Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Warhammer

Principal Characters

Winter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Spring

Chapter Twenty-Three

About the Author

Legal

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

Principal Characters

THE DEEPWOOD HOST

Ariel the Mage Queen

Orion the Consort-King

Finavar wardancer; the Darkling Prince

Jokleel wardancer; younger brother of Finavar

Sibaris wardancer; great grandson of Mälloch the Elder

Caorann wardancer; Finavar’s oldest friend

Thuralin old, crippled wardancer

Alhena wardancer; Thuralin’s daughter

Lady Ordaana highborn spellweaver; former Warden of Locrimere

Lord Beldeas highborn; husband of Ordaana

Prince Haldus Warhawk Rider; Lord of Arum Tor

Avernus Warhawk Rider; kinsman of Prince Haldus

Lord Cyanos Warhawk Rider; ally of Prince Haldus

Lord Thenot noble from the Alarin Hills; cousin of Prince Haldus

Clorana daughter of Prince Haldus

Damára former lover of Prince Haldus

Lord Findol noble from the Pine Crags

Lord Calaingor Warden of the Cromlech of Cadai; powerful mage

Lady Ailerann servant of Lord Calaingor

Calepine warrior from the plains of Cavaroc

Laelia Ariel’s handmaiden; powerful mage

Atolmis the Hunter Wild Rider; Pyrewarden; Priest of Kurnous

Olachas Wild Rider; Pyrewarden; Priest of Kurnous

Naeith revered Prophetess

Mälloch the Elder Lord of the Fiùrann

BRANCHWRAITHS

Drycha

Liris

Melusine

FOREST SPIRITS

Bruithír guardian of the Wildwood

Zephyr forest spirit; resembles a playful child

Sativus forest spirit; resembles a great, noble stag

The Wrach Keeper of the Dark Paths; the Blind Guide

Usnarr forest spirit; resembles a white wolf

Amphion forest spirit; resembles a great eagle

Tamarix forest dragon

Tanos forest dragon

DAEMONS

Alkhor

Ganglion

OTHERS

Clara human sorcerer from the Amber Hills

Chapter One

‘Awake, Lord of the Wood.’

The voice was brittle and black with hate; a cruel rustle on the breeze.

Finavar opened his eyes and all he saw was darkness.

He cursed, but his words were lost as a raucous din rose up to greet him. Music. Wild stabs of sound that cut through the void. A tune so violent that he fell away from it, tumbling backwards over unforgiving earth. He clawed at the dark but there was nothing to claw – just the oily ghosts of his own retina.

‘Awake, brother,’ said the voice, coming closer and changing its tone. The hate vanished and Finavar wondered if it had ever been there. Perhaps he had imagined it? Perhaps it was just the echo of a dream? The words were soft now, conciliatory even. Brother. Did he have a brother? Memories circled in his mind; memories too sad to look squarely in the eye.

The music vanished and the words echoed around Finavar’s skull. Then he sensed a movement to his right and turned towards it.

Pain splashed, acid-like, across his skin. It twisted his fingers into claws, arched his back and revealed a surprising truth.

I’m not dead.

He was shocked by the idea and his lungs were far from convinced, refusing to drag anything into his chest. His memory was no kinder. However hard he tried to avert his gaze, it threw harrowing scenes at him. The ridiculous faith of his youth. A grinning fool, laughing defiantly as he led his followers to slaughter. An eager herdsman for the Consort-King.

Then he pictured the result of his hubris – the vision that had been cowering in the deepest recesses of his mind. It rose up before him in vivid blue and red: his little brother, Jokleel, lying on a branch with his throat torn open. Sacrificed on the altar of Orion’s rage.

The music struck up again and Finavar shuddered.

Another ghostly shape passed by.

‘Brother,’ said the voice again.

Surprise tricked Finavar’s lungs into life and he snatched a breath.

‘Jokleel?’ he managed to say.

His memories were a sickening kaleidoscope and he felt horribly weak. Could he be confusing nightmares with the truth?

‘You’re dead,’ he gasped, lurching in the direction of the movement.

As he grew accustomed to the darkness Finavar saw tall, crooked figures looking down at him. The music makers. For a moment he thought they were more cruel shadows dredged up from his past. Then he heard the crack of blistered, bark-like limbs and knew they were real. The sound cut through the music and froze him in his tracks. They were all around him. The darkness was alive. They moved closer and he made out shards of deadwood, jerking and sliding like armour. Splintered, silvery shells, wrapped around nothing. Where there might have been faces, there were just crooked, glimmering holes. Studs of pale, green fire. As the frigid lights turned towards him, Finavar saw nothing but hate.

‘Brother,’ came the gentle voice again and Finavar threw his thoughts at the sound, scrambling away from the deadwood choir. He had seen forest spirits before, of course, countless times, but these were different. The fury pouring from their eyes made him want to scream.

He crawled away from the spirits and realised that he was climbing a slope. The thought gave him a surge of hope. Wherever he was, it had shape, and form, and maybe it could be escaped.

The darkness lifted as he climbed, revealing something more familiar: a tumbling bank of hawthorn and fern, threaded roots and ancient, lichened trunks. These sinuous shapes were a mirror of the forest he knew, but the mirror was warped to the point of madness. Everything was knotted, brutal and life-crushing. And all of it was in motion – straining and coiling around him as he tried to climb. He wrenched himself free and shook his head. The forest was always hungry, but even at the height of summer, roots did not move with such speed.

The Wildwood.

There could be no mistake. His journeys had led him to the darkest heart of the forest. Along with the realisation came more memories. Before he had time to suppress the image, he saw the imperious sneer of Lady Ordaana. His pulse hammered. She had laid the entire forest’s doom at his feet. She had given him the mantle of betrayer. More memories followed in quick succession. He saw the lords and ladies of the Silvam Dale, horrified by his supposed crimes. He saw the fury of the Enchanter, Prince Elatior, as he banished him to the Wildwood.

Ordaana is the traitor! Pain and grief dissolved in a swell of outrage. He was furious that he had been so blind. She brought this plague down on us, he thought. I’m just the fool who failed to see it.

Needles of pain sliced into his arm as a branch crushed itself around him, sinking claw-like twigs into his muscles. As he wrenched his arm free, Finavar saw why his body was in such pain. Sheets of skin were missing from his torso – torn away, leaving an ugly patchwork of wounds. What little of his skin remained was slick with blood. He looked like a scrap of meat, left to rot after a feast.

Another memory. He saw the ancient noble, Mälloch the Elder and the impetuous youth, Sibaris. They had brought him here. They had bound him to the waystone and called on the Wildwood to take him, but they were not to blame. It was her. She had done this to him.

How could he have abandoned his friends and put his faith in such a lunatic? Finally, everything came back to him. He pictured his brave, devoted kinsmen: Caorann, with his booming laugh and his lust for life; Alhena with her dangerous, determined stare; even dour old Thuralin, crook-backed and bitter – they were his family. The only one he had ever known. Grief had driven him from his senses, but Ordaana had driven him from his kin. She had poisoned him until he no longer knew friend from foe.

‘I’ll find them,’ he said. Determination trilled through his veins. Whatever evil Ordaana had perpetrated, Finavar knew that she could not break the will of his kindred. Not if they stood together, as they once did.

Now, for the first time in months, he remembered courage. And it was a courage tempered by all that he had seen. It was no playful hunt that he sought; no childish game. He sought the salvation of his people.

After months of doubt and confusion, his mind grew clear.

He straightened his back and allowed a cold smile to cross his lips. ‘I will find them.’

He tried to move, but almost fell: his legs were bound. Soft, loamy earth had swallowed his feet and roots had shackled his ankles. Tall shapes loomed over him – the bark-clad singers had followed him up the incline.

Their long, crooked fingers stretched out towards him.

‘No!’ he howled and wrenched himself free, shedding branches and skin and sprinting up the slope. His soul was a tiny flicker of hope and he would not let it die.

Finavar reached the summit and found himself in a column of grey-green light, but even here there was no glimpse of sky; the brittle tracery overhead was just a frame for ever more distant canopies of leaves. And they in turn led to a remote, emerald vault that seemed to make up the heavens themselves. The forest towered over him. He felt like an infinitesimal sea creature, crawling across an abyssal ocean floor, destined to never glimpse the sky.

There was enough light, however, for Finavar to see how ruined his body was. What little strength he had regained during his hunt for Orion had been stripped away. Pennants of tattered skin hung from his ribs and stomach. The sight sickened him, but it only hardened his resolve. He pictured his friends as he had last seen them – Alhena and her father, rising from a campfire to greet him with love in their eyes. How could he have not seen that? Why did he argue with Thuralin? Even that frivolous youth, Sibaris, had believed in him. How could he have spurned such devotion in favour of Ordaana’s bile? In the oppressive gloom of the Wildwood, Finavar saw one thing clearly: his place was with his own kind. The poets and dancers. The children of Loec.

There was an explosion of sound to Finavar’s left and he whirled around, looking back down the path.

There was nothing to see. The musicians had vanished. He had simply trodden on a fallen branch and caused its leaves to rattle. Finavar peered back the way he had come. For a moment, he thought he saw something – dozens of smaller shapes, moving through the gloom, dragging a heavy load, but then they were gone.

Finavar shook his head. He had sung enough tales of the Wildwood to know that these paths crawled with malice. These were the roots of the world. There were beings in the Wildwood that lived outside of history – outside of nature, even. Any one of them would destroy him without a moment’s thought. Who knew what he might have glimpsed?

‘How am I alive?’ he wondered aloud. The spirits had looked at him so hungrily, but now there was only the liquid dark.

His flesh was in shreds but he still drew breath. The Wildwood was a death sentence, every child knew as much. How was he still able to walk?

Finavar looked down the opposite side of the slope and saw something smaller. Another figure. Pale and graceful as it raced away from him through the trees.

‘Brother.’

The word came to him so faintly he thought it might be the breeze.

‘Jokleel?’ he said, stumbling off in pursuit. He could recall his brother’s pyre with horrible clarity, but still his heart swelled. ‘Is that you?’

The figure slipped away into the shadows, and vanished from view, but, when he looked around, Finavar realised that he was now on a winding path. The trees and shrubs had parted to reveal a track gilded with dead leaves. They glimmered in the half light. Sheets of hammered copper. The lights dazzled and confused him. As he stared at the glinting shapes his mind slipped into the past. He was leading Jokleel through the cool glades of their home, Locrimere, singing songs of the Horned God, Kurnous and his bloody emissary, Orion.

Finavar frowned and shook his head. He tried to bring his mind back to the shifting gloom of the Wildwood. He sensed danger all around. ‘Why am I still alive?’ he wondered again.

He stepped further and saw that the path continued on into the forest, winding and rolling away from him. A pale rope, tossed across a night-black pool. The lights had left him confused, blurring memory, truth and dreams.

The darkness on either side pressed closer and fear threatened to overcome him. He wondered, for a moment, what had drawn him onto the path; then he pictured the face of his brother and hurried on.

‘I’m here,’ he whispered, cradling an impossible hope.

Drycha watched Finavar lurching towards her and felt a flicker of pity. The wardancer made a pathetic sight. He looked like a disparate jumble of bones that might fall apart at any moment. His eyes rolled, feverish and wide as they tried to latch onto hers.

Once she was sure he was following the right path, Drycha turned and raced away, trailing one last ‘Brother,’ before abandoning her disguise to the darkness.

Shadows rolled and tumbled in her wake as she glided through the undergrowth. Gradually, they formed into ranks of figures. Brittle-limbed wraiths, keeping pace with her as she moved. Her army had grown since she left Coeddil. She could barely comprehend the power she was wielding.

Liris clicked and clacked to her side. ‘We are holding them back,’ she said.

Drycha heard the shock in her voice but did not acknowledge it. ‘We must,’ she said simply, peering into the shadows.

She sensed that Liris was now afraid of her. The thought saddened her but she could understand. The Ancient One had shared something with her – only a fraction of his vision but enough that it had almost overwhelmed her. She was no longer the same as her sisters. The Ancient One had set her apart. He had apportioned a great task to her and given her the foresight to achieve it. At his bidding, the universe had unfurled itself at her feet. She could see everything. Even things she knew she should not. She had struck deals with those she despised and sworn sickening oaths, but her path was clear. The Great Weave of life was spread out before her like a cruel, bewildering tapestry. What a terrible, wonderful responsibility. Every thread of the weave was more intricate and beautiful than the last. She could focus on a single thread and lose herself for all eternity, so she kept her thoughts fixed on one spot; one fascinating detail. For weeks now she had been able to see it: Finavar, reborn as a god, his matted hair replaced by a magnificent crown of antlers. Finavar, charging through the forest on hooves that shook the leaves from the boughs.

Her master had revealed a truth known only to the most subtle of minds. This pathetic, dying wreck was destined to become a king. When she led him, finally, to his death, she would be unbinding the forest from centuries of misrule. The Shadow-glades would be free. Her sisters would grow, untrammelled by their feeble, mortal guardians. They would tear down the last of the waystones and lead the whole forest to war, with Finavar’s flesh as a banner. The Great Weave would tighten and crush. The forest would shrug itself free. Drycha would rid it of disease, mortals and plague and then she would tear the daemon from its heart.

From this one death, life would begin again.

The Ancient One and the other elders did not need these short-lived parasites to survive. Her master had shown her the truth. The ancients had endured since the beginning of the world. And they would endure again. She would pay back every brutal defilement the interlopers had inflicted on her precious wards.

The thought wiped away any trace of pity she felt for Finavar. Deaths hung around her like one of the interlopers’ pendants. Every pustule and tumour haunted her thoughts. Every lifeless creature stared back at her. She had let the daemon live, all those centuries ago. She had unwittingly preserved Alkhor’s power beneath the roots of the forest. She had sown it, like a poisonous seed. Every broken strand of the Great Weave was because of her actions. She stumbled to a halt and clutched her head. For a moment, her confidence failed as she felt the weight of her shame. She saw a once-powerful bear, bloated and torn apart by disease. She remembered the horror of taking its life.

Liris stepped to her side. There was a dry, scratching sound as her talons brushed against Drycha. ‘Soon,’ she whispered.

Drycha nodded and looked back at the pitiful figure of Finavar, lurching and weaving towards them down the glittering path. ‘Balance will be restored, Liris. His blood will repay what is owed. The blood of a king. It will be enough. In the Orchard he will give his life. However great his pain, it will be nothing to the healing it enables.’ She shivered, rattling her rough, wooden limbs. ‘And the pain will be great. Bruithír will see to that.’

They raced on. For half a mile on either side of the path a battle raged in silence. Finavar staggered on oblivious as Melusine and the rest of Drycha’s sisters kept him alive. Beings from every age of the world had caught his scent. They came hunting for his blood, things of leaf, scale, fur and flame, but the branchwraiths held firm. At Drycha’s silent bidding they pitted themselves against the unknowable. They battled a power that had prowled the forest since the forgotten age of the Old Ones. They fought and died, but for every branchwraith that fell, another ten rushed to fill the gap. Drycha’s army was a river, bristling and bustling through the darkness.

Finavar paused to catch his breath, leaning against a tree for a moment and peering down the track. He frowned. There was violence in the air. He could feel it tingling across his skin, but nothing had emerged from the shadows. He had been travelling for what seemed like hours and the forest had made no move to stop him. Confused as he was, he still knew that the Wildwood was a place of death. But it seemed that he was free to safely journey through it. He looked back over his shoulder. There was still no sign of the spirits that had greeted his arrival.

He heard a muffled crash, somewhere to his right. The sound was barely audible, but whatever had fallen was so vast that the ground beneath his feet shifted slightly. He stared harder into the darkness but, as when he first awoke, he could see nothing beyond the patterns drifting across his retina.

He stepped from the path, trying to see what had fallen, but roots flew up to meet him and forced him back. Only the path seemed safe. The lights dazzled him again and he reeled from side to side, trying to recall his purpose, or even his name. ‘The Darkling Prince,’ he croaked, after clutching his head for a few seconds. The name brought another, Jokleel, along with it. The name of his brother was enough to steady him. He stood still for a moment and took several deep breaths, remembering why he had started off down the path. Jokleel was somewhere up ahead, calling him on. Either that or his ghost.

Finavar nodded and continued on his way, treading carefully so as to avoid the dark mesh on either side of the path. Hours, seconds or years passed as he walked beneath those mountainous trees, until finally the landscape began to change. The trees thinned out. A little light splashed across the ground. The thicket fell away to reveal patches of open scrub and fruit trees, huddled together like wary crones. They reached towards him through the dark. Splayed, crooked fingers. Coils of smoke, glimpsed in a storm.

Finavar eyed the trees warily but breathed a little deeper, wishing to savour the open space. He immediately regretted it. The air was heavy with moisture and it left a bitter, metallic taste on his tongue. As he walked slowly past the ugly branches, he felt a warm mist settle over his skin. He stopped to wipe his face and when he looked down at his hand he saw it was bloody.

He grimaced and looked around at the trees. He had missed it at first, because of the endless gloom, but now, as he looked more closely, he saw that the fruit trees were coated with a crimson dew.

‘Brother.’

The voice was much clearer this time and there was an edge of fear in it – or pleading.

‘I’m here,’ Finavar whispered, hurrying on down the path. The track swerved around a mossy shoulder of rock and led down into a little valley, surrounded on all sides by the ancient, lichened fruit trees.

Finavar glimpsed a slight figure, racing ahead of him and he began to jog. But when he reached the valley floor, something caught his eye and caused him to pause again.

The trees were laden with fruit and the load was so heavy it was dragging many of the branches down until they were nearly touching the ground. Finavar stepped closer to one of them and tried to work out what kind of fruit it was.

The nature of the Wildwood had confused him. The tree was much further than he imagined. He forgot about the path as he hurried towards it and, as he approached the tree, he saw that, like everything else, it was absurdly huge. It loomed over him like a storm cloud and he felt blood dripping on his face as he looked up into the branches.

He slowly realised the true nature of the fruit. It was the pale corpse of an asrai warrior. The tree had melded its bark with his flesh, so that his body had become a sleeve for a thick, forked branch. Finavar felt bile rise in his throat as he saw ridges of bark beneath the warrior’s skin and a length of living branch, sprouting from between shattered shoulder blades.

His disgust grew as he saw that all the trees bore the same hideous fruit. He saw hundreds of corpses dangling overhead – most were asrai, but some were outsiders and all of them were frozen in a grotesque parody of life.

Finavar’s repulsion was fleeting. He understood the logic of such a display. He had left similar trophies himself many times – draping the skins of outsiders in trees was an age-old method of warning off trespassers from the forest borders. He had never seen the technique applied to his own kind, of course, and it appalled him to think that so many of his kin had fallen in battle, but he could respect the thinking behind the gruesome sight.

He turned to head back to the path. As he did so, a branch snapped beneath his foot and broke the eerie silence.

To Finavar’s horror, as the sound rang out, the skewered warrior overhead opened his eyes. He looked around in panic and fear, then spotted Finavar standing a few feet below him. The warrior began to scream and thrash, clearly hoping that Finavar might be able to help him.

Finavar reeled backwards, horrified. How could such a pitiful thing still be alive?

As Finavar backed away, the warrior’s shrieks grew louder and some of the other figures opened their eyes and joined in.

‘By the gods,’ whispered Finavar, clamping his hands over his ears. ‘They’re alive.’

He turned to race back to the path but it was gone. As the chorus of screams continued, he saw that there was nothing ahead of him but the terrible fruit trees.

‘Jokleel!’ he cried.

There was no sign of his brother, or his ghost but, as Finavar clambered up the side of the valley, trying to find a vantage point, something else caught his eye.

One of the trees further up the slope was falling. No, not falling – loping towards him.

Finavar’s disgust mingled with fear. Had one of the tree husks finally caught up with him?

He turned to run back down the slope, caught his foot on a root and tumbled, headlong through the shadows.

Finavar hit the valley floor with a painful crunch and immediately leapt to his feet. The confusion that had been muddling his thoughts had vanished along with the path. Despite the screams that were assailing his ears, he now saw everything with horrible clarity.

He was alone in the Wildwood. A freak chance had allowed him enough time to glimpse the awful nature of the place. Now he was going to die.

‘No!’ he snarled, picturing Ordaana, laughing at him with an arched eyebrow. ‘I will not die. I will not leave the forest to her.’

He looked back up the slope. Whatever he had seen was gone.

He sensed movement behind him and whirled around.

A figure slipped back into the shadows. Finavar was too slow to see his stalker’s face, but he saw enough to know it was not one of the tree husks.

Whatever it was, it had a heavy, powerful torso that shook as it moved, and it was moving on all fours.

He raced in the opposite direction, leaping over roots and fallen branches.

As he ran, he left behind the screams and made for a faint light at the far end of the gulley. ‘Jokleel?’ he called as he saw a slender figure pass in front of the light. ‘Is that you?’ Hope gave him speed and in a few minutes he had reached the end of the valley.

There was no sign of his brother, but the darkness had lifted. He looked up to see if there was sky overhead. There was nothing but more of the pale, stranded figures, hanging in the branches.

‘Jokleel?’ he said, sensing movement in the trees to his right.

Pain exploded as something connected with the side of his face. His head snapped backwards and he toppled to the ground.

His instincts stayed with him and he launched himself back up onto his feet.

Something whirred through the space where his head would have been.

There was a resounding thud as a thick, rune-carved shaft of oak slammed into the ground.

He looked up and gasped in surprise. His attacker resembled a hulking, powerful bear. But, rather than fur and muscle, its flesh was a torrent of shoots, stems and leaves. It towered over him, at eight or nine feet tall and its massive snout was contorted by rage, revealing a mouthful of curved, thorn teeth. Its eyes were coiled, black spirals of ivy. They bored into Finavar as the creature turned to face him.

Its weapon was a gnarled old quarterstaff, battered and stained and capped at either end with carved, fist-sized lumps of bone. And, as Finavar reeled away from the beast, it lifted the staff to strike again.

Finavar ducked and the quarterstaff cracked against a tree behind him.

He dived and rolled back down the path towards the fruit trees.

The bear-thing waded after him on its hind legs, swaying like a drunk as it raised its weapon.

Finavar feigned flight, then, as the staff came down, he ducked beneath it and bounded forward.

He dodged the blow but, before he could land one of his own, the monster lashed out with its other claw, slicing another piece of skin from Finavar’s chest and sending him crashing into the undergrowth.

Again, the quarterstaff pounded down and, again, Finavar was too fast. His skills as a wardancer were so ingrained he could call on them without thought. He sprang up, grabbed hold of a low branch and flipped up into the branches of a tree.

The monster let out a deep, rattling roar and slammed its bulk against the tree.

To Finavar’s amazement the whole tree came loose. Its roots tore up through the soil with a series of cracks and deep, protesting groans.

He dropped to the ground and shielded his face as the tree collapsed, showering him with branches and soil.

As the air cleared, Finavar whirled around, trying to locate the monster in the shadows.

It hurtled towards him like another falling tree and the air exploded from his lungs.

They both rolled across the ground and Finavar felt as though he were drowning in a dense clump of leaves. As he tumbled, his nostrils filled with the monster’s herby, verdant stink.

They came to a halt against a wall of raw earth, and a claw of tightly knotted vines wrapped itself around Finavar’s neck, crushing the air from his throat and slamming him back against the soil.

The monster lifted him easily from the ground.

His head spun with dizziness and lack of oxygen and, as he stared into the black pits that passed for the creature’s eyes, Finavar was reminded of his first meeting with Orion, when the tyrant king had done just the same thing – lifting him from the ground by the throat.

The monster drew back its quarterstaff, already stained with Finavar’s blood, and prepared to deliver a killing blow.

Finavar kicked his legs against the green mass but it was no use. His strength was quickly failing.

I cannot die.

Jokleel, he thought, looking past the monster into the trees beyond.

There was a figure there, watching, and Finavar’s heart raced. It was his brother, stepping from the darkness with a forgiving smile.

Then the shadows shifted and Finavar wondered how he could have been so wrong. How could he have mistaken such a thing for a brother? It was an ancient, hunched dryad. A knotted wraith of bark and thorn. She was not smiling but grimacing, bearing her splintered teeth in a desperate snarl.

Finavar’s stomach turned as he realised the truth. Whoever the spirit was, she had tricked him. She had led him to the lair of this monster. His brother was dead.

As he thought about the monster, it occurred to him that too much time had passed. Where was the final blow?

He looked back at the thing that was crushing the life from his body.

Its quarterstaff was frozen, mid-strike, and it was staring at him.

Finavar watched in confusion as the monster’s expression changed. The leaves that made up its face were coiling and rolling into a perplexed frown.

It loosened its grip slowly and allowed Finavar’s feet to touch the ground.

The branchwraith rushed forwards, allowing him to see all the outrage and bitterness of her cracked face. She was about to speak, but the bear monster held out a warning claw and she hesitated.

The bear monster still had its gaze locked on Finavar. Its face was wracked by confusion. It moved closer and sniffed him – sniffed his chest like an inquisitive dog.

To Finavar’s amazement the monster loosened its grip, shook its head and backed away from him.

Finavar crumpled to the ground.

The branchwraith screamed. It was an unearthly sound that cut deep into Finavar’s mind. The branchwraith was voicing a hurt so ancient and curdled that he almost wanted to go to her – to comfort her somehow. But the reason for her pain was his freedom and he retained enough sense to back away. He staggered away from the wall and the two strange figures that were watching him.

The bear-thing was still shaking its head in confusion, but it had clearly lost all desire to hurt him.

The branchwraith screamed and other dryads began slipping from the darkness. All of them stared at Finavar with panic and hate.

He looked around and saw that they were everywhere. Hundreds of them were emerging from the Wildwood, moving towards him with jerking, frenetic steps.

He shook his head in disbelief. The hopelessness of his situation was secondary to the pain of realising he had been duped. How could he have believed his brother was alive?

As the lurching shapes closed in on him, though, he could not shake the faint sense of hope that had kindled in him. He looked back at the bear monster. It was still watching him and, as their eyes met, Finavar felt as though the creature had seen the same spark.

Finavar stood, clambered up the wall of earth and crouched, cat-like, on its roof of overhanging turf. His mind was spinning as he looked around the orchard. The dryads were as numerous as the trees and they were all closing in on him, led by the one he had seen first. She had stifled her screams and was now approaching him with the same rigid, silent fury as the others.

Finavar should have felt hopeless. He was alone in the Wildwood, surrounded by hundreds of inhuman enemies. He was so drunk from lack of oxygen that his head seemed to be drifting several feet away from his shoulders. And yet, his pulse raced with the old thrill of adventure. He could feel youth, stirring in his ruined body. And something else. It was as though another sentience had joined itself to him – something powerful and benign.

One of the dryads moved with sudden speed, seeming to fold herself up the slope.

Finavar tried to back away but he was dangerously light-headed. He only managed to trip himself up and crash to the ground.

As the branchwraiths gathered around him, he began to laugh uncontrollably, seeing the ridiculous contrast between his inner sense of hope and the utter hopelessness of his situation.

The dryads splayed their thorn-like talons and moved closer, but Finavar could not stop laughing.

This seemed to enrage the leader of the wraiths even further. She lurched ahead of the others, drawing back her claws to strike.

An incredible din tore through the trees and she whirled around.

Finavar was no longer sure that the scene playing out before him was reality. He watched in amazement as more nightmarish shapes thundered into view.

They were tree-like things – forest spirits, like the dryads – but these were goliaths. Their faces looked down through the fruit trees and they batted the dryads aside like insects.

Finavar found it all inexplicably amusing. The giant spirits were smashing through the smaller ones in an attempt to reach him. The leader of the dryads made a last, desperate attempt to skewer Finavar but, before she could, one of the larger spirits slammed a tree-sized limb into her and sent her howling into the darkness.

The branchwraiths hurled themselves at the larger shapes: hacking, clawing and biting. Some of the larger spirits collapsed under the weight of their attackers, but the one who had defended Finavar scooped him up from the ground and waded off through the trees, carrying him as easily as a fallen leaf.

