by Darius Hinks
Finavar frowned and turned to Sibaris. ‘Evil?’
Sibaris’s smile faltered but he gave no reply and held his finger to his lips.
Mälloch waved his sword at the two stranded figures who were staring back at him. ‘Would you be a Child of the Whitebeam? Would you join your soul to the forest?’
The two dancers nodded, but Finavar noticed that they were starting to sober up. Their religious fervour was starting to be replaced by expressions of fear.
‘Only one of you may pass beyond. Are you willing to offer your souls? Will you submit yourselves to the judgement of the Divine Consort?’
The dancers nodded again, but the fear in their eyes was now unmistakable, and Finavar noticed that one of them was testing the strength of his bonds to see if it was too late to change his mind.
Finavar shrugged off Sibaris’s grip and rose to his feet again, disgusted and unable to watch any more but, before he could leave, the lights failed, plunging the hill into darkness.
He stumbled to a halt and looked back at the tree.
The moonlight was still there, but it had dropped to a more natural level, and after the glare of the spirits, he was almost blind.
There was a hiss of indrawn breath and he realised someone was approaching from the far side of the tree: a tall, powerfully built figure with a crown of antlers. The newcomer towered over Mälloch, who dropped to one knee and handed over the ceremonial sword.
As Finavar watched the scene, his mind filled with images of Jokleel’s death. He recalled again how casually Orion had butchered his brother.
The horned shadow approached the tree with a horribly slow step.
One of the dancers began to whimper and sob, and the other cried out. ‘Mälloch! I’m not sure. Wait!’
Mälloch remained silent, and as the antlered figure raised the sword, the noble closed his eyes.
Finavar’s plans of escape evaporated as hate flooded his drunken thoughts. He was vaguely aware that Sibaris was howling at him in horror. Then he realised why. He was sprinting across the hilltop, sword raised, screaming a curse as he hurtled towards the tree.
Mälloch was still kneeling as Finavar reached him. He stood, with an amazed expression on his face, but was too slow to prevent Finavar from crashing into the Lord of the Greenwood.
Screams and howls erupted from the crowd as they realised what was happening.
Finavar lashed out wildly with his sword and felt it connect with something hard.
His prey tried to back away, but Finavar moved with preternatural speed.
He jabbed the sword again and forced it into something more yielding.
Before he could strike a third time, Mälloch grabbed him by the shoulders and wrenched him back, hurling him across the grass as the crowd raced towards him.
Finavar spun around and prepared to attack again, knowing he only had seconds before he was overwhelmed.
He froze in shock.
The Lord of the Greenwood was backing away from him. His hands were raised defensively. Even glimpsed in the half-light, Finavar knew it could not be Orion. He peered through the gloom as rough hands wrestled him to the ground, knocking his sword from his grip. He looked back and saw to his amazement that he had attacked someone dressed in a suit of carved wood: a collection of wooden plates, painted and scored to resemble the angular muscles of the king. The antlers were real enough, but they were fixed to a scored wooden mask.
Punches and kicks rained down on him but, for a moment, Finavar was too shocked to defend himself. The executioner was an imposter. He could see fear and shock looking back at him through the eyeholes of the mask, before the figure backed away into the darkness and vanished from view.
Then, realising he was in danger of being knocked unconscious, Finavar leapt to his feet and performed a graceful, vicious pirouette that scattered his attackers with a series of well-placed kicks.
Finavar grinned as he realised his skill had not entirely left him.
He landed briefly on the ground and then leapt on one of his attackers with a flurry of punches.
‘Wait!’ said Mälloch, in a deep, commanding voice.
Despite his excitement Finavar froze and looked back at the noble.
The crowd were incensed but they grudgingly obeyed Mälloch’s order. Most backed away but a few took hold of Finavar’s limbs, eyeing him nervously as they did so.
As his rage faded, Finavar registered the pain that covered his body and winced.
