by John Gwynne
Lykos staggered to his feet, swayed with nausea as pain jolted through his shoulder and curled his arm protectively into his chest. He began to stagger towards the safety of Drassil, felt blood trickling down his hip, a burning pain, and his shoulder throbbed rhythmically with every step.
Bastard almost had me. Guess the Kadoshim do have their uses.
He heard a furious screech from somewhere above. Stumbling to a halt, he looked up to see that Maquin had twisted in his captor’s grip and was furiously knifing the beast’s belly, opening its guts. Then the Kadoshim was falling, dead in the air, Maquin holding it tight.
The fall must kill him. They are too high. Please, the fall must kill him. Asroth below, I have sold you my soul, conquered half the Banished Lands for you. Do this one thing for me. Kill that lunatic.
Lykos watched horror-struck as he saw Maquin climb around the Kadoshim’s body, even as they were plummeting, somehow dragging himself up onto its back, wrapping one flapping leathery wing around himself.
They slammed into the ground, a few hundred paces away, earth and grass exploding around the body, a cloud of dust, slowly settling.
Lykos breathed out a long sigh of relief.
Then a wing twitched, was thrown off, and Maquin rose from the Kadoshim’s ruin, a long cut across his forehead, a limp in his left leg, but other than that he appeared to be infuriatingly healthy.
‘Elyon above and Asroth below,’ Lykos whispered, feeling a cold breath upon his neck.
‘LYKOS,’ he heard Maquin scream.
Lykos began to run.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE
CORBAN
Corban lay upon the cold stone floor, wrapped in coils of unbreakable smoke, and watched as the torrent of Kadoshim continued to pour from the cauldron. His friends lay about him, just as helpless.
I’ve led us to this. Brina dead. Laith dead. All for nothing.
He felt as if his heart was stopping in his chest at the thought of Brina. He remembered that first night when he’d crept into her cottage and tried to steal something to prove his courage to Rafe, Edana and the others; Brina had caught him, scolded him, but even then been kind to him, allowed him to take a bone comb of hers to show the others that he was no coward. From that night on she had become a part of his life. Terrifying, abrasive, downright rude most of the time, but he had come to love her like kin.
And now she’s dead. Thrown into the cauldron like a piece of meat.
How did Calidus know I was coming here? Bringing the last two Treasures?
He remembered the voice in his head, just before the trap had been sprung, calling him to the Otherworld.
Meical.
Corban closed his eyes and thought of the Otherworld, focusing on the fortress he had been taken to, where Meical had been, the throne room carved into high mountains amongst the clouds, and then he felt himself spinning, faster and faster, falling into darkness.
He opened his eyes to find he was standing at the top of a stairwell, the world around him made up of shades of grey. He reached for his sword and was reassured to feel it sheathed at his hip. Great arched windows opened onto a clouded world, mountain cliffs rearing high. A sound grew, louder with each passing moment, like approaching thunder. Corban stared out of the windows and saw a vast host appear, wings beating in steady unison, propelling warriors through the sky, sweeping through the clouds and mountain heights like a great white-winged avalanche; they were not Kadoshim, but the Ben-Elim, hundreds, no, thousands of them, winging through the air in gleaming shirts of scale-mail, bright spears and swords in their fists, eyes blazing with fury.
Like a hurricane the host swept past him, hurtling like a cast spear, and then they were fading into the distance.
Corban looked back to the staircase and strode down it, hesitantly at first, then faster, until he was running into darkness and torchlight. He paused at the bottom, recognizing the corridor before him, and then strode on, not stopping until he was standing before the chamber that held Meical. This time he kicked the door open, shattering the lock, and strode in. Meical was still there, chained and shackled, mouth gagged. Corban tore the cloth from the Ben-Elim’s mouth and drew his sword.
‘How did Calidus know I was going to try and destroy the Treasures?’
Meical could not meet his gaze.
‘Did you betray me?’ Corban snarled. ‘Again.’
‘Not I,’ Meical whispered.
‘It could only have been you.’
‘Not I, but my kin,’ Meical said. ‘Why do you think I am here, condemned by my own people.’
Meical raised his eyes and met Corban’s gaze.
