Roger Taylor - Ibryen_玖贝云文库

Roger Taylor has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified

as the Author of this work.

First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1995.

This Edition published in 03"" by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1

4EB, United Kingdom

www.mushroom-ebooks.com

the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 1843192152

Ibryen

A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan

Roger Taylor

Mushroom eBooks

Chapter 1

The wind that brought the messenger was full of strangeness. For several days it had blown, no different

from the wind that always blew at this time of year, loaded with subtle perfumes from the

spring-awakening grasses and flowers that coloured the lower slopes of the mountains, and woven

through with the whispering sounds of high, tumbling streams and the home-building clamour of the birds

and animals that dwelt amid the towering peaks.

Yet, for Ibryen, the wind was different. It carried at its heart a faint and elusive song that possessed a

cloak-tugging urgency during the day and reached into his sleep during the night, bringing him to sudden

wakefulness. Thus roused, he would lie, still, silent, and expectant, with anxious magic hovering,

black-winged, about him in the darkness that spanned between his sleeping world and his solitary room.

But nothing came to explain this mysterious unquiet – no sudden illumination to show a way through the

uncertain future before him, no new tactics to outwit the growing power of the Gevethen, no new words

with which to encourage his followers. Nothing.

You expect too much, he thought irritably, on the third night of such an awakening. Or was he perhaps

just tormenting himself with imaginary hopes? Was this disturbance no more than his clinging to some

childish fancy that all would be well in the end? Was he deluding himself that somewhere, something was

preparing to come to his aid, rather than face the dark knowledge within him that he and his cause, and

his men, were probably lost?

No. Surely it couldn’t be that! Doubt was an inevitable part of leadership, he knew. It underscored his

every action and he deemed himself sufficiently aware of his own nature not to have such a foe lurking in

the darker recesses of the mind waiting to spring out in ambush.

Yet . . .?

He growled angrily to end the questioning. Then, though it was some three hours until dawn, he swung

aside his rough blankets and, draping them about his shoulders, went to the door. As the night cold

struck him, he took a deep breath and pulled the blankets tight about him. There was no moon, and the

stars shone brightly through the clear air, as familiar and unchanging in their patterns as the mountains

themselves.

And as ancient and indifferent, Ibryen mused, shivering despite the lingering bed-warmth in the sheets.

All about him, the camp, or, more correctly, the village, which is what the camp had developed into over

the years, was quiet. Yet it would not be asleep. Around the perimeter and on the nearby peaks, eyes

would be staring into the darkness, ears would be listening, waiting for that movement, that sound which

would indicate the approach of some spy, or even the Gevethen’s army. Briefly, his old concerns

surfaced again. Practical and tactical this time. How long could such vigilance be maintained? How long

could he keep up the spirits of his own followers? How long before the Gevethen discovered this place

and launched a full attack? How long . . .

Frowning, he dashed the thoughts aside and turned his mind back to whatever it was that had wakened

him in the middle of the night and had been disturbing him during the day whenever he found himself in

quietness between tasks. Maybe it’s just Spring coming, he thought, smiling to himself, but the whimsy

did little to allay the peculiar unease that was troubling him. For it was still here – permeating the soft

breeze that was drifting along the valley. Calling to him – a haunting . . .

What? He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door frame.

Urgency and appeal was all around him, faint and shifting, but distinct for all that. Yet it was not the

urgency and appeal of his present predicament, nor those of his people whom he had abandoned. He

curled his lip at the bitterness in the word. For a moment, memories threatened to flood in upon him, but

he let the word go. That too was a well-worn debate, and that he had had no choice gave him no

comfort.

The breeze returned its unsettling burden to him again. There was an almost alien quality in what he could

feel – or was it, hear? It was as though he were listening to a creature from an ancient fable, articulate

and intelligent, yet wholly different from him in every way. Images formed and re-formed in his mind, but

none clearly, each dissolving as he turned his thoughts towards it like shapes within a swirling mist.

‘Are you all right, Count?’

The voice thundered into his inner silence, rasping, uncouth and distorted, making him start violently.

Only years of silent and stealthy warfare kept him from crying out. His questioner however was as

shaken as he by the response.

‘I’m sorry, Count,’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I . . .’

