by John Gwynne
Where did she get that?
Corban heard her muttering, the words sounding strange and guttural, then the blade of her sword burst into flame. She winked at Corban.
The giants eyed her warily.
Then Meical was in front of him, standing between the two groups.
‘I know you, Balur One-Eye,’ Meical said.
Balur One-Eye. Even I have heard of him, thought Corban.
‘Balur One-Eye,’ Dath whispered. ‘He’s ancient. Even older than Brina.’
‘I heard that,’ Brina snapped.
The giant’s strides faltered as he stared at Meical. He took another few hesitant steps.
‘That was a long time ago,’ the giant said.
‘It was. The time of fire and water.’
‘Aye. And why are you here now? Fighting alongside the Dark Sun. Have you Fallen?’
‘No. I made my choice. The Dark Sun has a captive, someone dear to us. Dear to the Bright Star.’ Meical pointed at Corban.
I wish he wouldn’t do that.
Balur and the other giants peered at him.
‘He has my sister. I mean to take her back,’ Corban heard himself say.
‘We are not your enemy,’ Meical said.
‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ Fech squawked. Balur stared at the bird.
‘Fech?’ He shook his head.
‘He is taking us to the cauldron. That is where Nathair will be, the Black Sun,’ Meical said.
‘And these others?’ Balur asked, looking suspiciously at the Jehar. ‘We have just fought their kin in the great hall.’
‘It’s complicated,’ Tukul said, ‘and time does not allow its full telling. The short version is that the ones you have fought have been deceived.’
‘Join us,’ Meical said. ‘If we wanted you dead we would be killing you now.’
The giants bristled at that.
True, but not very tactful.
Slowly Balur nodded. ‘We shall join you. But you go first.’ He smiled.
‘Agreed. Lead on, Fech.’
Then they were running through corridors again. Slowly Corban became aware of a sound, a deep humming, more a feeling than a sound, vibrating up through his feet, out of the rock walls about him. It grew until it was all he could hear, filling his senses.
‘We are here,’ Fech said.
The doorway was wide, like everything in this underground stronghold, room for a score of them to stand across.
It took a few heartbeats for his eyes to adjust, the light in the room lurching from shades of darkness to bursts of incandescent light, leaving after-images seared into his mind. Slowly the scene before him coalesced into a wholeness. First he saw the bodies. They were everywhere, men, horses, giants – wyrms. Most of them had been hacked to pieces.
In the centre of the room stood a cauldron. It was elevated, sitting high upon a dais. Above it hovered a black roiling cloud, bolts of darkness radiating from it, joined to people, hundreds of people, kneeling on the ground before the cauldron.
The Jehar.
They didn’t appear to be enjoying the sensation. Most were writhing, groaning, arms outstretched. And it looked as if something was pulsing through the dark columns, like when a snake swallows an egg, but faster, moving from the cloud into the bodies of the Jehar.
‘No,’ Meical hissed.
Corban hardly heard. Upon the dais he saw two men, one old, silver-haired, a look of rapt awe upon his face. The other he recognized. Nathair, the slayer of his da. He was staring at the cauldron, something close to shock on his face. Corban closed his eyes, for an instant was back in the feast-hall of Dun Carreg watching Nathair stab his da through the heart.
I told him I will kill him.
He scanned the room. Then he saw her. Cywen. She was standing to the left, between Corban and the kneeling Jehar. Next to her a horse stood, pawing the ground.
Shield. It is Shield.
He forgot about Nathair, the sight of his sister filling him with hope, and a great fear. So close, we have come so close. Dear All-Father, do not let us fail now.
He felt a hand grip his arm, squeezing. His mam. She was grinning, tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘What do we do?’ Corban whispered to Meical.
Then there was squawking, yelling, shouting; a giant that Corban hadn’t noticed was waving his arms in the air as Fech and Craf attacked him.
‘Uthas,’ Balur growled from behind him.
Without thinking, Corban ran into the chamber, veering left, heading straight for Cywen.