‘I stood for you,’ the Ben-Elim said, ‘I refused to betray you again, but they do not understand, would not listen.’
‘What did they do?’
‘One of my kin allowed himself to be captured, knew he would be tortured, and told Asroth of your plan during that torture.’
‘I . . . don’t understand,’ Corban said. ‘Why would they do that? Don’t they want me to defeat Asroth?’
‘What they want, Corban, is the portal opened, a pathway to your world of flesh.’
‘What!’
‘That has been the plan, always, thousands of years in the making. For the Ben-Elim to become flesh, to enter your world, to protect Elyon’s creation. To become your guardians.’
Corban staggered back a step, his sword-point wavering.
‘So that is where the Ben-Elim host was going?’ he said. ‘How can I stop this?’
‘You cannot stop it, now. But maybe the cauldron and Treasures could still be destroyed, keeping all from crossing over.’
‘And what of those left in my world?’
‘They will be trapped there. Unless they are slain.’
‘Will that send their spirits back here, like the Jehar? Like you?’
‘No, Corban. Once my kind and the Kadoshim become flesh, truly, not just their spirits invading and controlling another’s body, like a puppet, then they can die. Not of age or sickness – to that we are immune – but we will be vulnerable to sharp iron. Dead is dead. They will cross the bridge of swords, just as your kind do.’
‘Then why come? Why do this, risking death.’
‘Sometimes the prize is worth the risk. Asroth and his Kadoshim seek to annihilate all humankind, to wipe your memory from the earth. The joy of slaughter and the victory over Elyon, those are what drive Asroth and the Kadoshim. As for the Ben-Elim –’ Meical shrugged – ‘duty drives us. We have seen this path as the greatest service to our King, the greatest way to prove our devotion to him.’
A silence settled between them.
‘So Asroth can be slain?’ Corban said.
‘Aye,’ Meical smiled. There was no humour in it.
‘I must go back and break my bonds,’ Corban muttered.
‘Where is your body of flesh?’ Meical asked him.
‘In Drassil’s great chamber, bound with bonds of smoke by Calidus,’ Corban answered.
‘Set me free, that I may help you,’ Meical said.
‘You? I have tasted your help,’ Corban said bitterly.
‘I swear to you, with all that I am, I will never betray you again.’ He held his shackled wrists out. ‘Set me free.’
Corban raised his sword.
Corban opened his eyes, his cheek was pressed against cold flagstones, and he lifted his head. Calidus was standing close to the cauldron, Kadoshim still pouring from it.
Then a new sound drifted out of the swirling vortex that was the cauldron, not just the beating of wings and the joy of the Kadoshim horde. Now there were distant shouts, screams, faint as a fading dream, but growing. Then the clash of weapons.
Calidus froze, head cocked to one side.
Corban smiled.
White wings suddenly began to pour out through the cauldron, coats of gleaming mail and bright blades, Ben-Elim locked in combat with Kadoshim, swirling up high, swooping around the chamber, weapons clashing, voic
es shouting out battle-cries, bodies crashing into the curved walls or slamming to the floor in death and ruin, others tangled together, still fighting, stabbing, snarling, biting. More and more Ben-Elim appeared as Corban stared at the cauldron, the balance between Kadoshim and Ben-Elim changing in heartbeats, and soon more white-feathered wings than Kadoshim were pouring out through the cauldron as Calidus looked on in growing horror.
It’s a gateway, Calidus, and it’s not just the Kadoshim you’ve let through. Anything from the Otherworld can enter now, and that means the Ben-Elim too.
The wingless Kadoshim that had once been Jehar also leaped to the attack, their swords slicing at the angelic-looking warriors, severing wings, blood spraying, but still the Ben-Elim swooped down on them from above in greater and greater numbers, and soon wraiths of vapour were filling the chamber as the Jehar-possessed screamed futilely and perished.
‘What’s going on?’ Cywen called to Corban.
The turning of the tide, thought Corban. If Meical keeps his word.
For what felt like days Corban lay and stared at the host of winged warriors emerging from the cauldron, swamped by the almost deafening din of battle in the chamber, hoping against hope to see Meical appear.
