by John Gwynne
‘I was a lord of western Benoth, once, governing for Nemain from Dun Taras,’ Uthas said.
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Six hundred years, give or take a moon.’
Uthas felt a prickling on his neck and turned to see Calidus staring at him.
‘You drank from the cup.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I did,’ Uthas said, looking away. He didn’t want to talk about the starstone cup.
‘You know I need the Treasures. They are vital to our plans.’
‘I know.’ Uthas tugged on his long white moustache, a habit when he was troubled, or anxious.
‘Do you know something that could help me?’
It is too late to go back now.
‘I have knowledge of two of the Treasures: the cup and Nemain’s necklace. I know where they were last seen.’
‘What?’ Calidus hissed. His hand snaked out and gripped Uthas’ shoulder. It was cold. ‘Where are they?’
Uthas took a deep breath and swallowed.
‘I would be king of all the giant clans, not just the Benothi. And I want Forn as my seat. As the new seat of the reconciled clans.’
‘That is a lofty dream indeed,’ Calidus said, looking at Uthas through narrowed eyes. ‘Your ambition exceeds even what I expected from you.’
Uthas shrugged. ‘The world is changing. Why not reforge something that was broken.’
‘Indeed,’ Calidus said with a calculating stare. ‘In return for the Treasures you speak of I will aid you in this. You have my word.’
‘I suspect your generals might disagree with you. Rhin, Nathair, Lykos – they will not be as enthusiastic to see the strength of the giant clans restored. I need to hear that assurance from a higher power than you.’
‘You would bargain with Asroth?’ Calidus said, raising an eyebrow.
Uthas shrugged. ‘Why not. I rolled the dice when I betrayed Nemain – I don’t think they have stopped rolling yet.’
Calidus laughed, a genuine warmth in it. ‘What is the phrase I have heard amongst men and giants? You have some stones, Uthas. I shall arrange a private conversation for you.’
Uthas felt suddenly scared at the thought. It’s done now.
The path led through woodland, the scent of pine strong in the air, the ground spongy with fallen needles. Cries rang out from ahead: the Kadoshim. Calidus kicked his horse on. Uthas lengthened his stride to keep pace.
They powered through shadowed woods and then burst into sunshine, Uthas blinking for a moment against the glare of daylight.
They were in a valley, the river flowing fast through its middle, meadows rolling either side into hills. Ahead of them lay a village, faint screams drifting on the breeze. A handful of the Kadoshim were running towards it, faster than Uthas thought possible.
By the time Uthas and Calidus caught up with them villagers were scattering in all directions, Kadoshim flooding the streets, crashing through doors and windows, killing anything that moved with a childlike glee.
‘I need to work on their discipline,’ Calidus said, glancing casually at a Kadoshim pinning a screaming man down, taking bites out of his throat.
‘They must learn to control themselves,’ Uthas said in horror. ‘They cannot behave like this throughout the Banished Lands – the whole world will turn against you.’
‘I know, but they are new to their bodies and this world. I remember the wonder when I first became flesh. And the taste of it . . .’ He paused, eyes wistful. ‘And besides, they have had only brot for a ten-night. A little indulgence, one last time.’
‘They are animals,’ Salach muttered beside Uthas.
‘As are we all,’ Calidus said flatly. ‘Creatures of flesh and blood that must consume flesh and blood to live.’
Uthas saw a Kadoshim leap from a rooftop, land running and dive onto a fleeing bairn, roll with it, biting and wrenching. The child’s high and terror-filled scream suddenly cut short.
Nathair and his draig thundered into the village. Someone burst from a shuttered window, falling into the street: a woman, a Kadoshim peering out from between the broken shutters behind her. Nathair viewed the carnage with a flat stare, his lips twisting briefly in distaste.
‘There is no need for this,’ Nathair called over his shoulder to Calidus. ‘They are slaughtering innocents.’
‘The unfortunate casualties of war,’ Calidus called back.
Nathair just stared at him.
