Squealing, Luthan let go and started trying to prise the arrow from his eye socket.
Seizing his opportunity, Tundra scrambled out of the water, reached into his boot and pulled his dagger from its sheath.
Luthan’s clawed hands were wrapped around the shaft of the arrow, wiggling it. He hissed loudly each time it moved.
Tundra ran through the water to his attacker, and grasping his hunting dagger with both hands drove it down through the top of Luthan’s skull, right to the hilt.
Luthan’s body went limp, his clawed hands let go of the arrow shaft and he collapsed face-down in the swamp.
Catching his breath, Tundra looked round to see the gargantuan figure of Vastigore coming from the clearing where the stag had been. Pushing the trees aside with one hand, Vastigore reached over his shoulder and produced a ten-foot-long sword.
Blood-stained and rusted, the blade was split into two parts halfway up its length, reminding Tundra of Luthan’s tongue. Its edges were blunted and chipped, and looked like it did more damage through bludgeoning than through cutting.
Tundra sprinted through the swamp, trying to stay on the islands as much as possible. With the water slowing him down and tiring him he clung to the thicker clumps of trees, hoping that it would take Vastigore longer to go around the vegetation than him.
His heart racing and consumed by fear he fled towards a heavily wooded area of the swamp, still acutely aware of the pounding sound of this thing’s footsteps behind him. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and spun around, sweating and breathless, to see where it was.
Vastigore came out of the darkness, powering through the swamp like a juggernaut of destruction, pushing trees out of his path and flattening anything too slow to evade his footsteps. Tundra’s heart sank as he witnessed the full force and might of this colossal being.
Running between patches of dry land, he ripped off his scabbard, bow and quiver, casting them aside. Anything that was of excess weight or slowing him down was surplus to requirements. His heavy ranger cloak, which had protected him from the elements so many times, was torn off and abandoned.
Tundra could hear Vastigore’s footsteps close behind him and feel the ground shaking beneath his feet. He had already jettisoned everything possible and this thing was still gaining on him.
Then something in his head told him to run to a fallen tree. It was not hard finding one, the swamp was littered with fallen oak, ash and juniper trees and it was the large bough of the latter that he spied jutting out of the swamp. He ran to the tree and stopped. Crouching down, he leant against its hulking wooden frame and waited.
The god stopped running and slowed to a walk. Stalking forward, he held the sword in one hand, seemingly sizing up his target. Tundra stayed as still as possible, keeping both eyes fixed on the thing’s huge sword. He knew that his timing would have to be perfect, one wrong move and his head could be taken off.
The god edged towards him, seemingly not entirely sure why his quarry had stopped running. Vastigore raised his immense weapon above his head and brought it down where Tundra was crouching. Keeping his gaze locked on the sword Tundra waited until the god was in mid-swing, and at the last moment rolled to the side, tumbling into the swamp.
Hearing a loud crash he glanced over his shoulder to see the god’s weapon buried deep in the tree trunk. Rising to his feet Tundra took off as fast as he could and, upon reaching the dry land leading to the small hillock, looked back to see Vastigore standing with one foot on the tree trunk trying to pull his weapon free with both hands.
Tundra darted up the hillock and raced over its peak before jogging down the other side.
The sound of pounding footsteps was in the distance but getting closer. Exhausted from running, he made his way back towards the fourth marker, the area of the Daruin where the forest was densest. It was also the most dangerous.
He knew Vastigore would be hard-pressed to cut his way through this kind of woodland.
Entering the forest again, Tundra felt marginally safer. Now night had truly fallen, the full moon cast its light through small gaps in the canopy, lighting up the forest in a pale-white hue. He ran across the forest floor, flitting between trees and hurdling over rocks. When he was confident that he was deep enough in, he stopped and looked back in the direction he had come from.
Vastigore was at the edge of the tree-line, trying at first to push his way through the trees and then resorting to cutting at them. Tundra listened. After a few minutes the chopping stopped and he breathed a sigh of relief. He mopped the sweat from his face and neck, and then moved deeper into the forest.
Finally something had stopped Vastigore in his tracks.
Listening for signs of movement from the less-than-friendly, nocturnal occupants of the forest, Tundra walked through the woods until he found a tree big enough to climb and sleep in. At the present moment, staying on the forest floor at night was as dangerous as being outside it. He found one that he felt was suitable, scaled its trunk and lodged himself where it split into the upper branches.
The forest was still – there were no hooting owls or screeching bats. Tundra sat with his back to a branch and listened intently. He had never heard the forest so quiet at night; the only sound was that of the distant, thumping footsteps of Vastigore patrolling the tree-line, searching for gaps or weaknesses where he could cut through.
Tundra wondered how long he would have to hide. If he stayed here long enough Vastigore would find a way to get to him, either by cutting his way through or finding a gap large enough for him to traverse.
Is this thing really my father? he thought.
Tundra had been told from a young age that the gods could alter their size and shape, and that they preyed on the mortal women of the Northern Realms to fulfill their needs. But when summoned from their plane, against their will, they had to assume their natural form.
