by Darius Hinks
However many arrows Haldus fired, they seemed to have no effect so, at the last minute, just as they were about to hit the ground, he drew a sword and sliced the monster’s head from its abdomen.
The headless insect finally loosed its grip but it was too late. Haldus and Nuin screamed to safety, but the other hawk slammed into the forest floor, killing several combatants, as well as itself and its rider.
Haldus howled in frustration as Nuin flew him to safety, but the other riders redoubled their war cries as they saw the headless monster smash to the ground. They knew, now, what to do and they set about it with a wild fervour.
Hawks flew in from countless directions, slamming into the winged monsters and allowing hawk riders to hack away their heads.
For a while Haldus and Nuin lost themselves to the frenzy of killing. Then, after rising above the clouds and seeing the approaching dawn for a second time, Haldus recalled Elatior’s plan and saw that it was in danger of going disastrously wrong. The enemy was being driven away from the Enchanter and his tree, rather than towards them.
Prince Haldus quashed his bloodlust for a moment as Nuin flew back down through the clouds. Rather than seeking out another target, he looked for a sign of Eremon. He knew that the asrai would follow him without question. The captain needed to lead the others back.
For a moment he could not make Eremon out in the general scrum of monsters, then, when he finally spotted him, Prince Haldus cried out in shock.
The sky was turning grey as Eremon ducked and weaved through the enemy ranks. Dawn had almost come. Tusks, swords and claws lashed out at him as he ran, but he could not be stopped – not now he had seen his destiny. The giant daemon still had its sword levelled at him and a space had formed around it as the lesser daemons backed away, leaving a patch of exposed earth, hissing and steaming as the river of bile rolled closer.
Eremon glanced back and saw that the other children of Locrimere were following in his wake – pressing ahead of the other asrai and revelling in every head they took. He grunted to himself. This was it. If they saw him, now, defeating the most fearsome of the monsters, as Lord Beldeas cowered pathetically behind him, his claim would be secure. They would demand that he rule them.
Eremon’s dreams swirled around him as he hacked towards the giant. He would found a new Locrimere, greater than the first, and rule it in the way it was always meant to be ruled – with all the pride and vision of their ancestors. He would plant stands of silver birch, then bind them with ancient charms until they formed living, silver towers that reached for the clouds; glittering sceptres born of the earth’s–
Air exploded from Eremon’s lungs as something tripped him and sent him crashing to the ground.
‘What are you doing?’ howled Lord Beldeas, his eyes rolling. ‘We must return to the river!’ He paused to fend off a blow as daemons crowded around them.
Eremon clambered to his feet, cursing as his dreams scattered into the crush of bodies. He stepped to Beldeas’s side and parried a blow aimed at his head, before decapitating the attacker with a fierce backhanded swipe.
Eremon and Beldeas both staggered backwards, dodging more blows as they went.
As they reeled away from their attackers, their kinsmen arrived, meeting the enemy with a row of spear tips and giving Eremon a second chance to address his lord.
‘I will have its head!’ he barked, jabbing his sword at the giant. He lifted his voice above the clamour so that all could hear. ‘I will lead us to victory, Beldeas, if you will not.’
Beldeas’s face flushed with colour, but before he could reply, Eremon leapt back into the fray, shouldered his way through the enemy and burst into the clearing around the giant daemon.
He stumbled as he approached it, met by a wall of foetid stink and clouds of whirring flies. He waved his sword, trying to clear the air, but it was useless – the more he moved, the more he agitated the noisome atmosphere.
Behind him, the din of the battle rose to a new pitch, as the spearmen and dancers tried to break into the clearing. The tallymen held firm and Eremon realised he had been drawn into the heart of the daemons’ army. The ground beneath him was spitting and hissing and the whole scene lit up in a furious, yellow glare as the river advanced.
From out of this dazzling, swirling miasma, came the giant, drawing back its sword to strike and causing its brass bell to ring out again.
