by Darius Hinks
The daemon waited for her to reply. When it realised she was not going to, its eyes blazed even brighter and it strode towards her. The surface of the pool strained and bulged like skin as the daemon tried to push its way into the real world.
Ordaana felt bile rising in her throat and she thought she might be sick, but still, she was unable to back away.
‘He is weak!’ roared the daemon, taking one of its claws from the axe’s haft and reaching towards her. ‘Only I can give you what you need!’
To Ordaana’s horror, the claw burst from the pool of blood.
As the daemon’s flesh entered the physical realm, it filled the chamber with a dreadful stink – a mixture of brimstone and toxic, metallic-tasting fumes.
Ordaana’s fear finally freed her from her paralysis.
She grasped her knife from the ground and fled through the hall, stumbling over the corpses and slipping in their blood.
Ordaana ran through the frozen dale, barging through hordes of refugees. She slid and scampered across the ice, broke through a wall of dead bracken and emerged into a broad, moonlit field, gleaming with a clean, white cover of snow.
She waded through the knee-deep drifts into the centre of the field and then dropped to her knees, clutching her head in her hands.
The cold seeped through her skin and into her bones and, after a few minutes, she sat up and began pacing across the field. The daemon’s appearance had terrified her. It was more disturbing than anything she had yet seen. The thing had radiated such malice that even the thought of its claw, bursting from the pool of blood, was too much for her to bear. She tried to drive it from her mind by staring at the expanse of glittering whiteness, but something kept drawing her thoughts back.
‘He is weak,’ she whispered through chattering teeth, remembering the daemon’s words and picturing the ridiculous, bloated form of her ally.
She looked up at the banks of snow whirling overhead, sparkling against the indigo heavens. ‘Perhaps he will fail me.’ The thought horrified her. She had done such terrible things. All she had to live for was the look on Ariel’s face as she took her life and the life of her king. Nothing else would matter, as long as she could end their reign – as long as she could see Ariel crawling at her feet, begging for mercy. But what use would Alkhor be when Elatior revealed the power of the Wilding Tree?
As the snow settled on her upturned face, Ordaana thought of the charge she had left in Alkhor’s care – their blessed offspring. She could not risk losing Alhena a second time. Besides, the idea of seeing the daemon in brass armour again horrified her.
‘Alkhor,’ she hissed, looking at black, sentinel-like trees. ‘Where are you?’
Her only answer was the breeze, whipping eddies of snow across the field.
‘I have news!’ she hissed.
She scoured the horizon for a sign of the daemon, but there was nothing.
She cursed under her breath and wondered what to do next. Finavar was certainly no longer a threat. Mälloch the Elder had sworn to take him that very night to the Wildwood – a fate that could only mean death. The Wildwood was the heart of the forest’s rage. The spirits contained within its borders were ever hungry for asrai blood. No one had ever survived such banishment. Elatior, meanwhile, was busy planning the impending battle with the other nobles. They believed that the only way to fool their enemy was to put up a determined defence; right until the moment they withdrew and sprang their trap. She had stood with them for a while, trying to garner more details of their tactics but, in the end, she had been forced to leave, for fear of revealing her treachery.
There was a rustling sound in the snow behind her and Ordaana flinched. She leapt to her feet and whirled around.
A raven was standing in the impression she had left, looking up at her. She was about to shoo it away, when she paused.
‘Alkhor?’ she asked, feeling vaguely ridiculous.
‘What is your news?’ replied the unmistakably amused tones of Alkhor.
Ordaana stepped towards the bird and was about to speak when it cawed at her in annoyance and launched itself into the air.
The bird vanished into the dusk and Ordaana shook her head in confusion.
‘Well?’ asked Alkhor again.
Ordaana looked around, trying to spot the source of the voice, but she had a horrible feeling she knew where it had come from.
She looked down at her shoulder and slipped her robe down her arm revealing the mark Alkhor had left on her flesh.
Then, for several moments, she could do nothing but scream.
