by Darius Hinks
‘That is what the nobles were trying to reach,’ said Alhena. She waved one of her swords at the crowds of daemons that now flanked both sides of the broad river. ‘Only there is no way to fight through.’
She looked intently at Finavar. It was clear by her expression that she was elated by his return. She expected him to have an answer and, rather than daunting him, the thought thrilled him.
‘There is no way out of this valley but through that beast,’ said Sibaris.
Finavar nodded and was about to ask another question when more daemons headed in their direction. Their single, pus-yellow eyes lit up at the sight of three stranded figures and, as they neared the hill, Finavar noticed that one of them was carrying a fly-shrouded ledger of some kind, tracing a pockmarked finger over its rows of glyphs.
‘Caorann?’ he asked, glancing at the bodies that were floating all around them. ‘Thuralin?’
Alhena twitched, coughed, spat and then smiled. ‘Let us rejoin our kin,’ she said, jerking her head towards the crowds gathered below the waterfall.
Sibaris looked like he might burst with pride as he raced after Finavar and Alhena, back towards the asrai lines.
Chapter Six
They fought as they ran, wading easily through the water and vaulting over the enemy – pausing every few yards to rescue asrai warriors when they could. Finavar barely registered the kills. All he could think of was Alhena’s brittle smile when he had asked her about Caorann. His oldest friend. Still alive. The soul who knew him better than anyone else was going to fight and sing with him once more.
Alhena led them towards the thundering columns of water and, as they approached the falls, they were forced to slow down. The asrai wounded had fallen back to this spot and there were hundreds of them, staggering through the water towards a cave mouth on the south side of the falls.
The wardancers made their way through the crowds and clambered up onto a rocky outcrop behind the waterfall. They entered a cave large enough to hold several stands of trees and clamped their hands over their ears. They were directly behind the falls and the noise was deafening. The sound of the water crashing into the lake reverberated from the stone walls and the morning light was refracted by the curtain of water, throwing dazzling, rippling pictures across the ground.
Nobles and mages were dashing back and forth, healing some and hectoring others, but Alhena rushed on towards the back of the huge cave.
Finavar saw Caorann’s thick mass of blue hair from several yards away and cried out in delight. The tall, powerfully built wardancer looked up in surprise, then shook his head in disbelief as Finavar approached.
As Finavar rushed to embrace him, Caorann held him at arm’s length and scowled. ‘Fin, you wretched malingerer. Look at you. What hole have you been hiding in while we kept the forest alive?’
Finavar’s words faltered as he saw the anger in his old friend’s eyes. Then he relaxed as Caorann grinned and enveloped him in a fierce bear hug.
‘They said you were dead.’ He clapped Finavar on the back and winked at Alhena. ‘But some of us never believed it. You’re far too much of a chancer to get yourself killed.’
They looked at each other in silence for a moment and Finavar saw the sadness behind Caorann’s smile. He did not mention the death of Jokleel but there was no need. They were both painfully conscious of his absence.
Sounds of battle dragged them from their reverie but, as he stepped back, Finavar felt a rush of relief. When last he had seen his friends, at the foot of the Chains of Vaul, there had been a barrier between them. His bitterness over the death of his brother had made them seem strange and distant. But now, as he looked at their smiling faces, he realised that the seasons had turned full cycle. They were one, again, as they had always been. They were his kin.
The excitement of seeing his friends was so great that a song sprang, unbidden to Finavar’s lips. Without thinking about what he was doing, he held out his arms, threw back his head and sang a song from his childhood – a tale of Loec, the Lord of the Shadowdance.
The other three wardancers laughed in surprise and then joined their voices to his, waving their swords in a convoluted series of loops and arabesques.
Wounded or exhausted warriors lay all around them in the cave and, as the wardancers’ song grew more wild, some of them sat up to watch, confused. The end of the world was bearing down on them, but the wardancers’ song was as wild and joyful as if they were all attending the rites of spring, with wine in their veins and the sun on their necks. Archers and spearmen paused on their way back to the battle to watch the display with bewildered smiles on their faces. The music dragged them from their current agonies for a moment, reminding them of why they fought.
