by Darius Hinks
‘We rode with him and hunted with him.’ Thuralin closed his eye as he pictured the scene. ‘We lost ourselves for a while. And then, when we found ourselves again, Caorann was gone.’
‘Then he died?’ said Finavar, his pulse racing.
Thuralin shook his head. ‘I think not. We have crossed half the forest looking for him and, everywhere we go there are rumours of him.’
Finavar smiled in relief. Strange as his old friends seemed to him, he could not help but be pleased at the thought of Caorann, still out there somewhere in the forest. For a second he almost imagined he could hear his friend’s booming laughter, coming from beneath the distant trees. ‘You’ll find him,’ he muttered.
Alhena mirrored his smile, but Thuralin maintained his habitual scowl.
‘They say Lord Beldeas survived the battle.’ His scowl grew more pronounced as he spat the name. ‘Apparently he and Captain Eremon are just a few miles from here, offering their swords to Prince Elatior.’
Finavar laughed. ‘Eremon’s sword may be of some use, but our glorious Lord Beldeas was never one for a fight. What of the hawk lord, Prince Haldus?’
Thuralin nodded. ‘They say he has returned too.’
The old warrior looked more closely at Finavar. ‘You are changed,’ he said, and it was clear he was not just referring to Finavar’s weight.
Finavar looked awkward. He knew they would not understand how he felt. His ideas about Orion would seem like an obscenity to them. How could they understand that the king must die if they were ever to be free? Seeing that an explanation would be meaningless, he settled for a half-truth. ‘Grief weighs heavily on me, Thuralin.’
Thuralin looked closely at him, clearly unconvinced by the answer. ‘Will you join us again, Finavar? If anyone could track down Caorann it is you.’
Finavar shook his head, looking even more uncomfortable. He was about to reply when Sibaris reappeared with an inane grin.
‘Friends of the Darkling Prince!’ he exclaimed, dropping into a low bow.
Finavar frowned, irritated by his jovial tone. Then he noticed how easily the youth was moving. He looked at Sibaris’s wounded leg and saw that Mälloch’s healers had treated it far more effectively than he had managed.
Finavar reluctantly introduced Sibaris and, to his annoyance, Sibaris and Alhena immediately struck up an enthusiastic conversation. They were both barely out of childhood and they were quite unaffected by the pall hanging over everyone else. Even the endless screaming could not fully dampen their spirits. Finavar watched in disbelief as they shared tales of the recent battle and compared scars, as though the situation were nothing more than a game. After a few minutes they stepped away from the fire to study each other’s weapons and discuss combat techniques.
He looked back at Thuralin and saw the same despairing expression in his eye.
They laughed. It was a short, grudging kind of laughter, but it was enough for Finavar to realise how much he shared with the scarred old veteran. He had always mocked Thuralin’s cynicism, but it no longer seemed so very different from his own worldview.
Finavar picked up a stick and jabbed it into the fire, attempting to banish the gloom with a shower of embers. It seemed as though the day were never going to dawn. He looked around at the dying and the dead. With the stench of disease hanging in the air and the endless screeching of the dam, the scene was even more pitiful than the aftermath of Drúne Fell.
Thuralin noticed his expression. ‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘but it’s only at moments like these, moments of utter tragedy, that I feel I can catch my breath.’
Finavar gave him a puzzled glance.
‘Don’t you feel that, Finavar? Life is so frantic – such a headlong tumble. It flashes by. I can never quite seem to catch hold of it. But at times like this, times of horror, it seems to freeze. When things are this dire the world becomes still; only for the briefest moment, but long enough that I can almost glimpse its true face. Then reality returns and I stumble on, hurled back into life’s ridiculous dance.’
Finavar looked at Thuralin’s ruined face. He had never heard him speak in that way. There was a refined edge to his words that broke through his ragged throat. Finavar tried to imagine him as he was before he was scarred. It occurred to him that there was a nobility to Thuralin that he had never really considered before.
‘I never asked what happed to you,’ he said.
