The World to Come
by Eildon Rhymer
What if the Dark had won at the end of Silver on the Tree? The world is sliding into darkness, and only tattered remnants of the Light remain. Will, Bran and the Drews grow to adulthood, and each to their own destiny in this World to Come.
Part two: chapter sixteen
Equal night
The man beside him tilted his head, as if listening. "There is power here."
"Good." Bran jammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. The rain had been growing heavier all evening, and the tree offered only scant protection. He was soaked through, and very cold.
He would endure far worse, of course, if it meant the capture of one of the Light.
"Power," the man said again. He grimaced, as if he had tasted something unpleasant. "But hidden. More like an echo."
He was called Hedges, and Bran did not like him. He was of the Dark, but not a great lord. The Dark, it seemed, were less jealous of their magic than the Light. The Old Ones kept all the power for themselves, inhuman, immortal, and cold. The Dark also had its immortal lords, but also had its minor minions, who possessed a part of the magic of the Dark, but would live a normal mortal life. Hedges was one such man, and Bran did not like him.
He had no choice but to use him. He would use all weapons, and ally with all manner of men, if it helped bring down the Light. Nothing was truly evil, if it was used to extirpate a greater evil.
"We do not pay you to talk about echoes," Bran said harshly. "You are here to lead us to the Light."
Hedges glowered at him, hatred glittering in his narrowed eyes. Bran did not need to possess magic to know that his dislike was returned. Most of the Dark hated him because of who his father had been, and they were jealous, and thought that Bran should have been killed. It did not matter. Bran could cope with being hated. It was better to be hated than to be deceived. It was better to be feared than to be mocked.
Hedges stalked out into the open, and peered into the distance, towards the castle. Bran's men had melted into the darkness long before, and had joined all the other units and divisions. Something big was expected tonight, and intelligence had suggested that it would be here, at Windsor. Once a royal castle, it was now a government outpost, but there were many of the old trappings of royalty still in the castle, there for the taking. The Resistance liked to strike at symbolic places, and Windsor was one of the greatest symbols of all.
Bran pushed down his dislike. The task was more important than emotion. It always was. "Anything?" he asked, moving up beside Hedges.
"Power." Hedges shivered. "But not of the Light."
Bran remembered Will telling him about Herne. They had been sitting side by side on the hillside, legs stretched out in front of them, and the sky so blue and vast above them. They had been talking about this and that, mostly normal things, but then Will had been telling him about the Wild Magic, and hunter that had scattered the dark and the cold of winter. He rode on the eve of Twelfth Night, Will had told him, and today was only the autumn equinox, but…
"The Hunt," Bran murmured. "Could it be the Hunt?" For the equinox was also a day of power in the old calendar, and perhaps a being like Herne could ride a second time, if there was cause.
Hedges recoiled in fear, hissing low in his throat. "Yes. Yes…"
"A trap." Bran felt strangely calm about it all. "They brought us here to…"
"No," Hedges said. "No. Not tonight. Once a year. They are bound. I was there. I saw it. I was there. We all were, seeing with eyes, even if our bodies were far away. We were all part of it, hunted and hounded like vermin, when your friend the Sign-seeker…"
"He's not my friend!" Bran cried. "He never was my friend." He breathed in and out, struggling for control. The rain helped, cold and relentless, washing away anything he did not want to be there. "Is Herne here, Hedges?" he demanded. "Is this a trap?"
"Not here." Hedges shook his head. "An echo. It tastes different. Not like it was then, but still unpleasant." He spat. "We should wipe all such things from the earth."
"But not tonight," Bran said. "Tonight we strike at the Light, and the Resistance that dangles from their strings like puppets."
Can't you see? he wanted to bellow at his prisoners, when they were brought before him. Can't you see how the sorcerers force you to dance to their tune? You are the ones who pay the price, while they sit behind and laugh. Cold face, cold voice, but inside he would be whispering, Like they did with me. But all the prisoners were blind and unrepentant, and declared that they had acted of their own free will. They died still believing that they had been free.
His radio buzzed quietly, and Bran unhooked it from his belt. "Pendragon," he said quietly into it.
"McKenzie, sir," came the reply. "The men are in position, but we have taken a prisoner, sir. An old man, a vagrant. Reeks of drink, and worse."
"It could be a disguise." Bran thought for a moment, weighing up the risks. "Have someone bring him to me. The rest of you keep your positions."
"Very good, sir."
He wondered if Hedges was looking at him. Anyone could disguise themselves as a vagrant, but with magic a man could take on a completely different face. A young man could become old. A whole man could become broken. That was why Hedges was here. He could sense the presence of the Light, and he could sniff out sorceries. He could unmask traitors, and bring them crashing down.