After a few more verses, Finavar staggered to a halt and turned to face Alhena.
‘And your father?’ he said, grabbing her shoulder. ‘Did you say he was here too?’
She was rocked by another series of twitches, but tried to disguise them as a deliberate gesture, spinning around and pointing to a frail, hooded figure, slumped against the cave wall.
Finavar felt a mixture of delight and sadness at the sight of Thuralin. The hunched old warrior was as determinedly miserable-looking as ever, but the life had clearly gone out of him. His body had been half-ruined by fire, long before Finavar knew him, but now a more determined enemy had finished the job. The side of his face that was not hidden behind his wooden mask was more sunken and grey than ever before and his single eye was so bloodshot it looked like a blood blister. He looked too weak to stand, but as Finavar approached him, he climbed to his feet with a hoarse, wheezing cough.
They stood looking at each other for a moment and a little of Finavar’s good humour faded as he recalled their last conversation. He had told Thuralin everything – how he despised their king and wished to overthrow the rule of the Mage Queen. His words now seemed the ravings of a fool. However cruel the Wild Hunt might be, it was part of them – part of their forest, in a way that Ordaana’s hateful philosophy was not. Her plotting and lies stemmed from another time, another world even. An echo of their ancestors’ deluded pride.
He said none of this to Thuralin but, as the old warrior stared into his eyes, Finavar thought that maybe he understood.
Thuralin gripped his shoulder with surprising strength and glanced at Alhena.
Finavar understood the silent request. When last they spoke, Thuralin had revealed his terrible secret – that Alhena was the product of his forbidden union with Ordaana.
Finavar nodded, reassuring Thuralin that he would not betray his secret, but his stomach twisted at the thought. Ordaana had been driven to cruelty and madness by the belief that she had killed Alhena. Could he really be party to such a lie?
Thuralin was chewing furiously and Finavar caught the pungent aroma of the fern seed that was both keeping him alive and killing him.
‘She has found a companion,’ whispered Finavar, smiling as he grasped Thuralin’s withered arm.
Thuralin nodded and replied with gentler tones than Finavar had ever heard him use before. ‘And you have found something too.’ There was wonder in his eye. ‘You have changed again, for a third time.’ He coughed hard and slumped against Finavar.
Alhena rushed forwards to help, her eyes full of concern.
Thuralin brushed her off and tried to straighten his back. Then he stared closely at Finavar. ‘You are no longer the heroic fool I met all those years ago, but neither are you doom-laden hunter I met at the Chains of Vaul. You’re something else.’ He narrowed his eye and looked at Finavar’s robes, noting how badly they fitted him. ‘How did you escape? You were banished to the Wildwood, Finavar. That’s a death sentence. Even for someone with your luck.’
Finavar looked around anxiously to see if any passers-by might have heard Thuralin’s croaked words.
There were plenty of warriors and nobles rushing through the cave, but only Sibaris, Alhena and Caorann were listening to the exchange, watching Finavar wi
th the same wonder in their eyes.
Caorann let out one of his booming laughs as he saw Finavar’s concern. ‘Nobody has time to worry about your crimes, Fin.’ He nodded at the blurred shapes beyond the waterfall. ‘The forest has been transformed. Everyone is too busy trying to survive to care about you. The council of the great realms has been broken apart. Besides,’ he lowered his voice, ‘your accuser died under something of a cloud. Prince Elatior’s defence of the Silvam Dale was unorthodox, to say the least. Even if things were as they were, there are few who would uphold Elatior’s judgements now – not after what he did to the Wilding Tree. When,’ he laughed, ‘if spring ever returns, the forest spirits will have a lot to say about how the Enchanter tormented that poor soul. Especially as it was all for nothing.’
‘Then the Silvam Dale has fallen?’ asked Finavar, picturing the vast halls of Prince Elatior and Lady Asphalia.
