by John Gwynne
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
MAQUIN
Maquin wiped blood and sweat from his face, pausing to look around. The dead were heaped about him, a trail behind, a Kadoshim demon croaking a death rattle on the ground at his feet. With Lykos’ death accomplished, he had returned to the battle feeling reborn, all of life’s cares and demands stripped away. He felt pure. A white flame burned within him, fed by and yearning for the death of his enemies. And so he had walked through the battlefield like an angel of death, men falling before him as wheat before the reaper.
He paused now to look around, not even knowing where exactly on the battlefield he was, and as he looked, the enormity and tragedy of it all sank into him. He was standing roughly in the centre of the field, and the dead were everywhere. Piles of them heaped together or spread about like scattered seed: men, women, horses, giants, so many of them, and all just meat and bones now. To the south Maquin saw a sea of warriors, mostly on foot, with islands of open plain amongst them; the south-western fringe right up to the treeline was more densely packed with combat. Black and silver dominated the southern half of the field, though no longer in the shield wall formations that Maquin had seen earlier: men were scattered, fighting, some fleeing. Vin Thalun were thick on the field as well, but there were others, a solid knot of giants further away, the flash of red-cloaks, some white-cloaks, still. A draig.
Nathair’s draig? It can’t be, no saddle or harness, and no Nathair.
And then he saw two other draigs, their backs to him, lumbering through the gates of Drassil and disappearing within the fortress.
On Maquin’s left and filling most of the northern field were a thick press of horses, where mounted combat was furious and savage between grey-cloaked warriors and those in black and gold. Edana’s warband looked to be encircled and pushed back towards the western fringe of the battleground, their backs to the treeline.
Maquin looked between the shield wall of eagle-guard and Rhin’s warband and saw that Edana was beaten, no matter how valiantly she and her men fought, and it didn’t look as if there would be any help from the south, which told a tale of the enemy in greater numbers, though at a glance battle seemed more evenly balanced amongst them.
Maquin looked up to the skies and saw a sight that on any other day would have taken his breath away.
It was thick with Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, another battlefield in the sky.
Hordes of dark- and white-winged warriors fought and died in the air, bodies crashing from above to wreak ruin upon the battlefield, blood raining down, limbs, feathers, as Ben-Elim and Kadoshim swirled and swooped and stabbed and hacked at one another.
We are beaten. There is no victory against this host. But there is still a song to be made.
The need to kill was heavy upon him, knife and sword twitching in his fists, but he took a moment to decide where. His eyes touched upon a knot of red-cloaks to the south, beset by Vin Thalun and eagle-guard.
‘Tahir,’ he breathed.
My Gadrai sword-brother, one of the few people who still draws breath in these Banished Lands whom I would call friend. If he still stands.
He walked south.
The battleground was fluid here, unlike in the crush to the north. Battle ebbed and flowed, warriors fighting, fleeing, dying. Maquin stepped over a decapitated giant, past a Ben-Elim and Kadoshim that fought upon the ground, both of their wings tattered ruins.
Maquin found Tahir alone atop a small mound, half a dozen Vin Thalun surrounding him. Before they knew Maquin was there, two of them were down, lifeblood soaking into the mud. Another struck at Maquin, but his blow was swept wide and he died on Maquin’s sword. Tahir grinned at Maquin and hacked a hand from one as Maquin hamstrung another, stamping on his throat and crushing his windpipe as he fell. The last Vin Thalun stumbled back, realizing who Maquin was, then turned and fled, screaming ‘OLD WOLF,’ as he ran.
‘Well met, my brother,’ Maquin said to Tahir as they embraced, both slick with blood.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Tahir grinned, ‘even if the sight of you may well give me nightmares for the rest of my life.’
Maquin smiled, a strange feeling.
‘The battle is most likely lost,’ Maquin said flatly. ‘You should find Haelan and leave.’
Tahir didn’t reply, but instead was staring towards the southern part of the field.
A draig was lumbering across the battleground, focused on something in front of it, crushing and hurling and trampling anyone who stood in its way.
‘What’s it after?’ Maquin said, but then he saw it too. A small figure, sprinting and weaving through the combat, a high-pitched shriek coming from him.
