The Cloven Land Trilogy

by Simon Kewin

  “We've destroyed the pipe,” said Fer. “The Witch King will hold you responsible just as he held Nox responsible for losing Cait.”

  An expression of fury flashed across the woman's features after the soldier had translated. She passed more words back to her interpreter. “Perhaps. Except I'm not going to repeat Nox's mistakes. I'm not going to let you go free, am I?”

  The woman smiled broadly then, as if, despite everything, she'd won a victory. Understanding flooded through Fer. The guards weren't there to capture her or kill her. They had herded her, cornered her quite deliberately. There would be no escape from that ring of unblinking, blank-minded soldiers, no escape from Leviathan Refinery. They had no need to capture her, because there was a way out, a route being offered to her.

  The great waterfall at Fer's back filled the air with its noise and chilling spray. Through it lay Angere and the White City. Either Fer could step through or she'd be forced through at gunpoint. Or else carried through bound and unconscious, a gift to the Witch King from Clara Sweetley. Those were her choices.

  Bethany?

  Fer's dead relative's voice was little more than a distant rustle of leaves when she replied. I hear you.

  Bethany, I'm leaving now. Back across the aether to my world. You should leave me if you wish to remain here.

  Leave you?

  This is your home. You're needed here. And … I don't think I'll last very long in Angere.

  Don't go, Fer. It isn't safe. I've been there.

  I'm sorry, I have no choice. But thank you. Thank you for everything. I hope you find peace. Stay away from the soldiers and their devices. Flee this place while you can.

  Fer could feel the witch-girl's distress. Then with a wrenching pain, Bethany's presence left her.

  Good bye, Fer. I'm glad to have met you. For a moment Bethany was only a whisper in the air, then she was gone.

  Fer hesitated for only a moment longer. She wouldn't let her enemies have any more of a victory than they'd already won. She wouldn't let them truss her up and carry her through the portal like some tied beast. Turning away, blinking against the rush of water lashing into her face, she stepped into the soaking cascade that would take her to Angere.

  To the Witch King.

  18. Xoster

  Angere

  Fer stumbled from the portal, gulping for air, half-drowned from the torrents of water. The light was blinding, making it impossible for her to see what was around her. The ground she lay sprawled upon was white, but miraculously dry. She was miraculously dry, despite the deluge of the waterfall.

  She pushed herself to her feet. She squinted, trying to make sense of where she was, steeling herself for attack from the soldiers of Genera following her through the portal, or from the undain of the White City lying in wait.

  For a moment nothing happened. The only movement was from a flock of distant birds, black shapes swirling against the milky white sky. She stood alone in the middle of an enormous square, lined on all sides by towering buildings and elaborately-decorated spires. Some of them were twisted into weird shapes, leaning over alarmingly as if some earthquake had recently shaken them. Or perhaps they were supposed to look like that. Creatures that could build an entire city out of millions and millions of bones clearly weren't sane.

  Everything, everything was white. The sight of it made her stomach heave. She had crossed the aether back to her own world, but she was no nearer home. If anything, Angere was more alien to her than Cait's world. The An lay between her and whatever was left of Andar, and there was no hope. Somehow Cait had made the impossible journey across the river, but she, Fer, had no idea how to attempt such a feat. She'd escaped Genera but only by coming to somewhere far more dangerous.

  Behind her, the portal was a wide oblong, framed by an ornate construction of bones, crowned by a single dragon's skull. Its red jewel eyes bored into her. That was where the pipeway led; from there the Spirit was carried away to feed the monsters of Angere. She had stopped that, at least. It was a tiny victory in the face of their overwhelming defeat, but she and the others had dealt their enemy that single blow. No more Spirit would be piped through to nurture Menhroth's armies, not for a while. It occurred to her that she should work something similar on this side of the portal. Rupture the pipe to free any spirits trapped within. Another small victory.

  Still no one had come for her; the portal was unguarded, the city seemingly deserted. She thought she knew why. Menhroth was unleashing his forces against Andar, an armoured fist to crush a summer flower. Well. She could do little enough to prevent that, but she would do what she could.

