Orion: The Tears of Isha

by Darius Hinks

  ‘You will betray us no more,’ said Elatior, glowering at Finavar.

  Mälloch staggered between the furious prince and his prey, holding up his hand.

  ‘Finavar is no traitor,’ he gasped. ‘He saved my life. He fought as bravely as any of us.’

  The Enchanter turned his furious gaze on Mälloch. ‘Old fool. Your mind is addled by pain. You are moments away from damnation.’

  Mälloch’s cheeks flushed with outrage and he was about to hurl back an angry retort when Elatior continued, still speaking with the massed voices of his witches.

  ‘To omit a truth is to lie, Mälloch. How could you do that to me? For two thousand years I have been laying my plans. Two thousands years! All that time preparing the Wilding Tree for this victory. Do you think I have enjoyed it? Do you think I have enjoyed inflicting pain on this ancient spirit?’ His lips curled back from his perfect teeth as he waved at the sorcerers knotted into the column. ‘Do you think I have enjoyed torturing my own kin?’ He grabbed Finavar’s arm and shook him like a child. ‘I have worked tirelessly for this moment and when this treacherous rat almost undid everything you did not even tell me!’

  Mälloch tried to approach the prince, but his injuries overcame him and he stumbled. If Prince Haldus had not stepped forwards to catch him, he would have fallen to the ground.

  ‘He ruined the Feast of the Two Branches, Mälloch,’ continued Elatior. ‘He ruined it! Every one of my auguries told me that the dam could hold for another night. All my plans revolved around that very fact. The spirits were not meant to flee, Mälloch – not yet!’ Elatior shook Finavar again. ‘He did this! If the rite had gone uninterrupted the spirits would have fulfilled their obligation to you. He saved your life from a threat he created.’

  The last vestiges of colour drained from Mälloch’s face. ‘I thought the damage was only slight. I thought I had undone the harm.’

  ‘Really?’ Elatior’s voice was now trembling with rage. ‘Well, perhaps you did. With this worm in your midst it would have meant nothing anyway.’

  Mälloch shook his head, leaning weakly against Prince Haldus. ‘He did nothing but help. He saved my life.’

  Elatior managed to lower his voice, but that only served to make it more menacing.

  ‘So you keep saying, Mälloch, but tell me – what did he use to save your life?’

  Mälloch frowned and looked at Finavar, trying to focus. ‘He used his sword.’ As Mälloch’s feverish gaze fell on the swan’s-neck handle at Finavar’s belt, his eyes widened in recognition.

  Elatior nodded. ‘First, he disrupted the Feast of the Two Branches so that the spirits would no longer serve you. Then, when that failed, he used more direct methods. He undid your oath, Mälloch – he removed your blade and freed your servants from their duty. He betrayed us all.’

  Mälloch looked dazed as he stared at the sword. ‘Why? Why would he do such a thing? Since midsummer, all I have heard are tales of his bravery at Drúne Fell. The forest rings with songs of his heroism. Why should he seek to undo us now?’

  ‘I know what drove him to this,’ said Ordaana, stepping back into the circle of nobles. Her voice was hesitant, but everyone turned to stare at her.

  Elatior and the others had forgotten about her and they looked around in shock at the sound of her voice.

  ‘He told me himself that he desires nothing more than to see our kingdoms fall.’

  Beldeas flushed with embarrassment at his wife’s outburst and clasped her by the shoulders. ‘My wife is confused,’ he said, smiling awkwardly and shepherding her away from Elatior. ‘She knows nothing of traitors, I assure you.’ He scowled at her. ‘She must be exhausted and confused after her adventures.’

  Ordaana shoved Beldeas with such force that he lost his footing and ended up sitting on the floor. Then she strode towards Prince Elatior. ‘As I left the foothills of Drúne Fell I found this wardancer looting corpses, half mad from his injuries. I took pity on him and offered him my protection, but when he explained his plan, I was repulsed and left him to his bitterness.’

  ‘My love,’ said Beldeas, clambering to his feet. ‘Why have you never mentioned this before?’

