The Cloven Land Trilogy Read online

  The Cloven Land Trilogy

  Simon Kewin

  Hyrn

  For Granny, supplier of books

  Hedge Witch

  For Alison, the first part of my own magical trilogy

  Wyrm Lord

  For Ellie, the second part of my own magical trilogy

  Witch King

  For Rosie, the third part of my own magical trilogy

  Table of Contents

  Hyrn

  Hedge Witch

  1. Cait

  2. Forbidden Books

  3. Wild Hunt

  4. Grimoire

  5. Fer

  6. Undain

  7. Islagray Wycka

  8. Coven

  9. Snow on the Northern Hills

  10. Archaeon

  11. Tanglewood

  12. Broken

  13. Fires

  14. Death on the Ring Road

  15. Empire Towers

  16. Returning

  17. Aethernal

  18. Witch-Marks

  19. The Golden Palace

  20. Extraction Engine Nmbr 1

  21. Screaming Machinery

  22. Hedge Witch

  23. A Parliament of Owls

  24. Shadow Paths

  25. Night Fall

  Wyrm Lord

  1. Crowhaunted

  2. A Nation of Slaves

  3. A Harvest of Bones

  4. The Gates of Hell

  5. The First Frosts of Winter

  6. Palaces of the Undain

  7. Feasting

  8. The Ice House

  9. Wyrm Roads

  10. The Smouldering Fire

  11. Caer D'nar

  12. Wyrm Lord

  13. Voices in the Aether

  14. Mr. Shankly

  15. Beyond the Veil

  16. The Lizard King

  17. Death of a Witch

  18. Wyrmfire

  19. The White City

  20. The Destruction of Andar

  21. The Endless Dark

  22. Hyrn

  23. A Hundred Million Voices

  24. Its Beak Dipped in Blood

  25. The Cold Waters of the An

  Witch King

  1. Howl Hill

  2. Witch Hunt

  3. A Single Word Different

  4. Bethany Weerd

  5. Hyrn's Oak

  6. Smoke on the Water

  7. The Lord of Misrule

  8. The Ice Fair

  9. Blood on the Ice

  10. Hyrn's Oak

  11. The High Walls of Caer L'dun

  12. Voices in the Dark

  13. To the Centre of the City

  14. The Shadow Town Hall

  15. A Maze of Streets

  16. Leviathan

  17. Unquiet Spirits

  18. Xoster

  19. Crashing to the Ice

  20. Across the An

  21. Witching Hour

  22. Witch King

  23. Ran

  24. The Fate of More Than One World

  25. The Orchard of Witches

  Hyrn

  The Cloven Land Trilogy, a prequel

  Simon Kewin

  Hyrn

  The world changed one bright morning in spring.

  Black Meg sat in the glow of the sunrise, drained but contented from her work. A difficult birth. Young Liana had laboured through a day and a night. As was so often the way with the first. Meg had been there throughout, sitting beside the girl's mother and the wide-eyed lad who was the father. Most of the time Meg had been nothing more than an encouraging word, a reassuring grip. Only towards the end had she worked spells to draw off the worst of the girl's pain, take it into her own body. She was accustomed to it. Over the years she'd lived through hundreds of births. Only two had been her own children. And now baby and mother were sleeping, curled together in their exhausted bliss.

  Meg sat against the cool stone exterior of Liana's house, her black shawl pulled around her shoulders. Away in the east, Anwards, a deformed sun bulged from the horizon. She closed her eyes, savouring the first warmth on her face. The world was a troubled place, but a birth brought with it the promise of possibilities. A renewed hope. Satisfied, she let herself drift into a welcome half-sleep.

  The dragon's approach rumbled in her bones before the beat of its wings reached her ears. The aura of despair seeped into her, sucking out her remaining energy. She opened her eyes. Couldn't they give her a little peace? But no. A witch's work was never done. Groaning from the effort, she forced herself to stand, muttering words to shield herself from the worst effects of the creature's baleful influence. She wasn't strong enough to stave it off, not at the moment, but she could hide herself from it. Let it slip around her like water around a rock. It was a simple enough spell, one she used often as she went about her work in Angere.

