Orion: The Tears of Isha

by Darius Hinks

  Her stomach turned as she saw her frail-looking husband, Lord Beldeas, as gaunt and rapacious-looking as ever, whispering to his advisor, the prim, bejewelled little popinjay Hauran Quillwort. Nearby, she saw other survivors from the battle of Drúne Fell. Prince Haldus the hawk rider was there, hiding behind his awkward scowl and his mask of circular scars, and he was accompanied by another hawk rider – the mysterious Lord Cyanos, still wearing the ornate, black cuirass that failed to disguise the stumps jutting out from his shoulder blades. Eremon was there too, the craggy faced captain of Locrimere’s armies. He was rigid with self-importance, just as she remembered him, and he was still proudly wearing the emblem of their fallen realm.

  The nobles were all fixated on the luminous figures at the centre of the circle and none of them had noticed Ordaana, so she steeled herself and stepped forwards to address them.

  She was just a few yards away when she noticed another face from the rites of Ariel’s court – a tall, hook-nosed highborn whose skin shimmered as he moved. She remembered that he was named Mälloch the Elder. Mälloch was wrapped in an enormous bearskin, but she could tell from his awkward stance that he, like many others present, had not reached the Silvam Dale uninjured. His eyes were rolling feverishly in their sockets and he was struggling to stay upright. He was leaning heavily on a wardancer who looked even worse than he did – a greasy haired wretch whose semi-naked body was little more than a pitiful sack of skin and bone.

  As Ordaana stepped closer, the emaciated wardancer glanced in her direction and she almost screamed in shock.

  It was the Darkling Prince – the doomed youth she had confided in on the slopes of Drúne Fell. How could he be alive?

  Finavar stared at her in wonder and a smile trembled across his thin lips.

  Ordaana’s stomach twisted as she recalled the things she had told him. He knew everything. He knew her plan to overthrow Ariel and Orion. He knew she meant to murder them. She was about to turn and flee when a horribly familiar voice called out.

  ‘Ordaana?’

  Beldeas’s cloying, insincere tones managed to cut through the general hubbub and several of the nobles turned to face her.

  Ordaana’s gaze was still locked on Finavar and, in desperation, she tapped into the tendrils of magic drifting through the chamber. She knew that performing magic in the Wilding Tree was like whispering an insult in Elatior’s ear, but she had no choice. She threaded two words onto a strand of consciousness and hurled them into Finavar’s mind.

  ‘Say nothing,’ she silently ordered him, leaning every ounce of her power into the command.

  Before she could see Finavar’s response, her husband stepped between her and the wardancer.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said, with a nauseating pretence of emotion. He caressed her cheek. ‘Are you injured, my love? What happened to you?’

  Ordaana was about to call him a fawning, lying idiot when she remembered her purpose in the dale.

  ‘Beldeas,’ she said, nodding her head demurely and giving him her hand to kiss. ‘It was the thought of you that gave me the courage to survive.’

  Ordaana was delighted by her husband’s confused expression. There was no irony in her voice but he had clearly sensed the lie; knowing all too well how much she despised him.

  ‘I have…’ His words trailed off as he stared into her eyes, trying to gauge her thoughts. He was about to ask something when he changed his mind and kissed the hand she had proffered.

  Ordaana was about to confuse him with even more kind words when she remembered Finavar. She knew she had to kill him, but how? With so many eyes on her what could she possibly do? She stepped to one side and gave him a pleading look, hoping that he might see her as some kind of ally.

  The wardancer’s eyes stared back at her from their sunken pits, but he gave her a barely perceptible nod and she relaxed slightly.

  ‘Say nothing?’ asked a voice in Ordaana’s head.

  The circle of nobles turned and looked back at their blazing hosts and Ordaana realised that they had heard the question too. For the first time since she entered the Tourmaline Hall, she looked directly at the prince and princess.