Caorann laughed again and clapped a hand on Finavar’s shoulder. Caorann was a giant by the standards of the asrai, at least a foot taller than most of his kind and unusually broad. As he shook Finavar, he made him feel like a foolish child.
‘The forest is falling, Fin. Haven’t you heard?’
Finavar saw that, despite his devil-may-care smile, Caorann was as afraid as all the others.
‘Then we have work to do,’ he replied, looking around the faces of his companions. The playful tone vanished from his voice, replaced by a fierce determination. ‘By Loec, I will promise you this: the last twist in this saga will be ours. It will not come from some pox-ridden lump.’ He flexed his fingers, as though imagining them crushing the life from an enemy. ‘The final joke will be in Loec’s name.’
Caorann stared at Finavar in shock. Then a broad grin spread across his face. It was an honest, relieved smile, with no trace of doubt. ‘By the gods, Fin. You have changed.’
Alhena clutched the hilts of her swords and her body became so whiplash taut that she managed, briefly, to be still.
Sibaris, meanwhile looked at Finavar with as much awe as if he were in the presence of Loec Himself.
Only Thuralin seemed unsurprised. He turned away and rummaged in a tasselled, leather sack that was slumped against the wall. He lifted something out and, as the other three stepped respectfully back, he handed it to Finavar.
The years spiralled around Finavar as he saw what the old warrior held in his trembling, palsied hands. It was his cloak. It had been carefully repaired in several places and fresh burrs and thorns had been woven into the black cloth.
‘We knew you would return to us, Darkling Prince,’ said Thuralin.
Finavar took the rolled-up bundle, handling it carefully so as not to cut his hands on the spikes. After all that he had been through, the cloak seemed like what it was – the ridiculous affectation of an arrogant child, but the thought that they had kept it safe for him, through all their trials and adventures, imbued it with a new potency. He was touched and honoured, but most of all, he was determined. He could not let them down. He would find a way to save them, and their home. He would become what they thought he was.
Finavar took the black cloak and fastened it around his shoulders. Then he looked around, realising that something was still missing.
Thuralin had already turned back to the sack and a solemn hush fell over the group as he drew out two ornate, leaf-shaped blades and held them out to Finavar.
‘We kept your possessions safe after the Battle of Drúne Fell,’ he said. He looked at the ground, seeming a little bashful. ‘I meant to return them to you when Mälloch the Elder brought you to me at the Chains of Vaul,’ he shrugged, ‘but I did not believe you were ready for them.’
Finavar took the blades reverently, as though enacting a ritual. Then he tested them – slicing them through the air and smiling as he saw that they were true.
The wardancers fell silent and looked at him expectantly.
He grinned and spoke in a bold matter-of-fact way. ‘I know who is leading the enemy against us and I know how to stop her. But first we should put an end to this little skirmish.’ He looked at the pitiful warriors who were still staggering out of the cave to defend the falls. ‘Somebody will be drowned at this rate.’ He tucked his blades into his belt and looked around at the shimmering walls. ‘Prince Haldus is no fool. Why has he gathered all our finest nobles here?’
Caorann nodded to a mound of enormous, convoluted shapes, half-hidden in the shadows at the back of the cave. In the darkness, they looked to Finavar like the coiled tentacles of a leviathan.
‘Do you see those arches?’ asked Caorann. ‘They are the entrance to tunnels, formed by the roots of Hallil and Hallos. The archways on this side of the cave lead into Hallos, the southernmost tree. It is those passages that Haldus has sworn us to defend, until he returns.’
Finavar peered into the gloom, recalling the colossal trees he had glimpsed outside – the two vast columns of bark that divided the falls into its distinctive claw shape. It made sense that such monstrous trees would have an anchor to match their towering limbs above ground, but he was still shocked by the scale of the roots.
