by Darius Hinks
Before they had chance to turn around, he ran along the whole row of them, trailing his sword behind him so that the blade passed through the tendons of their legs.
As one, the daemons dropped to their knees.
As Sibaris looked on, wide-eyed with devotion, Finavar stepped lightly along the row of kneeling daemons and beheaded them.
The pus-covered remains struggled on, despite their lack of heads and Finavar spent the next few minutes dismembering them with quiet, graceful efficiency. Then he took a few steps back and dropped to one knee, resting his brow on his sword handle and closing his eyes in prayer.
‘Finavar,’ said Sibaris, staggering towards him.
Finavar looked up and glared at the youth, expecting more sycophancy.
Sibaris pointed towards the yellow river.
The fight had not gone unnoticed. Crowds of daemons were now shuffling across the rocks towards them. Finavar counted thirty at least in the first wave.
He nodded, climbed to his feet and began helping Sibaris towards the dam.
They covered half the distance in minutes and the screaming grew to such a volume that Finavar felt as though it might unhinge his mind. His teeth seemed to be pulsing in time with the dreadful sound and there was nothing he could do to block it out. They struggled on and, as they reached the dam, Finavar had to endure another assault on his senses.
When he saw the barrier from the precipice above he had assumed it was built of deadwood, or rocks, but now he realised it was alive. It was a living wall of bark and claws. Woodland spirits and wild animals had bound themselves into a dam, blocking the river at the valley’s narrowest point. Disparate beings of thorn and claw had crushed together to form an impassable barrier. And they were screaming in agony.
‘Look what allies my great-grandfather has at his side,’ said Sibaris proudly. ‘The spirits of the forest have answered his call for countless centuries. Few lords can boast such–’
‘They’re dying,’ said Finavar in desolate tones.
Sibaris stumbled over his words. ‘Well, you see, I think… My father has promised to oversee this. He has sworn to the Enchanter we will hold this spot, and we will.’ As he spoke he followed Finavar’s gaze and doubt crept into his voice. ‘Look at the progress we have made.’ He pointed out a vast mound of bodies at the foot of the green wall. Hundreds of the pot-bellied daemons had been hacked apart by Mälloch’s warriors, who were gathered behind and around the wall of thorns. Daemon flesh lay across the valley in broken, steaming heaps.
Finavar’s gaze remained locked on the dam. ‘The year is dying though, Sibaris. Look at them. Their power is spent. They’re in torment.’
The figures stemming the yellow tide were crooked with exhaustion and their gnarled, inhuman faces were elongated by agonised screams. This was the awful chorus Finavar had been hearing ever since they reached the valley.
Sibaris stared at the wailing spirits and his eyes filled with pain. Then he shook his head. ‘There was no other way. Elatior would not have requested this if there was. And he will be here any day. We will hold this valley until he arrives. We cannot fail.’ He looked at Finavar and the awe crept back into his voice. ‘Especially now.’
Another noise began cutting through the din – a whirring buzz from somewhere overhead.
Finavar stopped and looked up at the sky. ‘By Loec,’ he muttered. A group of the bloated, fly-like monsters were hurtling out of the yellow mist. They were the size of horses and clad in plates of jagged iron.
He bent down, threw Sibaris over his bony shoulders and sprinted towards the screaming dam.
Battle cries greeted them as they reached the wall. As he neared the enormous structure, Finavar stared at it in amazement. The whole thing was alive – a creaking mountain of agonised bark and tormented roots. Grim-faced archers peered out at them through slender gaps in the weave, shooting at the flying monsters.
As he reached the dying trees Finavar staggered to a halt, filled with horror. ‘Why don’t they flee?’ He could not believe what he was witnessing. Hundreds of ancient spirits were writhing in pain, grasping at trapped, howling animals as the acid washed against them. Jagged, mossy faces looked down at him, quivering in agony. ‘What holds them here?’
Sibaris nodded to the base of the wall. There was a flash of silver between the knotted roots – a long curved sword, identical to the one Mälloch wielded at the Feast of the Two Branches. Finavar could not mistake the beautiful swan’s neck handle.