  Like Mälloch the Elder, their flesh had an odd, insubstantial quality. They glittered with the light of longevity and Ordaana was reminded of starlight, shining through a leaf. The princess also carried her age in the more prosaic manner of a human. Her back was stooped and her skin had sagged in a way that made her almost ugly. Such a thing was not usual for the asrai, and Ordaana assumed that Asphalia had withered herself as some kind of strange affectation. Her eccentricities were famed across the whole region. Prince Elatior, meanwhile, showed no signs of infirmity. In fact, Ordaana realised, he was a dreadful caricature of power and dignity. His face was quite grotesque in its magnificence – the features exaggerated and distorted, like those of an oversized statue. He towered over the other nobles and, as his eyes settled on hers, Ordaana felt all the dreadful weight of his arrogance.

  ‘Whom do you wish to silence?’ he asked, without moving his lips.

  Ordaana sensed people moving away from her and she squirmed under his cold, expressionless stare. As the other nobles backed away, she realised that Elatior and his wife were drifting a few feet above the ground, levitated by thousands of tiny spirits woven into their robes. Clouds of glittering wings shimmered over their crumpled damask. Despite the season, there was a whole host of acorn-sized imps, flickering and whirring as they held their hosts aloft.

  Ordaana bowed and shook her head. ‘My lord, I apologise for my rough manners.’ She waved at the crowds moving around them. ‘Such a large gathering quite overwhelmed me. Since the battle for Drúne Fell I have barely spoken to another soul. Hearing all these voices, talking at once, was a shock.’

  The prince watched her with a bored expression, as though studying an insect that had crawled onto his sleeve.

  Captain Eremon approached and gave her a stiff bow. ‘My lady.’

  Prince Haldus and the others followed suit, but she noticed that Finavar had stepped back into the shadows. He was talking to a hunched old cripple, whose back was turned to her. Panic gripped her again. Who was he talking to? What was he saying?

  ‘The Goddess be praised,’ said Princess Asphalia, drifting towards her. ‘Your hair is quite beautiful. The second moon told me it was.’

  Ordaana was about to laugh at the princess’s odd comment. Then she recalled the rumours she had heard about Asphalia. It was said that the centuries had claimed her reason, and that her husband refused to acknowledge the fact. The gossips said that those who questioned her state of mind did not survive for long. Elatior defended her honour with a ferocity that shredded skin from bones.

  Ordaana tried to meet the princess’s eyes, but they seemed unable to settle on any one point.

  ‘How kind of you to notice,’ she replied, attempting to sound as though there were nothing odd in the exchange and simultaneously straining to see what Finavar was doing.

  The princess leant closer and added, with an urgent expression. ‘All these twirling dances though, Ordaana, how can I forget?’

  Ordaana nodded and smiled, then looked up at the Enchanter.

  He was still watching her with lidded eyes. ‘I have heard of your skill.’ His tone was flat. ‘It is good that you came.’

  Ordaana was about to reply, but Elatior turned back to the nobles and seemed to forget all about her.

  Beldeas gave her a nauseating smile and took her arm, leading her into the circle.

  She saw nobles from all twelve of the Eternal Realms, clad in a bewildering variety of furs, feathers and skins. Some, like Prince Haldus, wore little more than a few bands of hammered copper and a loincloth, but others wore the most incredibly flamboyant robes, woven from dried leaves and silver thread. There was a rustle of vines and silk as they huddled closer to Elatior.

 
Ordaana looked over at the centre of the hall. The chamber was designed in a series of spirals, coiled like fern leaves around a column of knotted root. It was over ten feet wide and reached high up into the vaults, where it fanned out in a series of looping, lichened arches that divided the hall. It was not the design of the thing that caught her eye, however, it was the ornaments at its centre. Three naked figures were hanging in the wood, their gleaming flesh painted with thousands of tiny, delicately rendered words. Even if the words were not so tiny they would still have been indecipherable. The skin they were painted on had been punctured by dozens of knotted tendrils so that it glistened with a sheen of fresh blood. The faces of these crucified figures were hidden behind wooden masks, carved to resemble cheerful, grinning faces, and it was hard to tell if they were dead or alive, but after a few seconds they nodded in reply and shifted slightly in their cruel nests.