Ibryen raised a hand to silence him. The man’s voice was becoming normal in his ears – a tone scarcely

much above a whisper – the tone he would have expected anyone to be using in the sleeping camp. He

identified the speaker. It was unthinkable that he above all should have spoken as Ibryen had heard. It

had been like the shattering of night vision by a sudden brilliant light. What had he been listening to with

such intensity? He made no attempt to answer the question.

‘It’s all right, Marris,’ he said to the dark shape in front of him. ‘I was a little restless. I just came out to

look at the stars.’

Marris cleared his throat softly. ‘Fortunate that I wasn’t one of the Gevethen’s assassins,’ he said

sternly.

‘I stand rebuked,’ Ibryen replied good-naturedly. ‘Though I doubt they’ll take the trouble to send

assassins if they find us.’

‘Whenthey find us,’ Marris emphasized.

Ibryen reached out and laid his hands on the man’s shoulders. ‘I yield the field, old friend,’ he said with a

soft laugh. ‘I’m retreating – returning to my bed to regroup my scattered wits. Wake me at dawn if I

show any signs of licking my wounds too long.’

Marris bowed slightly. ‘Sleep well, Count. The camp and all about is quiet.’

As Marris turned to move away, Ibryen said hesitantly, ‘Have you felt anything . . . strange . . . in the

wind, these last few days?’

Marris paused, his head bent to one side as he searched for the Count’s face in the darkness while he

considered this odd question. Then he shrugged. ‘Only Spring, Count,’ he replied. ‘Good and bad, as

ever.’

Ibryen nodded. ‘Sun on our skins again, blood moving in our veins, but the passes clearing of snow and

the need for renewed vigilance. Winter’s not without its advantages.’

Marris gave a low grunt by way of confirmation. ‘Twenty years since they came, five years since their

treachery forced us to flee, and every year they come searching, stronger each time, and nearer finding

us. Soon they’ll come in the winter also.’

Ibryen frowned. Such comments from any other would have brought a crushing response, but Marris

was too close a friend for him to invoke such defences. Five years ago it had been Marris who rescued

him from the mayhem when the Gevethen’s followers had stormed their country home and murdered his

family. He was Ibryen’s most loyal and trusted adviser, as he had been to his father. Blunt and fearless in

his opinions, he was nevertheless enough of a realist to speak such words to his Count only when no

others could hear. And Ibryen too, was enough of a realist not to bluster in the face of them.

‘It’s constantly on my mind, old friend,’ he replied simply.

Marris bowed again and let the matter lie. ‘Catch what sleep you can for the rest of the night, Count,’ he

said. ‘And take care, the air’s deceptively chilly.’

Then, without waiting for a dismissal, he was gone. Ibryen stood for a moment staring into the darkness

after him before he turned and went back inside. He had not noticed how cold it was outside until the

warmth of the room folded around him. Briefly he toyed with the idea of returning to bed as he had said,

but decided against it. Marris’s unexpected arrival had completely scattered the strangely intense

concentration with which he had woken, but the memory of it lingered and, as he thought about it again,

so he became even less inclined to regard what he had felt as an idle fancy. Elusive and intangible it might

have been, but, whatever it was, there had been a hard, shimmering sharpness at its heart which declared

it to be both real and outside himself.

The conclusion unsettled him however. A practical man, surrounded by more than enough problems and

responsibilities, it was inappropriate, to say the least, that he should find himself considering such

foolishness. What he needed was a good dose of normality. He dragged the sheets off his shoulders and

threw them on to his bed as he moved back to the door. Outside stood a large barrel, full almost to the

top with water. Stars twinkled in the motionless surface and, for a moment, Ibryen felt as though he were

looking down on the heavens as their creator might have done. It was a dizzying perspective. Then he

scattered his tiny universe as he plunged his arms into the near-freezing water and performed a premature

morning ablution. Long, deep breaths kept his shivering at bay as he went back inside and towelled

himself down violently. He was glowing as he dressed.

But, despite this assault, his memory of what had happened was unchanged. Pensively he fastened his

sword-belt. He felt good. His body was awake and his mind was sharp and clear . . . so how was it that

a vague feeling which had been stirring at the edges of his mind should suddenly seem to him to be a call

– for call it was, he was sure now, though from whom and for what he could not imagine. He had no

ready answers. Strange things happened to people in the mountains, but this did not have the quality of

something generated by a mind addled by shifting mists, or lack of food, or thinness of air.