Reality swam around Finavar in waves as he glided through the treetops. He saw the frozen faces of the asrai, preserved in the branches. He saw the wild ferocious dance of the tree spirits, tearing and biting. He saw the confused expression of the bear monster, oblivious to the battle raging around it. Finally, just before he slipped into unconsciousness, he saw the face of his rescuer. It was long and flaked, like a piece of birch bark, but there was also something avian about it. The ridges were formed into a curved beak and there were white feathers sprouting from the paper-like bark. It had two glossy black eyes, framed by moss and soil, and they were watching him closely.

Finavar’s last thought was a thrill of recognition. He had seen this face before. He remembered seeing the weird amalgam of tree and bird, bowing, respectfully to him, after some kind of battle. He could not place the details, but he remembered the spirit had scratched a mark onto his chest.

Then there was just the darkness.

Scenes coalesced. Faces disintegrated. Everything formed into something else; new life from old. The pattern repeated endlessly until Finavar was teetering on the brink of a great revelation.

Then, as always, he saw the face of his brother. He tried to focus on it but, like everything else, it collapsed under the weight of his gaze and assumed a new shape.

It became a grizzled, canine face, with a blood-clotted muzzle and eyes like the winter sun, leaking cold flames into a grey dawn.

Dawn? Finavar dragged his eyes from the brutal-looking hound and looked around. He was in a clearing and there was sky overhead, clearly visible beyond the spider-like reach of the branches. A crisp breeze that tasted of snow washed over his face. The trees that surrounded him were lashed furiously together in an impenetrable crush. This was still the Wildwood, but there was no mistaking it – he was nearer to the borders. He could smell the forest – the real forest – somewhere nearby. Maybe no more than a mile or two. Hope stirred again.

He looked back and saw, to his disappointment that the hound was still there. It had not faded with his dreams. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and studied it more closely. It was sitting at the mouth of a cave, just a few feet away from him, breathing quickly as though it had just finished running. It was glaring hungrily at him. As he saw it more clearly, Finavar recognised the hound and felt a rush of fear and disgust. It was one of Orion’s spirit guides. One of the vicious beasts that led the Wild Hunt to slaughter. He tried to rise, to back away, but found he was too weak to stand. He looked down at his frail body and groaned. It was a wreck. His mind was still clinging to a kernel of hope, but his body was failing fast. Again, he felt the uncontrollable urge to laugh. He looked like something the dog had vomited onto the forest floor. He was a battered, bloody pulp.

Then he noticed that the hound was in no better shape. The blood that had matted its hair was its own. There were deep gashes in its side and its ribs were exposed – shocking and pale in the morning light. There was a key difference between the two of them, though. Finavar’s wounds left him looking pathetic and all too mortal, but the hound’s injuries only revealed how spectral it was. They leaked emerald-infused light into the clearing, splaying out from the animal’s body and flickering across a circle of trees.

No, Finavar realised, not trees. The tall, crooked shapes were moving and whispering to each other. Some clutched long, curved weapons in their wooden claws. As Finavar studied them he spotted the spirit that had rescued him from the orchard. It had stooped down, as awkward and swaying as an old man, with one of his hands resting on his aching back. Its weird, elongated face was just a few feet from the hound and they had their eyes locked on each other. There were no words, but Finavar sensed that they were communicating. Communing. Every few seconds the tree spirit would shudder and click into a different position and, each time it moved, the hound shifted on its haunches and snarled in response.

The light from the dog washed over the spirit and Finavar saw its eyes, flicking in his direction. They’re talking about me, he realised. It looked as though the hound was demanding something – demanding him. With every move it looked at Finavar, drooling bloody saliva as it snapped and growled.

The thing clearly wished to devour him, but Finavar was powerless to escape. All he could do was hope that the tree spirits refused to hand him over. After all, what love would they have for a servant of Orion? He looked at their strange, crooked faces. Did they understand how little Ariel and Orion cared for them?

His attention began to wander. He could feel a steady flow of blood rushing from his wounds and guessed that he was finally dying. The little flame of hope was still there, but it was guttering. As the brutal hound edged closer, he found it harder to understand how he would escape the Wildwood. His body was almost done. He could no longer move his legs and his torn skin was horribly cold.

The sun rose higher and, even as life slipped from his ruptured veins, Finavar savoured the warmth that washed over his face. He forgot about the monsters that were haggling for his life and closed his eyes. He pictured himself in open pasture, deep in the heart of the forest, dancing to the glory of Loec, singing for his playful lord.

Something shook Finavar’s body and startled him into wakefulness. The hound was still watching from the foot of the cave, but the tree spirits were now stooped over him, plunging him back into shadow. They must have won the argument, thought Finavar, but his thoughts were so muddled he could not remember if that was good or bad. What difference did it make? One monster or another?

This close, he saw how different the spirits’ faces were from the bark of trees. Their features were huge, strange and inhuman, but filled with emotion and intelligence. What he had originally taken for splits in bark, were actually runes, formed from their brittle flesh and glowing with faint light. He was so beguiled by the lights that it took him a little while to notice what they were doing.

He gasped and pulled away, realising as he did so that he had regained some of his strength. The whispering of the spirits grew in excitement and they held him fast, pushing him back to the floor.

The thing that had so alarmed Finavar was this: the spirits had torn open some of the runes on their limbs and were pouring treacly, sap-like liquid from them, into the symbol they had scratched across his chest. He stared at them with a mixture of horror and fascination, unable to grasp what they were doing. The same light that was leaking from the hound’s flesh was in the liquid entering his body.

The hound saw his movement and edged forwards, raising its hackles and letting a low, dangerous growl.

The spirit with the avian features raised a hand and the hound paused.

What power do they wield over it, Finavar wondered? How long can they hold it off? I need to be ready for when it strikes. I need to be strong enough to fight. His lip curled in distaste. If I have to die, it will not be at the whim of Orion.

He looked away from the hound and studied his body again, sensing that a transformation was taking place. He gasped. Where the liquid had entered his wounds it had formed a thin, bark-like crust. His skin was rebuilding itself.

‘What are you doing?’

His voice made him jump. It was strong and sure. Utterly unlike the pathetic croak he had expected.

The spirits bristled and rattled at the sound, but continued their work. If anything they were moving faster now – pouring more of their luminescence into his body and holding him even tighter.

Finavar found that his strength was returning with increasing speed. He tensed his muscles and the tree spirits had to lean all of their weight against him to hold him in place.

The hound snarled and began pacing back and forth, swinging its head from side to side.

Finavar’s vision filled up with the unearthly light. Every bough and leaf began to blaze. It was as though someone had held a candle behind a painting, so that the colours doubled in brightness. The world was suddenly aflame with green light. His pulse raced faster and, with a delighted laugh, he rose to his feet, hurling back the spirits, throwing out his arms and reaching out to touch the light.

His mind raced and, as the spirits tumbled away from him he saw that they were laughing with him.

Finavar turned to face the hound, flushed with his new-found power.

The animal held his gaze as he strode towards it, clenching his fists.

Finally, Finavar had the chance and the power to take his revenge.

The light was now rolling and blossoming through his thoughts and Finavar was still a few feet away from the hound when he realised the magic was going to overwhelm him. It raged so fiercely that it burned away reality. The candle had destroyed the painting, leaving nothing but light.

Finavar reached into the radiance, but it was too late. The world had slipped away.

Chapter Two

‘What have I become?’ muttered Prince Haldus.

It was dusk, but the failing light could not shield him from the truth. A vast army was gathered in the valley below him. Nobles from all the great realms had answered his call, just as Naieth promised they would. The greatest asrai force ever assembled was now under his command. The fate of the forest was in his clumsy grasp. And everything told him that this was not his role. He was not born for plans, negotiations and tactics. His place was in the mountains with his hawks, or following his lord in the Wild Hunt – anywhere but here. But they had left him no option. The lords of the great council. Too proud to kneel to each other and too afraid to stand alone, they had knelt to him – their awkward, rough-mannered cousin from the mountains.

He was drifting high in the clouds, on the back of his enormous warhawk, Nuin, and he could see that even now, after months of plague and war, the asrai numbered in their thousands: archers, wardancers, riders and spellweavers from every realm of the forest. Banners that had never been seen together before now fluttered side-by-side, united by desperation and rage. Since the seasons had been replaced by endless blight, the great halls of the asrai had fallen. Some had burned, some had been torn down, but most had simply rotted – consumed by sorcery and disease.

He steered Nuin down through the clouds and landed on a knuckle of bare rock jutting up from the forest, just to the south of where his new army was gathering. There was a noble waiting to meet him – another warhawk rider, sitting on a raptor almost as huge as Nuin.

‘Lord Cyanos,’ said Haldus as he landed.

Cyanos dragged his gaze from the surrounding hills and nodded in greeting. His appearance was unusual for an asrai. His hair was straight and centre-parted and it was as black as the ornate breastplate that covered his chest. His cloak was bunched at the shoulders and Haldus knew that it hid a pair of stumps – all that was left of the wings that had once adorned his back. Even stranger than that were the objects dangling from his armour. Lord Cyanos carried dozens of odd fetishes that clearly had no place in the forest. As he turned to face Haldus, copper, clockwork devices clattered against his armour, jangling against astrological measures, metal-clasped cylinders and bunches of metal keys. And at his belt, he carried a small, leather-bound folio of vellum sheets, covered in printed text. With his gentle manners and studious air, Cyanos was as different from Haldus as it was possible to be, but they had become good friends just the same. Haldus recognised in Cyanos a fellow outsider. The gossips and players of Ariel’s court would shun this peculiar scholar as surely as they had always been appalled by Haldus’s lack of social grace.

They sat in silence for a moment, studying the shocking sights that surrounded them. They were in the far north, near the rolling Alarin Hills, but even here there was no respite from the plague. Large swathes of the hillside had been stripped bare by disease and there were foetid, fleshy growths jutting from the earth – pale domes of fungus that quivered in the breeze, shedding spores across the hills. It was terrible to see. The beauty of the forest had been replaced with a gaudy, diseased facade. There was no birdsong – just the same droning hum of flies that crowded every other valley. Everything noble and pure had perished, apart from the person they had come to find.

‘Lord Thenot lives here?’ asked Haldus, looking in disbelief at a pile of gnarled, leafless branches opposite. It was a kind of gate, but it looked like the work of humans – shoddy and crude, with none of the finesse or beauty of asrai craftsmanship.

Cyanos frowned and peered at his little book. ‘It did not always look this way. His halls have been ruined, Haldus, like everything else.’ He showed the prince an illustration of a beautiful, soaring gate made of living ivy, guarded by proud lords and warriors. ‘The plague has destroyed him.’ Cyanos waved back to the south. ‘I’ve told you what the prophecies say, prince. We must set watch over the Crowfoot Falls, but once you have placed your main force there, I can show you the way to the halls of a truly powerful ally. I know someone who can help you with this burden.’ His eyes flashed with hope. ‘We’ll only need a small force. There will be little or no enemy there. And then I’ll show you an ally who can actually stop this wretched plague.’

Haldus sighed. ‘I trust you Cyanos,’ he waved at the plumed, strutting figures below, ‘far more than any of Ariel’s courtiers, but we must at least investigate this place. Thenot is my cousin. He cared for me as a child after the death of my father. I need to know if he’s still alive.’ He looked embarrassed by the emotion that had crept into his voice. ‘Besides, we seek allies and there may be some survivors here.’

Cyanos gave him a gentle smile and nodded. ‘Then we must hurry.’ He waved at the ugly pink growths that littered the landscape and the clouds of flies that blurred the horizon. ‘We have already lost too much.’

Haldus and Cyanos crossed the valley and approached the gate to Thenot’s halls on foot, accompanied by hundreds of glaive-wielding warriors, all of them wearing plates of thick leather armour. Haldus despised showmanship or displays of power, but he knew that even here, in the halls of their own kin, there was danger. Whoever remained in Thenot’s halls must know that they faced a well-armed force of soldiers.

The gate was as broken and crooked as they thought, but it had been barred from the inside with fallen branches. It must have once been a grand sight, Haldus realised. It would have originally stood over fifty feet tall – a grand, spiralling arch of ivy and thorn, but now it was little more than sticks and rubble. As they approached, he heard a terrible din – the sound of a jeering, howling mob. Hoarse, furious voices rang out, accompanied by the hammering of fists on wood.

Haldus frowned at Cyanos, confused, then stepped closer to investigate.

As he got nearer, he saw shapes watching from the opposite side. None of them seemed willing to approach the gate though – waiting a few feet away from it, yelling and cursing.

‘Kinsmen!’ he cried, holding his hand aloft with the palm facing out. ‘I am Prince Haldus of Arum Tor.’ The din faded away as he spoke. ‘I come to you with the blessing of the Mage Queen and a promise to–’

Haldus’s words were cut short as an arrow whistled from a tower of branches, teetering at one side of the gate.

Haldus ducked aside and it thudded into the overgrown greenway he was standing on.

The howling of the mob began again. More arrows flew, but they landed behind the gate, driving the mob back. Voices cried out for mercy and freedom.

Cyanos hurried to Haldus’s side. ‘This is madness. We must leave!’

‘Wait,’ said Haldus, frowning. He peered at the figures beyond the mound of branches. ‘These are our kin. And they’re trapped somehow – imprisoned in their own halls.’

‘Why are you attacking those who would save you?’ he cried, stepping closer to the gate. This was not the first cold greeting he had received and he was growing tired of pride and stupidity. ‘Fight with us, not against us.’

‘Leave!’ cried a voice from the gatehouse. ‘Or the next shaft won’t go wide.’

The voice was ragged and pained, but it sounded familiar. ‘Lord Thenot?’ cried Haldus. ‘Is that you?’

‘There’s nothing here for you but death,’ replied the voice, sounding even more furious. ‘Leave now, cousin.’

Haldus shook his head. ‘We’re kin,’ he cried. ‘We will not abandon you–’

‘You will leave!’ came the reply as Lord Thenot stepped into view.

Haldus and the others gasped and backed away. Lord Thenot was essentially as Haldus remembered him, but the left side of his body had been transformed. The same pink growths that littered the hillsides had sprouted from his torso and his skin had been enveloped by a black, fungal covering. There was a moist, trembling lump of meat hanging from his body, like an external organ, but it was horribly animated, twitching and quivering and trying to speak.

To Haldus’s disgust he saw that the growth had a gaping mouth and three misshapen eyes. The thing was attempting to catch passing flies with a long, prehensile tongue.

Lord Thenot saw the disgust in Haldus’s eyes and grimaced – his face contorted by a mixture of shame and fury. ‘Yes,’ he cried over the noise of the mob. ‘This is what we are, cousin. Damned. You should leave now and pray–’

His words were cut off as he whirled around to shoot several more arrows at the howling mob below.

‘He’s killing his own people,’ gasped Haldus.

Cyanos looked just as disgusted, but he shook his head. He had been studying the gate through a small cylinder he had unfastened from his black armour. ‘He’s protecting us from them,’ he said, handing the object to Haldus.

The prince looked at the thing suspiciously, then, at Cyanos’s bidding, he held it up to his eye. There was a glass lens in the tube and Haldus felt as though he had been thrown towards the gate. Suddenly he could see right through the gaps and into the halls beyond. He muttered a curse as he saw that Thenot’s subjects were even more mutated than their lord.

‘I can only hold them back for so long,’ cried Thenot. ‘My arrows are running low and my mind is starting to wander.’ There was fear in his voice now. ‘I’m not sure I will want to hold them back for much longer. Do you understand? It’s taking me. I’m losing myself. I can barely remember my own name. You must leave cousin, while you still can. Do not be here when we–’ He broke off with a curse and loosed some more arrows at the figures below.

Haldus felt a sickening realisation. ‘We cannot leave them like this.’

Cyanos shook his head. ‘What can we do? It’s too late for them, prince. We must go where we can still be of use.’

‘I know it’s too late for them,’ replied Haldus, ‘but what about the rest of this realm? What will happen when Thenot weakens and his people spill forth from that hellish pit?’

Cyanos nodded. ‘They will spread their disease to their kin.’ He frowned. ‘But what can we do?’

Haldus peered through the looking glass again. ‘The halls are nothing but deadwood now.’ His voice was grim and he looked at Cyanos with a pained expression. ‘Remember your Great Work, Cyanos – the pyre you built when you were…’ his words faltered.

Cyanos looked awkward but he nodded. ‘I remember.’

Haldus looked back at the wooden fortress crouched in the side of the hill.

Cyanos stared at him in shock.

Haldus clenched his jaw. ‘Think, Cyanos. South of here is Endar Varian and the Moonspring Glades. Think how many souls will be damned if we don’t end this here.’

Cyanos looked appalled, but he nodded. ‘Of course, Prince Haldus. You’re right.’

As the sun set behind the Alarin Hills, the valley lit up with a light so powerful that it seemed dawn had come early. Prince Haldus watched from the rocky outcrop on the opposite hill. He had placed the first flaming brand at the foot of the gate. He knew that he could not expect his soldiers to do something he could not. Then, as he walked away, silhouetted by the flames, dozens of figures marched solemnly past him, carrying brands of their own, their eyes wide as they considered the terrible nature of their task.

‘What have I become?’ he whispered, as the flames climbed higher and the screams grew more desperate.

Chapter Three

Finavar saw Ordaana, sitting beside a moonlit brook. He had crawled from his brother’s corpse to exchange vitriol with her, but even charged with grief he could not match her bile. She was railing and cursing, demanding the death of Ariel and Orion, claiming that they were the doom of the asrai. He had watched this scene before; this had all happened in the past. Even in dreams there was a part of him that knew this to be a memory. But this time he watched the scene with a different focus. As Ordaana ranted he studied her movements and noticed something new – something he had only half considered the first time. With every bitter word, every twitch, she scratched angrily at a mark on her shoulder. Once he had noticed this, he could think of nothing else. It overwhelmed him. He could see nothing but her hateful words and her fingers, clawing at the mark on her shoulder.

Finavar sensed the power in this tiny blemish. Three circles laid out in a triangle. They were the root of everything that had gone wrong. All the madness that had overtaken his people stemmed from these three points. He peered closer, terrified by the scale of ruin that was leaking from the symbol. Ordaana carried the end of the world on the surface of her pale skin. She carried the mark of damnation.

He reached out to touch it.

Finavar awoke with a painful series of jolts. His face was pressed into matted hair, heavy with animal musk and the thick aroma of blood.

He looked up and saw the forest rushing by. The dark, brutal crush of the Wildwood was gone. He was travelling through a winding gulley, crowded with waist-high ferns and weary, leafless trees. Overhead was an iron-grey sky, heavy with the promise of snow. It was early morning and the air was crisp.

I’m home, he thought.

For a moment he could think of nothing else. He had done the impossible. He had escaped the Wildwood.

Then he noticed that there was something else drifting on the breeze – a cloying undercurrent of damp and decay. Am I home, he wondered?

He looked down, wondering at the incredible speed he was travelling.

He was strapped to the monstrous hound. Thick vines had been used to lash him to the monster’s back, holding him in place even as it pounded through brushwood and pasture.

He grimaced. The animal stink appalled him all the more now that he realised where it was coming from. Orion’s guide. The killer’s favoured weapon. With his face just inches from the hound’s back, he could see through the countless holes in its flesh. It had clearly been through some terrible ordeal. He wondered how the creature was still intact, never mind running. Through the wounds he saw the same green light that had been poured into his own flesh. The idea that they shared some kind of enchantment horrified him and he strained against his bonds, trying to free himself.

The hound staggered as Finavar moved; its strength was almost gone. The thought gave him hope. He could not imagine what vile punishment Orion’s hound had planned for him, but he was determined to escape it. The hound’s breathing was quick and laboured, but he knew a wounded animal could find unexpected reserves of strength.

The hound picked up its pace, as though sensing that it was almost out of time.

It smashed through the thicket and pounded up the side of the gulley.

Finavar felt the strength of the spirits, still in him, along with the benign presence he had felt in the orchard. Something was stirring in his soul. He wrenched and struggled, breaking the bonds that held him in place.

He slipped around the side of the hound, almost free, but it continued racing up the slope, forcing its broken body into one last, desperate charge.

They reached the summit just as Finavar managed to break the remaining cords and kick himself free, sending the hound tumbling in one direction and himself in the other.

He rolled across hard, cold turf, but the strength he had regained had brought with it his old agility. He bounded up onto his feet and whirled around, dropping into a crouch and bracing himself for the hound’s attack.

No attack came. The animal was lying a few feet away and Finavar relaxed, seeing immediately that he was in no danger. The beast was on its side, panting heavily, gouts of blood and green fire pouring from between its ribs. Its limbs were folded in an awkward jumble, hardly connected to their shoulder joints.

The beast stared at him, but was unable to do anything other than lie there as he looked around for a weapon.

Finavar found a fallen branch and grasped it in both hands as he approached the hound.

The monster’s chest slumped as he approached. Its ribs were crumbling, as though the fire they contained was consuming them. The animal’s body took on an oddly deflated appearance as Finavar loomed over it.

‘You can tell your master I’m done with him,’ said Finavar, his face contorted by disgust. ‘I’ll not waste another day pursuing vengeance. He’s not worthy of my hate. I’ll do what I should have done at the beginning. I’ll return to my own kind and forget about all of you.’

It was only by speaking the words out loud that Finavar realised he was free. He had rid himself of a terrible burden. ‘I cannot undo what happened to Jokleel.’ He spoke with growing certainty. ‘It was not my fault. I cannot be responsible for the actions of my king.’

His voice grew louder. ‘I will not be devoured by this guilt. I will not become like Orion. I will not turn on my own kind.’

He stood proudly over the crippled animal, feeling as though he was speaking directly to the Mage Queen and her Consort-King. ‘Orion can do as he pleases, but I will fight for my people. I will fight for my home and the glory of Loec.’

He expected the hound to struggle, or attempt to attack him, but it just lay there, panting and staring past him, looking at something further up the slope.

He followed the direction of the hound’s stare and saw that they had climbed onto the foot of a larger hill – a huge grassy mound that jutted from the forest like the back of a prehistoric monster. At its summit there was a crooked dolmen, robed in ivy and lichen.

Finavar looked back at the hound. It met his eye briefly and then looked back at the hilltop and the stones.

He lowered his club, confused. There was no rage or judgement in the hound’s eyes, only relief. It glanced once more at the hilltop and then stiffened in pain and, despite all his hatred, Finavar felt a wave of pity.

The hound rolled into a tight ball and its breath became even faster and more ragged. Then, after a final snort, it fell silent and lay still.

Finavar stood there for a moment on the wind-lashed hillside, staring at the hound. The light faded from its body and Finavar knew it was dead. He felt a growing sense of doubt. The hound had made no attempt to attack him. And now, as its body collapsed, there was no trace of anger in its eyes.

Finavar stepped closer, shaking his head, sensing that he had missed something important. He reached out, as though to wake the hound.

At that moment, the light flared one last time, leaving nothing in its wake.

The hound was gone.

Finavar gripped his club tightly and sat on the grass. The flash of light had left an after-image of the hound’s corpse in his eyes and he pressed his hands against his face, trying to rid himself of it.

His thoughts whirled. So much had happened, he struggled to know his own mind. He was free of his oath to avenge Jokleel; he saw clearly now that he had been a fool, but what should he do? Every path had been obscured. Then he recalled his epiphany in the Wildwood. He must find his friends and regain what they had lost; then they must hunt down that treacherous worm, Ordaana.

He climbed to his feet, remembering the urgency of the situation. He knew now that Ordaana was behind all the ills that had befallen the forest. Who knew where her deranged plans would lead?

He looked back down the slope. The terrain looked familiar, but he could not place any of the landmarks. As he peered down into the grey, leafless gulley, he saw another after-image of the dead hound and was reminded of its final glance.

He turned to look at the distant group of standing stones. They were silhouetted against the leaden sky and he felt an odd sense of dread as he studied them. What had the hound wanted of him? Why had it brought him here? Why did it lead his gaze in that direction?

Once again, he had the sensation that he had missed something.

Finavar shrugged and began to climb the hill. At least from the summit he might be able to spot a familiar landmark.

As Finavar climbed, he realised what a terrible mistake he had made. There were no familiar landmarks. This was not his forest. It could not be his home. It was obscene. A mockery of nature. With every step he took, he saw a little more of the landscape and each new vista filled him with dismay.

There were pockets of natural forest, like the gulley below, but huge tracts of Finavar’s home were gone. It had been transformed into an eye-watering rainbow of colours. The world should have been in the grip of winter. It should have been dismal and dun, but Finavar saw a harlequin dance of carmine, copper and cadmium. Fingers of pale fungus speared up through the trees, topped with sapphire-blue cupolas and hazed by citrus-yellow spores. Purples and pinks danced across the horizon – teetering, pustulant digits, reaching up from wobbling, paunch-like hills. It was a hideous mockery of summer, but a summer without warmth or beauty, or the hosts of tiny spirits that should have filled the blooms of that season.

Finavar groaned as he climbed, moving faster to see the full horror of the transformation.

The rivers of acid he had glimpsed from the Chains of Vaul had now fanned out, covering the entire forest with ribbons of boiling, yellow poison. Wherever they flowed, an iridescent patchwork of mutation had sprung up. He found himself in a forest without sanity – a world in which rotten, gaudy blooms had destroyed the natural order.

Finavar clutched his head in his hands as he neared the summit, stumbling like a drunkard. The mutation was everywhere. Everything was infested and corrupted beyond recognition. He cried out as he saw, less than half a mile away, a monstrous, goitre-like growth that had boiled up from a riverbed, enveloping an entire valley. It was a mottled pink mound, quivering and silky like the belly of an enormous rat. The vile thing was littered with chimney-like carbuncles and they were belching flies into the air. Even at this distance, Finavar could tell that the insects were huge, like the ones he had seen at the Chains of Vaul, and they were moving with horrible deliberation: flying in neatly-ordered columns towards another fungal goliath – a slug-like limb that covered miles of the horizon.

‘Ordaana, what have you done?’ he snarled, continuing on towards the stones. ‘What have you taken from us?’

Finavar advanced over the other side of the hill: the situation was even worse than he had thought. Wherever the forest had resisted the advance of the florid garden, it had fallen to another threat. The dark, impenetrable glades of the Wildwood had burst from their boundaries and rushed out to meet the plague, creating an impassable barrier of thorns and roots and leaving nothing inbetween. The forest was shared between two equally dreadful invaders.

By the time Finavar reached the stones, he was trembling with rage. Whatever game Ordaana was playing, she had destroyed his home. He smashed his club against the old rocks and howled.

The branch broke in a shower of splinters and two shapes bolted from the shadows beneath the capstone.

Finavar recoiled, surprised by the movement. Then he laughed.

Watching him from a few feet away was a pair of polecats. Their fur had been scorched in a couple of places and one of them had lost part of an ear, but Finavar recognised his scouts immediately.

‘My friends,’ he said, bowing.

The sight of Mormo and Mauro distracted him from his rage for a moment. They looked back at him with the same calm, patient expressions they always wore. He recalled how he had driven them away after the death of his brother and felt a flush of shame. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, bowing again.

The polecats watched him for a few moments, as though gauging his sincerity, and Finavar saw that the change in them was more profound than he had at first thought. Their eyes now gleamed with the same odd light he had seen in the hound and there was something ghostly about them, as if they were only half present.

‘Did you follow me?’ he asked, amazed by their bravery. ‘Did you enter the Wildwood?’

The polecats rushed through the grass and climbed into his outstretched hands.

He pressed his face into their fur, savouring their scent and noticing again that they had been changed somehow. Finavar, like all of his race, could sense magic as clearly as the breeze, and he felt it now, pulsing through their tiny veins. Then, sensing that they wished it, he placed them back on the ground.

They immediately bolted back under the dolmen.

Finavar frowned. Orion’s hound had sent him to these stones; it had sent him to his friends. Once again, he sensed that he was on the edge of some great wisdom. It infuriated him to follow the train of thought, but he was beginning to doubt the dissension he had seen between Orion and the rest of the forest. Could it be that neither the hounds, nor Orion, were as vile as he thought? The dying hound had brought him to his guides, and one of the forest’s hidden links with the Great Weave. Orion’s servant had saved him from the Wildwood and shown him a route to… His thoughts faltered as he looked at the polecats. He could see their eyes glittering in the dark beneath the stones. A route to where?

