by John Gwynne
And before them were ten Kadoshim, staring at Corban and his companions with their dead black eyes.
Farrell slung his war-hammer across his back and drew a longsword.
Corban charged into the hall, leather boots slapping on stone, raising his sword high, a mirror image of Gar, who ran beside him, the thud of feet behind them.
The Kadoshim sprinted to meet them, curved swords hissing into their hands, their pale faces twisted with hatred.
One grunted with an arrow through the eye, took a faltering step and ran on, another one staggered and halted for a moment as one of Laith’s daggers slammed into its chest.
The two groups met upon the lowest steps, iron and flesh meeting, Storm leaping to crash and roll with a Kadoshim between her claws. Her jaws clamped about its head, teeth sinking deep into its neck, ripping, shaking, sawing until the head was torn free; the first mist-wraith formed in the air above them, screeching even as it was fading.
Farrell took the head of the Kadoshim that had Laith’s dagger in its chest, and Gar took another a few heartbeats later: two more mist-wraiths hissed into the air. Corban exchanged a flurry of blows with what was once a female Jehar, locked her blade wide with his wolven claws and sent her head spinning before turning to help Coralen.
The Kadoshim attacking her was gashed from Coralen’s attack, across shoulder and thigh, throat ragged, but it came on at her regardless. Corban ran at it, staggering it for a moment, and then Coralen’s sword whistled through flesh, cartilage and vertebrae, the head bouncing down the stairs.
A brief shared look and then they were back to fighting for their lives.
Corban heard giantish shouting, and turned to see Brina and Cywen hurl vials at one of the Kadoshim. There was a whumph of air as the Kadoshim was engulfed in smoke and flame, wreathing it like a human torch; it dropped to one knee, where Laith decapitated it with one of her daggers.
Corban saw Gar fighting two Kadoshim, one of them circling him viper-fast, a blow catching him on the hip, sending him stumbling, his guard too low for a moment.
NO, Corban screamed wordlessly, running, but Storm was there before him, slamming into both Kadoshim, sending one hurtling through the air, jaws clamping around the other’s arm, shaking it. The Kadoshim struck at Storm with its curved sword, a slash that crunched into Storm’s shoulder, would have carved through flesh and ribs, but her coat of mail deflected the blow, and then Gar had taken the Kadoshim’s head.
Two more Kadoshim fell and then Corban saw the last survivor, chasing after Dath as he put arrow after arrow into it. Dath dropped his bow, drew his sword, parried the first rush of blows, stumbled as he retreated, and the Kadoshim was standing over him, sword raised. Then Coralen was there, Corban two spaces behind and the Kado-shim was being slashed and battered, reeling from a dozen blows before its head was sent flying through the air.
‘Where’s Kulla when you need her?’ Dath breathed. Then, ‘Don’t tell her I said that.’
‘I promised her I’d look after you,’ Coralen said, helping Dath up.
‘Well, that’s embarrassing,’ he muttered.
‘We all have different strengths,’ Coralen smiled, passing him his discarded bow.
‘Corban!’ Brina hissed, standing before the Starstone Cauldron. ‘The Treasures.’
He hurried over to her and handed the starstone dagger and necklace to her.
‘Now, be ready,’ Brina said, ‘each of you. Cywen and I will perform the incantation, and then all of the Treasures will be hurled inside the cauldron; only together can they be destroyed.’
‘Get it done,’ Gar growled, turning to face the stairs and open doors, sword drawn. The room was scattered with the headless corpses of Kadoshim. Corban and the others formed a half-circle around Brina and Cywen, the trunk of the great tree protecting their rear. Brina stepped inside the circle of Treasures and approached the cauldron.
There was a pause and then Corban heard Brina’s and Cywen’s voices ringing out.
‘Seoda cloch réalta, ó deannaigh tháinig tú, agus deannaigh beidh tú ar ais . . .’
Corban, a familiar voice whispered in his head and he looked around. No one was there. Corban, the voice said again, and this time Corban knew it.
Meical.
He felt strange. Suddenly the world was dimming about him and he blinked, heard Meical’s voice again, felt a tugging sensation, deep within.
He is calling me to the Otherworld, summoning me.
