Orion: The Tears of Isha

by Darius Hinks

  ‘We do not fail,’ said one of them, lifting his chin.

  ‘But look at me.’ Orion waved his arm and summoned the world into view. Ariel was staggering through an icy hollow with his bloody remains in her arms. Her robes were stained with his blood and her wings were beating weakly. The body in her arms might have been a corpse if not for a barely perceptible tremor in its chest. As she staggered across the frozen ground, Naieth and her handmaidens gathered around her, leading her towards an unlit bier at the far end of the hollow.

  ‘I have nothing left,’ said Orion’s spirit to his fellows. ‘My body is broken. Sativus is destroyed. The balance has been disturbed. My hunt has ended in shame.’ He glared at the ghosts. ‘How can I not fail?’ He waved at the mound of sticks. ‘All that is left for me now is my fire.’

  Another of the Orions stepped through the heavens to his side. This one was taller and carried a broad, battered axe. ‘We are the soul of the forest. We do not fail.’ He pressed the axe against Orion’s chest and gave him a meaningful glance. ‘And we keep our word.’

  Orion shook his head in confusion, then forgot the ghosts as he saw Ariel and Naieth lifting his body onto the bier. He noticed that Atolmis and the other Wild Riders were there too. One of them was standing at each corner of the bier, stock-still, their heads bowed and resting on the shafts of their spears. A small crowd of mourners was gathered at the edge of the grove. He glimpsed a face beneath a hood and realised they were the lords of the twelve high realms – the great kingdoms that contained each of the forest’s smaller realms. They wore voluminous black hoods, crowned with wreaths of ivy and mistletoe. Their hands were blackened with charcoal.

  It was not the great lords who caught Orion’s eye though, as he watched the rite from his vantage point in the heavens, it was the three hounds sitting patiently at the foot of his bier beside the stern-faced Atolmis.

  They were staring directly at him.

  Their gaze unnerved Orion. It seemed at odds with the rest of the scene. None of the mourners could see his soul, suspended in the starlight, but the hounds had eyes for nothing else. As Orion tumbled back towards his own body, the hounds followed his fall.

  Orion gasped as he found himself encased in flesh once more. Every inch of him burned with the pain of his wounds. His chest was a sunken mess where the great drake had sunk its teeth into him and his legs were pulverised – destroyed by the last charge of Sativus. He could feel straw and branches needling into his back and he could see his breath, misting in the air above his face.

  He tried to rise, but it was useless. All he managed to do was lift his head and cough up some blood.

  Ariel gasped as she saw his eyes open.

  ‘My love!’ Her eyes were red from crying and she grabbed his hand. ‘Do not be afraid. We are together. I am with you. I will keep our home safe until you return.’ Her words were strained. ‘Whatever has happened was not your fault. I know that now. There was a poison in you, and I will find its source. I will find a way to stop this plague. I will be waiting.’

  As she clutched his hand to her chest, Orion noticed hooded priests stepping silently from the trees, led by Naieth. They were holding flaming brands.

  ‘I give you my word,’ she said.

  Her words shone into his mind, clearer than the winter sun. ‘My word,’ he managed to say though the blood.

  Ariel frowned in confusion, but Orion could barely see her any more. He had realised what he must do at the very moment it became midwinter. He felt his soul disperse, like seeds from a pod. Everything he knew; everything he loved; everything he had done shivered from his flesh, scattering on the breeze to the four corners of the forest. He did not see as Naieth and the hooded priests pressed their fires into the bier. He was already a thousand other things.

  As the flames enveloped his body he looked away from the grove and turned to face the circle of ghosts.

  ‘Now I understand,’ he said calmly. ‘We must keep our word.’

  They nodded and, to his delight, he saw something he had long dreamt of.

  They were looking at him with pride.

  ‘Finavar is the cornerstone of the imbalance. To save him is to save everything.’

  The ghosts nodded and placed their hands on his arms.