Ordaana finally managed to calm herself by clamping her hand down over her shoulder but, after a while the movement against the palm of her hand became just as disturbing as the thing she was trying to hide so she took her hand away.
Alkhor’s sagging, beady-eyed face grinned back at her from her shoulder. One of the three marks had become the daemon’s mouth and the other two were now its glinting eyes.
‘You swore you would leave me intact,’ cried Ordaana, staring at the little face in horror. Her skin had puckered and darkened around Alkhor’s mouth and, as it replied, a miniature tongue flopped out of her flesh.
‘What harm is done?’ Alkhor struggled to speak for laughing. ‘I know how to be discreet. Who will even know I’m here? And think how close we will become. We can share everything.’
Ordaana stared at the face in disbelief, then dropped to her knees in the snow and began weeping.
Alkhor hooted along with her sobs, mimicking her desolated cries with a delighted grin.
After several minutes of this, the face started to look a little bored.
‘What have you learned?’ demanded Alkhor.
Ordaana managed to stifle her sobs. ‘Why am I doing this?’ she whispered, her voice full of horror.
‘You mean to destroy Ariel,’ said the daemon, ‘and I have promised to show you how.’
‘Then show me!’ Ordaana drew her silver knife pressing it against the face in her skin. ‘I know this blade can harm you! Tell me what I need to know or I’ll use it!’ Ordaana’s voice was a hysterical screech, but as soon as the words left her lips she blanched and looked at the surrounding trees, horrified by the thought she might draw attention to herself.
‘You might hurt yourself with that,’ said Alkhor, looking at the knife hovering an inch from its face. ‘It has more power than you think.’
Ordaana grew suddenly calm, noticing the mischievous tone that had entered the daemon’s voice. ‘What do you mean? What power? You told me that these symbols spell out your name. You said it can part your flesh. What else should I know?’
Alkhor smirked at her. ‘What is your news, Ordaana? What have you learned?’
She howled in frustration and hurled the knife into the snow.
‘Elatior is a proud fool. That is what I’ve learned.’
‘How so?’
Ordaana gave her shoulder a furious sideways glance. ‘He thinks Finavar is the architect of all this…’ She struggled to find words for Alkhor’s plague and simply waved in the vague direction of his army.
‘But what of his magic? Elatior is famed for his sorcery. How does he intend to use it against me?’
Ordaana’s eyes widened in fear. ‘All his magic has been bent on one purpose. He has used every ounce of it to torment the Wilding Tree.’
Alkhor laughed even harder. ‘What? Why would he use his magic to torture his home?’ The face puckered its lips as it tried to understand the noble’s reasoning.
Ordaana shook her head. ‘It explains the fury that pours out of that tree. The whole forest aches with it. I’ve never felt such pain.’
She remembered that Alkhor had been on the point of sharing something with her and continued with her explanation. ‘His plan is simple, but dangerous. He has tormented that tree for centuries in preparatio
n for this event. His witches have long foreseen your arrival, and tomorrow, as our child leads the attack on the Silvam Dale, he plans to send the Wilding Tree into a paroxysm of rage and then harness that power – directing it at the shuffling morons that pass for your army.’
‘He is a fool.’
Ordaana gave Alkhor another sideways glance.
Alkhor attempted to look serious.
She shook her head, unable to understand the daemon’s indifference. ‘Can’t you feel how powerful that thing is? I can feel the strength of it from here. It could ruin everything.’ Ordaana’s voice rang out into a void and she realised that Alkhor’s breath had vanished from her ear.
She leapt to her feet and reached for her shoulder. The daemon’s face was gone, leaving just the triangle of three fingerprints that had always been there. She stared at the marks on her shoulder, but they were motionless.
Ordaana whirled around, scouring the snow for a sign of her master.
The raven had returned and was standing a few feet away. She knew immediately from the glint in its eyes that she was not mistaken this time. The bird was waiting next to a piece of metal jutting out of the snow. It was the handle of her knife.
