Orion: The Council of Beasts

by Darius Hinks

  The white wolf padded back into view, looking at him with a puzzled expression. ‘You think you are already King, but you have not been through the rites. We have not approved your birth. And, even if we did, how can you become king if there is no Even-night? The stars are your wet nurse, Orion, and they have been scattered.’

  ‘You will hunt with me,’ howled Orion but as he stepped towards the wolf, he noticed that the huge serpent was no longer hovering overhead. It had vanished. As he looked around the clearing for it, he noticed that the other spirits were vanishing too, shaking their heads, their hatred now softened by looks of pity.

  ‘We would not follow you when you had a chance of success,’ said the wolf. ‘Why would we follow you now that you do not?’

  ‘Try it,’ hissed the Wrach, pointing his staff at the pool. ‘See if you can be born. You think you already have been, so why not return and rule?’

  Orion saw the spirit’s pale, worm-like fingers, spiralling and coiling around its staff.

  ‘See what you are without seasons.’

  Orion noticed that the voices in his head remained mute, but his thoughts still rang with the echoes of their determined song. ‘I am the king,’ he said simply and strode back towards the pool. ‘I do not need your approval. I will be born.’ He glanced back at the wolf. ‘And then I will come for you.’

  He saw a flash of emotion in the wolf’s eyes, then it was gone and Orion saw that he was alone with only the linden trees to watch him re-enter the water.

  This side of reality the water was cool and clear and, as he looked into its depths, he saw Atolmis and the other riders waiting anxiously for his return, surrounded by the fumes and spores of the plague. They looked so close he felt as though he could reach into the water and touch them.

  He paused for a moment, waiting to see if the voices would return. There was nothing, so he dived back in.

  At first he powered easily through the water and it seemed as though he would be back with his servants in a few minutes. Then the water became clouded with silt and weeds and his way was less clear. His lungs ached with the same pain as before, but the harder he kicked, the further away the Wild Riders were. The silt swirled around him and formed into bestial shapes: the Council of Beasts, watching him with a strange mixture of pity and desperation. Even when painted in clouds of dust their hatred was clear, but they were also willing him on. Orion realised that they wanted him to prove them wrong. They wanted him to be born.

  He swam through them, infuriated by the implication that he might fail. As he powered through the banks of drifting silt, he saw that Atolmis and the others had vanished. There was nothing ahead of him but a cold, featureless void.

  His lungs throbbed, his pulse hammered in his ears and, finally, the voices returned. They now sang a different song. As his consciousness slipped away, the host of Orions trapped in his mind began to howl.

  Before the darkness took him, Orion saw his body start to dissipate. He was becoming as vague and insubstantial as the spirits that were trailing in his wake.

  The voices roared in outrage and he saw that the beasts had been right. There would be no rebirth.

  He was the last of his line.

  The rites had failed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Finally, Prince Haldus’s blood started to cool. With only Nuin to keep him company, he skimmed across the rolling clouds, calmed by the song of the wind, howling through the spines of his helmet. The warhawk beneath him was his ideal companion: faithful, brave and most of all, silent. Nuin would never have convinced him to play at being a king. Such a noble, wise creature would never indulge in facile politicking, any more than she would have advised him to lead the asrai to war. And, despite the bond they shared, Nuin would never judge him for being such a damned fool.

  He gripped Nuin’s feathers tighter. How could he have promised Lord Calaingor anything? How could he have left his people in that hellish paradise? He played the final moments over in his mind as Nuin flew back towards their mountain home. As soon as Haldus made his promise, the giant’s courtiers had flooded in from the fields. They had arrived in incredible numbers, surrounding Haldus’s kin with a wall of spears and glaives. Then their giant lord rose from his throne and grasped Haldus in a cold, crumbling fist.

  Haldus had struggled to free himself, then abandoned the attempt, overwhelmed by the sight of Calaingor dragging magic from the fields, engulfing the stone circle in verdant fire, imbuing the enormous figures with life. The sight had been so shocking that Haldus’s strength had failed, leaving him slumped and dumbfounded in the giant’s hand as the world erupted around him. The animated statues towered over even Calaingor and, as they lurched into life, the whole valley had shook to the rhythm of crashing, stone feet.

