The Cloven Land Trilogy

by Simon Kewin

  “How many of them are left do you think?”

  “We destroyed a lot of them. Between the serpents, the wyrm lords and Xoster, as well as everything that was done at Guilden and Hyrn's Oak and the other towns and cities, I reckon we've accounted for maybe half of them.”

  “A half. That's all?”

  “I think so. An achievement given how unprepared we were, but obviously nowhere near enough.”

  “Doesn't the lake count as running water? There's a river flowing out of it.”

  “It would if it wasn't beginning to freeze. This cruel winter has reached us. Our time is up. You can no doubt feel the undain as well as I can, shadows massing on the horizon, moving to surround us. They'll be here soon. I think you should leave while you still can. And then we can only hope this isn't Andar's last day.”

  Cait hugged the old witch tight, feeling the hard bones within her. “Yes,” she said. “Let's hope.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You are troubled by what you are about to attempt.”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course, but it isn't that. As I climbed the stairs I just got to wondering how I got here. A couple of months ago I was a schoolgirl, going nowhere. I knew nothing. And here I am, with everyone depending on me. Your world and mine. It's insane.”

  Hellen smiled and put a hand on Cait's arm. “You've always been at the heart of things. You just didn't know it.”

  “I wish I knew more about my history. I mean, about how I got here, and who my ancestors were.”

  “It's a story I know some of,” said Hellen. “There are many books and scrolls in the archive that mention your family. Quite a few of them were written by your family.”

  “I wish I had time to read them. Hear their voices.”

  “Perhaps there will be chance … afterward. When you return.”

  Hellen couldn't keep the look of doubt from her eye as she glanced away into the distance.

  “Perhaps,” said Cait.

  “One other thing,” said Hellen. “Your blood. We can at least make sure Menhroth doesn't simply … take it from you.” She held out a small blade, slipped from inside her sleeve. “This isn't much of a weapon, but it is sharp. Run it over your palm and you'll bleed freely enough. I've worked a few charms on it so it won't hurt. There's a little sheaf for it you can strap to your wrist. It's a small thing, but it's the least I can do. It might help impress Menhroth. Throwing your own blood around is a bit overdramatic, perhaps, but mancers do go in for that. Don't tell Ashen I said so.”

  Cait took the blade and strapped it to her arm beneath her sleeve. It felt pathetically small against her wrist, like a toy.

  “Let's get it over with, then,” she said.

  22. Witch King

  Cait and Ran left Islagray less than an hour later. Johnny and Danny travelled with them as far as the banks of the An, Smoke on the Water skating them down the Gleaming while Hellen and the others remained on the Isle to prepare as best they could for what was coming.

  Cait spoke little, watching the bushes and trees drifting by, their branches frosted with ice. The only sound was the hissing of the runners on the ice.

  They said their farewells to Danny and Johnny six hours later upon a grassy, wooded headland where the tributary joined its mother river. Smoke on the Water would head back up the Gleaming for what safety the Isle could offer while Cait and Ran trekked across the ice.

  Ran stood apart, polishing the edge of his blade with slow deliberation, staring into the west. Cait, Danny and Johnny squeezed each other close. There were tears in Johnny's eyes as he mouthed his goodbyes to her. He returned to Smoke on the Water to busy himself with ropes and pulleys, leaving her and Danny alone.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “For this. For everything.”

  “It's hardly your fault. We're caught up in it, that's all.”

  “You don't have to be caught up in it.”

  “I think I do.”

  “There's a good chance I won't come back. Either Menhroth will see through our plan, or he won't and kill me anyway to get my blood.”

  Danny nodded his understanding. “I wish I could come. Wouldn't be able to do much, but still I could, I don't know, be there.”

  Now she was crying, too. “I really wish you could.”

  “Perhaps it will work out and you'll be back at the Isle tomorrow,” he said. “We can go out on a normal date. Do they even have cinemas here?”

  She laughed despite her tears and nodded her head in agreement. “That sounds wonderful. Don't go off with anyone while I'm away.”

