by Neil Beynon
She could hear Vedic’s low tones but could not make out the words as she ran along the soft path up the hill. The going was hard. The recent rainfall, blood and worse things besides had made the mud slick. The mire sucked at her boots, trying to draw her into a tight embrace from which she would not escape, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she was running across a collection of Kresh. She fell into the cold mud a second time, and her bow nearly broke beneath her. She cursed.
Kurah burst through the tents alongside her but did not pause to attack or even look at her as they ran. She slung the bow back over her shoulder and drew her sword. The climb towards the sacrifice site was causing her to breathe hard, and she was unsure how long she could keep the pace up. Near the edge of the large cleared area of the pyre, she had to face another Kurah, the sole guardsman left behind.
The guard’s hands shook as he held out his sword to defend his post. His shaking was nearly as bad as Anya’s. She had been able to fool herself that the men she had fought on her way to the prisoners were still alive and just wounded, but she would have to kill this man who wasn’t much older than her. The guard’s armour was nearly as oversized as the man’s she had murdered to escape.
The fear nearly killed her. She felt it slide up her legs like hands rooting her to the spot, and pure instinct lifted the blade to block the guard’s clumsy, aggressive strike. Afterwards she felt that she should have struck out in rage, that her confidence should have returned in a shining moment of insight and caused her to hack the bastard to pieces. The reality was, her response was instinctive.
Her boot came right round in a tight snap that knocked the guard to the ground, and her sword sliced down in a continuous smooth spin that severed his head.
The pause felt like a thousand years.
The strike had been a simple move that Falkirk had drilled into her when she was much younger. She had used it without thinking.
Anya looked down at the still-warm body, the shocked face of the guard staring blindly up at the sky, and threw up. She felt the shakes take her; she struggled to hang on to her sword, and for a few moments, she could do nothing but stare at what she had done. This man no longer existed, because of her.
The cries of men drawing closer broke her reverie. The children crowded her mind. She remembered the dead Shaanti. She steadied her hands with the fury still burning in her belly.
Anya emerged into the area around the scaffolding for the sacrifice and looked up at the huge pyre the Kurah had constructed. Above her, the suns were creeping ever higher towards the sentinels. The air buzzed and throbbed with undischarged magic – like in parts of Golgotha, or the deeper areas of the forest – and if she closed her eyes, she fancied she could see the ghosts of all the trees that had once filled the land to the coast.
The children were not crying. They were beyond that.
Anya made a clockwise sweep of the area around the pyre, realising, after a few moments, that they hadn’t opted for a single cage as she had dreamt but that they had spread the prison wagons around the pyre, pointing inward on the thing that would eventually kill them. The children lay listless and forlorn. Hope had long since left them. Many of them were malnourished; all of them were traumatised from the things they had seen and the certainty that they would be dead come sunset. Not one of them looked up as she made her way to the first cell.
‘Keys?’ she demanded.
One of the children, a boy of about eight, looked up. ‘Who are you?’
She paused, uncertain what to say. ‘Anya, the one who got away.’
The boy blinked. ‘They’ve been looking for you. They are going to kill you if they find you.’
‘If you tell me where the key is, they won’t kill any of us.’
The boy blinked. He seemed unsure if she was real or in his imagination.
‘I came back for you,’ she hissed, desperate. ‘I came back for all of you.’
There was no answer, but more of the children crawled to the front of their prison cells, trying to get a good look at her as she cursed and tried to smash the lock on the first cell with the base of her sword hilt. This made a loud noise but didn’t do anything other than hurt her wrist.
‘The guard,’ said a little girl who could not have been more than five.
The boy who had spoken moved her behind him.
‘Is that right?’ Anya asked. The boy stared at her with unblinking eyes. ‘Please.’
The boy nodded.
‘Damn.’ She cursed herself for not checking the body. ‘I’ll be right back.’