  The dragon glided low over the treetops, wings swept wide, the leaves lashing at the creature's passing. It pitched to one side, turned and thumped to the ground, its bulk dwarfing Liana's home. In truth Meg rarely saw a wyrm up close. They were a shadow blotting out the sun as they flew by on some errand. They were a roar echoing off the hillsides. She wondered how far this one had come. There was an archway at Wyrmfell, the opening of one of the roads the riders used to criss-cross Angere. But she had no knowledge of where the archways led or which connected with which.

  The beast's body bore signs of fighting. Livid scorch marks and more than one open wound scarred its scales. The stench of singed flesh came to Meg as the dragon's ruby eyes warily studied the sky. The sight of the beast sent dread flooding through Meg. Only one creature could gouge such marks on a dragon. Another dragon.

  Of late she'd been haunted by fears of her world tearing in two, of things tumbling out of control. Rumours about the King and his fascination with the arts of the death mancers swirled throughout the land. Her anxieties returned to her now. Dragons were fighting dragons. It could mean only one thing. King Menhroth had made his decision, undergone the rites. Now everything would change. Friends would became enemies and wounds too wide to heal would be opened. She'd told herself it wouldn't happen; that her fears were unfounded. But she'd been wrong.

  She thought about the baby she'd just helped deliver. What would his life be like now? What sights would his eyes see? And how long would he live to see them?

  In one fluid motion, the dragon's rider slipped from her mount's back and strode towards Meg, leaving her serpentine sword in its scabbard strapped to the flanks of the great beast. She carried something beneath her cloak, something she didn't want Meg to see. The rider, too, bore signs of recent combat. She was Crimson Wing, the tattoos winding all across her skin bright red. Blood running from cuts to her cheek and arms blurred and smudged the hard lines. The rider had to be in considerable pain, as did the dragon, but of course the minds of both were closed to her.

  “My Lady,” said the rider. “The witches of Morvale Wycka said you would be here. We have need of your help. Great need. The thing long-feared has happened. Ilminion the necromancer…”

  Meg held up a hand to stop the young rider. “Your wounds tell me the tale. So Ilminion has succeeded in working this death magic of his on the King?”

  “Yes. But Ilminion is dead, my Lady. I mean truly dead. I slew him myself at the door of the throne room.”

  That threw her. She hadn't foreseen such an occurrence. Death was never a good thing, but some people would be less lamented than others. A surge of hope spilled through her. “And King Menhroth? Did Ilminion complete his work?”

  The rider lowered her gaze. “I, too, have been at a birth, Lady of the Witches. A foul birth. And it was we who guarded the doors as Ilminion performed his rites. Stood unmoving when w
e should have acted. Watched as hundreds and hundreds were led into the King's chamber to be slaughtered. Heard their screams. After two days the King was returned to a twisted mockery of life, his veins flowing with the life-spirit of all the sacrifices. The look on his bloated purple face when his eyes reopened was finally too much. The horror in them. The madness. It was only then we acted. Too late, we acted.”

  From inside the house, the baby stirred and began to bawl urgent cries.

  Meg touched the arm of the rider. The wyrm lord was little more than a girl herself. “You're sure? Ilminion completed his rite and returned Menhroth to this … unlife?”

  “Menhroth lives. We interceded before the end, the necromancer's final words still unspoken on his lips, but not soon enough to make a difference.”

  “Ah,” said Meg. She wondered if that was true. Perhaps it would be important one day that the rite was incomplete. She knew little enough of the mancers' arts, especially those of one like Ilminion. She did know Ilminion was devious and might have foreseen such an eventuality.

  “And the riders? There is fighting?”

