by John Gwynne
Coralen screamed and ran at him.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CYWEN
Cywen burst into the hospice, chest heaving, lungs burning. People were sitting up in their cots, some shuffling about on crutches, others trying to pull boots on and find weapons. They all froze and stared at Cywen.
‘Out of here,’ she gasped, then louder, ‘the enemy are in the great hall. If you can wield a blade, go do it, if not, you need to get somewhere safer.’
The room burst into motion. Brina stumbled in behind Cywen.
‘Thanks for helping . . . an old . . . lady,’ Brina said.
‘Sorry,’ Cywen said.
They’d both stood in the great hall, staring dumbstruck as the draig had smashed its way through the trapdoor and the warband of Kadoshim and Vin Thalun had come boiling out of the ground. It had not taken long to realize that the warriors of Drassil were hugely outnumbered and in fighting the Kadoshim, unlike the battle beyond the walls, were battling against a foe that was at least their equal. Added to that, the Kadoshim seemed to be limitless in their numbers and supported by a screaming horde of Vin Thalun pirates. As the circle of defenders trying to contain them had broken down Brina and Cywen both looked at one another and realized the same thing – the hospice.
If the Kadoshim reached here it would be a bloodbath.
So they had run through the streets of Drassil, chaos everywhere, Cywen pulling ahead of Brina.
Still breathing hard she started to help people from cots, tugging on clothes, dishing out seed of the poppy. Brina was stuffing herbs and vials into a bag. Once the hall was close to empty Cywen saw the other thing that she’d come here for – her two belts of throwing-knives.
She slipped them over her head and ran her fingers along a row of leather-wrapped hilts, their comfortable weight reassuring.
‘Ready?’ Brina asked her, a slim spear in one hand, bag slung across her shoulder. Cywen raised an eyebrow at the spear.
‘As much to help me walk and keep up with you as anything else,’ Brina snapped.
And then they were heading back to the great hall, slower this time, the din of battle growing louder with each step. Men and women were running in all directions, panic thick in the air. Battle had spilt into the courtyard before the great hall, knots of combat here and there, Kadoshim and Vin Thalun a constant trickle through the half-open doors. Cywen saw a Kadoshim leap through the air, covering at least twenty paces to crash into a handful of Wulf’s men, scattering them. As Cywen ran past she saw the Kadoshim squatting upon a body, jaws slick and dripping with blood, the throat of the warrior beneath it torn and ragged.
As they approached the hall’s half-open doors, running up the few steps that led from the courtyard, there was a deafening roar and something slammed into them from the other side, one door crashing from its hinges, falling with a resounding boom upon friend and foe alike. The draig surged out from the wreckage, Nathair upon its back, the beast powering into the courtyard, its head swinging from side to side, jaws lunging, snapping. It veered away from them, chasing a mass of fleeing warriors, leaving the gates momentarily empty.
‘Now,’ Brina said, running towards the entrance.
A Vin Thalun ran at them as they reached the open gateway. Cywen put a knife through his eye, dropping him in a twitching pile. She paused to retrieve her knife, then ran through the entrance, colliding with Brina’s back.
Then she saw why the healer had stopped at the top of the stairs that led down into Drassil’s great hall, staring down into the enormous chamber, the sight almost breaking her heart.
The hall stank like a slaughterhouse, the dead and dying everywhere, all manner of noise filling the air, battle-cries, death cries, men and women screaming, mewling or weeping with pain, the clash and grate of iron on iron, giants bellowing defiance, the Kadoshim’s ululating screeches.
The trapdoor that the enemy had emerged from was abandoned, the ring of Drassil’s warriors broken, reduced to knotted islands in a sea of the enemy. And marching through the middle was the shield wall of Tenebral’s eagle-guard, thousands strong, pushing through the surge and press of battle with irresistible force.
Veradis. Is he down there?
Even as Cywen stood and stared, horns rang out from the shield wall, and before her eyes it split, not in panic, but in organized motion, parting to form new, smaller squares that branched off into a sweeping arc, systematically clearing the battle before them.
‘This is over,’ Brina said beside her.
