by John Gwynne
‘There we are,’ Rhin said. ‘Take the pot away. Corban, look at me.’
He felt his head swing up and stared at her.
‘Good boy,’ Rhin said. ‘Now, tell me. Where is Edana?’
He clamped his mouth shut, resolving to tell her nothing. He had taken Conall’s beating before, concentrating as Gar had taught him in the sword dance, clearing his mind. He would take it again, and tell Rhin nothing.
‘In Domhain, with Rath’s warband,’ he heard a voice say. His own. Rhin chuckled.
She asked him question after question, and each time he heard his own voice respond, like a betrayer wrapped within his own body. She went through his family, asked about his friends. He heard himself speak of Gar, tell of his curved sword, his skill in combat, of Dath and Farrell, finally of Coralen.
Rhin paused from her questioning, just studied him long moments. ‘All very nice, but what makes you so interesting to Nathair. Why are you considered so special?’ she mused.
‘Gar says I’m the Seren Disglair,’ he heard himself say.
Rhin grabbed his chin, her grip surprisingly strong, and looked into his eyes, studying him. ‘Repeat that,’ she ordered.
He did.
Her eyes grew wide and she released him. ‘Can it be?’ she murmured, excited. She looked scared as well.
She paced the room, looking in heavy thought. ‘There is only one way to know for certain,’ she said to herself. She ordered the pot hung over the fire again and left the room. By the time the water was bubbling she was back. She threw something else in, the steam turned black and smelled of sweet rot.
‘Hold the pot close to him,’ she said, dragging a chair over to Corban. ‘Make sure that we both receive the fumes.’ She drew a knife from her belt and cut Corban, a red line on his arm. Then she licked his blood, smeared it over her lips and whispered words unrecognizable to him.
‘We shall both sleep – see that nothing wakes us.’
Then the pot was boiling, steam hissing from it, swirling about them both. Again Corban tried to hold his breath, to turn away, but he could not avoid the steam as it snaked its way inside him. Then his vision was dimming, darkness closing in.
Corban looked around. A world of grey surrounded him, the ground, coated in mist, the sky, thick iron-coloured cloud.
I have been here before. In my dreams. He felt a shiver of fear as the memory of those dreams flooded his mind: a kaleidoscope of images, mist-shrouded landscapes, fierce-eyed warriors.
Something tugged at his arm, a scarlet cord. Someone held it, a woman, fierce and beautiful, black hair cascading like a dark river about her shoulders. She smiled at him and he recognized the twist of her lips.
Rhin.
‘This way,’ she said, tugging at the cord again. He went after her, the mist parting around their feet. He tried to resist, but found that he couldn’t.
They followed a river, its waters black, its course straight. Occasionally something moved in it, broad and sinuous, intimating a great mass hidden beneath the surface.
In the distance a shape appeared, materializing out of the mist. A mountain, casting a long shadow. Something was hidden in the darkness: the outline of a great building built into its embrace.
Corban looked up. In the sky shapes swirled, winged shapes. Some were faint in the clouds, others lower, closer. They circled down, pale-skinned warriors with shields, spears and swords in their hands, wings looking like leather or stretched skin. I know them. In my dreams they have chased me, fought over me. I am in the Otherworld. Fear threatened to overwhelm him. The ground shuddered as they landed, then they fell in silently about Corban and his companion, escorting them on.
They reached the building in the shadow of the mountain. It was a huge dome, with an arched doorway before them. They walked through a long tunnel; Corban gazed about in wonder, his hand touching a column that the doorway was attached to. It seemed to pulse, almost as if it were living, breathing. He lifted his fingers away, shaking off a mucus-like fluid. The whole building was carved from the same material. The walls were thin – the diffuse glow of light passed through them – with thick curving columns bracing the tunnel like huge, membranous ribs. The columns throbbed, as if blood were passing through them.
They stepped out of the tunnel; a domed roof made from the same material arched high above. A wide space opened before them, punctuated by great pillars rising high to the roof. About them were more of the winged creatures. They fell silent as Corban and his captor passed by, a pathway opening amongst them.