‘Haelan,’ Tahir said. ‘That draig’s after Haelan.’ Then he was off and running, shouldering men out of his way, hurtling across the battlefield. Maquin followed, had seen on Tahir’s face an emotion he knew all too well: the need to fulfil your oath, the fear of failing it.
Tahir ran fast, angled to head off Haelan, but Maquin could see he was not going to reach the boy before the draig did. He picked up his pace and changed his angle, sheathing his short sword as he ran and drawing another knife.
A Vin Thalun appeared in front of him, disappeared just as quickly, blood spurting from his throat. Maquin charged on, Vin Thalun scrambling to get out of his way now, and then he was twenty paces from the onrushing draig, ten, five, and he was leaping, flying through the air, crashing into the draig’s side, punching his knives into it, through leathery scale and into the flesh below. He swung there a moment, legs dangling, the draig roaring, slowing, head twisting upon its thick neck, teeth snapping at him, but it couldn’t reach him. He caught a glimpse of Tahir bending low to sweep Haelan into his arms heartbeats before the draig thundered by, and then Maquin was climbing up the draig, using his knives as a climber uses hand-holds, pulling one out and stabbing higher, then the same with the other knife, on and upwards, leaving a trail of leaking wounds until he was sitting on the draig’s back, legs clamped around its neck and shoulders, stabbing a bloody frenzy. The draig skidded to a halt, turf exploding in fountains about its taloned claws, and then it was spinning and rearing as it attempted to dislodge, rip and tear Maquin.
Maquin stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, saw a glint of bone, and then the draig was rearing up onto its hind legs, crashing backwards. Maquin pushed away, leaped into the air, but something clamped around his leg, the draig’s jaws snatching him back, dragging him to the ground with bone-slamming force.
The pressure on his leg disappeared, waves of pain pulsing up it as he lay on his back, gasping for breath, staring up at grey clouds and the silhouettes of winged creatures. Dimly he heard the draig roar, glimpsed it flailing on the ground as it slowly righted itself.
Get up and kill it.
He tried to stand, his leg numb. With a grunt, he managed to turn over and push himself onto one knee. Hot shafts of pain lanced up his leg, taking his breath away.
Numb is better.
He looked down at his damaged leg, saw it was a mass of puncture wounds, flesh torn, shattered bone sticking out above his knee. His vision swam and he fought the urge to vomit.
The draig approached him, head swaying, lopsided, blood running down the creases of its neck, pooling on the ground.
Think my knives have done some damage.
It opened its mouth and roared, blood and spittle spraying Maquin, then the draig stumbled forwards.
Maquin tried to move, pushing off the ground with one hand and one leg, his other hand finding a knife hilt, then the draig’s jaws were clamping about his torso, teeth like daggers piercing him. It lifted him into the air and shook him like a hound with a rat, the world fading around him. Maquin heard the crackle of bones breaking, felt things inside tearing, his energy draining.
The sound of shouting filtered through the ringing in Maquin’s ears and he saw blurred images of men stabbing at the draig with spears. Then the world came back into focus. He was still in the drai
g’s jaws, the beast swaying, men all around.
Maquin tried to move, coughed blood and realized he couldn’t feel his legs. But he could feel his fist, and the knife hilt within it. He looked along the muzzle of the draig, straight into its soulless eye, and then, with the last strength in his body, he lifted his knife and buried it in the draig’s eye, stabbing through the soft jelly, deep into its brain, right to the hilt.
The draig spasmed, a ripple of jerks triggering along its torso and limbs, and then its legs were folding and it crashed to the ground, tail twitching, Maquin rolling from its lifeless jaws.
He heard more than he saw, though even sounds were distant, as if through water. And he felt cold, an icy numbness working its way inwards, through his limbs and into his torso, his chest, behind his eyes.
Hands gripped him and he realized he was being turned, faces appearing over him: Tahir, a young lad beside him, red-haired and freckle-faced.
Kastell? Is that Kastell? No, it’s Haelan, but he looks so like Kastell.
Tahir was saying something, his mouth moving, and tears were falling from his eyes. Maquin tried to smile, to tell him it was all right. That he was happy to die. To let go. To find peace. He opened his mouth, felt his lips moving; Tahir was bending low, then the darkness was filling his vision, Tahir’s face fading, fading . . .
