by John Gwynne
‘Please,’ Lykos begged. ‘Please.’
Fire crackled behind Lykos, more smoke billowing through the glade, and Maquin saw a shifting in the undergrowth – ants like black liquid were spilling out around Lykos’ feet, fleeing the fire.
Maquin backed away to a safe distance and watched Lykos look down at the ants that were pooling around his boots, a few of them scuttling up, over the leather and onto the soft wool of his breeches. He saw the Vin Thalun’s eyes widen at the first bite of their mandibles, then more of them, climbing, biting.
‘No, no, please, no,’ Lykos blurted, jumping and twitching as mandibles tore through his breeches and snipped at his flesh. ‘Just kill me, please, please kill me,’ Lykos begged. More and more ants were flooding up his leg now, some gathering around his other foot, even as he tried to stamp on them, jerking and jumping as if he was performing some insane dance.
Maquin took a few more paces back, arms folded, making sure the ants didn’t decide to come his way. For now there were not enough of them, and the ones that were there seemed content with Vin Thalun flesh.
Ants reached Lykos’ groin.
He sucked in a deep breath and screamed. Such a scream as Maquin had never heard before, not even in the pits. Lykos’ eyes bulged, his face bursting red. And Maquin watched him.
Lykos’ screams rose and fell as the Vin Thalun passed in and out of consciousness. Maquin sat down and reached to his boot and drew another knife, its edge wickedly sharp.
Lykos bubbled out a hoarse string of semi-coherent words, begging, pleading with Maquin for the release of death.
Maquin looked at the blade in his hand, twisted it, then he put it against his own wrist.
It’s over now. Jael is dead, Kastell avenged. And I am avenged against Lykos.
The ants were swirling around Lykos’ belly. He was hanging limp, suspended by the two knives in hand and arm, snot bubbling from his nose, dribble hanging from his mouth, driven near-mad and insensible with the pain.
Maquin pressed the knife edge against his wrist, saw it hover over the dark vein. A bead of blood appeared.
The din of battle echoed through the clearing, rising over the forest fire and Lykos’ death rattle. It stirred something in him, the clash of arms, battle-cries, and somewhere deep within him his spirit rose, as if answering a call.
Battle.
He looked at the knife, at the blood welling on his wrist. Then he stood, gave Lykos’ corpse a last look and stalked from the glade.
Towards the sound of battle.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
CORBAN
Corban stood with his back guarding the cauldron and Treasures, his friends spread in a loose circle around them too, with Meical hovering, swinging his sword with savage joy at any Kadoshim that came too close. Cywen was standing close to the cauldron.
She started to chant. ‘Seoda cloch réalta, ó deannaigh tháinig tú, agus deannaigh beidh tú ar ais . . .’
At first no one in the room heard, as it was still seething with battle; Kadoshim and Ben-Elim were more interested in cutting, stabbing, hacking and tearing each other to pieces. Corban took a moment to check Storm over, heard her whine when he ran a hand over her shoulder, and found a deep gash in her left paw that carried on up into her leg. He ripped a strip of cloth from his linen undershirt and bound it tight for the moment, thinking he would have to tell Brina about it soon.
But I can’t. She’s dead, gone.
Grief and rage were circling through his body, punctuated with waves of weariness and fear. He wondered how the battle outside was faring and felt a fresh wave of worry for his friends and warband beyond Drassil’s walls, made worse by the knowledge that Asroth and his demon horde were loose in the skies above them.
I should be there, fighting alongside them.
Cywen’s voice drifted in and out, and Corban felt a pulse of power ripple through his body.
No, this must be done, is the only hope of victory, of saving any of us. See it through. And I left Akar in charge – he knows what must be done.
Meical stood between Corban and Gar, eyes flitting through the Kadoshim above. Corban could see that he was eager to fight but was resisting the urge so that he could fulfil his oath to Corban and the others.
Abruptly, there was an enormous booming crash, part of the chamber’s roof imploding, stone and wood crashing down to the floor, an explosion of dust. Kadoshim were rushing into the chamber, Asroth at their head, demons spread behind him, hovering a moment and then launching into the overwhelming numbers of Ben-Elim that had been slowly filling the room.