‘I have neglected to teach the Kadoshim the code of combat,’ Calidus said. ‘They are fresh to this world. I shall rectify that soon.’
‘Not soon enough for these,’ Nathair said.
‘Aye, but not all here are innocents,’ Calidus answered. ‘Look ahead.’
Other villagers were making a stand by the roundhouse, clutching weapons -– spears and axes bristling. Some of the Kadoshim were learning to use their weapons, harnessing the memories of their hosts. With a last shake of his head Nathair whispered to his draig and led a handful of the Kadoshim at the villagers, the Kadoshim with swords drawn, swinging with greater speed and strength than any human could possibly manage, even the Jehar. The draig crashed into the knot of warriors, Kadoshim behind, and then limbs were spinning through the air, blood spraying and in moments the resistance was shattered.
‘We shall make camp here,’ Calidus declared, looking at the sun sinking into the hills to the west. Screaming drifted about them, the stench of blood and excrement thick in the air. Uthas and Salach shared a look and marched on, through the village and out the other side. Survivors were running through the fields, Kadoshim hunting them like hounds chasing down hares. A group of villagers reached woodland to the south, disappearing into the shadows, but a handful of Kadoshim saw them and followed.
‘You’d better call your kin back in, before they get lost in the woods.’
‘They are like bairns,’ Calidus said fondly.
More screams drifted from the woods.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CORBAN
Corban snapped awake, jerking to one elbow. Instinctively he reached for Storm, but she was not there.
It felt as if something had woken him. A scream? Was it a dream? He rubbed his eyes, stopped himself when he realized he was still wearing his wolven gauntlet, and climbed to his feet. They had made camp close to the river; the trees were widely spaced here. The ground was damp with dew, the world fresh and new for a few moments beneath the sun’s first rays, yet Corban felt tired already. He had hardly slept, the weight of his decision bearing down upon him, though it seemed that the rest of the world had snored quite contentedly around him.
We will fight. He had felt sure yesterday, once he’d made the decision, determined. Now, though, he found himself hoping that Rhin’s warband would turn away and march east or west, anywhere but across their path – wishful thinking. By now they would have come across the trail of Corban’s warband. He was resigned to battle now.
An idea had formed in his mind yesterday when he’d seen the terrain of the land, based on his memory of an ambush that Camlin had orchestrated back in Cambren. He had consulted with Meical, Tukul and Balur, and they had agreed on his strategy. The bulk of the warband would remain within the woods where they were camped and would emerge to face the enemy warband head on. A smaller force, a score of giants and a hundred Jehar, were hidden on the slopes to the west, a flanking ambush. Meical would lead them. Between them the plan was to pin Rhin’s warriors against the banks of the river and crush them.
A Jehar appeared close by – Akar, captain of the Jehar that had travelled with Nathair. He held a warning finger up to his lips.
Corban heard it again then. A scream to his left, distant, filtering through the woods. At first he thought it was a fox, the cry high pitched and childlike. Then he heard another, closer, straight ahead. Akar gripped the sword hilt upon his back but did not draw, other Jehar guards moving about them, more rousing from sleep. A figure emerged from the shadows – a Jehar running swift an
d silent, a guard from deeper within the wood.
‘People are out there, coming this way,’ he breathed to Akar and Corban.
‘Who? How many?’ Akar asked.
‘Hard to tell. They sound scattered through the forest.’
Hooves drummed behind him and he turned to see Coralen riding into the camp, back from a night’s reconnoitring to the south. Storm and Buddai were with her, Jehar riders at her back.
That’s where you’ve been, he thought, looking at Storm.
Coralen reined in before him, opened her mouth to speak, then her eyes stared past him, deeper into the woods.
Light streamed in broken patches through the canopy above, punctuating the perpetual woodland twilight. Undergrowth crackled and voices called out. Corban could make out a group of people staggering through the trees towards him – twenty, thirty people, maybe more. Behind them shapes moved. Fast. A woman hugging a child to her chest ran stumbling into the undergrowth. Something rose from the ground behind her, blood dripping from its chin.
