Orion: The Tears of Isha

by Darius Hinks

  ‘Finish the rite,’ he gasped, managing to push back the hound’s head for a moment.

  Mälloch was horrified but shook his head. The sight of the hound had sent his mind tumbling back through the centuries to his time with the Wild Hunt. He knew without question whose beast he was looking at. He staggered around the clearing, looking from the slavering hound, to Finavar and then at Sibaris, who was looking equally stunned.

  ‘Orion,’ gasped Mälloch.

  Sibaris stared at him in confusion.

  Mälloch levelled his sword at the hound. ‘This is a herald of Orion. This is his very spirit.’ Mälloch’s voice trembled with awe. ‘Orion is amongst us.’

  Sensing that its work was done, the hound loosed its hold on Varamus’s throat and backed away, crouching before Finavar and keeping its fierce gaze locked on the others.

  Varamus rolled away, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath.

  Sibaris rushed to his side and helped him into a sitting position.

  Varamus stared at the hound in disbelief. His voice was a ragged cough. ‘It’s protecting him.’

  Mälloch nodded in wonder. ‘Orion is amongst us,’ he repeated, his words little more than a whisper. He dropped to one knee and nodded his head in a bow, glaring at Sibaris until he did the same.

  Finavar saw that he had been saved and slumped in his bonds, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

  Varamus crawled next to Mälloch and Sibaris and attempted to bow, keeping a hand at his throat to stifle the blood.

  For a moment the only sound was heavy breathing and the creak of the trees, then the hound snarled and leapt straight for Mälloch and the others, letting out a rattling snarl.

  They cowered, then realised, as the animal raced past, that they were not its prey.

  Mälloch turned and saw, for the briefest second, the faint glimmer of light he had glimpsed earlier. It was a spirit of some kind – a jumble of stick-like limbs, no more than knee-high, shimmering with magic and topped with an elongated, skull-like head.

  The hound smashed into the odd little figure, but not before the spirit had lifted Varamus’s stick from the ground and read out the final word of the spell.

  The hound snarled again as it tore the stick figure apart.

  Mälloch and the others could not hear the animal’s rage, however.

  As soon as the spirit uttered the final word of the charm, the Wildwood took its prize.

  The trees looming over the stone launched a tide of sharpened branches at the white rock.

  Finavar’s eyes widened in fear but, before he could even scream, the trees sliced into him.

  To Mälloch and the others, it looked as though a tornado had entered the clearing.

  There was deafening explosion of roots, leaves and branches.

  After a few moments the turmoil ceased and Mälloch tumbled across the hard earth, coming to a halt a few feet from the waystone.

  Finavar was gone. The whole rock was red with his blood.

  Mälloch groaned and staggered closer. Finavar’s bonds were hanging loosely from the stone, along with several large pieces of his skin.

  Beyond the stone the forest was a boiling mass of movement. Mälloch stepped closer but fronds lashed out at him, slicing into his skin like razors.

  ‘Keep back!’ cried Sibaris, dragging the noble back from the tumult. ‘There is no return from the Wildwood!’

  Mälloch allowed the youth to steer him away from the thrashing trees and then dropped to the ground, shaking his head. Then he looked around in confusion.

  ‘The hound!’ he exclaimed, but all he saw was Varamus, lying still in a pool of blood, obviously dead.

  Sibaris was staring into the roiling mass of shadows beyond the stone. ‘It followed him.’ His voice sounded hollow. ‘The hound went into the Wildwood.’

  Mälloch stared at Sibaris. Then he sat down heavily and pressed his palms into his eyes.

  ‘Then they both died.’

  Sibaris helped him from the ground and they saw that dawn was breaking over the forest. The trees surged and rolled like waves but, rather than crushing Mälloch and Sibaris, they flooded around the stone, heading away from them.

  Sibaris saw a chance and raced back the way they had come, half carrying his great-grandfather.

  As they scrambled through the undergrowth, they heard a long, agonised scream.