Thuralin shrugged. ‘My memory of the hunt is unclear. After Drúne Fell we headed south, I can remember that much.’ His eye widened. ‘Haldus and Eremon were both there, I think. Orion was so full of blood and rage, though. Such rage. I never dreamt–’
‘No,’ interrupted Finavar. ‘I mean before that. Before you and Alhena came out of the forest and asked to travel with me. What happened to you before that? How did you and your daughter end up travelling alone, without any kin?’
Thuralin stared at him in surprise.
Finavar thought he must have offended the old warrior and was about to apologise when Thuralin shrugged again.
‘It’s strange that you should ask that now – now that it is too late. Maybe it is time to talk, though. What do I have to lose?’ He looked at Finavar’s emaciated body. ‘My hopes for you have come to nothing, so what will I gain from keeping secrets?’ He patted a pouch of seeds at his belt. ‘These have kept me alive longer than I deserved, but I doubt I’ll survive another winter.’
Finavar shook his head. ‘Your hopes for me?’
Thuralin looked at the others who were gathered round the fire. They were all either asleep or engrossed in their own conversations. Alhena and Sibaris were a few feet away, demonstrating their favoured methods of attack. He lowered his voice anyway. ‘I’ve never told Alhena the truth of her past.’ He gave Finavar a meaningful glance.
Finavar nodded to show he understood.
Thuralin stared at the fire. ‘It would not do for her to know her history.’
The old warrior fell silent again and his gaze returned to the flames.
Finavar thought that maybe he had decided against talking after all, but then, finally, he began to speak.
‘My youth was not so different to yours.’ He waved at his burned, crooked limbs and laughed. ‘Believe it or not, I was once famed for my skill as a wardancer. I was highborn, far from here, in the northernmost of the Eternal Realms. I had power and safety but, like you, I heard the song of Loec. He called to me in my dreams. I became a shadow-dancer and travelled the forest – singing his most beautiful, ancient lays and learning the Dance of Blades. My skill grew and so did my reputation.’
As he spoke, Thuralin’s hand gripped an imaginary hilt. ‘Nobles from every realm called on me for my wisdom and for my blade. I thought that no foe was worthy of my fear.’ He laughed – a dry croaking sound that quickly turned into a cough. Once he had calmed himself, he continued. ‘There was one foe I couldn’t have armed myself against, though – the oldest of foes; the one that catches us all. Love caught me in a trap more brutal than anything a daemon could have devised.’
His gaze fell back onto the flames and his voice fell so low Finavar had to lean closer to hear him.
‘I was blinded by passion. She belonged to another but I refused to see my crime. Even when…’ His voice faltered and he seemed unable to continue.
‘Even when what?’ demanded Finavar.
Thuralin looked away from the flames to where Alhena was sparring with Sibaris. ‘Even when she gave me a daughter.’
‘So Alhena is…?’
Thuralin nodded. ‘Her mother was married to a great lord. When she fell pregnant with my child he learned of the infidelity and did not even care.’ He closed his eye and massaged his forehead. ‘I did not see it then, but I think that was the first step towards my lover’s madness. Other disasters befell her after that and her love gradually slipped away from me. Until the
n she had been one of the Mage Queen’s most trusted handmaidens, but bearing an illicit child brought her into disrepute. The shame of it was too much for her. Her mind became venomous. She grew strange. She grew to despise me, and then she forgot me. To be forsaken by Ariel was more than she could bear.’
Finavar stiffened in shock. He had heard this tale before, from another mouth.
‘As her mind grew dark, I realised Alhena was in danger,’ continued Thuralin. He gave another hacking laugh. ‘What did I know of parenting? But I knew I had to act. My lover’s husband saw the danger but he cared nothing for Alhena’s fate. Finally, as my lover’s rage and despair grew, there was–’
‘A fire,’ interrupted Finavar. ‘She set her halls alight. She left Alhena to die.’
Thuralin froze and stared at Finavar.
Finavar nodded, sure he was right. ‘Your lover was Lady Ordaana.’