Kadoshim.
Corban felt a shiver of fear course through him, somewhere along the way transforming into a white-hot rage. He heard a giant bellowing in its guttural language, then he was yelling his own battle-cry, running at it, swinging his sword. Two dozen strides and he was almost upon it. His mind flickered to his last encounter with a Kadoshim; this time his rage didn’t blind him, instead he focused it, the world evaporating away, leaving only the pale, black-veined creature before him. He feinted high with his sword, shifted his weight and twisted his wrist, swinging suddenly low, putting his hips into it, the weight and strength of his back and shoulder. His wolven claws caught the Kadoshim’s blade as it swept high to block a blow that didn’t land, Corban’s sword hacking into the creature’s leg, just above the boot. There was a meaty slap, Corban’s blade shearing almost clear through the leg, lodging in bone, then his momentum was carrying him past the Kadoshim, one of its hands reaching out, snatching at his cloak. He staggered away with the Kadoshim lunging after him, swung his wolven claws, cutting into a hand. Severed fingers fell away and he was free, the creature stumbling as its injured leg betrayed it.
There was snarling and then Storm smashed into it, teeth ripping at its throat, hurling it to the ground. Corban yelled a command, fearful as he remembered the injuries she’d sustained from her last encounter with the Kadoshim. Reluctantly she released her grip and backed away, snarling at the fallen enemy as it scrabbled on the ground, pushing itself upright, Corban’s sword still lodged in its leg.
Then the Jehar were there: Akar first, others close behind, Gar amongst them, swirling about the injured Kadoshim, their swords gleaming as they sliced and cut. The Kadoshim’s sword was a blur as it blocked a dozen blows, snaking out and drawing blood. A Jehar warrior staggered back, gurgling as blood jetted from his throat, but no one could defend against a sustained attack from half a dozen Jehar at once, not even a demon from the Otherworld. Corban saw a severed hand spinning through the air, thick black blood trailing it, the Kadoshim still struggling forwards, grabbing at those around it, its face twisted with hatred.
Abruptly it was over; there was an explosion of shadow above the Kadoshim, the demon’s winged spirit emptying from its headless host, a frustrated screech and then it was gone, evaporating into the morning air.
‘Better that you hang on to this,’ Gar said reprovingly as he returned Corban’s sword. ‘You won’t take a head off with one swing of those claws.’
Around them small pockets of combat raged. For a moment Corban had feared that the entire host of the Kadoshim had descended upon them, but now he saw there were only a score at most, all of them surrounded by Jehar and giants. Even as he looked, Balur took the head from one with his black axe.
But why are they here? And how far behind is the rest of their host? He stared into the gloom, searching for any hint of movement, of a host hidden just beyond sight.
He watched as Coralen spurred her horse past him, towards the woman and bairn that he had seen earlier. They were still running, a dark shadow chasing them.
Coralen angled her course to head off the Kadoshim, swerving around trees, crashing through undergrowth. Corban felt a flush of fear, a weightlessness in his belly, and started running.
The Kadoshim leaped a fallen tree and was upon its prey, the three of them falling in a tangle of limbs, the child flying free, snagging in a bush of thorns. The Kadoshim and woman came to a halt, the Kadoshim on top, pinning the woman down. Its teeth sank into her shoulder, ripped away a chunk of flesh. The woman screamed.
It’s eating her.
Then Coralen was upon them, leaping from her horse as it hurtled by. She crashed into the Kadoshim, rolled with it, somehow got her feet into its belly and sent it flying through the air, crunching into a tree trunk.
She rolled to a crouch, drew her blade as she rose, without pause surged forwards, her sword a blur. The Kadoshim pushed away from the tree, drew its own sword. Their blades clashed, a cascade of sparks bright in the woodland shadow, ringing out, five, six blows, faster than Corban could follow. Coralen was ducking, pivoting, slashing with sword and claws, the Kadoshim countering and striking with a force that sent Coralen reeling away. It followed, relentless, blood welling from half a dozen cuts, struck again, Coralen tripping and falling to the ground, cracking her head on a moss-covered stone.