  Ordaana kept her gaze locked on Elatior. ‘He looked so wretched that I never dreamt he would survive. The vileness of his beliefs seemed unimportant when he was so close to death. I cannot understand how he still draws breath.’

  Elatior dropped to the ground before Ordaana and grasped her arms. ‘What beliefs? What were his plans?’

  Ordaana shook her head. ‘He spoke the most vile untruths, Prince Elatior, that I can barely bring myself to repeat them.’

  Light shimmered across Elatior’s exaggerated features. ‘Repeat them.’

  Ordaana nodded and looked at Finavar with an expression of pity. ‘I beg you to take pity on him, Prince Elatior. He has suffered greatly.’

  Elatior lifted his chin and softened his voice. ‘Your noble sentiments do you credit, Lady Ordaana, and if his treachery were not so heinous, I might have acceded to them, but you must understand – thanks to him we are on the very edge of extinction. We cannot waver. Tell me what he said.’

  Ordaana nodded. ‘During the battle for Drúne Fell, the Darkling Prince’s brother was slain. He fell as the Wild Hunt drove the enemy from the field and, as a result, he believes…’ Ordaana hesitated, doing everything she could to appear reluctant.

  Elatior gave her a gentle nod.

  ‘Finavar told me that he considers our king to be a murderer. He believes that our only hope is to overthrow Orion and the Mage Queen.’

  She paused for dramatic effect.

  ‘He intends to kill them.’

  The voices in the hall fell silent and all eyes fell on Finavar.

  Even Elatior looked shocked, but he quickly recovered his composure. ‘My suspicions were along those lines. I could see no other reason for him to disrupt the ceremony and destroy our defences.’

  Ordaana gave him an anguished, pleading glance. ‘Please understand. My silence on the matter stemmed only from my belief that he would not survive. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to tarnish his name. When I heard the various tales of his bravery I saw no reason to gainsay them.’ She shook her head as she looked at Finavar. ‘I was sure he would be dead.’

  Finavar strained desperately against his bonds, but they would not give. The magic of the Wilding Tree was too powerful.

  An eerie silence hung over the hall as Elatior squeezed Ordaana’s shoulder. ‘I understand how much this has hurt you, Lady Ordaana, but rest assured that you have done your people a great service. We know, now, who has led the enemy to our most secret places. During the summer, when we were beset by outsiders, this rogue was seen at every battle. He was described as a hero and all along he was the cause of our pain. And now he has offered his assistance to an even greater foe. This plague that is destroying our lands is no natural blight. This is the work of Chaos and whatever daemon that is loose in the forest has been led at every turn by this wretch.’

  Mälloch, Captain Eremon, Prince Haldus and all the other nobles stared at Finavar in shock. Some of them dropped their hands to their weapons, clearly itching to exact immediate revenge.

  ‘No,’ said Elatior, utilising his chorus of voices again, so that the word rang out through the hall. ‘To spill the traitor’s blood here would not redress the balance. There is only one punishment worthy of this crime.’ The tiny spirits in Elatior’s robes shimmered into life, lifting him up into the air, until he was beside Princess Asphalia once more.

  They both looked out across the gathering and spoke as one, Elatior in a stern voice and Asphalia in wavering, musical tones. ‘He must be given to the forest. He must be given to the Wildwood.’

  Ordaana closed her eyes and lowered her head, hiding her smile behind a pretence of sadness, but the other asrai in the hall nodded their assent.

/>   Elatior glared at Mälloch the Elder. ‘Your negligence in this matter was bordering on betrayal, but I am not without mercy. You will take this so-called Darkling Prince to the Wildwood. You will perform the Rite of Banishment and see him torn from the world. Once I am sure you have performed this task, our friendship shall begin anew.’

  Mälloch looked dazed as he considered the task he had been set. He glanced at Finavar, straining pitifully at his bonds, then he nodded and attempted an awkward bow.

  ‘The punishment is apt.’

  Ordaana shivered as she emerged into the snow, but it was not only the cold that made her shake. She was teetering on the edge of hysteria. If Elatior’s claims were true, everything could be ruined. She had to speak to Alkhor. She had to warn the daemon.