Maquin was standing before a bridge of stone. About and behind him, the world was slate grey, but on the far side of the bridge a mist rolled, golden and hazy, like summer memories.
He took a step onto the bridge, realized he had a sword in his hand and, looking down, he saw countless blades set within the stone, some still keen-edged, others notched and rusted. He walked on, eyes fixed upon the golden mist.
At the centre of the bridge a man stood. No, not a man, a Ben-Elim, white-feathered wings spanning the bridge. As Maquin drew nearer the Ben-Elim furled his wings and stepped out of Maquin’s way, giving him a single nod of respect.
Maquin walked past him, carried on towards the mist, saw shadows within it, figures. One stepped out: a woman, dark-haired, beautiful. She was smiling at him.
He felt his mouth stretch in a smile and with a clatter let his sword drop from his hand. It sank into the bridge, became a part of it. Maquin didn’t notice; he was too busy running.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY
CORBAN
Corban held Gar in his arms. Blood was pulsing from the wound in Gar’s torso, soaking through his shirt and mail, breath a stuttering, blood-speckled whisper on his lips. Slowly Gar’s legs gave way and he slumped to the ground, Corban lowering him gently. Tears blurred Corban’s eyes as he crouched with his mentor and greatest friend. He knew there was no coming back from a wound like that.
‘Hold on,’ Corban whispered, his voice cracking. Gar’s head came up, trying to say something, Corban lowered his ear.
‘Calidus,’ Gar breathed.
Corban looked up, saw the Kadoshim coming at him and threw himself backwards to avoid a swing that would have taken his head, feeling pain exploding in his shoulder from Asroth’s blow, and a hundred other places. Corban rolled to his feet, saw Calidus stepping over Gar’s body.
He saw his sword on the ground, snatched it up and raised it, trying to control the grief and hatred that was boiling within him.
A Ben-Elim swept down from above, sword slashing at Calidus. The Kadoshim ducked, swinging his own sword, missing, the Ben-Elim reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Calidus’ mail shirt, heaving him into the air with powerful beats of his wings, Calidus was twisting in his grip, trying to bring his sword to bear. Higher and higher.
Corban ran after them, tracking Calidus as he was carried higher, weaving amongst Ben-Elim and Kadoshim.
‘CORBAN,’ voices shouted, and Corban turned, saw Cywen, Farrell and Dath yelling, beckoning to him. He gave a last look to Calidus’ disappearing figure.
‘Kill him,’ he whispered to the Ben-Elim, then turned and ran back, stooping to check Gar, who was ashen pale, the shallowest of breaths within his chest. With a grimace, Corban hurried to Cywen, not wanting to leave Gar, but knowing the destruction of the Treasures was what they had all risked their lives for this day. He would not betray Gar by abandoning that quest now. Cywen was standing before the cauldron. When she saw him coming, she threw a vial into its belly, saw it flickering with dark light. Sweat was pouring from her head, her body stooped.
‘I need more,’ Cywen said.
‘More what?’ Corban asked.
‘The blood of an enemy,’ she gasped.
Corban remembered Calidus heaving Brina and Laith into the cauldron. He signalled to Farrell, and together they grabbed a Kadoshim corpse from the ground and heaved it up and into the cauldron, its body slipping between the Ben-Elim that still poured through.
‘Fuil ar mo namhaid, cumhacht chun mo focail, seoda ó deannaigh ar ais go dtí anois deannaigh,’ Cywen cried, raising her arms, and behind them the other Treasures hummed with power.
‘Now,’ Cywen shouted, ‘throw the Treasures in.’
Corban turned and ran, swerving across the dais, the dozen paces to the spear seeming far greater, Kadoshim and Ben-Elim everywhere, Dath and Farrell either side of him. A Kadoshim swooped down at him, blade raised, and their swords rang out, Corban ducking as he slashed high, cut through chainmail. Blood gushed down onto him, the Kadoshim crashed to the stone.
Then he was standing before the spear and snatched it up, the necklace, too, saw Dath grab the torc and cup and Farrell hefting the axe and running for the dagger, then Corban was sprinting back to Cywen.
