by Darius Hinks
He looked around and saw the backs of his three friends. They were fighting with astonishing speed. It was a breathtaking sight. Finavar had never seen such a beautiful, brutal display. An enormous crowd of daemons had surrounded them, but Finavar’s friends had done the impossible and bought him a moment to shoot.
I will not fail, he thought, turning back to face the daemon.
The arrow was still sailing up across the river in a high arc. It was a perfect shot, silhouetted clearly by the clouds, but with the pouch still in place it was useless.
With his friends’ cries in his ears, Finavar saw what he had to do.
He sprinted from the hilltop, and raced down the riverbank, running faster than his heart could bear.
His thighs burned and his breath died in his lungs.
Daemons barred his way, but he leapt across them like stepping stones, bounding from their heads before they had chance to touch him with their venomous blades.
With a final bound he reached the summit of a second hill, nearer to the daemon.
He dropped into a low crouch, drew a second arrow and held his breath. For a second he remained there, motionless, letting his thoughts merge with the breeze.
Then he loosed a low, fast shot.
The second arrow flew straight, undercutting the first and, as the first arrow plunged down between the monster’s sagging jaws, the second one intersected it.
Finavar imagined he saw a flash of green light, just before the arrows vanished from view, but he could not be sure.
There was a chorus of guttural cries as daemons staggered in his direction.
‘Swim!’ howled Finavar, hoping his friends were still alive to hear him.
Then he leapt from the hilltop, not even taking the time to see what lay below.
Water and silence enveloped Finavar and he swam deep with broad, powerful strokes. Fish scattered at his approach and he saw that they were as changed as everything else in the forest. A trout rippled out of the weeds and Finavar saw that its face was a sack of frogspawn-like eyes and one of its dorsal fins had curved into a crooked, barbed horn. He changed direction but kept well below the surface of the water. He could hear splashes overhead and presumed that a daemon must be diving in after him.
He made for the centre of the river and found, to his relief, that his lungs were as strong as they had ever been. The healing of the tree spirits clearly ran deeper than just his skin. He powered through the murky depths for several minutes until, finally, he was forced to kick up towards the surface.
Finavar burst from the water, prepared to fend off a flurry of blows but, to his surprise, he realised that there were no daemons in the water. The splashing sounds came from falling rocks and pebbles. They were bouncing down from the surrounding hills and at first he struggled to understand why. Then as he drifted in the current, treading water, he saw that the forest was shaking. The garish trees were lurching and shifting, as though caught in a powerful storm and the surface of the river was as choppy as a stretch of coastal water.
Finavar looked to the figures that surrounded the river and saw that they had all stopped what they were doing to look back at the entrance to the valley.
He turned to look in the same direction and let out a howl of pleasure.
Ahead of him was the quivering, white bulk of the daemon that had dammed the valley. It was mostly unchanged – it still resembled a colossal hybrid of gastropod and canine, with a forest of translucent tentacles for a face, but there was one, small difference. Finavar’s heart raced as he saw that the daemon had sprouted the spear-like tip of a single fir tree. The tree had torn through the monster’s flesh and caused a fountain of black liquid to rush from the wound. The contrast of black and white made the wound seem all the more shocking.
As Finavar watched with growing delight, another treetop sliced up from the daemon’s innards. This one was much larger and caused the monster to shiver as though touched by fire.
Within seconds, dozens more trees burst from the monster, each one larger than the last and each arrival more violent than the preceding one.
The daemon began to lurch and twist as countless, towering trees exploded from its body.
The army of smaller daemons that filled the valley began to head away from the Crowfoot Falls, rushing back towards their master with dazed expressions on their faces.
Finavar heard familiar laughter from the riverbank and turned to see Caorann scampering back and forth on a hillock, whirling around on his heel like a drunkard.
