by Darius Hinks
Naieth gave him a warning glance. ‘Haldus is not the Chosen One, Atolmis.’
He looked down at her in silence, unconvinced. If she saw hope in the name of Haldus, surely it was because Orion’s blood ran in his veins. Atolmis thought of how close Prince Haldus had always been to the king. Every year they hunted together.
He shared none of this with Naieth and said simply: ‘Lead the way. Let us find what we find.’
They crossed polluted streams and tainted groves and after a few hours they heard the falls up ahead. The stags picked up their pace, sensing the urgency of their riders and soon the foetid air grew damp with spray and the noise of the falls became a booming, rolling drum.
They reached the northern lip of the valley and looked out, expecting to see a fierce battle below. To their delight, they saw a limb of pure, green forest, reaching out into the mounds of offal and fungus. The forest was fighting back – reclaiming the ground that had been lost.
Atolmis leant forwards, excited by the idea. Then he noticed that the trees had not spread far beyond the banks of the Saros.
There were pockets of fighting below, but the battle was clearly over and the asrai had won. There was a great gathering of banners and nobles near the foot of the falls and Atolmis guessed that there was a council of war taking place.
‘I don’t see his standard,’ he said, turning to Naieth. ‘There are hawk lords there, but none from the Cáder Donann.’
Naieth ignored him. She was looking away from the asrai to the opposite end of the valley, where the trees were most tightly packed. ‘I see his hand in this.’
‘Whose hand? Haldus’s?’
‘No.’ Naieth looked irritated and confused. ‘Or yes, in a sense. Their paths are joined. Haldus is here. Or he has been here. It is his council you see down there. But he did not win this battle. It was the figure I saw on the thread.’ Her eyes widened. ‘It was Kurnous.’
Atolmis clutched his spear tighter and stared at the crowds of warriors, trying to make out the prince.
Naieth saw his excitement and shook her head. ‘It’s not what you think.’ She nodded to a winding path, leading down to the river. ‘Let us see what happened here.’
Atolmis nodded and urged his stag forwards.
At that moment a wave of daemons exploded from the slopes below, pursued by a band of asrai warriors, clad in heavy leather armour and clutching long, ornate glaives.
The stags reared in alarm as the daemons rushed towards them.
Atolmis had never seen the monsters look afraid, but these creatures were clearly panicked, despite numbering in the dozens and being pursued by only six asrai. They were already on them, however and he had little time to think.
He stood up on the stag’s back, twirled his spear around and cracked the blunt end into the face of the first daemon, sending it cartwheeling back through the air.
His fellow riders edged backwards, drawing blades and readying spears as the daemons charged.
Caught between their pursuers and the riders, the daemons grew even more desperate, throwing themselves wildly at Atolmis and the others.
The riders fought with quiet brutality, lunging, hacking and slicing until there was a pile of twitching limbs scattered around them.
The armoured asrai soldiers faltered at the sight of the riders. It was clear that they were almost as afraid of the horned priests as they were of the daemons, but as Atolmis and the others began to kill their prey, they overcame their fear and crested the brow of the hill, smashing into the panicked daemons from behind.
The daemons stood little chance, but their erratic movements confused the stags and the skirmish quickly descended into a chaotic scene.
Atolmis had to stay his hand several times, for fear of injuring his own kin and some of daemons began to grow bolder, turning back on their pursuers.
Finally, with a snarl of frustration he dropped from his mount and waded into the fray.
He immediately regretted his decision. At ground level things were even more confusing. He was about to call his steed when a brittle, female scream rang out.
Atolmis felt a chill of terror as he looked around for Naieth and saw what a fool he had been.
The daemons were not the panicked prey he had thought they were. While Atolmis and the others had been busy running in circles, several larger shapes had crept quietly from the rotten trees. They were of a similar breed to the other daemons – bony limbs, rotten, diseased flesh, pot bellies and single, yellow eyes – but they were twice the size and clad in thick, armour-like hide. Rather than a single tusk, their heads were crowned with a cruel nest of jagged horns and as they began to laugh, long, segmented tongues tumbled from between their fangs.
