Orion: The Tears of Isha

by Darius Hinks

  Elatior steered Criopus towards the monster in the river. This lump of white flesh was the true enemy. All he needed to do was pour the tree’s malevolence against it and the battle would be over. He sensed it as clearly as he could hear the thoughts of every soul toiling below him. The pain of the Wilding Tree had given him sight beyond sight. He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times.

  He drew back his staff and prepared to deliver the killing blow.

  Then the light fell from his eyes and Criopus began to fall.

  All along the length of the river, the grinding sound ceased and the earth became still.

  For a moment, Elatior was unable to believe what he was feeling. His mind had grown as dim as his eyes. The visions and voices that had filled his thoughts were fading, like the echo of his song.

  Panic gripped him as the stag plummeted towards the ground. He used every ounce of his failing power to steer his mount to the earth, landing behind the river on the borders of the dale.

  The ground was a churned mess of troughs and craters, but he managed to guide Criopus down without harm. To his horror, he found that the tree’s fury had entirely left him. It had drained to a trickle and then ceased. He looked down at his limbs and shook his head in disbelief. He was mortal once more.

  He howled and rode back through the trees, galloping over the corpses and splintered roots as the sun rose behind him.

  The daemons climbed slowly to their feet and renewed their butchery as though nothing had happened, hacking and gouging their way through the remnants of the asrai army.

  Criopus thundered through the trees, passing down avenues that had been twisted into strange, nightmarish angles by Elatior’s wrath. He continued howling as he neared the Wilding Tree, sensing that the bond between him and his prisoner had been irrevocably cut. The tree was thrashing and tearing at the ground, wrenching up huge tracts of soil, but he could feel no trace of its anger in his mind. After all his years of patient, painful sorcery, the tree was no longer his to wield.

  ‘What is this?’ he gasped as he rode towards the vast, writhing tree.

  Rather than dismounting he simply drove Criopus on towards one of the pitch-dark openings between the tree’s roots and plunged them both into shadow.

  Coiled, black violence enveloped him. The tree’s rage had made a whirling maelstrom beneath the forest floor. Criopus tumbled and rolled and eventually Elatior was pulled from the animal’s back and they were separated.

  ‘How can this be?’ he cried. The tree was completely beyond his control. It hurled him around like a rag doll, smashing him against soaring roots and knocking his staff from his grip.

  Finally, after several terrifying moments, Elatior slammed down against cold, hard ground.

  After the deafening chaos of the battle and his fall, he suddenly found himself lying, face-down, in silence. He watched an earthworm, writhing a few inches from his face and felt as though he had no more power than it did.

  He realised there was a pale light coming from somewhere up ahead, so he climbed, painfully, to his feet.

  Towering columns of root surrounded him. He was back in the Tourmaline Hall. It was empty, of course – his people were all busy elsewhere, dying.

  The hall was not totally silent, though. The place was humming slightly; a low rumble, just within earshot. Little clods of soil were landing on the ground and the skin on his face was quivering, like the surface of a windswept pool.

  A figure dashed by, moving through the shadows near the hall’s central column.

  ‘Wait!’ he growled.

  There was no reply but the figure froze near one of the archways that led back up to the forest. Whoever it was, they were standing stock-still, but he could still see the faint, slender outline of an asrai.

  He staggered towards the centre of the hall, wincing as he went. The fall had done him serious harm, but he ignored the pain and picked up his pace, determined to know who was watching him.

  As he passed the column, Prince Elatior let out a strange whining sound, like an injured animal. He saw why the tree’s power had escaped him. His brothers were still hanging from the column of root where he had left them, but their throats had been slit. Their heads were hanging down and their chests were dark with quick-flowing blood.

  He rushed forwards and clawed at their lifeless bodies, trying to wake them. He pounded their chests and howled. Then he reeled away, clutching his head in his hands. The binding had been undone. After all these centuries of sacrifice, his work had come to nothing. The Wilding Tree was free.

