the torch was fading already. She shone it to her right, counting the side-tunnels. If she missed one and became lost she would be trapped down here. She could have crafted a light, but using the torch meant she conserved her strength. And she had precious little left.

  She had two possible escape routes. The nearer one was a grid that emerged in a quiet corner of the Piccadilly Gardens bus terminal. But it was quite possible that it would be blocked by a bus parked on top of it. The other was farther, an opening in the basement of a disused mill in Ancoats. This was sure to be open, but there was a good chance she wouldn't be able to make it that far without being caught.

  Her neck and shoulders complained at the unnatural posture she had to adopt. Her breath came rapid and shallow. The temptation was always to straighten up and relieve her muscles, but she had to concentrate, to repeatedly remind herself she would bash her head on the low brick roof if she did. She counted two tunnels leading off to the right and then a third. There would be two more, then she would take the one after that. Nearly there, she told herself again and again. You can do it. Despite her desperate hurry, she still stopped at each junction to draw her mark upon the sewer wall.

  She heard deep, muffled rumbles through the stone and earth as buses and trams passed somewhere overhead. Occasionally, her torchlight picked up twin sparks in the darkness, or the flick of a whipped tail. There were plenty of rats living down here. She found the thought comforting. Rats were fine, they were natural, she could understand them. It was the things chasing her that frightened her.

  A loud boom reverberated from behind her. They must have smashed through the grille. The undain probably. She ran harder, breath panicky now, past another side-entrance and then another. The turning was next. The torch picked out more and more brick. It felt as if she wasn't actually moving forward at all. Shouldn't she be there by now? Perhaps she'd missed it, or miscounted. If she had, she was lost; they would hunt her down easily. She heard calls and splashes echoing up the tunnel, clear in the still, cold air. It sounded as if they were just behind her. She expected to feel a blow to the back of her head at any moment.

  She almost ran past the side-passage. It sloped upward, smooth concrete rather than brick, square rather than round. A slight but steady breeze breathed down it. She switched off the torch and saw, faintly, a thinning of the darkness ahead.

  She was tired now, very tired. Cycling in to work every day had paid off, but she couldn't go much farther. She wouldn't make it to Ancoats. She'd done well to get this far. She suddenly wasn't even sure she could make it to the street grid. She had the perverse desire to stop and wait for them to reach her, to put an end to her struggle.

  But no, Cait needed her. She drew another invisible mark on the wall, four quick lines, and set off up the side-passage as quickly as she could manage. It was definitely getting lighter. There was no water now, but she stepped on leaves and litter that had blown down from above, the crunching noise echoing in the enclosed space.

  This tunnel was lower than the Victorian one, so she had to shuffle along like an ape, sharp pains in her lower-back. Fortunately it didn't take long to reach the grid. She paused for a few breaths. This was her only chance. If she couldn't get out here, she was trapped.

  There was a cantilever mechanism beneath the grid that meant it should be easy to push open from below without needing a key. She simply had to flip a lever then lift with her shoulders. She braced herself and heaved. Nothing happened. The grid refused to budge. Something was on top of it.

  She glanced down the tunnel. Her pursuers sounded as if they were at the turning. She thought of the people walking around above her head, oblivious to the slaughter about to occur.

  She had a little craft. Nothing compared to the others. She lacked the raw talent of her daughter and she lacked the history, the centuries of wisdom and folklore passed from witch to witch in Andar. In this world, so much was lost or broken. But she would do what she could. She had some small ability with the elements. She could perhaps bring up a fire. She knew it wouldn't be enough.

  She
looked at the grid again, using her torch to check she had switched the lever properly. She hadn't. It was jammed half-way across. Desperately she tugged at it, skinning her knuckles in the process. The blood on her fingers was warm.

  She braced against the grid and pushed with all her strength. This time it moved. A line of daylight flared around its edge. She couldn't hold it; it fell back into place with an alarming bang.

  She had to get out. She bent her knees, crouched down, and raised her arms straight above her head. Locking her elbows, she tried to straighten up, using the strength of her legs to push. She caught a glimpse of something large moving toward her, a deeper shadow in the gloom. She closed her eyes and put everything she had into the effort. Her muscles felt as though they were tearing in two. The grid gave with a metallic screech, swinging up and round onto the ground.

  The light blinded her as she stood. The ground level was at chest-height. The city bustled all around her; shops and people and buses. She must look ridiculous. Desperately she hauled herself onto the pavement. Something grabbed at her foot, pulling her back down. She kicked and her shoe came off, held by her pursuer. Her favourite shoes, too. She hauled herself to her feet and kicked the grid back into place.

  Nearby, a bus stood with its engine running. It said Out Of Service on its sign. The driver, a young man, his tie askew, sat in his cab reading a tabloid newspaper spread out over the steering-wheel. He watched her in some amazement. If he had parked his bus just a little farther forward she would have been trapped.

  She hurried to the driver's window, trying not to think about how she must look. She calmed her breathing while smoothing her hair into place. She knocked on the glass, smiling warmly.

  “Hello.”

  The driver's instinctive politeness overrode his astonishment. “All right love?”

  “Much better now, thank you. I wonder if I could ask you a favour?”

  He looked at her for a moment, clearly afraid of what she was going to ask. She could feel something of his inner turmoil. He wondered if she was mad. But she could have been his own grandmother, or a teacher, or any one of a range of fearsome women he had known in his life. He looked at her severe, grey dress, her grey hair, her hard eyes and was powerless to refuse her anything.