He heard footsteps next to him, glanced to see his mam, her face determined, gripping her spear in one hand, a knife in the other. Storm and Buddai flanked them, overtaking, bounding low and silent towards Cywen. Somehow he knew that behind him others were following.
Someone passed him, taking great bounding strides – Balur, fixed on Uthas.
The giant in front of Cywen turned then. He saw them all pouring into the chamber, his eyes widening, and lifted an axe before him, its blades a black metal that seemed to shimmer and pulse, like the cauldron.
‘Balur – he has the starstone axe,’ Meical called from behind him. The giant shifted his course slightly, barrelling straight at the axe-wielder. Other giants were close behind him.
The one with the axe bellowed, shoving Cywen to one side and swinging his axe above his head. Cywen flew through the air, hit the ground and rolled, coming up to stare back at the giant. She hadn’t seen Corban or her mam. Shield had, though. The stallion clattered over to Corban, swung his head into him and almost knocked him from his feet.
‘It’s good to see you too,’ Corban said, patting his neck.
‘Get the axe,’ Meical was yelling. ‘It will break the spell.’
One of Balur’s kin reached the axe-wielding giant – a female. She lifted a war-hammer to block the axe as it came swinging towards her head. Sparks exploded as the dark blade sliced through the thick handle, carrying on to crunch into the giant’s face and upper chest. She collapsed in a boneless heap, the axe-wielder ripping his weapon free, turning to face the next attacker.
It was Balur.
He ducked the axe, blades hissing over his head, slammed his hammer into the giant’s gut, doubling him over, then swung the hammer-head up, catching his foe full in the face. The blow lifted him from the ground, hurled him backwards, where he crashed to the ground and slid into the corpse of a wyrm. He did not move.
Balur rushed after him and grabbed the black axe, looking back to Meical.
‘Get it out of here, as far away as you can. That will break the spell.’
Balur didn’t need telling twice. He ran for the doorway, disappearing amongst those coming the other way.
Cywen jumped up and ran. Away from Corban, back towards the giant that had thrown her. She crouched down beside his still form, a hand reaching out to probe his neck.
She’s checking for a pulse.
Then Buddai and Storm reached her. Corban saw her throw her arms around Buddai, then tense as she saw Storm, her first reaction to leap backwards. Then she must have realized. She tentatively reached out to Storm, the wolven sniffing her hand, pushing close to lick her face and rub against her, knocking her over. Cywen leaped to her feet, looked around, and saw him and his mam.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN
CYWEN
I must be dreaming.
Figures were pouring into the chamber, swift and silent, any sound of their movement masked by the throbbing hum emanating from the cauldron. At their head were a man and woman. She stared at them, knowing them instantly, despite the changes. Older, leaner, a grimness about them, in their eyes. And a joy as well.
Mam. Corban.
She felt her heart lurch, as if a fist had grabbed and twisted it.
Then she was running to them and they were together, the three of them, hugging, crying, no words, just a deep heart-swelling euphoria.
Her mam was holding her face, kissing her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she was
saying, over and over again.
‘You left me,’ Cywen said, remembering in a flood how she’d woken up in Dun Carreg, finding herself alone and abandoned, and all she had been through since then. A swell of fresh emotion welled up in her. ‘You left me,’ she repeated.
‘We thought you were dead; we were told you were dead,’ her mam said. Corban just looked at her with his sad, tear-filled eyes.
‘Why are you here?’ Cywen asked then.
‘For you, Cy. We came to get you,’ Corban said.
She felt hot tears flood her eyes again at that and she hugged them both, so tight, squeezing as if she’d never let them go.
‘No!’ a voice screamed, shrill above the deep reverberations.
Cywen looked up and saw Calidus close to the cauldron. His eyes were wide, rage twisting his features.
Something was changing in the room; the throbbing hum was dying. The black lances of non-light were shrinking, folding back upon themselves towards the cloud above the cauldron. The cloud boiled, expanding then contracting, streaks of lightning sparking inside it. Then with an ear-splitting crack it burst apart, shreds of dark vapour exploding outwards, slamming those about it onto their backs. The constant droning hum was gone, replaced with a sudden silence, leaving an emptiness falling in its place. The sense of fear that she had felt earlier returned.