  Chapter Twenty

  Captain Eremon reached the opposite bank of the river. Rage had driven him into a sprint and he was the first to see the enemy close up. He showed no trace of emotion as he met a wall of pockmarked flesh, coiled in rags of yellow cloud, but his soul was burning. He could hear Locrimere’s dead, howling for revenge at the back of his mind. He hesitated for a second, savouring the moment, then he let his sword arm fall, and fall again, hacking pallid limbs from hunched, fly-shrouded bodies.

  The daemon host shuffled towards him, a grey-green tide of filth that would have quickly overwhelmed him, but, seconds later, the rest of the asrai crashed into them. There was a wet crunch as spears and swords struck home and Eremon grunted in satisfaction, hacking a head clean from its shoulders and kicking it back across the frozen river. The body toppled to the ground and Eremon turned to face the figure that was cowering in his wake. Lord Beldeas was wide-eyed with fear and his mean little features cringed beneath his pale expanse of forehead. He had replaced his emerald robes with thick plates of leather armour and the weight of it was clearly too much for him. He was struggling to move with the natural grace of his kind. It was only terror that had enabled him to match the speed of his captain.

  ‘We must hold the other side of the river!’ he gasped, clutching at Eremon’s shoulder and trying to drag him back the way they had come. ‘What madness drove you to charge? The Enchanter’s order was for the archers to fire – not that we advance.’

  Eremon ignored his lord and gestured to the headless corpse at his feet. ‘They can be stopped!’ He lifted his voice over the din. ‘Behead them! Behead them and they will fall!’

  The archers waiting on the dale side of the river chose that moment to loose their shots and the air grew dark.

  Ranks of grotesque shapes stumbled and fell as the arrows found their mark and Eremon’s foot soldiers pressed forwards.

  The Enchanter’s light pulsed through the gloom as more asrai joined the fight. The light flashed across lithe, tattooed flesh as the dancers of Loec waltzed into the battle, howling wild oaths as they advanced; tumbling through the other asrai like smoke and slicing into the enemy. They moved with such speed and grace that they seemed to fly, springing from head to head, whirling and singing as they carved the daemons apart. Eremon caught brief glimpses of their painted faces and gave another bark of satisfaction.

  Eremon’s pride grew as whole lines of daemons fell to the ground, skewered by spears, bristling with arrows or hacked apart by the dancers’ blades. Then he glanced at the frail figure staggering after him. He sneered as he saw Beldeas trying to cower behind his own men, clutching his sword before him like a shield.

  Eremon pressed on, chopping and lunging, dodging claws and battered iron. Flies and stench pressed against him and he thanked the gods for the strip of cloth wrapped around his face. For a while, his momentum carried him on a wave of blind fury but, as he started to slow down, stalled by the crush of rotten bodies, he saw more clearly what he was fighting. Bloated, pus-smeared faces leered at him from the carnage, studded with rolling, single eyes full of wry amusement. As he shouldered, stabbed and punched, he saw flies as big as dogs hurtling towards him, trailing cruel barbs and wielding serrated mandibles. The insects clicked and clacked as they attempted to latch onto him but he was too fast.

  He kicked one fly to the ground, ducked beneath another and then plunged his sword, two-handed, into a third. Vivid, yellow blood spurted from the wound and he rolled aside
before it could touch his flesh

  Behind him, Lord Beldeas screeched, barely managing to dodge the spray.

  Eremon faltered and the ranks of spearmen and wardancers caught up with him, crashing into the daemons, still singing as they came to a stop, halted by the mass of bodies.

  Eremon was vaguely aware that he was no longer alone, but he was finding it hard to keep a grip on reality. The faces that surrounded him had become of a confusing blur of human, amphibian and insect. Some of the flies whirring overhead were enormous and, as Eremon struggled to press forwards, he saw that the whole army was protecting a core of enormous, blind grubs, digging up the forest floor and making a channel for the river. As the vast, slug-like monsters churned up the ground, hissing yellow liquid poured straight towards the Wilding Tree.