  She readied magic. Fire filled her. Fire felt right in this terrible, lifeless place. Fire to cleanse the corruption, fire to seer away the evil, cauterise the wound. She let the conflagration whirl inside her, like flames whipped up by an angry wind. When she could hold it back no longer she thrust out her hands and unleashed the magic at the dragon's skull.

  For the briefest moment, those red eyes blazed as the flame lit them. Then the skull exploded from the fury of Fer's attack. The bone framework exploded, scattering shattered fragments. Fer covered her face with her arms and ducked as a hundred pieces of broken bone spattered into her.

  Once again a wind-like sighing filled the air, the spirits' delight at being released. Once again she wondered who they were, where in that strange, terrible world they had lived and died. She would never know, and she could do little to right the wrongs inflicted on them. But she had given them that release at least. They would not be mere fuel for the army of nightmares laying waste to Andar.

  Bells began to toll in the White City. Cracked, discordant, no rhythm to them, they rang out, sounding an alarm. The sound clashed off the stone surfaces, echoing, confusing.

  She'd been seen. They would come for her now. The city wasn't completely depopulated; she could sense the storm clouds gathering as the undying soldiers of Angere hurtled at impossible speed toward her. The mind of Menhroth was there, too, unmistakable, a burning power at the heart of everything. His gaze had been straining eastward into Andar as he watched and directed his armies. But now he saw her, standing alone in his City of Ghosts, and the hunger blazing within him at the realisation was terrible to touch.

  Menhroth saw who and what she was. She sensed his ravening delight. The blood he craved thundered through her heart and her veins. Her arrival was an unexpected gift, a joy. Clearly no word of their attack on the refinery had reached him. He would capture her and bleed her dry like some slaughtered farmyard animal, hang her from a hook until her veins dripped their last. And then he'd have the precious blood he'd searched for all this time, and hope really would be gone.

  She refused to let that happen. She ran from the wide white square before they could come for her, heading toward the towering gateway that looked to be the only escape. She dare not enter any of the hideous, twisted buildings, a maze of bones she might never escape from.

  The black birds scattered as she neared the archway, many of them mere tatters of feather and muscles, dead but still moving. They croaked dry croaks at her, feathers whirling to the ground like leaves falling in some morbid autumn.

  Through the archway, beyond more domes and towers, she caught a glimpse of a wide strip of glistening silver. The river. It was like the sight of an old friend. She would head that way. Growing up, the vast flow of those waters had been a constant in her life. Now she was alone and lost, but it would be good to dip a hand in the An one final time. She could never reach Andar, but she could touch the waters that, in turn, touched the far shores of her home. That was as close as she could get.

  Her thoughts ran on even as her feet clattered across the ground. She would do more than dip a hand in. She would not let the nightmares have her. She would stride out into the river, let the waters take her. Perhaps, by some miracle, the currents would sweep her away to Andar. More likely they would simply pick her up and take her from Angere, out into deeper waters from which there was no retur
n, off to unknown lands. The waters or the serpents would have her and Menhroth would not. Another small victory.

  Screeching cries cut the air, like those that had echoed through the tunnels beneath Manchester. The undain were communicating, drawing their net about her. She had only moments.

  She half-ran, half-fell down a flight of grand stairs, slipping again and again and only just managing to keep her footing. She jarred her ankle, twisting it painfully, but hurtled on. There were undain on the steps but they were bent-over, little more than bundles of rags, cleaning the ground with tiny brushes. They paid Fer no attention as she fled.

  At the foot of the stairs, a wide plain lay between her and the river. Three pipes snaked from the city to the river, disappearing into the mists, but they were flaccid, useless, their flow of Spirit cut off. She would never know if she'd made a difference, if what she'd done would have any effect on events in Andar.