Something bad is about to happen.
‘We need to get out of here,’ Cywen said.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
CORBAN
Corban gazed at Cywen’s face a moment longer, saw emotions sweeping her like ragged clouds across the moon.
We’ve done it. We’ve found you. It did not feel quite real.
Now we just have to get out of here. He looked away, saw that his friends and companions had formed a loose line before them. Gar was closest, Dath and Farrell and Coralen beside him.
Gar turned to Cywen and gently cupped her cheek, his smile gentle, surrounded by the dead.
‘Time to get you out of here,’ he said.
‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,’ Dath hissed.
‘Am I dreaming?’ Cywen said through a grin, tears staining her cheeks.
A noise from deeper in the chamber drew all their eyes.
‘It might be too late for leaving,’ Farrell said.
Figures were rising, pulling themselves upright: the Jehar, those closest to the cauldron first. There was something different about them. Though they stood the same height and build there was a presence about them, as if their frames were filled with a new power, greater than the eye could comprehend.
One turned to face Corban and he heard Gar whisper a name.
‘Sumur.’
The man stretched, a ripple that flowed from head to foot, like a cat. Something was wrong with his face. It was moving, as if insects were crawling under his skin, or fingers were clawing for escape. He gripped his clothing with both hands – a leather cuirass of boiled leather, beneath it a coat of mail, and tore it off as easily as Corban would tear a loaf of bread.
Others were rising about him, performing similar rituals.
The one called Sumur smiled as his hands travelled his body, fingers stroking, probing, the skin pale, translucent, dark veins threading it, pulsing. Then Corban saw his eyes: they were black, no iris, no pupil. Sumur threw his head back and howled.
The whole room filled with the sound as others joined him. Hundreds of them. Corban put his hands over his ears, trying to keep the sound out; it felt like a vapour, filling his senses, creeping into every part of him, drowning him in anguish.
Others were rising now, the Jehar on the outskirts of the room. They looked different to the first – ordinary, appearing dazed, wearing expressions of confusion. One close by looked at Gar and frowned.
‘Garisan?’ he said.
Gar stared at him.
‘Akar?’
The Jehar drew his sword and took a step towards Gar. ‘I’m guessing you still follow your mad fool of a father.’
‘Who’s the mad fool? Look who you’ve followed.’
Akar paused and glanced towards the cauldron, saw his sword-brothers and sisters transformed. Colour drained from his face.
‘You’ve become the servants of the Black Sun.’
‘No, it cannot be . . .’
‘Out of here, now,’ a voice shouted. Meical. He was standing, sword in hand, staring at the thing that had once been Sumur. About the creature more of its kind turned to face Meical.
Then they began to run. They moved awkwardly at first, lurching across the floor, quickly becoming smoother, like newborn animals, the process condensed into a few heartbeats.
Other Jehar were in their way. The first one that Sumur met was sent spinning through the air. At the second one Sumur slowed for an instant, lifting the man from the ground with a strength that did not seem even closely approximate to a man’s capabilities. With a savage wrench, a cracking and tearing sound, Sumur tore the man in two. Blood and gore drenched him and he hurled the two parts of the man in separate directions.
‘They are demon possessed!’ Meical yelled. ‘The Kadoshim are amongst you.’
That seemed to break the spell that Sumur’s grisly act had cast. All about, the untainted Jehar drew their swords, joined by Tukul and his company, uniting to face this new enemy.
Corban saw Tukul grin.
This is a fight they’ve waited for all their lives.
The two sides met, a thunderclap of sound, the Kadoshim powerhouses of destruction, the Jehar swirling about them in their skilful dance of death. Corban saw Tukul chop into ribs with his axe, in the same breath drive his sword into the creature’s chest, straight through its heart. It sagged a moment, shuddered, then backhanded Tukul, sending him spinning through the air. Corban stared open mouthed as the creature pulled the sword from its chest and tossed it away.