  The daemons’ faces filled his thoughts and his head swam with images of bloated, diseased skin, puckered around mindless, yellow eyes. The thought of such creatures, oozing through his beloved forest was horrific. What had they destroyed to reach this far? What had they already ruined? As the river progressed it threw up teetering, fungal growths, clad in a sickening mixture of gaudy colours. The forest was ready to adopt its winter guise but the daemons were denying it – painting it instead in a revolting array of carnival colours.

  Eremon clenched his jaw and plunged on, conscious that his soldiers’ eyes were upon him.

  The other asrai swarmed after him and he began to make progress again, forcing the enemy back towards their precious grubs.

  Then he stumbled to a halt and his sword dropped, forgotten against his leg.

  Spearmen rushed to his side, defending him as he stared in shock.

  At the head of the yellow river was a giant. The thing was similar in shape to the other daemons – skinny, ridiculous limbs, a vast gut and a single eye, but its head was crowned by three great tusks, one of which was topped by a swinging, brass bell. It was not the size of the thing that made Eremon pause, however, it was its stance. The giant daemon was standing stock-still with its scalloped, black sword pointing directly at Eremon. As the battle raged around it, the daemon had stopped to single Eremon out from the general carnage. Its eye was locked on him and its sagging mouth was quivering with laughter.

  Beldeas followed Eremon’s gaze and saw the giant. He shook his head. ‘This is too much,’ he said, turning to leave. ‘We must return to the dale. This is madness.’

  Eremon’s face drained of colour, but he latched a hand over Beldeas’s shoulder and dragged him back.

  ‘We must kill it,’ he said.

  Daemons were pouring towards them from every direction but, as Eremon and Beldeas talked, a circle of kneeling spearmen had formed around them, protecting them from the gibbering mass.

  ‘We must stop that horror,’ said Eremon, glaring at Beldeas, ‘My lord.’

  Beldeas scowled back at Eremon, but before he could reply, Eremon shoved him back into the fray and followed quickly after him.

  Prince Elatior rode to the riverbank. Dawn had not yet arrived, but he could see Eremon quite clearly on the far side, lit up by the silver glow that was still pouring from his staff. The captain was hacking through the enemy lines, leading a spearhead of asrai up from the river and heading for the trees.

  ‘What is he doing?’ he asked in quiet, controlled tones.

  He was surrounded by ranks of white-masked faces, but they gave no reply.

  Princess Asphalia nodded. ‘His form is blurred by his pride. He has become your blade.’

  Elatior nodded and replied in the same stiff voice. ‘But he is leading them away from me.’

  One of the spellweavers spoke up. ‘Perhaps you should follow, my lord? You could destroy the enemy at Eremon’s side. Victory here, or victory there; what does it matter?’

  Elatior turned his head very slowly, feeling as though a sudden movement would unleash something beyond his control. The rage of the tree was crashing through him. The others could see nothing unusual about his appearance, but he felt as though he were a sacred vessel, straining to hold a tempest. Even moving slowly gave him the odd sensation that the world was on the edge of collapse, like a cheaply made theatre set caught in a storm. It was wonderful. Beyond wonderful. He felt like a god. He wondered, actually, if he might not even be a god. And it was still not even dawn. When the Wilding Tree saw the true agony of its situation, the power and the fury would triple. He shivered with pleasure as he considered what it would feel like.

  He glared at the masked spellweaver and started to speak. ‘My power is linked to the tree. If I stray from its roots–’

  He stopped speaking as he saw the result of his stare – the spellweaver had gone into a spasm. As Elatior’s eyes passed over him, the mage’s bones cracked and popped out of their sockets, as though an invisible giant were rolling them between its finger and thumb.

  It was dreadful to watch but Elatior could not tear his eyes away, and the more he stared, the more the spellweaver buckled and snapped.

  The spellweaver tried to defend himself, grasping at the air and wrenching shoots from the earth, trying to launch them at Elatior, but it was no use. Crimson blossomed across his white robes as his body ruptured and split. A pitiful choking sound came from behind his mask.

  The other spellweavers backed away in horror as he dropped, lifeless, to the ground.