Finavar laughed with him and then cheered as he saw that the giant daemon was trying to rise and draw back from the river. It was no use. The trees were slicing up from its body like a wave of spears. As Finavar watched in delight, unable to believe his ridiculous plan had actually worked, a whole clump of trees broke through the monster’s flesh, emerging with such force that a whole section of its blubber fell away, causing it to slump and roll to one side. As it did so, a grove of thick, powerful oak trees exploded from its face, destroying the monster’s head in a cloud of black liquid and spraying chunks of gelatinous flesh.
The valley shuddered again and hundreds of the smaller daemons fell to their knees, unbalanced by the tremor. Those who were left standing began staggering back and forth, unsure which direction to head in.
There was a sound like the tearing of wet cloth as the vast monster was ripped in half by hundreds of trees that burst, simultaneously from its abdomen.
Finavar was thrown forwards as the river suddenly discovered it had room to flow. As the monster’s body disintegrated, the Saros rushed to fill the gap.
Finavar’s head was thrust beneath the water and he tumbled for a few moments, unable to right himself. Then, breaking the surface for a moment, he began swimming furiously for the riverbank.
There was another loud tearing sound as the daemon’s ridged white tail came free, unblocking another section of the river and Finavar was plunged below the surface of the water again. When he re-emerged he was dangerously close to the boiling mass of water, blubber and trees that had once been the daemon. His excitement faded as he saw that he might die as a result of his own work – torn apart by trees or poisoned by the monster’s toxic flesh.
He swam as hard as he could, trying to escape the pull of the current, but the river was now hurtling forwards to reclaim its course.
‘Fin!’
Finavar could only just hear Caorann’s voice above the noise of the water, but he snatched a look as he swam and saw that his friend was nearby and pointing to a raised area of rock. It was further downriver and even closer to the maelstrom he had created with the Cythral Star, but he realised Caorann was right – it was his only chance of halting his progress.
He kicked in the new direction and felt the weight of the current pick him up and throw him towards the rocks.
There was a flash of white foam and then an excruciating pain across his face. Then he flailed wildly for a moment, swallowing water and cursing Caorann’s stupidity.
Strong hands grabbed him by the underarms and hauled him, coughing and spluttering from the waves that were crashing against the rocks.
‘Caorann you bloody oaf,’ he gasped as he was dragged from the rocks onto a patch of muddy grass.
‘Alhena you bloody oaf,’ said Alhena, looking coolly at him as she dragged him a little further from the water. She was as bloody, drenched and bedraggled as Finavar.
He laughed and squeezed her arm gratefully.
Despite all they had just been through, she maintained her cool expression as she helped him into a sitting position.
He looked at her as he continued coughing and trying to catch his breath, feeling a bit like a disappointing catch that was about to be thrown back into the water. In all the excitement he had forgotten that they had unfinished business, and that she had just lost her father. Did he still have her trust?
He stifled his laughter and allowed her to help him to his feet.
‘I must be a bloo
dy oaf to have thought this was a sensible plan,’ she said. Her tone was flat, but there was the tiniest hint of a smile around her eyes.
Finavar relaxed. It was a small concession, but it meant a lot. He squeezed her arm again and then staggered as another wave battered the rocks. This one came from the opposite direction, moving against the fast-flowing current.
As Alhena helped Finavar back onto the riverbank, he saw that groves of trees were still exploding from the carcass of the daemon, throwing the river back against itself and creating a dangerous torrent of whirlpools.
‘This way!’ cried a voice.
Finavar and Alhena looked around and saw Sibaris running towards them. He had a deep gash across his forehead and he looked ghostly pale, but he was grinning wildly. ‘We’ve done it!’ he cried, waving one of his blades back the way they had come. ‘The nobles are advancing!’
Finavar looked back towards the falls and saw that the youth was right. Lord Findol’s footsoldiers were rushing down the opposite riverbank, glaives lowered as they smashed into the fleeing daemons. As the waters receded and they picked up speed, their slender, tattered pennants trailing proudly behind them as they ran. Meanwhile, on the northern riverbank, where Finavar and the others stood, the riders from the south of the forest were galloping across the newly revealed mud, launching arrows and javelins as they thundered down the valley.
‘We have to leave,’ muttered Finavar.