  The ruined remains of the ancient stone bridge stood near the pipes, stone pillars striding out over the waters. As she followed the line of it she saw that she'd been mistaken about the waters. The surface of the An wasn't moving. It was solid ice, its frozen flow gleaming brightly in the low winter sun. She couldn't wade out. Protected from the running water, her pursuers could follow her.

  She stopped, chest heaving, unsure what to do. More cries keened in the air, rebounding off the terraces and steep walls of the city. There was only one thing she could think of, futile as it was. Perhaps if she slid out far enough she would find open water. Perhaps she would get that far before they reached her. Then she could slip into the freezing waters and let the currents take her.

  Her breathing panicky, she raced for the bridge. If she was lucky there might even be running water to throw herself into at the end. In any case, it was the nearest point to Andar. It would be good to get that far at least.

  She was half-way to the bank when the undain caught her. There was a blur of movement, a rush of cold through the air. She was suddenly surrounded: a ring of brute, twisted creatures standing there, steam rising off them from the speed with which they'd thundered to answer the summoning bells. Their animal snarls sent a shiver through her. The ring closed in, and she thought they'd rend her to shreds there and then, despite who she was. The words of the family secret rose in her mind and she prepared herself to use them, but she knew it wouldn't be enough. More and more of the monsters were arriving with each moment, and she couldn't hope to fend them all off.

  Then she sensed the King once more, his trumpet voice stern as he gave his instructions to his soldiers. Do not harm her. Bring her to me now.

  The nearest undain, a lopsided creature with hulking muscles, stamped forward, intent on picking her up and carrying her to Menhroth. There was something animal about its appearance, as if the necromancers of Angere had combined bull and man in its making. There was little intelligence in its eyes, only a fury and a hunger. The foul stench of sweat from its body made her gag. She could put an end to him at least. She'd skinned her hands from sprawling to the floor of the square. Her touch was blood; she had only to speak the words to despatch the growling horror from the world.

  Another harsh cry thundered, this one much deeper. It seemed to come from the air. One of the flying undain was coming, like the one she'd destroyed on the banks of the An when everything had started. Menhroth was taking no chances, throwing more and more of his forces into capturing her. The bestial undain, its hand little more than a cloven hoof, reached out to seize her.

  Then, miraculously, the misshapen undain backed away from her, eyes peering upward. All the undain stared into the sky, drawing weapons from sheaths, fanning out as if preparing themselves for attack. There were one or two giants among them: hulking creatures with glass-like flesh through which their bones and muscles were clear. These seemed to have taken charge. They were bellowing orders, instructing the undain soldiers where to stand, what to do. They peered upward, Fer forgotten.

  A hand over her eyes, Fer followed their gaze. A creature did fly there. It was certainly huge, far too bulky to be one of the crows. From the long, slow beat of its wings it had to be enormous. It roared its cry once more, and this time red flame flickered from its mouth.

  Understanding of what it had to be made her heart pound. A dragon. It could only be a dragon.

  The vast creature stopped flapping and, angling its body into a spiral, hurtled to the ground. There was someone upon its back. A dragon and its rider flew in the skies of Angere. She had no understanding of how such a thing was possible; it was like something from the old stories.

  The creature levelled out, wings wide, lancing low across the ground toward Fer and the shouting, hurrying undain. The dragon was going to destroy them. Fer stepped backward. No one tried to stop her, their attention caught by the oncoming wyrm.

  She had to get away. She had no power against such a being. When it breathed its fire on the undain she'd be roasted alive as completely as them.

  Yet the sight of the dragon, larger by the moment, its horned skin and gleaming red scales clearer and clearer, rooted her to the spot. The creature appeared to be flying directly at her. She could see its dagger-sharp teeth as it opened its mouth, ready to turn everyone and everything to ash. A wave of despair flooded through her. The creature was so vast as it thundered forward and she was so weak. She could do nothing, achieve nothing compared to such a beast. What had she ever achieved? She'd lost friend after friend while others did all the fighting and thinking. She almost slumped to the ground and waited for the creature to fly over her, destroy her, put her out of her misery.