  The figure in the doorway spoke up. ‘I never meant to pit myself against you,’ said a crisp, female voice.

  Elatior’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Ordaana?’

  The tree shifted more violently beneath his feet, but the prince did not care. He staggered towards Ordaana, seeing her more clearly as he did so.

  She was standing at the foot of a staircase holding a long, silver knife. It was glittering with blood.

  ‘The river must reach its destination. Nothing can be allowed to stop it. I will have my revenge.’ She looked at him with a furious expression. ‘And I will not allow you to harm my child.’

  Elatior’s rage exploded out of him in another incoherent roar. He tried to step towards her, but found he could not.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not the only one seeking revenge.’ She glanced up into the vaulted darkness.

  Elatior followed her gaze and saw that the hall was shifting and rolling, assuming a new shape. He looked down and saw that his feet and calves were tightly bound by roots.

  Ordaana nodded and backed away from him. Then she turned and sprinted up the staircase, vanishing from view.

  Elatior howled again, dropping into a crouch so that he could claw at the roots holding him in place.

  The low rumble grew louder, turning into the same thunderous song that had previously spilled from Elatior’s lips. The words that had elated him then, now filled him with dread. They were laced with venom. As the melody swelled louder the walls of the chamber began closing in.

  In the fading light Elatior saw a face, rising up towards him from the shadows.

  His pride fell away and he began to plead.

  Nuin swooped low over the river as Prince Haldus lowered his horn. ‘Abandon the dale!’ he howled. ‘We cannot hold them!’

  From his vantage point in the clouds, the prince could see what the wardancers and archers could not. The daemons were pouring from the trees in unimaginable numbers. The battle was lost.

  As he skimmed over the heads of the asrai, he snatched an archer up onto Nuin’s back, then waved at his fellow hawk riders, signalling for them to do the same.

  ‘Withdraw!’ he howled, then he blew the horn again.

  Eremon was right. Haldus’s cries were lost in the tumult, but the sound of the horn cut through and, with every blast, more of the asrai abandoned the defence. The god-like power that had been leading them to victory had vanished. There was no sign of the Enchanter.

  Once he was sure that the retreat had begun, Haldus steered his mount back into the Silvam Dale, scouring the frozen glades for a sign of Prince Elatior. ‘What happened?’ he snarled, furious at the loss of so many asrai.

  As Nuin tore through the air, heading towards the hulking mass of the Wilding Tree, Haldus had his answer.

  The tree had uprooted itself and was crashing through the forest towards him. Magic was crackling along its branches and a great, jagged maw had opened up in its trunk, lined with long, splinters of bark. It was not the mouth that shocked Prince Haldus, however, it was the strange mannequin bobbing in the uppermost branches.

  A corpse had been torn into six parts – head, torso and limbs – and the Wilding Tree was waving the pieces of flesh around as it approached the battle, shaking the body in such a way that it appeared to be performing a ridiculo
us dance.

  ‘Elatior,’ gasped Haldus as Nuin flew him past the jiggling remains.

  The prince’s magnificent face was unmistakable, even when drained of blood and separated from its body.

  The tree lashed out at Nuin and the bird barely escaped capture, soaring up into the clouds and forcing its passengers to clutch desperately at its feathers.

  As he flew back over the slaughter, Haldus took a knife from his belt and gouged another rune into his brow, cursing the arrogance of his kin. His eyes filled with blood and the world turned crimson. As the retreat became a rout, Haldus wondered what hope they had left.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The rite had lasted for what seemed like an eternity when, finally, Atolmis stepped beneath the branches of the Sorrow Tree. It was midnight, as it always was, and the ancient oak was at peace. The rite had left the ground drenched with blood and as Atolmis approached the trunk his feet made a wet popping sound, pulling and releasing the sodden turf. He kept his gaze locked on the ground, terrified that he might glimpse one of his masters. Their judgement was made but he knew they were watching him patiently from the shadows – the Lords of the Wild Hunt, one for every year of Ariel’s reign. They were emanating so much power that he could feel it crackling through the air and tingling across his skin, like the precursor to a storm.

