by Simon Kewin
Later, at the lava pit in the land of ice, he'd showed his true self again. Another risk, another fleeting moment of decision. A choice taken. With Cait's hand in his he'd jumped into the lava, hoping to drag her to Angere before any of the others could follow, the wyrm road sealing behind them. But Nox had fallen too, his hand in Ran's other. When they arrived in Angere, Ran had thought about killing Nox there and then, dragging Cait to the nearest Lord to offer her to the King.
But Nox's loyalties were unknown. And he was a lord of Angere himself, a Baron no less. Ran had decided to bide his time, watch and wait. Perhaps if Nox turned out to be disloyal, he could turn both of them over at the same time. Perhaps by staying quiet he would learn something about the rebels, although they'd turned out to be a huge disappointment. After all, there was no danger of Cait slipping through their fingers. There was no way to escape to Andar with the ancient bridge gone. Or there shouldn't have been. He'd carried on playing his role, silent and watchful, awaiting the moment to act.
The ancient orders were clear. Orders passed down to son and daughter in the quiet of the night, when no one else in Caer L'dun would hear. Orders brought across the bridge from Angere all that time ago, when Menhroth ascended and the straggle of dragonless riders fled to Andar before the river rose to sweep the bridge away. A hundred riders, and only one true to his vows and oaths. And what terrible sacrifices had been made there, too? Arran had left his wyrm behind in Angere. He, alone, still had a living dragon to ride. To maintain the pretence he'd abandoned the creature, denied it, betrayed it. The cost to both had been terrible, so it was said. The anguish and loss almost unbearable. But Arran, too, had done what had to be done.
Seek out the heirs of Ilminion, the children of Weyerd. Stay with them. Watch over them. Keep them alive until the King returns to claim them. Until that time be as one with the people of Andar. Until only Menhroth himself decrees otherwise.
And he'd done that hadn't he? He'd played his part. Even when the enemies he walked among, the enemies he'd pretended to befriend, were in Angere. When he'd had to fight those he was really loyal to in order to maintain the pretence of being true to those he secretly despised. He'd had his doubts. So many doubts. He was alone. After all this time, without any further messages from Angere for five centuries, was he still trusted? Did the King know he had Ran's absolute loyalty?
He'd made contact with his masters when Cait and Nox were taken to the palace of Lord Greygyle. The White City might have had a clue they were in Angere from the crow that had seen them the day they arrived. Ran had watched it flapping for the wyrm road just as Cait had. The creature was broken and ruined, and its message would be fragmentary. Ran had walked for a day before he found another of the birds, watching and listening from a black tree. He'd shown himself to it, bowed low, imagining King Menhroth seeing the scene replayed when the bird reached the White City.
Had it made the journey? He didn't know. The undain army had raced west, certainly, so some inkling had reached the King. But then Ran had encountered one of the undain riders as he came looking for Cait, and been attacked. The rider thought Ran was an enemy, loyal to Andar. He'd had to kill the undain, as he had the second that threatened Cait and the boy. They were two that might have known and loved Arran, and he'd slain them with the ancient rider blade. The bitterness of that had cost him, but he had to maintain the pretence, play his role until he was told otherwise. The King saw all.
At Caer D'nar he'd walked through the echoing halls of his forebears, the voices of the ancient riders filling his mind, imploring him to act. He'd heard them all his life: directing him, berating him, ordering him to stay true to their ancient vows. For many years he had no idea who or what the voices were, but he'd always known they were something he couldn't admit to. Slowly he'd come to understand that the dead riders of old were whispering to him. The urge to take up his sword and cleanse Caer D'nar of the vermin infesting it, Phoenix and the rest of them, had been almost overwhelming. They were a desecration, unworthy. He'd managed to resist, maintain his pretence, but only just.
When the boy Lugg set off into the north to search for Xoster, he'd almost succumbed again. The thought of finding her, of perhaps even riding a dragon, made lights dance in Ran's eyes. And if he could train Lugg he could show him the true path of a rider, explain about the oaths to the King. Lugg might have become a second loyal wyrm lord, and Ran would no longer be alone. But, again, he'd denied himself. He had his orders. His duty was to stay with the witch-girl and face his ordeal by fire at Fiveways.