No. I am your puppet no more.
Corban fought the sensation, gritting his teeth, setting his will to staying, focusing on his surroundings. Meical’s voice faded and disappeared.
Corban shook his head and looked at a Kadoshim corpse close by, anything to keep him anchored here, in this chamber. The colour of the Kadoshim’s arm had changed from the pale, black-veined appearance to something resembling normal.
Now that the demon has been evicted from his flesh. He looked at other corpses, saw it was true for them, too. A thought nagged at him.
Only ten Kadoshim, left here to guard the Seven Treasures . . .
Brina and Cywen’s voices were echoing behind him, something soothing and hypnotic about their words, even though Corban did not understand them. He looked at the empty spaces in the circle, now filled with the starstone dagger and necklace. That he had brought here.
Ice trickled down his spine.
‘They know,’ he whispered. Then, louder, ‘It’s a trap.’
‘What?’ Gar snapped at him, then the trapdoor to the tunnel was opening, Kadoshim pouring out, two score, three score, more figures appearing through the great doors, marching down the stone steps, Calidus and Rhin, a score of her shieldmen about her, more Kadoshim at their backs, a hundred at least.
Calidus was smiling at Corban.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
MAQUIN
Maquin prowled through the battlefield, skirting the mounted warriors still clashing at the northern half of the field, working his way along to the south, where the fighting seemed to revolve around two shield walls, a storm of men of various allegiances swirling about their flanks, giants striding amongst them. The bulk of these men were Vin Thalun and the men of Ripa, engaged in battle with a savage ferocity that made Maquin snarl with respect.
Only a short while ago he had felt close to collapse, had sat in the hospice with his hands trembling, but then he had heard the din of battle, and he had thought of Lykos. And now he held a sword in his right fist, a knife in his left, and both were already bloody to their hilts.
A handful of Vin Thalun appeared before him, bearing down upon two men of Ripa who were shoulder to shoulder, frantically defending themselves. Maquin strode into their midst, his sword opening a Vin Thalun throat, knife slicing a hamstring, sword stabbing down, kicking an ankle out, feeling bone break, parried a wild blow, ducked under it and slammed his knife into a belly.
One of the Vin Thalun ran, staring at Maquin’s face, screaming ‘OLD WOLF,’ over and over. The two men of Ripa nodded their thanks and fell in behind Maquin, picking up the chant and following the Old Wolf as he waded into the battle.
Maquin grinned as he killed, the battle-joy rushing through his veins, all who came against him seeming slow, as if wading through water, and Maquin slew them all. He knew what was different now, what had changed. For a while he had noticed that a new hesitancy had crept into him, into the way he fought, allowing on occasion some men to escape his blades.
That was gone now.
It had been Fidele, it had been the desire to live, to taste life with her. But now she was gone, and he did not care, and that made all the difference. All whom he fought, no matter how strong, how skilled, how fast, all of them had that desire at their core. To survive. To live.
He did not. And so he fought as one that did not fear death, he embraced its coming, knew it was close, and welcomed it.
Men fell before him, a wedge of men from Ripa gathered behind him. Maquin glanced back once and
saw that the Freedmen, Alcyon, Tain and Cota were with him too, striding at his flanks, slaying, blood-drenched and battle-grim.
And on he marched, into the storm of iron, killing, searching, the cry of OLD WOLF circling around him like a murder of crows, his banner a battle-cry that spread dread as men heard it.
And then Maquin saw him, a few score men between them.
A Vin Thalun, a half-crushed buckler upon one arm, short sword bloody and notched, a savage glee upon his ring-bearded face as he hacked a man of Ripa to death.
Lykos. Your death is here.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
CORBAN
‘Hurry,’ Corban barked at Brina, hefting his sword.
We are going to die here. He knew it as fact, a cold fist around his heart.
There are too many: Calidus, Rhin, near two hundred Kadoshim. He felt a wave of fear, debilitating, draining his strength.
No. Fear is the enemy. Control it, use it. He thought of Gar on a spring meadow beside the sea, the call of gulls in the background, so long ago, and Gar offering to teach him, to train him, to help him control his fear.