It occurred to him unnervingly that perhaps it was some devilment by the Gevethen. They certainly had

talents which seemed to defy logic and reason. But again, the call – he grimaced at the word – did not

have the sense of viciousness, of clinging evil, which pervaded their work. Rather, it was clear and

simple; beautiful, almost, despite the urgency that underlay it. All that was at fault was his confusion, his

inability to listen correctly – as though he were a noisy child, pestering about something that his parents

were already trying to explain. Perhaps he should stay silent, he decided, with an uncertain smile. Routine

concerns were already beginning to impinge on him following his brief exchange with Marris and all too

soon they would become a clamour as the village awoke and set about its daily life.

Compromise came to him. He would do two things at the same time. He would walk the outer

perimeter, to check the vigilance of the guards and to encourage them, then perhaps he might clamber up

on to the southern ridge to judge for himself the state of the adjoining valleys. These were necessary tasks

which he could pursue without any sense of guilt, while at the same time they would give him silence and

calm in which to ponder what was happening.

* * * *

Dawn was greying the sky as he began the ascent to the southern ridge. It had been a valuable exercise,

walking the perimeter. He had been challenged at every guard post and was now flushed with the quiet

congratulations he had been able to give. He paused and, unusually, allowed himself a little

self-congratulation as well. It was no small credit to his leadership that his people were so attentive so

long into the night. It helped, of course, that all here had suffered appallingly at the hands of the Gevethen

and were more than well-acquainted with their cunning and treachery. They knew that should a hint of the

location of this place reach the enemy, then a pitched and terrible battle would be inevitable. And there

would be little doubt as to who would prevail should this happen. The Gevethen were in power now, not

only because of their ability to sway others to their cause but because of their complete indifference to the

fate of those same followers. Wave upon wave of attackers would be sent against the camp until sheer

attrition won the day. It was a dark image and, for all it was no new one, Ibryen frowned as he turned

away from it.

He glanced briefly at the lightening sky then quickly turned his eyes back to the darkness around him. He

must be careful, of course. It was not necessary to fall over some craggy edge to injure oneself seriously

in this terrain, a simple tumble would suffice, but by the time he would be moving from the grassy slopes

on to the rocks proper it would be much lighter. For a moment he considered the wisdom of what he

was doing. It was not essential that he personally viewed the adjacent valleys, any of his senior officers

could have done it. But even as he hesitated, he felt again a slight tension urging him forward. Whatever it

was, it would not be ignored.

He set off slowly.

Though he kept his attention focused on the shadow-scape about him, and on his every footstep, he was

aware that what had been disturbing him for the past few days and nights was truly there. It permeated

his relaxed awareness, growing then fading but never truly disappearing, like the sound of a distant crowd

carried on the wind. Words such as ‘call’, ‘song’, floated into his mind, but none were truly adequate.

As he had estimated, the sun had risen when he came to the rockier reaches of the ridge. It was going to

be a fine spring day – not warm enough for idling in the sun, and probably very cold up on the ridge, but

heart-lifting for all that. He sat down, not so much to rest as to think. Far below he could make out the

village, small and seemingly fragile amid the peaks. It was not difficult for him to find it, but for a less

informed eye it would have been no easy task. Turfs covered both roofs and the shallow ramped walls

built from the local rocks, and a random arrangement on either side of a bustling stream which twisted

between large rocky outcrops ensured that the buildings were not readily distinguishable from the general

terrain. A few trees and bushes completed the visual confusion. It was not perfect, but it was adequate.

Caves would have been a wiser choice, but apart from there being too few suitable for the number of

people involved, there was something deeply repugnant about the idea of being driven underground by

the Gevethen. At least in these simple houses, Ibryen’s followers could live lives that bore some

resemblance to those that they had led previously. In other valleys, such crops as could be coaxed out of

the thin soil were grown, and cattle and sheep were tended. Barring discovery, they could survive here

indefinitely.