Mälloch loomed over him. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ He had retrieved his sword from the grass and he rested the tip of it on Finavar’s throat. ‘Do you understand? You have done a great, great evil. This rite has gone uninterrupted since the days of your forefathers.’ His voice was calm, but his lips were quivering with rage. He waved at the moons. ‘The moment of giving has now passed. It’s gone, stranger. There will be no Child of the Whitebeam this year. You have undone a year’s worth of dutiful stewardship.’ He looked down the hill, where the silhouette of the fake Orion could still just be seen, hurrying back into the forest. The noble’s eyes were wide with shock. ‘The spirits of the forest will be furious at this betrayal,’ his voice cracked with emotion, ‘at the time when we are most in need of their help.’
‘He must pay with his blood,’ cried someone in the crowd. ‘There must be balance.’
‘There must be balance,’ agreed one of the red-skinned wardancers, still lashed to the tree. There was obvious relief on his face, but he acted aggrieved. ‘We have enough troubles as it is. The tree must be fed,’ he muttered, still straining against his bonds.
Mälloch pressed his blade further and Finavar whispered a prayer.
Then the noble closed his eyes and withdrew the blade. He shook his head and backed away. ‘The moment has passed. It would achieve nothing.’ He glared at Finavar. ‘Whoever you are, you will not make me a murderer. Times are dire enough.’
‘Wait!’ cried a shrill voice. ‘The tree!’
Finavar turned and saw Sibaris, pointing at the dead whitebeam.
There was a splash of red across the trunk where Finavar had cut the fake Orion, and the bark was bubbling and cracking beneath it like a blister.
Mälloch rushed to examine the stain. He was silent for a few seconds, then he nodded in relief. ‘You’re a fool, Sibaris, but an observant one.’ He waved at the two wardancers bound to the branches. ‘Cut them down. Quickly.’ Then he pressed his sword into a crack in the bark and whispered a series of hurried oaths.
Mälloch’s servants freed the wardancers from the tree and helped them away.
As the stain spread across the ashen bark, the tree began to grind and creak and the two arm-like branches snapped into shapes that would have crushed the dancers if they had not been removed. The movements grew in violence, until the tree seemed to be caught in a silent gale, lashing and thrashing as its bark turned from grey to crimson. Rather than diminishing, the blood grew in volume as it spread across the tree.
The crowd backed away, muttering to themselves, but Mälloch’s tall frame remained motionless, hunched over the blade he had pressed into the bark.
Then, after a few moments, the tree became still.
Mälloch shook his head and withdrew his blade from the trunk. ‘It’s hard to be sure.’ He eyed the branches suspiciously. ‘Something has happened, but I’m not sure exactly what. Perhaps it will be enough.’
He turned to Finavar and abandoned his formal tones, speaking in simple disbelief. ‘What in the name of Isha were you thinking?’
Finavar sensed that Mälloch might be reasoned with, but he shocked himself by saying: ‘If you had ever seen the real Orion you would not endorse this ridiculous lie.’
The asrai holding Finavar gasped at his unrepentant tone and forced him roughly to the ground, but Mälloch only raised an eyebrow.
&n
bsp; ‘Some of us here have been lucky enough to join the Wild Hunt.’ He waved his sword at the shadowy figures gathered around the tree. ‘But none of us feel the need to disrupt ceremonies older than we are.’
‘Then perhaps you should question your judgement.’ Finavar glared drunkenly at Mälloch.
‘This is an outrage, lord!’ cried someone in the crowd. ‘He must be punished!’
‘Judgement of what?’ asked Mälloch, looking genuinely intrigued.
‘Your king,’ answered Finavar flatly.
There was a hiss of indrawn breath and many of the asrai drew weapons, but Mälloch shook his head and waved for them to be lowered again. ‘I do not follow you, stranger. What right does a subject have to judge his king? By what standards could we measure the immortal Lord of the Wild Hunt? Besides, why do you refer to him as our king?’ He frowned. ‘What master do you serve?’
Finavar felt a sinking sensation in his stomach as he realised he was too proud to back down. ‘I serve no master but my own conscience. I would give my life for my kin, or to protect the forest; but I will never again kneel to a false king. Orion is a murderer. He cares nothing for any of us.’