Surely he'd had proven his worth, shown them the extent of his devotion, there? He'd managed to travel the wyrm road from the north alone, go through before any of the others, lugging his cart load of brimstone like some beast of burden. Had they suspected something, Cait and the others, at the long delay? Perhaps. But he'd deflected their doubts with a tale of trying to ignite the wyrmfire and everything had been forgotten in the rush of events. And then there were his wounds. The terrible burns he'd inflicted on himself to make his story believable, convince both Cait and Lord Charis that he, Ran, was to be trusted.
It had taken long minutes of frantic discussion at Fiveways to persuade Charis that he was true to them. That by appearing to deliver Cait to safety on the banks of the An he was ensuring her absolute faith in him. There was, still, the lingering doubt that the White City didn't know everything about her, that there was some hidden power to her, some further allies they hadn't taken into account. The girl's mother had been the same, deceiving Baron Nox into thinking she was a broken, weak woman. It was a mistake Charis dare not make again. And so he'd agreed to Ran's plan. The subterfuge with the explosion at Fiveways would be played out and Ran allowed to escape. Many undain had died, sacrificed in the fires, but that was the price to be paid.
By these means they would find out Cait's true intention, an explanation for what she was doing and how she intended to achieve it. There had to be a secret. A mere girl wouldn't just walk into Angere intending to take the book and defeat the King. And, after all, there was no real risk. Ran was bringing her to the White City and, again, the An could not be crossed. There was no possibility of Cait escaping. Even Lord Charis, Holder of the Keys and Guardian of the Aether, had conceded that. Ran couldn't be faulted for the oversight. He'd done everything asked of him, everything and more.
The extent of Ran's wounds at Fiveways had been a mistake, a miscalculation. It had made his story utterly believable, but losing consciousness in the woods meant Cait could act without him being there to watch and listen. He was young and strong and he'd trained every moment given to him, but even he had succumbed, his mind slipping from the world for a time.
Then there was his black dragon tattoo. The ancient guards had extra marks woven into their red, blue, green or gold markings to indicate their exalted position. The practice had died out among his forebears in Andar, the risk of maintaining the tradition too great. But his grandmother had revived a version of it in secret. Once the black tattoos had been worn all over the skin. As a mark of his true loyalties, Ran had allowed himself the single, small addition, hidden beneath his blue lines. The black dragon was invisible to normal eyes, but perhaps not to a witch's.
Had that been a mistake? The possibility that Cait had noticed the marks while he lay oblivious, overcome by his wounds, had racked him with alarm. But either she hadn't seen, or simply hadn't understood the significance. So much time had passed since the cleaving of the land, and what did this weak, foolish girl from another world know of anything?
And so he'd escaped with his mistake. By the time he'd come round, the girl and Nox were gone. He'd tracked them to the White City, hoping to discover their true intent, but by the time he'd arrived they were already caught, imprisoned in the dungeons. He'd sought an audience with King Menhroth himself, been allowed to enter that holy presence. Ran had greeted the undain dragonriders guarding the doors, huge and powerful, as equals. They would have known his ancestor and would surely ho
nour and respect Ran, too, when the story was fully played out. It would only be a matter of time before Ran could join them: ascended, immortal, all-powerful.
The King on his golden throne, bone crown upon his head, had heard Ran's tale with a blank expression. It wasn't Ran's place to question, but had the King doubted him? Doubted he was still loyal after all this time, despite Ran's wounds and his sacrifices? In truth he couldn't be sure. Was it possible the King suspected he was part of Hellen Meggenwar's plots? That he, or one of his ancestors, had thrown away their loyalty in the intervening centuries? He'd said nothing, of course. Once he'd recounted his story he wasn't allowed to speak again. He would be given his orders and he would carry them out. That was enough for him. To have met the King, bowed down before him after these years of lonely sacrifice, was enough.