  Instead of replying, Danny pulled her to him and kissed her. His mouth was cold in the icy air, but then his tongue was warm as his lips and her lips parted. Cait closed her eyes as they lost themselves in each other. For a time, a glorious and short time, there was only Danny in the whole world.

  When they separated she gazed into his eyes. She wanted to tell him it would be alright, she'd come back safe, but she couldn't. Instead she placed her head on his chest and he held her tight.

  When they were finally ready to part, her fingers lingering in Danny's as she moved away, she crossed to join Ran at the frozen edge of the An. She looked back once as they foot-slid across the ice. Johnny and Danny stood side-by-side, not moving. After a few moments more, the mists swallowed them up.

  She and Ran headed into deeper waters, heading west and a little north to take them toward the White City. She carried the Grimoire in one hand as if it were some school textbook. Ran led the way, tapping the ice in front of them with the shaft of a spear in case the ice thinned. Cait spent the time reciting the sealing words of the Ritual in her mind, terrified of forgetting the syllables or placing them in the wrong order. She tried, also, to reach into the mists, seeking the presence of the undain. She had to find Menhroth. If the King didn't know she was there, they might encounter some part of his army instead and be killed before they had a chance to spring their trap.

  Once or twice she lifted the seeing stone to her eye, hoping to catch some shadow or glimmer of light, but there was only the endless mist. She was soon utterly disorientated. For all she knew they were walking round in circles. It was a good job Ran knew what he was doing.

  As they slid forward, neither speaking, her mind went back to the day they escaped from Greygyle's palace in Angere. She'd thought about smashing the tiny, tinkling ampoules of Spirit that kept the servants moving and working. She hadn't been able to do it at the time; it would have felt like she was killing the miserable creatures.

  Now she was about to attempt the same thing on a far, far greater scale. If their scheme succeeded then all the undain, from Menhroth down to those mindless slaves, would be extinguished. Could she do that? Did she have the right? But if she didn't, many others would die. Die and worse. How did you know what was right and what was wrong? You could only do what seemed best at the time. What they were attempting felt like the right thing to do. The crimes that had created the undain weren't her crimes.

  She was pondering these thoughts, going round in circles in her head, when a wide sphere of the mist around them vanished, as if blown backward by an impossible wind. Slanting sunlight shone down to illuminate the scene. Menhroth stood thirty yards away, clad in armour of white and gold, dazzling in the sun. Some sort of large dog-like creature snuffled behind him, its leash held by a hooded figure. A line of twelve undain wyrm lords waited in front, swords held at the ready. Behind, fading into the mists, stood rank upon rank of the undain, countless thousands of them. Another army making the crossing to join with those marching south through Andar.

  Menhroth's voice was gentle as he spoke, yet it carried across the distance between them as if he were right in front of her. “Cait Weerd. I said we would meet again, at the end. The situation is somewhat different to the one I imagined, but events unfold as they must, however we try to stop them.”

  She took one more step forward. Her hands were shaking and for a moment she
thought she was going to drop the Grimoire. That would seriously ruin the effect of what they were attempting. She took a deep breath. She had to get a grip.

  She hadn't ever been much good at school, but she could do drama. She'd always enjoyed playing at being someone else on a stage, becoming someone else for a time. That was what she had to do now. She was no all-powerful necromancer come to slay the dark lord and save the worlds. The idea was laughable. All she had to do was pretend to be an all-powerful necromancer come to slay the dark lord and save the worlds, play the role, and maybe Menhroth would fall for it.

  Despite the terror raging in her stomach, she spoke as slowly and clearly as she could. Her drama teacher had taught her to speak as if to the person at the back of the auditorium. She doubted the undain in the last rank of the army could hear her words, but the King would.

  “I've come to destroy you, Menhroth. That is how events will unfold. Here is Ilminion's Grimoire, recreated from its two halves. Its knowledge and power are now at my control. With it I will destroy you and those that follow you.”

  Menhroth shook his head as if disappointed. “You have made a terrible mistake, witch-girl. Do you really think you can walk out here and face me?”

