by John Gwynne
Asroth.
He raised a fist before his eyes and slowly clenched it, a look of pleasure upon his face, as if he savoured the sensation of knuckle and bone, of flesh and skin stretching and contracting, of blood pulsing in his veins.
‘Ah, Calidus, my beloved captain,’ he said, reaching out the same hand to cup Calidus’ cheek. ‘You have served me well, will be rewarded beyond all others for this great deed.’
‘All is for you and your glory, my King,’ Calidus said, and sank to one knee before Asroth, Rhin knelt too.
Asroth looked about him, at the great hall, at Calidus and those prostrating themselves before him, up at his dread legions spread above him like a dark halo, more of them still flowing from the cauldron in an endless outpouring, and finally at Corban and the others shackled in bonds of smoke at his feet.
‘My gift to you,’ Calidus said, rising from the ground. ‘Your enemy the Bright Star and his captains.’
Asroth’s lips stretched, an oil-black smile.
‘Is the battle over before we have arrived?’ he asked.
‘No, my King,’ Calidus said. ‘The fields of Drassil are thick with those that fight against you, ready to be slain. I thought that these here before you would be best saved for your victory celebration, when the battle is done, where you could savour their screams and torment.’
Asroth’s smile grew broader.
‘A fine plan,’ he said, crouching down and leaning close to Corban.
‘And I will savour every scream,’ Asroth said, breath washing over Corban, damp and cold, ‘you who have stood against me, raised a warband against me.’ A glimmer of rage twisted Asroth’s features, his black eyes endless pits of cruelty and malice, and Corban felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.
‘Later,’ Asroth growled as he stood, then turned his eyes to his Kadoshim.
‘We shall celebrate this moment later,’ he cried out, ‘but first, let us accomplish what we have come here to do. Let us take our revenge upon Elyon the Great Deceiver. Let us go forth and slay.’
A great roar filled the chamber, Kadoshim screaming their agreement, and with that the muscles in Asroth’s legs bunched and he leaped into the air, great wings beating and taking him effortlessly higher, gaining speed, ever faster as he climbed, towards one of the great windows in the high roof.
Asroth burst through the window’s thin fabric. Light blazed in, then was just as quickly blocked out as his demon horde followed him, smashing the hole ever wider, crumbling stone and shattered wood crashing to the ground as countless wings took the Kadoshim-made flesh out into the skies of the Banished Lands.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
CAMLIN
Camlin stood beneath the fringes of the forest, his archers about him, and loosed another arrow at a black and gold-cloaked rider, saw the warrior topple backwards in a spray of blood.
Behind him, through the trees, he could see the healers and wounded gathered in a makeshift hospice. He had decided that he and his crew were best placed in front of them, a last line of defence to try and keep the battle from engulfing them, and at the same time he was close enough to Edana and her warband to thin the ranks of Rhin and Geraint’s horde of black and gold.
Though that’s not so easy, with the whole mass of ’em in constant motion.
Everywhere was madness, the plain flooded with corpses. Half of the battlefield surged with mounted warriors, the men of Ardan and Domhain fighting valiantly, but it was clear to Camlin that they were losing, as Geraint’s warband steadily gained ground.
To the south it looked much the same, a tale of steady attrition grinding slowly towards defeat, though from Camlin’s position it was impossible to be sure.
Directly ahead and between Camlin and the gates of Drassil were a host of eagle-guard in their disciplined rows, a sea of black and silver with their big shields held in front of them.
A thousand at least – more, most likely.
He felt his heart sink, for the first time the possibility of defeat seeping through him. So far it had been tactics, tricks and a whole lot of heart that had seemed to keep the enemy reeling, regardless of their huge advantage of numbers. But now, it was just sword against sword, man against man, out on a flat plain, no more strategies or tricks left to play.
Must admit, it doesn’t look good.
He sucked in a deep breath, for a moment considered grabbing Meg and getting the hell out of there. She was close by, helping in the hospice, and under strict orders from Camlin to stay there. The only reason he thought she might listen was that she’d grown attached to Cywen’s hound, Buddai, and his vicious-looking brood of pups.