The Kadoshim stood over her, sword raised, then staggered back a pace, an arrow jutting from its chest. Something else slammed into it, snapping its head back, a knife hilt protruding from an eye socket. The Kadoshim’s remaining good eye fixed on Coralen, who was trying to stand, and it surged towards her, a bloody butchered mess that still radiated menace and power.
Corban jumped over Coralen, still on her knees, and stood before her to meet the Kadoshim, sword raised two-handed over his head. The Kadoshim’s mouth shifted – smile or snarl, he could not tell – then their blades met, a crunch that numbed Corban’s wrists. They traded blows, Corban forcing the creature back a step, then another.
It’s weakening. He swept its sword up, turned his parry into a downward cut, chopping through its wrist, severing its sword hand, kicked it in the chest, sending it staggering back another few steps. An arrow slammed into its belly, another knife followed, and Corban was aware of figures closing all around them: Jehar, giants, Storm and Buddai snarling behind them. Farrell appeared beside him, hefting his war-hammer. It was black with blood.
The Kadoshim powered forwards; Farrell smashed his hammer into the creature’s chest. Bones shattered, flesh mangled as the Kadoshim flew backwards. Then Corban’s sword flashed, hacked into the Kadoshim’s neck, half severing its head. It jerked, tried to turn and grab Corban. Farrell gripped its wrists as Corban’s sword rose and fell again. The head fell away, black shadow-like oil pouring from the severed neck, rising to take winged shape, then drifting apart, a frayed and tattered banner.
Corban stood there, chest heaving; everyone around him stared for a frozen moment.
‘Elyon’s stones, but they’re hard to kill,’ panted Farrell.
‘Too hard,’ Corban agreed, feeling the notches in his sword. He patted the flat head of Farrell’s war-hammer. ‘You need a blade for them.’
‘Aye.’
He walked to Coralen, who was on her feet but still groggy.
‘Thank you,’ she said. He squeezed her arm.
Cywen put her foot on the Kadoshim’s severed head and pulled her knife from its eye. Brina was crouching over the woman it had attacked, staunching the blood from her injury. Corban looked around and saw the combat was over. But for how long? Pockets of Jehar and giants spread out amongst the woods, searching for any survivors. Meical is right: there is no running away from this God-War. I ran from Dun Carreg all the way to Domhain, and it followed me. I travelled to the far north and walked into the middle of it. And now it finds me again. It cannot be escaped. At best I can choose where and how I fight. He took a deep breath.
�
�We need to get out of here,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Gather the Kadoshim heads,’ Tukul yelled beside him.
They formed up on the meadow beyond the woods, gathering up any who had survived the Kadoshim attack in the woods, of which there were at least a score. Corban searched out Brina. She and Cywen were tending the wounded. Three Jehar and a young giant had died and were laid out on the grass, having cairns piled around them. Brina was applying a salve to the shoulder of the woman whom Coralen had saved. She was grimacing with pain; her child, a girl of seven or eight summers sat silently in the grass beside her. She was plucking meadow flowers, twirling them between dirty fingers.
Corban knelt beside the woman.
‘What is your name?’
‘Teca,’ the woman said.
‘Where are you from, Teca?’ Corban asked her.
She stared at him. ‘You helped me. You and the girl, red hair.’
‘You had a lot more help than just us two,’ he said. ‘I need to know, where are you from?’
She told him of her village, of a host of the Kadoshim arriving, led by a warrior riding upon a great draig.
‘Some stayed and fought. I ran,’ she said. Tears welled in her eyes.
‘You were wise to.’ Corban gripped her hand. ‘There is no standing against them yet. Did they all chase after you, are they close behind?’
‘I don’t know,’ she breathed through clenched lips as Brina bound a strip of linen about her shoulder.
‘Would you come with me, please?’ Corban asked Brina when she was done.
‘What for?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about something. And I’m about to make a decision: I’d value your advice.’