Instinctively, Ibryen looked up at the clear sky. When the Gevethen had first appeared, so too had a

great many small, rather sinister brown birds. Among the wilder rumours that had eventually sprung up to

surround the Gevethen was one that they used these birds as spies and that through their piercing yellow

eyes everything in the land could be seen. It was palpable nonsense, of course; the birds had probably

been carried there by accident – doubtless unusual storms on their normal migratory flights – for, a few

years later they vanished as abruptly as they had arrived. Nevertheless, the influence of the Gevethen was

so grim and all-pervasive, that the rumour lingered uncomfortably, and no one had seriously demurred

when it was suggested that the camp be disguised in such a way that it could not easily be seen from

above. After all, it couldn’t be denied that at the time of the disappearance of the birds, the Gevethen had

seemed to be more uneasy, less well-informed of events, could it?

Probably coincidence, Ibryen mused unconvincingly as he returned his gaze to the camp below. Putting

his hands on his knees, he levered himself upright, irritated at finding himself thinking about these old tales.

He began climbing over the rocks.

The sun was well above the horizon when he finally reached the ridge. Snow-covered peaks shone far

into the distance, brilliant and aloof, as if disdaining the frantic scrabblings of the mortals who flickered

their tiny lives away so hysterically beneath their timeless gaze.

A cold wind struck Ibryen’s sweating face as he clambered over the last few rocks. In years past he had

delighted in striding out along such ridges. Now, concealment being an almost permanent obsession, he

moved carefully, keeping low or otherwise ensuring that he did not present a conspicuous silhouette

against the skyline. It was just another example of the Gevethen’s pernicious influence, their gift of

corroding even the smallest worthwhile thing.

Ibryen did not know what he had expected to find at the end of this journey, and the last part of the

climb had been too strenuous for him to pay any need to the subtle urging that had drawn him here, but

his initial response was one of disappointment. The view was, as ever, inspiring, but no great surge of

understanding overwhelmed him, no sudden insight. Instead, he was just both hot and chilled, as he

normally was when travelling a little too quickly in the mountains. For the same reason he was also out of

breath.

‘Just take a rest, and relax,’ he said to himself. ‘Calm down. There’s still the valleys to be looked at.’

Sitting down carefully in the lee of a rock he turned his face to the sun. Perhaps he could simply luxuriate

in the warmth for a little while, allow his many cares and responsibilities to fall away. But while he might

do the former, the latter was almost impossible, reared as he had been to accept that responsibilities

were part of his birthright as the Count of Nesdiryn – a necessary counterweight to the privileges that

went with that office. His parents however, had trained him for the ruling of a relatively peaceful and

ordered land. They had not remotely prepared him for dealing with a people torn from within by such as

the Gevethen, except in so far as they had died for their own inability to measure the depth of the

Gevethen’s treachery and inhumanity. Their deaths had been their last terrible lesson for their son.

Now, Ibryen’s duties were both simpler and more onerous. No longer was he burdened by the

innumerable ties of administrative and political need that ruling a land involved. Instead, he had become a

beleaguered warlord whose least error, or lapse in vigilance, could see himself and his followers

destroyed utterly, and the Gevethen given full sway over the land. And always, darkening even this deep

shadow, was the unspoken question – what were the Gevethen’s ultimate intentions? What could the

acquisition of such political and military power as they constantly sought betoken, except ambitions

beyond the borders of Nesdiryn?

However, while these considerations formed a constant, disturbing undertow to his life, none of them

were immediately in Ibryen’s thoughts as he lay back against the still-cold rock and, eyes closed, turned

his face towards the sun. His new life was not without pleasures . . . simple pleasures that once he would

have disdained or even been oblivious to – pleasures such as the sun on his face and the solitary silence

of the mountains. And he could indulge these for a few moments now that he was here and alone.

He had scarcely begun to relax however, when, unheard and unfelt, yet indisputably there, the

mysterious call that had reached into his dreams to waken him and lured him to this eyrie was all about

him.

But still its message eluded him. Still it shifted and changed like voices in the wind, though now perhaps it

was nearer? Louder? Clearer? Again, none of the words were adequate, yet all were true. Shapes

formed in the sounds that were not sounds, and danced to the rhythm of the flickering lights behind his

closed eyes – now solid and whole, now intangible and vague – jumping from time to time as Ibryen

resisted the warm drowsiness that was threatening to overwhelm him and jerked himself into

wakefulness.