The keys were soaked in blood. Freeing them took her far longer than she would have wished, and she slipped and slid as she tried to make her way back to the makeshift prison. Anya felt like the suns set in that moment. In reality, a storm cloud had just passed overhead, but the sudden drop in light and heat from the suns above made Anya tighten her grip on her sword.
A tall figure bled from the shadows between the tents and moved with warrior-like poise into her path back to the prisoners. He was dragging a body behind him.
‘Vedic!’ she found herself calling out even as she realised the person was too tall, his hair too thick and wild, the skin emerging from the hood he was drawing back too scarred. Vedic had failed.
Cernubus smiled at her. She could see now it was Pan he was dragging behind him, though she could not tell if he was alive or dead.
‘Hello, Anya,’ said the hunter. ‘How about a kiss?’
The thain hurt all over.
She did not know how far she had been thrown, or how long she had been unconscious, but she knew she had been lucky. Nothing felt broken. There were the sounds of people fighting and dying all around her, but she must have looked like a corpse, because no one was attacking her. She opened her eyes. It was still daylight. She reached out for her sword and found the weapon nearby, which was a small miracle – she must have held on to the hilt until she hit the ground.
‘Milady!’
The thain brought her sword round to defend herself and nearly ran Bene through. Her bodyguard was blood-streaked and sweat-soaked but alive, and here. She could have kissed him.
‘You are alive!’ he yelled.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘Although I do not feel it.’
‘The Kurah are in retreat in places,’ said Bene, his voice in wonder. ‘How have we done this?’
The thain sat up. ‘It’s probably a ruse. We can’t defeat them on our own.’
Bene shook his head. ‘Haven’t you seen? The Tream are with us.’
The thain felt the news hit her like a cold hand across the face. The Tream? That was an unexpected miracle that gave them a chance. No, she thought. Bene might be ignorant of the Tream, but I’ve met Hogarth, years ago when treating with the gods during the last war. There still aren’t enough.
‘The prisoners?’ she asked.
Bene shook his head. ‘The Kurah have dug in and are defending the pyres with everything they’ve got. They look like they are waiting for a counter-attack to happen.’
‘The hunter?’
‘There are rumours of two gods duelling,’ said Bene. ‘But I have not seen them.’
The thain would not let herself think of hope. Any other god on the field couldn’t be Danu: she would not intervene so directly, even if she was free. The mud felt cold under her hands, and she could feel the pull of old and fresh injuries as she got to her feet and returned her sword to her hand. She could not see any sign of her horse. Perhaps it had survived and run off.
‘Orders, milady?’ Bene asked.
The thain took in the battle around her. ‘Our generals have things in hand?’
Bene nodded. ‘We drilled them well.’
‘Then you’re with me,’ she said. ‘We’re going to keep an old promise to General Thrace.’
Bene nodded. His men were scattered around the thain and the bodyguard. There were two dozen keeping them safe in the midst of the battle. He whistled. Ten of his warriors took up closer
positions around the thain. The squad set off at a run for the prisoners, only fighting where they had to, taking the narrow lanes between tents. They found Hogarth in a razed section of the camp. The tents had been burned away, the ground scorched, and two corpses littered the ground. In front of one of them, holding a head to his own, was Hogarth. The Tream king was crying as if he were a child.
The Shaanti didn’t know what to do. They stared with their weapons drawn but not raised at this strange creature from their legends, his mottled skin slick with blood of the Kurah, and his sword next to him on the grass. The thain stepped forward slowly.
‘Hogarth,’ she said, her voice gentle.
‘You are late,’ said the king, though his voice lacked true anger. All was sorrow.
‘I am sorry,’ said the thain. ‘We came as soon as we could.’
‘He wasn’t a warrior,’ said Hogarth, still weeping. ‘He fought anyway. And your god killed him.’
The thain flinched. She thought of Sevlen and Jeb. ‘The hunter is not our god,’ she said. ‘We fight the same enemy. I have lost people I cared for to this god as well.’