The words still in the air Cywen heard a great roar from the far side of the chamber, saw the Benothi giants, felt a flare of hope, but that was instantly dashed as she saw a handful of them retreating, carrying a slumped form between them, silver hair hanging and matted with blood.
Balur One-Eye is fallen.
‘Aye,’ Cywen grunted.
Elsewhere she saw warriors of Drassil starting to break and run, here and there a more organized retreat – Wulf and his axe-men had joined with Javed’s pit-fighters and were disappearing around the curve of the great tree’s trunk; closer to her a hundred or so red-cloaked warriors were retreating slowly, a forest of long spears holding back the press of the enemy.
‘We need to find Ban and get out of here.’
‘Where do we go?’ Cywen mumbled, the shock of defeat washing through her like a poison, murdering her will, draining her spirit.
It cannot be.
‘There,’ Brina said, pointing with her spear.
The trapdoor before Skald’s throne was a surging sea of battle, bodies rising and falling like storm-racked waves. At the centre of it Cywen saw her friends. Gar and Meical were standing together, dealing death. Even as she watched screaming shadow-demons burst into momentary existence and then faded about them. Cywen caught a flash of red hair, saw Coralen fighting like a lunatic banshee of legend, close to her Farrell and Laith, Dath and Kulla, a few score others, mostly Jehar. She realized that their numbers were dwindling – not because they were falling to enemy blades, but because they were disappearing one by one into the smaller door of the tunnel’s trapdoor.
They are escaping.
‘We need to get to them, now,’ Brina hissed, grabbing Cywen and pulling her down the stairs.
They were moving against the tide, most now trying to reach the gates. Cywen pushed, shoved and slipped between people, one hand in Brina’s. They reached the bottom of the stairs and broke into a run. Cywen used two of her knives on Vin Thalun who fixed their eyes upon her or Brina, leaving her blades in their corpses, and then they were at the mass that was pressing against Meical and the rest.
Brina skirted it, running around to the flanks of the half-circle that was closing like a fist upon their friends. Brina buried her spear in the back of a Vin Thalun; another turning, seeing her, raising his sword, fell gurgling with one of Cywen’s knives in his throat. They moved into the press, Cywen catching a glimpse of Laith ahead of her, and Farrell.
Then a Kadoshim was before them, its mouth open in a feral snarl, black eyes fixed on them, curved sword rising. Brina buried her spear in soft flesh, just above the rim of its chainmail shirt, below its throat. The blade sank deep – dark, almost black blood welling around the wound like cold porridge. The Kadoshim slashed at the spear, snapping the shaft, leaving the blade in its flesh. It seemed unconcerned about that, advancing on Brina as she stumbled back.
Cywen threw knives, one, two, three in quick succession, the first crunching into its skull, second bouncing off of the mail shirt, and third piercing its links to sink into the Kadoshim’s belly. It took no notice.
I can’t take its head with a knife. She drew the sword at her belt and hacked two-handed into the creature as it sliced at and just missed Brina’s face.
Cywen’s sword sliced into its neck, flesh parting, blade grinding against bone.
That got its attention.
It turned its black eyes upon her and lunged, wrenching her sword from her fingertips, leaving i
t embedded in the Kadoshim’s neck. It ignored that as well, seemingly intent upon Cywen’s death. A hand snaked out and grabbed one of her knife-belts, dragging her closer to the Kadoshim’s sword-tip. Then Brina was there, in the corner of Cywen’s eye, arm raised, and she was shouting something in giantish. Amongst the garbled words from Brina’s lips Cywen heard the word lasair, for fire, then Brina threw something – a vial that exploded in the Kadoshim’s face – and it erupted into fire, spreading in heartbeats down the Kadoshim’s neck and consuming its torso, flames hungry and devouring, the instant smell of charring flesh and burning hair billowing out with waves of heat and smoke.