  As the myriad fragments of Orion’s being spread through the trees, one of them looked out from a pair of canine eyes. ‘I will fulfil my promise to you, Jokleel,’ he said as he felt Fuath’s paws pounding across the frozen earth, racing away from the funeral pyre. ‘I will save the life I destroyed. I will save Finavar.’

  He paused briefly at the edge of the grove and looked back at Ariel. Her head was bowed in grief as her lover thrashed uselessly in the flames, reaching out to her for help as the skin blistered from his bones.

  ‘We will not fail,’ said Orion, but the words emerged as a long, mournful howl.

  Ariel looked up in surprise and turned to face him. He knew that she could only see a rangy, greasy hound, snarling at her from the shadows but, as their eyes met, he felt a spark of recognition.

  Then he turned and raced into the trees.

  The flames burned until the morning and Ariel maintained a motionless vigil until there was nothing but smoke and glowing ash. One by one, the mourners left, placing their wreaths of mistletoe on the smouldering mound until there was only Ariel, Naieth and Atolmis. As dawn broke, the horned rider left her alone, then returned after a few moments, carrying a large, two-handled oak bowl, carved with images of wild-eyed stags.

  Ariel dried her eyes and climbed awkwardly to her feet, dusting ash and snow from her face and turning to face the priest. She looked into his jet-black eyes and gave him a sad smile.

  ‘He is everywhere now,’ she said, running a finger across Atolmis’s cruel features.

  Atolmis nodded his head, clearly moved by her words.

  Ariel began scraping Orion’s ashes into the wooden bowl. She had only moved a few handfuls, however, when she paused. Her fingers had struck something hard and she lifted the object from the bier, holding it up into the light.

  Atolmis frowned in surprise. They had enacted this scene more times than he could remember. The course of events was always the same but this was something new.

  Ariel rolled the object back and forth between her fingers then nodded in recognition. She knew exactly what the sharpened point was and she knew why it had been unaffected by the flames.

  Naieth had been standing a few feet away and she stepped to the queen’s side. ‘What is it?’

  Ariel narrowed her eyes. ‘The tip of a dragon’s tooth,’ she replied, looking at the prophetess.

  ‘I have not seen this,’ said Naieth. ‘You have wandered beyond my sight.’ She closed Ariel’s hand around the tooth. ‘Such things did not arrive by mere chance.’

  Ariel nodded and secreted the tooth in her robes.

  The three of them were at a loss for a moment. The rites had occurred the same way since the dawn of Ariel’s rule and for a moment they were unsure how to continue.

  Eventually, Naieth regained her composure and took a step back from the pyre. She spread her palms to the pale sky and intoned a few quiet words.

  The final rose has faded,

  The eaves will sing no more;

  The waxen ground will keep you bound,

  Death-pale until the thaw.

  The familiarity of the ritual calmed Ariel and she nodded her head as she replied.

  The waxen ground will keep us bound,

  Death-pale until the thaw.

  Then she placed the rest of Orion’s ashes into the bowl and turned to face the Oak of Ages. Atolmis stepped back to allow her clear passage, but she hesitated.

  ‘I promised him I would be waiting,’ she said, keeping her gaze locked on the tree.

  Naieth lowered her hands, surprised by this second departure from
the ritual.

  ‘Did I lie?’

  Naieth glanced at Atolmis but his gaze was fixed on the ground. She flexed her hands, extending her fingers so that her long nails gleamed in the morning light. Then she stepped nervously to Ariel’s side. She tried to look directly at her, but the power of the Oak was already coursing through the Mage Queen’s veins. It was like trying to stare at the sun.

  ‘I have seen the future, my queen,’ said Naieth, choosing her words carefully, ‘but it was a silver moth, caught in the moonlight. The harder I stared, the less I saw.’

  Ariel’s physical self was fading, but her voice grew more determined. ‘Will we survive?’

  Naieth looked back into the trees. ‘While the forest sleeps, the enemy will advance. The spirits will retreat and we will be alone in the cold – without you or Orion to lead us.’ She closed her eyes. ‘But hope has a name. I have spelled it out in my dreams. There is one amongst us who might keep us safe until Orion’s return.’