‘He was my friend for a thousand years and across countless campaigns. We stood together when your ancestors were still killing each other in the name of gods.’
The thain was close enough now to put her hand on his shoulder, and she did so. The Tream felt hot to the touch. His skin was somewhere between bark and human flesh, and he smelt faintly of pine, despite the smoke and blood all around.
‘What was his name?’
‘Akyar,’ replied Hogarth.
The thain looked at the head. She felt a start. She knew the dead Tream – he had been there with Hogarth when she had passed through their lands all those years ago. The vizier had been a kind and thoughtful man who was the most knowledgeable person she had ever talked to.
‘I remember him,’ she said. ‘I am truly sorry. He was good. If we ever make it out of here, his name will live on amongst the Shaanti as long as one of us draws breath.’
Hogarth placed the head by the body and draped what was left of his only robe over his friend’s remains.
‘What happened here?’ asked Bene, bending over the other body. The fallen man was Kurah. His cloak was once purple but was now sodden with blood, and he had been almost cut in two by someone. ‘This wound is too large for a Tream weapon.’
‘Akyar didn’t kill the Kurah king,’ said Hogarth.
The thain looked at the corpse. Montu dead? That was the miracle they needed! She went over to Bene, saw the young Kurah she had met only once, when he was a boy, and felt the thrill of a chance. She felt regret and guilt at this feeling. The man … the boy … was younger than her own late son. Still, his death was an opportunity.
She turned to Bene. ‘Take this body to the highest point and proclaim that Montu has fallen.’
Hogarth nodded. ‘Wise. But the god is who they follow, not this one.’
The thain shrugged. ‘There is a chance. Who did this?’
Hogarth raised his eyebrow. He moved over to his sword and picked it up. ‘You cannot read the ground?’
The thain smiled. ‘I could chance to, but time is short.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Hogarth replied. ‘The children.’ The king looked up at the sentinels glowing in the daytime sky. ‘The alignment is close at hand.’
‘Hogarth, you have my friendship for what you have done here today,’ she said. ‘Please, what happened?’
‘Akyar fought Montu, and the scarred god killed him.’
‘Montu too?’
Hogarth laughed. ‘No, that was Laos.’
The thain went cold. ‘I beg your pardon.’
Hogarth walked up to her. ‘Oh yes, Laos is here. He fights with us. Shall we?’
The Tream was gesturing towards the pyres and the remaining Kurah line.
The thain stared at him. ‘Laos is here?’
Hogarth nodded.
The thain clutched her sword tight. ‘Show me.’
Anya slammed into the cage.
There was a muted thud as the impact drove the air from her lungs, closely followed by the cracking of the struts and another thud as she dropped to the ground. The children in the darkness behind her cried out; others whimpered; and a few brave ones put their hands out to touch Anya, to see if she was still alive. She cursed, her voice hoarse and her throat dry from the fighting.
The fire the god had started spread like a noose around the cages until they were almost entirely hemmed in. She spat a globule of blood into the dust in front of her as she struggled to get to her feet. She had lost her sword. She wasn’t sure when, but somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice screamed at her that the god had made a mistake. He had thrown her into the door.
One eye was swollen shut; her tunic and leggings were torn in several places from narrow escapes from the god’s spear; and she was bleeding from at least three places in addition to her face. Yet Anya got up, raising her fists and shifting her weight to the balls of her feet – ready to fight, the key clutched in one fist. Cernubus had thrown her a fair way. He stood looking at her across the smoke. His laugh made her teeth ache as he made his way forward, her sword in one hand and his spear in the other. She did not have much time.
Anya swung for the door, but Cernubus had already spotted the keys. He threw her sword.
The weapon spun through the air with a low whoop that belied the speed and accuracy of the throw, tattooing Anya to the door of the cage, piercing her through the shoulder. She swore loud and clear. Fire hotter than the one raging only a few feet away burned through her right side. The god stepped towards her, his spear spinning in a lazy rhythm. She tried to pull the sword from her shoulder, but the steel had gone right through and embedded itself in the wood strut of the door behind. Anya could feel the blood seeping from the wound, down her back and dripping onto the ground below.