Mälloch kept his tone even and tried a wry smile. ‘Liathian wine is potent. Perhaps you have drunk a little too deeply, friend. Why else would one of Orion’s own subjects speak against him with such fervour?’
‘I am not his subject,’ snapped Finavar. ‘And neither are you. You’re his slave.’ He sneered. ‘Until you become his prey, that is.’
There were more shocked gasps from around the hilltop, but Mälloch looked concerned. He looked again at Finavar’s horribly wasted body and shook his head. ‘What happened to you? What drove you to form these strange ideas?’
Part of Finavar’s mind screamed at him to take advantage of the noble’s pity and say no more, but grief and anger spoke through him. Before he knew quite what he was doing, he began telling Mälloch his whole shocking tale – the tale of a bloodthirsty king, and the murder of his deluded subjects. Without realising it, Finavar quoted Ordaana’s bitter claims almost verbatim, denouncing not just Orion, but the eternal queen and their entire court.
There was such rage in Finavar’s voice that no one dared to interrupt until he reached the bloody conclusion, describing the slaughter of his brother in graphic detail; then he finished his story and the crowd fell silent, staring at Finavar in shock and disgust.
A few lone travellers gathered their things and slipped away into the shadows, muttering their disapproval as they headed back into the trees, but most stayed to see what happened next, turning to their lord to see his reaction.
Mälloch remained calm as Finavar finished his story. Then he lowered his head and massaged his temples, looking weary rather than enraged.
‘Leave us,’ he said to his subjects, gesturing to the trees with his sword. ‘I wish to talk to the stranger alone.’
Most of the wardancers leapt to obey, slipping into the darkness like ghosts, but those holding Finavar hesitated.
‘My lord,’ said one of them. ‘He’s dangerous.’
Mälloch raised an eyebrow, and the wardancer blushed and backed away.
As the crowd dispersed Finavar and Mälloch were left alone in the pool of moonlight.
‘You too, child,’ said Mälloch, keeping his eyes locked on Finavar.
Sibaris was standing a few feet away, watching anxiously. ‘My lord,’ he said, clasping his hands together. ‘This is all my fault. The stranger was a great help to me. I invited him to join the feast. If you want to–’
‘Leave,’ said Mälloch. His voice was no less commanding for being quiet.
The young bard was about to protest, but then he nodded and vanished as gracefully as the others.
Mälloch stared at Finavar with an expression that was hard to read. ‘People have been banished to the Wildwood for less.’
This close up, Finavar noticed again how ancient the noble was. Mälloch’s eyes bore the brilliance of centuries. His irises were the silver of moonlight.
Finavar was annoyed to be so intrigued by the noble and snapped his reply. ‘Indeed,’ he said, his voice made coarse by drink. ‘And have you ever wondered at that? Banishment to the Wildwood is a death sentence. No one can survive in such a place. Did you ever wonder why questioning our rulers is such an unspeakable crime?’
He waved at the darkness that surrounded the hill, indicating the silvery ghosts of trees, just visible in the moonlight. ‘Does Orion make the grass grow? Does he make the stars shine? Does he do anything, in fact, other than keep his people locked in an endless cycle of bloodshed?’ Finavar’s words rose in pitch until he was almost shrieking in Mälloch’s face. ‘Why should we revere him? Why should we worship such a monster?’
Mälloch opened one of his palms and held it out to Finavar.
For a moment, Finavar stared at it in confusion. Then he noticed a network of fat, wormy scars, running from Mälloch’s palm, all the way up his arm, before disappearing beneath his bearskin.
‘I rode with the Wild Hunt,’ said Mälloch. ‘I was old, even then, and I can recall some of what I did, how I clawed and stabbed, how I killed.’ His words became more abrupt as he tried to hide his emotion. ‘I do not know what manner of beast clawed me. I only know that I survived and it did not.’
Finavar’s rage faltered in the face of such a confession. His shoulders dropped. ‘Then you know it as well as I do.’ His voice was trembling. ‘For all these centuries, we have been tricked. Orion may be immortal, but as he hunts, we die and the whole bloody mess goes on.’