‘Hallil and Hallos,’ he shivered. The names were familiar from countless gruesome tales. ‘The Pillars of the Falls.’ He strode across the cave in the direction of the enormous arches of root, amazed to have reached such a legendary site. The tales regarding Hallil and Hallos were bloody and dark, but all agreed that Kurnous Himself had hammered the dread trees into the forest floor, wielding them like spears and placing them as warning; forbidden markers between this world and others. ‘But why fight for this particular shrine? Of all the halls and glades we could be defending, what is so precious about these two trees?’
Thuralin limped after him, shrugging off any offers of help. ‘The caverns within the trees are forbidden, of course, but you must have heard the legends – they are home to various treasures, Finavar, not just nightmares. Our forefathers stowed many of their secrets in those old boughs.’
‘So Haldus wanted us to save a few trinkets that came from across the sea?’ Finavar looked confused. ‘Surely he should have mustered our forces at the Oak of Ages, to safeguard the return of Orion?’ Finavar could not think of the Consort-King without anger, but he knew that most of his kin still considered the Wild Hunt their most powerful weapon.
Thuralin shook his head but seemed at a loss for words.
Caorann stepped closer. ‘Did you not see the forest, Fin? The seasons have been overturned…’
Finavar shook his head, either unable or unwilling to understand.
Sibaris spoke up, his voice hesitant. ‘Without seasons, there will be no spring. And without spring…’ He let the implication hang in the air.
No Orion, thought Finavar. And no Mage Queen. For a moment, the scale of the disruption shook his confidence. Even a tiny imbalance could harm the forest. How would they recover from something this catastrophic? He wiped the thought from his mind and focussed on their current dilemma. When he spoke, he kept his voice level and clear. ‘I still do not see why he would choose this spot. It was clearly ripe for a trap. We are forbidden to enter those trees. There is no escape.’
Thuralin nodded. ‘I spoke with Laelia before they left.’
‘Laelia?’ Finavar recalled the Mage Queen’s handmaiden with a mixture of affection and fear.
‘Yes. Since the Mage Queen left the mortal realm, Laelia has shadowed Prince Haldus’s every step. She won’t leave his side, but while the prince discussed tactics with the other lords, I snatched a few hours of conversation with her.’
‘And she explained Haldus’s reasoning?’
‘Not exactly. Wood-seers are not ones for explaining, as I’m sure you remember.’ He laughed briefly and coughed at length, then continued. ‘I heard enough to understand Haldus’s plans a little better though.’ He glanced at the deafening columns of water that separated them from the battle outside the cave. ‘There are countless legends concerning the Crowfoot Falls, as you well know, but Laelia made
a point of discussing all of them but one. She discussed every treasure that has ever been ascribed to this place – so keen was she to avoid telling me the real reason we are here. She was not to know of my past.’ He kept his gaze fixed away from his Alhena, ignoring the surprise in her face. ‘Laelia does not know I once had halls of my own and that I have studied the old songs as well as she has. She did not guess I would notice the glaring omission in her explanation.’
Finavar and the others frowned at him, confused.
‘The gods forbade entry to those trees for a reason. Somewhere behind these falls there is a stitch in the Great Weave. Laelia made no mention of it, even though it is one of the most important legends attributed to this site. She did not want me to know Haldus’s real plan for guarding this place so she tried to dazzle me with tales of its other treasures.’
Alhena was clearly shocked by her father’s revelations of halls and learning but, before she could ask any questions, Finavar spoke up.
‘So what was the legend she avoided mentioning?’
Thuralin’s scarred face suddenly crumpled in pain and he paused to take some seeds from a pouch at his belt. He crunched them furiously for a few seconds and then seemed to relax. ‘A legend older than Ariel’s reign itself,’ he continued. ‘The legend of the ancient portal, placed here when our forebears first stepped beneath these boughs. A spirit path that leads back to the home of our ancestors.’ He looked at the shadows beneath the enormous roots. ‘From what I can gather, that is what Haldus seeks to preserve. He meant for us to hold off the daemons so that he could protect an escape route. An escape route large enough that hundreds of our kin might pass through it.’
