by Darius Hinks
Orion kicked his legs against the branches and raced across the frozen ground. Thorns scraped his flanks and trees reached out for him, but he was already away, racing through the forest on Fuath’s powerful legs and reaching the bank of a broad river. As he padded closer he saw that there was no movement beneath the ice. It was just a hard, iron-coloured slab, brooding under a lacklustre dawn.
He paused at the edge of the river, sniffing the ice suspiciously but, almost immediately, the branches were back, clawing at his hackles and latching onto his paws.
He growled and bounded onto the ice.
It held firm and, after a few falls, he managed to remain upright.
He had reached the river at a wide bend and, once he had padded out into its centre, the branches and roots were unable to follow.
Orion turned and looked back at the forest, confounded by what he had seen. He had travelled this route a thousand times, for countless centuries, but now it was impassable. There was a time when he could have described the ancestry of every yew and alder, but now they were strangers. The branches bristled under his gaze, clicking and snapping as they formed into an impenetrable, thorny mesh.
He padded from side to side, swinging his head low to the ground. Something was badly wrong. He realised that, even if he had wanted to, he could not return the way he had come. With every second that passed, the trees crushed closer together, splitting the brittle winter air with their inhuman sighs. Until now, he had blamed this strangeness on the plague, but he began to wonder if it was something else. There was an ancient anger seeping from the dark – an old hurt that had been biding its time, waiting to strike. The trees had been poisoned against him.
Orion turned his back on the wall of trees and bounded across the ice, heading for the other side of the river. His ancestors were in his every thought now, speaking to him as he went. He heard their voices on the breeze and saw their faces in the skeletal remains of leaves. ‘Find the Darkling Prince,’ they said. ‘Mend what you have broken.’
He shook Fuath’s head as he ran on, breaking back into the forest with a defiant howl.
Anger smashed against him, along with a wave of brittle limbs, but he kept his eyes locked on the horizon. Light was slipping through the boughs. Dawn was approaching and the chorus of voices in his head grew more urgent.
Finavar’s time was almost up.
Chapter Eighteen
Elatior rode through the trees, trembling with anticipation. Behind him, he could hear the agony of the dale as the Wilding Tree readied itself for the dawn. The earth was groaning pitifully as mile-long roots coiled and heaved in the dark, straining to be free. When Elatior left the tree he spoke one last time to the three souls bound to its spine. They had looked to be on the point of collapse, but he knew they would survive a few more hours. He knew their power better than anyone. Their minds, so warped by the nature of their task, would never have recalled their past, but Elatior had not forgotten it. They were his older brothers and, like him, they carried the dangerously potent blood of their father, Ùrlar the Enchanter. Elatior knew that if any of his brothers had proven to be a little stronger, he would now be bound to the tree.
He had a silver-capped staff in one hand and a sword in the other and he was riding his beloved stag – a proud beast by the name of Criopus that twitched as he steered it forwards, sensing its master’s eagerness for the battle ahead.
Elatior looked along the riverbank that marked the boundary of the Silvam Dale. The army massing under his banner was a glorious vision of asrai power. As each kingdom fell, the shamefaced survivors were forced to join their strength to his, so that now, as he prepared for his day of all days, Elatior the Enchanter found himself with over three thousand warriors at his command. There were spearmen and archers from every corner of the forest, clad in bloodstained leather and muttering vengeful oaths. Moving between them were the lithe, bare-skinned devotees of Loec – the shadow-dancers, with their gaudy locks and tattooed skin.
On either flank, Elatior had positioned squadrons of horsemen, each one carrying a spear and longbow as lightly as if they were on foot, rather than crouched on the back of a restless, prancing stallion. And, waiting beneath the trees, out of sight, were Prince Haldus and his hawk riders, waiting for his call.
‘These are the longest stars,’ said Asphalia. She was sat beside him, on a beautiful dapple grey stallion that shimmered like polished steel. She had a bone-handled sword in her hand but, rather than looking at the battle lines, her eyes were fixed on the heavens.