They came to a set of wide steps that stretched across the entire room. They climbed them; with each step a mounting dread grew in Corban.
At the top he stopped, Rhin walking forwards a few paces. She knelt before a throne and the creature seated upon it, then abased herself, arms outstretched, palms flat on the ground. Corban just stared. The throne looked to be carved from the same fabric as the rest of the building, its legs and back looking like the looping coils of a great snake, like the white wyrm Corban had seen in the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg. He did not want to look at the creature sat upon this throne – everything in him trying to look away, to turn and run – but fear held him tight. Against his will his eyes rose.
Upon the chair sat a great winged man. He wore a coat of mail, black and oily. His skin was pale, like all the others of his kind, flaking like the scales of a snake. Dark veins mapped his alabaster flesh. A sword lay across his lap, the hint of smoke rising from its blade. All this Corban saw in a glance, his gaze drawn to the man’s face. It was as pale as milk, all sharp bones and chiselled angles, coldly handsome. Silver hair was pulled tight into a warrior braid that curled across one shoulder. But it was the eyes that drew and held Corban – black as a forest pool at midnight, no iris, no pupil, just a pulsing malice. Something lurked beneath those eyes, something feral, a barely contained rage.
He regarded the woman and Corban with those black eyes. Corban felt a cold fist clench deep in his belly.
‘On your knees,’ a voice said from behind him, and a blow hit the back of his legs. He dropped to the ground.
‘What have you brought me, faithful servant?’ the creature on the chair asked.
‘A great prize, my lord,’ the lady said. She kept her eyes down. ‘I believe I have found the enemy’s avatar. The Seren Disglair.’
The creature leaned forward, eyes boring into Corban. He took a deep sniff, a black tongue flickering from his mouth, tasting the air.
‘Yes. I recognize his stink.’ He laughed. ‘Rhin, your reward will be great indeed for this.’
‘Who are you? What are you?’ Corban asked, the words coming out as a whisper. Deep down he knew, a name surfacing like a fist from water.
‘We have met before. Do you not recognize me?’ the creature asked. It rose and stepped from the throne, sinuous and graceful, the ground rippling with each step. With the wave of a hand its shape changed, shimmering and blurring. Then a man was standing before Corban, the wings replaced by a travel-stained cloak. Old, handsome, a neat beard and lines of laughter about his eyes. Yellow eyes.
Corban did remember him. ‘I saw you, at the oathstone in the Baglun.’
‘Yes. I offered you my friendship once. My patronage. The chance to side with me. That chance has passed now. I have found another.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yes, you do. You just do not want to. You humans are all the same. Willing to live a lie, any lie, as long as it is prettier than the truth. It’s one of the few things that I love about your race.’ He held his sword loosely in one hand.
‘Who are you?’ Corban repeated, more a last denial than a question.
‘I am Asroth, Lightbearer, Fallen One, Death of Nations,’ the man said. ‘Death of you.’
He reached out and laid a broken-nailed hand upon Rhin. A shiver ran through her body.
‘Stand,’ he said to her. ‘You must go back to your world of flesh, and slay him. Cut his heart from his body. I sh
all keep his spirit here, and talk a while until you do the deed.’
‘As you command, my lord,’ Rhin said.
A noise filled the dome, a long, eerie note, a horn blast.
‘To arms,’ a voice rang out as the horn faded. There was a great cracking sound, as of a thousand whips struck at the same time, the wings of all the creatures in the hall spreading. The Kadoshim, thought Corban. The host of angels that fell with Asroth.
A noise sounded above, high on the dome, a concussive boom, and a hole appeared, shards of whatever the building was made of exploding inwards. Figures poured through the hole, warriors with great white wings. One threw a spear and it pierced the ground between Corban and this creature that named himself Asroth. It stood quivering.
The man before Corban blurred again, his shape changing, cloak spreading, transforming into wings.
