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Copyright © 1995, Roger Taylor
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
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without
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 . . .?
Page 1
 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
Page 2
 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.’
‘
When
they 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.
Page 3
 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
Page 4
 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.
Page 5
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