Then the spirits of the City of Ghosts had awakened, unleashed by the accursed girl. While the towers fell, Menhroth had summoned Ran again to give him fresh orders. Find Cait. Find out her powers and her plans. Discover her strengths and her weaknesses. Ran had caught up with them on the bridgehead, cowering like cornered rabbits. Cait and Nox and the boy, too. He'd had to suppress the urge to slay them there and then, carry Cait's dripping corpse to the King.
Instead, as agreed, the attacking undain had let him fight them off for a time, dispel any doubts Cait might have about him. More sacrificed to maintain the illusion of his loyalty. He'd tried to find out Cait's true intentions. He'd actually asked her, demanded to know her plans and intentions. When she confided in him he could act, all doubts about him gone, his ascendancy ensured.
The appearance of the impossible boat had thrown his calculations aside. How could such a thing be? But he'd survived in Andar before and now matters were coming to their end he could do so again. He knew what he had to do. Continue to keep Cait alive. Make sure she was there at the end when the final meeting with Menhroth came. Again it had been hard. At Hyrn's Oak, on the way north, the stupid girl had wandered off alone into the wilds. He'd followed her, ready to leap to her defence once again if he had to. He'd been about to reveal himself to the undain that had taken her when Hellen and then Borrn turned up to rescue her.
Later, in Guilden, he'd managed to get away, make contact with the approaching army in case the King had further orders for him. He'd barely made it back in time to save Cait from being skewered by some mindless foot soldier. A moment when everything had nearly been lost. He'd saved her and battled on, following his secret orders to the end, staying true to his vows.
And now there he was. Bowing before the King for a third time, with Cait and the recreated Grimoire in their power. Everything had come together, his sacrifice and suffering worth it at this final moment of triumph. His forebears had failed the King, allowed Ilminion to be slain, and now he, Ran, had made amends.
He kneeled on the ice, awaiting the King's hand to finally, finally raise him up.
24. The Fate of More Than One World
The remaining witches of Islagray, Hellen and Fer among them, gathered in the round, echoing space of the Wycka. The surviving wyrm lords and the few others who were on the island, Danny, Johnny, Ashen, Lugg and Merdoc among them, waited beside them.
No one spoke. There was a moment of utter quiet. The calm before the storm. The witches were good at sensing the undain now. Everyone knew the end was coming. Andar was overrun. The Silverwater was surrounded, tens of thousands of the undain thronging on the banks. The ice on the lake was solid and there was nothing, no person or power, that could stop the creatures coming across to kill them. Their spells and guards stood ready, but they were unsuited to such an onslaught. The wyrm lords would account for a few attackers but not enough. Not nearly enough.
Hellen caught the gaze of those around her, tried to offer a smile of reassurance. She was convincing no one. Whatever had happened out on the An, it had failed. They'd missed some detail. Ilminion hadn't betrayed Menhroth five hundred years ago. There was no fatal flaw in the necromancy. The wording difference they'd agonized over in the Grimoire meant nothing, an insignificant detail. She'd been clutching at straws, false hopes. Rather than destroying the nightmare creatures they'd given them exactly what they wanted. She'd given them what they wanted. All her efforts had come to nothing. Now Menhroth and his army could never be stopped.
Barion stood beside her, sword at the ready. He was heavily bandaged from many injuries, one eye and half the golden lines on his face covered up. He cast a questioning glance at her. Hellen nodded to him, telling him the time was near. He nodded back in understanding. Or perhaps he was saying farewell.
It struck Hellen why the silence filling the Wycka seemed so heavy, so complete. The Song had stopped. There were no vibrations echoing through the stones from the Songroom. The singers had come to the end of the notes and had fallen silent. Andar, truly, was no more.
“They are here,” said a voice, quiet and low. “On the island. So many of them. Our walls and wards haven't stopped them.”