  She didn't, not at all. “I do.”

  “It is a sad end. I truly thought we could achieve great things together, you and I side-by-side on the throne of An. There is power in you. You are brave, too, I'll give you that. But now the time is come. Now I will kill you and take your blood. My day is finally here.”

  He motioned one of the wyrm lords forward to her. The hulking giant, black force-lines writhing over his hideous transparent skin, marched forward, sword point angled at her head.

  Cait slipped Hellen's little knife from her sleeve. It was pathetically small in comparison to the blade the approaching wyrm lord bore. Discreetly she pulled the tiny knife across her hand. As Hellen had promised there was no pain. A line of blood welled in her palm. She had to hit the wyrm lord with it before that sword swung. She hadn't thought about that.

  Ran stirred beside her, no doubt ready to leap to her defence. She acted first. She held the Grimoire open, glancing at it as if reading some arcane secret held within its pages. When the wyrm lord was only a few paces away she jerked her other hand forward, spattering her attacker with a sprinkling of her blood. The wyrm lord paused as if confused or offended at such a disgraceful act. Then as nothing more happened it stepped forward once more, even as Cait recited the syllables Fer had taught her.

  Her throat was dry and she almost couldn't get the sounds out. The craziness of her situation struck her. She was about to be cut in half by this nightmare creature and she was babbling nonsense at it. She pressed on, keeping her voice low, not wanting Menhroth to hear.

  She'd hoped for something dramatic to happen when she finished the words of the Ritual. Nothing changed; the wyrm lord was unaffected. She'd pronounced the alien sounds incorrectly, or they'd missed something. Perhaps Menhroth had worked some magic of his own to ward off what they were attempting. She stepped back. All she could think about was fleeing.

  Then the giant wyrm lord stopped and began to writhe, its body shaking violently. The creature grunted as if from the effort of trying to hold itself together, shrieked once, then exploded into a mist of debris. The dust from its body drifted in the air briefly before falling to the ice.

  Cait stepped forward to resume her position. She glanced at her palm. More blood seeped from her cut. It would dry up eventually and she'd have to make another.

  Two more wyrm lords approached her, separating to attack her simultaneously. If Menhroth sent all his guards at her at once she'd be lost; she couldn't hope to hit each with her blood before one of them got to her. She had to get nearer the King.

  Spraying the two with droplets was tricky. The first she caught easily enough but when she threw her hand at the second, circling around behind her, nothing hit it. She should have been better prepared, had containers of her blood ready to throw. She balled her fist, squeezing more from the cut on her palm, then tried again, reciting the syllables as she did so. This time, a few specks of blood caught the wyrm lord in the chest.

  A moment later, the words completed, the two of them were writhing and screaming as the first had. Two more sprays of dust coated the ice.

  She took another step forward. She had to appeal to his macho pride. “Are you going to keep sending your underlings to do your work for you?”

  Her words sounded ridiculous. Incredibly, they worked. Menhroth pushed aside the guards in front of him and came for her. The dog-thing followed, the cowled figure pulled along by it. It was the animal that caught her attention. It was large, like some big hound. Except, it wasn't a dog, or hadn't always been. There was something human in its facial features as it scrabbled forward on all fours. It shivered as if used to being beaten, but stuck to Menhroth. It didn't look like it was going to attack her, but she couldn't be sure.

  She readied herself to hurl the words of the Ritual at Menhroth. She would only get once chance.

  The King stopped, ten paces away. Too far. The dog-thing took a step farther but then slunk back, whining, to hide behind Menhroth. There was something in the way it glowered at her that was familiar. She watched its quaking body with a horrified fascination.

  “Ah, I see you recognize the Duke of Greygyle,” said Menhroth. “I'm afraid his status is somewhat reduced since he allowed you to escape. He recognizes you, too. No doubt he blames you for his fate. Shall I unleash him upon you? I'm sure he'd like his revenge.”

  “That's hideous.”

  “Merciful. He deserved to die for failing me. Shall I turn you into one like him? The two of you could share a kennel together. Share the straw.”