They cannot die.
A roar filled the room, echoing, and Corban saw a draig from faery tales stamping into the fray.
We cannot win this battle. We must get out.
He spun to look at his mam and Cywen, his friends about them.
‘Out,’ he said.
Then something crashed into them, sending them flying in different directions.
Corban rolled, staggered back to his feet. One of the Kadoshim had fallen into them, surrounded by a handful of Jehar, chopping, slicing, stabbing, then spinning away. It had a dozen wounds, all leaking blood, though even that was different. It was dark and thick, as if part congealed. And it was angry: enraged, lashing out, trying to catch the swift forms about it. Lifting its head, it bellowed, flailing its arms, a fist striking one of the Jehar, hurling him from his feet.
An arrow sank into its chest, making it stagger.
Dath. He was standing a dozen paces behind Corban, drawing another arrow to his ear, letting fly. It hit the possessed Jehar in the throat. It grabbed the shaft and tore it out.
Corban saw Farrell and Coralen attack it, Farrell smashing his hammer into its knee, Coralen darting in and sinking her wolven claws into its back. It just seemed to make it more angry, a white foam frothing from its jaws. Then Gar was there, his sword a blur, beside him Akar, the two of them working together now.
Corban snatched his sword from the ground, flexed his wolven claws and ran at the beast. As he did, he saw a flash of white to his side, Storm loping in close, then bounding away. With a burst of speed she hurled herself at the Kadoshim, slammed into his chest, jaws clamping around his head, teeth sinking deep. They both crashed to the ground. The creature writhed, great muscular spasms, Storm refusing to let go. Its hands sank into her fur, deeper, spots of blood welling about each finger. She whined, but still she would not let go.
Buddai appeared, bit into the creature’s knee, shaking it.
Corban saw the creature’s muscles standing taught, veins rigid. He screamed, remembering the man torn in two, and hurled himself forward, slashing wildly, hacking into its belly, its th
igh.
Storm’s body spasmed and she shook her head, violently. There was a popping sound, then a wet ripping and she staggered away, spitting the beast’s head from her jaws.
Its body convulsed violently, feet kicking, arms flailing, blood leaking like oil from its neck. It stiffened, a black vapour boiling out from it, issuing from every pore, converging above the spasming body. It took shape, human-like, but with great leathery wings upon its back, glowing amber eyes like hot coals sweeping them. The mist figure screeched, a frustrated rage, then evaporated, melting into the air. The body on the ground collapsed, abruptly limp.
‘So that’s how you kill them,’ said Farrell.
‘Their heads,’ Gar yelled. ‘Take their heads.’ The cry went up about them, spreading through the chamber.
‘Ban, with me,’ Gar said to him, then turned to Cywen and Gwenith, standing close together again. He pushed them towards the exit, calling to Farrell, Dath and Coralen. They all ran, Storm limping after them, Buddai beside her. Corban saw more of the mist figures appearing about the room, swirling in the air – only a few, here and there.
The Jehar are taking their heads. The shapes screeched their fury as they evaporated, banished back to the Otherworld after only brief moments in the world of flesh.
Corban and his companions wove through the battle, calling to comrades as they passed them, gathering them, rushing towards the archway and safety. He saw Brina, still wielding her flaming sword, stabbing it into the arm of a Kadoshim that was busily pulling the limbs from a Jehar warrior. Flames rushed from the blade, engulfing the Kadoshim. It dropped the remains of the warrior in its arms and stumbled away, shrieking, a torch of flesh.
The clash of arms grew in pitch behind him. He risked a glance back and saw a man appear from the crowd – tall and silver haired, a red sword in his hand. Shadows danced behind him, a dark cloak that floated like wings. His eyes fixed on Corban. One of the Jehar swirled in front of him, sword chopping downwards. With an effortless shrug the old man blocked the blow, his sword blurring in fluid movement and then the Jehar was falling away, blood spurting from his throat. The old man stalked forwards, straight towards Corban.