  She stared at the sky, waiting for her heart to stop racing. After a few moments, her hysteria lessened to a kind of heady giddiness as she considered her lucky escape.

  The sky stared back. It was already a deep, sapphire blue that looked deep into her soul. She realised it would soon be dark. It had been midday when she entered the Wilding Tree and she felt like she had only spent a few minutes beneath its roots, but the day was already over. She pulled her robes tighter and hurried off through the falling snow, looking for a place that she could be alone and attempt to contact the daemon.

  Crowds of asrai were moving beneath the snow-dusted trees, clutching hastily gathered belongings and carrying gruesome wounds. Ordaana watched them with pity in her eyes, then she remembered with a jolt that she was the cause of their pain – she was the enemy they were fleeing. For a moment she stared at the refugees in confusion, struggling to connect their suffering with her actions. As she discussed Finavar’s treachery with Elatior, she had almost believed her own lies. She had almost believed that it was Finavar who had brought Alkhor’s plague down on her people, rather than her.

  She was jolted out of her reverie by someone waving at her from the root of a tree. The tree had an oddly morbid air. Figures were dashing back and forth through the dale, but none of them approached this particular yew. In fact, they seemed to give it a wide berth, averting their gaze as they passed by. It was crooked and stooped, as though battered by storms and, as with the Wilding Tree, there were openings between some of its roots leading down into the darkness. A small figure was signalling from one of these for her to approach.

  Ordaana had lifted her hood when she stepped out into the snow and she could not imagine who would be able to recognise her, but she stepped closer anyway, intrigued. As she approached the tree, the other asrai paid her no heed. In fact, they seemed to go out of their way not to look in her direction.

  She hurried on through the twilight and saw that the figure was moving in jerking, spasmodic fits, like a little marionette. She sighed with relief. ‘Death’s-head,’ she laughed, following the spirit down between the roots of the tree.

  Steps spiralled down into the darkness and Ordaana had to summon a little magic to light her way. As she did so, she saw another cavernous chamber open out in front of her. Like the Tourmaline Hall, it was divided by tall columns of root that supported a distant, vaulted ceiling of knotted wood. That was the only similarity though. No fireflies were here to light her way and the slender thrones were all empty. There was another difference that made her pause and grimace halfway down the steps.

  The air was thick with the smell of blood.

  Death’s-head halted at the bottom of the steps and looked up at her, waving for her to continue.

  As she approached, the light dripping from her fingers revealed how pitiful the spirit looked. Its limbs were pale and rotten and the light that usually leaked from its skull-like head had faded to a sickly glow.

  ‘The year is dead,’ said Ordaana, stepping closer. ‘It’s time for you to rest.’

  The spirit clicked and clacked towards her, nodding weakly. Then it waved a twig-like bundle of fingers towards the centre of the hall.

  Ordaana peered into the gloom. The darkness pooled at a certain point, becoming so impenetrable that even her sorcery could not throw it back.

  ‘Alkhor,’ she whispered, her words full of venom. She stepped forwards and glared at the shadow, sure of its meaning. ‘What do you intend to do with me now? Bury me inside a worm? Transform me into a bowel?’ She drew her knife and descended the remaining steps. ‘I am not your slave, daemon, I am a queen. You promised me revenge, not servitude.’

  The shadow rippled, but gave no reply, so she frowned and began walking across the hall.

  Ordaana paused again and lifted her skirts with a hiss of disgust. The ground was slick with blood and, as her light glinted across its surface, it revealed hundreds upon hundreds of pale shapes, piled in mounds.

  She muttered a curse as she realised that they were corpses. Death’s-head had led her into a charnel house.

  Many of the bodies were still bleeding, adding to the black lake around her feet. She realised that they must be the dead from the Chains of Vaul.

  ‘Why…?’ she began to ask, when she recalled how Alkhor’s tallymen utilised the asrai they killed – transforming them into willing, mutated servants. She nodded as she realised why Elatior was hiding his dead from the daemons – he was attempting to prevent the corpses of his own subjects turning against him.