Until a pattern began to emerge, tantalizingly familiar. It echoed around a sound that suddenly was truly a

sound. Ibryen’s mind lurched towards it, drawing it closer and closer, searching into it, clutching at the

meaning that he could sense striving to reach him.

Abruptly it came into focus.

‘Hello,’ a voice said, close by.

Chapter 2

Ignoring curses and ill-aimed kicks, a large mangy dog dashed purposefully between the legs of the

passers-by and out into the roadway. It began to bark ferociously at a passing carriage. The horses

reared at this unexpected onslaught, almost tearing the reins from the driver’s hands. The clattering

hooves, the barking, and the raucous shouting of the driver – at both horses and dog – inevitably brought

nearby pedestrians to a halt to watch the spectacle, and soon further cursing rose to swell the chorus as

other carts, carriages and riders had to stop or take evasive action.

No one made any effort to seize the dog however, for not only was it large, it was moving very quickly,

dodging the flailing hooves and the driver’s whip with ease. Further, it had a look in its eyes that would

have made even the sternest hesitant to tackle it; its lip curled back to reveal teeth whose whiteness

testified to the fact that, ill-kempt though it might be, it had plenty of bones to chew on. To those late

afternoon citizens who had the misfortune to understand, this above all identified the dog not only as feral,

but as having come from the death pits. Who could say what impulse had drawn it into the heart of the

city?

And who could say what impulse continued to guide it, for instead of barking and fleeing as most dogs

would have done, this one’s attacking fury seemed to grow in proportion to the uproar it was causing.

The driver soon stopped trying to beat it off with his whip as he needed both hands to control the two

horses. Angry shouts began to emanate from within the now swaying carriage and the watching crowd

both grew and widened under the contradictory effects of curiosity and fear. Other drivers in the street

stopped their cursing and started backing away from the scene.

Then further cries came from a section of the crowd and several people leapt hastily out of the way as

another dog emerged to join the first in attacking the carriage. The assault redoubled, the horses became

frantic and the driver lost such control as he had. The swaying of the carriage increased until, after

hovering for a timeless moment, it crashed over, taking the thrashing horses with it. The driver fell heavily

on to the rough cobbled roadway and lay still.

The crowd became suddenly silent, and for a while the only sound to be heard in the street was the

scrabbling of the terrified horses and the ominous snarling of the dogs as they paced to and fro in front of

the destruction they had wrought.

No one moved to help the fallen driver. Indeed, eyes now fearfully averted from the scene, the crowd

began to melt away. Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency.

A sudden crash halted the flight. It was the carriage door being flung back by the passenger. He began

to heave himself up through the opening. Though not a young man, vigorous command and capability

could be read in his grim face and the very sight of him seemed to chill the crowd into immobility.

‘Stay where you are,’ he said, his voice harsh and menacing. Even the dogs fell back a little, crouching

low, though their snarling muzzles were even more terrifying than before. Half emerged from the carriage,

the man disdained their menace and slowly scanned the crowd. It was as if he were memorizing the face

of each individual there, or worse, already knew it. Those who failed to avoid his gaze could not tear

their eyes away. The street began to stink of fear while, above, the already gloomy sky seemed to darken

further, adding its weight to the sense of oppression that the man’s presence exuded.

Then, into this silent interrogation came a flurry of movement and the two dogs, still snarling, began to

crawl forward, their tails sweeping over the cobbles expectantly. The man in the carriage turned sharply

towards the disturbance, his teeth bared as if in imitation of his attackers, but even as he did so, the cause

was upon him. A lithe figure, ragged and dirty, was vaulting nimbly up on to the carriage. Disbelief came

into the man’s face. It was changing to anger when the newcomer reached down, seized his hair with her

left hand and jerked his head back, unbalancing him. Then with her right, she plunged a knife into him. It

was a deliberately wounding stroke.

‘Just to catch your attention, Hagen,’ she hissed, wrenching his head back further and slashing savagely

at his flailing arms. ‘This one should be for the Count, but really it’s for my parents. I wish I could take

more time over it,’ and she stabbed him in the throat twice. ‘Rot in hell.’