He stepped closer and saw another surprise. Scratched into the dust beneath the stones was a rune. He recognised it immediately. It was the mark of his patron god, Loec. The meaning was clear – someone intended him to enter the dolmen and let it lead him where it willed.

As Finavar stepped closer he felt magic emanating from the rocks; it rippled over his skin like the charge of an approaching storm. He glanced back at the madness surrounding the hill and decided he had little choice. Besides, his guides were waiting silently for him at the threshold, clearly willing him to enter, and they had never betrayed him before.

Finavar laughed. After all the trials he had endured he was getting used to braving the unknown.

He strode forwards. As he moved, the polecats launched themselves after him and all three of them vanished from the hilltop.

Chapter Four

Leaves danced in the breeze, allowing a brief splash of sunlight to hit the forest floor. The light rippled across twelve smooth, yellow domes that filled the little glade. They were mushroom caps, each about six or seven feet in diameter. Their size was not the most unusual thing about them, however. Clara was far more unnerved by their cheerful, smiling faces. As she dragged herself higher up a tree, twelve pairs of eyes followed her progress. The eyes were essentially human in appearance, but each of them was as large as Clara’s face.

‘I don’t like the look of you at all,’ she whispered, settling on a bough and wishing she still had her crook. When she had first reached the clearing, just a few hours earlier, she thought the place relatively safe. The surrounding valleys were filled with things she was trying desperately not to think about, but this glade had seemed like a haven. Then, after what she was sure was only the briefest of naps, she had awoken to see these grotesque, fungal faces looking up at her.

She had arrived in the clearing as a bird – a jackdaw, she thought, and before that she had been a series of lumpen, shuffling toads. Before that, she was unsure – a fox, maybe, or perhaps a pine marten. She had a clear image of a fawn, emerging from a shattered oak, but she could not be sure if that was a vision of herself, or a memory of a more natural kind.

The forest was playing a game with her, she knew that now. Every time she managed to regain human form, it would fill her mind with visions so beguiling that they quickly overwhelmed her flesh. For a while she had lost herself utterly to these enchantments – subsumed by the wonders and horrors of the changing forest. But now she had learned to preserve a kernel of herself, buried so deep that it was untouched by the transformations tormenting her body. She was Clara. She was a mage from the Amber Hills.

And she was a damned fool.

Her wrinkles deepened as she considered what a mess she had made of things. All she had meant to do was snatch a little of the Everwood’s power and leave. By now she should have been ruling the Amber Brotherhood with one jabbing, rheumatic finger. But no – she had to let herself be outwitted by meat-headed peasants and then dragged into this lunatic’s daydream of a forest.

She looked down at the mushroom caps and grinned back at them, bearing her crooked yellow teeth in a furious, mocking grin.

To her horror, they all began to laugh – a low, gurgling sound that caused their rubbery flesh to quiver. Some of them were so amused they threw back their domes and revealed the rippling gills beneath.

‘By the gods,’ she said, ‘what do you want with me?’

The faces became suddenly quiet, but they gave her no answer. They stared at her with lidless eyes and their mouths hanging open expectantly. She noticed that they had rows of fine, needle-like teeth behind their lips. Then the breeze dropped and the tree canopy fell back into place, plunging them into darkness.

‘Bubbleblack, sicklesack,’ whispered voices from the shadows. ‘Crunch the bones and drink the sap.’

Clara stiffened in horror, knowing without a doubt where the words had come from. She was sightless for a moment and imagined that the faces were drifting up towards her, mouths wide and eyes rolling.

After a few minutes, she grew accustomed to the dark again and she was able to make out the twelve, pale blobs in the gloom. To her dismay, she realised that they were a little closer.

‘Bubbleblack,’ they whispered.

She climbed higher, still amazed by how nimble she was. For all the forest’s madness, she could not deny that it had filled her with the most wonderful vigour. Even while in human form, she was charged with magic. She could feel all eight winds of it whistling through her veins. She had never felt this young.

‘Think, you old goat,’ she whispered, peering into the shadows. ‘What did the ghost say to you?’ She closed her eyes, wracking her brains and trying to recall her exchange with the child in the autumn leaves. ‘He said there was a way.’

The spirit had been as deranged as everything else, but Clara had nothing else to pin her hopes on. Every step she took left her deeper in the forest and, even if she could return to the white stones that guarded its borders, she knew she could not leave – not in her current state. She needed to be made human again.

‘Where have you gone?’ she hissed, wanting to shout but terrified of what she might summon if she did.

‘Gone?’ asked a voice from behind her.

Clara jumped so violently that she almost fell from her perch. Once she had steadied herself, she turned around to look for the golden spirit.

At first she could not see it, then the breeze picked up again, letting in another shaft of light and throwing some dead leaves up towards her. A column of bronze and gold shimmered nearby and, as it flickered back and forth, she saw a familiar impish face.

‘Zephyr is with you, old human, do not fear.’

The spirit spoke with gentle concern, but Clara was wise to its tricks. Or perhaps tricks was the wrong word – the spirit seemed to be genuinely confused for most of the time. In one breath it would speak of helping her home and ridding her of mutation; in the next breath it would rant at all the injustices it imagined had been done to it.

Clara replied carefully, conscious that the wrong word would send the spirit fleeing into the trees. ‘Are we near the place you mentioned?’

The spirit child did not seem to hear. Since arriving in the clearing it had been looking around with a worried expression on its little face – taking in all the grotesque, bloated shapes that surrounded them. The twelve grinning mushrooms were not the only signs of the forest’s decay; there was barely a tree that had not been torn open by tumour-like growths of fungus and the ground was alive with movement – thousands of tiny grubs were washing through the glade. They were pale and maggot-like, but some of them moved on spindly, spider-like legs and others whirred by on humming wings. It was obvious, even in the fragile bursts of light, that they were not normal grubs. Some, like the mushrooms, had humanoid features – tiny, wide-eyed faces that stared out of their ridged flesh. Almost as strange as the creatures, were the colours. The trees were leafless but dressed in a revoltingly gaudy blossom of fungal blooms – quivering, petal-like brackets of fungus and clouds of mustard-yellow spores.

The spirit child shook its head and drifted higher. As it saw the surrounding hills, it looked even more troubled.

Clara looked in the same direction and saw the same thing she had seen whenever she regained her senses – the trees were either twisted into colourful, nightmarish shapes, or absent altogether, replaced by a stew of yellow liquid and quivering, goitre-like fungus. She guessed from the spirit’s expression that even the Everwood was not usually this strange. An idea occurred to her. She had let the forest and its pernicious little agent take charge for too long. If she were to stand any chance of escape, she needed to show some initiative.

‘It’s worse in the south of the forest,’ she said quietly.

‘What is?’ snapped the spirit, appearing next to her in a flurry of leaves.

The spirit was trying to adopt a haughty, nonchalant expression, but it was too infantile to play such games and Clara felt a rush of excitement as she realised how naive her companion was.

‘The forest is being overrun by…’ she hesitated, struggling to think of a suitable name. Her gaze skipped over a knotted root and she said. ‘It is being killed off by Yellow Root.’

The child spirit stared at her from its spiral of leaves. Then it sneered disdainfully and whirled away from her, vanishing into the shadows.

Clara’s heart raced, but she held her tongue. She was starting to understand the spirit’s erratic, fidgeting behaviour.

After a few minutes, as she expected, the column of leaves rustled back into view, picked out again by the shaft of light. The childish face looked suspiciously at her.

‘I know all about Yellow Root,’ it snapped. Then it narrowed its eyes. ‘What do you know of Yellow Root?’

Clara tried to keep her voice as deadpan as possible. ‘I come from a place that is regularly plagued by it. It was one of my jobs to remove the infestations.’

The spirit looked anxiously at the twelve faces looking up at them. Then it licked its gilded lips and drifted closer. ‘How?’

‘My memory is so confused,’ she answered. ‘Strangely enough, changing from a hawk, to a newt, to a trout has left me unable to think straight.’ She ran her fingers gently over the open wound on the side of her head. Since her run-in with the peasants, it had got progressively worse. She could feel a whole patch of exposed skull beneath her bloody, matted hair. More worryingly, the bone seemed to be changing shape – forming itself into a raised lump. She had been trying not to think about it too much, but it felt almost like a little tusk. Her thoughts leapt to the one-eyed, pot-bellied monsters she had seen all over the forest. Each of them had a single horn rising from their heads.

She quashed her fears and focussed on the spirit. ‘If I could just be healed,’ she said, speaking slowly, ‘perhaps I could remember the trick to removing this blight. I’m sure it was something quite simple.’

The spirit narrowed its eyes, then adopted a sullen, sulky pout. ‘I already told you I could help. I can show you a way to be human again.’

Clara gave what she hoped was a disarming smile. ‘Then perhaps we could help each other. Where do we need to go?’

The spirit sneered at her. ‘The Darna-Càoch, of course. The Blind Pool. The Forgotten Lake. The Endless Dream. Call it whatever you like. The puddle. It doesn’t matter. Only the Council of Beasts can help you. Sativus can undo any…’ The spirit’s words trailed off and it looked troubled again. ‘But Sativus is no more.’

The spirit fell silent and Clara wondered if it was about to leave her again. She looked down and saw that her mind had not been playing tricks on her. The mushrooms were growing larger, and taller. Their broad, smiling faces were definitely closer. Her pulse raced as she realised they had risen halfway up the tree trunk in just the last few minutes.

‘Sativus is gone, but the rest of us remain,’ continued the spirit, not looking entirely convinced by its own words. ‘And besides, the Darna-Càoch sees only the immutable truth of things. The water is too old to be confused by confusion. It would see you for what you are. Or what you think you are. Or what you need to be.’

The spirit began to talk in irritating riddles and Clara lost the thread of its conversation. A creaking sound: the mushrooms had risen even higher. They were now just a few feet away and she could see the rows of needle teeth with horrible clarity. Their grinning mouths were lined with them.

‘You will need to take me there quickly,’ she said, interrupting the spirit’s confused ramblings. ‘We don’t have much time.’

Zephyr looked furious at being interrupted. Then it noticed that the fungal growths had almost reached them.

‘I know that,’ it replied, petulantly, enveloping Clara in a funnel of whirling leaves.

Clara yelped as she felt her body being lifted and hurled through the air.

Chapter Five

Finavar staggered to a halt in the darkness, unsure which direction to take. After a while he sensed movement ahead and followed it, recognising the scratching, scampering sounds of Mormo and Mauro. The absence of light was complete, but he trusted his guides. After a while he realised that they were leading him towards a noise. At first it was a distant rushing sound, like wind moving through leaves, but it tripled in volume with every step he took until it became a deafening roar. It sounded as though a mountain were crashing down around him. Other noises followed: battle cries and the clattering of weapons, but they were all dwarfed by this thunderous din.

Finavar emerged into moonlight and his breath caught in his throat. He was standing at the entrance to a deep, broad valley and towering overhead was an incredible sight – a vast, three-limbed waterfall, tumbling around two colossal towers. The falls must have been miles tall and Finavar knew immediately what he was looking at. He had never glimpsed it before, but he knew that he was witnessing one of the forest’s most guarded treasures. The waterfall was called the Limneonas and it featured in countless asrai tales and histories. The two pillars that divided the water into three were actually ash trees, naked and skeletal, but so tall that they seemed to support the very heavens, their crowns lost in a haze of clouds and spray.

Finavar was cowed by the magnificence of the sight. The Limneonas blazed in the moonlight – three blinding columns of silver, crashing down into an oval lake. He was so shocked that it took him a few seconds to notice that he was not alone. There was an army gathered at the foot of the falls and, as the light flashed brighter, it gave Finavar a vivid, frozen, snapshot of grim-faced warriors. His pulse raced as he saw that the forces mustered below the waterfall were even greater than those that fought at the Battle of Drúne Fell.

Every realm of the forest must have volunteered its children to create such a proud gesture of defiance. Finavar saw pennants from every realm he could name and dozens more he could not. Riders were thundering by in their hundreds, spears aloft and horns trilling, led by nobles in flamboyant robes.

Moving down the south bank of the river was a host of glaive-wielding foot soldiers. They were clad in thick, leather armour and Finavar recognised the sword of Wydrioth on their banners. ‘Lord Findol,’ he muttered in surprise. The Findol Host was famed for its brutality and heroism, but Finavar had never heard of them travelling so far west. They rarely left their briar-rock fortress in the heart of the Pine Crags. He wondered who, or what could have dragged them so far from their haven.

Fast-limbed, semi-clad figures were slipping past them and Finavar grinned, recognising his brothers in mirth: the wardancers of Loec. Where Findol’s host marched, the wardancers seemed to glide, hurling themselves through the air, cartwheeling through the spray and twirling their leaf-shaped blades.

The light grew even brighter and Finavar looked for its source. It was emanating from another asrai kindred – a group of spellweavers that were drifting in the air, way above his head. They were hanging before the waterfall like a chain of water sprites with their robes spiralling in the foam and their staffs wrenching lightning from the spume. The light blazed in their flesh as they created spheres of root and magic and hurled them through the air.

Finavar watched, hypnotised, as the glittering spheres tumbled into the distance. As they went, they illuminated the whole length of the valley and revealed a sight that shocked him even more than the waterfall. As the mage-fire lit up the far end of the river Finavar glimpsed a terrifying vision – a flood of hunched figures; thousands of half-seen, malformed horrors, lurching and slithering towards the waterfall from the surrounding hills. Before the lights failed, they washed up against a vast outcrop of land, blocking the river at the far end of the valley.

A cloud of arrows poured from the slopes on either side of the waterfall. They fell in their tens of hundreds on the approaching monsters, but Finavar saw that the daemons were not the only threat.

The water was rising fast. Blocked by the distant outcrop, it had burst from the banks of the river and was lapping quickly up the slopes of the valley. As the asrai advanced they were forced to wade, knee deep through eddying torrents of water.

Then the sorcerous light failed, leaving Finavar with nothing but the dreadful din of the falls and a toiling mass of shadows.

He looked back the way he had come, but saw only a mossy, jagged valley wall. There was no sign of the portal he arrived through, but he was not particularly surprised. Many of the forest’s shadow paths only ran in one direction. He grimaced and stepped further from the shadows.

His arrival was met by a series of guttural cries and Finavar whirled around to see that the slopes above him were alive with the enemy. One-eyed mutants, clutching rusted, broken blades were scrambling through the shrubs and thicket and several of them had already singled him out with their swords.

Finavar bounded down the slope, making for the valley floor and the army at the foot of the falls.

The roar of the water was bewildering – a low, grinding, drum roll that reverberated through the valley and caused Finavar’s legs to tremble as he fled.

Arrows whistled through the air, missing Finavar’s face by inches and felling some of the daemons.

He dropped into a crouch. ‘Some guides,’ he muttered, seeing the polecats looking up at him from lower down the slope. ‘Is this your idea of a rescue?’

The daemons behind him lurched back to their feet and summoned more of their kind from the shadowy slopes.

Finavar skipped and rolled lightly down the valley wall and quickly left the daemons behind.

After a few moments he splashed into the river and began wading through it towards the asrai lines.

There was another dazzling flare from the spellweavers hanging over the waterfall. Finavar was too far away to see their faces but he could see the tendrils of light lashing from their fingers. He counted at least a dozen and shook his head in wonder. He had never witnessed such a gathering of mages. They were summoning cages of root and water from the falls and then hurling them at the daemons.

The light lasted a little longer this time and Finavar saw one of his kinsmen a few feet away. He saw by the markings on his leather armour that it was one of Findol’s guardsmen. He was hunched, ashen faced, over a body that was drifting in the water.

Finavar dashed towards the warrior, calling out a ‘Hello’.

The warrior flinched at the sight of Finavar, his eyes straining with fear and disgust. ‘Get back!’ he cried, rising from the water with a glaive in his hands. He looked around for support, as though he had been attacked, but everyone was busy rushing to join the attack.

Finavar stumbled to a halt and shook his head. Before the light dimmed, he looked down at his body and realised what the warrior was so afraid of. The tree spirits’ medicine had transformed him. They had replaced his missing patches of skin, but not with new flesh. They had repaired his body with brittle plates of bark-like shell. To the warrior, he must look as grotesque and strange as the monsters that surrounded the valley.

The light flashed even brighter, blinding him.

The last thing Finavar saw was the desperate face of the asrai warrior as he charged towards him, glaive raised.

Finavar thanked Loec for letting him regain his old agility. Even half-blinded, he had enough balance to flip away from his attacker.

His agility did not enable him to see behind him, however, and he slammed into a tree trunk.

He fell and stifled a yell as sharp pain exploded in one of his hands.

Still half blind, he felt, rather than saw, the asrai warrior, rush towards him.

Then there was a moist tearing sound as the daemons lurched past him and hacked the warrior to the ground, pulling him limb-from-limb in a matter of seconds.

Finavar prepared to defend himself but the daemons rushed on, making for the crush of bodies near the lake.

I could be killed by either side, he realised. People will think the daemons have corrupted me. He felt a rush of panic as he thought that he may never be able to approach his own kind again. Then he remembered that the scales of bark only covered his torso and upper arms. The spirits had mended the wounds he gained being torn from the white boundary stone. All he needed to do was dress himself in something more than his loincloth and he would be able to pass as normal.

He remembered that his attacker had been examining a body in the water and waded towards it.

There were now warriors rushing all around him. He could hear hooves and feet pounding past but he fixed his attention on the shape ahead. As he had guessed, it was the body of a fallen asrai warrior and he knew he only had seconds to reach it before someone else noticed his deformed flesh.

His hand brushed against the still-warm body of the fallen asrai and he began to quickly remove its clothes. He hesitated. What if the corpse was infected with the plague?

Then he remembered that the warrior had been hunched over the body, muttering some kind of prayer. He would not have dared get so close to mutation or disease.

Finavar wrestled with the body, struggling to undress it with one hand.

The mage-fire flashed again, just as Finavar finished dressing himself.

A line of horse riders was charging past him to join the army, adding to the general din and filling the air with spray. They were returning from the front lines and making for the foot of the waterfall. Finavar saw from their trailing banners that this was another kindred who were far from their halls. They were the horse-masters of Cavaroc, a realm of sunsplashed meadows in the southernmost reaches of the forest. They wore their hair tied back in long ponytails, plaited with intricate designs woven from pieces of straw and horsehair. Their proud faces were bronzed from a life spent in the plains. Like everyone else in the valley, their features were drawn and lined with exhaustion, but their chins were raised defiantly and they had their eyes locked on their destination.

Finavar slumped against the tree and watched them approach.

As they thundered by, they hurled javelins into the crowds of daemons, dropping several of them to the ground.

The javelins thudded into necks and backs and, before the monsters could rise again, the riders of Cavaroc circled back, drew swords and hacked off their heads.

As they sliced and lunged, one of the riders spotted Finavar leaning against the tree and steered her horse through the spray towards him.

There was a look of pity in her eyes as she took in Finavar’s bloody, emaciated body, but there was no sign of the fear he had induced in the other warrior. She slowed her mount and stared at him.

‘This is not the time to ponder your next rhyme, poet,’ she said. Her steed was hopping from hoof to hoof, clearly eager to be away and Finavar sensed the rider was of a similar mindset.

‘I need your help,’ he said quickly, striding through the water towards her and pulling his stolen robes tighter.

She laughed. It was a bitter sound. ‘It seems that everyone needs our aid today.’

Finavar sensed anger and possibly despair hidden beneath her strident tone, but he did not have time to ask the cause. ‘I need to reach whoever is leading this army,’ he said. ‘I have news that could change their plans. News of a traitor.’

‘Plans?’ She rocked back in her saddle with laughter and was unable to speak for a moment. ‘Look around you, songsmith, do you see any sign of plans?’

Finavar studied the crowds battling through the valley. The asrai armies were fanned out around the foot of the waterfall, massed on either bank of the river and trying to push back the seething hosts that were shambling towards them out of the darkness. Their ranks were disintegrating though, and it was not because of the daemons.

‘The water’s rising,’ he muttered.

The rider’s laughter settled into a pained grin. ‘They have us cornered like rats, stranger. They have drawn us in and then dammed the valley. We’re both dammed and damned.’ She laughed bitterly, twisting the horse’s mane between her fingers and staring at the steep slopes that surrounded them.

Finavar shook his head. ‘Then whoever leads you should call a retreat. You can’t just stay here and drown.’

‘Retreat where?’ She glared at him.

Finavar looked up the slopes on either side of the valley. Daemonic shapes were tumbling towards them in every direction, and they were moving in shocking numbers. Any attempt to climb out of the valley would be hopeless.

‘Who leads this army?’ he asked again.

‘Prince Haldus.’ Her voice was full of scorn. ‘At least, he is the one who summoned us into the trap, claiming to speak with the authority of the Mage Queen. Who leads us now, I’d struggle to say. Haldus made his escape just before it was too late, claiming he would return with help. It seems he had no stomach for the fight.’

Finavar recalled the hawk rider and his heart sank as he recalled the last time Prince Haldus had led them to war. Then he shook his head. ‘Whatever else he might be, Prince Haldus is no coward.’

‘Well, he must be showing his bravery elsewhere then.’ The rider seemed to regret her words as soon as she spoke them, but did not take them back.

Finavar looked at the largest concentration of asrai soldiers – the armoured ranks of footsoldiers from the east. ‘And what of Lord Findol? Is he leading the army?’

The rider took a deep breath that seemed to calm her. Then she nodded and held out a hand to Finavar. ‘My name is Calepine,’ she said with a pained smile. ‘If you had met me before today, my manners would not have been so rough and I would not have spoken so poorly of our kin.’

Finavar gave her a cautious nod and climbed up beside her on the horse’s back.

She pointed her javelin towards the point where the fighting was most fierce, right in the centre of the valley.

‘Yes. If anyone is leading us all to our deaths, it is Lord Findol. I think that, if he weren’t about to drown, he might have even delayed our defeat. He’s almost as shocking as the daemons.’ She peered into the gloom with a bemused expression on her face. ‘He and the other nobles have sworn an oath to Prince Haldus that they will defend the Crowfoot Falls.’

She turned her horse around and sent it racing after the others who were already vanishing into the shifting dark. She waved at the noble who was leading the riders. He was clad in the same pale colours as the others, but he wore a tall leather helmet, topped with a plume of white horsehair. ‘Even my own liege, Lord Edrael, swore that he would wait for Prince Haldus to return. Despite everything we have been through. Haldus said that the falls guard a treasure too important to be lost, but what difference does it make if the whole forest is lost? It is all meaningless now.’ She glanced at the countless shapes gathering on the slopes above them. ‘We could not leave now if we wished to.’

She glanced back at Finavar and spoke in a softer voice. ‘What news did you have for Haldus?’

Finavar shook his head. ‘It can wait.’

A couple of the other riders looked suspiciously at Finavar as Calepine rejoined them, but as they continued on their way, they quickly returned their gaze to the toiling mass ahead of them. Finavar guessed that they had bigger concerns than a starving bard wearing clothes that were too big for him.

He was about to ask another question when the spellweavers’ magic flashed again.

He cursed and shielded his eyes, but his rescuer was undaunted – driving her horse on through the river as though nothing had happened.

‘What is your name, son of Loec?’ she called, struggling to be heard over the noise of the waterfall. ‘Who are your kin? Could I take you to them?’

‘I’m Finavar of Locrimere,’ he called back, but as the words left his lips they felt like a lie. His home was long gone and his memories of the place felt like they belonged to someone else.

‘Ha,’ she replied, with a gruff laugh. ‘That makes sense. One of Lord Beldeas’s refugees.’ The disdain in her voice was clear, but she quickly suppressed it and regained her softer tones. ‘Whatever happens today, I can still behave with a little good grace. Let me deliver you to your kin, stranger, if that’s what you desire.’

Finavar hesitated. What would his kinfolk have heard? Would they know of his supposed betrayal? Surely they would. Banishment to the Wildwood was a rare punishment. For a moment he thought of saying no and making his way alone, but then a spark of mischief flickered in his soul. He pictured himself side-by-side with Caorann and the others, dancing and joking as they did in their youth. He recalled the guile, grace and wit they had shown back then. He smiled, forming the unshakable belief that there was nothing he could not do, or overcome, with his friends by his side.

‘Yes,’ he replied, still smiling. ‘Yes, that is what I wish.’

Calepine looked confused by his smile, but nodded all the same. She made a clicking sound with her tongue and her horse bolted away from the other riders, pounding through the quickly rising river and filling the air with spray. She made for the largest gathering of soldiers – the ones who were rushing up the valley towards the oncoming host of daemons.

Finavar was no rider and, though he did not want to appear a fool, he was forced to clutch tightly onto her back as she lowered her head and drove the horse into a gallop.

They sped through the ranks of soldiers and Finavar had to cry out to be heard. ‘What has become of the forest?’ He recalled the grotesque sights he had seen on the other side of the dark paths.

‘The great realms are dying,’ she replied, speaking in hollow, flat tones. ‘The lords of the inner realms have failed us all and Prince Haldus has called on those who remain for aid. We all thought him our last hope, but this valley of death looks set to be his epitaph. And ours.’

She nodded to the line of riders they had left behind. ‘My Lord Edrael has spared what strength he has, though the gods know how pressed our own defences are. The south of the forest is more corrupted than the rest. And we have the whole winter ahead of us. I do not even know what this treasure is that we’re guarding.’

She turned her gaze back to the ranks of armoured footsoldiers up ahead of them. ‘Lord Findol also answered the call, dragging his men away from the safety of their briar-rock halls at the request of Prince Haldus.’ She waved her javelin at other standards jutting from the crowds of soldiers, naming dozens of great lords and ladies of the forest who had abandoned the defences of their own realms to join Prince Haldus. It was a roll-call of heroes from every realm of the forest, but one of the names in particular leapt out at Finavar. ‘Mälloch the Elder is with the other wood-seers,’ said the rider, looking up at the luminous spellweavers. They were still drifting, jewel-like in front of the falls and Finavar thought he could just make out the Lord of the Fiùrann in his long, bearskin robes.

Despite the mayhem that surrounded him, Finavar felt another rush of excitement. He was sure that Mälloch knew he was no villain. The ancient noble had even attempted to defy the wrath of the Enchanter, Prince Elatior. He had to be forced to take him to the Wildwood.

Finavar could feel his old playful nature blossoming in him, like vigour, returning finally to the limbs of a recovering patient. He would prove Mälloch right. Even if just one of his old kinsmen survived he would find a way to turn this battle around.

‘Lord Beldeas,’ said Calepine, after a few minutes, pointing her javelin at a small hill, surrounded by bodies and water and topped by a group of pitiful-looking warriors, huddled beneath the tattered banner of Locrimere.

Finavar glimpsed his former lord, cowering at the top of the hill, his pale, skeletal face contorted by fear as he ordered his guards to stay close. The guards were archers and spearmen and Finavar realised that there were none of his own kind there. He scoured the shadows but could find no sign of wardancers.

Calepine saw his expression and laughed. ‘Your songsmith brothers have clearly found more heroic places to die.’

Finavar nodded. He would not have expected them to cower with Beldeas, but he doubted they intended to die. He was about to ask if Calepine would allow him to join her and the other riders when a familiar face caught his eye.

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking Calepine’s hand, ‘and good luck. This is as good a place as any for me to begin.’

Calepine seemed momentarily lost for words and Finavar realised that the hope burning inside him must be visible in his eyes.

She frowned, clearly confused. ‘I believe the gods do have something else in store for you.’ She hesitated, reluctant to leave, then she shook her head and laughed. ‘The trickster god is in you. You almost had me fooled into thinking we–’

Her words were cut short as the asrai lines buckled under a fresh wave of daemons.

Spears and swords clattered as Lord Beldeas’s guards tried to hold their ground, but the monsters that waded into view drew screams and curses from them.

Finavar jumped lightly from the horse’s back and dashed through the crush of bodies, waving to Calepine as he went.

She lashed out with her spear, skewering a one-eyed hulk that rose up from the throng. Its body was crusted with armour-like plates of bone and its head was topped by a long, crooked horn.

Calepine fought briefly, then turned and rode away, keen to make her final stand with her lord. As she left, Finavar noticed that she had a faint smile on her lips and some of the weariness had left her face.

He sprinted on through the battle. As he ran, he lifted a pair of blades from the corpse of a wardancer and began juggling them from hand to hand.