  It was her turn to be goaded. Her clenched fist was filled with blood. She took a pace forward to get nearer to him. But as she did so he worked some spell of his own, blazingly quick, hurling her backward through the air. She hit the ice hard, cracking her skull, a sickening pain washing over her.

  She forced herself to stand. Menhroth was farther away then ever. She was nowhere near close enough to him. She'd dropped the Grimoire too. It lay on the ice where his spell had struck her. Everything was suddenly going wrong.

  The Greygyle thing sniffed at the book, straining at the leash held by the hooded figure. Menhroth stooped to pick up the Grimoire. He studied it for a moment with his night-black eyes, turning a few pages until he found the one he wanted.

  The delight on his face made it clear he'd found the Ritual. A faint hope awoke within Cait. Perhaps they had a chance. He really did see her as a threat, and now he thought he'd taken the book from her. So long as he didn't see through Ashen's alterations, perhaps there was a chance.

  Something else caught Menhroth's eye. He dabbed a finger at the page. When he lifted it she saw it was stained red. Some of her blood had splashed onto the book. Her hope flared more brightly. It was going to work. It was actually going to work. Menhroth intended to complete the rites there and then. He was falling for their trap.

  She tried not to let her delight show on her face as Menhroth lifted the finger with her blood to his lips…

  “No!”

  Ran moved then, throwing himself forward. He kneeled to the ice before the Witch King, head bowed, sword laid down. He still wore, she noticed, the cheap silver chain she'd put around his neck when he lay unconscious in the woods near the White City.

  “My Lord, stop, I beg you. Do not believe the lies of this witch. She seeks to trick you. Ilminion deceived you, plotted against you. This will not be your moment of final triumph, it will be your end. There are two versions of the Ritual of Seven Ascensions and the wrong one is set down in the book. It will destroy you. You have seen what she did to your guards. I have heard the witches and all their plans. I beg you, you know I am your loyal servant, do not speak the words. This girl knows the true form of the rite. Rip it from her mind, take her blood and speak the proper Ritual. Only then will yo
ur victory be complete.”

  Ran touched his forehead to the ice at Menhroth's foot. “My Lord, this I vow upon my life.”

  23. Ran

  Ran waited for Menhroth's reply. He stared at the blue ice, at the King's armoured foot. He dared look no higher until he was granted assent. The ice was smooth, reflecting the distorted shape of the figure standing over him.

  It had been so hard maintaining the pretence all this time. He'd walked among hated enemies his whole life. He'd protected the girl through everything, making sure the precious heir of Ilminion survived to be delivered to this culmination. All the agonies he'd suffered: the wounds, the burns, the hatred and mistrust, all of it to keep her blood flowing long enough to be used in the Ritual.

  He'd made so many sacrifices. In the other world, pursued by the soldiers of Genera, he'd been forced to give up his sword. Wedge it into the hasp of a rusting iron grating as if it were any old length of metal. Did they know what that had cost him? Any of them? Had they even thanked him? His rider's sword, carried from Angere by his forebear Arran five hundred years ago, handed down from father to mother for generations.

  Still, giving it away had served a purpose. Told the pursuing humans and their masters that he was there. A true black dragonrider, a loyal guard of King Menhroth, carrying out his whispered orders in the lair of their enemies even after all that time. He was a wolf walking among the child-like sheep of Andar as they flocked in their fields, oblivious to the dangers lurking beyond their borders. The sword would have been passed to King Menhroth and he or his guards – riders who knew Arran, fought alongside him – would have recognized it. The particular etchings on it that identified Ran's forebear, named him as one of the inner circle of the King's guards.

  And before that, in the enchanted wood between the worlds, he could have slain the undain Lord they pursued easily enough. Instead he'd let the noble escape with only a flesh wound to his foot. Striking one of the lords of Angere went against everything Ran was, but in that brief moment there'd been no choice. He had to make it look believable, make it look as though he was trying to kill the undain. And did Fer and the others think less of him because he'd failed? Perhaps. Still, he'd had no choice. He'd done what he had to do.