by Darius Hinks
‘Can I really walk amongst my own kind?’ she said quietly. Without realising she was doing it, she placed a hand over her shoulder. ‘Will they not see what I have become?’
The corpse tried to shake its head but only succeeded in swinging its shoulders. ‘I have deprived you of my grandfather’s gifts for a reason. You look as plain and unadorned as the rest of them. They will embrace you.’
Ordaana clutched one of the tentacles that was wrapped around them both. ‘What of my child? What of Alhena?’
‘Alhena?’ Alkhor sounded confused for a second, then began to laugh. ‘Oh, I see – our child.’
Ordaana blushed furiously but remained insistent. ‘What will happen to Alhena if I go to the Silvam Dale?’
The corpse stroked the pulsing sack at the heart of the tentacles. ‘I will keep our child safe, Ordaana.’
Ordaana lifted the corpse’s head on its broken neck, so its eyes were facing hers. ‘And when will I have my revenge? You promised me. When can I end the rule of those monsters?’
‘When spring comes, my queen, your chance will come. They will rise from their slumber to find a kingdom on its knees. The Silvam Dale will fall and the other realms will follow in its wake. By the time Ariel and Orion return, they will have no option but to ride out and face us in the heart of my garden. Orion will be forced to lead his hunt into my hands, just as all my seeds begin to bear fruit.’
Ordaana shivered at the mention of the Wild Hunt. ‘But how will I kill them?’
The corpse jerked one of its hands at the silver knife tucked into Ordaana’s belt. ‘There is more to that blade than you realise. Do as I ask, Ordaana. Find out what the Enchanter has planned and report back to me. Once he is destroyed, we will talk more of revenge.’
Ordaana shook her head and stepped closer to the corpse but, before she could speak, the world went dark.
She tried to cry out, but something cold was pressing against her face and she realised she could no longer breathe.
She started to struggle.
Chapter Thirteen
The Chains of Vaul. Finavar had sung the name in countless ballads – a series of enormous, interlinked roots, jutting out of the forest like the ribs of a long-forgotten giant. The tree they fed was long gone, but it must have been the size of a mountain – a gnarled goliath of a forgotten age. The step-like roots led down into a broad, gloomy valley and as Finavar’s gaze tumbled over them he grimaced. The day had barely dawned. The sun was pale and hesitant, hidden behind low, snow-laden clouds, but there was still enough light for Finavar to see that something dreadful had entered his home. He could not believe the scene that greeted him as he looked down from the root he was standing on. A broad expanse of lurid, yellow liquid had cut its way across the forest and flooded half of the valley. It was a revolting sight, accompanied by an equally disturbing sound: a chorus of shrill, screeching noises. It sounded to Finavar like thousands of eagles, screaming in pain.
He grimaced as he turned to the tall, brooding figure at his side.
Mälloch’s skin did not shimmer in the dull, morning light, but it retained an unworldly sheen, as though it were reflecting the rays of an older, braver sun than the one currently hiding in the clouds. Mälloch said nothing but pointed to some dark, bloated shapes criss-crossing the river.
Finavar peered through the early morning haze. ‘Are they making that noise?’ He frowned. ‘Are they insects?’
Mälloch shook his head. ‘Not like any I’ve seen before. They are as tall as I am. And they bleed an acid powerful enough to melt through flesh and bone.’
‘What is this, then, some kind of sorcery? What’s happening?’
Mälloch’s tone was grim. ‘It is a plague, Finavar, but a plague like nothing I have encountered before. No natural blight could cause such mutation. No natural infestation could create such a horror.’ He turned and waved at the pale horizon. ‘And it does not end here.’
Finavar stepped out onto the lip of the precipice and looked out across the valley to the wider forest. Sinister yellow lines were crossing the whole kingdom. They simmered and steamed in the morning light.
‘The rot will spread further if the Enchanter fails us,’ said Mälloch.
Finavar looked at him in confusion.