Just as Calepine left, a new phalanx of armoured warriors rushed to halt the daemons’ progress. Even here, forty feet from the riverbank, the water was knee-high and, as the asrai plunged their glaives into the daemons, there was an explosion of spray.

Finavar lashed out as he ran, severing limbs and slicing faces, but he did not pause. There was a group of figures huddled on another small knoll up ahead, cowering together as water and daemons pressed in on them.

Finavar gave a final bound, over the heads of two struggling figures, and left the water to clamber up the slope.

Hands reached out to help him, but his momentum was enough to reach the summit of the little hill alone.

The hill was surrounded by fallen daemons and, leading the slaughter was a slender figure with a shaven scalp and two ceaselessly whirling blades. Finavar paused to watch her for a moment, smiling to himself.

The wardancer was too lost in her rage to notice him, but the other asrai on the knoll stared at Finavar in shock. The carnage was horrific, but Finavar continued grinning.

Most of the asrai on the hill were too weak or wounded to fight, but a couple of them were attempting to protect the back of the wardancer who was defending them.

Finavar winked at them as he jogged to her side and joined her bloody dance.

The asrai on the hill watched in stunned silence as the two wardancers whirled back and forth, lashing out at the daemons and looping gracefully over the battle. Their movements became faster and more furious, but no less elegant and, after a while, they began to drive the monsters back into the water, shedding limbs and chunks of weaponry as they went.

Finally, the daemons broke ranks and scattered, lurching off in several directions and eliciting a weak cheer from the asrai on the hill.

The female wardancer reeled back and forth for a moment, hacking and stabbing at the struggling shapes that lay all around her. She moved in manic, twitching spasms, as though her body were being jolted around by a powerful storm. Once she had dismembered every pustulant body part she could reach, she whirled around to face Finavar, wearing a wild, rigid stare.

‘I knew you would return,’ she stated flatly, as if they had only been parted for a day. Her words were simple but her head flicked to one side a couple of times as she spoke, jolted by a violent nervous tic.

Finavar winced inwardly as he saw how her edginess had possessed her. He tucked his blades into his belt and threw his arms around her. She continued trembling and fidgeting, but did not push him away, and for a few moments they held each other in silence, deaf to the battle raging around them.

‘I thought perhaps you would have mellowed since I last saw you,’ said Finavar, still grinning. Then he shook his head and laughed. ‘What am I saying? No I didn’t.’

‘I thought perhaps you would have eaten a meal.’ She stared at Finavar’s gaunt features. ‘You look awful.’

He shrugged. ‘My strength has been returned to me, but I don’t think I’ll ever be handsome again.’

Despite her frenetic, nervous movements, Alhena’s reply was deadpan. ‘You were never handsome.’

Finavar frowned, then laughed, overcome by the simple balm of friendship.

Alhena frowned. ‘Your strength was “returned” to you?’

Finavar was about to reply when someone called out his name from the foot of the hill.

The warriors parted to reveal an awestruck youth. Another wardancer and another face from Finavar’s past.

‘Sibaris,’ said Finavar, giving Alhena a surprised, sideways glance.

‘Someone had to look after him,’ she said with a shrug.

Finavar noticed that she was blushing and her tics had become even more pronounced, so he held back the joke that had sprung into his thoughts.

There was a crash and clatter as more daemons tumbled towards the knoll. Sibaris bounded up the slope like an excited pet and joined Finavar and Alhena as they began another brutal display of acrobatics.

Finavar abandoned himself to the glory of the dance in a way that he had never thought possible. A sense of weightlessness overtook him and, as he weaved in and out of the other two dancers his soul flew free of his body, becoming one with the flashing light of his swords. The three of them lifted their voices in unison as they fought, singing a hymn to the glorious cruelty of their lord, the trickster god, Loec.

The dance seemed to take minutes at most, but when it was done, and the daemons had been scattered for a second time, Finavar saw that several hours must have passed. Dawn was looming on the horizon, as though unsure whether to throw light on such a brutal scene.

The three dancers fell, exhausted, to their knees, their muscles aching and their throats raw from singing.

Finavar looked around and saw that, as they had fought, the battle had moved on.

Lord Findol and the other nobles had been driven back by the enemy, and had formed a single, final barrier of spears and glaives, right at the foot of the falls. The flood had risen even higher and in many places the asrai warriors were waist deep in filthy, red water, strewn with the corpses of their kin, daemons and horses.

Finavar’s smile finally fell from his face. The situation was dire. By the time the sun rose they would be drowning; drowning in their thousands.

The other asrai had fled from the hill, leaving just the three wardancers. He looked from Alhena’s taut, bloodstained glare to Sibaris’s childish grin. Even now, with a massacre looming, he could not shake the sense that their moment had come.

He jogged to the top of the hill and saw that they were utterly surrounded. The fierceness of their dance had not driven back the enemy, as he first thought, it had simply bored them. The daemons were now bypassing the hill on their way to the waterfall. The wardancers were on a tiny island of space, surrounded by an ocean of plague-riddled horrors.

As the other two stepped to his side they looked expectantly at him.

Finavar was unaware of them as he stared into the distance. The growing light had revealed a new horror.

‘What in the name of the gods is that?’ he asked, grimacing.

A few miles east of them at the far end of the valley was the blockage that was causing the valley to flood. As weak, grey light washed over the unnaturally gaudy landscape, it revealed that, rather than an outcrop of land, the shape was a vast, spineless mollusc. Its pallid, puckered flesh glistened in the growing light and its face turned to reveal a nest of tentacles that undulated, drifting like grass caught in the breeze. It was the scale of the thing that shocked Finavar most. The monster had blocked the whole width of the valley with its bulk.

‘That is what the nobles were trying to reach,’ said Alhena. She waved one of her swords at the crowds of daemons that now flanked both sides of the broad river. ‘Only there is no way to fight through.’

She looked intently at Finavar. It was clear by her expression that she was elated by his return. She expected him to have an answer and, rather than daunting him, the thought thrilled him.

‘There is no way out of this valley but through that beast,’ said Sibaris.

Finavar nodded and was about to ask another question when more daemons headed in their direction. Their single, pus-yellow eyes lit up at the sight of three stranded figures and, as they neared the hill, Finavar noticed that one of them was carrying a fly-shrouded ledger of some kind, tracing a pockmarked finger over its rows of glyphs.

‘Caorann?’ he asked, glancing at the bodies that were floating all around them. ‘Thuralin?’

Alhena twitched, coughed, spat and then smiled. ‘Let us rejoin our kin,’ she said, jerking her head towards the crowds gathered below the waterfall.

Sibaris looked like he might burst with pride as he raced after Finavar and Alhena, back towards the asrai lines.

Chapter Six

They fought as they ran, wading easily through the water and vaulting over the enemy – pausing every few yards to rescue asrai warriors when they could. Finavar barely registered the kills. All he could think of was Alhena’s brittle smile when he had asked her about Caorann. His oldest friend. Still alive. The soul who knew him better than anyone else was going to fight and sing with him once more.

Alhena led them towards the thundering columns of water and, as they approached the falls, they were forced to slow down. The asrai wounded had fallen back to this spot and there were hundreds of them, staggering through the water towards a cave mouth on the south side of the falls.

The wardancers made their way through the crowds and clambered up onto a rocky outcrop behind the waterfall. They entered a cave large enough to hold several stands of trees and clamped their hands over their ears. They were directly behind the falls and the noise was deafening. The sound of the water crashing into the lake reverberated from the stone walls and the morning light was refracted by the curtain of water, throwing dazzling, rippling pictures across the ground.

Nobles and mages were dashing back and forth, healing some and hectoring others, but Alhena rushed on towards the back of the huge cave.

Finavar saw Caorann’s thick mass of blue hair from several yards away and cried out in delight. The tall, powerfully built wardancer looked up in surprise, then shook his head in disbelief as Finavar approached.

As Finavar rushed to embrace him, Caorann held him at arm’s length and scowled. ‘Fin, you wretched malingerer. Look at you. What hole have you been hiding in while we kept the forest alive?’

Finavar’s words faltered as he saw the anger in his old friend’s eyes. Then he relaxed as Caorann grinned and enveloped him in a fierce bear hug.

‘They said you were dead.’ He clapped Finavar on the back and winked at Alhena. ‘But some of us never believed it. You’re far too much of a chancer to get yourself killed.’

They looked at each other in silence for a moment and Finavar saw the sadness behind Caorann’s smile. He did not mention the death of Jokleel but there was no need. They were both painfully conscious of his absence.

Sounds of battle dragged them from their reverie but, as he stepped back, Finavar felt a rush of relief. When last he had seen his friends, at the foot of the Chains of Vaul, there had been a barrier between them. His bitterness over the death of his brother had made them seem strange and distant. But now, as he looked at their smiling faces, he realised that the seasons had turned full cycle. They were one, again, as they had always been. They were his kin.

The excitement of seeing his friends was so great that a song sprang, unbidden to Finavar’s lips. Without thinking about what he was doing, he held out his arms, threw back his head and sang a song from his childhood – a tale of Loec, the Lord of the Shadowdance.

The other three wardancers laughed in surprise and then joined their voices to his, waving their swords in a convoluted series of loops and arabesques.

Wounded or exhausted warriors lay all around them in the cave and, as the wardancers’ song grew more wild, some of them sat up to watch, confused. The end of the world was bearing down on them, but the wardancers’ song was as wild and joyful as if they were all attending the rites of spring, with wine in their veins and the sun on their necks. Archers and spearmen paused on their way back to the battle to watch the display with bewildered smiles on their faces. The music dragged them from their current agonies for a moment, reminding them of why they fought.

After a few more verses, Finavar staggered to a halt and turned to face Alhena.

‘And your father?’ he said, grabbing her shoulder. ‘Did you say he was here too?’

She was rocked by another series of twitches, but tried to disguise them as a deliberate gesture, spinning around and pointing to a frail, hooded figure, slumped against the cave wall.

Finavar felt a mixture of delight and sadness at the sight of Thuralin. The hunched old warrior was as determinedly miserable-looking as ever, but the life had clearly gone out of him. His body had been half-ruined by fire, long before Finavar knew him, but now a more determined enemy had finished the job. The side of his face that was not hidden behind his wooden mask was more sunken and grey than ever before and his single eye was so bloodshot it looked like a blood blister. He looked too weak to stand, but as Finavar approached him, he climbed to his feet with a hoarse, wheezing cough.

They stood looking at each other for a moment and a little of Finavar’s good humour faded as he recalled their last conversation. He had told Thuralin everything – how he despised their king and wished to overthrow the rule of the Mage Queen. His words now seemed the ravings of a fool. However cruel the Wild Hunt might be, it was part of them – part of their forest, in a way that Ordaana’s hateful philosophy was not. Her plotting and lies stemmed from another time, another world even. An echo of their ancestors’ deluded pride.

He said none of this to Thuralin but, as the old warrior stared into his eyes, Finavar thought that maybe he understood.

Thuralin gripped his shoulder with surprising strength and glanced at Alhena.

Finavar understood the silent request. When last they spoke, Thuralin had revealed his terrible secret – that Alhena was the product of his forbidden union with Ordaana.

Finavar nodded, reassuring Thuralin that he would not betray his secret, but his stomach twisted at the thought. Ordaana had been driven to cruelty and madness by the belief that she had killed Alhena. Could he really be party to such a lie?

Thuralin was chewing furiously and Finavar caught the pungent aroma of the fern seed that was both keeping him alive and killing him.

‘She has found a companion,’ whispered Finavar, smiling as he grasped Thuralin’s withered arm.

Thuralin nodded and replied with gentler tones than Finavar had ever heard him use before. ‘And you have found something too.’ There was wonder in his eye. ‘You have changed again, for a third time.’ He coughed hard and slumped against Finavar.

Alhena rushed forwards to help, her eyes full of concern.

Thuralin brushed her off and tried to straighten his back. Then he stared closely at Finavar. ‘You are no longer the heroic fool I met all those years ago, but neither are you doom-laden hunter I met at the Chains of Vaul. You’re something else.’ He narrowed his eye and looked at Finavar’s robes, noting how badly they fitted him. ‘How did you escape? You were banished to the Wildwood, Finavar. That’s a death sentence. Even for someone with your luck.’

Finavar looked around anxiously to see if any passers-by might have heard Thuralin’s croaked words.

There were plenty of warriors and nobles rushing through the cave, but only Sibaris, Alhena and Caorann were listening to the exchange, watching Finavar with the same wonder in their eyes.

Caorann let out one of his booming laughs as he saw Finavar’s concern. ‘Nobody has time to worry about your crimes, Fin.’ He nodded at the blurred shapes beyond the waterfall. ‘The forest has been transformed. Everyone is too busy trying to survive to care about you. The council of the great realms has been broken apart. Besides,’ he lowered his voice, ‘your accuser died under something of a cloud. Prince Elatior’s defence of the Silvam Dale was unorthodox, to say the least. Even if things were as they were, there are few who would uphold Elatior’s judgements now – not after what he did to the Wilding Tree. When,’ he laughed, ‘if spring ever returns, the forest spirits will have a lot to say about how the Enchanter tormented that poor soul. Especially as it was all for nothing.’

‘Then the Silvam Dale has fallen?’ asked Finavar, picturing the vast halls of Prince Elatior and Lady Asphalia.

Caorann laughed again and clapped a hand on Finavar’s shoulder. Caorann was a giant by the standards of the asrai, at least a foot taller than most of his kind and unusually broad. As he shook Finavar, he made him feel like a foolish child.

‘The forest is falling, Fin. Haven’t you heard?’

Finavar saw that, despite his devil-may-care smile, Caorann was as afraid as all the others.

‘Then we have work to do,’ he replied, looking around the faces of his companions. The playful tone vanished from his voice, replaced by a fierce determination. ‘By Loec, I will promise you this: the last twist in this saga will be ours. It will not come from some pox-ridden lump.’ He flexed his fingers, as though imagining them crushing the life from an enemy. ‘The final joke will be in Loec’s name.’

Caorann stared at Finavar in shock. Then a broad grin spread across his face. It was an honest, relieved smile, with no trace of doubt. ‘By the gods, Fin. You have changed.’

Alhena clutched the hilts of her swords and her body became so whiplash taut that she managed, briefly, to be still.

Sibaris, meanwhile looked at Finavar with as much awe as if he were in the presence of Loec Himself.

Only Thuralin seemed unsurprised. He turned away and rummaged in a tasselled, leather sack that was slumped against the wall. He lifted something out and, as the other three stepped respectfully back, he handed it to Finavar.

The years spiralled around Finavar as he saw what the old warrior held in his trembling, palsied hands. It was his cloak. It had been carefully repaired in several places and fresh burrs and thorns had been woven into the black cloth.

‘We knew you would return to us, Darkling Prince,’ said Thuralin.

Finavar took the rolled-up bundle, handling it carefully so as not to cut his hands on the spikes. After all that he had been through, the cloak seemed like what it was – the ridiculous affectation of an arrogant child, but the thought that they had kept it safe for him, through all their trials and adventures, imbued it with a new potency. He was touched and honoured, but most of all, he was determined. He could not let them down. He would find a way to save them, and their home. He would become what they thought he was.

Finavar took the black cloak and fastened it around his shoulders. Then he looked around, realising that something was still missing.

Thuralin had already turned back to the sack and a solemn hush fell over the group as he drew out two ornate, leaf-shaped blades and held them out to Finavar.

‘We kept your possessions safe after the Battle of Drúne Fell,’ he said. He looked at the ground, seeming a little bashful. ‘I meant to return them to you when Mälloch the Elder brought you to me at the Chains of Vaul,’ he shrugged, ‘but I did not believe you were ready for them.’

Finavar took the blades reverently, as though enacting a ritual. Then he tested them – slicing them through the air and smiling as he saw that they were true.

The wardancers fell silent and looked at him expectantly.

He grinned and spoke in a bold matter-of-fact way. ‘I know who is leading the enemy against us and I know how to stop her. But first we should put an end to this little skirmish.’ He looked at the pitiful warriors who were still staggering out of the cave to defend the falls. ‘Somebody will be drowned at this rate.’ He tucked his blades into his belt and looked around at the shimmering walls. ‘Prince Haldus is no fool. Why has he gathered all our finest nobles here?’

Caorann nodded to a mound of enormous, convoluted shapes, half-hidden in the shadows at the back of the cave. In the darkness, they looked to Finavar like the coiled tentacles of a leviathan.

‘Do you see those arches?’ asked Caorann. ‘They are the entrance to tunnels, formed by the roots of Hallil and Hallos. The archways on this side of the cave lead into Hallos, the southernmost tree. It is those passages that Haldus has sworn us to defend, until he returns.’

Finavar peered into the gloom, recalling the colossal trees he had glimpsed outside – the two vast columns of bark that divided the falls into its distinctive claw shape. It made sense that such monstrous trees would have an anchor to match their towering limbs above ground, but he was still shocked by the scale of the roots.

‘Hallil and Hallos,’ he shivered. The names were familiar from countless gruesome tales. ‘The Pillars of the Falls.’ He strode across the cave in the direction of the enormous arches of root, amazed to have reached such a legendary site. The tales regarding Hallil and Hallos were bloody and dark, but all agreed that Kurnous Himself had hammered the dread trees into the forest floor, wielding them like spears and placing them as warning; forbidden markers between this world and others. ‘But why fight for this particular shrine? Of all the halls and glades we could be defending, what is so precious about these two trees?’

Thuralin limped after him, shrugging off any offers of help. ‘The caverns within the trees are forbidden, of course, but you must have heard the legends – they are home to various treasures, Finavar, not just nightmares. Our forefathers stowed many of their secrets in those old boughs.’

‘So Haldus wanted us to save a few trinkets that came from across the sea?’ Finavar looked confused. ‘Surely he should have mustered our forces at the Oak of Ages, to safeguard the return of Orion?’ Finavar could not think of the Consort-King without anger, but he knew that most of his kin still considered the Wild Hunt their most powerful weapon.

Thuralin shook his head but seemed at a loss for words.

Caorann stepped closer. ‘Did you not see the forest, Fin? The seasons have been overturned…’

Finavar shook his head, either unable or unwilling to understand.

Sibaris spoke up, his voice hesitant. ‘Without seasons, there will be no spring. And without spring…’ He let the implication hang in the air.

No Orion, thought Finavar. And no Mage Queen. For a moment, the scale of the disruption shook his confidence. Even a tiny imbalance could harm the forest. How would they recover from something this catastrophic? He wiped the thought from his mind and focussed on their current dilemma. When he spoke, he kept his voice level and clear. ‘I still do not see why he would choose this spot. It was clearly ripe for a trap. We are forbidden to enter those trees. There is no escape.’

Thuralin nodded. ‘I spoke with Laelia before they left.’

‘Laelia?’ Finavar recalled the Mage Queen’s handmaiden with a mixture of affection and fear.

‘Yes. Since the Mage Queen left the mortal realm, Laelia has shadowed Prince Haldus’s every step. She won’t leave his side, but while the prince discussed tactics with the other lords, I snatched a few hours of conversation with her.’

‘And she explained Haldus’s reasoning?’

‘Not exactly. Wood-seers are not ones for explaining, as I’m sure you remember.’ He laughed briefly and coughed at length, then continued. ‘I heard enough to understand Haldus’s plans a little better though.’ He glanced at the deafening columns of water that separated them from the battle outside the cave. ‘There are countless legends concerning the Crowfoot Falls, as you well know, but Laelia made a point of discussing all of them but one. She discussed every treasure that has ever been ascribed to this place – so keen was she to avoid telling me the real reason we are here. She was not to know of my past.’ He kept his gaze fixed away from his Alhena, ignoring the surprise in her face. ‘Laelia does not know I once had halls of my own and that I have studied the old songs as well as she has. She did not guess I would notice the glaring omission in her explanation.’

Finavar and the others frowned at him, confused.

‘The gods forbade entry to those trees for a reason. Somewhere behind these falls there is a stitch in the Great Weave. Laelia made no mention of it, even though it is one of the most important legends attributed to this site. She did not want me to know Haldus’s real plan for guarding this place so she tried to dazzle me with tales of its other treasures.’

Alhena was clearly shocked by her father’s revelations of halls and learning but, before she could ask any questions, Finavar spoke up.

‘So what was the legend she avoided mentioning?’

Thuralin’s scarred face suddenly crumpled in pain and he paused to take some seeds from a pouch at his belt. He crunched them furiously for a few seconds and then seemed to relax. ‘A legend older than Ariel’s reign itself,’ he continued. ‘The legend of the ancient portal, placed here when our forebears first stepped beneath these boughs. A spirit path that leads back to the home of our ancestors.’ He looked at the shadows beneath the enormous roots. ‘From what I can gather, that is what Haldus seeks to preserve. He meant for us to hold off the daemons so that he could protect an escape route. An escape route large enough that hundreds of our kin might pass through it.’

‘An escape route?’ Finavar was appalled. ‘A way to flee?’

Thuralin shook his head. ‘Do not be fooled, Finavar. Prince Haldus is a brave warrior. He is just unsure of the future. Like all of us. I have thought long over the things Laelia did not say. I believe Haldus is trying to keep us a last chance to flee, if all else fails.’

Finavar clenched his jaw. ‘There will be no flight. Nobody would dare enter those trees. And even if they would, there will be no need for retreat.’ The more dire the situation sounded, the more sure he was of his purpose. ‘I will make sure of that.’

Alhena grimaced. ‘Haldus could never have anticipated what has befallen us since he left. When he flew off with his hawks, there was no sign that the daemons could ever reach the falls. Lord Findol and the others were an immovable barrier.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Who could have imagined that something would dam the whole valley? Who would have thought that a single creature could drag itself from the hills and–’

Screams broke out from behind them.

They whirled around and saw that dozens more warriors were tumbling into the cave, half-drowned and covered in blood.

‘The water is rising!’ cried several voices.

Panic spread across the cave and several of the warriors bolted past the wardancers, making for the arches of root.

‘They will soon be on us,’ whispered Sibaris. He looked at Finavar with a desperate plea in his eyes. ‘What shall we–?’

Finavar held up a hand to silence the youth. He looked at Alhena. ‘You say that things were going our way until the river was dammed?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘So if we could remove the obstacle that is flooding the valley, we might stand a chance again?’

Caorann looked intrigued. ‘We would stand a good chance. Before we were penned in, warriors from several more realms answered the prince’s call. As well as the Findol Host on the riverbank and the spellweavers guarding the waterfall, there are now armies from several corners of the forest. I saw riders from the Skymark Plains and even archers from the Night Glens – the Wraiths of Modryn, they call themselves. They certainly looked more than half-spirit to me. We have a greater army now than Haldus could have imagined. Even some of Orion’s pyre wardens are out there. If we weren’t all about to drown I would think the gods were on our side.’

Finavar stepped aside as a group of ashen-faced refugees staggered past them, looking for a place to lie. ‘Then we just need to remove the blockage at the far end of the valley.’

Caorann raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, just that. We just need to fight our way down three miles of riverbank, crowded with one-eyed daemons and quickly disappearing beneath floodwater. Then, once we arrive at our destination, we’ll just have the simple task of removing a monster the size of a mountain.’

Finavar nodded eagerly and looked back at the tree roots behind them, ignoring the sarcasm in his friend’s voice ‘Thuralin, did you say the passages in Hallos go up as well as down?’

‘They go in every direction you could imagine, and several that you would not wish to imagine.’

Finavar scratched thoughtfully at his scalp, looking back at the waterfall. ‘Then perhaps the riverbank is not our only option.’ He turned to Thuralin. ‘You said Laelia mentioned many of the treasures that are buried inside Hallos.’

Thuralin nodded. ‘She did.’

Finavar fell silent again. Then, after a few moments of thought, a faint smile played across his lips. He nodded and looked around at the frantic crowds. He frowned, unable to see what he sought. He raised his fingers to his mouth but, before he had chance to whistle, a pair of small dark shapes snaked across the cavern floor towards him.

Caorann laughed in disbelief as he saw the two polecats.

‘They cannot be the same poor beasts!’

Finavar smirked ruefully as he scooped the animals up and secreted them in his black cloak ‘I’m not sure they really are.’ He patted them gently beneath the cloth. ‘They are as much the same as I am though. And they have a nose for treasure.’

He sat down and patted the ground beside him. ‘Thuralin, tell me about your conversation with Laelia.’

Thuralin’s habitual frown grew even deeper, but he sat next to Finavar and the two wardancers spoke urgently and quietly while the others stood guard, watching the scene in the cave with growing concern.

As Thuralin talked, Mauro and Mormo climbed from Finavar’s cloak of thorns and up onto his shoulders, seeming to listen to Thuralin’s words as attentively as Finavar, keeping their coal-black eyes fixed on the old warrior.

After nearly an hour had passed, Finavar laughed and grabbed Thuralin’s arm. ‘That’s it!’

Thuralin shook his head, confused, as the others crowded round. ‘What do you mean? That’s what?’

‘This stone… what did you call it?’

‘It’s called the Cythral Star. Or at least that’s the name Laelia gave it – but I have no idea if it actually exists and, even if it does, I don’t see what use it would be to–’

‘It’s just the thing!’ Finavar’s eyes were gleaming. ‘Trust me!’ He clasped his head in his hands, seeming almost as manic as Alhena. ‘And Laelia doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. She might have sought to distract you with these tales, but she wouldn’t have lied to you.’ He lifted the two polecats from his shoulders and placed them on a patch of ground that was still above water. ‘You heard the description. Can you find this thing?’

They looked back at Finavar with unnatural intelligence and, as they turned and snaked off through the water, the wardancers noticed a faint, emerald sheen that rippled across their fur.

Finavar leapt to his feet and watched them go with an incredulous grin. ‘We can win this battle,’ he said. ‘And then I can stop this war. Trust me.’

Then he turned on his heel and dashed after the polecats, making for the arches of root at the back of the cave.

The others look at each other in shock and confusion, unsure what to do. Then Caorann laughed. ‘He hasn’t changed as much as he thinks.’

Sibaris looked confused, but Alhena nodded and hurried after Finavar. ‘Good.’

Chapter Seven

There was light inside the tree. It pulsed like water through the bark, lighting up the faces of the wardancers as they climbed. The first passageway was a wide, straight ascent that Thuralin referred to as the Torpen Stair. He seemed to know lots about it – recounting grim poems and legends of those who had died attempting to climb them. But they survived the ascent unhindered and after a while, they left the broad, slumping steps behind and entered a labyrinth of narrow, uneven tunnels whose names were unknown even to Thuralin. They were gloomy, wooden arteries that wended through the roots of the tree, a bewildering jumble of lefts and rights. There was no hope of navigation. All they could do was follow Finavar and his guides.

At first they encountered some of their kinsmen. Terrified wretches cowering in corners and slumped across the ground – wounded warriors whose fear was so great it had driven them into the forbidden darkness. They looked up warily at Finavar’s approach, then scampered away into the shadows, muttering apologies and prayers. There was a strange, oppressive atmosphere in the tree that seemed to stifle their words. After a while they saw no more refugees. Despite all the horror of the battle, no one else was willing to go this far into Hallos’s mysterious depths.

At one point they reached an opening in the tree trunk, looking down across the valley, a natural window in the wall of the tree. They stopped for a while to stare at the grim scene below. The asrai, led by Lord Findol, had gathered at the foot of the falls, surrounded by rising waters and mounting numbers of foes. His soldiers had been forced into tightly packed ranks, with no room to move – a most un-asrai way to fight, but the riders from the south of the forest were still managing to harry the enemy’s flanks – thundering through the water with their javelins levelled and skewering as many daemons as they could.

Screams and war cries sliced through the din of the water crashing into the lake. Finavar grimaced at the scene but he also saw that, in the space of half an hour, they had already climbed high above the battle. The air was hazed with spray, but Finavar could see the grotesque shape of his target in the distance – the vast, slug-like lump of the daemon that had dammed the river. He could just about make out the thing’s enormous maw, spewing, chewing and drooling as it devoured its own troops. Finavar’s mind balked at the thought of facing it, but he kept his expression neutral and his voice level as he said: ‘Higher. We must climb higher.’