  As he reached the trunk he saw the outline of a body, trapped in the glistening bark. It was quivering and muttering and its head bore no features – beyond the whorls and knots of the wood it had no face.

  Atolmis dropped to the ground and intoned a slow prayer, feeling his knees sinking into the bloody ground. Then he reached into a leather bag that was slung around his neck. He withdrew a selection of dried flowers and pressed them, one by one into the bloody ground, forming a circle of eight points. Then, once he was sure they were in the correct position, he held out his hand to the tree.

  The figure in the bark began muttering with more urgency and then, with a dry, cracking sound, it extended one of its arms and held something out to him.

  Atolmis took the object and glanced briefly at it. As he expected, it was a hard, spherical canker – an oak apple. He rolled it in his hand for a moment and then placed it on top of one of the flowers. The meaning was simple – come spring, a portion of Kurnous’s soul would return to the forest, in the guise of that most glorious vessel, Orion. The oak apple meant simply this: the world remains unchanged.

  Atolmis was sinking deeper into the blood but he did not feel afraid. The ritual was the same every year. There would be time.

  He muttered another prayer and the faceless spirit held out another object. Atolmis glanced at it. It was a silver ring, decorated with a royal seal. He nodded. Again, the meaning was clear – the new king would be born of mortal flesh and, this year, that mortal would be some kind of prince.

  Atolmis continued to pray and place the objects until he had the full name of his prey.

  When he was done, he stared at the objects in shock.

  By this point he had sunk to his thighs in the blood-soaked earth. He needed to take the oak apple and begin his search; he needed to leave, but he was too confused to move.

  The tangible presence of the Orions remained and he felt the sudden urge to address them directly. It was madness, of course. Such a thing would mean his death.

  He stared at the objects again, wondering if he could have misunderstood, but the meaning was clear. The next Orion was Finavar. The Darkling Prince was to become the Consort-King.

  ‘My lords,’ he muttered, breaking centuries of unbroken protocol.

  As soon as his words left his mouth, Atolmis found himself blinking; blinded by morning light. He was standing beside an ancient waystone, surrounded by a circle of his fellow horned riders. The priests were all kneeling, with their faces pressed into the grass, but at the sound of his breathing, they looked up.

  They were in a beautiful, sun-dappled hollow and the other riders looked at Atolmis with glinting black eyes, eager to hear his news.

  ‘Finavar,’ he muttered, staring at the bloody canker in his hand. ‘The Darkling Prince.’

  One of the riders laughed. ‘Finavar? He is no more. Elatior fed him to the Wildwood. The trees have taken him. The spirits must have meant another Finavar.’

  Atolmis shook his head. ‘I know who they meant.’

  The riders stared at him as he sat down heavily on the grass, still clutching the oak apple. His face was grey. ‘The rite has failed. It has named someone who is no more.’

  He looked at the sky.

  ‘There will be no new Orion.’

  EPILOGUE

  Clara flinched as she ran, clutching her bloody scalp with one hand and waving her crook before her with the other. She thought that several hours had passed since she had re-entered the forest but, as she stumbled out of the murk, she saw her mistake. Autumn was gone. She crossed a small clearing, crisscrossed by sunlit roots, and saw a beautiful midsummer’s day. The grey skies had been burned away; replaced by a blue, cloudless haze.

  Clara muttered under her breath. While she staggered through the darkness, trying to keep up with the spirit, whole seasons had passed.

  ‘Wait!’ she gasped, reaching out to the golden shape that was vanishing back into the trees. ‘I can’t keep up!’

  The spirit paused and grinned playfully back at her. ‘Of course you can. Just give yourself a little freedom.’

  Clara shook her head in confusion and was about to reply, but the spirit spoke first.