His words were lost beneath the sounds of the water and the battle. The daemons were clanging their tuneless bells as they saw that the battle was lost and the asrai nobles were sounding their trumpets as they charged, seeing that an unexpected victory was suddenly at hand.
‘What?’ cried Alhena as Sibaris reached them, followed by a grinning, loping Caorann.
‘We cannot get caught up in their plans,’ answered Finavar, scowling at the lines of advancing asrai. ‘We have to leave now. They will want us to fight with them.’
Caorann puffed out his chest, looking pleased with himself. ‘And who can blame them?’ He clapped Sibaris on the back so hard that he staggered. ‘We’ve just saved their lives.’
Finavar shook his head. He looked up at the valley walls and saw that they were clearing fast. As their master’s hulk was being torn apart, the daemons were scrambling back the way they had come, seeing the furious host that was bearing down on them.
‘We must climb,’ said Finavar, making for the slopes above them.
‘Wait!’ cried Caorann, his grin fading, replaced by a look of disbelief. ‘Surely you don’t mean it, Fin? The battle is almost won. Thanks to us.’ He nodded at Alhena and Sibaris who were leaning against each other for support, both exhausted and sodden.
‘We’re all half-drowned,’ continued Caorann. ‘Surely we can take a moment to enjoy our victory and rest with the others?’
Finavar stopped and looked back at them. ‘Rest?’ he said, with no trace of humour. ‘Look around you. Do you think we have time for a rest?’
He turned and jogged away from them, making for the incline.
Caorann looked at the other two and shook his head.
Sibaris looked equally stunned as he turned to Alhena but she nodded, wiped the mud from her face and jogged after Finavar.
Caorann closed his eyes for a moment and continued shaking his head. Then he took a deep breath and looked wistfully at the glorious victory taking place behind them.
Sibaris gave him a sheepish look and raced after the other two.
Caorann watched him go and let out an exasperated sigh. Then he looked around, trying to spot something. After a few seconds he smiled and jogged over to the tall outcrop of rock that Finavar had landed on.
He climbed to the highest point and surveyed the incredible scene that was spread out around him. Lord Findol’s host had already crossed half the valley, hacking and butchering as they smashed into their fleeing enemy. The banners of countless other nobles were following in their wake and, racing from the hills north of the falls were the horse-lords of Cavaroc, with their tall plumed helmets and their beautiful, gleaming steeds. At the far end of the valley, Mälloch and the other spellweavers were descending from the Crowfoot Falls, shrouded in a golden haze of water and magic, like gods tumbling from the heavens. They advanced in the wake of the other asrai, wrenching weeds from the water as they came and lashing the fleeing daemons. And, just a hundred feet or so from where Caorann stood, the flesh of the vanquished monster was still exploding into new, verdant life.
Caorann stood there for a moment, taking in the whole, chaotic scene and then, even though he knew it would never be seen, he took a low bow, smiling and thanking an imaginary audience for their silent applause. Then, feeling a little better, he turned on his heel and sprinted from the valley.
Chapter Ten
They dropped like rain: warhawks, trailing plumes of silver mist and carrying masked, stern-faced riders. As he led them down through the clouds, Prince Haldus put a horn to his lips and played a long, single note that echoed through the ruined valley below. Where once it would have resounded across coin-bright lakes and emerald-green glades, it now struggled through a charnel pit. The carcasses of trees and beasts had coalesced, forming an enormous rotting tunnel, miles wide and drooping under the weight of its own decay: the diseased, sulphurous intestine of a leprous god. It had swallowed the entire valley and was slowly digesting it. The only life visible within it was fungal and palsied – gaudy, quivering limbs, draped across the slopes of a once-beautiful plateau, shrivelling everything they touched.
Haldus lowered the horn and glanced at it, thinking briefly of its fallen owner, Eremon, then he placed it on his back, crouched low in the feathers of his mount, and glared at the corpse of his home. His eyes were framed by deep, circular scars, but even without them his countenance would have been fierce. His brow was low and brutal. The eyes beneath it were red-rimmed with exhaustion and fury.