Beside Corban Meical tensed, his wings pulsing, lifting him up into the air, but he only hovered over Cywen, sword held protectively ready. A Kadoshim flew near to him and his sword sang, the Kadoshim’s head flew in a different direction to its body, which careened on to crash into the great tree.
Dath tracked targets, sent Kadoshim tumbling through the air with his arrows.
Figures emerged from the shadows of the chamber. Calidus and a handful of his Jehar were striding towards Corban, behind them Rhin and her shieldmen.
Corban felt a wave of hatred flood through him, stealing all else from him for a moment as he saw the man who murdered his mam, murdered Brina, who had orchestrated so much death and destruction. All he wanted to do was bury his sword into Calidus’ heart.
He took a step forwards, away from Cywen, then felt a hand on his arm.
Gar.
They shared a look.
Anger is the enemy.
Corban took a deep breath and mastered himself.
Meical saw Calidus and smiled.
‘The last time I saw you was in this chamber,’ Meical said, wings twitching. ‘You cut off my head. I am thinking it is time I returned the favour.’
Meical strode at Asroth’s commander, wings lifting him a little, eyes blazing his fury. Corban could see the aeons-old hatred between the two races encapsulated in that gaze.
‘Rhin,’ Calidus called out, ‘get that bitch away from the cauldron.’ He took a step towards Meical. ‘Time I finished the job,’ he snarled and leaped at Meical, their blades clashing, Jehar-Kadoshim swarming around the Ben-Elim.
Corban ran to help Meical, and then a handful of Kadoshim were swooping down, feet hitting the ground between Corban and Meical, charging at him and the others.
One thrust a spear at Corban, but he knocked it away with his wolven claws and stepped in, chopping overhead at the Kadoshim. It swayed, Corban’s blow glancing off of its mail-covered shoulder, but his wolven claws slashed across its throat, opening up three deep gashes, and it fell away.
Another Kadoshim filled its place, this one striking at him high with a longsword, Corban retreating before a barrage of powerful blows that shivered through his wrist and into his shoulder, then something was grabbing him from behind, arms wrapping under his arms, and he was leaving the ground, a sense of weightlessness as he was hoisted skywards. He twisted, saw a Kadoshim’s manic grin and blue-black lips as it lifted him higher. He tried to swing his sword at it but could get no strength in the blow.
Coralen appeared out of nowhere. She jumped onto the Kadoshim Corban had just been fighting on the ground, ran up his back, pulling on a wing to help, and then launching herself from its shoulders. She all but flew through the air, crashed into the Kadoshim that was lifting Corban, wrapped her legs around it and, before it had a chance to react, she was punching her wolven claws into its side. The mail links of its armour shattered, then blood was gushing, the creature screeching its pain, swirling in the air, and the three of them were falling, crunching to the ground, Corban hitting stone, the Kadoshim falling on him, flattening him to the ground. Coralen hauled the corpse off Corban and gave him her hand.
He nodded his thanks to her.
And then another Kadoshim slammed to the floor in front of him, feet spread wide, ground smoking, a silver warrior braid coiled over one shoulder like a thick-bodied serpent.
&nbs
p; Asroth.
His black eyes regarded Corban.
‘Bright Star, it is time I heard you scream.’
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE
HAELAN
Haelan ran, faster than he had ever run before.
He was back inside the draig tunnels, sprinting down a long passage. Behind him he heard the roar and rumbling thunder of draigs.
They were chasing him.
Because under his arm a draig’s egg was tucked tight to his body.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Not so much, now, though.
His lungs were burning, each ragged breath a desperate clawing for oxygen.
He’d tied Shadow and Pots in the tunnel, didn’t need them with him. The thought of one of them taking the wrong turn and getting eaten by a draig was too much for him to bear. Then he’d climbed back down the root-hole into the draig tunnels. When he reached the chamber with dung mounds in it he’d thrown himself into one, gagging and retching as he carried on to the egg chamber.