  “Rider fights rider and dragon fights dragon. Those who remain loyal to the name of Menhroth and those like me who say he is no longer what he was. And so we tear ourselves apart. Caer D'nar is in turmoil. In the far north, Xoster the mother of all the dragons howls in despair as her children hack and flame one another.”

  “And which side have most riders taken?”

  “The King's. Our oath to his name is too much for them to overcome. They hunt our dragons and they hunt us. I don't think we'll survive for long.”

  Meg drew a deep breath. With the rising of the sun, all the birds of Angere trilled and twittered from the trees. Strange that they were continuing as if today were simply one more day. But everything had changed. If what they said about Ilminion's researches was true, the King reborn would blaze with power, fuelled by the lives of those sacrificed to him. He would never age, never die, so long as he fed on the life-spirit of others. And it wouldn't end there. She saw how it would go. He would raise others like him, less powerful but still fearsome. Guards to protect him. Soldiers to fight for him. He would offer this ascension to his trusted allies, the lords and ladies of his court, and by doing so bind them to him.

  The canker would spread, growing all the time. One day soon it would cover the world. The King would need more life-spirit, and more and more, and invasion would deliver it to him. There were other worlds, so the stories said. Shadow pathways that could be opened across the aether if you had the means. Other lands might learn to rue the day the ageing, vain King of Angere let Ilminion the necromancer work his death magic.

  Black Meg saw all this while the birds called from the greenery and the sun, perfectly round now, crept higher in the sky. The sickly, rich smell of early blooms came to her nostrils.

  “And why have you sought me out?” Meg asked the rider. “I can not fight what Menhroth has become. I can not cross swords with those who remain loyal to him.”

  “You are the wisest and strongest witch on this side of the An, Black Meg.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. It makes little difference. I can heal a body if it isn't too broken and I can sometimes persuade a rain cloud to fly elsewhere if a betrothal ceremony is threatened. That's about it.”

  The rider reached inside her cloak and pulled out the thing she'd been concealing. A book, bound in red leather, gold outlines of skulls and skeletons blazoned across it. Meg knew at once what it had to be, but she asked the question anyway.

  “What is that?”

  “The Shadow Grimoire. Ilminion's book of necromancy. I took it and fled. Perhaps you can use it. Turn the magic against itself. Stop it working. Stop the world going mad.” The rider held the book out for Meg.

  For a moment she was tempted. What horrors, what wonders had Ilminion unearthed in his years of research? The promise of eternal life was there. She was old, as Menhroth had been old, and she didn't want to die either. But she shook her head. There was an order to things. A cycle of life and death.

  “No. I know nothing of spell books and incantations. And I want to know nothing. Take it to a mancer. Travel the wyrm roads on your dragon while you still can. Take it to Telerion or Asya the Wise. Or seek out young Akbar. He'll be on your side. And if he isn't I'll have words to say to him. He's another I helped bring into the world.”

  The rider looked dismayed, as if all her hopes had rested on her mission. “But what will you do?”

  Meg looked to the sky, as if there might be answers written there. “Return to Morvale Wycka. Muster the coven. Talk to our sisters across the An. Decide what is to be done. Time is suddenly short.”

  “And what can be done? Can you fight the King?”

  “Oh, we can fight him easily enough. And others will join us. Ordinary folk who don't ride dragons and who don't work magic but who are repelled by what Menhroth has become. But defeating the King, now. That's a different matter completely.”

  The rider slipped the book beneath her cloak as if ashamed. She nodded and turned away. Her dragon, neck snaking into the air, bellowed a thunderous roar. It extended its wings and the sulphurous rush of air on Meg's face made a fresh wave of despair wash over her.

  “Tell me, rider,” shouted Meg. “What is your name?”

  “Dervil. I am Dervil.”

  “May fortune smile on you, Dervil of the Crimson Wing.”

  “And on you, Black Meg of the Morvale Witches.”

  Dervil leapt onto the dragon's back. With a few huge downbeats of its wings, the creature lurched into the sky.