  As the crucified figures moved, Prince Elatior cast his gaze around the circle of nobles, his eyes blazing with triumph. ‘The wardens’ work is almost done. I will soon be able to harness the fury they have nurtured for so long.’

  Ordaana stared at the figures, trying to decipher his meaning. She noticed that, as they writhed in agony, the walls of the vast chamber moved too. The whole, tormented mass of the Wilding Tree responded to their every pained breath. They are the anchor, she thought, sensing on a primal level that this was how Elatior controlled his living citadel.

  She looked back at the prince and princess and saw that they were now blazing even brighter, causing their audience to shield their eyes.

  Ordaana’s vision grew accustomed to the glare and she noticed that Elatior was painting a scene for them – images were drifting through the darkness towards her. Terror flooded her veins as she recognised the scene – Elatior was showing them the attack on the Ravenstone. As the lights rippled through the air they painted an image of Alkhor’s pot-bellied tallymen, wading through their river of luminous bile and smashing their way into the tower of black rock.

  ‘Such virtues,’ said Princess Asphalia, with a sad shake of her head. ‘Such pretty songs. If I had my time again I would drink twilight and nothing more.’

  Ordaana ignored the ramblings of the princess and peered intently at the images, sure that they would reveal her at the head of the attack. She stiffened as she thought she saw her hooded self, dashing through the hole at the foot of the tower, but no one else seemed to notice. They were fixated on the asrai, battling desperately with the ranks of daemons.

  ‘The minions of the Plaguelord destroyed the tower and then they murdered its guardians,’ said Prince Elatior. ‘The river of acid is now approaching us from the north. It is days away, at most. We lost many of our kin in the battle. Even the slightest injury at the hands of the daemons is enough to corrupt bodies beyond all recognition. To fall is to become one of them.’

  Some of the nobles nodded sagely, but those who had not heard of the battle gasped. The Ravenstone had stood watch over the Silvam Dale since before the coming of the asrai.

  ‘How did this happen?’ asked Prince Haldus. He looked uncomfortable as the other nobles turned his way, but he continued, despite his blushes. ‘The entrance to the valley is hidden. How did they find it?’

  ‘One of our own kin is leading them.’

  There was a chorus of gasps but Haldus nodded grimly. ‘It was the same at Drúne Fell – the outsiders were led through the forest by a traitor. We never found out who it was.’

  Ordaana’s face became a rigid, expressionless mask.

  The Enchanter looked up at the walls of the chamber. ‘The Wilding Tree has prophesied this. I have known of this betrayal since the dawn of my rule.’ Pride flashed in his eyes and he took his wife’s hand. ‘We have been preparing for this day.’

  Princess Asphalia smiled at her husband. The drama of the moment seemed to give her some lucidity and her eyes fixed on his. ‘The betrayal was prophesied, and so was the power of the tree.’

  Ordaana felt her mouth beginning to twitch. Fear had given her a terrible urge to laugh, so she began massaging her jaw in attempt to hide her hysteria.

  Elatior looked around the faces of his audience. ‘All the power of the dale has been poured into the Wilding Tree.’ He waved at the groaning shadows. ‘There is magic here beyond anything the Plaguelord has at his command.’

  He glanced at the crucified spellweavers, straining to control his final weapon. Then he looked back at the nobles and changed the scene.

  Mälloch the Elder winced as the Chains of Vaul sprang into view.

  There were more shocked whispers as people saw the agony of the spirit dam.

  Elatior waved his hand for silence. ‘Spare your pity. Mälloch and the Fiùrann sacrificed much so that we might prepare our defence. The forest had to play its part.’

  As they watched the dam collapse, and the bile flooding into the valley, Ordaana noticed that Finavar had returned to the group. He caught her eye and she realised that he was oddly excited by her presence. The thought gave her hope. If she could convince him they were united against a common enemy, he would remain silent until she could remove him.

  ‘This river will reach us even sooner than we thought,’ continued Elatior. ‘We have been betrayed here, too.’