  The veil between the Cromlech and reality had evaporated as the stone gods marched to war. Haldus recalled his horror as the diseased host rushed towards him, more numerous than ever. But, before the battle was joined, Calaingor did as he promised and set Haldus free. Before destroying the daemon army he plucked Nuin from the fields, placed Haldus on the hawk’s back and, with a whispered charm, launched them both into the sky.

  Haldus had tried to order his mount back to the golden fields where his kinsmen were trapped, horrified by their pleas for help; but Nuin was deaf to everything – possessed by Calaingor’s magic.

  Nine days had passed since then. As they headed east across the forest, Haldus had regained control, but he had made no attempt to send her back. They were already halfway home and Haldus had settled on a more appealing plan. He would hunt down that treacherous dog, Cyanos, and force him to share all that he knew about Lord Calaingor and the Cromlech of Cadai. Then, once Haldus had learned enough to free his kin, he would put an end to Cyanos’s lies forever.

  His pulse raced as he saw the Pine Crags up ahead, slicing, claw-like through the clouds. He knew that he should head back west, rejoin the army he had abandoned at Crowfoot Falls but, try as he might, he could think of nothing but Cyanos. Fury smouldered in his guts. He knew it was his own lack of guile – his poor judgement – that had killed half of the hawk lords and robbed the others of their freedom, but the true guilt lay with Cyanos. He had to die.

  Haldus peered east into the rising sun. This high it was possible to imagine a forest free of corruption. All he could see from Nuin’s back was the dazzling red-gold palette of the dawn, blazing across clouds and mountain alike. Turas-Alva was directly ahead of him. He could see it clearly: a cruel, beautiful talon of granite, silhouetted by the cold, winter sun, and he knew that Cyanos would be there, but he steered Nuin south, away from his goal, towards an even higher peak. After months of war, he was finally heading home. The asrai who dwelled in the Pine Crags were mostly scattered across the forest, battling the plague daemons, but Prince Haldus doubted that Cyanos would be alone. The false king would still be guarded by his strange, bird-masked, honour guard and Haldus knew that he could not face him alone.

  As Nuin swooped down through the clouds, Haldus locked his gaze on the unforgiving shard of rock he called home: the Cáder Donann.

  Up in the mountains, the seasons still held sway. Winter had descended and the slopes wore a dismal crown of mist and sleet. But as Haldus dropped from Nuin’s back he ignored the cold and took a grateful breath, savouring the smell of his own lands. Even here, miles above the rolling foothills, the forest had made its presence known. Brutal, towering pines, with bark like blackened steel, jutted from every crevasse. They stood proud and straight, defying the howling wind, glowering majestically at the surrounding slopes and filling the air with the scent that had caused Haldus to smile. He closed his eyes and let his head rock back, taking another draught. It was a pure, clean smell, and, for a moment, it washed away all the filth and madness of the plague.

  Nuin dragged one of her massive claws across the rock, alerting Haldus to the fact that they were no longer alone. Vague, ill-defined figures were approaching through the icy mist, silhouetted b
y the dawn.

  It was a while since Haldus had returned home and much had changed during the interim. He unslung his bow from his back and nocked an arrow. The figures were slender and moved with a graceful economy, clearly asrai, but Haldus kept his bow ready. Who knew how far Cyanos’s treachery had taken him? Who knew who ruled these slopes? When he flew to war, Haldus had robbed the Donann of its most skilled defenders and left it in the hands of children. Was it still his to call home?

  ‘Who are you stranger?’ demanded a stern voice. ‘And who gave you permission to land on the Córran Edge?’

  Haldus lowered his bow, smiling as the figures emerged from the mist and surrounded him. There were a dozen or so of them – slender, fresh-faced youths, masquerading as veteran warriors. Haldus felt a rush of pride as he saw their proud, determined faces.

  ‘Am I so quickly forgotten?’ he replied.

  ‘Father!’ cried one of them, lowering her bow and dashing towards him.