The living tunnels led them away from the opening, deep into the heart of the great tree. The air grew warm, earthy and heady and Finavar realised that the low rushing sound he could hear was not the falls, but the timeless pulse of Hallos’s sap, flowing all around them through the glittering tunnel walls.

As they climbed, Finavar listened with half an ear as Thuralin spoke of the other treasures Laelia had mentioned. The old warrior told him of charmed blades, spectral harps and arrowheads dipped in the blood of gods, but Finavar shook his head at each one, sure that his original choice was right. ‘It has to be the stone,’ he kept muttering to himself as they climbed. ‘It has to be.’

The air grew thicker and warmer as they neared the core of the tree and they found themselves crawling through a passageway no wider than their shoulders. The walls of the tunnel were tacky with sap but the light grew brighter as they went, until it felt as though they were being birthed into a dazzling, emerald dawn.

Finavar was the first to emerge from the tunnel and found he was on a slender walkway, miles-long and overhanging a bottomless abyss. He staggered to a halt, thrown for a moment by the precariousness of his position. He felt like he was crossing a great void, suspended on a thread of gossamer. He quickly recovered his composure and crouched to examine the narrow bridge. It was made of pale, living wood that had been carved to resemble interlinked arms, draped in jewels and diaphanous robes, gripping each other tightly with bejewelled fingers. The limbs were so lifelike that Finavar could almost imagine they were real. He noticed that the designs on the robes and jewels were foreign in style. All the motifs were based on proud eagles and celestial bodies, quite unlike the leaves and coiled branches employed in asrai designs.

He looked back to check that the others had followed him.

‘It must be the work of our ancestors,’ whispered Sibaris, clearly awed.

Finavar shrugged. There was a casual arrogance to the carvings that annoyed him. He sensed that the bridge’s architects gave little thought to the pain their tools had caused the tree. He also doubted they would have approved of the bedraggled, semi-clad bards who were treading across their delicate handiwork.

He strode on down the bridge. It soared high above the darkness and, as he climbed, Finavar noticed hundreds more narrow paths spread out beneath him, stretching web-like across the shadows. It was a vast network of walkways, each leading to a different region of the tree.

‘They must have dwelled here for an age,’ he muttered.

They followed the walkways for what seemed like days, becoming hopelessly lost amongst the delicate, sculpted arches and loops. As they walked, Thuralin continued to list the various artefacts mentioned by Laelia, pointing out the vaulted halls of bark that might have contained them, but Finavar shook his head and hurried after his guides.

After crawling down a narrow passageway, Mormo and Mauro led Finavar out of an oval doorway so that he was looking down through the ceiling of a circular chamber, hundreds of feet in diameter and surrounding a tall, slender sapling, six or seven feet tall. The light glittered across the little tree and Finavar saw it was made entirely of silver.

Finavar faltered, amazed by the beauty of the tree. Then he remembered the urgency of their situation and began climbing down the wall. The light was brightest at the centre of the chamber and he had to shield his eyes as he went. The climb was easier than he at first expected, though, due to the raised, intricate carvings that decorated the wall. There were thousands of them, evenly spaced a few feet from each other, across the whole dome, and they made perfect foot and hand holds. It was only as he reached the bottom of the wall that Finavar realised what the shapes were. They were part of a vast frieze, illustrating the journeys of their forefathers. He saw scenes of the ocean, bearing tall, swan-prowed ships and battlefields crowded with vast hosts of strangely clad warriors unlike any Finavar had seen before. Some carried great banners and pennants and others were riding chariots, led by proud-faced lions.

He frowned and stepped closer to one of the figures to examine it. The carving was clearly intended to resemble an elven warrior, but this was no asrai. Its limbs were long and elegant and its almond-shaped eyes were similar to Finavar’s but there was something alien and magisterial about the face that unnerved him.

Finavar turned away to look at the rest of the chamber. Its floor consisted of more slender branches, each stretching out over another abyss. The branches were less than a foot wide and the gaps between them were easily large enough to fall through, so Finavar stepped with caution as he left the wall and made for the centre of the chamber.

The others climbed down the sculpted walls at a slower pace, making sure not to leave Thuralin behind, but after half an hour or so, they were all stood on the cage-like floor of the chamber, looking up in awe at the vast work of art that surrounded them. Sage-green light washed over the carvings, creating an effect that was both bewildering and threatening.

Finavar turned to Thuralin and spoke in hushed tones. ‘Did Laelia describe this place?’

The old warrior shrugged. ‘I barely listened to her tales of treasure.’ He glanced at the centre of the chamber and scowled. ‘I knew that such trinkets and baubles were not the real reason Haldus set watch over this site. And I wonder that you have dragged us here now, while so many are drowning beneath the waters of the Limneonas.’ He glanced at Finavar. ‘What do you hope to achieve?’

The others had been stepping carefully around the chamber, examining the carvings, but at the sound of Thuralin’s raised voice they approached.

‘Do you trust me?’ asked Finavar, looking suddenly serious.

They all nodded apart from Thuralin, who hesitated. After a few seconds he nodded too, but he looked past Finavar as he did so, staring at the sapling at the centre of the chamber. It was an odd sight – a tree within a tree, surrounded by ancient, sightless faces. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Finavar.’

‘I will, soon,’ replied Finavar and strode down a branch towards the little tree.

The others followed and as they moved away from the walls, the carved frieze vanished into the shadows and they began to relax a little.

As they approached the tree, they saw a flash of light in its branches. It was an emerald as large as a fist. It was swaying slightly in its perch and as it moved, they saw green light flickering in its faceted depths.

Finavar stepped closer and reached out to take it.

‘Finavar!’ Alhena looked warily at the surrounding shadows. ‘Treasures are rarely left unguarded.’

Finavar hesitated, his hand hovering just above the stone. Then he shrugged and grabbed it, plucking it from the metal branches like a fruit.

They all froze, waiting to hear a clarion call or to see the branches fall from beneath their feet.

Nothing happened.

After a few seconds had passed, the wardancers huddled closer to peer at the emerald. It was clearly no natural stone. Something was moving in its depths – something coiled and serpentine that rolled like smoke.

‘What is it, father?’ asked Alhena, turning to Thuralin. She was so entranced by the thing that some of the hardness dropped from her face, replaced by a child-like awe that reminded Finavar of how young she was. She was no older than Sibaris, though there seemed to be an age of experience between them.

Thuralin leant over the gem and his twisted face looked all the more sinister in the green light. ‘Laelia called it the Cythral Star.’ Even he seemed a little dazzled by the stone. His single eye widened as he studied the shapes moving at its heart. ‘She said it was a seed from the first ages of the world. She said that, if it were touched by sunlight, it would burst into life – sprouting a whole new swathe of forest. She claimed that these seeds were sown by Asuryan at the dawn of the world and that the forest was born from many such stones.’

He moved back from the gem and regained his usual gruff tones. ‘I’ve heard countless other tales describing the birth of the forest though – all of them different.’ He stared at Finavar. ‘And, even if this thing could sprout a whole new stretch of forest, I fail to see how that would help us.’

‘What is your plan, Fin?’ asked Caorann, with the green light flashing in his eyes.

Finavar smiled. ‘I suppose I will have to tell you at some point if you’re going to follow me.’ He lifted the emerald higher and peered at the shapes moving through it. He was just about to continue speaking when a noise caused them all to whirl around. It was a long, grinding screech that seemed to crawl up Finavar’s spine. It was followed by several other, similar sounds and Finavar wondered if it was an animal of some kind.

He stared into the darkness.

The slender branch paths led away from the sapling in eight directions, forming an uneven star-shape around them, and, on several of them, the shadows had started to move.

The wardancers moved as one, dropping into a crouch and drawing their swords.

They were silent and motionless, apart from Sibaris, who shifted his weight from foot to foot and whispered, ‘What is that?’

No one replied, but he did not have to wait long for his answer. The shadows rippled again, spawning slender, slow-moving figures.

Finavar muttered a curse. The figures from the frieze had sprung to life and were approaching them from several directions at once. Their carved, wooden faces were as expressionless as ever, but they had raised two-handed swords and were moving with solemn, chilling purpose. They were clad in pauldrons and hauberks constructed of oval, metal plates. Their dead, wooden eyes looked out from beneath tall helmets, designed to resemble dragons.

They made a strange sight. Some of the figures were almost fully formed, apart from a flat, featureless back or side, but others were no more than a sliver of wood, only ever designed to be seen from one angle in the original frieze. Their outlines were silhouetted against the light and they reminded Finavar of a magic lantern he had seen as a child – rows of thin, mute figures, jerking mannequin-like towards him. Finavar could already count dozens of them and he guessed that others would be waiting behind, hindered by the narrowness of the walkways.

He was about to address the wooden soldiers but, before he could attempt any kind of negotiation, Alhena cartwheeled forwards and attacked, slicing her twin blades into the first face she came to.

The blades cut easily through the wooden helmet and the figure staggered backwards, unbalanced by the ferocity of her blows.

Before her victim could right itself, Alhena planted a kick in its chest and sent it tumbling into the void.

The next wooden soldier responded with surprising speed, bringing its two-handed sword down towards her chest.

She parried the blow easily, slicing the wooden weapon in half and following up with a blinding flurry of sword strikes that turned her attacker into dust and splinters. Again, she kicked out and sent the automaton spinning from the branch.

There was a brief pause as the soldiers seemed to consider what had happened, then they ran towards the sapling from several different directions.

The wardancers rushed to engage them, each taking a different branch and assailing the wooden figures.

The figures from the frieze could not match the speed of the wardancers, but they moved with a stolid, silent determination and, for every one that fell another one stepped up to replace it, grim-faced and implacable.

After several minutes of this, the air was clouded with sawdust and splinters and the wardancers began to be surrounded. Almost all of the paths that led away from the sapling were now blocked by the wooden swordsmen and Finavar began to regret his impetuousness. Alhena and the others were fighting with all the elegance he would expect and they had already destroyed dozens of their opponents, but Finavar recalled how many figures he had seen carved into the walls of the chamber. What if they had all sprung to life? How long could the five of them hold out against an entire army?

He glanced around and saw that a few paths were still empty, but they were all leading further into the centre of the chamber – away from the walls and the doorway they had entered through. He tucked the emerald into one of the pockets that lined his cloak and cried: ‘Push them back!’ Then he leapt onto the branch that Alhena was fighting on.

He tried to work with her to drive the swordsmen back towards the wall of the cavern, but it was no use. The way was too narrow and he was more of a hindrance than a help, causing Alhena to shorten her blows and limit her acrobatics.

He staggered back to the sapling and looked at the emerald, wondering what to do. As he lifted it, he noticed that it had a magnetic effect on their attackers. The wooden swordsmen were fixated on the gem and they even swayed slightly as he moved it, as though attached by invisible strings.

An idea hovered, just out of reach, at the back of Finavar’s mind, but he could not seem to grasp it. If he hurled the emerald between the branches, its guardians would most likely leap after it, and he could escape. He shook his head, determined that he would not leave without his prize. His plan depended on leaving with the emerald.

Dozens more of the silent warriors strode from the shadows and, as the wardancers started to tire, they were being gradually forced back towards the sapling. There was something surreal about the scene – a near silent battle, with only the sound of breaking wood and enemies who showed neither fear or aggression.

The wooden warriors were sluggish compared to the lithe fury of the wardancers, but they were horribly persistent. Finavar noticed that fresh cuts had appeared on Sibaris’s limbs and he was starting to look panicked.

Caorann, meanwhile, was having just as much fun as Alhena. He had hacked two wooden arms free and now, rather than using his swords, he was simply knocking soldiers’ heads off with the splintered limbs. As he decapitated his foes and sent them tumbling from the branch, he sang a jaunty tale of apples and windfalls, but Finavar noticed that wounds were also starting to appear across his skin.

He looked back over his shoulder and saw that Thuralin had slumped against the sapling to catch his breath, trembling with exhaustion.

Finavar rolled along a branch, scattering three soldiers in one go, then leapt to his feet and brought his blades down into the face of a fourth. He had a brief moment of respite as the next wave of attackers lumbered silently towards him and he took the time to peer through the shadows, attempting to discern what lay at the end of the nearest empty branch. It looked like it might be swerving round towards the cavern wall. ‘This way!’ he cried, seeing that they could not defend the spot forever.

The others leapt nimbly from their branches and followed Finavar as he dashed into the darkness, heading away from the soldiers.

The walkway was as slender as all the others, but the wardancers ran down it as easily as if they were sprinting through a meadow. They quickly left the wooden swordsmen behind and, at first, they did indeed seem to be swerving back towards the cavern walls; after another few minutes of running though, Finavar realised, to his frustration, that they were being led back towards the centre of the chamber.

He staggered to a halt and shook his head. ‘This is no good,’ he muttered. ‘No good at all. We need to–’

Before he could finish his thought, pain exploded in his chest, the wind exploded from his lungs and he slipped from the branch.

For a second he was falling. Then the pain in his shoulder told him he had been caught.

He looked up and saw Caorann’s grinning face, just a few inches away.

Thuralin, Sibaris and Alhena had been forced into a defensive semicircle by dozens of soldiers that had swarmed from the shadows ahead of them. Finavar had led them straight into the centre of the figures who had climbed down from the frieze on the other side of the chamber. They were now even more hard-pressed to fight them off. Branches led away from them in every direction and almost all of them were crowded with blank-faced automatons. The grinding screech of their juddering limbs rang out like the call of raptors, and it felt to Finavar as though hosts of eagles were swooping through the darkness to attack them.

To his horror, his cloak of thorns tore and he dropped another few inches away from Caorann.

Caorann’s eyes widened and the smile vanished from his face.

‘Give me your hand!’ he cried, reaching out, but at that moment another wave of soldiers appeared. They were as wooden and expressionless as the others, but these warriors wore even more elaborate armour and they carried spears rather than swords. Moving as one, the first wave of them rocked back on their heels and launched their weapons.

The wardancers flipped and rolled in an attempt to dodge the volley, but they were only partly successful.

One of the spears sliced along Sibaris’s arm, causing him to cry out and stagger, almost falling from his branch. He regained his footing but lost one of his swords – horrified as it tumbled into the darkness.

Alhena also gained a fresh cut across the top of her shoulder and Thuralin was forced to stagger back the way they had come as he batted away the spears.

‘Your hand!’ cried Caorann, as Finavar’s cloak tore again, dropping him a few more inches towards death.

‘The Cythral Star,’ gasped Finavar in reply. For a horrible, brief moment he wondered if he might have been mistaken. Perhaps he wasn’t the one who would win this battle after all. If the stone fell with him, all would be lost. Rather than reach for Caorann’s outstretched hand, he reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out the emerald.

Alhena and Sibaris had charged forwards to attack the spearmen and Caorann was busy trying to save his life, so Finavar called out to Thuralin and hurled the stone towards him, still in its pouch.

Thuralin gasped in shock as the pouch flew through the air, but he caught it and continued backing away down the branch.

As Thuralin went, the wooden guardians followed – squeaking and grinding as they poured from the shadows.

‘Give me your hand or I’ll kill you myself,’ growled Caorann.

Finavar swung his arm and there was a satisfying clap as his hand locked around Caorann’s forearm.

The larger wardancer hauled the smaller one easily up beside him on the branch but, before he could make a joke, they had to fend for themselves against the tide of sword and spear tips that flew towards them.

They parried and lunged but, after a few clatters and thuds the attack ceased and they found themselves on an empty branch.

Finavar’s stomach turned as he realised what he had done. The wooden figures had gone. They were only interested in retrieving the stone and they had ploughed through the younger wardancers in an attempt to reach Thuralin.

The old warrior had been forced back along his branch until they could barely see him in the shadows. Finavar could make out enough to know that he was hopelessly surrounded. Hundreds of the wooden soldiers were rushing towards him with swords raised and spears lowered.

‘Father!’ cried Alhena and ran towards him, but it was pointless. The crush of soldiers was too great for her to get anywhere near him. They barely even registered her wild, lunging attacks. There was no way she could hack through them.

Thuralin rose up briefly from the throng, drenched in blood, but still clutching one of his swords. ‘Make for the doorway!’ he called, pointing his blade over their heads to the distant wall of the chamber.

Finavar looked back and saw that the way was clear – the stone’s guardians had all rushed towards Thuralin and were now oblivious to Finavar and the others.

‘I’ll throw the stone!’ called Thuralin, backing away from them with more speed.

Finavar realised that he was deliberately leading the soldiers away.

Caorann turned to Finavar, his eyes blazing. ‘We will not leave him.’

Finavar hesitated for the briefest of moments. The way back to the wall was clear. Thuralin’s plan would work. If they ran now the soldiers could never catch them. As long as they caught the stone, he would be able to enact his plan and win the battle. His hesitation was short-lived. Alhena had now turned to face him with the same, furious expression as Caorann.

‘My family,’ she mouthed, as though unable to speak for fear.

Finavar nodded, ashamed of his thoughts. ‘We leave here together,’ he said, ‘or not at all.’

The old warrior had now backed even further away from them, but he became visible again as he climbed up into the branches of the metal tree.

The soldiers were charging towards him in waves, leaving the rest of the chamber empty. As he reached the metal crown of the sapling, Thuralin looked across the heads of his attackers, wiped the blood from his face and singled Alhena out of the gloom.

She stared at him in horror, sensing what was about to happen.

‘Remember what I taught you!’ He dodged a spear and knocked away a sword strike but the blows were too many. One of the warriors that climbed after Thuralin plunged its sword deep into his belly. ‘And remember,’ cried Thuralin, his voice catching with pain and emotion, ‘that you were loved.’

Another sword hacked into his chest and he reeled backwards.

Alhena looked back at Finavar, her eyes full of tears, silently pleading with him to act.

It was too late. As Finavar rushed forwards, Thuralin was already being hacked apart by a rain of wooden sword strikes.

His final act was to leap from the treetop, aiming deliberately for a gap between the walkways.

Before plummeting to his death, he hurled the emerald.

Finavar was so horrified by the sight of Thuralin falling that he barely registered the pouch, hurtling through the darkness towards him. It was only the screech of wooden faces turning to face him that alerted him to the arc of the stone’s trajectory.

Thuralin’s aim had been perfect, despite his pain, but Finavar’s rush forwards to save him meant that, as he leapt to catch the stone, it sailed over his outstretched fingers.

Finavar cried out in horror and whirled around.

Caorann was a few feet further down the branch. He nodded calmly to Finavar as he showed him the pouch sitting safely in the palm of his hand. Then he tucked it into another pouch attached to his belt. For once, he did not smile.

‘Finavar!’ cried Sibaris from another walkway.

Finavar looked in the direction he was pointing and saw that Alhena had launched herself at the automatons and was slicing furiously into them. She was hacking and lunging in manic, spasmodic jerks, sobbing and howling as she sliced into her father’s killers. Even though she was facing hundreds of the strange figures, Alhena’s frenetic rage had halted them in their tracks.

Finavar knew that she had minutes, at most, before they overwhelmed her. ‘Alhena!’ he cried. ‘He’s gone!’

She gave no sign of hearing and Caorann started heading back down the walkway towards her. ‘She’ll die,’ he said, as he passed Finavar.

Finavar nodded but hesitated, wracking his brains for a way to get her attention. Thuralin had sacrificed himself so that they would have an escape route. If they all rushed back towards the silver tree, the stone’s guardians would surround them and they would all be killed. The soldiers had already turned towards Caorann, sensing that he had the stone.

An idea formed in Finavar’s mind. He suppressed it at first, horrified at the thought of betraying Thuralin’s trust.

Then he saw Sibaris, eyes wide with fear, joining Caorann as he rushed to save Alhena. If he did not act, they would all be killed.

‘Alhena!’ cried Finavar, ashamed at what he was doing. ‘I know your mother’s name!’

He saw her stagger, as though she had been struck. She glanced back at him but the soldiers pressed forwards, and she was forced to fend off their blows.

‘If we leave now,’ he cried out, ‘I will tell you everything.’

She staggered again but this time, rather than continuing her attacks, she backed away.

Caorann and Sibaris were already halfway towards her when she gave the soldiers one last torrent of sword strikes and then turned on her heel to race back towards them. Her face was wild with grief and smeared with bloody tears, but she kept her eyes locked on Finavar as she ran.

Caorann and Sibaris ran beside her, fending off the spears that flew after her.

Finavar relaxed slightly. The way back to the wall was clear and the soldiers’ wooden limbs could not compete with the wardancers’ long, easy strides.

Alhena’s face was locked in an awful grimace as she ran, but she kept pace with the others.

They reached the wall and found that the depressions left behind by the guardians meant that there were still plenty of footholds. The wooden guardians were still only halfway across the chamber when the wardancers started climbing and, as they reached the oval doorway, the soldiers had only just reached the foot of the wall.

They crawled quickly back down the narrow tunnel but heard no signs of pursuit. Mormo and Mauro were waiting patiently for them and Finavar asked to be taken back the way they had come.

Chapter Eight

They paused on the bridge of clasped hands, listening for the dreadful screeching, but heard nothing.

After a few minutes of anxious waiting, Alhena strode over to Finavar, her expression even wilder than usual. ‘Why did he have to die?’ Her voice was quiet and full of menace. ‘What could be so valuable? What could be worth his life?’

She was leaning close to Finavar as she spoke, one hand resting on a sword hilt and one gripping Finavar’s forearm. She was shaking with rage and grief. ‘He was all I had.’

Finavar shook his head. ‘Alhena, I did not mean for this to happen. Nothing is worth the life of a friend. Believe me… I would not have sacrificed your father for–’

‘What is your plan, Fin?’ interrupted Caorann, stepping forwards and towering over both of them. He placed a hand on Alhena’s shoulder. ‘We might understand better if we knew what you were thinking.’

Finavar looked from Caorann’s concerned face to Alhena’s crazed stare. He had been so buoyed by his sense of destiny that he had not paused to consider the details. Now that he was being asked to explain it, he saw how insane his plan would seem to anyone else. But Thuralin had just died, trusting that there was something worth dying for. A sinking sensation threatened to overwhelm him. Then, as he glanced at Sibaris, he saw that the youth had no doubt in his eyes. He was looking at Finavar with the same wonder he had always done. He trusted him utterly. He knew that the Darkling Prince would lead him to victory.

Finavar straightened his back and adopted a stern expression. ‘I will have to show you. It would not make sense here.’ He looked around for his guides. ‘Mormo. Mauro. We must climb.’

Sibaris’s eyes gleamed as the polecats slipped away down a path, heading for a shadowy archway.

‘My mother, Finavar.’ Alhena was still holding his arm and she would not let him move. Her voice was brittle. ‘Who was my mother?’

‘Who is your mother, Alhena,’ he replied. ‘She lives.’

Alhena was rocked by another fit of coughing and spitting.

‘Look,’ said Caorann, lowering his voice and nodding back the way they had come.

The shadows were rolling and shifting. Something was coming.

‘And there,’ hissed Sibaris, pointing in another direction.

As they watched in horror, hundreds of the wooden soldiers edged from the shadows. They were moving with far more care than before. It seemed that they had learned from their earlier failure and were determined to catch their prey this time. They made a horrible sight. They were stepping slowly and cautiously, with their intricately-carved eyes fixed on the wardancers.

‘This way!’ Finavar freed himself from Alhena’s grip and followed his guides. They were waiting on a column of roots that had formed itself into a spiral staircase. Finavar leapt up it, two steps at a time, with the others rushing after him. They ran like this for half an hour or so and the stairs grew wider as they climbed. The glow from the walls faded, replaced by a more natural light that started to leak through the cracks in the tree.

‘Take us to the spellweavers,’ gasped Finavar as he climbed. ‘Lead us out of the tree to where the mages were drifting.’

‘What is this, Fin?’ cried Caorann, sounding doubtful. He had one of his hands pressed over the pouch at his belt. ‘What is the stone for?’

‘Just make sure to keep it covered,’ he replied. ‘No sunlight must touch it.’ Then he raced on in silence, conscious of the three pairs of eyes that were fixed on his back.

The patches of light grew larger and more regular, painting the tree’s innards in cool, ivory panels. With no way to glimpse the tortured landscape outside, it was possible to imagine the world was as it should be. Finavar pictured a beautiful, glittering hoar frost scattered across the valley, cold, perfect and ready for the first snows of winter. You will see snow again, old tree, he thought. I promise you.

There was no sign of their pursuers, but the odd shriek of wooden joints left them in no doubt that they needed to keep moving.

After another hour of climbing, they began to hear the falls again and realised that the scouts were leading them back to the outside world. The air felt cooler and a fine mist started to form in the air, causing their hair to hang lank and cold across their faces.

‘Almost there,’ whispered Finavar, picking up his pace.

Finally, the spiral staircase led up to a broad, wooden door, carved from the tree trunk and framed by shards of daylight. The wardancers blinked and shielded their eyes as they forced it open and stepped out into a wall of glittering spume.

It took a few moments for them to make out their surroundings but, once they did, all four of them felt a moment’s panic and took a step backwards. They had emerged on the stump of a long-shattered branch that was as broad as a small meadow, but did not jut out more than a few feet from the tree trunk, creating a thin lip on the side of the tree. They looked out from its edge and, below them, the world fell away.

There was a sheer drop beneath the ledge, filled with the raging torrents of the Limneonas. They were flanked on either side by two great talons of the falls and the mixture of height, movement and noise was overwhelming. Water rolled and tumbled into the distance, filling the air with booming thunderheads of spray and hazing everything into a vague impression of a landscape.

Even blurred by this torrent of water, Finavar could see that they had, somehow, climbed almost to the very crown of Hallos. Whatever magic had kept the tree alive all these years had hurled the wardancers up through its whole body in a few short hours. They had climbed to the clouds. Finavar could just glimpse the river, far below, but it looked more like a stream than the vast artery he knew it to be. Doubt welled up in him again. What lunacy had possessed him?

He looked back at the others and saw that all three of them were now looking at him with something approaching awe. At first he failed to understand what they were seeing in him; then he realised that they thought he was responsible for their impossible ascent – and maybe they even attributed the incredible sight of the falls and landscape to him. Again, their belief renewed his own and he nodded back at them.

He looked around for his guides but was unable to locate them in the clouds of spray. Then he saw that, as always, they had led him where he needed to be. There were figures drifting in the wall of water to their left. It was impossible to see them clearly, but he could glimpse staffs and coils of light whipping around their slender limbs.

‘The spellweavers!’ he cried, struggling to be heard over the din. ‘We have to speak with one of them!’

The others followed his gaze and looked doubtful. The noise of the water was ear-splitting and the mages were hovering several feet away from the ledge.

‘I think they’re busy!’ cried Caorann, jabbing his sword at the shapes rippling around them. ‘They’re keeping Haldus’s army alive. What’s left of it.’

Finavar nodded, unsure what to do next.

‘What is your plan?’ yelled Alhena. Her fury had not faded with the climb and she glared at Finavar as she reached his side. She jabbed a trembling finger at the cascading falls and the clouds of water that surrounded them. ‘What are we doing here? How is this going to save anyone?’ She grabbed Finavar’s arm again, on the verge of hysteria. He knew that he had to find a way to distract her from her crushing grief – and make her feel her father’s death had some point.

‘We have to jump.’ He looked at each of them in turn and then at the miles of waterfall below them.

They stared back.

‘What?’ Caorann managed eventually.

He looked at Sibaris, expecting support, but the youth looked as shocked as Caorann. He looked away, unwilling to hold Finavar’s gaze.

Finavar felt Alhena’s grip tighten on his arm and he wondered if she was about to draw one of her swords and gut him.

‘It will work,’ he said quickly.

‘Tell me,’ said Alhena.

The fury he expected to hear was absent from her voice. There was only a desperate hope.

‘Tell us what we have to do,’ she said.

He looked at her and saw that, unlike the others, she wanted to believe. He supposed that the alternative – that her father had died on the whim of a lunatic – was more than she could bear.

Finavar nodded and summoned the other two to join them at the edge of the outcrop. ‘Do you have the Cythral Star?’ he asked, looking at Caorann.

Caorann nodded slowly, still looking stunned by what he had just heard. ‘I have placed the pouch inside another pouch. Both of them are wrapped in a piece of cloth. It is safe.’

‘Good. When we reach the monster that has dammed the valley, I mean to sow that seed in its mouth.’