Naieth had pinned one of them to the ground, binding it to the spot with cords of green light that were spiralling from her staff. But Atolmis growled in alarm as he saw the reason for her scream. Another of the giants had plunged its rusty, slimy sword deep into her back.
Atolmis charged through the scrum of figures, fending off blows and vaulting over a wounded asrai warrior.
When he was still a few feet away he stopped, rocked back on his heels and launched his spear at the daemon.
His aim was true and the giant stumbled backwards, clawing at the new addition to its face.
Atolmis sprang forwards again, drawing a knife as he leapt over the wounded sorceress and threw himself at the giant daemon.
He collided with it just as it managed to steady itself and raise its bloody sword.
The two blades clattered off each other and Atolmis tumbled to the ground.
He leapt to his feet to see the grinning daemon rearing up over him, drawing back its sword to take his head.
There was a series of thuds as more spears slammed into the giant daemon.
It was jolted forwards by the impact of several blows, staggering past Atolmis and dropping its sword.
He looked back at the fight and saw that every one of his fellow riders had seen his fall and hurled their spears. Each of them spared him a few more seconds of their attention then, as the giant toppled to the ground, looking dazed, they drew blades and turned back to the battle.
Atolmis clambered to his feet and ran over to the fallen daemon.
It attempted to rise but there were seven spears lodged in its torso and, as it thrashed and lurched across the ground, spitting bile, Atolmis wrenched one of the spears free and jammed it into the daemon’s giant eye with such force that the tip broke through the back of its skull and pinned it to the ground.
Even blinded and skewered with spears, the daemon continued thrashing around on the floor, like an overturned beetle trying to right itself.
Atolmis grabbed a sword from the ground and brought it down through the daemon’s neck, finally wiping the disgusting leer from its face and causing it to grow still.
He heard Naieth cry out again and whirled around to see that she was fending off another attack. She had crushed the life from one giant daemon, but her robes were drenched in blood and she was staggering weakly away from a row of the smaller daemons who were all hacking at her with crude, broken swords.
Atolmis called for help and raced towards her.
Again, the other riders responded – rushing to his aid and crashing into the daemons with fists and swords. As Naieth toppled, white-faced to the ground, their attack became even more ferocious and, in a few minutes, the daemons had been torn apart or driven from the precipice.
The armoured soldiers backed away, watching from a few feet away as the blood-splattered riders hurried to Naieth’s side.
She stared at Atolmis as he lifted her head from the ground, seeming not to recognise him, then she stiffened in pain and passed out, collapsing in his arms like a bundle of rags.
He clenched his fists beneath her back and shook his head. ‘Blood, bark and bone,’ he whispered, crushing her to his chest and burying his face in her neck. ‘You will not leave us.’
The other riders looked sho
cked and seemed at a loss to know what to do, while the asrai warriors simply looked on with panicked expressions, guessing that a great noble had been killed.
As Atolmis nestled his face in Naieth’s neck he felt her pulse, throbbing weakly.
‘She lives,’ he gasped, looking at the others.
One of the armoured warriors dared to speak up. ‘There are mages here,’ he called out, pointing his glaive at the valley. ‘Powerful mages. Mälloch the Elder is amongst them.’
Atolmis nodded and lifted Naieth from the ground.
‘Lead the way,’ he growled.
The nobles had gathered on a hilltop, a few hundred feet from the falls. They were sitting cross-legged in a circle, regal and proud, despite their tattered robes. Several of them had standards planted in the ground behind them, but the flags were slashed and filthy and some of the nobles carried grave-looking wounds, hastily dressed. Their soldiers and subjects were gathered around the hill in their thousands. It was a huge gathering of kindreds. People from all corners of the great realms were hurrying back and forth carrying water and herbs to the injured, cleaning weapons, fletching arrows or just resting on the churned, muddy grass. As Atolmis rode through the shallows of the river towards them, carrying Naieth’s lifeless body in his arms, he saw spellweavers moving amongst them, healing some and ending the suffering of others. It was a grim scene, but he did not pause, riding straight for the nobles on the hill.