‘Avernus!’ he roared, looking back over his shoulder.
The rider nearest to him leaned forwards on his hawk, straining to catch his lord’s words. He wore the same trailing wooden headgear as Haldus and, like him, his bronzed limbs were circled by copper torques and coiling tattoos. He wore a flamboyant robe that Haldus would have felt ridiculous in – a gleaming white mass of swansdown that snapped and tumbled from his shoulders, giving him a far more regal air than the prince would ever assume. He was a brave, skilled warrior though, and Haldus had long ago forgiven him his vanity.
Avernus was a veteran of many battles, but the sight of the hellish tunnel had clearly unnerved him. His expression remained rigid and proud, but Haldus saw the doubt in his eyes.
‘Remember Thenot,’ Haldus cried, lifting a bundle of cords from his back.
Avernus nodded, raising a matching bundle. The cords were made of knotted vine tendril, glistening with oil.
Haldus held his gaze, eyes blazing until Avernus nodded back and adopted a more defiant expression. Then Haldus turned his face into the wind, savouring one last taste of fresh air before entering the pestilent tunnel. He closed his eyes for a moment, speaking quietly, reverently even. ‘For Thenot.’
Haldus had not intended his words to be heard, but Avernus did hear them, and mimicked the tribute with pride, lifting his voice so that the other riders could hear. Hundreds of voices picked up the call and Haldus’s heart swelled at the sound. He glanced back at the shifting banks of hawks. He had never wished to lead an army, but by the gods, what an army to lead. It was more like an elemental force – a vengeful storm of feather and steel, come to cleanse the forest of its cancer. Doubts were meaningless now. He was a feather, caught in a tempest.
He steered Nuin into the gaping, mouth-like entrance to the tunnel, disappearing into the gloom and leading the tempest to war.
Dark shapes rushed to meet him. Over the last few weeks Haldus’s mind had hardened to the grotesque absurdity of his enemy – giant, septic flies, clad in plates of rusted metal and trailing their own innar
ds. He was too far off to make out the riders, but he could picture them in his mind – stooped, pot-bellied wretches, covered in lesions and abscesses. He shivered as he recalled their vacant, sac-like eyes. Finding a way to destroy them had been such a wonderful moment in Haldus’s life that it almost eclipsed the pain of the preceding defeats. His eyes narrowed as he plunged towards them.
He waved the bundle of vines left and right, indicating that Avernus should lead their kin west as they entered the tunnel, heading to different sides of the valley. The storm parted into two spearheads, one led by Prince Haldus, one led by Avernus.
Wind screamed through Haldus’s headgear and the feathers of his mount. Fumes filled his eyes and stalled the breath in his chest. The warhawks were diving at bewildering speed. Haldus knew that his army would be fanning out around him, preparing to engage the enemy but, as his hawk dropped faster, the peripheral world fell away, leaving the prince to stare at a single daemon-fly, rushing up to meet him.
As always, he encountered the crows first – countless numbers of them, cawing and screaming as they bounced off his chest and mask. It was as disorientating as it was meant to be, but the warhawks had grown inured to the tactic. Nuin sliced on through the whirling black clouds.
At the final moment, Haldus saw the daemon-steed in all its bloated, pox-ridden glory. Its head dangled a long, glistening proboscis and its abdomen was a colourful slop of body parts and oozing boils. The rider had its single, yellow eye locked on Haldus and pointed one of its long, crooked fingers in his direction.
Haldus smiled.
Nuin banked hard to the right.
The warhawk screamed past the fly-creature and Haldus unfurled his bundle of vine tendrils, enveloping both monster and rider in a thick mesh of green cord.
Nuin soared back up away from the ground. Haldus and Nuin moved as one. They had grown together. There was a lifetime of shared understanding between them. As the hawk swooped, Haldus’s body slumped and rolled in perfect unison. He barely had to tighten his grip on Nuin’s feathers.
The fly-monster thrashed its ragged wings uselessly in the netting and the daemon rider howled.
