Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan] Read online

  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 look
ed 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!

  Yet he hadn't been. This ‘assassin’ had announced himself. The thought made Ibryen feel a little foolish though, keeping the stranger in view, he looked from side to side to see if anyone else had also reached the ridge unseen and unheard.

  'I'm just a traveller,’ the man replied. His voice was high-pitched but not unpleasant—indeed, it had an almost musical lilt to it. And he had an accent such as Ibryen had never heard before.

  'You're not Dirynvolk,’ Ibryen said, instead of the question he had intended.

  The little man craned forward a little as if he was having difficulty in understanding the remark, then he smiled. His smile was full of white teeth that seemed to glint in the sunlight, and his eyes sparkled. It was a happy sight, but it was not the smile of an old man. Ibryen tightened the grip on his sword to keep at bay the softening that he was beginning to feel. Though they had long discarded any pretence, the Gevethen had won as much through smooth speech and manners in the early days as through the brutality and terror they now exercised and, even before his flight into the mountains, Ibryen had long schooled himself to be wary of smiles and bland, assuring speech.

  'No,’ the man was replying. ‘I'm far, far away from where I was born.'

  'You have a name though?'