A futile hand clutching his wounds, Hagen straightened momentarily, then crashed back down into the

carriage, the opened door slamming behind him. Even as he disappeared from view, the woman was

running back into the crowd, the two dogs at her heels and the knife trailing blood. She made no sound

but neither did she hesitate and the crowd parted hastily to let her through. The movement seemed to

break the spell that Hagen had cast and abruptly the street was alive with screaming, fleeing people. The

city was busy at that time of day, and those trying to escape found themselves impeded by others who

were pursuing their normal errands or had been drawn to the scene by the noise.

Abruptly, a shrill cry rang out above the others as a group of armed and uniformed horsemen appeared

at the end of the street.

‘Guards! Citadel Guards!’

As the cry passed along, the confusion turned almost to panic. The man at the head of the column

stopped and looked at the milling crowd with a mixture of irritation and disdain. He was about to say

something when the rider next to him took his arm urgently and pointed towards the overturned carriage.

‘Captain! Captain Helsarn!’

The leader was about to transfer his annoyance to this new intrusion but, as he followed the trembling

arm, his scornful expression suddenly became one of stark horror. He spurred his horse forward

frantically, at the same time shouting out an order, his voice cracking. The Guards surged after him, and

the group galloped along the street with complete disregard for whoever was standing in their way.

Several people were knocked over, but none of them wasted any time in abusing the riders; rather, they

redoubled their efforts to escape the scene.

Reaching the carriage, the Captain swung off his horse directly on to the upturned side. For a moment he

struggled with the door before he managed to wrench it open, then he had to shield his eyes to see into

the dark interior. A gasp of disbelief concluded his inspection and he dropped down into the carriage,

pausing only to motion his companions forward to help him. After a brief, confused interlude of cursing

and slipping, the bloodstained body of the slaughtered Hagen was lifted awkwardly from the vehicle and

laid on the ground. Throughout, the Guards handled the body with a hesitant mixture of reverence and

fear, as if at any moment it might spring to life and bring down some terrible wrath on them for their

profanity in so touching it. The mood lingered even after the body had been laid down, as the men

formed a circle about it as though preparing for a vigil.

It was Helsarn who recovered first. He glanced up and down the street and, in a sinister echo of the call

that Hagen himself had made, he shouted, ‘Stay where you are, all of you!’ The crowd however, already

motivated to movement by the murder of Hagen, and suddenly unified in their intention by the appearance

of the Guards, had used their momentary paralysis to escape. Thus the Captain found himself addressing

a dwindling number of distant and fleeing backs and a handful of individuals who were already converging

on the carriage. Obediently, these all stopped, obliging him then to motion them forward angrily, while the

rest continued their flight.

He opened his mouth again, but for a moment no sound came as he searched for something to say.

Finally he managed to demand, ‘What’s happened here?’

There was some dumb shaking of heads but the Captain was already bringing his thoughts to more

urgent needs. He turned to one of his men, a heavy-set and powerful-looking individual. ‘Low-Captain

Vintre, get this carriage righted, then use it to bring the Lord Counsellor’s body back to the Citadel.’

‘And these?’ The Low-Captain indicated the remains of the crowd.

The Captain frowned as though irritated at having to deal with such obvious matters.

‘They’re all under arrest, of course,’ he snapped. ‘They’re witnesses. Bring them as well. They’ll have to

be questioned. I’ll go ahead and tell Commander Gidlon what’s happened.’ He looked down at the body

and briefly his inner fears showed through. Though he spoke softly to Vintre and did not move, his eyes

flicked from side to side, as if spies and denouncers might be all around him. ‘This is unbelievable. I hope

someone hasn’t struck a match in this tinderbox.’

The Low-Captain responded in kind, but more prosaically. ‘Let’s just thank our fates we weren’t Lord

Hagen’s duty escort today.’

Helsarn’s cold demeanour returned as he nodded, then he remounted and, driving his spurs viciously into

his horse’s flanks, galloped off down the street.

A little later, the carriage was upright again and, bearing both the injured driver and the dead body of

Hagen, was following the same route as the Captain. It was a strange procession. Not that the sight of

carriage, escort and prisoners was strange in Dirynhald, but normally it would provoke little or no

response from the passing citizens. Now, however, despite the time of day, the streets were almost

empty and such few people as were about were ill-at-ease and either stared fretfully or conspicuously

averted their eyes and strode out purposefully.