He’d crept in, grabbed an egg from the pile, turned and run. Not many heartbeats later he’d heard draig claws tearing up the earth behind him. He could hear the rip and tear of long talons, the grunting, rasping breath, and knew that he was almost finished.
Turning a corner, he saw the root of the oak tree and felt a rush of hope. Another dozen paces and he was hurling the torch over his shoulder, swinging and climbing, hauling himself up onto the ledge. As he scrambled higher through the crumbling tunnel he felt the root beside him shake; the draig below was ripping and tearing at it, jumping and shoving its jaws into the hole.
Then it roared.
He almost fell back down to the red maw of its open jaws, almost dropped the egg, wanted to cover his ears, but he climbed on, reaching the passage where he’d tied Pots and Shadow. They were crouched together, ears back; Shadow was growling. Haelan slashed the rope he’d used to tie them and carried on running, Pots and Shadow following.
A great thumping boom shook the tunnel, rippling up from below, staggering him into a wall as earth was shaken loose about him. He righted himself, heard a ripping sound, the terrible tearing sound of draig claws, and then earth was collapsing in the tunnel. He looked back and saw a draig appearing out of the root tunnel.
It’s literally digging its way after me.
As I hoped.
He turned and ran, down the passage, into a beam of daylight, up the slope and burst out of the hole into the courtyard.
It was empty, the sound of battle distant and eerie.
Haelan ran, Shadow and Pots speeding along beside him, Pots with his tongue hanging out, looking like the happiest dog in the world. There was a muted crash behind Haelan, then a rumbling thunder. The ground rippled under his feet. He ran on, desperation fuelling him.
The ground shook, a wave began beneath the oak tree at the centre of the courtyard, throwing him from his feet. He clung desperately to the egg under his arm as he rolled and sat up, looking back into the courtyard.
Flagstones were exploding outwards, a fountain of earth and stone and root.
And then the first draig appeared, shoving and clawing up from the bowels of the earth. It hauled itself onto even ground and shook, a great cloud of dust billowing out from it. Then another draig was rising from the ground, followed immediately by a third.
The three of them stood there, tongues flickering, heads turning on thick necks, tails swishing. Then they scented their egg, and claws were scrambling on stone, bowed legs pumping, and they were after him.
Haelan jumped to his feet and ran.
The streets of Drassil were deserted. Haelan hurtled down the centre of streets, heedless of anyone or anything, his legs pumping faster than he’d ever run before. Past Cywen’s old gaol and hospice, through the alleys, closer and closer to the courtyard and main gates. Battle roared louder and Haelan glimpsed strange shapes in the air, but he didn’t dare spare a moment to study them. The thunder of the draigs behind him was growing louder.
Too close. They’re going to eat me.
And then he was at the courtyard. Even this was mostly deserted, the great gates open, no one manning them now. Drassil had been emptied.
He ran on, past rows of stables, Pots barking excitedly, Shadow loping as silent as her name.
The draigs charged into the courtyard behind him.
Haelan burst out through the archway and onto the battlefield, saw a chaotic confusion of battle and skidded to a halt, feeling his stomach turn to water as he realized the shapes he’d seen in the sky were winged warriors, seemingly on opposing sides, dark wings and light wings, looping in a swirling dance of aerial combat. It was hypnotic to watch them in their beautiful flight of death.
Get a grip on yourself. You’re about to be trampled to death by three wild draigs.
To his horror he saw that the draig dung was peeling off of him, falling away in chunks, leaving great patches of his skin exposed.
The draigs will be able to smell my scent!
I need to get rid of this egg.
He sucked air into his burning lungs and looked at the battlefield.
To his right, the north of the battlefield, all he could see was warriors on horseback, a sea of black and gold, though as he stared he saw Edana’s grey as well, herded back towards the western fringes of Forn.
To the south-west stood a great block of eagle-guard, inching their way ever deeper into a melee of battle, killing as they went. Haelan saw Vin Thalun that way, a few giants standing tall in the crowd. And Nathair, sitting astride his draig.
That sealed it for Haelan.
That way, then.