Elatior followed her gaze, understanding her meaning instantly. The two of them had pictured this victory since their youth. Every night they had stood side-by-side, scouring the constellations, searching for guidance, but this would be the last time. This would be the last night they would ever spend waiting. In less than an hour the stars would be gone and the glorious day would begin.
‘Indeed,’ he said, his voice soft with love. Asphalia saw the world more clearly than anyone he had ever met. Her every utterance filled him with pride.
She turned to face him and he saw that she was afraid.
He leant over and placed his hand on hers. ‘We must only fight until dawn. We will not need some brutish, sweaty victory, my love. Prophecy shall be our sword; foresight our shield.’
He looked back at the Wilding Tree. Daylight was still an hour away, but the hulking goliath was already sensing the awful truth – already guessing the final insult that Elatior would use to break its sanity. When dawn came, Elatior and his brothers would hold the tree’s spirit in the mortal realm. As the forest’s last few spirits faded away, leaving nothing but frozen soil and leafless boughs, the soul of the Wilding Tree would remain, sundered from the Otherworld – bound to reality by the guiles of its wardens.
Elatior shook his head in wonder. Centuries of hate would be tipped over into unimaginable rage, just as he led the enemy within reach. Then, at the crucial moment, he and his brothers would wield the ancient tree like a holy blade – crushing the heart of the enemy.
He took a deep breath and held it, trying to calm his racing pulse but it was impossible. The wards that bound him to the tree were already filling him with power. Every time the Wilding Tree creaked in pain, a burst of energy rippled through him. It was intoxicating. The forest rippled away from him like an ocean. As the visions flooded Elatior’s brain, he turned his magisterial gaze on the other side of the river. Snow-capped trees bordered the bank opposite, glittering in the moonlight as one might expect at the onset of winter, but beyond the riverbank, things were not so normal.
Clouds were billowing from the forest like the petals of enormous, gaudy flowers. The fumes were a sickly mixture of grey steam, yellow spores and glinting banks of flies. Larger shapes were humming back and forth in the haze but as the tree’s power shone through Elatior’s eyes, he found it increasingly hard to see clearly.
He lifted a hand from the stag’s back and the silver tip of his staff blazed into life. It burned like a star, throwing back the darkness and causing his guards to gasp and shield their eyes.
Asphalia laughed as she saw the display. ‘You are uncounted.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘Uncounted.’
Elatior laughed along with her and raised the staff higher. Magic flashed across the frozen surface of the river and splashed up against the trees on the far side.
Beneath the branches, a nightmare was taking shape.
For a moment, Elatior could imagine it was just another vision, summoned into being by the power of the Wilding Tree but, as his guards gasped in disgust, he could not deny the truth of it.
Hundreds of beings were emerging from the trees and spreading out along the riverbank. Elatior saw countless shapes and sizes but realised that they were all uniformly grotesque. Most of the creatures were vaguely humanoid, but they were all clad in glistening, diseased flesh and draped in flies. The clouds of insects made it h
ard to discern the details of the creatures’ mutations, but this only served to make the scene even more disturbing. Elatior grimaced as his light rippled over half-glimpsed outlines of coiled tusks and oozing, rotten wounds. He moved the staff from side to side and the whole mess blurred into a lurching waltz.
Captain Eremon was standing by the river at the head of Elatior’s army, his expression as stern and unforgiving as ever. He was surrounded by the survivors of Locrimere and the banner of their fallen realm snapped above his head. He had begged to lead the defence and his eyes blazed as he turned towards Elatior with a silent question.
Elatior was drunk on the growing power of the Wilding Tree. His limbs were trembling with borrowed hate. He smiled at the captain, speaking so softly that only those nearby could hear.
‘Destroy them.’
Captain Eremon gave a stiff nod and lifted a long horn of carved bone to his lips.