‘My great-grandfather has bound them to this duty,’ said Sibaris proudly. Then he pulled Finavar on. ‘We must get through to the other side!’
‘How?’ exclaimed Finavar. The spirits and beasts were clawing at each other, deranged by their anguish. It looked as though they would shred anything that came within a few feet of them.
‘The spirits know their own,’ gasped Sibaris. ‘Keep going!’
Finavar glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the winged monsters were skimming low across the river, trailing flies and spores as they raced towards them. They were only seconds away.
He shook his head and raced on towards the mound of knotted, wooden limbs.
He grimaced as they neared the branches, expecting attack but, as Sibaris promised, the brittle mass snapped and jerked aside, forming a shuddering doorway for them to pass through.
He glimpsed faces, contorted by pain and exertion, as he passed through a tunnel of dead briars. The screams grew in volume and he thought he might lose his mind. Then they were through.
The scene behind the dam was little better. As the morning turned its sombre gaze towards them, it revealed the pitiful state of Mälloch’s army. Wardancers and other warriors were gathered behind the dying tree spirits, locked in combat with crowds of nightmarish beings. Some of the daemons had broken through the defence and there was a desperate struggle going on as the asrai attempted to repel them. Enormous, segmented grubs whirred overhead, carrying pot-bellied riders, while more of the daemons clambered slowly over the dam. Most were torn apart by sharpened, claw-like branches but, every now and then, one of the daemons would break through, with terrifying results.
Finavar collapsed to the ground, letting go of Sibaris and watching the scene in horror. One of the slow-moving daemons reached the lines of asrai and there was an eruption of screams and curses, followed by an explosion of growths and noxious gases.
The wardancers who were nearest cried out in horror, their bodies wrenched out of all recognition. The daemon was quickly hacked to the ground, but several of the wardancers were overcome by disease. They immediately began unfurling extra limbs and latching them onto those nearest to them, or birthing new heads from their chests and sinking elongated teeth into whoever was nearby.
There was a frantic hacking and jabbing until the corruption had been controlled.
Finavar looked around the battlefield. Many of the severed, mutated limbs he could see on the ground were clad in asrai robes and clutching asrai weapons.
‘What a pitiful mess,’ he said. The scale of the carnage threw his mind back to the battle of Drúne Fell, and the sight of his brother, sprawled on the mounds of dead with his throat torn open. I cannot die here, he thought. Jokleel cannot go unavenged. The screaming of the spirits combined with the howling of the fallen warriors and his head began to spin. He looked back up the wall of tree spirits and wondered how he could escape this hell.
‘You don’t mean to leave us?’ Sibaris was watching him closely. His face was ashen and he had clearly lost a lot of blood, but he was as defiant as ever. ‘This will pass. They attack in waves.’
Finavar grimaced at the sight of the youth’s leg wound. He leant across, tore away some of Sibaris’s cloak and knotted it around his leg. When he had stemmed the bleeding he looked back at the battle. ‘Where is Mälloch?’
Sibaris pointed to a limb of rock jutting
across the valley floor, fifty feet or so behind the wall of screaming spirits. It created a natural second barrier and Mälloch’s tall figure was just visible talking to some other nobles. There were thirty or so warriors gathered around him, watching him intently as he pointed out vantage points with his curved sword.
Sibaris and Finavar made their way through the crowd and Finavar saw that his companion was right. The clamour was already dying down and as the asrai fell on the fallen daemons they stared at Finavar in shock.
The screaming sound was just as horrific on this side of the dam and as they climbed onto the limb of rock, Finavar stared at Mälloch with a furious expression on his face. ‘You can’t just leave them like that,’ he said, conscious that the crowd parted for him as though he were a highborn. The warriors were looking at him with the same wonder he had seen in Sibaris’s eyes. They were exhausted and most of them were injured, but his mere presence seemed to reinvigorate them. They threw back their shoulders and nodded proudly at him.