I guess that was Vastigore’s natural form, he mused.
Knowing that Vastigore was here to kill him, and reclaim the power he had lost fathering him, Tundra pondered his options carefully; if he opted to run, where would he go? There was no way he could return home. He could not risk unleashing Vastigore upon Arboria; he would surely kill everyone there. Hiding was a possibility, but he knew this thing would not stop until it found him. The only alternative was to find a way of fighting, but without weapons and facing something of that size how could he possibly even begin to defeat it? Tundra brought his knees up tight against his chest and curled his arms round the back of his thighs. He put his head against the tree and tried to get some rest.
The first signs of light crept into the forest through the trees. Tundra looked down at the forest floor, tired and sore. His clothes, still damp from the fight in the swamp, had caused him to shiver with cold throughout the night. He had to make a break for it, but where would he go? He stood no chance of fighting Vastigore on his own, but if he could lead him away, lead him into a trap or into contact with something as big and as fearsome as the god himself.
That was it.
The maps in Arboria of the Daruin Forest showed a lake that lay on its eastern edge surrounded by mountainous pillars and peaks. It was known as the Lake of Sorrows. The lake was quite close but would not be easy to reach. In amongst the monolithic rock formations, it was said that the dragon Praxitör had made its lair. Tundra knew that if anything could stop this thing it would be the destructive power of a dragon.
He recalled how the old women of Arboria would tell stories of dragons. Tales of how the gods created them as servants and how, when the dragons got too powerful, they turned on their masters, forcing the gods to release them in fear of annihilation.
He had often heard that the dragons had no love for the gods: it was time to put that to the test.
First things first, he thought. Before I do anything I need to find out where this thing is.
Climbing care
fully down from the tree, he knelt at its base and looked around for signs of danger. As content as he could be that there was no immediate peril, he let his mind drift.
His eyes rolled backwards and everything in his world faded to darkness, his presence drifting through the forest like a ghost. He moved upwards towards the tree tops in the hope of finding something that was already airborne. Through his dark, shadowy realm he floated, looking around for signs of life.
Then he found it, a bright silver light against the dark-grey leaves and black branches. It was a hawk, and Tundra’s spirit quickly enveloped it before it took flight.
The bird sat in the upper part of the crown of the tree, looking around it. Tundra could see everything it could see. He willed the thing to take to the air, mindful of his paralysed shell below. The hawk looked to the east and it was then he saw the huge, natural pillars and peaks in the distance, the ones that lay beside the Lake of Sorrows.
The first rays of the rising sun broke through the mist coming off the trees and lit the upper edges of the canopy. The hawk sat there bathed in the warm morning sun, occasionally preening its feathers. While looking through its eyes, Tundra glanced eastwards, smiled and thought to himself: you swore that only one of us would see the next sunrise, Luthan. I guess you were right.
The hawk took flight.
It soared into the air, scanning the ground below for prey; as it did so, Tundra looked for signs of Vastigore. It did not take him long to find the huge, hulking figure of the god. The River Gírani dissected this part of the Daruin, flowing eastwards, and Vastigore was using the partition caused by the river to search sections of the forest that were otherwise unreachable to him.
Tundra knew if he could find a way of getting down this fast-moving segment of the river, it would lead him to the Lake of Sorrows. With Vastigore at the west side of the forest Tundra seized his opportunity and broke off the join between himself and the hawk.
Snapping out of his trance, he stood up and went east in the direction of the river. The silence he encountered told Tundra that the god was far enough away to give him time to find a way of getting down there quickly.
Emerging from the woods on his approach to the riverbank he witnessed a scene of devastation, clearly caused by the god. Trees were strewn everywhere, either hacked down by a heavy cutting weapon or uprooted by raw, savage strength. Inspecting the carnage, Tundra had an idea. He quickly started to drag and roll some of the more manageable logs to the edge of the riverbank.
If I can get some of these things tied together, maybe I can float downstream, he thought.
After getting four that he felt were suitable, he hastily searched for as many pieces of vine in the debris as he could and set about lashing the branches and logs together in the form of a makeshift raft. Tying the timber as tight as he could, he was about to drag it into the water when he felt the ground shake.
Looking over his shoulder, up-river, he saw the massive frame of Vastigore making his way round a meander. The god stopped and stared at him for what felt like a lifetime. Seconds passed.
Tundra looked away first and snapped into action, digging his heels into the sodden turf of the riverbank and pushing his raft into the water. There was a series of loud splashing sounds as Vastigore tried to close to within striking distance. Wading into the river, Tundra pushed his vessel into the faster flowing rapids of the ice-cold water and crawled on-board.
Gripped by the full force of the river, his raft sped up and he was shunted aggressively back and forth. Lying on his back, holding on for dear life, he watched as Vastigore was slowed down by the deeper water. The immense bulk of the god causing the silt beds to give way. A sense of relief, as well as the cold river rapids, washed over him as he saw the thing struggle to gain ground. Rolling onto his front, he grabbed the vines that were binding the logs together and, unable to steer his raft, concentrated on keeping his head above the frothy, crashing water of the Gírani. The large rock formations ahead jutted up against the sky and blocked out the sun. Vegetation covered everywhere that it could take hold, with some even hosting fully grown trees.