  Only Asphalia looked unconcerned. She nodded calmly. ‘Fate is gathering its own.’

  Elatior closed his eyes and tried to steady himself. He had no desire to destroy his own witches. When he opened his eyes again, he kept his gaze neutral and did his best to suppress the currents surging through his mind. To his relief, he was able to look at the cowering mages without killing any more of them.

  ‘Make sure Eremon is not too successful,’ he said, regaining his soft voice. ‘The battle must end here, with me.’

  The spellweavers nodded eagerly and hurried across the river.

  Elatior stroked the neck of his stag and looked out at the battle. ‘I asked him to hold the river, not drive them away from me.’

  Asphalia nodded to a lumbering, colossal shape, wading through the banks of flies towards Eremon. ‘The captain is approaching his final shore.’

  Prince Haldus steered Nuin high above the clouds and the warhawk let out a piercing shriek. Far from the battle below they saw the edge of the dawn, simmering on the horizon. The light was already creeping through the leafless trees and flashing across frozen pools. Soon it would flood the groves of the Silvam Dale and banish the final shreds of autumn. Haldus muttered under his breath, annoyed that he had waited so long to launch his attack.

  Nuin reached the zenith of her climb and rested on a thermal, allowing the air to hold her for a second, far from the frozen earth below. Haldus took a moment to look around. They were flanked by dozens of similar birds, all hovering as they waited to see his next move; all carrying riders of their own that could have been mistaken for the prince, with their tanned, weather-beaten skin and their trailing branch-like headgear, but Haldus’s grim scowl was unmistakable, made even more fierce by the spiralling designs he had gouged into his own face.

  He hopped lightly onto his feet, feeling Nuin’s muscles shift beneath him as he crouched in readiness for her dive. He drew his bow and nocked an arrow into place, then turned to the other riders.

  ‘Whatever the Enchanter has planned, the forest will thank us for ending the lives of those winged monstrosities.’

  Then he gave Nuin a gentle tap with his foot and clutched onto her feathers as she dived back down through the clouds. Wind screamed through his headgear and filled his eyes with tears, but as they plummeted towards the trees he saw the battle open up before him. Captain Eremon was turning a defence into an offence. He had already pushed the daemons back from the river and was now driving them back into the trees. The daemons had tried to spread their attack wider, but they ha
d been met by squadrons of riders who were now thundering from the dale. Asrai had been pouring into the Silvam Dale for weeks and Eremon had a vast force behind him. The riders were one with their steeds, moving with seamless, fluid grace as they launched a volley of arrows into the huddled mass of the daemons.

  Haldus felt a moment’s doubt as he recalled Elatior’s plan. He knew that the idea was to let the daemons reach the Wilding Tree and then turn its wrath against them and he could see quite clearly that Eremon was seeking his own glorious victory.

  Haldus’s doubt was short-lived. As Nuin hurled him towards the earth, his limbs filled with vigour and his heart began to pound. This was what he lived for and everything else fell away.

  As they neared the ground, Prince Haldus saw their target – enormous, armoured flies, carrying daemons through the air and attacking Eremon’s vanguard with cruel-looking barbs.

  He gave Nuin a gentle nudge and she changed her direction, aiming her beak at one of the flying monsters.

  Haldus was nearly thrown from his mount as it collided with its prey, but he managed to retain his balance and loose a few arrows into the creature’s thick hide before Nuin pounded her wings and launched them back up towards the clouds.

  Haldus cursed as he looked back. The armoured fly showed no sign that it had registered the arrows.

  He looked around and saw that the other hawk riders were having just the same problem. They were looping around the enemy mounts, launching arrows as they went, but the daemonic creatures were oblivious to their wounds.

  Even worse, one of the flying creatures had latched onto a hawk with its mandibles and the two creatures, along with their grappling riders, were now plunging towards the battle below.

  Haldus steered Nuin back into another dive.

  She speared through the air, pursuing the wounded hawk and Haldus shot arrow after arrow as they fell.

  Nuin’s speed was incredible and they were soon gaining on the falling bird, but the ground was hurtling up to meet them.