  Back inside, the newborn baby boy rooted at Liana's breast. The girl's eyes shone with wonder, but there was worry there too. They all knew about the necromancer, and what the fighting among the dragonriders meant.

  “What should we do, Black Meg?” Liana's mother asked. “What will happen now?”

  She didn't know. She had no answers. Despite all her fears she was unprepared. How could they hope to fight such evil?

  “Do you have relatives across the river?” she asked.

  “A sister who went to live in Andar a few years back. Some cousins.”

  “Then … I'd say go there. Rest this day, enjoy what you have. Then head for the bridge.”

  The alarm on the woman's face was clear. “You think we should leave?”

  “I think … I think it might be for the best.”

  “You think all Angere is endangered by this?”

  She was reluctant to say it, as if speaking the words might make the events more likely to happen. But it was what it was. “Perhaps, yes.”

  “And will we be safe across the river?”

  Meg wanted to reassure them, tell them all would be well. That Andar, far across the wide River An, would survive. That somewhere would survive. But she couldn't bring herself to lie.

  Instead she said nothing. She turned to close the door behind her. Pulling her woollen shawl around her shoulders once more she set off.

  Morvale Wycka was two days walk Anwards. She could have taken to the air and flown - slower than the mighty dragon, perhaps, but quick enough to get her there by evening. She decided against it. She was weary; her bones ached. And she needed to think. Walking always helped her think. There was another reason, too. She might never have the chance to walk through the woods of Angere again. The thought was almost too large to fit into her head. So, she would cut through the forests that clung to the rolling hills and head for the Babblerush. Follow that river and it would take her home soon enough.

  She set off toward the rising sun, breathing the air, mind's eye wary of the woods around her as she followed winding pathways through the trees. Other riders might be about, perhaps those loyal to Menhroth. And who knew what the King would do, how quickly he would act? Hard to believe anything could threaten her in these beautiful, old woods but it was best to be careful.

  Had she done the right thing with the book? She'd recoiled from it when perhaps s
he should have taken it. Maybe Dervil had been right and they should use it, turn it against the horror the King had become. The thought was repugnant, but sometimes you had to fight fire with fire. An evil deed might prevent greater evil later on, like a mother exposing her child to a pox knowing the danger would be greater when they were grown. Or perhaps the book, with its promises of eternity, would corrupt anyone who used it. How could she know?

  These thoughts whirring around in her mind, and despite her earlier caution, she wasn't aware of the white stag until she saw it, standing on the far side of a little clearing in the trees. The sight of it stopped her dead in her tracks.

  The beast stood watching her, brown eyes like polished chestnuts. Its head was crowned with splayed antlers, moss and ivy strewn between them like the branches people sometimes decorated at Midwinter. Its creamy hide shone, but a livid red gash on one of its flanks ran freely with blood. As Meg stared, the wound seemed to grow, the flap of flesh curling wider, the blood flowing down the magnificent beast's rear leg. Its muscles twitched. Steam billowed from its nostrils. One hoof raked at the ground as if it was preparing to charge.

  She didn't need to be a witch to know this was no mere woodland creature. A normal stag would have fled. And white stags were the stuff of the old tales. It was a messenger. Or a warning. She tried to reach into its mind, see what it was about, as she might any creature she encountered. Instead of the usual flitter of urges and hungers she saw only light: a huge, blazing light, too bright to gaze into.

  She had a long way to travel. But a sign like this, on this day of all days, could not be ignored.

  “Very well then my beautiful friend,” she said to the creature. “Let's see who or what you are, shall we?”

  As Meg approached the beast turned and stepped into the shadows of the trees, but slowly, in no fear from her. Meg followed. For a few paces the spatters of blood on the ground were clear, but the creature soon led her into thicker woods where there were no paths and the sun was replaced by shifting shadow. She began to lose sight of the beast, always twenty or thirty paces ahead of her, antlers hard to distinguish from the latticework of low branches. Then a flash of white would reveal the creature in the distance, disappearing behind the boughs. Meg kept walking, letting herself be led.