Caorann shook his head slowly. ‘Are you raving? What…’ he ran out of words to describe Finavar’s madness and he looked at his other friends for explanation. ‘What is he talking about?’

Alhena nodded, her eyes wide. ‘A forest would be born in its flesh. It would be torn apart.’

Caorann’s shock grew as he realised Alhena was seriously considering Finavar’s plan. ‘By the gods! Even if that made any sense, how do you think we’d reach the monster? There’s an entire army between us and it.’

‘On land there is an army,’ replied Alhena, her gaze still locked on Finavar’s.

Finavar nodded eagerly. ‘Exactly – the river cuts straight through the army and ends at that creature that is drowning us.’ He looked at Caorann. ‘Do you see? We can sail straight past all those things and reach the horror that spawned them.’

‘Sail?’ cried Caorann. ‘What do you mean “sail”? In what?’

Finavar grinned, but before he could reply, Sibaris cried out in alarm and rushed back towards the door.

One of the wooden guardians had stepped out into the light.

Sibaris leapt into the air and brought both his blades down onto its neck. It had barely taken in its surroundings when it stumbled back out of the door with its head missing.

Sibaris slammed his shoulder against the door, closing it with a dull thud.

The others rushed to join him, throwing their weight against the wood.

Caorann looked around and dashed off into the clouds of mist, returning a few seconds later with some sturdy-looking branches in his arms. He wedged them against the door and booted them until they were jammed in place.

The others followed his lead and did the same and, as the door started to rattle and shake with blows from the other side, the four wardancers backed away.

‘Should hold for a few minutes,’ said Caorann. Then he looked at Finavar, still wearing the same look of disbelief. ‘I’m glad you’ve worked out a way for us to fly, or I’d be worried.’

Finavar pointed at the rippling silhouettes of the mages, gliding on the far side of the falls. ‘That’s our escape, Caorann. We just need to get their attention.’

‘Why in the name of Loec would they listen to us?’

‘Because some of us are well-connected,’ he smiled at Sibaris. ‘Aren’t we? One of the mages up there is Mälloch the Elder,’ he explained, ‘Lord of the Fiùrann and the great-grandfather of Sibaris here.’

The door rattled on its hinges as more weight hit it from the other side.

They looked back to see several of their props snap.

Caorann looked from the door, to Finavar, to the spellweavers. ‘I’m sure you were never this deluded.’ Then he strode across the ledge, paused briefly to pick up a stone and hurled it through the water.

The force of the waterfall sent his stone way off target, but the others quickly followed his example and began throwing rocks at the rippling shapes.

After a few attempts one of the figures finally registered their presence. It looked around and caused the other figures to do the same.

Finavar looked at Alhena and she nodded eagerly at him. ‘And then what? When we have their attention?’

The door exploded, scattering wood and hinges across the outcrop.

The wardancers whirled around, lifting their swords as a large shape hurtled towards them through the spray.

Finavar groaned as he saw the monster that had broken through the door. It was an enormous, wooden lion, flanked by dozens of the swordsmen who had killed Thuralin.

He took down several of the swordsmen with a lethal, blades-extended, pirouette and Alhena and Sibaris waltzed into the others, but the lion pounded on, smashing through the scrum of battling figures and making straight for Caorann, sensing somehow that he was the one with the stone.

Caorann leapt high as the wooden beast reached him, bringing his sword hilts down in a savage blow to the back of its head.

The pommels cracked noisily against its thick wooden neck, but the only effect of the blows was to send Caorann staggering away, clutching his arms and howling in pain.

The animal scrambled to a halt, just inches from the edge of the outcrop and then turned to race after Caorann.

Finavar tried to block its way, but the creature smashed into him like a falling tree and bowled him out of the way.

Caorann leapt up onto the door frame and, just before the animal reached him, he kicked himself clear, flipping away from harm just as the lion crashed into the doorway, knocking several of the soldiers back down the spiral stairs.

The animal whirled around and this time it padded towards Caorann with slow deliberation, swinging its head from side to side as it approached.

The wardancer backed away as far as he could, until there was nothing but air behind him.

Finavar and the others fought desperately to reach him before the lion did, but it was no use, dozens of the swordsmen had now filed out onto the ledge and they had encircled each of the wardancers so that they could not break free.

Caorann crouched low as the lion reached him but, before he could make a move, the wooden animal opened its jaws wide and let out a weird, screeching roar, like the creaking of a hundred broken doors.

The sound distracted Caorann and one of his feet slipped back over the edge of the precipice. He managed to stop himself falling, but only by lurching towards the lion.

It tore into him, sinking its incisors into his shoulder and chest and flinging him around with a ferocious shake of its head.

Caorann howled in pain and frustration and his blood sprayed through the air, turning the clouds of mist a cheerful pink.

He jammed one of his swords into the animal’s eye, then cursed as it failed to notice.

Then he jammed his other blade into its mouth and, with a pain-fuelled burst of strength, he levered its jaws open far enough to free himself.

He rolled clear in a shower of blood and splinters.

The lion rounded on him and, as it prepared to pounce again, Caorann saw he had nowhere left to turn. He crawled backwards away from the lion as fast as he could, but it was useless.

The lion reared up over him and he put his arms in front of his face, unwilling to see his own body torn apart.

An odd, grinding sound rang out, even louder than the sound of the falls.

The wardancers gasped as hundreds of tendrils burst from the tree and enveloped the lion in a thick mesh, ensnaring it like a hunter’s net. It roared again, but the more it struggled, the tighter the mesh became. The mesh contracted at an incredible speed, crushing the lion with a series of cracking, popping sounds, until the ball of roots was no bigger than an apple.

More of the swordsmen were trying to crowd onto the ledge, but tendrils suddenly erupted from the door frame, lashing themselves across the opening in a thick lattice of vines and roots. A few of the swordsmen were already halfway through and they exploded, torn apart like pieces of seasoned kindling.

In a few seconds, the doorway had vanished behind a wall of leaves, wood and moss, leaving just the few dozen swordsmen that had already made it through.

Finavar and the others flew at their attackers with renewed vigour, slicing and lunging and driving them back towards the edge of the shattered branch, where they kicked them into the falls.

After a few minutes, every wooden swordsman had been driven from the ledge and the wardancers rushed to where Caorann was sprawled in a pool of his own blood.

To their relief he managed to sit up and even grin as they approached.

‘We’ve lost enough today,’ breathed Alhena as she dropped to her knees beside him. She wore the same furious snarl she always did, but they all heard the emotion in her voice.

Finavar nodded. ‘We should bind that wound until we can find you some help.’

‘You should tell me what you’re doing here, first,’ said another voice.

Finavar turned to see a tall, hawk-nosed noble in a voluminous bearskin cloak. Mälloch’s skin glimmered as he sauntered towards them, reflecting the light of more suns than just the one hanging overhead. As when he first met him at the Feast of the Two Branches, Finavar felt humbled by such casual grandeur.

‘Great-grandfather!’ cried Sibaris, rushing towards the noble.

Mälloch held up a warning hand and kept his beguiling stare locked on Finavar. ‘How did you escape your prison?’ He kept his tone flat.

Alhena helped Caorann to his feet and both of them stepped between Finavar and Mälloch, drawing their blades as they did so.

Their unquestioning loyalty made Finavar’s pulse race.

Mälloch noticed it too. ‘You are choosing your friends more wisely these days.’ He frowned. ‘Although you seem to have lost one. Where is the doom-monger with the taste for fern seed?’

Alhena tensed, but Finavar placed a hand on her arm.

‘You sent me to my death,’ he said, ‘but luckily for me, the forest had other ideas.’ As he spoke, Finavar pulled back his cloak to reveal what the tree spirits had done to his body.

The wardancers stared in shock as they saw the gnarled, lichen-covered plates that replaced his skin.

Mälloch simply nodded. ‘And what of your mind, Finavar? Did they heal that?’

Finavar hesitated, conscious of his friends’ eyes on him. Then he nodded, looking at Caorann, Alhena and Sibaris in turn. ‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. ‘I have been a fool. I am a fool no longer.’

Caorann raised an eyebrow at this but he bit his tongue, sensing the gravity of the exchange.

Mälloch’s expression grew less severe. ‘I was wrong to take you to that waystone. Elatior was further gone than any of us realised. If I’d known how confused he was, I never would have listened to him.’ He glanced at Sibaris. ‘We should have found a way to prevent your banishment.’

Sibaris nodded in agreement but Finavar shook his head. ‘I was heading for a worse fate. You saved me, Mälloch, the second you sent me into the Wildwood.’

Mälloch frowned. ‘Why did Lady Ordaana say those things about you? I can see now that they were lies, but why? What have you done to earn her wrath? Why did she want you to die?’

Finavar was about to reply when Caorann coughed and staggered.

‘Forgive me,’ said Mälloch, stepping closer and raising his sword.

Alhena raised her own weapon but Finavar shook his head.

She lowered her blade but maintained her scowl.

Caorann’s face was drained of colour and he looked on the verge of fainting, but he looked back at Finavar suspiciously.

‘Trust him,’ said Finavar with a gentle smile.

Caorann shrugged. ‘You’ve been keeping some strange company, Fin, but I don’t suppose I have a great deal of choice.’ He held up his arms and revealed his wounds.

‘Messy, but far from fatal,’ said Mälloch as he studied the ragged tears left by the wooden lion. He placed the tip of his sword against the wound and muttered a quick charm. The clouds of mist billowed as currents of magic answered Mälloch’s call. The blade of the weapon pulsed with light and, after a few seconds, the bloodflow lessened.

‘You must bind it carefully,’ Mälloch said, reaching for the bundle of cloth at Caorann’s belt.

Caorann clapped his hand over the cloth and backed away.

Mälloch narrowed his eyes, but shrugged. ‘Any cloth will do, but you should not leave the wound exposed like that.’

Sibaris tore some of his loincloth away and rushed to hand it to Caorann.

As they wrapped the wound, they heard a low tearing sound coming from the green mesh that covered the doorway.

Mälloch looked surprised. ‘They’re determined. What have you done to annoy Hallos? It’s been many years since this tree felt the need to defend itself from asrai.’ He glared at Sibaris. ‘You’ve hardly been here five minutes and you’ve already earned its wrath.’

‘It’s for that reason that we wanted your help,’ said Finavar.

Mälloch looked at the doorway. It was straining and groaning under a great weight. ‘I can hold them off for a while, but I must return to my kin.’ A shadow passed across his face. ‘We are sorely pressed.’

‘It’s not the door that we need help with,’ said Finavar, his eyes sparkling. ‘I have a plan to end this battle.’ He glanced at Caorann and the pouch at his belt. ‘We just need to make our way downriver.’

Mälloch noticed the direction of Finavar’s gaze. ‘What have you taken from–’ he cut himself off abruptly. ‘What do you mean make your way downriver?’

Alhena strode forwards with her chin raised and a defiant look on her face. ‘We mean to jump into the falls, sail down the River Saros and destroy that monster.’

Even Mälloch could not hide his surprise. ‘Jump into the falls?’ He glanced at the torrent thundering past them. ‘Jump?’

Caorann laughed. ‘I thought you had met Fin before. He is prone to this kind of thinking.’

Mälloch ignored him and kept his gaze locked on Finavar. ‘And you think I can help?’

Finavar nodded at the other spellweavers, just visible through the falls. ‘You have been hurling things into the falls already. I saw from down in the valley. You were making cages of roots and vines.’ He stepped closer to the ancient noble. ‘You could do the same with us. You could encase us in a cage that is bound by the power of the forest. You could guard us against the fall. You could shield our bodies by–’

Mälloch held up a hand. ‘Perhaps we could.’ He frowned in disbelief. ‘Perhaps. But, even if you survived, what hope would you have against that creature? Have you seen what the Plague God has sent against us? It’s a living mountain, filled with disease and magic. It would crush you.’

Finavar pointed to the pouch at Caorann’s belt. ‘We have borrowed a gem called the Cythral Star. It is one of the seeds sown by the gods at the–’

‘I know of the Cythral Star,’ interrupted Mälloch. He looked furious again. ‘It is not a toy. And it is not something to be wasted. What use would there be in reforesting this valley when it is full of the enemy? They would simply corrupt every shoot that springs forth. We would do better to save such a treasure until we are sure of victory and then use it to recreate our home.’

‘I mean to sow it inside the beast.’ Finavar was unable to hide his excitement. ‘I mean to plant life inside the monster.’

Mälloch looked away, pondering Finavar’s words. ‘Inside the monster.’ He nodded, slowly. ‘I see. You would unleash all the force of creation. Within its flesh.’

Finavar grinned.

‘But then its power will be spent,’ continued Mälloch. ‘We will have nothing to use once this war is over.’

Finavar shook his head. ‘Can’t you see what’s happening down there? If we don’t act now, our only army will be destroyed – drowned while we stand here debating a victory that will never come.’

Mälloch studied Finavar for a moment, then nodded. ‘I knew, from the first moment I met you, that you had some great doom hanging over you. Whether it is for good or ill, I still can’t be sure.’ He stepped to the edge of the precipice and looked down through the thrashing spray. Finavar had the impression that his old eyes could see further and more clearly than his own.

‘I cannot place you, Finavar,’ continued Mälloch, ‘but I have not forgotten that you once saved my life – and that I almost cost you yours.’ He looked around at the others. ‘I cannot guarantee that you will survive.’ His gaze came to rest on Sibaris. ‘Are you all sure that you wish to join him in this lunacy?’

One by one they all said yes and Mälloch nodded, obviously unsurprised. ‘May the gods watch over you.’

Chapter Nine

Chants and invocations broke through the din. The roar of the falls, this close, was ear-splitting, so Finavar could only catch the odd word, but the voices of the spellweavers were power-laden and full of menace. The others wardancers were with him and Mälloch had done as he promised – binding them all into a cage-like pod of living branches and roots. Finavar could feel tendrils snaking around his limbs and fastening him to the centre of the brittle mesh. He could see nothing but light. There was sunlight reflected off the face of the falls and magic blazing from the bark that held him in place. He could feel Caorann and the others pressed against him, but he could not see their faces.

The pod shifted, jolting forwards in time to a change in the song.

Then they were gone – launched into the falls with the force of a comet.

Water crashed through the branches, pummelling Finavar and the others as they fell. His stomach lurched as they were hurled towards the valley below and he thought for a moment that he was drowning. Water filled his eyes and his mouth and he tumbled so fast that he had no sense of direction.

Mälloch has failed, he thought as the water poured into his lungs. The idea seemed abstract and remote – Finavar felt vague surprise rather than any fear. The ancient noble had always seemed so infallible.

Then his ears filled with a dry, brittle, crunching sound – like acorns crushed underfoot. He could hear nothing else for a while, but he felt the walls of the wooden cage being torn away from him. The sound became white noise and then a thin whistle, like a child’s toy.

The screeching sound knifed into his mind and the world turned dark.

Finavar’s lungs dragged him back to consciousness – filling his chest with screaming, desperate pain. He kicked his legs wildly in the darkness, fighting for life. As he moved, sensations returned to him. He felt cold, biting into his bones. Then he realised that he could feel other limbs than his own. Feet and fists were pounding against him in a desperate bid for life.

Finavar strained against his bonds, screaming silently into the black depths. It was no use. Mälloch had bound them tightly to the cage and now they were drowning in it. As he thrashed and kicked uselessly against his bonds Finavar sensed that they were sinking – dropping further towards the riverbed. His mind began to slip away, starved of oxygen. He saw shapes up ahead – weeds, he guessed, drifting across the riverbed, but as he studied them they became scenes from his youth. He saw Caorann as a child, chasing him through the forest, laughing with innocent pleasure.

The pain in Finavar’s lungs began to fade too and he realised that his death was perhaps not so awful after all. He raced after Caorann, passing through the forgotten glades of his childhood, sprinting lightly along branches and paths.

Then he saw another face – Ordaana, lying calmly and easily to Elatior’s courtiers – slandering him so that he would die in her stead. She has to be stopped, he thought. I have to stop her. Panic gripped him and he kicked his legs again. Perhaps he could break the cage on the riverbed? He pushed his legs through the wall of the cage and kicked furiously, using his final reserves of strength.

The cage reached the riverbed but, rather than smashing against it, it broke through it. Finavar realised with delight that he had been disorientated and the cage had actually been racing up, towards the surface of the water. The shapes he had mistaken for weeds were clouds, drifting across the sky. He coughed and spluttered as the cage burst from the depths in an explosion of foam.

He heard wild cries of relief from the others as the cage was caught by the current and thrown downriver. Then he was deafened by the water again. Mälloch’s cage was lifted up by the River Saros and hurled like an unwanted gift, tumbling and spinning across the surface of the water.

Finavar rolled and fell in a confused jumble of limbs, cracking his face repeatedly against the branches that held him safe. As they flew downriver he glimpsed terrible scenes on either side. They had already been washed far away from the Crowfoot Falls and deep into the heart of the daemon army. The riverbanks were teeming with flies, crows and lurching, one-eyed monsters. Finavar felt bile rise into his throat as he saw the beings that had destroyed his home. They were the same pot-bellied oafs he had seen at the Chains of Vaul, but now they were moving in their thousands. His mind reeled at the scale of the invasion and he wondered where they could have all come from. Had they sprung from the earth, like a fungus? Then he noticed that many of them still had scraps of asrai robes dangling from their atrophied limbs and he had his answer. These wretched legions were the infected, animated corpses of his own kin.

The cage rolled again and Finavar was plunged back beneath the water. When he next emerged, breaking from the surface with another choking gasp, he cursed in shock. Up ahead of him, blocking out the whole horizon, was a vast mountain of grey, puckered flesh. The cage was racing straight towards the giant daemon that was damming the valley. In a few more minutes they would smash into its rolls of blighted, discoloured flesh.

‘Kick!’ he cried, looking back into the cage.

The other three were still there, looking back at him with dazed, bloodstained faces.

‘We must reach the riverbank!’

They stared at him with incomprehension for a moment, then leapt to obey, kicking furiously through the side of the cage, driving it from the centre of the river to the calmer currents.

To Finavar’s relief, they were successful. Some subtlety of Mälloch’s art had made the pod unnaturally buoyant and, a few minutes later, it came aground on a patch of gravel, beneath an overhanging lip of turf.

As soon as the pod rolled from the water it unfurled, spewing its dazed passengers into the shallows.

They floundered for a moment, splashing, coughing and cursing. Then Caorann looked around in disbelief and began laughing.

Finavar followed his gaze to see what had amused him. He could not see up around the overhanging lip of turf, but he could see the far side of the river with horrible clarity. The army of daemons looked like another river, but one made of tusks, worm-eaten blubber and rusty iron swords.

‘How boring life was without you around, Finavar,’ Caorann said, wiping blood from his face and swaying unsteadily in the water.

‘Keep your voice down!’ hissed Alhena, nodding at the ledge of soil hanging over their heads. ‘We may not have been seen.’

Finavar saw that she could be right. The daemons wading through the flooded valley were fixated on their strange work. As they headed towards the falls, they were writing in sodden ledgers, recording the details of each diseased corpse that drifted past them or picking objects from the ground and stashing them in jars and mouldering pouches. None of them had looked in their direction or, if they had, they did not show any interest in them.

Finavar backed into the shadows beneath the ledge, climbed up onto a rock and summoned the others to his side. The outcrop extended for forty feet or so in each direction and he decided that they were hidden for the moment. He could hear daemons wading past nearby, speaking garbled gibberish and occasionally pausing to clang a broken bell.

The other three waded through the water and climbed up beside him on the rock. Caorann had stopped laughing and for a moment they were all busy examining their new set of bruises. Once they had all realised, to their amazement, that they had not broken anything, they turned expectantly to Finavar.

For a moment he was unsure why they were staring at him, then he realised that they were waiting to hear the next part of his plan. He looked out across the river, in the direction of the huge monster they had come to destroy.

This close up, it was impossible to look at the thing in its entirety. His eyes skipped over its sagging, honeycombed flesh, refusing to pause on any one detail for too long. However hard he tried, he simply could not bear to look at it, but even half-glimpsed, the size of it was terrifying. The others were still watching him, waiting for his response. What was he going to say? He had been so fixed on the idea that they could reach the daemon by sailing down the centre of the river; he had not actually considered what they would do then. He ran over the situation in his head – they had the seed of a forest and needed to implant it inside the daemon, but there was no way they could risk getting close. Of course! The answer hit him. He tried to look calm as he explained it, so that it might seem as though it had been his plan all along.

‘We need a bow and a high vantage point,’ he said, nodding at the pouch containing the Cythral Star. ‘That daemon has a mouth even bigger than Caorann’s. It will be an easy enough target. All I have to do is uncover the emerald as I shoot the arrow. By the time it hits home, it will already be reacting to the sunlight.’

Caorann nodded sagely. ‘And of course, you remembered to bring a bow.’

Finavar clenched his jaw.

Alhena shook her head impatiently. ‘What does it matter? Can we not fletch an arrow? Do we lack the skill to make a simple bow?’ She looked around at the crumbling riverbank. ‘We’ll only need one good shot.’ She was still manic with loss and desperation and, as the others looked on in surprise, she began clawing furiously at the mud.

Sibaris looked pained as he watched her, his eyes full of sympathy and love, and Finavar saw that his suspicions had been correct – they were either lovers already or they soon would be. If he could keep them both alive.

He looked at Caorann and saw that he was watching Alhena with a wary expression, as though she were demented.

Finavar found her rabid movements just as unnerving and he was about to demand she stop when she hissed with pleasure and wrenched a broken stick from the mud.

‘This will do it,’ she said, holding the stick up into the light. ‘This will do it!’

Finavar saw to his surprise that she was right. It would not make the long, recurved bow he was used to, but it was the right shape to make a small bow – like something made for a child.

‘It will,’ he replied, and she gave him a wild, trembling grin.

‘A knife,’ she muttered, reaching beneath the water to search her belt and loincloth.

‘Here,’ said Sibaris, still looking concerned for her as he handed her a short blade.

She set to work and Caorann raised his eyebrows. ‘It looks like you’ll need an arrow then.’

As Alhena worked at the bow, the others scoured the mud for more sticks, looking for anything straight enough to make an arrow. They unearthed a pitiful-looking collection, but Finavar chose the best of a bad bunch and handed three of them to Alhena.

She finished her bow with some thread from her clothes and then turned her attention to the arrows. She used some pieces of flint for the heads and finished them off by snatching some feathers from Caorann’s sodden blue locks and using them as the flights. Finally, she closed her eyes, pressed the pieces of wood to her lips and prayed to the trickster god for luck.

Then she handed them to Finavar.

The whole thing had taken a few minutes and they all looked at Alhena in shock, taken aback by her furious industriousness.

Finavar smiled at her. ‘Not all the riches of this forest can be found in silver trees.’

To his amazement, Alhena blushed. Then she regained her usual, unhinged glare and stepped closer to him. ‘When this is done, you will tell me everything you know.’

Finavar nodded, almost as scared of her as he was of the grotesque mound behind him.

‘Right,’ he said, looking up at the outcrop. ‘I will need a clear shot and a few seconds to take it.’ He turned to Caorann. ‘Hand me the pouch. Carefully.’

Caorann unclasped the pouch, tested its weight in his hand, to see if it still held the emerald, then handed it to Finavar.

Finavar carefully removed the outer layers and knotted the remaining piece of cloth to the shaft of an arrow, just below the flint. Then he asked Sibaris for his knife. ‘I’ll cut the knot as I shoot. The pouch will fall away as the arrow flies, but hopefully the stone won’t react until after it reaches its target.’

He looked up at the slope. It was about seven feet high and they would be able to climb it in a few bounds. ‘We climb up, break cover at the same moment and, as I prepare to shoot, you fend off whatever comes my way.’

‘And then?’ asked Sibaris, looking doubtful.

Finavar shrugged. ‘And then we dive into the river and swim as fast as we can.’

‘Which way?’ asked Sibaris.

Caorann laughed. ‘He doesn’t know! He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, even if this works.’ He patted Sibaris on the shoulder. ‘Just swim. And maybe pray. Don’t worry about anything else.’

Sibaris nodded, looking even more concerned than before, but Alhena rounded on him with blazing eyes and gripped his shoulders. ‘It will work. We will live. The forest will live.’

Sibaris drew back his shoulders and lifted his chin, looking more convinced. ‘The forest will live,’ he repeated.

Finavar waited until they were all looking his way again, and then said: ‘On the count of three…’

The muddy bank was slippery and uneven, but the wardancers moved with all their usual grace – bounding easily up onto the ledge. After that, everything happened very fast.

Finavar sensed a great deluge of figures rushing towards them, but he did not look at them – knowing that his only hope was in the bravery of his friends and the accuracy of Alhena’s little bow.

There was an explosion of belching cries from somewhere to his right and he heard blades cutting through flesh, but he kept his eyes locked on the mountain-sized daemon.

He nocked the arrow, whispered a prayer and stared into the monster’s mouth.

As he took in the full horror of it, his mind threatened to collapse.

He hesitated, unable to shoot.

‘Fin!’

Caorann’s voice seemed to come from a thousand miles away, but the fear in it jolted Finavar into action.

He loosed the arrow and, as he saw it fly, he let out a gasp of relief.

It was only then that he realised he had forgotten to slice open the pouch.

As the arrow arced over the river towards its target, the Cythral Star was still wrapped tightly in cloth, untouched by the sun.

For a moment, Finavar was too stunned to act.

He looked around and saw the backs of his three friends. They were fighting with astonishing speed. It was a breathtaking sight. Finavar had never seen such a beautiful, brutal display. An enormous crowd of daemons had surrounded them, but Finavar’s friends had done the impossible and bought him a moment to shoot.

I will not fail, he thought, turning back to face the daemon.

The arrow was still sailing up across the river in a high arc. It was a perfect shot, silhouetted clearly by the clouds, but with the pouch still in place it was useless.

With his friends’ cries in his ears, Finavar saw what he had to do.

He sprinted from the hilltop, and raced down the riverbank, running faster than his heart could bear.

His thighs burned and his breath died in his lungs.

Daemons barred his way, but he leapt across them like stepping stones, bounding from their heads before they had chance to touch him with their venomous blades.

With a final bound he reached the summit of a second hill, nearer to the daemon.

He dropped into a low crouch, drew a second arrow and held his breath. For a second he remained there, motionless, letting his thoughts merge with the breeze.

Then he loosed a low, fast shot.

The second arrow flew straight, undercutting the first and, as the first arrow plunged down between the monster’s sagging jaws, the second one intersected it.

Finavar imagined he saw a flash of green light, just before the arrows vanished from view, but he could not be sure.

There was a chorus of guttural cries as daemons staggered in his direction.

‘Swim!’ howled Finavar, hoping his friends were still alive to hear him.

Then he leapt from the hilltop, not even taking the time to see what lay below.

Water and silence enveloped Finavar and he swam deep with broad, powerful strokes. Fish scattered at his approach and he saw that they were as changed as everything else in the forest. A trout rippled out of the weeds and Finavar saw that its face was a sack of frogspawn-like eyes and one of its dorsal fins had curved into a crooked, barbed horn. He changed direction but kept well below the surface of the water. He could hear splashes overhead and presumed that a daemon must be diving in after him.

He made for the centre of the river and found, to his relief, that his lungs were as strong as they had ever been. The healing of the tree spirits clearly ran deeper than just his skin. He powered through the murky depths for several minutes until, finally, he was forced to kick up towards the surface.

Finavar burst from the water, prepared to fend off a flurry of blows but, to his surprise, he realised that there were no daemons in the water. The splashing sounds came from falling rocks and pebbles. They were bouncing down from the surrounding hills and at first he struggled to understand why. Then as he drifted in the current, treading water, he saw that the forest was shaking. The garish trees were lurching and shifting, as though caught in a powerful storm and the surface of the river was as choppy as a stretch of coastal water.

Finavar looked to the figures that surrounded the river and saw that they had all stopped what they were doing to look back at the entrance to the valley.

He turned to look in the same direction and let out a howl of pleasure.