The sound of the bell hit Eremon with almost as much force as the sword blow that followed it. He was still reeling from the harsh sound when the daemon’s shard of black metal connected with his own sword.
He managed to parry the blow, but the force of it reverberated through his arms and sent him flying back through the air. He landed on the trembling earth with a howl.
The daemon loomed over him, still grinning, and drove its sword at Eremon’s face, hammering the weapon down towards him in a two-handed blow.
Eremon rolled aside, but he was too slow and the weapon caught his shoulder, slicing through muscle and pinning him to the ground.
Eremon’s blood flew across the earth, mingling with the yellow acid that was pooling around him.
He cried out again, and this time it was a wild, furious sound as he wrenched himself free, leaving behind a large hunk of flesh.
Eremon staggered drunkenly around the clearing, his left arm flapping uselessly at his side. As the daemon lurched after him, laughing, Eremon shook his head, trying to clear his head as pain, flies and fumes pressed in on him.
The other asrai redoubled their efforts to reach him, throwing themselves against the wall of rotting flesh, but it was no use – hundreds more of the monsters were flooding out to do battle, some still wearing shreds of asrai armour.
The giant daemon surprised Eremon by suddenly changing direction. It had been lurching with slow deliberation, but now it rocked back on its heel and brought its sword down towards him in a fast, backhanded swipe.
Eremon’s shoulder was a needlepoint of pain and he found, despite all the lunacy that surrounded him, that his dreams were suddenly more vivid than ever. As the blade whistled towards him, slicing through the yellow clouds of spores and flies, he pictured the white towers of his new Locrimere. He saw Beldeas and the others kneeling before him as a spiralling, ivory crown was placed on his brow. Visions and pain combined in his head, revealing the battle in vivid, blazing detail and ridding him of his doubt. He dodged the daemon’s blow with ease and the huge blade sliced uselessly into the ground, causing the monster to stagger past him and fall to its knees.
Eremon harnessed his momentum and rolled back towards his foe, plunging his blade into its throat.
The bell clanged again as the daemon tried to snap its head back to avoid Eremon’s sword.
Eremon was too fast.
His sword cut through Bule’s blue-grey skin and a nest of severed arteries flopped from the wound.
The daemon gurgled laughter as it climbed to its feet and rounded on him, spraying gore and profanities as it clutched its torn throat.
Eremon whirled around to face the asrai, holding his bloody sword aloft.
They roared in approval and pressed harder against the ranks of daemons, who began staggering backwards under their weight.
At the same moment, the river of bile began bubbling and steaming even more violently. Great geysers of acid arced up from its surface and scalding steam rolled over the combatants.
Eremon faltered for a moment and lowered his sword, peering into the tumult. The river was spreading quickly across the ground towards him and he could see the vast grubs that were driving it onwards, but there was something else – something was stirring in the depths.
He saw movement to his left and recalled his opponent just in time.
Bule’s wound was not enough to halt it. The daemon had one hand clasped around its throat, but the other was bringing its sword down towards
Eremon’s face.
Buoyed by the cheers of the asrai, Eremon danced lightly out of harm’s way and drove his own blade deep into the daemon’s thigh.
Bule laughed again but, as Eremon yanked his blade to one side, splitting muscle and bone, the daemon’s leg folded beneath it and it crashed to the ground.
The bell rolled free, clattering across the ground and vanishing into the battle.
Bule’s drooping grin finally vanished and it moaned in fear as the bell tumbled away from its outstretched fingers.
As the daemon struggled to its knees Eremon appeared at its side. His expression was as severe as ever, but there was a strange light in his eyes as he glanced back at his kindred and brought his sword down through the daemon’s neck.
The asrai howled as Bule’s head came free and bounced across the ground towards them.
The giant body collapsed immediately, crashing to the ground at Eremon’s feet.
Eremon closed his eyes for a split second, savouring the moment, then wrenched his sword from the earth and staggered back towards his army.