It is no wonder the first rangers ever to see them called them The Gardens in the Sky, he thought.
Tundra continued to bob up and down on his raft, buffeted and spun by the river’s turbulent currents. Through the froth he saw that there were rocks up ahead and, unable to navigate around them, he braced for impact. The raft jolted upwards and the rocks sliced through the vines holding the raft together. Seconds later the logs began to float apart and Tundra was plunged into the ice-cold water of the Gírani.
Mustering all his strength he swam as fast as he could. Soon he reached a section where the rapids were less frequent and crawled up onto the shaly riverbank. Wearily, Tundra looked up. The lake was on the other side of the forest. He pulled himself to his feet and made a break for it.
The trees in this part of the forest were sparser, the lake and rock formations visible through them.
Tundra heard the crashing sound of trees splintering coming from behind him and when he turned he saw the twenty-five-foot tall form of Vastigore running through the forest behind him, smashing and shattering trees effortlessly. Not having the dense woodland to hinder him the god was making alarming progress in pursuit of his quarry.
Battered and soaked, Tundra ran through the forest as fast as he could. Stumbling from tiredness he fell repeatedly, slipping on rocks and tripping over tree-roots.
The booming noise of the footsteps was getting louder until he could hear his pursuer directly behind him. He turned to see the green-armoured god in the middle of a sword swing and ducked immediately.
The split blade of the sword lacerated the air behind him and struck the ground with a thunderous smack, throwing soil and rock high into the air. Tundra evaded the sword swing by inches and was about to dodge through the legs of his giant attacker when Vastigore’s fist caught him square in the chest, sending him sprawling across the forest floor into a tree.
A sickening crunch was accompanied by a sharp pain in his torso. He rolled on to his side and started violently coughing up blood, the pain making him feel faint. When he parted his ripped tunic to examine the damage, he saw that his chest was covered in blood.
Fragments of rib were protruding through his skin and large bruises were forming all over his smashed sternum. Glancing up, he saw the god pulling his sword from the ground.
Racked with excruciating pain, Tundra pulled himself to his feet using the tree as a prop and staggered towards the lake gasping for breath.
The sun was high in the sky, lifting the mist from the lake. A small village, raised above the lake’s surface by wooden stilts, could be seen in the distance and Tundra watched as a flock of birds flew between the canyons, calling out to each other.
Looking up and squinting in the bright sunlight, he saw the silhouette of Praxitör perched high above him.
Sitting on one of the towering pillars of rock, over five hundred yards away, the dragon was basking in the morning sun. With its wings fully spread and its head arched, the beast yawned and coiled its tail around it. The sun glinted off its green scales giving the beast an unearthly aura.
Tundra tried to cry for help but his chest was so damaged, he was unable to fully inflate his lungs. His shout expired into nothing more than a wheezing rattle. He could only mouth ‘Help me’ at the distant figure of the dragon.
A sharp pain in his back was followed instantly by another in his guts. His head dropped and he saw two pointed blades protruding from his stomach. Tundra lost the feeling in his legs, Vastigore’s sword was the only thing stopping him from collapsing.
The god pulled out the sword and Tundra fell to his knees. His hands dropped down to where the sword had come out and he watched as they filled with blood. Vastigore looked down at him and then briefly turned his gaze to the dragon, before looking back. He gripped his cruel
-looking sword in both hands and raised it high above his head.
Tundra mustered every last bit of energy he could find to lift his head and stare at the winged creature. As the weapon bore down upon him, he looked at the dragon one last time before everything in his world went dark.
Chapter V
The Ballad of Santhom Dar
Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the palace throne-room, illuminating the floor in myriad blues, greens and reds. The polished white tiles adorning the floor reflected the colours all around the walls, setting the tapestries ablaze with iridescence.
On the throne sat the king, a boy in his teens; to his left stood a tall middle-aged man wearing grey robes with red trim. This man leaned against a lectern on which rested a large book, a quill in his hand. He motioned to a guard at the back of the room, who opened one of the large oak doors and ushered a waiting farmer through it. The farmer took off his cloth cap as he entered the room and shuffled to the marble steps that lay before the throne.
‘King Teagar, Duke Myzan,’ the farmer said, bowing to each.
‘And your name is?’ the king’s adviser, and uncle, asked in a gravelly voice.
‘Bram, Bram Tenic,’ the farmer replied.
‘And how can we be of help to you today, Bram Tenic?’
The duke glanced down at his notes then wrote on them. He looked up at the farmer and smiled to put him at ease.
‘Well, it’s my oranges.’
The farmer folded his cap and put it in his pocket.
‘Wait,’ the king commanded. ‘Take a step to your left, Bram Tenic.’
The farmer stood motionless for a moment, perplexed, before tentatively taking a step to his left.
‘Now walk forward; slowly now,’ the king said.
The farmer complied.
‘And stop,’ the king instructed, before breaking into a fit of giggling.
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