Ahead of him was the quivering, white bulk of the daemon that had dammed the valley. It was mostly unchanged – it still resembled a colossal hybrid of gastropod and canine, with a forest of translucent tentacles for a face, but there was one, small difference. Finavar’s heart raced as he saw that the daemon had sprouted the spear-like tip of a single fir tree. The tree had torn through the monster’s flesh and caused a fountain of black liquid to rush from the wound. The contrast of black and white made the wound seem all the more shocking.

As Finavar watched with growing delight, another treetop sliced up from the daemon’s innards. This one was much larger and caused the monster to shiver as though touched by fire.

Within seconds, dozens more trees burst from the monster, each one larger than the last and each arrival more violent than the preceding one.

The daemon began to lurch and twist as countless, towering trees exploded from its body.

The army of smaller daemons that filled the valley began to head away from the Crowfoot Falls, rushing back towards their master with dazed expressions on their faces.

Finavar heard familiar laughter from the riverbank and turned to see Caorann scampering back and forth on a hillock, whirling around on his heel like a drunkard.

Finavar laughed with him and then cheered as he saw that the giant daemon was trying to rise and draw back from the river. It was no use. The trees were slicing up from its body like a wave of spears. As Finavar watched in delight, unable to believe his ridiculous plan had actually worked, a whole clump of trees broke through the monster’s flesh, emerging with such force that a whole section of its blubber fell away, causing it to slump and roll to one side. As it did so, a grove of thick, powerful oak trees exploded from its face, destroying the monster’s head in a cloud of black liquid and spraying chunks of gelatinous flesh.

The valley shuddered again and hundreds of the smaller daemons fell to their knees, unbalanced by the tremor. Those who were left standing began staggering back and forth, unsure which direction to head in.

There was a sound like the tearing of wet cloth as the vast monster was ripped in half by hundreds of trees that burst, simultaneously from its abdomen.

Finavar was thrown forwards as the river suddenly discovered it had room to flow. As the monster’s body disintegrated, the Saros rushed to fill the gap.

Finavar’s head was thrust beneath the water and he tumbled for a few moments, unable to right himself. Then, breaking the surface for a moment, he began swimming furiously for the riverbank.

There was another loud tearing sound as the daemon’s ridged white tail came free, unblocking another section of the river and Finavar was plunged below the surface of the water again. When he re-emerged he was dangerously close to the boiling mass of water, blubber and trees that had once been the daemon. His excitement faded as he saw that he might die as a result of his own work – torn apart by trees or poisoned by the monster’s toxic flesh.

He swam as hard as he could, trying to escape the pull of the current, but the river was now hurtling forwards to reclaim its course.

‘Fin!’

Finavar could only just hear Caorann’s voice above the noise of the water, but he snatched a look as he swam and saw that his friend was nearby and pointing to a raised area of rock. It was further downriver and even closer to the maelstrom he had created with the Cythral Star, but he realised Caorann was right – it was his only chance of halting his progress.

He kicked in the new direction and felt the weight of the current pick him up and throw him towards the rocks.

There was a flash of white foam and then an excruciating pain across his face. Then he flailed wildly for a moment, swallowing water and cursing Caorann’s stupidity.

Strong hands grabbed him by the underarms and hauled him, coughing and spluttering from the waves that were crashing against the rocks.

‘Caorann you bloody oaf,’ he gasped as he was dragged from the rocks onto a patch of muddy grass.

‘Alhena you bloody oaf,’ said Alhena, looking coolly at him as she dragged him a little further from the water. She was as bloody, drenched and bedraggled as Finavar.

He laughed and squeezed her arm gratefully.

Despite all they had just been through, she maintained her cool expression as she helped him into a sitting position.

He looked at her as he continued coughing and trying to catch his breath, feeling a bit like a disappointing catch that was about to be thrown back into the water. In all the excitement he had forgotten that they had unfinished business, and that she had just lost her father. Did he still have her trust?

He stifled his laughter and allowed her to help him to his feet.

‘I must be a bloody oaf to have thought this was a sensible plan,’ she said. Her tone was flat, but there was the tiniest hint of a smile around her eyes.

Finavar relaxed. It was a small concession, but it meant a lot. He squeezed her arm again and then staggered as another wave battered the rocks. This one came from the opposite direction, moving against the fast-flowing current.

As Alhena helped Finavar back onto the riverbank, he saw that groves of trees were still exploding from the carcass of the daemon, throwing the river back against itself and creating a dangerous torrent of whirlpools.

‘This way!’ cried a voice.

Finavar and Alhena looked around and saw Sibaris running towards them. He had a deep gash across his forehead and he looked ghostly pale, but he was grinning wildly. ‘We’ve done it!’ he cried, waving one of his blades back the way they had come. ‘The nobles are advancing!’

Finavar looked back towards the falls and saw that the youth was right. Lord Findol’s footsoldiers were rushing down the opposite riverbank, glaives lowered as they smashed into the fleeing daemons. As the waters receded and they picked up speed, their slender, tattered pennants trailing proudly behind them as they ran. Meanwhile, on the northern riverbank, where Finavar and the others stood, the riders from the south of the forest were galloping across the newly revealed mud, launching arrows and javelins as they thundered down the valley.

‘We have to leave,’ muttered Finavar.

His words were lost beneath the sounds of the water and the battle. The daemons were clanging their tuneless bells as they saw that the battle was lost and the asrai nobles were sounding their trumpets as they charged, seeing that an unexpected victory was suddenly at hand.

‘What?’ cried Alhena as Sibaris reached them, followed by a grinning, loping Caorann.

‘We cannot get caught up in their plans,’ answered Finavar, scowling at the lines of advancing asrai. ‘We have to leave now. They will want us to fight with them.’

Caorann puffed out his chest, looking pleased with himself. ‘And who can blame them?’ He clapped Sibaris on the back so hard that he staggered. ‘We’ve just saved their lives.’

Finavar shook his head. He looked up at the valley walls and saw that they were clearing fast. As their master’s hulk was being torn apart, the daemons were scrambling back the way they had come, seeing the furious host that was bearing down on them.

‘We must climb,’ said Finavar, making for the slopes above them.

‘Wait!’ cried Caorann, his grin fading, replaced by a look of disbelief. ‘Surely you don’t mean it, Fin? The battle is almost won. Thanks to us.’ He nodded at Alhena and Sibaris who were leaning against each other for support, both exhausted and sodden.

‘We’re all half-drowned,’ continued Caorann. ‘Surely we can take a moment to enjoy our victory and rest with the others?’

Finavar stopped and looked back at them. ‘Rest?’ he said, with no trace of humour. ‘Look around you. Do you think we have time for a rest?’

He turned and jogged away from them, making for the incline.

Caorann looked at the other two and shook his head.

Sibaris looked equally stunned as he turned to Alhena but she nodded, wiped the mud from her face and jogged after Finavar.

Caorann closed his eyes for a moment and continued shaking his head. Then he took a deep breath and looked wistfully at the glorious victory taking place behind them.

Sibaris gave him a sheepish look and raced after the other two.

Caorann watched him go and let out an exasperated sigh. Then he looked around, trying to spot something. After a few seconds he smiled and jogged over to the tall outcrop of rock that Finavar had landed on.

He climbed to the highest point and surveyed the incredible scene that was spread out around him. Lord Findol’s host had already crossed half the valley, hacking and butchering as they smashed into their fleeing enemy. The banners of countless other nobles were following in their wake and, racing from the hills north of the falls were the horse-lords of Cavaroc, with their tall plumed helmets and their beautiful, gleaming steeds. At the far end of the valley, Mälloch and the other spellweavers were descending from the Crowfoot Falls, shrouded in a golden haze of water and magic, like gods tumbling from the heavens. They advanced in the wake of the other asrai, wrenching weeds from the water as they came and lashing the fleeing daemons. And, just a hundred feet or so from where Caorann stood, the flesh of the vanquished monster was still exploding into new, verdant life.

Caorann stood there for a moment, taking in the whole, chaotic scene and then, even though he knew it would never be seen, he took a low bow, smiling and thanking an imaginary audience for their silent applause. Then, feeling a little better, he turned on his heel and sprinted from the valley.

Chapter Ten

They dropped like rain: warhawks, trailing plumes of silver mist and carrying masked, stern-faced riders. As he led them down through the clouds, Prince Haldus put a horn to his lips and played a long, single note that echoed through the ruined valley below. Where once it would have resounded across coin-bright lakes and emerald-green glades, it now struggled through a charnel pit. The carcasses of trees and beasts had coalesced, forming an enormous rotting tunnel, miles wide and drooping under the weight of its own decay: the diseased, sulphurous intestine of a leprous god. It had swallowed the entire valley and was slowly digesting it. The only life visible within it was fungal and palsied – gaudy, quivering limbs, draped across the slopes of a once-beautiful plateau, shrivelling everything they touched.

Haldus lowered the horn and glanced at it, thinking briefly of its fallen owner, Eremon, then he placed it on his back, crouched low in the feathers of his mount, and glared at the corpse of his home. His eyes were framed by deep, circular scars, but even without them his countenance would have been fierce. His brow was low and brutal. The eyes beneath it were red-rimmed with exhaustion and fury.

‘Avernus!’ he roared, looking back over his shoulder.

The rider nearest to him leaned forwards on his hawk, straining to catch his lord’s words. He wore the same trailing wooden headgear as Haldus and, like him, his bronzed limbs were circled by copper torques and coiling tattoos. He wore a flamboyant robe that Haldus would have felt ridiculous in – a gleaming white mass of swansdown that snapped and tumbled from his shoulders, giving him a far more regal air than the prince would ever assume. He was a brave, skilled warrior though, and Haldus had long ago forgiven him his vanity.

Avernus was a veteran of many battles, but the sight of the hellish tunnel had clearly unnerved him. His expression remained rigid and proud, but Haldus saw the doubt in his eyes.

‘Remember Thenot,’ Haldus cried, lifting a bundle of cords from his back.

Avernus nodded, raising a matching bundle. The cords were made of knotted vine tendril, glistening with oil.

Haldus held his gaze, eyes blazing until Avernus nodded back and adopted a more defiant expression. Then Haldus turned his face into the wind, savouring one last taste of fresh air before entering the pestilent tunnel. He closed his eyes for a moment, speaking quietly, reverently even. ‘For Thenot.’

Haldus had not intended his words to be heard, but Avernus did hear them, and mimicked the tribute with pride, lifting his voice so that the other riders could hear. Hundreds of voices picked up the call and Haldus’s heart swelled at the sound. He glanced back at the shifting banks of hawks. He had never wished to lead an army, but by the gods, what an army to lead. It was more like an elemental force – a vengeful storm of feather and steel, come to cleanse the forest of its cancer. Doubts were meaningless now. He was a feather, caught in a tempest.

He steered Nuin into the gaping, mouth-like entrance to the tunnel, disappearing into the gloom and leading the tempest to war.

Dark shapes rushed to meet him. Over the last few weeks Haldus’s mind had hardened to the grotesque absurdity of his enemy – giant, septic flies, clad in plates of rusted metal and trailing their own innards. He was too far off to make out the riders, but he could picture them in his mind – stooped, pot-bellied wretches, covered in lesions and abscesses. He shivered as he recalled their vacant, sac-like eyes. Finding a way to destroy them had been such a wonderful moment in Haldus’s life that it almost eclipsed the pain of the preceding defeats. His eyes narrowed as he plunged towards them.

He waved the bundle of vines left and right, indicating that Avernus should lead their kin west as they entered the tunnel, heading to different sides of the valley. The storm parted into two spearheads, one led by Prince Haldus, one led by Avernus.

Wind screamed through Haldus’s headgear and the feathers of his mount. Fumes filled his eyes and stalled the breath in his chest. The warhawks were diving at bewildering speed. Haldus knew that his army would be fanning out around him, preparing to engage the enemy but, as his hawk dropped faster, the peripheral world fell away, leaving the prince to stare at a single daemon-fly, rushing up to meet him.

As always, he encountered the crows first – countless numbers of them, cawing and screaming as they bounced off his chest and mask. It was as disorientating as it was meant to be, but the warhawks had grown inured to the tactic. Nuin sliced on through the whirling black clouds.

At the final moment, Haldus saw the daemon-steed in all its bloated, pox-ridden glory. Its head dangled a long, glistening proboscis and its abdomen was a colourful slop of body parts and oozing boils. The rider had its single, yellow eye locked on Haldus and pointed one of its long, crooked fingers in his direction.

Haldus smiled.

Nuin banked hard to the right.

The warhawk screamed past the fly-creature and Haldus unfurled his bundle of vine tendrils, enveloping both monster and rider in a thick mesh of green cord.

Nuin soared back up away from the ground. Haldus and Nuin moved as one. They had grown together. There was a lifetime of shared understanding between them. As the hawk swooped, Haldus’s body slumped and rolled in perfect unison. He barely had to tighten his grip on Nuin’s feathers.

The fly-monster thrashed its ragged wings uselessly in the netting and the daemon rider howled.

As Nuin rocketed away from the struggling daemons, Haldus drew a bow and arrow from his back, sparked a flint across the arrowhead and loosed a shot.

There was a glimmer of pale green light as the arrow flew.

The arrow sank into the fly-monster’s abdomen and the oil-soaked net erupted into flames.

The fly-monster and its rider became silhouettes, trapped in a ball of fire.

They lurched and struggled, but the more they moved, the more the flaming mesh tightened around them.

Haldus whispered a prayer of thanks to Laelia. Ariel’s handmaiden might be infuriating, but she knew how to weave a charm.

The thrashing ball of flame dropped back towards the valley floor.

Haldus watched it fall for a moment, patting Nuin gently on the neck as she lifted him back up away from the ground. Part of him still recoiled at the idea of introducing fire into his home. He felt like a thoughtless outsider, lighting flames beneath dry summer boughs.

Nuin took him higher and the festering valley spread out beneath him. He saw all too clearly why the old laws did not apply. Only months before, the slopes would have been clad in precious, green robes, but now there was nothing to burn. The quivering mounds of fungus had strangled the forest and replaced it with a gaudy mockery of life. Wherever Haldus led the army he had found a landscape that was painted purple, pink and yellow. The world should have been dressed in the drab colours of winter but the daemons had made it bloom – filling it with colours so bright they made Haldus’s eyes ache.

The other warhawk riders followed Haldus’s lead and, everywhere he looked, plumes of flame were dropping from the air, wrapped around struggling, sword-wielding horrors. For a second, he felt the tightness in his chest lessen. Laelia’s mage-fire would destroy the monsters. They would defeat the daemons and the sight would give him a brief respite from his rage and pain. Until the next valley.

He sighed and reached for more tendrils, preparing himself for another dive.

Nuin screamed in pain and jolted to one side.

Haldus was hurled from the hawk’s back.

His stomach lurched and his legs kicked uselessly.

As he toppled from the sky, he glimpsed Nuin overhead, fluttering her wings wildly as one of the grotesque fly-things latched onto her belly. The weight of it dragged her down and Haldus cried out, not because he was falling, but because Nuin was. He knew that even a single wound from one of the daemons could infect her with the plague.

He rolled as he fell and lost sight of Nuin. He was blinded briefly as he passed through a cloud of noisome fumes. When he emerged from the other side he was surrounded by a blur of toiling, battling shapes. Screams, flames and war cries accompanied his fall and his own cries were drowned out by the din.

Air exploded from his lungs as he collided with something.

He realised he was slumped on the suppurating, armour-clad abdomen of a daemon-fly. The monster lurched under his weight, then righted itself. The figure on its back turned to face Haldus. It was a single-eyed horror clutching a crooked, rusty sword. At the sight of Haldus its face split open in a toothless grin, revealing a black, snake-like tongue. It babbled, gibbered and lurched towards him, drawing back its sword to strike.

Haldus regained his senses fast enough to draw his own sword and the two blades clattered off each other.

Haldus saw weevils and mites crawling over the daemon’s blade. Even the smallest scratch would be enough.

The daemon prepared to strike again.

Haldus tried to lift his sword but saw to his horror that a black, scaled limb had sprouted from the plague fly and latched around his weapon. He tried to wrench it free, but the blade held fast.

The one-eyed daemon belched laughter and brought its sword down towards his face.

Haldus whispered a prayer to Kurnous, let go of his sword and jumped back into thin air.

The battle rushed by and Haldus reached out as he fell, trying to latch onto something.

The combatants rolled and weaved out of reach and he saw the foetid ground rushing to meet him.

The impact came, but rather than landing in pus and rotten flesh, Haldus thudded against something warm and feathered.

He laughed with relief as Nuin soared back up from the ground. He did not have to open his eyes to recognise his oldest friend. The hawk’s musk was the smell of home and childhood. He hugged her in silent gratitude as she carried him to safety.

The colossal hawk did not pause until they were high above the battle. Then she spread her wings and drifted slowly through the clouds of lurid yellow gas, giving Haldus time to recover.

He lay face down in her feathers, trying to steady his breathing. Then, once his pulse was calmer, he hopped up into a crouching position and looked around.

He shook his head. From this height he could see the full horror of the situation. Like the rest of the forest, the valley had been contorted by madness. Everything was gripped by unnatural maladies and creeping, purulent legions.

As he studied the putrid apocalypse below, daemons fell past him, lighting up the feverish tableau they had created. It was a nightmare sprung to life.

The prince reminded himself of the reason for this particular assault. He turned his exhausted gaze to the far end of the valley. Surrounded by the tunnel of mutilation was the last remaining citadel of this particular realm. Every other defence had been destroyed by the daemons, but a lone hill at the end of the tunnel still wore a defiant crown, visible for miles around – a lonely bastion of stone and simple, green leaves. It looked like a circle of colossal, branchless trees – seven massive columns entwined with blooms and fronds. They were not trees though. Haldus knew the truth. They were mile-high standing stones, reaching up towards the roof of the hideous tunnel and carved to resemble the lords of the gods. Beneath their evergreen mantles he could make out crumbling, noble miens, and sceptre-wielding fists. The unnatural light made the faces sinister and cruel, but Haldus knew this place of old and felt calmed by the sight, rather than unnerved.

As Nuin glided overhead, wings splayed, Haldus considered how close he had just come to death and whispered a prayer to each of the gods in turn: Asuryan, Isha, Kurnous, Hoeth, Lileath, Loec and Ladrielle.

Nuin dropped closer and Haldus saw that, at the base of the stones, the cesspool ended. The pallid, vermicular growths clawed at the threshold but could not break through. The stones endured, maintaining their dignified silence and protecting the realm within the circle. What power, thought Haldus. However hard the fingers of plague grasped at the stone circle, they could not gain an inch. For miles around, there was nothing but rot, bubbling streams of acid and shambling legions, but none of it could pass these mute, ancient sentinels.

‘The Cromlech of Cadai.’ The voice was nearby and it jolted Haldus from his thoughts. His cheeks flushed as he saw who it was.

Laelia was hovering just a few feet away, carried by her delicate, tessellated wings. Even in this baleful light she was beautiful. Like all of Ariel’s handmaidens, she looked half-spirit. Her messy, boyish crop of hair could do nothing to disguise her radiance, but it was not her appearance that made Haldus blush; it was her habitual, crooked, smile. He felt, as always, that she was laughing at him. There was no malice in her smile, but he was painfully conscious of how she must see him. The subtle complexities of the Mage Queen’s court were a mystery to him. When Laelia discussed the politics of the great realms or the mysteries of the Great Weave, his head began to pound. He was a hunter, not a courtier or a mage. He felt sure she must consider him a fool. The sooner he could return to his mountains, and his own kind, the better.

He gave her a gruff nod, refusing to meet her eye as he straightened his headgear and brushed the filth of battle from his chest.

His awkwardness only made her smile more. She looked down at the lichen-clad towers and took a deep breath.

‘Beautiful.’

Haldus nodded, noticing again how effectively the plague had been halted at the edges of the circle. ‘The forest still has power.’

She glanced at him, surprised. ‘It does have power, but that isn’t what you’re looking at.’

Haldus turned to face her, his embarrassment forgotten. ‘What do you mean?’

‘As Cyanos told you, Prince Haldus, this is the work of Lord Calaingor.’ She nodded at the mysterious area within the stone circle. It was a few miles wide but, even from the clouds, it was impossible to see what it contained. The foliage and blossom that shrouded the seven towers threw unnaturally long shadows, obscuring whatever they guarded. ‘Your friend was right to send us here. Calaingor has not been seen at court for centuries – not since I was a child – but his skill as a mage has never been forgotten. Naieth said he is one of the greatest of us. That he travelled across the sea with our forebears. It is his power you see, Prince Haldus, not the power of the forest. If you can win Calaingor over to our cause, your army will be doubled in power.’

Your army. Haldus clenched his teeth at the words. How in the name of the gods had he allowed himself to become a general? He had looked, at every turn, for someone to hand this onerous duty over to, but there was still no one he could trust. Laelia was powerful beyond his understanding, but she was right – the archers and cavalry he had left at the camp would not follow her into battle. Ariel’s winged handmaidens were as feared as they were respected. And most of the nobles in the forest were either dead, or cowering in their halls. The few he had convinced to join him were either teetering on the brink of lunacy or just looking for an opportunity to flee. Only Cyanos seemed truly willing to aid him. Haldus felt a rush of gratitude as he considered how invaluable the scholarly lord had become to him. The burden of leadership would surely have crushed him by now if not for Cyanos’s support. It was his tactical advice that had led them this far, rather than Haldus’s brutish rule. It terrified Haldus to consider how badly things would have gone if the tactical decisions had all been left to him alone.

‘So, this Lord Calaingor could lead the army, then?’ Haldus glanced warily at Laelia, expecting a joke in reply.

Her crooked smile was still there, but she nodded. ‘I imagine so – if you can drag him out from those old stones. Cyanos has a strange kind of wisdom – but it is wisdom nonetheless, I have to admit. I had not even thought of seeking Calaingor’s aid until Cyanos unearthed his name in those old texts, but, yes, I believe he could lead this army.’

Haldus looked down at the battle, trying to make out the black-armoured shape of Cyanos. There was no sign of him. Haldus imagined he would be hunched over one of his old books somewhere, plotting their next move. The thought gave him hope.

He saw Avernus, though, not far from one of the stone towers. His white cloak flashed as he balanced lightly on the back of his hawk. Despite the speed of the hawk, Avernus was firing arrow after arrow into the tumbling fireballs that surrounded him. Haldus could hear the excitement in his voice as he issued orders and he understood the delight Avernus was feeling. Watching the forest die was more than any of them could bear. Each chance to strike back was a gift from the gods.

‘Calaingor will have seen me,’ called Laelia, drifting away from Haldus, buffeted by the wind. ‘The way between those stones is usually barred, but I believe we will be safe to approach. I have reached out into the Great Weave and he will recognise my touch. He knows his own kind.’

Haldus nodded. Then he took Eremon’s horn from his back and let out another long, lowing note.

Avernus and the others turned to see him make a circular motion with his hand. Avernus nodded in understanding and formed the hawk riders into a defensive formation, leading them slowly around the circle of stones.

Haldus nodded at Laelia and allowed her to lead the way down.

The Cromlech of Cadai preserved at its heart a single, summer’s evening. As Prince Haldus leapt from Nuin’s back, he dropped into a meadow of waist-high pasture and gasped with pleasure. The grass was rippling and shimmering in the light of a sun that would never set.

Haldus closed his eyes for a moment and turned his face to the golden sky, savouring the warmth and the dizzying scent of honeysuckle. Some of the lines melted from his heavy brow. His muscles relaxed and the cuts and bruises that covered his body grew less painful, but the thing that most delighted him was the sensation of timelessness. Here was an idyll that would never end.

He heard Laelia land gently behind him and he opened his eyes to look around, remembering to adopt his usual scowl. She said nothing, so he looked back at the meadow. A path led through the grass to a living archway of apple blossom. Beyond the archway he could see, oddly vivid in the twilight, a series of interlinked wooden arbours, clad in tumbling wild flowers.

He noticed that the air was alive with movement and, as he held out a hand, butterflies settled on his skin. Their colours were dazzling and vibrant but, where the gaudiness outside had hurt his eyes, these colours only soothed him.

He gave Nuin a gentle pat on the neck, indicating that she should wait, and headed off down the track, swaying slightly as he went, drunk on the scent and sunlight. He could sense Laelia drifting a few steps behind, but did not look back, for fear that she would see how easily beguiled he was.

They stepped through the archway and into one of the delicately framed arbours. The air here was even more crowded with butterflies. Haldus smiled despite himself as they buffeted his face and settled in his hair and he heard Laelia laugh at their touch. Buddleias towered overhead, alive with movement, laden with as many butterflies as petals. Some of the insects were huge and, it took a few minutes for Haldus to realise that three of the shapes he was approaching were not butterflies, but people.

The figures bowed as Prince Haldus approached and he saw that they were asrai nobles. They were much taller than he was and clad in the most outlandish garb. Their robes were woven of the same iridescent scales that covered the butterfly wings and they were of an antiquated, ornate design. They reminded Haldus of the tales he had heard of his ancestors who dwelled across the sea. The robes were so dazzling that Haldus had to narrow his eyes as he approached. The nobles also wore the most fantastic crowns – a combination of high, swooping dragon wings and carved, wooden flowers. Even the nobles’ faces were unrecognisable – painted with inks and dyes to resemble long-forgotten gods.

As Haldus came to halt in front of these luminaries, he saw the reason for their height – they were being carried a few feet off the ground by trails of apple blossom that tumbled from their robes and cloaks. There were other figures following behind them – an entourage of guards and attendants – but they were mere shadows in comparison.

Haldus resisted the urge to kneel, reminding himself that he was a prince, and simply nodded his head.

He looked from one dazzling face to another. ‘Which of you is Lord Calaingor?’

They stared at him in silence and, for a moment, the only sound was the fluttering of insects and the tidal rush of the breeze in the meadows.

Then one of the nobles smiled. It was a strange, awkward kind of smile, as though she had not used those particular muscles for a very long time. When she spoke, Haldus had the same impression – that she was doing something that had long ago ceased to be natural for her. Her lips struggled to wrap themselves around the words, so that the vowels and consonants tumbled into one another.

‘The Warden of the Cromlech is resting.’

Haldus has not expected this. The forest was being torn open by mutation and these nobles were holding the daemons at bay. He would not have imagined their lord to be asleep. He turned to Laelia for guidance, but she simply raised an eyebrow and gave him her usual wry smile.

Haldus wracked his brains to find the correct, formal language with which to address such august people. ‘Can you wake him?’ he grunted eventually.

The nobles glanced at each other. As they moved, their robes rustled and released even more butterflies into the failing light.

They spoke no words, but Haldus could sense from their expressions that they were engaged in some kind of debate.

After a while, the noble that had spoken gave him another wooden smile and headed off down a path between the arbours. ‘My name is Lady Ailerann,’ she said as she drifted away. ‘Let me escort you to the Warden.’

The other nobles did the same and Haldus stood shaking his head in confusion until Laelia gave him a gentle shove, indicating that he should follow.

They crossed a broad, circular courtyard of sun-warmed marble and Haldus guessed that it was the centre of the whole structure. Banks of foliage towered all around and Haldus sensed that the courtyard was much larger than the area he could see, but that it had long ago vanished beneath the tide of growth. He noticed that the stone was hard to walk on and looked down, expecting to see that it was broken. Rather than cracked, the flagstones were deliberately uneven – they had been decorated with sweeping bas-relief patterns, showing vast portrayals of the gods in battle. The work was breathtaking in its beauty. For a moment, Haldus forgot everything but the art that was spread at his feet. He cleared away some leaves and gasped at an image of Kurnous leading a great hunt. He traced a finger over the god’s face, imagining he was with him in the heavens. It was something he often imagined and, as always, the idea comforted him.

‘I’m not sure they’ll remember we’re here if we don’t keep up,’ laughed Laelia, nudging him forwards again.

Haldus looked up and saw that she was right. The nobles were drifting away from them, carried along by their trains of flowers.

He grunted self-consciously and hurried after them.

They walked for an hour or so, beneath the endless, westering sun. There was something hypnotic about the way it hovered on the horizon, destined never to sink beyond it. With every minute that he walked, Haldus felt his body relax a little more. The warmth sank through his muscles and deep into his bones, until he would have liked nothing more than to lie down and abandon himself to dreams of Kurnous and endless summers. The thought of what lay beyond this perfect evening kept him moving though. He pictured his kinsmen, battling disease and disorder, as the forest died around them, and he stumbled on after the nobles.