A deep, single note rang out through the trees and the wardancers started to howl, clanging their leaf-blade swords and screaming like beasts. The feral cry spread down the lines and was picked up by the archers and spearmen, swelling into a roar so loud that it drowned out the sound of the horn. It was as though an ocean crashed through the forest.
Elatior’s smile grew as Criopus shifted beneath him, unnerved by the force of the sound.
Then he raised his staff higher, painting his warriors silver as they flooded across the ice.
Chapter Nineteen
Mälloch squeezed awkwardly through the branches, cursing as they pressed against him, tearing his bearskin cloak and scraping against his skin. With a final, angry grunt he wrenched himself free and staggered into a narrow clearing.
It was no natural space. As the Wildwood grew, it crushed the trees ever closer, obscuring any trace of the ground with a mesh of roots, creating an oppressive, airless gloom. The space Mälloch had entered was a grudging concession to the ancient power at its centre – a seven foot-tall pillar of white stone, carved with runes. In several places the runes were obscured by dark, ominous-looking stains.
The trees hunkered around it were like animals waiting to pounce, but the power of the runes kept them at bay, leaving a small circle of frozen ground – just enough to accommodate Mälloch’s party. Sibaris was the second to emerge, grimacing as he fought through the last few branches and tumbled free of their grasp. He was followed a few seconds later by Varamus, who hauled the still-gagged and blindfolded Finavar behind him and threw him onto the ground next to Sibaris.
‘There isn’t much time,’ said Varamus. The other three were panting with the effort of fighting through the trees, but Varamus’s voice retained an oddly distant quality and betrayed no sign of tiredness. ‘We must carry out the sentence.’
Mälloch glared at the spellweaver, outraged by his demanding tone, but he nodded all the same. ‘Fasten him to the stone,’ he said, turning to his great-grandson.
Sibaris looked up, his face streaked with blood, and did not move.
‘Fasten him,’ said Mälloch, his voice rumbling with power.
Sibaris paled and climbed to his feet.
He helped Finavar up from the ground and led him to the white pillar. Once there, he loosened the vines that held the prisoner’s arms, unravelled the tendrils and wrapped them around the stone, fixing Finavar firmly in place with a series of intricate knots and a whispered charm.
Once he was done he gave his great-grandfather a sullen, sideways glance and stepped away.
Mälloch glanced at the surrounding trees, noticing how they strained and clicked. They sensed he was about to offer them a victim. They could already taste blood. His lip curled in disgust, but he waved the figure in white to his side.
‘Speak the words,’ he said, drawing one of his curved swords. ‘I’ll make the mark.’
Varamus nodded and stepped closer to the stone.
Finavar tried to speak, but his words were muffled by his gag.
Mälloch sensed Sibaris’s gaze, burning into the side of his face, but refused to acknowledge it. He felt nothing but pity for Finavar, but he was determined not to be a fool a second time. The wardancer must be given to the Wildwood. There was no doubt in his mind.
Varamus drew a slender strip of carved birch from his robes and began to read from it, muttering a droning chant.
Finavar thrashed his head from side to side, trying to speak again. His words were still muffled and he strained at his bonds, trying to free himself from the stone.
Mälloch raised his sword and used the tip to start carving an image into the rock. He moved the blade in time to Varamus’s words, creating a spiralling trail of leaves on the surface of the waystone.
Sibaris muttered a curse as he saw the effect.
For every word Varamus read, and for every line Mälloch carved, there was a deep, cracking sound from the surrounding trees.
Mälloch sensed shadows looming over his head as he worked, reaching up over the struggling shape of Finavar. He noticed that even the prisoner’s bonds were writhing in time to the spell, drawing blood from Finavar’s skin as they moved.
Varamus’s voice droned on without any trace of emotion, but as his gaze neared the end of the strip of birch, the ground began to shake and the cracking sounds grew louder. A cage of sharpened, quivering branches had now formed around Finavar.
As the thicket pressed against him, Finavar let out a desperate, mute howl.