Mälloch pointed to a spire of black rock rearing out of the forest, several miles to the east of them. Then he turned his finger to an impossibly vast hawthorn tree, looming over the forest canopy. ‘The three guardians of the Silvam Dale,’ he explained. ‘The Chains of Vaul, the Wilding Tree and the Ravenstone. Each one impenetrable. Each one protected by the subtle arts of Elatior’s witches. They must not fall.’
Finavar looked back down into the valley, at the point where the river halted. There was some kind of mound where the yellow collided with the green. It was shimmering, as though with a heat haze.
‘Why does it stop there?’ he asked. ‘What prevents it moving on? Is that Elatior’s work?’
‘You will see soon enough. I called on my friends for aid, but their time is almost up. Winter is spreading its wings. You have arrived just in time to witness the final days of their great sacrifice.’ He turned to the ranks of asrai waiting behind him in the trees, cloaked in shadow, and raised his voice. ‘Tread carefully as we descend. Those of you who joined us at the feast, follow my lead. The Chains of Vaul must be treated with respect, especially now there is ice underfoot. One lapse of concentration will send you over the edge. And believe me, you do not want to find yourself on the wrong side of this river.’
He gave a subtle hand gesture and the asrai flooded from the trees, barely making a rustle as they raced down the crooked steps.
Finavar hurried after Mälloch down towards the valley floor. As they neared the river, a terrible stink filled his nostrils. It was like the sickly aroma of rotting fruit, mixed with something acrid that caught in the back of his throat. It seemed incongruous with the frozen landscape. At the same time, the screeching noise grew even more unbearable, causing his temples to pound. For a moment, Finavar forgot all about his dead brother and his desire for revenge as revulsion washed over him. The things he had mistaken for natural insects were enormous grubs, several feet wide and held aloft by spindly, whirring wings. The creatures were swooping back and forth across the garish yellow river, trailing strands of mucus from barbs that jutted from their abdomens. Some were clad in black, iron armour and others dangled long, twitching proboscises from their heads. Finavar shook his head in disbelief.
‘Watch your footing!’ growled Mälloch, steering Finavar down a different path, sheltered by a wall of leafless boughs. He saw where Finavar was looking and nodded, pointing at the banks of the river. ‘It’s not just the grubs you need to be wary of.’
Finavar paused and looked where the noble was pointing.
Shuffling through the dead bracken, shrouded in banks of lurid steam, were two-legged creatures – grotesque monsters with tusks sprouting from their heads and absurdly bloated stomachs. Each of them had a single yellow eye.
‘Daemons,’ whispered Finavar, appalled. Then he realised that Mälloch had not paused with him.
‘Keep moving!’ hissed Sibaris, leaping down the slope and nearly colliding with Finavar. ‘You don’t want to end up out here alone.’
Finavar let out a brittle laugh and pointed to the river. ‘I notice you didn’t mention this when you invited me to join your little clan.’
Sibaris’s jaw dropped as he realised who he was addressing. ‘You,’ he whispered, stumbling to a halt.
Finavar frowned, confused by the youth’s strange behaviour. His former cockiness was gone, replaced by a look of dazed awe.
‘You never told me your name.’ Sibaris’s eyes were wide and staring. ‘When we met, you said nothing of yourself. I didn’t know you were Finavar. The Darkling Prince. The hero of Drúne Fell.’ He lowered his voice to a whisp
er. ‘They said you were dead. They said you died fighting by Orion’s side, seizing victory with your final blow.’
Finavar cursed, wishing he had kept his name secret. Then he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Is that what they say of me? That I died fighting by Orion’s side?’
Sibaris nodded, staring at Finavar as though he were a holy vision. ‘You rescued his spear so that he could defeat the outsiders. Your injuries were too horrific for you to survive, but you gave Orion the chance he needed. The Darkling Prince. The hero of Drúne Fell.’ Sibaris placed a tentative hand on Finavar’s arm and his eyes glittered with excitement. ‘And now I will fight by your side.’
Finavar felt sick. ‘These are just the kinds of lies that keep us in chains.’ He shrugged off Sibaris’s grip. ‘We’re fed them as children, when we know nothing of the world. By the time you’ve grown any sense it will be too late. You’ll be just like the rest of us – too bound by ritual and magic to see what’s right before your eyes.’