Cywen threw herself backwards as flames snaked along the Kadoshim’s arm. She slammed onto the ground, saw the Kadoshim stagger away, reeling like a drunkard to crash into a Vin Thalun, the flames leaping onto him and in moments he was a human torch. Both Vin Thalun and Kadoshim collapsed to their knees, screaming, toppled to the ground, limbs thrashing, the Kadoshim stiffening and then going still, the now too-familiar sight of a shadow-demon appearing in the air above it.
So, the Kadoshim are not fans of fire, either, although it’s not the instant victory the taking of a head gives.
Cywen staggered to her feet, Brina nodding with a satisfied expression upon her face.
A slavering, screeching howl drew their attention and they both spun to see a handful of Kadoshim running at them. Brina’s hand frantically scrabbled inside her bag and pulled out another vial.
I thought they were medicines – what has she been up to?
More giantish words issued from Brina’s mouth and she hurled the vial at the first Kadoshim, just a few paces from Cywen now. There was a blinding flash, a concussive explosion and then Cywen was flying through the air; the last thing she saw before darkness closed in upon her was Brina’s face, an expression of profound surprise upon it.
‘Well, what a pleasant surprise,’ she heard a voice say, somewhere above her. She opened her eyes, decided that was a mistake, pain thumping in her skull, and closed them again.
A boot kicked her in the ribs, more pain in different places now, all clamouring for attention.
She opened her eyes again, looked up into a burned face, but still familiar.
Calidus,’ she said, voice hoarse. As she said his name he reached up and tugged at a blackened strip of flesh on his lip, it came away with a soft tearing sound. He grimaced and flicked it away.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And what a pleasure it is to see you again. A feeling that I’d imagine is not mutual.’ He smiled, a ghastly expression with half a lip missing.
She didn’t bother replying, just pushed herself to her knees, realized her hands were bound in front of her.
She was still in the great hall, sitting on the wooden trapdoor she’d been so desperately trying to reach, though now it was mostly populated by the dead. Further away she saw Meical, pressed and held to his knees by three Kadoshim. He was covered in blood, no way of knowing if it was his own or his enemies’. Cywen suspected mostly the latter.
Calidus walked away from Cywen, towards Meical.
‘Hasn’t turned out quite as you’d hoped, has it?’ Calidus said cheerfully.
Meical just looked at him, stare flat, emotionless.
‘So. Let’s get to the heart of this. Where is your puppet? Your champion? Your Bright Star?’
Just more silence from Meical.
A group of Kadoshim strode up, one stepping forward, flies buzzing about him in a cloud. He held something out in his hands. A black axe. Cywen had to stop herself from grinding her teeth when she saw it.
The starstone axe, taken from Balur.
‘Excellent,’ Calidus grinned. ‘Most satisfying. That makes two Treasures in one day.’ He glanced at Skald’s spear, still sunk into the great tree, the giant’s skeleton draped about it. ‘Now, all I need to make my day perfect is your Bright Star’s head on a spike. So . . .’
There was a crashing, pounding rumble from behind Cywen, the now-familiar scrape of a draig’s claws on stone.
‘Where is he?’ Nathair cried from the draig’s back as he drew near, glaring down at Meical. ‘Where is your Bright Star?’
‘I was just asking the same question,’ Calidus said. ‘And now it’s about time for an answer.’
‘Safe,’ Meical said. ‘He will come for you – he is a force of nature, Elyon’s own wrath. You’d both best be looking over your shoulders from now on.’
‘Oh, please.’ Calidus laughed.
‘This is far from over,’ Meical growled.
‘Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong.’ Calidus sighed. ‘At least for you. I must admit that I’d hoped for more, Meical, and I’m sad to say it, but you’re boring me. Legion, take his head.’
Meical struggled in his captors’ grip, but the three Kadoshim held him fast, two dragging his arms wide, the other pushing on his back with a booted foot until Meical’s cheek ground into the stone floor.
The Kadoshim holding the axe raised it high and swung it down. There was a crunch and a resounding crack as the axe cut through Meical’s neck and buried itself in the stone floor beneath him. His severed head rolled in a half-circle, eyes bulging. A mist formed in the air above his twitching torso, a stern-faced warrior, great white wings spread about him.
‘See how it feels,’ Calidus said.