  Ariel turned her dazzling gaze on Naieth. When she spoke, the words had no sound, they simply lanced into Naieth’s thoughts with the sun. ‘What name?’

  ‘Prince Haldus.’

  Ariel frowned and the light in her eyes dimmed for a moment as she tried to place the name. ‘The hawk rider? The warrior with the scarred face?’

  Naieth nodded. ‘He does not see it, but he could unite us. He did it at Drúne Fell and he could do it again.’

  ‘And you saw Prince Haldus putting an end to this plague?’

  ‘No, I did not. Only Orion could do that. And even he would not achieve it alone. Without Sativus – without the forest spirits, I cannot see his route to victory. His path is lost in shadow.’ A slight tremor entered Naieth’s voice. ‘But my dreams were clear on one thing – if Prince Haldus dies, Orion will have no kingdom to return to.’

  Ariel’s eyes flickered around the clearing and eventually alighted on one of the figures beneath the trees.

  ‘Laelia,’ she called.

  Her handmaiden glided through the air and dropped to the ground, kneeling a few feet away from Ariel.

  ‘Do whatever you must to keep this hawk lord alive. Swear to me.’

  Laelia kept her gaze fixed on the ash-covered ground. ‘I swear it, my queen.’

  Arial nodded, but her eyes remained full of doubt. She was about to speak again when her robes pulsed even brighter and she found herself drifting towards the Oak of Ages.

  As her flesh faded into sunlight Ariel began to smile, fixing her gaze on something the others were unable to see.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ordaana’s oxygen-starved brain filled with images. She saw her proud, straight-backed lover, Prince Thuralin, riding towards her through a blizzard of apple blossom, his handsome young face gleaming with hope and love. Then she saw Ariel averting her gaze as Naieth the Prophetess ushered her from the royal court. Then she saw her own beautiful halls at the heart of Locrimere, engulfed in flames. She was running back towards the inferno, realising, too late, what she had done. ‘Alhena!’ she heard herself cry, her voice twisted by panic and madness.

  At the sound of her daughter’s name Ordaana’s limbs filled with vigour and she forced herself forwards, straining for air with her last vestiges of strength.

  There was a soft tearing sound and crimson light flooded her eyes, blinding her for a second. She was still unable to breathe but she could see shapes moving by, far below.

  She clawed at the red, yielding wall and, as her nails sliced through to the other side, she finally felt air flooding her lungs.

  She took a deep breath and screamed in horror.

  The forest was far below. She was hurtling through the clouds, hundreds of feet above the trees. Her ears were assailed by a loud droning sound and she felt herself sliding out of the hole she had carved.

  She reached back into the darkness and grabbed onto something wet and soft. It shifted in her grip and whatever was carrying her juddered in pain.

  The droning ceased and she found herself dropping towards the forest.

  Her carriage of flesh whirled and tumbled, until Ordaana was completely disorientated.

  She heard the snapping of breaking branches, mingled with another noise that sounded suspiciously like Alkhor, laughing.

  Then there was a violent impact that knocked the breath from her lungs.

  Ordaana lay still for a moment, unsure if she was alive or dead. She was lying on something that quivered as she moved. Then she realised that she could hear voices and the sound of horses thundering by. Her head was pounding and her back felt as though it were broken, but she found to her surprise that she was able to sit up. She had a moment of panic and reached for her belt. The silver knife was still there and she closed her eyes in relief. Then she looked around.

  She was near a path that wound its way through barren, naked boughs. It was bordered by silver birch trees and canopied by empty white branches. She realised that she had seen this path before. She was at the borders of the Silvam Dale.

  She climbed painfully to her feet and turned to see what she had been lying on.

  ‘By the gods,’ she muttered. Sprawled across the ground was an enormous dead fly, covered in plates of crudely wrought armour. She saw a gaping hole in its abdomen and realised that she had crawled from its innards.

  As she shook her head in disgust, realising that her robes and skin were covered in the thing’s blood, she heard Alkhor’s laughter again.