  ‘Clorana.’ Haldus tried to maintain his usual scowl, but his daughter gripped him in such a fierce hug that he could not help laughing.

  After a few seconds, he pushed her back and held her at arm’s length, studying her face. He realised she had changed more than he thought. He had left behind a child and returned to find a warrior. Her beautiful, russet locks no longer flowed down over robes of emerald silk – they were knotted tightly back and tucked into a battered, leather jerkin. Her face was gaunt and stern and where her freckled cheeks had once been smooth, they now bore deep, circular scars, identical to his own. They spiralled around her eyes, giving her a harsh, warlike demeanour.

  Haldus felt a mixture of sadness and pride at the sight of the scars. His daughter was a child no longer. She wore the marks of a killer.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, speaking in soft, respectful tones.

  She blushed and lowered her head for a moment. Then she lifted her chin and looked him proudly in the eye. ‘War happened, father. It has reached us even here. And we have been hard-pressed.’ She looked around at the other youths. They all wore the same, ritual scars and most carried other wounds – ones that were too ragged to be self-inflicted. ‘But we kept your halls free of the Chaos taint.’ Her voice trembled. ‘We knew you would return.’

  Haldus was unable to speak for a moment, for fear that his voice would betray his emotions. These children had clearly been through terrible ordeals, but there was no doubt in their eyes. They looked at him with fierce determination. Somehow, the sight of these slender young warriors, buffeted by wind and sleet, brought home to Haldus all the horror of what was happening in the trees below. If they knew all that he had seen – if they knew what had become of the forest – they would drop to the ground and scream. Their confidence came from ignorance and he found that heartbreaking.

  Clorana grew pale as she saw her father’s expression.

  ‘What is your news?’ she asked, her eyes bright with fear.

  Haldus took a deep breath and shook his head. Then he nodded at a gulley to their left. ‘Show me a little mercy, child. I’ve been on the wing for days. At least let me find a place to drop before you ply me with questions.’ The wind and sleet were still lashing against them. ‘Córran Edge is no more welcoming than I remember.’

  Clorana laughed, but it was a half-hearted sound and the fear remained in her eyes.

  ‘Take me home, Clorana,’ he said. ‘You know who it is I wish to see.’

  The Cáder Donann was topped by a bizarre vision – an ink-black pine, named Clar-Cáragh. It reached up into the clouds, as tall and menacing as all the other trees that littered the mountain and it was huge – nearly fifty feet in diameter – but that was not what made it strange. This particular tree had a peculiar history. Long before the arrival of the asrai its trunk had been transformed – torn apart by the sorcery of a forgotten race. As Haldus allowed his subjects to lead him home, he glanced up at its strange, hovering clusters of towers, no less awed than the first time he had laid eyes on them. The prehistoric race – Haldus knew them only as the Old Ones – had captured an explosion in the heart of the mountainous tree. A white-hot flame was forever preserved at its core, captured in a frozen instant. A single detonation of magic power was tearing the tree apart, but, rather than taking seconds, the incident was playing itself out at a glacial pace. Over thousands of years, the vast shards of wood were gradually drifting free, moving no more than a fraction of an inch each year. The resultant sight was bewildering and wonderful – countless, huge fragments of wood, hanging around a blazing core. The huge pieces of wood moved so slowly that Haldus’s ancestors had built homes on the drifting shards – a whole civilisation, crawling through a moment of endless destruction.

  They reached the roots of the tree – a sprawling nest of knotted limbs that poured like waterfalls over the rocks – and began to climb the thick vines that dangled from the branches. As he climbed higher, Haldus saw how deserted Clar-Cáragh was. War had robbed the tree of its guardians. The creaking, groaning walkways, once crowded with his subjects, were now silent and gloomy. Half an hour passed without them seeing another soul, but when he looked down at his daughter with a questioning glance, she nodded for him to continue.

  ‘Has she changed?’ he asked as they climbed.

  Clorana laughed and this time her mirth was more genuine. ‘She does not change.’