  She laughed softly, considering the shadowy presence at the centre of the hall. Clearly, he had failed. Alkhor was not so easily denied. ‘You have some nerve,’ she called out, ‘revealing yourself here.’

  She walked across the chamber, pouring more light from her fingertips, but however she tried her magic could not penetrate the gloom. She could clearly sense an ancient malice though, glaring back at her from the corpses and, as she stepped closer, she heard the sound of low, ragged breathing, and something else – a crunching, thudding sound, like wood being splintered by an axe.

  Ordaana had expected to hear a jovial, belched response – some kind of crude joke, perhaps, but not these ominous noises. She came to a halt, feeling the first twinges of doubt. She looked back and saw that Death’s-head was gone. There was nothing but her, the dead and the dark.

  Despite all that she had done, something about the scene unnerved Ordaana. Then, annoyed by her own cowardice, she strode forwards and poured even more light onto the shadow, determined that it would not make a fool of her.

  Her magic finally pierced the darkness and washed up against a mound of corpses even bigger than the ones she had already passed. Ashen, slack-jawed faces stared back at her with unseeing eyes, and grasping, lifeless fingers reached out towards her.

  Ordaana barely noticed the corpses. Next to the bodies, the blood had gathered in a deep pool, and something was moving in the depths.

  She stepped towards the pool and, with an overwhelming sense of dread, peered into it.

  A nightmarish figure stared back at her. It was a hulking warrior, twice as tall as Ordaana and clad in serrated, brass armour. The brass was studded with spikes and scored with foul, crude-looking glyphs, and the warrior was holding a massive, two-handed axe. These details were lost on Ordaana, though. The thing that caught her attention was the warrior’s head. Its face was that of an enormous, feral dog, covered in matted, greasy hair with a long, canine snout. Its teeth were bared in a snarl and its eyes were a deep, furious red. Hanging around its neck was a thick brass chain, and at the end of the chain there was something quite incongruous – a delicate ivory bracelet, carved with roses and thorns.

  Ordaana whispered some gibberish and held up her silver knife, but she found it impossible to tear her gaze away from the image in the blood.

  Corpses surrounded the dog-headed giant. The same bodies that filled the chamber were also visible on the other side of the pool. They were massed in great heaps around the warrior’s feet and Ordaana realised that the crunching sound she had heard was coming from the monster’s axe, slicing though their ne
cks. The warrior continued hacking as it stared out at her from the pool.

  Ordaana looked back over shoulder, thinking that, to be reflected in the pool, the warrior must be standing behind her.

  She saw nothing but shadows.

  When she looked back at the pool of blood, Ordaana saw that the dog-headed warrior was clearly not in the cave with her. The landscape behind it was a psychedelic nightmare of colours and shapes. It was as though the monster were in the centre of an unfinished painting. She saw smeared, half-glimpsed vistas of fire and rock, bleeding into rows of screaming, tormented faces.

  Her heart sank as she accepted the truth. She had drawn the gaze of another daemon.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ she gasped, taking some consolation from the fact that the daemon clearly did not belong to the same plane of existence as her. It was a ghost of some kind, watching her from its own hellish realm.

  The monster carried on working – chopping methodically at the bodies, wrenching the heads free and slinging them into a pile.

  Ordaana was hypnotised by the strange, gruesome scene, then she remembered where she was and looked around the cave in a panic. She could not be seen in the company of such a thing. There did not seem to be anyone else in the hall – anyone living, that is – but it occurred to her that more bodies could arrive at any time. She started to step back from the pool but, before she had gone very far, the daemon looked up at her.

  Its eyes burned into her with shocking malevolence and she cried out in pain. She felt as though the force of its evil had scalded her and she found herself rooted to the spot.

  The daemon carried on beheading the corpses as it addressed her.

  ‘The sluglord will fail.’ Its voice was a guttural bark and, as it spoke, flames drooled from its jaws.

  Ordaana shook her head, terrified and confused. She realised that she had dropped her knife to the ground and was clutching at her hair.