  ‘Don’t deny it, old woman.’ The spirit waltzed on through the trees, vanishing from view, but leaving its taunting voice to hang in the golden light. ‘You can travel as fast as you like. You know what you have been given.’

  Clara’s eyes widened as she realised what the spirit was suggesting. The further they went into the forest, the more vigour she felt coursing through her limbs. The power was growing stronger in her with every minute. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered, stumbling to a halt and looking down at her gangly limbs. ‘Not here. There would be no way back.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the spirit, appearing at Clara’s side with a giggle. ‘You asked the forest for freedom and you have been offered it. Why refuse such a gift? Isn’t this everything you have always dreamt of?’ The golden youth nodded at Clara’s wrinkled, blemished arm. ‘What might you become if you were allowed to truly be, Clara?’

  Before she could stop herself, Clara glanced at her arm, imagining something else. Without knowing why, she pictured a powerful, tawny wing, hurling her through the summer sky.

  Almost as soon as the idea formed in her head, it began to form in her flesh. Her bones rippled and shifted beneath her skin, creating spiny protrusions all along her forearm.

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I cannot!’

  She sighed with relief as her arm returned to its usual shape. ‘I won’t be forced to play your games.’ She spoke with more confidence than she felt. ‘I came here to gain power over my feckless brothers – not to lose myself in a dream.’

  There was no reply and she realised that the spirit had vanished. ‘Wait!’ she cried again, sprinting across the clearing and back beneath the canopy of trees.

  Darkness enveloped her and she glimpsed a flash of gold, slipping down into a gulley crowded with huge, lush ferns.

  She raced after the spirit, smashing through the undergrowth with her crook.

  The ferns pressed closer and Clara howled in frustration. She thrashed around in the leaves, batting them with her crook, but there was no sign of the spirit. She was alone once more, with no way of finding her way back to the borders of the forest. She trudged on through the trees, muttering curses under her breath, until something caught her eye. There was a flash of light from up ahead – a shifting, pallid flare that was clearly not sunlight.

  Clara eyed the light suspiciously, sensing that th
is was the source of the power she could feel. ‘I need to leave this place,’ she muttered, but rather than moving away from the light, she set off towards it.

  She heard the spirit’s laughter again, but this time she ignored it. ‘I will leave.’

  She stumbled on, keeping her eyes locked on the distant glow. It pulsed and flickered through the gaps in the branches and, after a while, she began to wonder if, rather than open sky, she was heading towards a storm. With every flash, she heard a distant roar, like waves booming against a promontory.

  ‘The sea?’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘Ridiculous. Not even the Wildwood is that big.’

  Escape seemed further away than ever, but curiosity drove her on and, as she neared the light, the spirit’s laughter faded, replaced by the roaring din of the lights. The sound grew more violent as she scrambled up a treeless incline. Clara was vaguely aware that summer had vanished again and that her feet were crunching over ice and frost, but by this point she could think of nothing but the light.

  Clara reached the top of the incline and froze. For a moment she stood there, numbed by shock. Then she dropped to her knees and slumped against her crook.

  Spread out beneath her was a valley, but it seemed to Clara as though she had reached the edge of the world; perhaps the edge of reason itself. She was looking down on a scene so strange and cataclysmic that it dragged a prayer from her lips. Rather than a sea, she was looking down on an ocean of nightmares. Daemons were pouring from the hills – thousands of them – lurching, one-eyed monsters, trailing flies and intestines as they plunged into a blazing yellow river. The colour of the river was so vivid that it hurt her eyes. The liquid sparked and blinked as it rolled over thousands of butchered warriors and the fallen were no less horrific than the daemons. They were the wild, willowy folk Clara had seen on the borders of the forest – pale, brutal wraiths with inhuman, leaf-shaped eyes. Some were still alive, howling as the river stripped flesh from their bones, and others lay heaped in mounds, decapitated and defiled by their necrotic foes.