Mälloch grimaced as he carved the final piece of the rune and then stepped away from the stone.
‘Wait,’ he said, turning to Varamus.
Varamus paused his recitation and turned to the noble, his expression hidden by the wooden mask. ‘There is no time for your pity,’ he said, nodding at the shuddering trees. ‘You must give him to the forest. As you said you would. There are only a few words left.’
Mälloch looked around and saw the truth of his words. As the sky shifted from black to indigo, the forest was rising up around them, flexing thorns like claws and preparing to strike. In a few seconds the trees would take their prize.
Then something else caught Mälloch’s eye – something was watching them from the darkness. As he studied the shadows he caught a glimpse of movement that did not belong to the branches – something that shimmered with an inner fire. Doubt gripped him. Things were not as they should be. All Mälloch’s long years told him that he was missing something.
He turned back to the stone and saw that Finavar was now thrashing wildly against it, trying to free his gag.
Mälloch’s skin glimmered as he turned to Varamus. ‘I will not condemn him without giving him a chance to speak.’ He tapped the tip of his sword against the white stone. ‘I believe in his sentence as much as you, but to die like this – trussed up like a mute beast, is an affront to the gods. He is a servant of Loec. He is a bard! He cannot die without a final word.’ Mälloch glanced up at the growing light. ‘Will you answer to the shadow-dancer for this?’
Varamus shrugged and began to read out the last few words. Then he hesitated and glanced into the shifting darkness, catching the same glimpse of movement that had unnerved Mälloch.
As dawn approached, Mälloch realised that he could see the spellweaver’s eyes, glinting through the slits in his mask. There was fear in them.
‘What harm can it do?’ Varamus’s voice remained neutral. ‘Whatever pleas he makes, I will complete the rite. I will not let you free him.’
‘I have no intention of freeing him,’ said Mälloch, nodding at Sibaris.
Sibaris raced to the stone and removed the vines from Finavar’s eyes and mouth.
The wardancer could do nothing for a moment but gasp and blink.
Then he fixed his wild stare on Mälloch. ‘You’re banishing the wrong person!’ His voice was hoarse from days of not speaking.
Mälloch stared coldly at him and even Sibaris looked ash
amed on Finavar’s behalf. They had expected a beautiful farewell, or an eloquent plea for forgiveness, but not this.
Varamus gave a disdainful laugh and then began reading out the final words of his spell.
Each syllable dragged more talon-like shapes from the forest. They creaked ominously as they arrayed themselves around Finavar.
He strained at his bonds and kept his gaze locked on Mälloch.
‘I’ve been a fool, but I see it now!’ cried Finavar. ‘I know what I said to you, but I am not the one bringing this plague down on our people.’ His voice became shrill with emotion. ‘Ordaana is the enemy. She is behind all of this!’
Varamus faltered. There was only one symbol left to read out from the stick, but the spellweaver was too shocked by Finavar’s words to finish.
‘Lady Ordaana?’ His voice was verging on laughter. ‘Of Locrimere? Why would she betray her own people?’
Finavar kept staring at Mälloch. ‘She believes Ariel drove her to madness. She thinks Ariel and Orion caused her to murder her own daughter. She wants revenge.’
Varamus shook his head and lifted the stick, preparing to read out the final word.
‘Wait,’ said Mälloch, holding up a warning hand. As he listened to Finavar’s impassioned plea, his feeling of doubt became overwhelming. ‘Perhaps we should–?’
Varamus shook his head and started to speak the final word of his spell.
The trees drew back, widening the clearing and flooding it with pale dawn light.
A shape exploded from the undergrowth and slammed into Varamus.
Mälloch and Sibaris cried out as they saw that an enormous black hound had latched its jaws around the spellweaver’s throat.
Varamus screamed and rolled, dropping the stick to punch the hound as his robes turned crimson.
The animal remained locked at his throat, snarling and growling as it tore into his flesh.