Hellen could see them clearly in her mind's eye. The army was so vast it was a huge cloud rather than a collection of individuals. Did they really need to send so many? Did they intend such slaughter and destruction that they had to send these thousands and thousands? A tenth of the number would have sufficed. A hundredth. She imagined her own blood spilling and spiralling down that central drain of the Wycka as the rain had done for so long. She had failed them all. She welcomed the end now. At least she wouldn't have to live with the knowledge of her own failure.
A figure appeared in the open archways of the Wycka. The undain leading the army. She thought it might be Menhroth, fresh from destroying Cait on the river but instead a stooped old man with a key around his neck hobbled into the room. His eyes were blank, a milky white. Charis had survived. The King's Chancellor from the old days, whom they'd seen killed by the serpents at Guilden. Here he was, unharmed and untroubled.
His voice was thin, a croak, as he spoke, as if his throat was worn out from his great age. “Hellen Meggenwar, Eldest of Andar” – he dipped his head even lower in a mock bow of respect – “I have long looked forward to meeting you. Our opponent on the other side of the river, on the other side of the chessboard, manipulating your pieces, sacrificing your pawns one by one until there is only you, the Queen, and these few underlings left.”
“As I have told others, I am no Queen,” said Hellen. “And as for pawns, weren't you destroyed when the river serpents took you?”
“That? No. An inconvenience. My army was lost, it is true, but I simply had to return to Angere for another. An impressive move of yours. As was the reappearance of Xoster from the old stories. You have been worthy opponents, truly, but now your game is done. Your Andar is gone. From this moment I am the ruler of these lands. A Prince by the hand of King Menhroth the First and Last, Menhroth the Undying.”
“You are a slave,” said Hellen. “Powerful, I grant you, but still carrying out the orders given to you. At least we are free.”
Charis smiled a joyless smile at that. “Free to suffer and die. Where is the liberty in that? And you will only be free for another minute or so, I would say. Whereas I will be here for a very, very long time. You know, I may even make this island my home. Knock down this ridiculous roofless tower and build a proper palace in its place. I'll need slaves of course. Slaves to build, slaves to carry out my orders to the letter. An idea occurred to me as I strode unopposed across your pond. How amusing it would be if you and the other wicca here were to be those slaves. Would you like that? We could ascend you with a glimmer of self-knowledge left in your minds. Just enough so you'd know, every day for the rest of time, who you once were and what you'd lost. The thought would amuse me every time I saw you. What sport I could have.”
“Cruelty is a sport for you is it, Charis?”
“I rather think it is, yes.”
“Once you were a good man. A kind man. I have read the old accounts. I know your life story. I know of the people you loved and who loved
you. I know of your children. What would they say if they heard you now?”
If she'd hoped to make him pause, see the error of his ways, she was disappointed. Charis give a dismissive shrug. “Ancient history. Some of them are still in my household. Some I have even allowed their memories and their minds. Many are simply blank-eyed animals carrying out my bidding. It is a fine life. How sad it must be to forever lose the ones you love. Or to know that, one day, those who love you will lose you.”
“Sad, yes,” replied Hellen. “Death is rarely a good thing. But knowing we'll die at least makes us value life. Your existence is empty. Once you've defeated us, what's left? What will you do in a year's time? In a hundred? A thousand?”
Charis shook his head. “I really wouldn't worry about me. There are plenty of other lands to conquer, other worlds across the aether. The one Cait came from, and the boy and the musician there, lurking at the back. We have run their world for a long time, farming it for Spirit and Bone. But there's no need for that any more. Once the Ritual is sealed and our ascendance is absolute, we can set about conquering the place properly. Recreating it in our own image.”
“They will fight you.”
“And they will lose as you have. Now, let us put an end to this. I thought you might have more clever moves, a surprise or two to throw at me, but it seems not. How disappointing you are.”
Summoned by some unheard call, his soldiers flooded into the Wycka. Four huge wyrm lords, eerie light glowing from their transparent skins. Behind them came undain soldiers, swords in hands. In a few moments the remaining free people of Andar were surrounded. Hellen tried to ready magic, but her strength was gone. The surviving wyrm lords of Caer L'dun hefted their blades, ready for the last fight. It wouldn't last long.