A burst of wings slammed down before him: Meical and Asroth, still fighting, one side of Asroth’s face slick and matted with blood, one of Meical’s wings hanging limp. They rolled on the ground, snarling, spitting, cursing one another, blades clashing.
Corban swerved around them, heard Cywen screaming at him, yelling for him to bring her the spear and necklace. Dath and Farrell were already throwing their Treasures into the cauldron’s maw. Corban ran as Asroth rolled on top of Meical, raked his face with his taloned fingers and clamped his fist around Meical’s throat; Meical was trying to rise.
Corban reached Cywen.
‘Throw them in throw them in throw them in,’ she cried, muttering her chant. A tear of blood leaked from one of her eyes.
Corban hurled the spear and necklace into the cauldron.
The cauldron swelled, rippling, expanding, in and out as if it were breathing, but with each breath it grew larger, and it began to glow, heat rippling out in waves, bubbles appearing in the iron.
‘RUN,’ Cywen yelled, and they all did, hurling themselves away from the cauldron, past Asroth and Meical, who were still struggling together, Asroth beating his wings, trying to fly away, Meical hauling him back down, hands reaching for the Kadoshim’s throat. Dath was first off the dais. A Kadoshim was flying overhead, and Corban yelled a warning as the Kadoshim stabbed down with his spear. Dath twisted and the spear pierced his back instead of his neck. Corban surged forwards and grabbed Dath, lifting him, Dath groaning, lolling in his arms as Corban ran on. He glanced back, saw Cywen stumble and Farrell swept her up and threw her over his shoulder. Behind them the cauldron was swelling impossibly huge, bloated, and then there was a booming crack, all light was sucked into the cauldron, and for a pulsing heartbeat the chamber was drenched in utter darkness, then a burst of white light, blinding, a concussive explosion of air that hurled Corban from his feet, and molten liquid was fountaining out from the cauldron, glowing hot, incandescent, raining down upon the dais, upon Asroth and Meical, screams, a great hiss and a cloud of expanding steam engulfing the room. Corban climbed to his feet, lifted Dath, who seemed to be unconscious now, and tried to find Gar in the murk. He heard Storm growling and snapping and made his way to her. He found her with a pile of Kadoshim corpses heaped about her which she had slain while standing over Coralen.
He lay Dath down, felt his pulse, ripping cloth to bind the wound, then checked Cora
len. She was still unconscious, but groaned a little when he moved her.
And then the cloud of steam was melting away. Corban saw Farrell and Cywen lying on the ground, knocked flat by the blast. Upon the dais the cauldron was gone, the other Treasures vanished with it. The Gateway to the Otherworld was closed; no longer was a flood of Ben-Elim or Kadoshim pouring into the room. And upon the dais still were Asroth and Meical, Asroth standing with wings unfurled, spread wide, Meical gripping him, pulling him back, the two of them locked together in snarling combat, frozen, captured forever within a cooling skin of iron.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE
VERADIS
Veradis staggered to his feet, grimacing with pain. His leather cuirass was a tattered ruin, great rents in it from the talons of Nathair’s draig, and pain pulsed up his left leg. He put his hand to his chest, fingers coming away sticky with blood.
I still live.
He rolled his shoulders and drew his short sword.
I can still fight. That’s all I need to know right now.
He limped towards the carcass of Nathair’s draig. The beast looked smaller in death, a stain of dark blood pooled about its head. The dust cloud of its ruin had settled, and he searched for Nathair. About him knots of warriors fought, eagle-guard against his men of Ripa, Jehar against Vin Thalun and Kadoshim, angels and demons in the skies above, but Veradis ignored them all.
Must find Nathair.
He remembered Nathair being hurled from his saddle, thrown through the air, and he searched the ground.
He’s not here.
A scuffle of earth behind Veradis and he was turning, raising his sword in an automatic block, and Nathair was there, swinging his longsword at Veradis’ head. Iron sparked as Veradis swept the blow wide, Nathair surging forwards, his eyes wild, a flurry of blows. Veradis’ leg slowed him and Nathair was striking his shoulder, staggering him, sending Veradis stumbling backwards, tripping over a dead warrior.