The wraith-like Ben-Elim glared at Calidus, then let out a bellowing, mournful roar – rage, frustration, defeat mixed together. The great white wings beat once, the air momentarily a gale, and then it was gone, evaporating.
Calidus turned to face Cywen, a triumphant smile fading from his scorched features.
‘Now tell me, you little bitch,’ he snarled. ‘Where is your brother?’
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
CORBAN
Corban ran, the blood pounding in his skull, branches whipping his face. Storm was a blur through the trees just ahead of him.
He’d run down the hill and headed deep into thick underbrush, hoping it would halt the passage of the giant bears. By the sounds of crashing and snapping behind him his plan hadn’t worked. He ploughed on, vine, root and thorn snaring and snatching at him. He stumbled, rebounded from a tree, carried on, the crashing behind him louder, closer.
I need to try something different.
He veered right, burst out of the undergrowth into a patch of soft forest litter and wide-spaced trees, put his head down and sprinted.
The sounds of bears and giant cries faded behind him, each stride opening the gap between them. He tried to work out his position, the direction he should be running in, heard the sound of running water to his left – the river – and headed towards where he thought the trapdoor lay.
Sounds faded behind him.
I’m going to do it.
Then there was a ground-trembling explosion of undergrowth, sounding like whole trees were torn and uprooted, the pounding of huge paws and then a roaring that staggered him, sent him stumbling, then falling from his feet.
He rolled on the ground, glimpsed claws and fangs and fur bearing down upon him, the pale skin of a giant somewhere high above, heard more bears bellowing, further away, to left and right. Then he came to a halt, litter and leaves in his hair, up his nose, in his mouth. He reached for his sword.
Ahead of him he saw Storm skid to a halt, turn and look back for him.
‘On,’ he commanded.
She did not move.
‘ON,’ he shouted.
Still she stood and stared at him.
Run on. Please. Go, he willed her.
A bear and giant crashed out of the forest behind him.
Storm snarled, legs bunching, and ran back towards him, her head low, a vein bulging in her chest as muscles pumped in contraction and extension.
He rolled to one knee, drew his sword, then Storm was bounding past him, legs coiling to leap at the bear converging upon them, her jaws gaping.
They slammed together, bear and wolven, a collision of flesh,
bone, fur, tearing teeth and ripping claw. Storm sank her fangs deep into the bear’s shoulder, her claws scrabbling for purchase, the momentum pulling her loose, tearing her free, leaving a great fold of flesh torn and flapping on the bear’s flank. It bellowed in pain as Storm fell to the ground, the giant’s war-hammer swooping through air, missing her head by a handspan. She rolled on the ground, gathered herself for another leap.
Then Corban was up and running, the bear’s charging momentum carrying it on, leaving Storm behind, surging straight at him. Corban swerved to the side, swayed out away from a slashing paw and talons and hacked two-handed with his sword, all his strength smashing it into the fur and flesh of the bear’s side, blood spraying, ribs crunching and cracking. There was a stirring of air above him and he swayed backwards, dropped to a crouch and a war-hammer hissed over him, the giant wielding it snarling in frustration.
If the wound Storm inflicted had caused the bear pain, this one gave it agony. It screamed its torment and halted its charge, sliding, tearing up the ground, crashing into a tree, the timber splintering and spraying, then the bear was rolling and its rider was sent flying through the air, hurled into the gloom and undergrowth. Storm bounded forward, leaping onto the bear as it lay on its side, trying to rise, blood frothing from its nose and mouth. She sank her teeth into its throat, the bear thrashing, trying to rise, but its lungs weren’t working properly, its legs scrambling for purchase. Then Storm shook her head, a violent twist and there was a wet tearing sound and a gouting fountain of blood and the bear was sinking into death.
Corban ran to Storm, put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Good girl,’ he murmured. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’
‘That’s the second bear of mine that you and your kind have slain,’ a voice said from the shadows.
Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun, emerged from the gloom, his war-hammer held loosely in one hand, his huge frame wrapped in leather and fur. At the same time two more bears and their riders crashed into view, lumbering towards them.