I could leave. No point dying for a lost cause.
Then he caught a glimpse of Edana, blood-spattered, sword held high, meeting a hard-swung blade. Even as his hand reached for another arrow, Camlin thought of Edana’s faith in him, the words she had said back in Ardan.
I’d die for you, for all of you. It looked as if she was living up to that promise, out there on her horse, swinging a sword at her enemy, at warriors trained for battle.
Takes some stones to do that.
And you told her you’d die for her, too . . .
His arrow punched into Edana’s opponent, deep into his armpit. Camlin heard the man’s scream over the din of battle, then Edana’s sword crunched into his helm and he was toppling from his saddle.
Camlin felt in his quiver for another arrow, painfully aware that he was running low.
Pick your targets, make every one count.
A sound rippled across the battlefield. It began as a distant roar and Camlin froze with his arrow half out of its quiver, staring at Drassil.
A great spiralling plume of what looked like smoke was rising from deep within the fortress, heading towards the battlefield. As Camlin watched, it spread into the sky like an expanding cloud, swirling towards the battlefield.
That’s no fire smoke.
As the cloud grew closer Camlin could make out shapes, becoming clear. Great wings beating, the glint of iron, sunlight on sword and spear and mail. A shiver of fear ran through him, his blood freezing in his veins.
Demons of the Otherworld. So it’s true, then, what Craf said we’ve been fighting against. Didn’t really believe it until this very moment.
Even as he watched, Camlin saw the cloud swooping lower, spreading over the battlefield, blotting out the sun, and then he heard them, screeching hideous battle-cries as they swooped down, flying low over Edana’s warband, striking out with their weapons, hauling riders from saddles, lifting them high and hurling them spinning to their deaths. At their head a silver-haired figure led them, a mighty, glorious figure, longsword slashing, cutting a rider in two as he swept low over Edana’s warband.
Is that Asroth, himself?
Camlin fought the urge to turn and run.
One winged creature slammed into a rider close to Edana and beat its wings harder, dragging the warrior flailing from his saddle and up into the air. With more instinct than thought, Camlin had his arrow nocked and was drawing, aiming, accounting automatically for wind, speed, angle and he was loosing.
It pierced the Kadoshim through its side, angling upwards, through ribs and deeper. The Kadoshim let out a strangled cry as it dropped the warrior in its arms, its wings faltering, and for a timeless moment it hovered in the air, then it began to fall, picking up speed until it was plummeting to the earth.
The Kadoshim crashed to the ground before Camlin, an explosion of turf as it rolled and skidded, a snarl of twisted limbs and wings, turning until finally it came to a halt. As it tried to rise, Camlin stepped from the trees, kicked it, then drew his sword and stabbed it through the throat.
Don’t want that thing getting up.
Other archers emerged from the treeline, staring at this creature from another world.
‘Ugly-looking thing, but flesh and blood, like the rest of us,’ Camlin muttered. He looked up at the warriors around him.
‘
If they bleed, we can kill them.’
He stood and stared at the battlefield, the winged Kadoshim scattered over the whole field, spreading fear and mayhem as they went.
‘What shall we do?’ one of the archers asked.
‘Get back into some cover and keep shooting those bastards out of the sky.’
Back in the trees Camlin stopped and stared into the mass of horseflesh that was jostling around Edana’s banner, ready to pick off any more of the enemy that fancied itself as a queen-killer, as well as demons swooping down from above. And then he saw a face he recognized.
That can’t be right.
He narrowed his eyes, took a few paces closer, out of the forest, and focused on the few riders to the right of Edana. He saw Halion, Vonn and Conall close by, Conall laying about him with his sword, obviously enjoying himself. And, there, a rider behind them, on a magnificent skewbald stallion that looked as if it was enjoying the fight as much as Conall, biting at horses in front of it, hooves lashing out at the enemy. Upon it, a figure he’d know anywhere.
Rafe! That bastard.
Camlin saw Rafe kick at his horse, guiding it closer to Conall, who glanced back at Rafe and flashed him a smile.