‘I will savour Elatior’s death,’ said the bird, without moving its beak, ‘and then I will tell you a little more about this weapon that you fling around so carelessly.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘I will not believe it,’ said Sibaris as he helped Mälloch through the snow.
They had walked through the night and, with dawn just a couple of hours away, the snow was coming down thick and fast. It was hard to see more than a few feet ahead.
He looked back at the two figures behind them. One was their disgraced captive, Finavar. His legs had been freed so that he could walk, but the rest of his skeletal frame was tightly bound. Glossy green cords were lashed around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides and his head was bound so that he was completely gagged. Lady Ordaana had pointed out that if Finavar were allowed to speak he might attempt to influence his captors with more lies. Elatior had agreed and made Mälloch swear to keep him gagged until the rite was complete.
Walking behind Finavar, and prodding him with a staff every time he faltered, was one of Elatior’s witches. The spellweaver was called Varamus and, like the rest of the Enchanter’s inner circle, he wore a long, white, ermine coat and a wooden barn owl mask that made him almost invisible in the snow. Neither Mälloch nor Sibaris had seen his face and, on the few occasions he spoke, his voice sounded oddly distant, like an echo of a voice, rather than the voice itself.
They had the unnerving feeling that they were being accompanied by a ghost.
Mälloch winced as he stumbled through the drifts. ‘I heard it from his own lips.’ He looked sadly at his great-grandson. ‘Elatior was right. I am a fool. I was blinded by my need for his skill. I did not stop to consider the importance of what he said to me.’
‘But he was drunk!’
‘He told me that his brother was murdered by Orion and that he meant to avenge him. I should not have ignored such ravings. He was drunk and half-starved but he meant what he said. I thought he was just deluded by his grief. I did not dream that he was already leading an army against us.’
Sibaris shook his head wildly. ‘He wasn’t! Why would he then join us in fighting them if he was their leader? Why would he kill our enemies if he had led them to us?’
Mälloch gasped as another pain knifed through him. ‘How can we be expected to understand the reasoning of someone who intended to kill our king?’ He glared at Sibaris. ‘The details are irrelevant, child. He had my sword. Do you understand? He took it from the dam. He destroyed the one thing that was protecting us as we were trying to flee. He destroyed a defence that was already wavering due to his assault on the Feast of the Two Branches.’
Sibaris blushed and looked away, muttering to himself. ‘I will not believe it.’
‘It remains the truth, whether you believe it or not.’
Sibaris was about to reply when Mälloch stumbled to a halt.
They had reached the lip of a precipice, looking down over a small, steep-sided gulley, hunched over a frozen stream. The ice flashed in the moonlight, like diamonds, scattered across the snow. On the far side of the gulley there was a wall of densely packed fir trees, bristling and dark.
Their sinister companion prodded Finavar up onto the ledge and then turned to face Mälloch.
‘Do you need to rest?’ Varamus’s voice rang out oddly from the wooden mask.
Mälloch shook his head. ‘No.’ He frowned. ‘I was just…’ His words faltered as he stared at the trees opposite. ‘The forest is playing tricks on us,’ he said eventually, with a shrug. Then he nodded at Sibaris and the youth began helping him down the slope.
They crossed lightly over the frozen water and climbed the opposite bank but, as they passed beneath the branches of the fir trees, Mälloch’s frown deepened.
‘When would you expect to reach the borders of the Wildwood?’ he asked looking back over his shoulder.
Varamus shrugged. ‘Another five or six miles south of the stream, depending on the time of year – and the mood of the trees.’
Mälloch nodded, still frowning, but gave no reply.
They kept heading south for another hour. They had been travelling at a painfully slow pace, due to Mälloch’s wound but, as they headed further into the trees, they found the going even slower.
The trees pressed closer in on them with every step and the firs were replaced with knotted yews, oaks and holly that had formed a near impenetrable mesh.