It did not need Helsarn’s words, ‘match in this tinder-box’, to heighten Vintre’s nervousness further and

he closed his men up and moved them to the trot, notwithstanding the discomfort of the ‘witnesses’

jogging between the two files. News of Hagen’s death had obviously run through the city as fast as legs

could carry it, and who could say what consequences would ensue. It was a long time since there had

been any serious, or even open opposition to the Gevethen, but though an insidious mixture of sustained

terror and familiarity was gradually sapping its will, the opposition was there, brooding and ominous – in

many ways very little different in its demeanour now from that of the Gevethen themselves. Vintre’s mind

wandered . . . Perhaps this year they would at last find the Count and stamp out the remaining spark of

resistance that his continued existence maintained.

A disturbance behind him brought Vintre sharply back to the grey street, but it was only one of the

prisoners being dragged to his feet after stumbling. He reproached himself angrily for drifting into

daydreams. Now was a time to be alert. Lord Counsellor Hagen had been the Gevethen’s closest

adviser, and his death would undoubtedly be used as an excuse for them to tighten further their grip on

the city and its people. Whatever else happened, the next few weeks were going to be busy and brutal,

and there would be plenty of opportunities for an ambitious young officer, not least for one who was first

upon the scene and who was bringing in witnesses. Almost certainly that alone would assure him the

Gevethen’s personal attention. Excellent opportunities for sure – and a damn sight easier than trekking

through the mountains searching for the Count, in constant fear of ambush.

Instinctively, Vintre straightened up and began making adjustments to his uniform. He brought his horse

alongside the carriage and peered inside. Hagen’s body was draped along one of the seats while the

unconscious driver had been propped up in a corner. Without realizing that he was doing it, he made his

face look concerned. It was as if Hagen’s awful will, too cruel even for death’s domain, might suddenly

return to his corpse and open the eyes to find himself the object of a junior officer’s ghoulish curiosity.

Even in death, Hagen was frightening.

Only now did Vintre being to grasp the awful magnitude of what had happened. There’d be more than

just another purging of the citizenry, there’d be some rare jockeying for position at the highest level – for

the ears of the Gevethen themselves – and who could say what benefits such a change could bring to

lesser lights further down the chain of command? Vintre’s ambition, already on the wing, began to soar.

Yet, like a cloud about to obscure the sun, there hovered the thought – who could have done such a

thing? Not, who, after all this time, would have dared assail Hagen of all people, in broad daylight and in

a busy street? Or, how many could have been involved to turn over the carriage? But what kind of a

person was it who could have stood face to face with Hagen, looked into those awful eyes, and not let

their weapon drop from nerveless hands?

Vintre shivered.

Then they were at the Citadel.

Vintre shivered again.

Chapter 3

The rasp of Ibryen’s sword being drawn echoed the hiss of his sharply in-drawn breath as he leapt to his

feet. Despite the violent shock of hearing a voice when he had believed himself to be quite alone, some

discipline prevented Ibryen’s alarm from announcing itself any louder. The bright mountain daylight burst

in upon him blindingly as he opened his eyes and, keeping his back against the rock, he held out his

sword and swung it in a broad protective arc while they adjusted.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed the voice incongruously, amid this frantic scramble.

As Ibryen’s vision cleared, he found himself looking at a small figure standing well beyond his sword’s

reach and shifting its balance from one foot to the other as if preparing to flee.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ the stranger said. ‘I didn’t realize . . .’

‘Who are you?’ Ibryen demanded brutally.

The new arrival was a man. He was dressed in simple, practical clothes, though they were of a cut

unfamiliar to Ibryen, and he had a pack on his back. He stood scarcely chest height to Ibryen and was

very slightly built – frail almost. Further he seemed to be quite old. But all this signified nothing. Though he

asked it, Ibryen knew that his question was of no import. Whatever answer was given, he already knew

the truth. Appearances notwithstanding, the man was not one of his followers and could have only come

here by stealth – considerable stealth at that, to have avoided the recently alerted guards. He must thus

be a Gevethen spy or, worse, an assassin. Marris’s remarks of a few hours before came back to Ibryen,

now full of ominous prescience.

He could have been silently murdered while he basked idly in the sun!

Roger Taylor - Ibryen

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