‘You dare to come here,’ he snarled, pointing his black sword upwards, then with a scream of rage launched himself at the invading warriors. The sound of it hurt Corban’s ears.
Battle erupted all around as the new winged arrivals fell howling down upon Asroth’s host. They were clearly outnumbered, but surprise and the advantage of height helped to drive them through the first waves that rose to meet them. Before Corban had time to move, a handful of them were alighting about him, forming a ring of shield, spear and sword.
He felt something tugging on his arm, turned to see Rhin trying to drag him back down the stairs by the red cord that was still attached to him. One of the warriors about him saw and struck the cord with a sword. There was a cracking noise and the cord detonated in a spray of blood. Rhin fell backwards, toppling down the stairs, disappearing amidst the conflict. Corban dragged in a juddering breath, felt new energy fill him. Before, he had felt terrified, frozen by that fear, but now the urge to fight rose up in him, coiling in his limbs. He saw a spear fallen on the ground, the white wings of its owner twitching as it lay there, a deep hole in its chest, something dark and slimy oozing from the wound.
He grabbed the spear. It was lighter than he expected, the shaft smooth and warm. Air beat down upon him and he looked up, saw one of Asroth’s Kadoshim above him, wings beating hard. It reached out to pluck him from his circle of protectors. Corban stabbed up with the spear, pierced the outstretched hand, the blade carrying on, raking a line across the creature’s ribs. It screeched at him and pumped its wings, rising quickly. Corban yanked the spear free, something wet splattering his face.
Screams and battle-cries filled the room, echoing about the dome, so loud that Corban wanted just to curl up on the floor and cover his ears. Everywhere was furious battle. More of the white-winged warriors were streaming through the hole high above.
They are the Ben-Elim, the angels of Elyon. Am I dreaming all of this?
For a dream it seemed real enough – he could touch, hear and smell the violence surrounding him. Figures filled the air, striking at one another, grappling, spinning, many falling to crash into the ground. The circle around him was hard pressed, blades clashing, limbs being severed, dark ichor that seemed to pass for blood spraying in great fountains.
Then a shadow was looming above, the air beating him down. Corban looked up and saw white wings, a flash of pale skin and dark hair, then he was being hoisted upwards, so fast that he felt as if he’d left his guts on the ground. Other warriors swooped in close, forming a wedge that flew straight up, to the now clear hole in the dome’s ceiling.
Bodies crashed against them. Corban caught a flash of leathery wings, heard screeching and hissing. One of the Ben-Elim close to Corban dropped away, a sword-point erupting through his chest, but they flew on, higher and higher, until with a roaring in Corban’s ears they burst through the hole in the rooftop and into the sky above.
The white wings pumped, driving them away, higher, until Corban could almost touch the clouds. A handful of Ben-Elim flew about them, and further back Corban saw the dome, shrinking now. He could just make out white-winged figures emerging from the dome’s peak, mixed with others. The Ben-Elim were retreating, pursued by their ancient enemy.
Corban looked at the warrior who was carrying him. He was dark haired and pale skinned as all the rest, with a tracery of veins visible beneath his skin, high, sharp cheekbones, the hint of faded claw marks running down one side of his face. His eyes were dark, though not black like the Kadoshim; there was a purple tinge to them. Something about him stirred a memory, too faint to remember. ‘Who are you?’ Corban asked.
The warrior regarded him for long moments. ‘A friend in a dark place,’ he said.
CHAPTER NINETY
CORALEN
Coralen glared through swirling snow at the walls of Dun Vaner.
After the desperate chase yesterday, the fight in the woods and slopes, coming so close to reaching Corban, only to see him carried away through the fortress gates, she felt drained. Exhausted.
And angry.
She had not wanted to run, so close were they to rescuing Corban. Most of the enemy were down, bleeding into the snow, when the riders appeared, a relief force hurrying from Dun Vaner. It would have been foolishness and fatal to stand and face them in the open. So they had run when the riders came at them, scattering into the woodland. Storm had killed one horse and rider, Dath picked off a couple with his bow, Gar another, and she had leaped onto one more, dragging him from his saddle and opening his throat with her wolven claws. She was wearing them still, blood crusting about the iron blades.