Rafe grinned back, and then Conall’s attention was back on the warrior in front of him. Rafe drew closer still, their horses pressed tight together, and then he pulled his sword back and with all his strength stabbed Conall in the back.
‘NO!’ Camlin screamed, but no one heard him over the clash of arms.
Rafe’s sword-tip pierced low, through leather and mail, angled upwards, went deep and Conall stiffened, arching backwards, crying out.
Camlin’s arrow was drawn and loosed, grazing Rafe’s shoulder as he ripped his blade free. He glanced at his wound, then twisted in his saddle and saw Camlin.
Stay still, just a moment.
Rafe frantically kicked his horse in the ribs, urging it deeper into the mass of combat.
Towards Edana.
Conall swayed in his saddle and began to topple.
Camlin ran out from the cover of the trees, weaving through the combat, ducking a sword swing, punching his bow into a face. He saw Conall slip from his saddle, falling, down into the mud and blood, Halion yelling, leaping from his horse after his brother. They disappeared from view. A glimpse of Rafe plunging and rearing through the crush, ever closer to the unsuspecting Edana.
Camlin grabbed the reins of a riderless horse and dragged himself into the saddle, shouting and yelling, spurring it into motion. He ducked low as a Kadoshim swept close overhead, grabbing a man of Ardan and ripping him from his saddle, hauling him high into the air.
Camlin glimpsed Halion standing over Conall’s body, wielding his blade two-handed as horses reared around him, swords and spears stabbing down at him.
Rafe was right behind Edana now, a wicked grin upon his face as he drew his sword arm back.
Camlin closed fingers around his last arrow, cursed at his horse to stay still, drew his bow, took a deep breath, and loosed.
The arrow slammed into Rafe’s back, high, into his right shoulder-blade. Rafe cried out, swaying, falling low over his horse’s neck. He looked back, eyes fixing on Camlin.
Vonn turned in his saddle and saw Rafe behind Edana, shouted a curse at the traitor, a warning to Edana. Rafe pulled on his reins, his mount taking him out of range as Camlin rode towards them, shouldering his bow and drawing his sword, burning with the desire to kill Rafe. Then he saw Halion, still standing over Conall, blood-matted, sword raised against a storm of blades. Camlin’s horse veered towards him, crashing through friend and foe, and then Camlin was chopping into a back, hacking at a wrist, calling for Halion to reach out.
‘I’ll not leave him,’ Halion shouted back, stabbing at a rider as Camlin desperately tried to carve a way through to him.
And then a spear stabbed down into Halion’s back and there was blood on his lips, a cough, more blood matting into his beard. He looked up at Camlin, swayed and fell onto his brother.
Camlin screamed a wordless battle-cry, hacked frenziedly at the enemy before him, but he could not reach Halion and slowly he was swept away. Eventually, exhausted and grief-stricken, he broke out of the press and sat upon his horse, breathing hard.
One person filled his mind and he scanned the battlefield, then spurred his horse on, towards the walls of Drassil.
Got me some hunting to do.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT
LYKOS
Lykos stared into the skies, his guts turning to water for a moment as he saw the Kadoshim descending from above on wings of death.
So Calidus has done it, then.
Lykos briefly wondered about the wisdom of opening a doorway to the Otherworld.
Little too late for that. You’ve rolled your knuckle-bones. Just have to hope the Kadoshim are happy to share the world.
One of the Kadoshim flew perilously close, swooping overhead, the wind of its passing staggering him. Lykos ducked, raising his arms to protect himself, but it passed over him, screeching, and grabbed a red-cloaked warrior of Isiltir, hauling him screaming into the air. Its wings beat powerfully, higher and higher, until with a maniacal screech it let the man go. Its victim spun to earth, tumbling and thrashing through the air, then smashed to the ground, abruptly still, his body twisted and broken.
Do they know I am their ally? Or was that just luck?
With the coming of the Kadoshim the battleground had become a place of total chaos: fear, slaughter, panic, death and pandemonium from both enemy and ally alike.