Cries rang out as people spotted the horned riders and their antlered steeds. Some backed away in fear, making the sign of Kurnous across their chests and muttering prayers; others rushed forwards begging for news of the Consort-King. Atolmis paid them no heed as he dismounted and strode up the hillside towards the nobles who had now risen to their feet and were walking towards him. Some were draped in exotic furs, some wore tall, plumed helmets and some were wrapped in flamboyant, shimmering robes, but all of them were clearly great guardians of the forest, with proud, terrible faces, crowds of attendants and guards scurrying around them.
Most of the nobles had seen Atolmis before, at rites and ceremonies and, despite their stature, they nodded their heads respectfully as Orion’s honour guard reached the top of the hill.
The first to approach Atolmis was a heavily armoured lord. What little of his face was visible revealed cruel, angular features and he carried a long spear of living maplewood that rippled with slender, spiralling tendrils, as though it were constantly engulfed in green flames.
‘Pyre warden.’ His voice was clear and confident. ‘Your timing is good. Victory is finally within our grasp.’ He waved his rippling spear at the surrounding valley. Asrai warriors were everywhere, rushing through the new trees, dismembering the few daemons that had not already fled. ‘And with your help…’ His words trailed off as he saw the prone figure in Atolmis’s arms. ‘Is that the prophetess?’
Atolmis nodded. ‘Where are the spellweavers, Lord Findol?’ he demanded.
The noble paled as he saw Naieth’s terrible wound.
‘Mälloch!’ cried Lord Findol, whirling around and looking into the crowds of injured warriors at the foot of the hill. ‘Join us!’
Several faces turned to look back towards the riverbank where a tall noble was tending to the wounded. He was dressed in a huge bearskin and his flesh shimmered with an odd, otherworldly light. He looked up at Lord Findol’s voice and Atolmis recognised his long, aquiline face and a hooked nose. He barged through the crowds towards him, conscious of the blood that was still flowing from his charge.
Mälloch moved quickly to meet him. The noble was so tall he almost matched Atolmis’s height and he showed none of the wariness the asrai displayed at the sight of him. When he saw the state of Naieth, however, he grimaced and shook his head.
‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘place her on the ground.’
Atolmis did as he was asked and watched anxiously as Mälloch crouched beside Naieth and examined her wounds.
‘By the gods,’ muttered the noble as his fingers traced over her bloody robes. ‘We are living in strange times.’ He looked up at Atolmis. ‘She’s half way to the Otherworld.’ The words were awkward in his mouth. ‘We may lose her.’
‘No we may not.’ Atolmis gave Mälloch a dangerous look.
Mälloch nodded. ‘Be quick then. Find me some…’ He rose to his feet and looked over the heads of the amazed onlookers. ‘There,’ he said, pointing to the foot of the falls, and the cave-like openings in the trunk of Hallos. ‘There might be some Lus-Cora leaves. That would be a start.’ He placed his hand on Naieth’s pale forehead. ‘She hasn’t given up the fight yet, but she’s wandering in some strange, distant groves.’
Atolmis nodded to the other riders and they ran from the hillside, leapt back onto their stags and raced towards the waterfall.
Atolmis watched them for a moment, then looked back at Mälloch. The spellweaver had now placed both his hands underneath Naieth’s head, tilting it back slightly. Lord Findol and the other asrai nobles had come to stand beside Atolmis: together they watched as tiny tendrils of light coiled around Mälloch’s fingers, forming a shimmering mesh around Naieth’s head, rippling like liquid metal beneath the copper curls of her hair.
Naieth’s body began jolting and twitching. Her eyes opened, but only the whites were visible and a crimson froth had formed at her lips. She made a low, whining noise and Mälloch looked even more troubled. He looked around anxiously, but there was no sign of the riders, so he drew his sword and ran one of his fingers along the edge of its blade. A vivid red trickle ran down the palm of his hand and he cradled it in his fist, muttering a charm. Then he held his fist over Naieth’s mouth, squeezing a few drops of his blood between her lips. This only made her spasms more violent. Mälloch cursed and shook his head.