  Finally, Clorana waved Prince Haldus onto a wide, flat branch, drifting just a few feet away from the trunk. Haldus leapt gracefully from the vine and saw that there was a dwelling place at the far end of the platform – a tangle of branches woven into a dome-shaped bower. He nodded, recognising the home of his old friend, and strode along the branch towards it.

  ‘Damára?’ he said, squinting into the gloom as he entered the chamber. ‘Is that you?’

  The chamber’s mesh-like walls threw confusing lights across the furs on the floor. For a moment, Haldus was unable to see anything but diagonal splashes of light and the snarling faces of fallen beasts. After a moment he noticed that not all of the snarls were lifeless. Dozens of wildcats were circling in the shadows, padding in and out of view and following his movements with their glinting, yellow-green eyes. Then a robed figure shuffled from the back of the chamber and the cats scattered, hissing at her in annoyance. It was a spellweaver – her tall, wiry frame enveloped by furs and robes. She looked vaguely in Haldus’s direction and sniffed suspiciously.

  She came closer, feeling her way with a horned staff and as she emerged into a patch of light, it revealed that where her eyes should have been there were only two smooth, featureless hollows. She sniffed again and then relaxed. ‘So you do remember the way home,’ she said with a wry smile.

  Her hair was long, white and parted around a copper leaf on her forehead, hanging from a leather cord around her head. Other than her blindness, her face was almost identical to Clorana’s.

  Haldus took her head in his hands and kissed the copper leaf, but he could think of no words. Seeing the mother of his child reminded him again of the horrors overtaking them all. His journey home had shown him how close the plague was to the Pine Crags. The foothills were already crawling with foetid creatures and gaudy, creeping fungus. It would not be long before the black firs of his home began to shiver and rot.

  Damára looked troubled by his silence. ‘What news do you bring of the war?’ she asked, placing her hand on one of the torcs that encircled his arms.

  For a moment, Haldus was at a loss to know how to answer. ‘Daemons,’ he said finally. ‘The Chaos Gods. They’ve cast a shadow across the Great Weave. They’ve…’ His words trailed off as Clorana and the others entered the chamber. ‘The Plague Father is amongst us,’ he muttered, lowering his voice. ‘He is spreading his filth across the forest.’

  Damára shrugged. ‘We have faced such things before. Spring will rid us of unwelcome guests. The ancients will rise and the king and queen will return. Orion will not permit such beings to remain amongst us for long. He will lead t
he Wild Hunt, as he has always done.’ As Damára spoke, her words became less sure. ‘Or, is there something more?’

  Haldus sighed and dropped heavily onto the fur-strewn floor. ‘There is much more. Daemon-plague has consumed the whole forest, Damára. The noble halls of our kin have fallen one by one. I tried to lead those that remained, but…’ His face was suddenly twisted by a mixture of fury and regret. ‘I’m no king,’ he growled, glaring at the floor. ‘I’m not made to lead. They wouldn’t listen to my plans.’

  Clorana looked pained and crouched next to her father, placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m sure you did what you could, but it no longer matters. Winter will end soon. Orion will return to us.’

  Haldus shook his head. ‘The corruption is too great, child. The Great Weave itself has been unravelled. Down in the forest, there is no winter.’ He glanced at his daughter. ‘And there will be no spring.’

  She laughed in disbelief. ‘Of course there will be a spring.’

  Her words were followed by a stunned silence that nobody seemed willing to break.

  ‘Haldus,’ said Damára, frowning. ‘Have you come here to wallow in self-pity? What use is despair? If things are as bad as you say, why have you returned home?’ She lifted her chin, showing exactly the same expression of pride her daughter had displayed when she met Haldus on the Córran Edge. ‘You may not be a king, Haldus, but you are also no coward. If the forest is in such danger, why are you slumped here in my chambers?’

  Haldus flinched and rose shamefully to his feet. He was exhausted. Weeks of battle weighed heavily on his limbs and he had not slept for days. But he drew back his shoulders and gave the blind spellweaver a weary nod. ‘You’re right, Damára – cowardice is the one weakness I can rightly deny. I did not come here to rest, though my bones are screaming at me that I should, I came here to slay a traitor and free our kinsmen.’