He winced as another of them swooped overhead, skewering one of Ripa’s warriors with its spear. As it began to rise, a white-haired giant ran through the crowd and jumped, swinging a double-bladed battle-axe. It caught the Kadoshim in the chest, cleaving it almost in two. A spray of blood fountained over those below as it plummeted to the ground. A roar went up amongst the surrounding warriors.
So they can be killed more easily than the possessed Jehar. Becoming flesh is a double-edged sword: it brings all the pleasures, but also the dangers. Maybe it’s time I made a tactical withdrawal.
With the coming of the Kadoshim the battle was obviously won, and Lykos was feeling weary to the bone. After he’d slain Krelis the men of Ripa had gone berserk. They’d attacked him and his Vin Thalun with a savagery he’d only seen in the fighting-pits. It had been hard, grim work, and for every man of Ripa that fell, Lykos suspected he’d lost two, maybe three of his own men.
Might be time to save the lads I have left, and go find something tasty for the victory drink that’s surely coming.
Then he heard a chant, words drifting on the wind that chilled his blood more than any Otherworld-spawned demon ever had.
Old Wolf. Old Wolf.
Lykos looked in the direction it was coming from, watching a wedge of men heading his way, a few giants amongst them, cutting his Vin Thalun down at an alarming rate. He saw Maquin, only a dozen paces away, running straight for him. His eyes were fixed on Lykos and they were blazing, with madness, with bloodlust-joy. Lykos took an involuntary step back.
I should have let Jael kill him, never taken him as my slave, never thrown him into the pits. I’ve created a monster.
He saw a Vin Thalun fall away in a spray of blood, throat spurting, another man fold over, a sword through the gut, the next one spinning with his skull crushed by Maquin’s sword-pommel. Then the Old Wolf was four or five paces away, just one more man between them.
Lykos sighed, looked at his twisted buckler, hefted his notched and bloody short sword and snarled.
The Old Wolf needs putting down, and if you want a job done properly . . .
He set his feet as Maquin slammed into the Vin Thalun between them. Lykos didn’t wait, but ran in, kicked his man in the back, sending Maquin staggering, and swung his short sword. It clipped Maquin’s shoulder, but the Old Wolf had somehow guessed where Lykos would strike and had placed his Vin Thalun attacker between them; Lykos’ blow killed h
is own man.
Maquin shoved the body back at Lykos, causing him to stumble back just as Maquin’s sword came at him. He threw himself under the sword blow, knocking Maquin’s knife away with his buckler, smashing his sword hilt into Maquin’s face, sending the Old Wolf staggering, blood running from his nose.
‘So you bleed, too,’ Lykos growled.
Maquin cuffed the blood, gave a feral grin and came at him again.
A flurry of blows, sword and knife, stabbing, chopping, coming fast and furious, from every angle possible, Lykos shuffling backwards, frantically blocking and always steadily retreating before the unrelenting fury of Maquin’s assault.
He looked desperately for support from his men but saw three giants, all with their heads shaved apart from a thick strip down the middle, finishing off the last of his guard.
I hate it when a plan goes wrong.
Maquin stalked towards him, sword and knife twitching.
‘To be fair, I didn’t push her over the cliff. She just . . . let go,’ Lykos said.
‘Don’t mention her,’ Maquin growled, a vein pulsing in his temple.
‘She wasn’t as pure as you might think,’ Lykos smiled, and Maquin leaped at him. He was expecting it, but still it came almost too fast for him to see or react to. A pain lanced along his hip, Maquin’s knife slicing a red line, and then his left arm with the buckler was in a lock, somehow, Maquin’s arm over it. The Old Wolf shifted his weight, a sudden movement and Lykos was screaming, an explosion of pain in his now dislocated shoulder, his buckler ripping free as he fell as if he were a puppet with his strings cut.
He lay on his back, saw Maquin’s face twist, smile or snarl, and his arm pull back for the death blow.
Then Maquin was hoisted into the sky, a Kadoshim’s wings framing him, a serpent-like face laughing.
Good riddance. I can even live with not killing you as long as this time you stay dead.