And he was off and running again.
The draigs burst through the archway behind him and out onto the field. They, too, paused for a moment, their flickering tongues tasting the air, and within heartbeats their flat-muzzled heads were fixing upon their egg, and then they were breaking into a lumbering charge.
Haelan could see the rearguard of the eagle-guard ahead of him now, a line of black leather and chainmail, iron-shod boots drumming on the ground as they marched in close-packed discipline. Haelan was a hundred paces behind them, and he could hear the thunder of the draigs behind him.
Faster, run faster.
Seventy paces behind the soldiers, the pounding of the draigs filled Haelan’s whole world.
Forty paces and he thought about doing it now, but he knew it was too far.
Just a few heartbeats more.
A draig roared behind him, jaws snapping, a cloud of foetid breath.
Ten paces, and faces turned to look back, saw the draigs.
Haelan hurled the egg, high and arcing, over the back ranks of the eagle-guard, the egg spinning, dipping, falling now, disappearing into the eagle-guard, fifteen or twenty rows deep. Haelan swerved left, skidding, one last burst of speed, and he was veering away from the eagle-guard, Pots and Shadow with him, running into open space, diving, rolling.
And behind him, a concussive slap as three draigs slammed into the marching eagle-guard.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN
NATHAIR
Nathair sat upon his draig, swinging his sword at another red-cloaked spearman.
His blow clanged off the man’s helm, denting it, sending the warrior toppling to the ground, unconscious or dead with a cracked skull.
It was late in the day, the sun a pale glow sinking into the green of Forn, and the sky was dark with Kadoshim and Ben-Elim.
Kadoshim I am pleased to see, but Ben-Elim! How did that happen?
So far the angels and demons had not ventured in large numbers to this southern fringe of the battle, which Nathair was grateful for, though he was frustrated as well.
Half the day my shield wall has been battering at Veradis’ smaller force, and yet they still haven’t broken.
Countless times Nathair had attempted to assault Veradis’ flank with his draig and a few score of his own shieldmen, but giants in their armour an
d armed with long spears and axes, combined with a few score red-cloaked warriors wielding thick-shafted spears, had formed a prickly hedge of sharp iron that had kept them from reaching Veradis’ flank.
Nathair took a moment to wipe sweat from his eyes and survey the field.
And then he smiled, for he saw a great square of his eagle-guard, over a thousand men.
Calidus must have sent them to my aid.
They were in the thick of the battle, wading through a sea of the enemy towards him.
‘Victory,’ Nathair breathed, for he knew that this would mean the breaking of Veradis’ shield wall.
And the annihilation of all our enemy south of Geraint. He could almost taste the glory of that victory.
And then Nathair saw a sight which at first he did not understand.
A small figure was running after his eagle-guard, hurling something small into the air, almost into the heart of his marching warriors. And behind that small figure were three enormous shapes, surging across the field, heading straight towards his eagle-guard.
They were draigs.
What?
Even as Nathair bellowed orders to his horns-man the three draigs crashed into his eagle-guard. Men flew through the air like twigs, spinning, limbs flailing, the three draigs driving deep into the eagle-guard formation, their heads low, thick necks flicking men into the air, legs and razored talons crushing and ripping warriors to shreds, leaving behind a trampled, tattered red ruin of flesh, blood and bone. Moments before, it had been Nathair’s pride, his salvation and the likely turning-point of the battle. In a dozen heartbeats it was shattered.
Nathair snarled in frustration and despair, shouted orders at the shieldmen around him and screamed into his draig’s ear, jabbing his heels into it and yanking on the reins. It gave out a loud roar and lurched forwards.
Enemy spearmen jabbed at it, but Nathair urged it on regardless, his shieldmen rushing to batter them out of the way and create a space for the draig to break through to Veradis’ shield wall. Gashes opened up along the draig’s shoulders and flanks, deep wounds in its flesh. Nathair leaned low, chopping at spears, splintering them, severing a hand, but still the spears stabbed, his draig bellowing in pain, Nathair kicking at it, yelling it on in a wild-eyed frenzy.