To his dismay, he saw that he had misunderstood their cries. They were not howling victoriously, but in horror. They were staring past him at the river.
He turned around.
The bile had erupted, revealing a hulk of glistening, white, slug-like flesh.
Eremon shook his head in mute denial, unable to quite comprehend what he was looking at. Its flesh was translucent, rubbery and crawling with mites and, where its face should be, there was a mound of thrashing tentacles. As it rose from the bile, Eremon was reminded of something else – the monster moved with all the gleeful enthusiasm of a hound, bounding along to meet its master.
Eremon took a deep breath and clutched his sword tighter. He saw immediately that he could not defeat it, but he refused to back down – not with the eyes of Locrimere on him. He stepped boldly forwards, striding through the steam, smoke and screams; preparing to face death with all the dignity he could muster.
Shapes rushed by overhead, tearing open the clouds of flies and revealing a brief glimpse of the sky. Eremon stumbled, buffeted by the beating of powerful wings. Hope flooded his veins as he saw dozens of warhawk riders led by Prince Haldus, diving straight towards the monstrous being.
One by one they hurtled between the grasping tentacles, giving their riders the chance to launch arrows into the creature’s face.
The daemon showed no fear, or anger for that matter. Instead, it looked oddly excited by the newcomers and reached out to touch them.
One of the hawks was already carrying a wound and it lacked the speed of the others. The daemon’s limb brushed against its wing, sending the bird spinning off into the trees and Eremon saw it crash to the ground, crushing its rider as it did so.
The daemon rippled and surged onto the riverbank, panting and grasping at the airborne shapes.
Haldus and the others crossed the sky in a wide, graceful arc and then looped down through the clouds, making for the daemon’s face again.
They were intercepted by three of the armoured fly-like creatures that swooped into view and slammed into them.
Eremon shook his head as he took in the scene. It was like a fireside tale sprung to life. Monsters and daemons were everywhere, battling in the heavens and along the whole length of the dale. The asrai were surrounded on all sides. They had plunged deep into the enemy ranks but, as the casualties grew, so did the number of daemons, until the wardancers and spearmen became an island of sanity, stranded in an ocean of madness.
As flies and steam swirled around him, Eremon finally registered the true pain of his wound. His arm was almost completely severed and his armour was sodden with blood. His head grew light as the storm raged around him, but he staggered on towards the monster, dragging his sword behind him.
The lump of white flesh hurried eagerly towards him, but it was still thirty feet away when Eremon heard a thud to his left and paused.
Nuin’s gaze was unreadable but Haldus’s mask of scars could no longer hide his alarm.
‘You need to lead them back to the river!’ he cried, fending off attacks as he raced towards Eremon.
Eremon could not believe that victory had eluded him; that his dreams had been stolen from him.
‘You must!’ cried Haldus, dragging him back towards Nuin. ‘They’ll all die.’
Eremon looked back at his dying kinsmen and knew Haldus was right. He was about to accept defeat when Haldus gasped and loosed his grip.
‘Your shoulder!’ he cried, making the sign of Kurnous and backing away.
Eremon frowned and looked at his wound. Where the giant’s sword had cut him there was now a forest of pale, worm-like tentacles, sprouting from his exposed flesh. They were writhing like snakes and, where they had erupted from his skin, his limb was starting to change shape, twisting into a withered mockery of an arm. The skin was already dying and rolling back from his tendons.
Eremon’s head rocked back on his shoulders and he laughed. ‘And now I am damned!’
Prince Haldus stepped back and raised his bow, nocking an arrow into place.
Eremon looked back at him and the expression on his face was one of relief. He looked around at the battle with a strange glazed stare. ‘I have reaped my reward.’
Prince Haldus frowned, but kept his arrow trained on Eremon.
Eremon shook his head. ‘I’m not mad, Haldus. Perhaps I was, but now I see what a fool I’ve been.’ He was about to say more, but the fighting surged closer and he simply gave another laugh, waving Haldus back to his mount. ‘Take this,’ he said, unfastening his horn and throwing it to the prince. ‘Lead them back. They need you. They will follow you.’