I must leave, he thought again. I will tell Mälloch I was mistaken. I won’t be their wretched mascot. I cannot die now. Not now.
Mälloch gave no sign he had heard Finavar and rushed to Sibaris, gripping his arm.
‘How badly are you hurt?’ he demanded, looking at the gruesome leg wound.
Sibaris’s face flushed with pride. ‘I am well. The Darkling Prince has tended to my wound.’
Mälloch looked unconvinced, but at the mention of Finavar he finally acknowledged the wardancer and summoned him to his side.
Before speaking to him he turned back to his captains. ‘Chloris,’ he cried, facing a grizzled-looking spearman in a cloak of white fur. Mälloch levelled his sword at the eastern side of the valley, where the Chains of Vaul climbed back up into the morning light. ‘We must ensure those archers are armed before the next attack. Tell your men to rest their spears and start fletching.’
The spearman nodded and hurried away, taking half of the assembled warriors with him.
‘Iol,’ said Mälloch, turning to a black-haired youth with crimson feathers in her hair. ‘Gods be praised that you made it.’ He gave her a grim smile. ‘Take your kindred to the western side of the dam. Ullin will be glad to see you again. He’s as brave as ever, but twice as foolish. He needs your help.’
She nodded and smiled proudly back at Mälloch. Then she dashed back towards the battle, taking the other half of the gathering with her.
With his captains dispersed, Mälloch turned to Finavar and his smile faded.
‘I’m not one for tall tales,’ he said, his voice a low growl.
Finavar stared at him, confused by the noble’s tone.
After a moment of awkward silence, Mälloch continued. ‘You may be the god-like hero of Drúne Fell or you may be a fortunate survivor with a silly name; it doesn’t matter to me.’ Mälloch waved at the crowds of warriors, hacking down the last of the daemons, executing their own kin and struggling to be heard over the screams of dying spirits. ‘But they believe you are something special.’ He stepped closer to Finavar and gripped his bicep. ‘Do you understand?’
Finavar was annoyed by the noble’s aggression, especially as he had just saved Sibaris’s life, but he nodded. ‘You want me to lead your subjects to a heroic death. The forest is about to fade away with the year and you want me to convince your warriors to hold their positions, until they are all…’ He looked around at the piles of limbs and shattered bones. ‘Until they are no more.’
Sibaris hobbled closer and was about to interrupt, but Mälloch glared at him and he kept his silence.
‘The Enchanter’s defences are almost prepared,’ said Mälloch, squeezing Finavar’s arm even tighter. ‘We cannot fail him now. We can’t lose everything when we’re so close to victory. We must hold this river back until he comes.’ Mälloch’s eyes were blazing. ‘I know you have your own story to tell, Finavar, but do you realise what will happen if I fail here? Whatever fate has in store for you, you cannot allow that, surely?’
The noble tried to keep his voice under control, but there was a faint tremor, hinting at his pain and loss.
Finavar looked back at the dying spirits and warriors and felt his resolve slipping. His heart sank as he realised he could not refuse. ‘I fared better with your food than your wine,’ he said. ‘My strength is starting to return. Perhaps I could help for a while.’ He looked at the hideous creatures massing at the far end of the valley. ‘But I cannot win this battle for you, Mälloch. They are too many and you are too few. I will stay until tomorrow.’
Mälloch closed his eyes and when he opened them again his expression was less stern. ‘Your heart is not as broken as you think.’
Finavar shook his head. He was unsure what Mälloch meant but he realised he had no stomach for that conversation. ‘I’ll see where I can be most use,’ he said, turning to leave.
‘Wait.’ Mälloch grasped his shoulder. ‘They won’t attack again now. Not until the sun starts to fall.’ His lip curled as he studied the bodies piled at the foot of the dam. ‘Whatever drives them has no sense of urgency. Our only blessing has been a chance to rest between each onslaught.’ He nodded to the figures dashing back and forth, gathering weapons and tending to the fallen. ‘My captains will see to the preparations. You have earned a rest.’