Mälloch shook his head and his words grew softer. ‘There is no trick, stranger, and we do not die. I came to this forest before even Ariel had stepped beneath its boughs – and long before she found her immortal lover. I have seen the way of things. I have seen the seasons come and go. Remember the teachings of Naieth. We are haunted by the ghosts of our past.’ He turned his penetrating gaze back on Finavar. ‘In the forest, everything is immortal.’
Finavar sighed as he saw what a fool he was being. No one, not even a survivor of the Wild Hunt could ever understand him. It was pointless. He had attacked someone in a wooden suit and outraged a whole clan for no reason. ‘I should not have come,’ he muttered, looking at Mälloch with a pitiful expression. ‘Will you let me leave? I promise never to return.’
Mälloch narrowed his eyes. ‘What is your name?’
Finavar hesitated, then shrugged. If the noble intended to punish him in some way, they would have to resolve it with blades; withholding his name would make no difference. ‘Finavar,’ he said, ‘of the fallen realm of Locrimere.’
Mälloch stared at him in shock, then let out a short bark of laughter. ‘Of course!’ He kept his grip on Finavar’s shoulder as he repeated the name. Then he let go, stepped back and looked at Finavar in silence, rubbing his jaw as he considered him.
Finavar found both the laughter and the silence annoying. ‘What do you mean “Of course”? Have we met?’
Mälloch shook his head. ‘We have not, but the tales of the Darkling Prince are sung across the forest.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But it seems the songs have lied to us about one thing. You live, Finavar.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You live and you still fight like a daemon.’
He fell silent again for a few seconds, considering something, then nodded his head in a stiff bow. ‘I’ve gathered my captains nearby, Finavar – no more than hour’s run from here. Would you join us? If there is any truth at all to your legend, I would value your advice.’
Finavar’s words were slurred by alcohol and emotion. ‘I’m not fit to be in your company. Your captains do not want to hear my advice.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I would not make a good impression.’
Mälloch smiled and, for a moment, it seemed as though constellations were spiralling deep in his eyes. ‘We should keep you away from t
he wine, certainly.’
Finavar was confused by the noble’s smile. ‘Why do you need my advice?’ He looked at Mälloch’s hand. ‘You have enough experience of your own.’
Mälloch shook his head. ‘I have need of warriors, Finavar, like never before. That was my purpose here tonight. I do not have the time to spend an evening in such idle pleasure. Others have been dying while I lay watching this dance. But I knew, as on every previous year, there would be a gathering of skilled warriors.’ He paused. ‘And you have skill like nothing I have seen before. The songs did not lie about that.’ His eyes glittered playfully, as though he were about to share a joke. ‘There’s another thing. There’s something I would like to show you. Something of yours that you might wish to retrieve. Something that might help ease your pain. A friend has kept it safe for you.’
Finavar clenched his jaw. ‘There is only one thing that will ease my pain, and it cannot be granted by Mälloch the Elder.’ He glanced at his sword, lying a few feet away. ‘If you knew the thoughts I harboured, I doubt you would have any desire to shelter me.’
Mälloch let out a low rumble of laughter. ‘My eyes are not that old, Finavar. Even a dotard like me could not be blind to your purpose. You just attacked someone because you believed he was the king. If espionage is your game you should try a little harder to hide your plans.’ He grasped Finavar’s shoulder again. ‘Join us, for one day. See how great our need is.’ He saw the refusal in Finavar’s eyes. ‘If you wish to leave the following morning I will set you on your way, without a word of censure.’ He lifted some of the bearskin to his lips and kissed it. ‘I swear it.’
Finavar considered the offer. A noble’s word was unbreakable, and if he was serious about hunting down Orion he would need to fully regain his strength. He had almost died at the hands of a few meat-headed outsiders but he had felt his old grace returning as he fought Mälloch’s guards. A day or two’s safety, with a ready supply of food and weaponry might be all he needed to recover. These were the logical reasons he gave himself for considering Mälloch’s offer but, much as he would deny it, it was the words ‘ease your pain’ that really enticed him. Was such a thing possible, even now?