Prince Haldus looked dazed and was about to speak again when Eremon wiped the gore from his face and strode away, heading towards the blazing yellow glare of the river and the mountain of white flesh.
Screams erupted from overhead as the monster caught another one of the hawks. It grasped it and turned it gleefully around in its tentacles. As the rider was crushed by the daemon’s writhing limbs, Prince Haldus leapt back onto Nuin and the bird launched back into the air.
Eremon picked up his pace as he neared the monster, breaking into a sprint as his feet broke the surface of the river. He could feel the acid eating into his flesh.
New visions filled his mind – a mindless, gaudy lunacy that threatened to overwhelm him, but he kept true to his purpose, raising his sword as he neared the towering beast.
He nodded as he heard his horn in the distance, blaring out across the battle, summoning the army back towards the river and the Wilding Tree, but he knew now that there was no return for him. His dreams had been proved lies. His pride had been misplaced. As his mind slipped into madness that one truth remained.
He reached the monster and it greeted him with grasping, coiling limbs.
Eremon found what he was seeking – the thing’s eyes. They were glinting, black beads, like the eyes of a crustacean, but he sensed delight in their featureless depths.
As he ran his head began to mutate, sprouting new growth from the centre of his forehead and flooding his mind with pain, but still he raced on, launching himself through the air with a final, bitter oath.
He collided with the monster like a stone hitting a pool.
Flesh rippled and burst around him and he vanished from view.
Dawn came, bringing the light of three suns. The first rose above the treetops, flooding the battlefield with cold, merciless light. It revealed a bright plain of mutated, twitching corpses and limbs. It made a silhouette of Eremon’s butchered army as they struggled back towards the Silvam Dale, trying desperately to regain the river as Prince Haldus swooped overhead, summoning them home with the lonely cry of Eremon’s war horn.
The other two suns were the eyes of Prince Elatior. White light was pouring from be
neath his brow, lancing from his head with such power that his own guards had dropped to their knees and shielded their faces.
As Criopus bucked and pranced beneath him, Elatior leant back and extended his arms, shaking with the force of the power tearing through his body. Winter had come and the Wilding Tree had found its soul bound to the mortal realm. Its fury was beyond anything Elatior could have prayed for. And, thanks to the sacrifice of his brothers, every ounce of it was being channelled through him.
He looked down across the battle and could not distinguish asrai from daemon – they were mites, all of them, crawling in the shadow of his godhood. With a single thought he lifted Criopus from the ground, surrounding them both in a nimbus of blinding winter sunlight. As they passed over the corpse-crowded river he raised his staff and allowed a tiny portion of the Wilding Tree’s pain to leak from its silver cap. It threw back his arm and the whole valley shook with the power of this thought. Great fissures opened up along the length of the river and the same glare that was pouring from his flesh exploded from the earth. Daemons and asrai tumbled into chasms of blinding light and there was a grinding, rolling crash that sounded like thunder, trapped beneath the earth.
The world shifted and rolled. Trees were uprooted and vast shards of rock speared into the air as Elatior began to sing. It was the voice of death and ruin. It was the voice of the Wilding Tree, railing against its imprisonment and all the long years of torture Elatior had inflicted on it. Every rhyme drew more terrible light from the ground and sent more of the combatants tumbling from view. Asrai and daemons fell from the world and still Elatior sang, riding his blazing stag higher and singing ever louder until his voice drowned out the sound of the earthquakes, booming from the trees and sky and shaking the bones of the warriors below.
The three suns blazed brighter as the song grew louder and great swathes of the daemon army were destroyed. The white horror at its heart thrashed desperately around, clutching on to tumbling rocks and upturned roots.
Warhawks circled around the inferno that was Elatior, like heavenly bodies trapped in his pull. Some flew too close and erupted into flames, others were sent spinning to the ground by the force of his song.