And Corban did. Perhaps it was his greatest act of valour this day. He set his will to mastering the uncoiling wyrm that slithered through his belly, spreading into his veins, trying to steal his strength and resolve, to make him less. He breathed deep, focused his thoughts on why he was here, why it mattered, what he could still do. On his loved ones. He mastered his fear.
I can give Brina a little more time, even if it is only heartbeats, to let her finish whatever it is she’s doing. Let her destroy these Treasures, and with them any chance of Asroth crossing over to this world of flesh.
That’s worth dying for.
Calidus and Rhin were at the foot of the stairs now, crossing the flagstoned floor to them, Rhin stepping over the corpse of a headless Kadoshim. Their living brethren trailed behind Calidus and Rhin like a shadowed cloak, and more Kadoshim from the trapdoor spread around them.
Storm growled.
Brina and Cywen’s voices still rang on.
Laith was the first to move, hurling one of her daggers at a Kadoshim that stepped menacingly towards Farrell, and then all was motion: Farrell hacking off the Kadoshim’s head, Storm leaping, Corban, Coralen and Gar stepping forwards together.
Mist-wraiths formed in the air, a hissing, screeching audience that pulsed with the rhythm of battle, more appearing as the first ones faded.
Corban heard Storm snarl and then whine, his sword arm taking on a new frenzy as he tried to cut his way to her, and beside him Gar fought, swirling around the Kadoshim in a dance of death that left heads and limbs spinning in its wake.
‘ENOUGH,’ Calidus cried out, a ripple through the fight as the Kadoshim backed away, leaving Corban and his companions breathless, bloody. Dath was on his back, sword raised in defence against a Kadoshim that stood over him, but the black-eyed creature stepped away.
A howl echoed through the chamber, human, filled with grief and pain, transforming to rage.
Farrell.
He was standing over Laith. Her body was twisted, a great pool of blood spreading about her, lifeless eyes staring. Farrell was bleeding from a dozen wounds, weeping, one side of his face slick with blood, his longsword dripping black clots of Kadoshim gore, their bodies heaped about him, and at his side crouched Storm.
She growled at Calidus, made to leap again.
‘I said, enough,’ Calidus snapped, and as he spoke a black cloud of smoke swirled from his mouth, a great poisonous breath that split into many tendrils, swirling across the stone floor, spreading out, seeking. One wrapped around Storm, coiling about her legs, threading around her body like a fast-growing vine, and she growled, ears flat to her head. The black smoke pulled tight and Storm was yanked from her feet, paws held in an unbreakable grip. Corban made to move but a tendril of the smoke was already coiling about his ankles, pulling tight, rising higher, wrapping him in a cold embrace, the smell of rancid breath washing over him as it pinned his arms and caressed his neck.
Within moments all of them were trussed and writhing on the ground.
‘You see,’ Calidus said conversationally to Rhin, ‘my power grows now that the Treasures are together, their bond to the Otherworld so much stronger.’
Brina and Cywen’s voices still continued, and Corban felt a pulse of power ripple between the cauldron and Treasures, a ringing in his ears.
‘Stop that,’ Calidus snarled. More of the black vapour billowed from his mouth, surging towards Brina and Cywen, dragging them away from the cauldron and throwing them to the ground.
Calidus picked his way through the dead, past Corban and his companions, and stood over Brina.
‘So, you’re the witch that would have ruined my grand designs, foiled the plans and schemes of Asroth that have taken eons to come to fruition.’
‘Sounds about right,’ Brina said, glaring up at Calidus.
‘Oh, some spirit. Good. It will make your screams all the more beautiful.’
‘Oh, please, spare me your melodramatic threats,’ Brina snorted. ‘You don’t scare me. You’re nothing but a lot of hatred, hot wind and bitterness tied up in a bag of over-cooked flesh.’
‘On second thoughts, I don’t think I’ll wait for the screaming,’ Calidus said. ‘I can’t see you begging, which would spoil much of the fun.’ He drew his sword and stabbed it into Brina’s chest, a sharp gasp of pain escaping her lips as Calidus leaned into the blow, forcing it ever deeper, until its tip grated on stone.
NO!