Can you sense anything? he wanted to ask Hedges, but he did not like to be beholden to such a man. Then he realised how selfish and stupid he was to feel like that. The cause was more important than any mere pride. He would humble himself if it meant the capture of a foul creature of the Light. To get his revenge on Will Stanton, he would even endure laughter.
"Anything?" he asked, keeping his voice level, but Hedges shook his head. "Tell me if you notice anything…" Bran began.
"You do not command me, Pendragon," Hedges interrupted him, sneering the title. "We share common purpose, but mine is more pure."
Bran chose not to fight it. He moved a few steps away, back to the paltry protection of the tree, and waited. After a few minutes, he saw the dark shape of one of his men, returning through the trees. The prisoner he was dragging seemed placid, as if broken already. Or pretending, Bran thought. Playing a part.
He glanced at Hedges, but Hedges was quite obviously not looking at him. The prisoner was Bran's, then. Bran went forward to receive him. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Harry," the old man said. His captor threw him down before Bran, where he grovelled on hands and knees. "Please don't hurt me. I sleep here, that's all. I haven't got a house. I like a bit of drink every now and then, you see. Wife left me, and they took my house, but I sleep in the woods, and that's not a crime, is it?"
Bran looked down at him. "Yes." He kept his voice low and cold. He knew from experience that such a voice induced more terror than a shout. "All citizens should live in proper registered accommodation. Sleeping rough is a crime." He bent down, just a little. "Being a member of the Resistance is a worse crime."
"Resistance?" the man echoed. "I'm not in the Resistance. They wouldn't have me," he laughed. "Too drunk."
"Ah, so you tried to join them?" Bran demanded.
"No. No." The man was pathetic in his grovelling. "A joke, sir. I'm sorry. I don't know anything about the Resistance."
Bran straightened up, made to turn away. "Of course," he said, "someone in the Resistance would say just that, too. They might even dress up as a vagrant and spin a story just like yours…" He let his voice trail off, and counted to ten, tuning out the prisoner's squawks and denials. "But if you are who you say you are," he said, turning back, "then perhaps you have seen people passing tonight. Not us, but others. Perhaps a little word about them…"
"I didn't see anything," the prisoner protested. "Nothing at all. Nobody, until the soldiers came."
Perhaps it was the truth. The Resistance was tricksy and knew how to move unseen, especially if they had foul magic on their side. This man could be just what he seemed, in which case he needed to be arrested for vagrancy and put to work in a prison camp, but not by Bran. Bran aimed at far higher targets, and dealt with the worst of crimes.
"I think you're lying." Bran started to pace around the prisoner. This, too, had broken many a man. He lingered at the man's back, knowing that the man would be trembling at the thought of a knife at his back, and death in a single word. "I think you're a member of the Resistance in disguise. Perhaps you even let yourself be captured deliberately, so you could strike…"
"No," the man gabbled. "No. It's not true. I'm not…"
Bran grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head up. "You could be a sorcerer," he hissed. He stared at the man's eyes, suddenly desperate to see Will Stanton's eyes staring back at him. "I could have you in my hands, the chief viper of them all."
"No," the man sobbed. "No, please, let me go. You're hurting me. Let me go. Please…"
His radio sounded. A distraction, Bran thought. He did not let the man go. "I will have the truth out of you," he vowed.
The radio sounded again, louder this time. Bran cast the prisoner away. "Hold him," he commanded to the soldier, as he snatched the radio from his belt. "What?" he snapped.
It was not McKenzie. The voice at the other end was high with fear and fury. It told its tale, and Bran felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and it was crumbling beneath him, and he was falling, falling…
"What?" Hedges demanded. "You see!" the prisoner cried. "I said I wasn't… I said…"
Bran hated them for hearing. He switched the radio off, and turned away. The rain had stopped, he realised. He wondered when that had happened. If felt like a new day, as if time had stopped when the message had come in, and only now was starting again.
"There is no attack," Bran said, still not looking at anyone else. "There is no trap. This whole thing was a trick, a diversion." A thousand men were stationed at Windsor, and hardly anyone left behind. His home, his office, all his possessions… The pride of it, and the shame. "We withdraw," he said wearily. Withdraw, and go back, and face the wrath and retribution that was to come.
"The prisoner, sir?" the soldier asked.
Just a vagrant. Nothing more than he appeared to be. "Let him go," Bran commanded, as he walked away into the darkness. "Someone else will find him soon. They always do."
End of part two: chapter sixteen