The shadows grew darker rather than lighter and every branch seemed to bar their way. Some of them grasped out like hands, strangely sentient for the time of year, clawing at their skin and confusing their steps.
Eventually Sibaris cried out in frustration. ‘Where are we? And where is the wretched sun?’
Mälloch climbed down into a small hollow and stopped for a moment, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. Like Sibaris, his face and arms were covered in red weals and his hair was a tangled mess.
‘We should nearly have reached the stones by now.’ He tried to look up at the stars, but the branches overhead were too closely linked. He turned back to the spellweaver. ‘What do you say, Varamus?’
The spellweaver looked down at the shifting mass of trees. ‘The borders of the Wildwood should be very near here, but…’
Mälloch nodded. ‘But we should be stood in a patch of open meadow, not this unwelcoming scrub.’
Sibaris glared up at the white-robed sorcerer. Then he looked around the hollow and spotted a wych elm that was not quite as fierce-looking as the others. He climbed up its naked branches and peered through the darkness, trying to spot a landmark.
‘Finally,’ he exclaimed, pointing through the branches. ‘Look there. There’s a patch of white. It must be one of the waystones.’
Mälloch peered through the trees and shook his head as he glimpsed the stone. ‘This cannot be.’ He looked around at the knotted thicket.
Sibaris dropped to his side and took his arm. ‘What cannot be?’
Mälloch was about to reply when he noticed that one of his legs was bound by roots. They were coiling up from the tree he was leaning against – sliding towards his waist like snakes.
He cursed and wrenched them away, almost falling in the process.
Sibaris held him steady and led him back up the slope.
Varamus watched them struggling without making any offer of help.
Sibaris lowered Mälloch to the ground beside him for a moment’s rest and glared at the spellweaver.
Varamus ignored the youth and looked down at Mälloch. ‘My master’s prophecies warned of this time.’
Mälloch looked up at him in amazement. ‘You knew?’
‘We suspe
cted.’
‘Knew what?’ Sibaris helped his great-grandfather into a sitting position. ‘What are you talking about?’
Mälloch waved at the hollow and the forest beyond. Even the shifting plain of snow could not entirely disguise the fact that the forest was moving. Roots and boughs were snatching at the darkness like cornered beasts. The whole region was alive, despite the season. ‘The Wildwood has come to us. That which was bound has been unbound.’
Sibaris recoiled, seeing the trees in a new light. His sense of dread now made sense.
‘Then we must leave!’ He looked at the others in shock. ‘The Wildwood is death. There is no escape.’
Varamus shook his head. ‘We’re safe for now. Whatever treachery freed the spirits has only recently occurred. He jabbed his staff at the hollow. ‘This is a minor tributary compared to the vast torrent that begins past the stones. Some mischief has weakened a portion of the ancient boundary, that is all.’ He shoved Finavar forwards towards the lip of the hollow. ‘Only one of us will glimpse the full horror of the Wildwood.’
Unable to see, Finavar stumbled and fell down the side of the hollow.
Sibaris raced after him and Mälloch lurched to his feet, drew his sword and rounded on the spellweaver. ‘His punishment is stern enough. Your cruelty is needless.’
The voice from behind the mask remained calm and distant. ‘Needless were the deaths of your kin, Mälloch the Elder, when this malcontent decided to betray you. It seems strange that you would defend their killer.’
Mälloch watched Sibaris helping Finavar to his feet and scowled. ‘His fate is pitiful enough. There is no need for us to behave like outsiders.’
Varamus shrugged and began climbing down into the hollow. As he did so, roots burst from the soil, attempting to fasten themselves around his legs. He simply tapped each one with his staff and they snaked back into the ground.
‘We should hurry,’ he said. ‘Until the waystones can reclaim their captives, this is no place to linger.’
The furious expression remained on Mälloch’s face, but he nodded. ‘He’s right, Sibaris. Help me down. Lead me to the stone. We must perform the ritual and leave, or we will share Finavar’s punishment.’