A silent scream inside Corban’s head, hot tears flooding his eyes. He kicked and bucked, but the tendrils of smoke held him tight. He stared at Brina, saw her gasp and writhe as Calidus stood over her, a smile upon his lips.
‘Brina,’ Corban grunted through his straining, and her head turned towards him. Their eyes locked, just for a moment, a whisper escaping her lips, and then she was still. Blood spread in a slow pool beneath her, running into the flagstone grooves.
Corban let out a scream of rage, pure and primal, his eyes bulging in his face, veins in his head and neck looking as if they would burst as he tried to break his bonds, grief and fury filling him, fuelled by his helplessness.
How many loved ones must I watch as they are murdered?
Tears blurred his eyes and he turned his gaze upon Calidus. He heard the squawking of a crow, far above.
Please, Craf, stay away. Please.
Calidus came to stand over Corban, peering down at him as if he was an insect he was considering squashing.
‘You may be wondering why you’re all still alive,’ Calidus said. ‘You are the sum of my foe in this world, and a sorry, pathetic lot you are, but still, my Lord Asroth will find it entertaining to be presented with you. A gift for him to destroy at his leisure.’
‘I am going . . . to . . . kill you,’ Corban grunted, muscles bulging as he strained against his bonds, eventually collapsing with the effort. Calidus just studied him.
‘How pathetic you humans are. So much emotion wrapped up in weakness, leading you to attempt the impossible, lying to yourself, time and time again. Hope, I think you call it. And yet always you fail. Your whole experience has been death and misery, failure and yet more death, and still you refuse to face the truth. A breed with such a talent for blind delusion and denial deserves to be exterminated.’ He shook his head, then smiled, crouching down beside Corban and reaching out a long-nailed finger to trace Corban’s cheek.
‘It is just all too easy,’ Calidus nodded to himself, smiling. ‘Well, as much as I’m enjoying this, I do have work to do.’
He strode into the circle of Treasures.
‘Rhin,’ Calidus said, ‘with me now.’ They approached the cauldron, Calidus muttering under his breath, a whisper of words that spread through the chamber like a breeze.
The cauldron pulsed.
‘Dark doras, idir saol na fola agus cnámh, agus saol na spiorad, beidh tú ag oscailt anois,’ Calid
us chanted, Rhin adding her voice to his. Calidus bent over Brina’s corpse, the endless words pouring from his mouth as he snatched up Brina’s body and heaved her into the cauldron. It swelled, a rippling of iron, seemed to expand as dark tendrils of light leaked from it and glided across the floor like mist, each one touching one of the other Treasures, and each of the Treasures twitched, seemed to grow darker, night-black, sucking light into itself. The shadows in the room deepened, the mist-like tendrils growing thicker, more solid, pulsing like an artery, rippling back towards the cauldron.
‘More flesh,’ Calidus said, ‘it needs more.’ He strode to Laith’s body, Farrell screaming curses as Calidus heaved her up into his arms and half dragged the giant’s corpse to the cauldron; Kadoshim moved to help him throw her body into the dark open maw.
And then there was an explosion of darkness, a great cloud of night boiling out of the cauldron, flooding the chamber, a crack that set Corban’s ears ringing.
And then another sound.
The beating of wings. A host of them, the noise of them filling the chamber, the whole world, a great cry of victory following it, drowning all else out.
Then the darkness was retreating, as if it were being sucked back into the cauldron. And figures were exploding from the cauldron’s mouth: the Kadoshim in their true forms, leather-winged, pale as milk, wrapped in mail and carrying shield, sword and spear. An endless fountain of them pouring out from the cauldron, up into the chamber’s highest reaches, spreading, some touching down on the stone floor, gazing at their flesh-wreathed bodies, some laughing, braying with delight, others snarling, hatred made flesh.
One figure floated down to Calidus, dark wings slowing his descent, stirring up a cloud of dust, appearing as if he glided to the earth. The ground steamed and hissed when his booted feet touched the stone. His skin was pale as death, black-veined like a rotting leaf, though his face was handsome, chiselled in sharp lines, blue-black lips smiling, silver hair bound in a warrior braid that coiled about his shoulders. He held a naked sword in his fist.