  ‘Then we should ride out,’ said Captain Eremon in a calm, stern voice, lifting his chin proudly as he spoke. ‘The warriors of Locrimere will be honoured to lead the defence.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Lord Beldeas, but his words did not carry the same conviction as his captain’s.

  Elatior did not acknowledge either of them. ‘Winter is upon us. The daemons, and the traitor who guides them, will expect no reprisals from the forest. They will believe that the spirits are fading with the sun, as always, giving the daemons free rein to butcher and destroy, but…’ He glanced again at the three crucified figures, then up at the vaulted shadows of the Tourmaline Hall, where gods and stars were gazing down from the soil and bark. ‘But this year there is one spirit that will not sleep.’

  ‘The Wilding Tree is eight minutes older than anything else,’ said Princess Asphalia, nodding sagely.

  Elatior smiled at her, as though her words were perfectly logical. ‘I have unlatched the Wilding Tree from the seasons.’ He looked around at the vast chamber. ‘It is no longer bound by nature. We will make our stand at the gates of the dale. And when the daemons come, I will let them think they are victorious.’

  As Elatior spoke, the scenes drifting around his body illustrated his words. ‘We will draw them back into the very arms of the Wilding Tree, giving them the idea that we have abandoned hope – that we are penned in like rats. Then, on the dawn that follows the twelfth moon I will channel two thousand years of rage and turn it upon our foes.’

  The ground shifted violently.

  Several of the nobles stumbled and Elatior’s eyes flicked back towards the centre of the hall. Ordaana noticed a hint of emotion in his expression – an edge of fear, perhaps – but it was crushed immediately and replaced by his usual implacable mask.

  As the prince stared at them, the crucified figures gasped in pain. Roots strained beneath their skin, sending more blood down their chests, but they remained in place, clenching their fists until the ground was still once more.

  Elatior drew back his shoulders and addressed the entire gathering. ‘When the Wilding Tree’s rage pours through me it will be a force unlike anything you could conceive. The daemons might bring their rivers to our borders, but they will never emerge from the other side.’

  Ordaana glanced nervously into the shadows. Was such a thing possible? What if Elatior really harnessed such power? The thought filled her with horror.

  Elatior’s voice grew louder and the ground rolled again. The three agonised figures cried out from the column of root, speaking in time with Elatior and turning his voice into a deafening, tormented chorus.

/>   ‘Our sacrifice will be great,’ they cried, ‘but by the gods it will be glorious. Every life we give will be balanced by the destruction of this grotesque, unnatural spring. We will fight with furious determination and the daemons will never suspect a trap. We will only withdraw when dawn arrives. Then they will send their entire force into my remorseless embrace, charged with the power of the Wilding Tree.’

  As the echoes faded, Elatior glared at the assembled crowds, awaiting their response.

  Captain Eremon pounded his leather-clad chest and, after a moment’s delay, the other nobles did the same. They were too excited by Elatior’s words to pay Ordaana any heed so, as they pressed closer to the prince, drawing their weapons and pledging their lives, she glanced in Finavar’s direction and rolled her eyes towards an exit, slipping free of her husband’s grip and stepping away.

  ‘Are you leaving us so soon, traitor?’ boomed the chorus of voices.

  Ordaana froze and her shoulders dropped. How could she have expected to go unnoticed? Elatior’s gaze was everywhere. She turned back to face the prince but, as she did so, she dropped her hand to her knife. She would not die easily.

  To her surprise, no one was facing in her direction – least of all the prince. Elatior was pointing an accusing finger at the scrawny wardancer, Finavar.

  ‘Seize him,’ he cried.

  Mälloch the Elder shook his head in dismay and none of the other nobles made a move to grab Finavar.

  The Enchanter was not speaking to the nobles, however.

  Finavar barely had chance to register his surprise before Elatior’s crucified witches obeyed their master’s command. They raised their wasted arms and, as they did so, strands of long grass speared up from the ground and spiralled around the Darkling Prince, binding his legs and waist and rooting him to the spot.

  Finavar’s eyes widened in fear as the prince glided towards him, with his finger still extended. He was about to protest, but the grass rose higher and lashed itself around his head, gagging him.