Sibaris shook his head in confusion.
Finavar leant close, his skeletal features locked in a sneer. ‘I did not fall aiding Orion, Sibaris, I threw myself to the ground in despair when I realised what a vicious monster he is.’
The colour drained from Sibaris’s face. ‘He is the wild. He is our enduring soul.’
Finavar threw words like knives. ‘My brother was as young as you. He was brave. Like you. Orion ripped his throat out. Murdered him. He’s a killer. He’s the murderer of every–’
‘Stop!’ cried Sibaris, his eyes bulging ‘Don’t say such things!’ As he cried out, he grabbed Finavar by the shoulders.
Finavar staggered backwards.
There was a low cracking sound as the edge of the step gave way.
Finavar tried to steady himself, then felt his stomach turn as his left foot stepped back onto nothing.
For a moment they stared at each other in horror, their eyes just inches apart, then Finavar leant slowly back over the precipice.
Sibaris grasped desperately for him but slipped on the ice and ended up throwing his weight against Finavar.
In shocked silence, they tumbled out into the void.
Finavar came to the edge of a wide, grassy meadow – an ocean of glinting blades, silvered by the winter sun. Horses were racing by in their hundreds – as beautiful and swift as the breeze that followed them. Finavar watched them for a while, moved by their grace. Then he felt a presence behind him and turned around.
Jokleel was watching the horses with him. His wide, thoughtful eyes were full of pain.
‘Let me go,’ he said, without looking at Finavar.
Finavar was rocked by grief and tried to reply. His words emerged as a hacking cough and his mouth filled with blood. At the same moment, the sound of the breeze was replaced by a hideous, wailing screech.
He clamped his eyes shut and joined his voice to the scream. Then he opened his eyes.
The beautiful meadow had vanished. So had Jokleel. The scene that greeted him was altogether more shocking. He was sprawled awkwardly across the cold, jagged floor of the valley. The air was crackling and rippling – charged by the vast expanse of bile that was tumbling through the valley. The clouds had cleared a little and he saw, with hideous clarity, the row of figures that were lurching towards him across the rocks. Their bodies were vaguely humanoid but their skin was a shocking collection of sickly, pallid shades. A smell of pus and rotting flesh preceded them, filling Finavar’s nostrils and causing him to gag. Their limbs had a spongy, boneless quality but there was determination in their eyes and iron blades in their hands.
Finavar climbed painfully to his feet and hacked up another gobbet of blood. His bony limbs screamed in pain, but his legs managed to hold him and, as he flexed his arms, Finavar decided that they were unbroken.
The daemons were moving with calm deliberation, but they would be on him in a few minutes. Finavar saw, to his delight, that his blade was lying a few feet away. He clambered across the rocks and grabbed it, relieved to see that it was still intact. Then he staggered and gasped in pain. It was not his cuts and bruises that halted him in his tracks, it was the deafening screams. They had followed him from his dreams.
He looked around, trying to locate the source. A few hundred feet away, at the centre of the valley, he saw the dam that was barring the progress of the yellow acid. The barrier was shrouded in steam and heat haze, so Finavar was unable to make it out in any detail, but he was sure it was the source of the horrible sound.
As he tried to make it out more clearly, Finavar noticed another figure, spread-eagled across the rocks a few feet away from him.
‘Sibaris,’ he gasped, through another mouthful of blood. The youth appeared to be unconscious – at least he did not seem to be aware that several of the one-eyed daemons were ambling towards him.
‘Sibaris!’ cried Finavar, racing across the valley.
The boy showed no signs of hearing and Finavar cursed. He picked up his pace, surprised to find that he had almost recovered his old speed.
When he reached Sibaris, he saw that the boy’s eyes were open but his head was thrown back and he was staring blankly at the clouds.
Finavar felt a chill of recognition. The scene was horribly familiar. He dropped to his knees and lifted Sibaris’s head from the rocks. His hair was damp with blood but his eyes refocused, fixing onto Finavar’s.