Why am I here? She had volunteered to guide them north as soon as Rath had told her of Corban’s plan to go after his sister. Why? Even now she felt herself avoiding that question. Others were moving about her, Gwenith and Brina whispering together, Farrell and Dath talking quietly. Gar stood beside her, staring at the walls. She could feel the worry leaking from him, through the cracks in his cold face. Storm was pacing amongst them, like a wounded bear, restless, crouched, the occasional growl rumbling deep from her belly. Coralen empathized with her – she felt frustrated, scared, angry. There was something about this group of people, similar to the camaraderie she had felt amongst Rath and his giant-killers, but more, somehow. Something deeper. She just knew that each and every one of them would die for the other, and Corban was somehow at the centre of that. She felt his absence keenly, as she knew they all did. And he was gone, inside those thick walls, perhaps even already dead. She felt a wave of feeling, white-hot rage, and she clenched a fist, her wolven claws chinking.
It had all happened so fast, waking to find Corban gone, then hearing Storm howling, all of them running from the camp to find the wolven dripping wet, standing over Ventos’ corpse. They had searched the area and Coralen had found the tracks of those who had taken Corban. The rest had been one long run, blood in the snow at the end of it.
And what now?
Something fluttered above her; a dark smudge emerged from the swirling whiteness. Craf, the healer’s crow.
It landed on a tree branch and began hopping about.
‘Cor-ban,’ it squawked. ‘Found him, found him, found him.’
‘Where? How is he?’ Gwenith blurted.
‘Alive,’ the crow said. ‘Craf take you.’
‘ How are we going to get over those walls?’ Farrell said.
‘This might help,’ Dath said, lifting a long rope that was tied to the saddle of a horse they’d found wandering the wooded slopes.
Gar smiled, a grim flash of his teeth.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
TUKUL
Tukul was dozing when Meical awoke. It was still dark about him, though a grey light framed the slopes above their dell. The brunt of the snowstorm seemed to have blown over. Orange flames from the fire sent shadows dancing around the bowl they were camped in.
He heard Meical gasp, saw him lurch up onto an elbow. The firelight washed across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, making the lines around his eyes and mouth deep crags of shadow. For the first time Tukul thought he looked old.
Tukul sat up, blinking. ‘What is it?’
Meical leaped to his feet. ‘I know where he is. Corban. We must leave now; it may already be too late.’
‘What do you mean? Where is he?’ Tukul asked as he climbed to his feet, signalling for his Jehar to move about him.
‘He is in there,’ said Meical, pointing to the dark blur of walls and towers nestling amongst the white slopes of the mountain. ‘Dun Vaner. Rhin has him. And she knows who he is. He will not be drawing breath for much longer. If he still does.’
The camp moved into action, silent and efficient.
By the time the sun had fully crested the horizon they were riding across a featureless white plain, approaching the slope and road that led to the gates of Dun Vaner.
‘Those walls are thick, and the gates are shut,’ Tukul observed.
‘Yes,’ Meical said. His earlier sense of franticness had receded, although Tukul could sense it, lurking beneath a veneer of calm.
‘So how are we going to get in there?’
‘We know that the Jehar ride with Nathair, and that they came north with Rhin. The men who are standing on that wall will know that, too.’
Tukul thought about that. ‘So they will think we are their allies.’
‘Exactly. To be safer still, as I stand out a little from the rest of you, I am now your prisoner, sent back to Rhin for questioning.’
‘But what if Nathair and Sumur are in there?’
‘They are not. They are heading north, and I have a good idea why, but we shall think on that after.’
‘Excellent. So that’s getting in. What then?’
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.’
‘With our swords in our hands?’
‘If needs be.’
‘Best you try and look as if you’re a prisoner, then,’ Tukul said.