Thuralin mouthed a reply but seemed unable to form words. He looked to see if Alhena had heard. ‘How can you know that?’
‘She told me herself, just four nights ago. She didn’t think I would survive, so she confided in me.’
Thuralin’s lipless mouth curled back into a grimace.
‘But she does not know Alhena lives,’ continued Finavar. ‘She thinks she murdered her.’
‘And that is how it must remain!’ Thuralin grabbed Finavar by the shoulders and pulled him close. ‘She must never know that her daughter lives. Never!’ He was trembling with emotion.
Finavar tried to free himself from Thuralin’s grip, but it was like iron. There was such desperation in his eye that Finavar thought for a moment that he might attack him.
‘I will say nothing,’ he said, trying to calm Thuralin, but, even as he spoke, he pictured Ordaana’s tortured face and wondered if he could really be party to such a cruel lie.
‘Listen to me,’ whispered Thuralin. ‘Alhena lives because I gave her a chance to live. I took her from that palace before the flames could.’ He touched his deformed face. ‘I shielded her as I ran. I endured pain that would have killed her. And since then I have kept her safe. Ordaana has no idea that either of us still live. And I have trained Alhena to be more brutal than any wardancer alive. I’ve made sure that even when I’m gone–’ He hesitated, clearly horrified by the thought. ‘Even when I’m gone she will survive. I have trained her to be fearless, Finavar. You’ve seen how she fights – how she kills. I’ve made her that way. I’ve made her strong.’ He dug his bony fingers into Finavar’s shoulders. ‘But she must never know where she came from. It would be the end of her. Ordaana is cursed, Finavar, but Alhena need not be – as long as neither of them know of the other’s existence.’
Finavar looked over at Alhena. She was talking to Sibaris and laughing. For a moment he could imagine her as an innocent child.
Finavar turned back to Thuralin and saw the abject terror in his eye.
‘Why did you bring her to me?’ he asked, keeping his voice low. ‘After all those years rearing her by yourself, why did you ask to join me, Jokleel and Caorann?’
‘Loec punished me for my digression, Finavar. I shamed him so he let me burn.’ Thuralin looked at the pouch of seeds at his belt. ‘I found ways to sustain myself, but I knew I was fading. I knew I would not be able to protect her for much longer. I made her tough, but I thought that even she could not live alone. And I dreaded the idea of her returning to Locrimere and discovering her past. So, when I heard of the Darkling Prince – the famous, rogue Darkling Prince, travelling apart from his kin, I thought maybe…’ His words trailed off and his rage was replaced by a strange, awkward expression.
‘You thought what?’
‘I thought that if you saw her worth, and her beauty, once I was gone you might…’
Finavar laughed. ‘You meant to give her to me?’
Thuralin grimaced. ‘Nothing so crude. I thought that if I threw you together, you might wish to keep her by your side. And then, once I had gone, you might see more in her.’
Finavar looked up at the colourless sky, stunned by the old warrior’s words.
‘You can think what you like of me,’ growled Thuralin. ‘It’s meaningless now, anyway. You’re broken.’ He released his grip and sat back. ‘Your body might recover, but the rest of you will not. The fire has gone from your eyes, Finavar. Even if you wanted her I would not let you have her. You could not keep her safe.’ He looked at Alhena again. ‘I have filled her with rage. That will have to suffice.’
Finavar’s mind reeled as he pictured the impact of Thuralin’s lie. Ordaana’s mind was unhinged, it was true, but only because she believed she had murdered Alhena. There was such fear in the old warrior’s eye, though. How could he betray him? Besides, what good would it do now? His heart sank as he considered all the lies and hate that made up a life.
‘Rage is worthless unless it’s aimed in the right direction,’ he muttered.
Thuralin looked surprised by the bile in Finavar’s voice. ‘And which direction is that?’
Finavar waved at the wounded asrai and the teetering wall of forest spirits that was protecting them. ‘Look at the horrors we face from outside the forest.’ His voice became a snarled whisper. ‘And what aid do we get from our lord?’