‘The Darkling Prince,’ he gasped, with a faint smile.
‘Yes,’ replied Finavar through gritted teeth. ‘You need to stand.’
Sibaris continued smiling for a moment, then he looked around and took in his surroundings. The daemons were almost on them and his face drained of colour.
‘My leg,’ he gasped, wincing as Finavar helped him to his feet. There was a vivid red gash, just below his left knee. The bone was clearly visible through the torn skin.
‘Where are your people?’ asked Finavar looking at the shimmering dam. ‘Behind that?’
Sibaris was staring at the wound in disbelief and did not respond.
‘Where is Mälloch?’ snapped Finavar, turning the youth’s bloody face to his.
Sibaris swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes. They are gathered behind the dam. Mälloch is preparing for the next attack.’
Finavar nodded and threw Sibaris’s arm over his shoulders. ‘We need to move fast.’
Sibaris nodded, but Finavar hesitated, looking back at the daemons. They were less than twenty feet away. He could never outrun them and carry Sibaris at the same time.
‘Wretched child,’ he muttered, lowering Sibaris to the ground and turning to face the daemons.
As the monsters realised Finavar was not going to flee, their faces lit up with obscene grins. They began muttering an eager, droning litany.
Finavar struggled to hold his nerve as they approached. All of his senses screamed out at the wrongness of them. They were a tear in reality – a glimpse of the madness beyond. Their bodies were a mockery of real flesh. There were eight of them and, as they raised their swords, Finavar felt as though he were watching a painting spring to life. They were a garish fiction, clad in rotten flesh and belching heady, charnel fumes.
The first of them reached him and Finavar felt something else: elation. As he drew back his sword arm, vigour rushed through his muscles.
He sang a high, single note, fixing his gaze on the distant crowns of trees, looking down on him from the lip of the valley. He sang of life and the true, beating heart of the forest.
Then he leapt forwards, plunging his blade through the first daemon’s throat.
The daemon coughed and staggered backwards, reaching for its neck. With its other hand it brought down its iron sword.
The blade passed through air and clattered against the ground, sending the daemon off balance.
Finavar was nowhere to be seen.
The da
emon whirled around, trying to spot its attacker and its head slipped sideways in an arc of thick, mustard-coloured blood.
Finavar dropped back into view. He had been clinging to the cliff face and landed behind the daemon with his sword held in both hands. The blade passed cleanly through the daemon’s reeling, headless body and sliced it from neck to groin.
The daemon collapsed into a steaming pile and Finavar dropped into a crouch, grinning as the rest of the daemons stumbled to a halt.
‘The Darkling Prince!’ howled Sibaris, clambering to his feet and pointing defiantly at them. ‘Know your killer, daemons! You fall to a hero!’
Finavar scowled, but had no time to refute Sibaris’s claims. The other daemons had overcome their shock and remembered that they were still seven against one. Now that they were closer he saw that they were covered in a strange assortment of objects – filthy, worm-ridden counting beads and rotten, sagging books that dripped grease and mites as they slapped back and forth around the daemons’ legs. Most worrying of all were the thousands of buboes and cysts that covered the daemons’ limbs. Finavar could smell the contagion pouring from their scabs. He knew intuitively that he could not let their glistening fingers touch his skin.
The daemons fixed their yellow eyes on him and formed a semicircle, keeping their blades held out before them.
Finavar could not help smiling. After weeks of exhaustion and despair, he finally had an enemy worthy of his hate, and the strength to fight.
He looked again at the distant trees and raised his sword to the sky.
As the daemons shuffled towards him, clogging his nostrils with their stink, his voice rang out over the chorus of screams. His song was pure and unadorned – a simple paean to nature and life.
The daemons hesitated for a moment and looked around, as though they expected some kind of response to Finavar’s call.
Seeing there was none, they rushed forwards with surprising speed.
Finavar dropped to the ground, wrapped himself into a ball and rolled forwards, passing between the legs of two of the daemons.