Anya was dying. Desperate, she tried to reach for the keys that she had dropped on the mud in front of her but couldn’t get a grip.
‘Your war is over, Anya,’ said Cernubus, stepping closer. ‘Your fate was written the moment you came back instead of running. Did you really believe you could defeat a god?’
The hunter looked above at the twin suns, which had almost reached their apex, the sentinels trailing behind. He looked back at her with an expression approaching peace. He had succeeded. The alignment was at hand, and all he had to do was toss his victims into the fire. Not even the granddaughter of the witch-warrior had been able to defeat him. She, too, would be killed for the hunter. Anya had done his work for him, she realised, her stomach flipping over. All the while she had been trying to act for Danu, for the children, for the Shaanti, but it had been Cernubus she had really been working for. How was she any different from Vedic?
Whenever we are involved, nothing goes as planned.
Danu’s words haunted her as Cernubus raised his spear. She could hear the sound of approaching warriors, Shaanti in all likelihood, but they were too late, because she’d allowed Cernubus to start the fires, and now they were cut off. All because she had been arrogant enough to think she could free the children, because she had dared to think she was a hero – like her grandmother, like her grandfather. Yet her grandfather had also been a drunk. A bitter and broken old man who had struggled to raise his daughter and granddaughter alone while he slowly killed himself with wine bought on his younger self’s reputation. And her mother had run away, never completing her mission, whatever the thain had sent her to do. Anya had hoped one day to restore her family’s legend where her mother had failed. Anya wasn’t sure where her own ego stopped and her desire to do the right thing began.
‘I know where to put this,’ said Cernubus, looking at his raised spear.
The lance glinted in the sunlight, drawing a perfect arrow to the suns, an alignment all of its own, and Anya wondered – in the brief pause before the strike – if she would feel pain or if she would merely awaken in Golgotha. The light of the su
ns blinded her, forcing her to close her eyes, and so she heard rather than saw the spear strike. There was no pain.
There was the sound of metal striking on metal. For a moment, Anya thought Cernubus had driven the thing right through her with such ease that she had not felt the blow and – for a moment of brief hope – that the spear had struck and broken the lock behind her. That would have given the children a chance of escape. Something brushed in front of her. There was a grunt and the sound of steel kissing.
Anya was still alive. Blinking, looking away from the light, she saw a familiar figure roll out of the way of a spear thrust and come up in a spinning kick that sent the god onto his back, his weapon clattering away.
Vedic winked at her as he flicked the Eagle’s Claw into his guard position, and Cernubus nipped up, pulling his spear to him with a flick of magic that coiled across the ground like a snake.
Hogarth stared at the flames.
The fire had run almost as fast as the wind. The tents surrounding the caged children had caught and created a wall of flame that none could pass. Shaanti and Tream mingled, both trying to find a path through the heat to where the children were imprisoned.
Hogarth could see enough to realise that it was futile. There would be no way through. The hunter had been too careful. Sensing the battle had turned, he had set fire to the camp in an attempt to buy himself enough time. If he killed the children, none of this would matter, anyway. He would be strong enough to take them all.
‘You, search for something to breach the fire. All of you, look for anything,’ shouted Hogarth at the warriors closest to him.
‘I’m not sure there is anything that can get through that.’
Hogarth turned to look at the thain. She still didn’t look like a ruler to the Tream, but Hogarth recognised his own mannerisms in the woman, and she had steered her people well. The thain smiled, and the ghost of the woman Hogarth had met in the forest decades before was there.
‘Well, this is a pretty problem,’ said the thain. ‘We need a god.’
Hogarth grunted. ‘I’m not sure they would be much use in there. I wonder if Laos got here in time.’