Calidus and the remnants of his Jehar Kadoshim were swept away in the battle. Rhin retreated into the shadows, her shieldmen drawing tight about her, staring in awestruck horror at the fury of the combat around them, at the Kadoshim and Ben-Elim slaying one another with feral rage.
And then Meical was there, exploding from the cauldron, a different being from the shackled, broken figure Corban had seen only recently. Now he was glorious in his war gear, black hair tied back tight to his nape, bright scale-mail rippling like another skin, his eyes ablaze with fury. He hurtled from the cauldron and shot up high into the chamber, hovered a moment, great wings beating as he exchanged a flurry of blows with a hissing Kadoshim. Corban saw him slice through one of the demon’s wings, sent it spinning back down to the ground, crashing to the stone floor a few paces away from Corban.
Meical fell upon it, booted foot upon the Kadoshim’s chest, his sword crunching into its skull, shattering it, an explosion of bone and brains. He hissed at the dead Kadoshim, a primal thing, and then looked about the chamber, seeing his ancient enemy all about him. His white wings beat, lifting him from the ground, hovering in place as he appeared to be choosing his next foe.
He’s going to leave us here. Break his oath to me and return to his kin.
Then Meical’s eyes fell upon Corban, taking in his friends and Storm. He hovered for a few heartbeats, eyes flickering across the many Kadoshim about the chamber, then he touched his feet back to the floor, wings folding behind him, the fire in his eyes dimming.
Muttering, he waved his hand, and the smoke binding Corban and his friends evaporated, like mist in the sun.
Meical held his arm out to Corban, who lay on the ground, staring up at the Ben-Elim. Corban took his hand.
The room was a maelstrom of battle around Corban as he climbed unsteadily to his feet and ran to his friends, helping Coralen stand, the others gathering around: Gar, Dath and Cywen, Storm limping, Farrell with his red-rimmed eyes. The Ben-Elim were still flooding from the cauldron and many were now soaring out through the huge rent in the chamber’s roof to engage their ancient foe in the skies above Drassil. Corban saw one Ben-Elim stare at Meical for a moment before it flew out of the chamber.
‘What’s going on?’ Dath asked.
‘And what do we do now?’ Coralen asked, looking at Corban.
‘We kill Kadoshim,’ Farrell growled.
Corban looked at Meical.
‘We finish what we set out to do,’ Corban said, holding Meical’s gaze. The Ben-Elim nodded.
‘Cywen, can you perform Brina’s ritual, and destroy the Treasures?’ Corban asked her.
With a beat of his wings Meical swirled away from them, chopped two-handed at a Kadoshim that flew screeching at them from above. It crashed to the ground.
‘I . . . yes . . . I think I can,’ Cywen said, looking at the cauldron – there was still a steady flow of Ben-Elim rushing through it.
Meical alighted back beside them.
‘Don’t you need to go and fight Asroth?’ Dath asked him.
‘I will not need to go in search of Asroth. He will soon hear that we Ben-Elim have control of the gateway. He cannot allow that. He will return here.’
Dath looked around at the others and gulped.
‘We’d best get a move on, then,’ Farrell said.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TEN
MAQUIN
Maquin saw Lykos.
Trying to escape, again. Not this time, thought Maquin.
He followed his prey.
His whole body hurt, a gash from his fall leaking blood into one eye, his knee pulsing with pain, but he could run well enough.
Time for pain later.
He picked up speed, veering around men fighting for their lives, one eye checking the skies above him as Kadoshim swept low, slashing and stabbing, grabbing to drag people screaming into the air. Maquin swung at enemies as he passed them, even if it was just a shove that knocked them off balance and gave their opponent an opening. Once he turned and struck at a swooping Kadoshim, hacked off a grasping hand and scoured a line through a leathery wing, then turned and ran on, his eyes fixed on the Vin Thalun Lord limping ahead.
The gap closed.
Maquin could see the forest looming now, smoke billowing from it, the crackle of fire that had been a distant thing now bright, animals and birds taking flight from it.
