The Cloven Land Trilogy

Table of Contents

Hyrn

Bonus short story: The Waters, Dividing the Land

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

Post Credits Scenes

Landmarks

Title Page

Dedication

Text

Copyright Page

Cover

Table of Contents

Body Matter

For Granny, supplier of books.

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 we 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.