Thuralin shook his head. ‘Mälloch? He has followed the guidance of Prince Elatior. He has led the defence at every–’
‘Orion,’ hissed Finavar, glaring at his open hands as though itching to lock them around a throat. ‘The lord who binds us to bloody ritual and leads us to slaughter, but does nothing to aid our cause.’
Thuralin stared at him, amazed.
‘He kills more effectively than any plague,’ continued Finavar, ‘and only rides to war when it suits his appetite.’
Thuralin recoiled from Finavar’s blasphemy and edged away from the fire. ‘You’re speaking like a fool.’ He rose to his feet, clearly disturbed by such strange ideas. ‘You should rest.’
Finavar blushed and fell silent, regretting his outburst. Then he leant back against a broken shield and tried to rest his aching limbs.
Thuralin stared at him for a while longer, as though he were about to say something else. He reached into a bag slung at his side and was on the verge of drawing something out. Then he shook his head, mystified by Finavar’s outburst. He sat down a few feet away and closed his bag again.
Finavar seethed quietly in the shadows, wishing he had said nothing. He fixed his gaze on the fire, trying to calm his thoughts and prepare himself for the battle ahead.
However much he tried to banish the image from his thoughts, he could see nothing but his brother, crumbling in a funeral pyre.
Chapter Fourteen
Someone shook Finavar and he sat up, groggy and confused, realising that he must have fallen asleep. He was haunted by a dream of giant grubs that morphed into old friends, who were in turn devoured by even bigger grubs. Then, as his eyes cleared, he saw the smouldering remnants of the fire and shivered, remembering that the truth of his situation was little better than his dreams. The screaming of the spirits had risen to an even higher register. Finavar groaned at the sound, clamping his hands over his ears. It was like a spear tip, twisting slowly in his skull.
Night had fallen. Only the fading embers of the fire enabled him to see the young warrior who was helping him to his feet. The stranger was pale with fear and staring intently at him, and Finavar sensed that there were other figures racing past – other asrai, slipping noiselessly through the dark.
‘What’s happening?’ he demanded.
‘Make for the Wilding Tree,’ said the ashen-faced youth. ‘The battle is lost.’ Then he let go of Finavar and ran after the others.
The noises grew louder and Finavar felt a rising sense of panic. He grabbed another passer-by and demanded an explanation.
‘Winter has come,’ replied the stranger, straining to free himself from Fi
navar’s grip. ‘The spirits are failing.’ His eyes widened as he looked back into the darkness. ‘The dam is collapsing.’ He ran off into the darkness and waved for Finavar to follow. ‘We make for the Enchanter. Mälloch says he is our last hope.’
‘Move!’ hissed another stranger as he ran by. ‘The daemons are upon us.’
Finavar staggered after the others, heading west down the valley. A silent host surrounded him. Shadowy figures whirled around him as he ran. He peered at them, wondering if he could spot Thuralin, but he only saw the faces of strangers, twisted by fear.
There was another deafening crash behind them and the sound of liquid – great torrents of it, boiling and rolling across the frozen earth. At the same time, the screaming of the spirits doubled in volume again.
Finavar staggered to a halt. He could feel the agony of the forest, echoing through the night. ‘I cannot allow this,’ he groaned, grasping at his head again. ‘This cannot be right.’
As the rest of the asrai fled from the noise, Finavar turned to face it. His limbs shook with the effort, but he began to drag himself back down the valley towards the dam. After a few yards the terrible cries forced him to pick up his pace and, soon, he was racing back towards the source of the din.
The dam was collapsing as Finavar approached – fifty-foot columns were tumbling towards him through the darkness. Trunks and carcasses slammed onto the ground, filling the air with flying debris and forcing him to weave and duck as he ran.
Acid was spurting through the gaps, spitting and hissing as the mesh of branches gave way, but still the spirits and animals did not flee. They remained in place, howling, shuddering and screaming as the liquid ate into them.
Finavar steeled himself against the din and raced on, leaping over tumbling branches and flashing claws. He was as keen-sighted as any of his kind and, even in the dark he knew where to head.