Lykos had paused and was staring towards Drassil. As Maquin followed his gaze he saw white-feathered men in gleaming mail soaring from the fortress and spreading over the whole battlefield. Wielding sword and spear, they attacked the Kadoshim with a fury Maquin had never witnessed before, not even in the fighting-pits, where men were reduced to tooth, nail and animal instinct. As Maquin watched he saw two forms locked together spin low over the battlefield, crashing and skidding only a few score paces ahead of him, warriors smashed out of their way or leaping, earth spraying in a fountain-like wake behind them.
They rolled to a halt, wings still beating, limbs moving, the white-feathered Ben-Elim rising, only to plunge its sword into the Kadoshim’s chest, punching through, pinning it to the earth.
The Kadoshim shrieked, twitched and was still. The Ben-Elim leaned upon its sword for a moment, breathing heavily, then ripped its blade free, bellowing a victory cry and leaping back into the air, wide wings powering it back into the airborne melee.
Maquin saw Lykos glance his way, his eyes widen, a flash of fear, and then the Vin Thalun was running again, turning west, towards the forest.
Angels. Demons. I care not. It’s time for you to die, Lykos.
Trees closed around Maquin as he stepped into a world of instant twilight, shadows shifting around him, the murky gloom an ideal place for hiding. Maquin bent to one knee, listening, fingers touching the forest litter. When he lifted them, his fingertips were tinged red, before him a broken twig showed more blood, fresh and glistening.
He ran on, deeper into the forest, and then he heard him. Maquin smiled mirthlessly to hear panic in his prey’s passage, an attempt at stealth overruled by the breath of death upon his neck. Maquin moved into a small glade, the trees opening up a little, changing from dense scrub to high-branched oaks, the forest litter thick and flat. Maquin paused, heard only the crackle of the forest fire growing ever closer. A cloud of smoke rolled across the glade.
Maquin walked on, heard the rustle of leaves on the ground, spun round to see Lykos leaping at him, sword stabbing up at him, aimed at his gut. With a contemptuous snarl, Maquin slapped the sword away, sidestepped, slashed his knife at Lykos as he stumbled past, opening a red line above the back of the Vin Thalun’s knee. Lykos staggered on a few steps, fell to one knee, stabbing his sword into the ground, leaning on it to stop himself from falling.
Maquin circled
him, keeping wide, a wolf circling a dying snake, until he was standing directly in front of Lykos.
There may still be poison in his fangs.
One side of Lykos’ breeches was blood-soaked to his boots, from the cut on his hip. His left arm was held tight to his body as if he cradled a child. And his face dripped sweat and grime, eyes wide with fear and anger, chest sucking in deep, ragged breaths.
‘Get up,’ Maquin snarled.
Lykos raised an eyebrow, but he pulled himself upright, leaning heavily on his sword, then stood there, swaying.
‘No more running,’ Maquin said.
Lykos looked down at his leg. ‘I think you’ve made sure of that.’
Maquin sheathed his sword over his back and drew a knife instead.
‘How many knives do you possess?’ Lykos asked, annoyed.
‘Better too many than too few,’ Maquin growled.
Lykos nodded.
‘Well, I think it’s only fair to say; you win.’ Lykos started to chuckle.
‘What’s funny?’ Maquin asked.
‘You. I think you take life too seriously. You should laugh more.’ He coughed, grimaced.
‘You stole that from me,’ Maquin said, ‘stole everything: laughter, friends, honour, humanity.’ He bowed his head. ‘Fidele . . .’
The memory of her face filled his mind for a moment.
He strode forwards, caught Lykos’ feeble attempt at defence on his knife blade, twisted his wrist and sent Lykos’ sword spinning away. Then Maquin was in close, punched his other knife hilt onto Lykos’ injured shoulder, heard him scream, headbutted him on the bridge of his nose, blood exploding. Lykos stumbled back a few paces, wobbled and fell on his backside against a tree. Maquin followed, hauling Lykos up, holding his arm high, against the tree, and stabbed a knife through the Vin Thalun’s palm, deep into the wood behind. He drew another knife and slammed it in a little lower, into Lykos’ forearm, the blade grating between bone, pinning Lykos to the tree.
Fresh screams, loud and raucous. Slowly they faded to bubbling groans and whimpers.