Naieth started choking and Atolmis felt a growing sense of panic. He looked up and saw that one of his fellow priests, Olachas, was running back up the slope towards him, clutching a handful of leaves.
Atolmis lunged forwards, snatched them from his hand and thrust them at Mälloch.
Mälloch crushed the leaves in his bloody hands, grinding them between his palms until a gooey pulp started to bubble up between his fingers. Then he rose to his feet, held his hands over his head and shouted a single word: ‘Bethsobhal!’
There was loud crack and the entire hill juddered, as though stirring in its sleep. Several of the nobles stumbled and Mälloch reeled away from Naieth, still holding his bloody hands over his head. Then, recovering his balance, he rushed forwards, dropped to his knees and jammed both his fists into Naieth’s back, pushing through the gaping spear wound and gripping her spine.
She opened her eyes and screamed.
Emerald flames enveloped them both.
Naieth lurched to her feet and hurled Mälloch away from her. Then, with green flames still dripping from her fingers, she pointed at Atolmis and began to laugh.
‘Let the hunt begin!’ she cried.
Naieth’s lips moved as she spoke, but the sound came from the earth. It groaned and rumbled through Atolmis’s feet and filled him with fear and hope. There was fury and determination in the command. They were the words of someone who still had faith.
‘The hunt?’ He looked at Olachas, to see if he understood, but the other rider looked just as confused.
‘We have no king,’ said Atolmis, stepping towards the blazing sorceress. ‘Who would lead the hunt?’
‘My vision is finally clear, Atolmis,’ she said, rushing towards him and grabbing his shoulders. ‘I was almost lost.’ She looked up at the clouds. ‘The gods are but a breath away.’ She glanced suspiciously at Mälloch who was still lying on the grass a few feet down the slope. Then she laughed incredulously. ‘I almost glimpsed their plan, Atolmis. Think of that – the dreams of gods.’
Atolmis shook his head in confusion.
‘Orion lives!’ cried Naieth, squeezing Atolmis’s arms. ‘He lives, Atolmis. You must plant the eternal seed in his chest and begin the rites. We m
ust dress him for spring.’
Atolmis still looked dazed.
‘Orion was here,’ she continued, trembling with emotion. ‘He was the one who brought victory to this valley. He was here less than a day ago.’ She laughed. ‘He is Finavar,’ she whispered, shaking Atolmis like a child. ‘He did not die. The Chosen of Kurnous is out there, waiting for you to anoint him.’
Atolmis grinned back, revealing his long, yellow incisors.
‘Finavar?’ asked Mälloch, climbing to his feet, still drenched in Naieth’s blood.
Naieth seemed to notice the crowds for the first time and grimaced as she saw how many people had heard her words.
‘I know where he was heading,’ continued Mälloch, lowering his voice as he approached. ‘One of my own kin is travelling with him, as well as some of the shadow-dancers who escaped the fall of Locrimere.’ He pointed to a narrow pass at the far end of the valley. ‘He took the north route out of the valley. They can’t be far from here.’
Atolmis howled and jabbed his spear at the sky. The nobles standing closest to him backed away, unnerved by the unearthly sound of his voice, but Olachas mirrored the gesture, raising his own spear and letting out an equally fierce roar. The other riders did the same and the valley was filled with the sound of their strange cries.
Atolmis closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to sprout from his flesh, spreading out through the soil and reaching out towards the far end of the valley. Until this moment, he had stifled his senses, afraid to taste the forest’s corruption, but now he braved the cloying, creeping grasp of the plague and allowed the forest back into his soul. He staggered under the weight of its pain and fury, but sensed that Naieth was right. Kurnous was out there. The forest god was amongst them.
Without sparing another glance for Naieth or the nobles, he ran back towards his steed. The stag was waiting for him and bolted as soon as he was on its back. Olachas and the others followed close behind, galloping through the forest on a wave of renewed hope.
Naieth watched them go, her eyes blazing. Then a cloud passed across her face and she shook her head.
‘There is something you did not tell them,’ said Mälloch, climbing to his feet, blood dripping from his hands. ‘What else did you see?’