  Ordaana was about to cry out in rage, furious at being treated in such a way, when she heard more riders passing by, thundering down the avenue of trees.

  She stepped away from the giant insect and ran through the trees, keen to put as much distance between her and the monster as she could. As she hurried through the snow-laden branches, her breath trailed behind her, describing her route through the forest.

  She muttered in annoyance and, with a faint wave of her hand, drew a little magic from the branches, scattering her breath into the shadows. Power leapt easily to her fingers and she nodded in recognition. Most of Elatior’s subjects were spellweavers and, over the centuries, their rites had given his kingdom a strange, indefinable glamour. Nothing seemed to truly exist in the Silvam Dale – every bough and every face seemed to be the echo of something else. She allowed the magic to play across her palm, sparking and crackling in the folds of her skin. Even as winter drove the forest’s spirits into hibernation, there was immense power in the dale.

  Intrigued, she hurried on and after a while she saw a pale arch that marked one of the entryways into Elatior’s kingdom. The sentries were hidden, but she had no doubt they were there and, after stepping out onto the path, she dropped to one knee and placed her palms on the frozen ground.

  A guard slipped from the shadows. He was clad in thick leather armour and carried a spear that was taller than he was. ‘Are you injured?’

  Ordaana frowned, then remembered the manner of her arrival. She stood and looked down at her bloodstained robes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is the blood of the enemy.’

  The guard frowned and stepped closer, peering at her face.

  Ordaana felt a chill of fear and let her hand move closer to the silver knife. Had she been seen, travelling with the daemons?

  ‘Lady Ordaana,’ said the guard, nodding his head in a bow. When he looked up, she saw that he was beaming. ‘Your people feared that you had died. Lord Beldeas has been tormented in your absence. They say he has not slept for weeks.’

  ‘Tormented?’ Ordaana muttered under her breath. ‘I somehow doubt that.’

  She strode up to the guard. ‘Where can I find him?’

  The guard stepped back and as he did so the wards that hid the dale fell away. A bustling scene sprang to life beyond the wooden arch. Countless hundreds of asrai were hurrying back and forth along avenues of lantern-lit trees. Many of them were wou
nded and they all wore glazed, horrified expressions on their faces. Ordaana’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the result of Alkhor’s work.

  ‘Your husband is at the council of war,’ said the guard and he pointed his spear over the heads of the crowds, singling out a mountainous shape, looming over the dale.

  It was a tree – or, rather, a twisted hybrid of several trees – but it was the size of a small mountain, knotted together by sparking cords of magic. The air around it was liquid with sorcery, as though it were caught in a magnetic storm. Ordaana had the distinct impression that the tree was glaring at her. The colossal thing was lashed to the ground by dozens of ropes and Ordaana found herself wishing they were a little thicker. This brooding monster was clearly the source of the power she had felt.

  ‘He’s in the roots of the Wilding Tree, my lady,’ said the guard, looking as unnerved as Ordaana.

  Ordaana had not entered the Tourmaline Hall for many decades and she quickly remembered why. She hurried between the columns of root, feeling as though she had entered the maw of a great beast. The cavernous hall creaked and strained around her, moaning like a trapped animal, and Elatior’s witches were huddled together in groups. The smoky air was charged with violence and there were figures bound into the walls, groaning in pain as they lashed the ancient tree to Elatior’s will.

  After a while Ordaana began to see familiar faces in the crowd. In her time as Ariel’s handmaiden she had officiated at countless rites and festivals, meeting all the great families of the Eternal Realms. Dozens of lords and ladies recognised her as she slipped through the fug. Some of them stepped out into the shifting light to stare, clearly shocked that she was still alive.

  She made for the brightest light, at the centre of the hall, where a circle of the most august nobles had gathered around their hosts, the Enchanter, Prince Elatior and his wife, Princess Asphalia. Ordaana hurried through the crowd but, as she approached the circle, she stumbled to a halt, seeing more faces that she recognised and feeling suddenly afraid. How could she speak to them knowing what she knew? She had betrayed them at Drúne Fell. She had given her soul to a monster. How could she hide that from them?