Finavar shrugged. He supposed it made sense for him to be as rested as he could be if Mälloch expected him to inspire his warriors.
He followed the highborn down from the natural wall into an enclosed area on the far side. Dozens of asrai were sprawled across the ground, either eating, sleeping or tending to wounds. Someone had gathered fallen wood and there were a few small fires to force back the winter chill.
Sibaris was still hobbling at Finavar’s side, glowing with pride, but as they approached a fire Mälloch shoved him in a different direction.
‘Get that leg tended to, boy. An open wound will be a death sentence when those daemons return.’
Sibaris looked crestfallen, but did as he was ordered.
Mälloch paused a few feet from the flames and waved Finavar on. ‘I told you there was something here that you would want to retrieve,’ he said, with a mysterious smile. ‘It has been kept safe for you.’ Then he turned away and began speaking to someone else.
Finavar frowned in confusion and turned back to the fire. There was a collection of pitiful-looking refugees gathered around the flames. They were all slumped wearily against each other for support and several were wrapped in bandages or poultices.
As Finavar’s gaze passed over the hooded strangers he saw nothing that could ease his pain. He felt a vague feeling of disappointment as he recalled Mälloch’s promise that he would find peace.
He laughed at himself. What kind of peace could he attain until he had slain his brother’s murderer? He found a space by the fire, sat down and allowed his muscles to relax, one by one. As he leant back onto his elbows, he let out an exhausted sigh.
One of the hooded figures on the other side of the fire glanced up at the sound and let out a bark of surprise.
‘So, even the dead cannot refuse Mälloch.’
The voice was dour and rattling, and Finavar recognised it immediately. ‘Thuralin,’ he said.
Despite the horror of his surroundings, Finavar could not help but smile as the old warrior threw back his hood. As always, most of Thuralin’s scowl was hidden behind a plain, wooden mask, and the other half was a rippling mess of scar tissue, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eye.
‘It looks like you’ve finally grown into your name,’ he croaked, studying Finavar’s dark expression and his sunken, gloomy eyes. He shook the person sleeping next to him. ‘Alhena. Look who’s returned from the dead. It seems you were right after all.’
Alhena looked up in surprise and, as her hood fell away, Finavar felt as though he were dreaming. These were two faces he had never e
xpected to see again. Thuralin, with his burned flesh and stooped, wasted body and Alhena, with her shaven head and wild stare. They were visions from another life; one that felt utterly lost to him.
He rose to his feet and stepped round the fire towards them.
They stood and looked at him in wonder.
For a moment he felt as though he could throw his arms around them – forget everything that had happened and embrace his past, but he could not. His past had died with Jokleel. These people had once been his family, but now they were as strange to him as anyone else hunkered by the fire. There was nothing but distance between them now.
Alhena wore the same fierce expression she always did, but her eyes were glittering in the firelight.
‘We thought you had died,’ she said, taking his hand.
‘I thought the same of you,’ he said, squeezing her hand briefly before withdrawing his grip.
They looked him up and down and were clearly shocked. His recent meal might have renewed his energy, but it had done nothing to renew his flesh. He was still a jumble of limbs and gaunt, hollow features.
There was an awkward moment as they realised this was not going to be a gleeful reunion. Finavar wanted to tell them how pleased he was to see them alive, but it felt somehow inappropriate. It was as though he were talking to strangers who resembled people he once knew.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Alhena.
Finavar looked at the ground. ‘I survived. Jokleel did not.’
Alhena’s expression softened. ‘We thought you were both gone. To see one of you again is more than we expected.’
Finavar met her eye. ‘Caorann?’
She glanced at her father and then looked back at Finavar with a pained expression. ‘After the battle…’ Her words trailed off and she stared into the middle distance, clearly upset.
‘After the battle,’ continued Thuralin on her behalf, ‘we became one with the Wild Hunt.’
Finavar looked at Thuralin’s hunched, wizened body. The old warrior looked closer to death than ever. He was so crooked and withered that Finavar could not imagine him walking, never mind fighting. ‘You rode with Orion?’