  With an effort, she set the dark thoughts aside. They came upon her at times, in the dead of night, or when faced with suffering or loss she could do nothing to prevent. This was keener, more overwhelming for some reason, but she did what she always did. Rather than trying to fight the despair, she imagined herself stepping aside from it, letting it carry on without her in its path. Breathe deeply through the moment, then the next and the next. Despair was natural at times, but it could suck the life out of you as surely as any of the hideous machines of the other world. She wouldn't let that happen. She would fight.

  Nearby, over by the ruined bridge, a tumble of square rocks lay in a pile, like dice left over from some incomprehensible game. If she hid behind them she might be shielded from the flames of the creature.

  Fer ran. A sheet of flame blasted through the air even as she threw herself behind the rocks, then the bulk of the dragon roared overhead. The rush of its passing seemed almost to suck her into the sky. Her hair lashed around into her face. She caught a glimpse of the dragon's mind: vast and terrible and filled with an unreasoning rage. The creature thought only of destroying the undain. The malice of its mind sent a chill through her. The dragon or Menhroth; she didn't know which of the two she'd rather face.

  Over the river the creature banked sharply, one wing down, then flapped massively to build up speed as it came in for another attack. The undain answered with volleys of arrows and spears, but these simply skittered off the creature's red and purple-red scales.

  Wings beating furiously, the creature stalled then thumped to the ground, crushing a group of the undain beneath its bulk. The rider half-slid, half-fell from the dragon's back. She thought he was going to leap to the attack, sword flashing, but instead he staggered away, hands over his head as he dodged through the undain. His sword, she saw, was left sheathed on the dragon's flanks. It seemed strange behaviour from one of the fearless wyrm lords. The dragon lashed its head and tail around, nearly striking the fleeing rider.

  Fer stood and called over to him. The rider – surely little more than a boy – hesitated for a moment, and then ran toward her. Behind him, the huge dragon vented fire, crushing more of the undain beneath its claws. The boy threw himself behind the rocks, cowering from the dragon just as Fer was.

  He looked startled at the sight of her, wide-eyed. He was certainly nothing like the fearsome dragonriders from the stories.
Scars lined his arms and neck, even winding up the side of his face. Someone – possibly even the boy himself – had attempted to cut wyrm lord tattoos into his skin. They were nothing like the flowing lines of Ran's markings. These were rough, as if the hand etching them had been shaky. Blue ink mingled with red blood; the boy had apparently been working on them even as they flew. The glint of alarm, of something bordering on madness, was in his eye. He'd been through a lot. But the sight of Fer seemed to calm him a little.

  He passed his hand through his wild hair, a gesture of confusion. His eyes were a delicate green as he looked at her. “You … you must be Fer. My name is Lugg.”

  Fer was stunned into silence. She had no idea who this boy was or where he'd come from. His accent was strange, archaic, the vowel sounds at odd angles. Their tongues, like the land, had become divided. “Hellen told you about me?”

  The fighting between dragon and undain moved a little farther away, but even so they had to shout over the bellowing and screaming, the clash of metal on scales.

  Lugg shook his head. “No, Cait. She said she had a distant cousin who resembled her. You were left in the other world when Cait came here. You're from Andar.”

  “You met Cait?”

  “And Ran and Nox. It's thanks to her, I found Xoster. Do you know what happened to her?”

  Fer tried and failed to make sense of everything. There was too much here she didn't understand. “Only that she reached Andar.”

  “Ah. That is good.”

  The dragon continued its rampage, sending the undain hurtling through the air with a flick of its tail, turning others into flailing balls of flame. The undain fought back, hacking with their swords, but their attacks appeared to have little effect on the dragon. If anything, they made its fury even greater.

  Lugg looked at Fer, worry clear in his green eyes. “Are you OK?”

  “You mean, apart from being trapped in the White City while a dragon rampages nearby?”

  “No, I mean the dragon's aura of despair. Is it affecting you? It's so easy to lose all hope. Or do witches have ways of stopping that?”