They eventually reached a grove of tall, stately trees, surrounding a heavily carved trunk, hollow and broad enough that a dozen horses could have passed through it side-by-side. Haldus and Laelia had to fight their way through a tangle of brushwood that spread out from the base of trunk. It resembled a robed priest, keeping a watchful eye over its flock of ancient trees. When Haldus followed the nobles through the opening, he staggered in the gloom – the perfume of the flowers was so heady that he began to feel giddy. He would have fallen, if not for Laelia’s steadying hand. He nodded a grudging thanks and noticed that she was unaffected by the scent. She was looking past him, to the centre of the tree, her eyes gleaming in the eternal dusk.

Haldus took a few deep breaths to steady himself and followed the direction of her gaze.

At the centre of the hollow tree was a spiral of bleached, sculpted branches, stripped of their bark and curved into long, serpentine loops, so that they resembled a vast fire. At first Haldus thought it was nothing more than a work of art, but as he followed the nobles and their attendants he saw it more closely. The intricate designs were clearly the handiwork of the same skilled artisans who had carved the slabs in the courtyard. His gaze followed the curve of a giant eagle’s claw, which formed the arm of a great throne, carved from the heart of the tree and enveloped by hundreds of spiralling designs. There was a cadaverous hand resting on the throne, as white as the branches and connected to a pale arm, entwined in beads, jewels and vine leaves. The hand and arm were both colossal – five times that of a normal body and, as Haldus reached the foot of the throne, he saw the enormous regal head of the seated figure, nestling in the verdure like a pale bloom. The giant’s eyes were closed but the head was held erect with pride. It was wearing a wreath of black, glossy leaves but its face was ashen and lifeless.

‘Lord Calaingor?’ Haldus asked, slurring his words and reaching out to Laelia for support.

She steadied him and stepped to his side, staring in amazement at the huge, crowned figure.

The head did not move and the eyes remained closed, but, as the three nobles backed away from the throne with their heads bowed, a smaller white shape emerged from the brittle mesh.

Haldus massaged his face, trying to clear his thoughts. The scent of the flowers had become so powerful that the whole scene was swimming around him, as though it were reflected in a pool. The shadows were full of figures – both highborn and lowborn, staring intently at him. He nodded vaguely at them and stepped closer to the throne, peering at the white shape that had emerged from the branches.

‘I am thinking,’ it said in a low, croaky voice.

Haldus was looking at an ancient hare. It was sitting on an arm of the throne and its posture was just as rigid and severe as the giant beside it; two incarnations of the same mind. They both projected the same austere, ascetic air. The hare’s fur was patchy and balding, but its colour gave it beauty – it was the luminous silver of moonlight.

It studied Haldus with half-lidded eyes, as though considering something ironic.

‘You?’ asked Haldus, looking from the hare to the three nobles who had greeted him.

The nobles had backed away into the shadowy crowd and lowered their heads. They gave him no reply.

Haldus looked at Laelia.

She looked at the hare and raised an eyebrow. ‘He has larger ears than I remember.’

Haldus stared at her, too confused to register her humour. Perhaps the soul of this ancient spellweaver had grown too great to inhabit just one body? He thought of Nuin, waiting patiently at the foot of the stone towers and realised the idea was not so alien to him.

‘Are you Lord Calaingor?’ he asked, turning back to the hare.

‘You might say we are Lord Calaingor,’ it answered, glancing at the motionless giant.

Haldus looked from the hare to the giant and his heart sank. The Cromlech had resisted every assault that crashed against its perimeter. He had been sure that Lord Calaingor would be the one who could lead the asrai in his stead, but Calaingor seemed to be some kind of enormous, mortified wraith. What little of the body he could see beneath the leaves was covered in cobwebs and dust. That, or he was a decrepit, balding hare. Neither was the warlord he was seeking.

Haldus looked back at the giant.

‘Can you wake him?’

‘I am not sleeping. I am thinking.’

‘Thinking?’ Anger crept into Haldus’s voice. He felt vaguely ridiculous venting his fury on a hare, but the animal’s dismissive tone was infuriating. ‘The forest is dying. Do you understand? My kin are dying too, just half a mile from this spot. And the last few lords who are willing to fight are struggling against unbelievable odds in the Saros valley. You might have protected these stones from corruption, but for how long? Our whole realm is being destroyed.’

He looked around at the assembled crowd. He saw nobles and great warriors, but all of them had their eyes locked on the ground. Were they ashamed, he wondered, or scared?

‘You must help,’ he said, looking back at the hare. ‘Whatever power you have used here must be turned against the daemons. You must ride out with me. You must serve the Mage Queen. Time is running out!’

The hare seemed to sag under the weight of Haldus’s anger. The spark of humour faded from its eyes.

‘Time?’ It spoke softly. ‘What do you understand of time, little princeling? You measure it in deeds and bloodshed. The Cromlech of Cadai is beyond such things. Beyond time as you might understand it. It was standing on this spot long before the coming of your Mage Queen. It will be standing here when her final spring has passed.’

The scent of the flowers magnified Haldus’s anger and he found himself glaring at the hare. ‘Nothing will be standing anywhere if we do not halt this plague. You cannot shield yourself from this. Your precious Cromlech is part of the forest, as much as anything else. The seasons have been overturned. There is growth where there should be snow! Time has been displaced.’

There was a low, grinding sound and the chamber shook. Haldus staggered back a few paces and looked around in confusion for the source of the noise. When he looked back at the hare, he realised that the figure in the throne had moved.

The hare opened its eyes wider, revealing two ink-black orbs, but when it spoke, its voice was still gentle.

‘Time has no dominion over the Cromlech, Haldus. We have made sure of that.’ There was sadness in its voice. ‘Duty, Haldus. That is what matters. But such things go forgotten by most. The correct observance of rites. Respect for the gods. Patience. Things that are so easily abandoned by the warlike mind. Do you think yours is the first conflict to reach our borders? Do you think you are the first to try and distract us from our obligations? You are not, Prince Haldus.’

Haldus clutched his head in his hands, unable to believe what he was hearing. Yet again he was facing a noble with no sense of what was at stake. ‘We must join together!’ He waved at the cavernous trunk that surrounded them. ‘It is not enough to support the trees, Calaingor, we must support each other.’

The hare looked over the prince’s shoulder into a shaft of golden twilight pouring into the tree trunk. ‘I preserved what I could.’ The hare turned to its courtiers. They looked back with love and adoration. ‘There is no way back.’

Haldus shrugged off Laelia’s grip. ‘What are you talking about?’

Laelia nodded. ‘I understand. Lord Calaingor has sundered himself from the world.’ She looked around at the assembled nobles. ‘They are all preserved. Insects in amber.’

The hare lifted its chin, assuming the same proud posture they had seen when they first arrived, but said no more.

Haldus stepped closer to the throne, shaking his head. As he did so, he glimpsed a staff in the giant’s hand, as tall as a tree. The thing was decorated with intricate swirls of silver filigree that glittered in the dark. Like all of his kind, Prince Haldus could feel the eddies and currents of magic as easily as he could feel a spring breeze. The staff resonated power. The closer he looked the more sure he became – this was the source of the Cromlech’s resilience.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch it.

The noble nearest to him leapt forward and barred his way, drawing a sword as he did so.

Haldus sensed immediately that he had shocked their hosts. Several of them placed their hands on their weapons and stepped closer.

Laelia rushed forwards and held up a hand, pulling Haldus back with the other.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘The prince was overcome for a moment, that is all. We have not come here to undo what you have created.’ She stared at Haldus. ‘Have we?’

Haldus saw that all the figures in the shadows had now moved forwards, drawing swords, spears and glaives. He shook his head and backed away, feeling foolish for acting like a common thief. He cursed himself for behaving in such an ill-mannered way.

He looked back at the throne, expecting to see wrath and outrage, but the giant noble was as immobile as ever.

The hare was staring at him, but he saw pity in its eyes, rather than rage. ‘The Stave of Calaingor would be no use to you, young prince.’ The ironic expression reappeared. ‘Even if you did have the strength to steal something five times your own height.’

The nobles pressed forwards with their weapons raised, and their painted faces were not so humorous.

Laelia raised her hand and backed out of the hollow tree, dragging Haldus with her as she went.

They emerged into the warm evening light and Haldus muttered grudging thanks, infuriated that Laelia had had to help him again.

‘Cyanos was mistaken,’ she said, as they headed back the way they came. ‘Calaingor is no use to us. He has spent all his power stepping outside of the world we are fighting to save.’ She looked pained. ‘He has both preserved, and lost, all that he loves.’ Laelia shrugged. ‘He certainly has nothing left to offer us. Perhaps your learned scholar was reading the wrong book.’

Haldus paused and looked back at the trees. Some of Calaingor’s subjects had wandered out to watch them leave. They were eying Laelia nervously, and made no move to follow, but outrage was still written across their painted faces. Haldus cursed his stupidity, but sensed that Laelia was right. The guardians of the Cromlech would never have aided him, even if he were the most silver-tongued of nobles. They had chosen their defence and, to Haldus, it looked a lot like a retreat.

He shook his head and blushed angrily, furious that he had led his warriors into that vile, diseased tunnel for nothing.

‘Cyanos showed me the prophecy,’ he muttered as they walked. ‘I couldn’t decipher the characters, of course – it was the language of humans, but it was called the oracular something and it was ancient beyond anything I’ve seen before.’ He scowled, growing angry with himself. ‘I do not understand those obscure histories and legends. Why would Calaingor bind himself away from the world like that?’ He shook his head. ‘Cyanos was sure the signs pointed to this place and this person. He assured me that this was the place to seek aid.’

Laelia’s expression changed, growing uncharacteristically serious as she considered Haldus’s words. ‘We should leave.’

Haldus looked up in shock. He had not heard her speak in such a grim tone before.

They hurried back through the arbours, trees and fields and Haldus’s shoulders dropped with relief when he saw Nuin, still waiting patiently where he had left her.

The prince leapt onto the giant hawk’s back and, without a backwards glance, he launched her into the sky.

As Nuin carried Prince Haldus back towards battle and decay, Laelia drifted up after them.

They passed unhindered through the ancient stones and approached the borders of Calaingor’s realm. Then, as they broke through clouds, Haldus groaned.

The scene below had grown much worse. When they entered the stone circle, the hawk lords had the enemy on the run. The fly-riding daemons had been falling from the sky and Haldus’s riders had been on the cusp of victory.

Now the sky was a boiling black furnace. Thousands of giant flies had filled the air, all carrying cankered, one-eyed daemons between their mucus-lined wings. It was impossible to see the distant entrance to the vast tunnel – the daylight had been completely obscured by the festering host. The only light that remained was from the nauseating yellows and purples that shone from the pestilent fumes.

Haldus saw immediately what he had done.

‘I’ve led us into a trap,’ he muttered, with the colour draining from his face. ‘There’s no way out.’

In all these months of war, he had never seen such a hopeless situation. The tunnel was filled with an appalling, apocalyptic din. The air throbbed with the sound of beating wings and clanging, tuneless bells. Of the three hundred riders he had brought from the camp, he guessed that less than two hundred remained. He shook his head in despair as his kinsmen dropped from the sky, torn apart by glinting black mandibles and fuming daemon blades.

‘Where is Cyanos?’ he growled, scouring the reeking clouds for a sign of him. There was no sign of the black-armoured noble, or any of the other hawk riders from his mountain kingdom.

Laelia glanced at him. Her wry smile was still absent. ‘Where did you find Cyanos?’

Haldus gave her no reply. His expression changed from one of despair to fury. He lifted Eremon’s horn from his back and prepared to call a retreat.

‘Haldus!’ cried Laelia as several black shapes dived out of the gloom, heading straight for them.

Laelia rolled to one side as the monstrous flies hurtled towards them, but Nuin was too slow and one of the creatures latched onto her wings, gripping tightly with dangling, segmented limbs.

The fly had three black, featureless eyes and, without thinking, Haldus jammed his horn into the largest of them.

The eye exploded with a moist pop, spraying black, tar-like liquid across Nuin’s face.

The hawk screamed and shook her head as smoke erupted from her feathers.

Haldus shivered in horror at the sound, but had no time to help his mount. The giant fly was hauling itself onto Nuin’s back and the bird was thrashing its wings wildly, trying to stay airborne.

The fly carried a mangy, withered rider and, as Haldus rose to his feet, the daemon leapt from the fly with its sword raised.

Haldus had already drawn his spear and he thrust it into the daemon’s maggot-riddled belly.

The daemon laughed merrily as its abdomen split open, spilling a torrent of lemon-yellow grubs.

Haldus recoiled. They were not grubs, but tiny replicas of the daemon – complete with gangly limbs, pot bellies, tusks and single, staring eyes.

He lashed out at them with his spear, staggering backwards towards Nuin’s tail, scattering the little shapes into the air like seeds.

The daemon laughed harder as Nuin screamed again and began to fall.

Haldus managed to keep his balance, charged forwards and slammed the blunt end of his spear into the daemon rider’s face, sending it flying from Nuin’s shoulders. He noticed with disgust that it continued laughing as it plunged towards the mounds of living offal below.

The fly-monster still had its segmented limbs latched around Nuin and the giant hawk was screaming in pain as she struggled to beat her wings.

Haldus moved to jam his spear into another one of its eyes, but he recalled the tiny shapes that were already clambering all over him and hesitated.

He was about to plant his heel in the thing’s face when it was suddenly wrenched away from Nuin and hurled through the air.

Haldus glimpsed tendrils of green fire, hanging from Laelia’s fingertips as she flew through the smoke towards him.

The crooked smile had returned to her face. ‘I’m not sure Cyanos has our best interests at heart.’

Haldus was too enraged to do anything but glare at her. He dropped back onto Nuin’s back and tried desperately to wipe the black liquid from her feathers. Freed from the weight of the daemonic fly, she had managed to right herself, but the feathers around her head were scorched and smouldering.

Laelia grimaced at the sight and reached out, soothing the bird’s pain with a balm of pale flames. ‘She will live,’ she said as the light vanished beneath Nuin’s feathers. Then she shook her head. ‘We need to leave,’ she said, glancing doubtfully at the heaving, fungal landscape.

Haldus was rigid with anger and shame. All around him, the hawk riders were being devoured by the daemon-plague.

As he cast his gaze around, it came to rest on the stone towers behind them.

He looked from the stones to Laelia and raised his eyebrows.

She laughed weakly. ‘We won’t enter so easily a second time. Not after your attempts at negotiation.’

Haldus jabbed a finger at the carnage that surrounded them and drew his breath to reply, but before he could speak, another daemon-fly whirred towards them. Emboldened by fury and desperation, Haldus leapt from Nuin’s back and kicked the daemon rider from the fly’s back.

The daemon looked back at him in stunned silence as it fell through the clouds.

The giant fly lashed out with a barbed limb, but Haldus was too fast. He dodged the blow, took the blade of his spear in both hands and jammed it into the base of one of the monster’s wings. He roared as he kicked the blade, shovel-like, deeper into the joint and then levered the wing out of the fly’s back and kicked it into the air.

The fly immediately rolled to one side, unbalanced by the missing wing, but Haldus had already leapt clear, landing safely on Nuin’s back and continuing his conversation with Laelia without pausing for breath. ‘You have the power to get us in there!’ he cried, jabbing his finger at the Cromlech as the fly dropped past them, thrashing its three remaining wings uselessly as it went.

Laelia looked wounded by his harsh tone, then shook her head with a bemused expression on her face. ‘And you say you’re not the one to lead an army.’

Haldus continued glaring at her.

She looked back at the battle and then at the stone towers.

‘The way is blocked,’ she said flatly. ‘And Lord Calaingor has power far beyond mine.’

‘There must be a way.’ Haldus stared at her as hawk riders died all around them. The combination of his scars and his low, brutal-looking brow made him seem almost like a wild animal. ‘It’s our only escape route.’

Laelia looked worried as she considered what he was asking of her. Then she let out a strange little laugh. ‘Perhaps there is a way.’ She thought for a moment longer and then nodded. ‘Lead your warriors to the towers and I’ll see what I can do.’

Haldus noticed that the doubt had not entirely left her eyes. The idea that she was scared shocked him but he knew he could not back down. There was nowhere else he could lead his kinsmen. Then another hawk screamed in pain and confirmed the fact. He placed Eremon’s horn to his lips and summoned the riders to his side, steering Nuin down towards the towers as he did so.

Less than half of the riders who entered the tunnel remained to follow Haldus into the Cromlech. The daemons raced after them on their flies but, as the hawks sliced into the invisible space between the rocks, the flies collided with a wall of air. There was a crunching and splintering as mandibles and wings were broken, sending daemon mounts spinning back through the air, shedding giggling riders and spraying fountains of black liquid, but the asrai passed safely through the stone portal. One by one, the hawk riders disappeared from view, slicing through the whirling shapes of the daemons and entering the hidden realm of Lord Calaingor.

Chapter Eleven

Prince Haldus closed his eyes for a second as he felt the warm summer evening roll over his body. Then, recalling his conversation with Calaingor, he realised the place no longer felt like such a welcoming haven. He looked back and saw his blood-drenched kinsmen gliding between the towers and following him to safety. With every second that passed, dozens more of the hawk riders followed him through the towers, looking around in awe as they saw the beautiful reminder of their lost home. Haldus whispered a thank you to Laelia.

He saw to his relief that the black fluid was gone from Nuin’s feathers. Every trace of the plague had vanished as they passed through Calaingor’s invisible wards. Not even a single spore could enter the Cromlech. Haldus marvelled again at the noble’s power as he steered Nuin down towards the meadows.

As he dismounted, Haldus allowed himself a brief glance at Calaingor’s sun-warmed idyll, but the scene no longer had the power to ease his pain. Wounded, ashen-faced warriors were landing all around him and Nuin was twitching and eager beneath him. He placed a hand on her neck and whispered soothing phrases into her ear. Her breathing became more regular, but he could see cuts all over her flesh – no longer infected with the plague, but still enough to cause her pain. He placed his palm on an angry red wheal at the base of her skull and whispered a soothing charm.

‘Laelia,’ he cried, trying again to spot her in the crowds of hawks that were landing all around him.

Dozens of his fellow riders were now rushing through the long grass to his side, but there was no sign of Ariel’s handmaiden.

One of the first riders to reach him was a tall noble. Haldus was so focussed on trying to locate Laelia that for a second he did not register him. He wore a swansdown circlet in his hair and a cloak made of the same gleaming white feathers. He was bare-chested, like all the other hawk riders, but his skin was so heavily inked with feather designs, that he seemed to be half bird. His face was long, handsome and fiercely intelligent.

‘My lord,’ he said, in a rich, melodic voice. ‘Where are we?’

Haldus finally noticed him and blinked in confusion. ‘Avernus. Where are we? What do you mean?’

‘What is this place?’

Haldus looked around. The survivors of the battle were wandering through the gloaming, throwing shadows across the rippling grass. They were looking around with a mixture of delight and confusion. None of them had expected such a blissful ending to such a dreadful journey.

Haldus glared at his captain for a moment, still wondering what might have happened to Laelia. The glimpse of fear in her eyes had been most unusual. As he looked across the fields, Haldus saw the distant arbours and, as before, there was a group of crowned nobles drifting out to greet them. They were moving much faster than before, however and they were flanked by hundreds of glaive-wielding warriors.

Haldus muttered a curse.

Avernus followed his gaze and blanched. Lifted a bow from his back. ‘My lord?’ he asked glancing to the hawk riders who were still landing all around them. ‘Must we fight our own kin?’

Haldus forced himself to forget Laelia and focussed on the crowds of warriors rushing towards him. They were already crossing the paved courtyard and would be on them in minutes.

He turned to face the remnants of his attack force. ‘Draw your bows,’ he cried, ‘but keep them lowered.’

Without another word to Avernus, he raced off through the long grass towards the approaching crowd of warriors. As he neared them, he saw that they were led by the same nobles he had previously offended. Their iridescent robes and elaborate crowns were unmistakable. The vague, distant look had gone from their eyes though and, like the warriors who accompanied them, they were now holding long, elegant glaives, with blades that gleamed in the dusk.

Haldus wracked his brains as he approached them, wondering what he could say that would wipe the rage from their faces.

He was just a few feet away from them when a hunched, wizened figure rose from the grass ahead of him and held up a hand.

Haldus grimaced at the sight of the thing. It was a grey, shrivelled husk and it seemed to have dragged itself from a grave.

The nobles and their warriors looked as disturbed as Haldus and stumbled to a halt.

Haldus paused too, staring at the cadaverous shape.

Then it dropped from view and vanished.

He rushed over to the spot but found no trace of the strange figure.

The nobles approached and Haldus fingered his bow nervously as he looked up at them.

As before, they were drifting a few feet off the ground, like the mages of Ariel’s court, but they looked at him with a wariness he had not seen last time.

Haldus realised what he must do. It was his lunge at Calaingor’s staff that had created this bad blood so he must be the one to make amends. He dropped to one knee and held out one of his hands, palm up.

‘I beg that your lordships forgive my earlier outburst,’ he said. ‘The fury of the battle was still upon me. I was not thinking straight. I assure you I would never have intended to offend the Warden of the Cromlech.’ His voice was awkward and stiff, contorted by his pride. ‘I beg you not to punish my kin for their lord’s indiscretion. They’re exhausted from battle and have only come seeking sanctuary. I would ask nothing more than…’

Prince Haldus’s words trailed off as he realised that the nobles were frowning at him in confusion. He rose awkwardly to his feet.

One of the nobles drifted closer. ‘You are not here to attack us?’ she asked, speaking in the same wooden tones she had used earlier.

Haldus shook his head.

There was a rustling of feathers as Avernus came to stand next to him. ‘My lord,’ he whispered, ‘they don’t know who you are.’

Haldus saw that he was right. They did not recognise him. He wondered how they could they have forgotten the person who had only just attacked their lord.

‘Don’t you know me?’

‘No,’ said the noble. Then after staring at him for a few minutes some slight recognition dawned in her eyes. ‘Or perhaps I do,’ she said with a soft, puzzled laugh. ‘There is something vaguely familiar about your face. Did you come to the Cromlech once before?’

She massaged her temples, trying to remember more clearly. ‘Was there some kind of awkwardness?’ She shrugged and held out her own hand with a smile, mimicking his gesture of peace. ‘No matter.’

Haldus looked at Avernus with a dazed expression, but Avernus was looking at the distant, shimmering sunset, already starting to guess that there was something odd about it.

Haldus turned back to the noble and waved at the glaive-wielding soldiers. ‘I thought you were coming to punish me for my poor manners.’

The noble laughed again. The sound was odd and cumbersome in her mouth, like her speech, but it seemed genuine enough. ‘Whatever happened in the distant past is lost to me, friend, and it can remain forgotten.’

She waved a hand and the soldiers lowered their weapons. ‘We saw warriors and wanted to be sure of your intent, that was all.’

Haldus remembered something. ‘What was that figure I saw, just before we spoke – the grey thing?’

The noble grimaced. ‘We have no name for it. It arrived, unannounced, centuries ago. Such a pitiful, wretched little thing. It does no harm though, so Lord Calaingor leaves it to roam in peace.’ The noble folded her hands across her narrow chest.

Haldus sensed that something had gone unsaid, but he was relieved to find the noble so amiable and decided not to risk upsetting her by pursuing the issue. ‘Could I speak with your lord?’ he asked. ‘I have been betrayed by one of my own kind and now find myself in a trap. I wish to see if Lord Calaingor could help me escape this valley.’

‘My name is Ailerann,’ she said, still smiling. ‘Let me escort you to the Warden.’

Haldus ordered his men to wait with their mounts and rest, while he and Avernus went on alone.

Ailerann led them back to the grove of trees and the vast hollow trunk that Calaingor used as his halls. The white hare was still visible in the flame-like mesh of the throne, but it appeared to be asleep – as did the cadaverous giant. After a whispered debate with the other nobles, Ailerann told Haldus and Avernus that they would have to wait until Lord Calaingor was ready to speak.

Haldus tensed, but Avernus gave him a pleading glance and the prince limited his response to a sigh.

Ailerann led them out the other side of the grove and on through the rolling meadows, her tall, angular frame silhouetted against the sunset.

She led them to another paved square, surrounded by banks of bobbing lavender and told them to rest until she returned.

Haldus paced anxiously back and forth, but Avernus sat on the ageworn stone, stretching his tired, bruised limbs.

‘My lord,’ he said after a few minutes, ‘stay still I beg you. What can we do until she returns? We’re trapped in this valley and would have died if not for this haven.’

‘We were betrayed,’ snapped Haldus in reply.

Avernus glanced up at him.

Haldus stopped pacing and pointed back the way they had come. ‘Cyanos told me to lead you all into that wretched tunnel. He swore to me that Calaingor was the ally we needed and that we would have no trouble reaching him.’

Avernus laughed grimly. ‘I suppose that explains why he never joined us.’

Haldus crouched next to him. ‘What exactly did he say?’

Avernus clutched his head in his hands. ‘Ach. I feel like a fool, my lord. He spoke to me on the eve of the attack, with all his usual charm, and told me he had to lead his kin home to the mountains, just for a few days, so that he could retrieve some more old books. There are so few of his warriors anyway, I did not think he would be missed. He said he would join us in time for the next attack.’

Avernus looked back at the grove of yew trees. ‘Perhaps he was right though – perhaps Calaingor is the ally we need?’

Haldus shook his head. ‘Calaingor is no more of an ally than Thenot was. He will never again leave this pretty bower he has created. He has bound all his magic into this one spot.’ He clenched his fists. ‘Cyanos assured me there would only be a handful of daemons to defeat. Then, he neglected to join us and a vast host arrived, more numerous than anything I’ve seen so far. We have been betrayed, Avernus. Half of our hawk riders are dead. And there’s no way for us to leave this valley and make our way back to the main army. I’ve been a fool to ever trust him. I worry now that everything he told me has been a lie. And it was at his advice that I left Findol and the others to defend the falls.’ He shook his head. ‘Why did Orion let him live?’

‘The Consort-King made many strange decisions this year. Trusting Cyanos was probably the least of them.’

It irked Haldus to hear such disloyalty, but he could not dispute the logic. Before the king passed away into his winter-long rest, he did little to help repel the plague that had overcome his kingdom. Like every other asrai, Haldus was already praying that the spring would bring them a lord with more than a passing interest in his own realm.

Avernus’s eyes widened. ‘If the rest of the army survives, it might come looking for us. Findol and the other lords could fall into the same trap.’

Haldus removed his wooden headgear and ran a hand through his long, plaited locks. ‘Perhaps… Perhaps not. Without me to hold them together, who knows what course of action they’ll take. It seemed a precarious alliance even when I was there to yell at them.’ He shrugged. ‘Either way, we must find a way out of this false haven. We can’t stay here forever, frozen in time.’

‘They aren’t frozen in time, actually,’ answered a rasping voice, coming from somewhere in the meadow.

Haldus and Avernus leapt to their feet, drew bows and aimed arrows in the direction of the voice.

‘Who speaks?’ cried Haldus.

The grass rippled a few feet away from them and a hunched figure emerged – the same wizened crone that Haldus had glimpsed earlier. Now that he saw the thing more closely, he found it even more grotesque. It resembled a shrivelled corpse, with grey, sagging folds of skin. Her eyes were clouded over and her scalp was bald, apart from a few greasy strands.

It was only as she stepped onto the stones that Prince Haldus recognised her.

‘Laelia,’ he said.

She did an awkward little pirouette, revealing the lumped, sac-like remnants of her wings. She laughed as she danced for them and Haldus felt a wave of relief. Hideous as she was, it was a delight to see her. Her wry smile was unmistakable, even on a face that was more skull than flesh.

‘You needn’t look quite so disgusted,’ she said, patting him on the arm. ‘This was your fault.’

He looked horrified.

She shrugged. ‘I knew Calaingor would never readmit someone who had only just tried to attack him, but time is even more malleable here than the rest of the forest. I have been schooled by the Mage Queen herself, remember. The Great Weave dances to my tune.’ At the word ‘dances’ Laelia tried to do another little pirouette. The effect it had on her aged flesh caused Haldus and Avernus to grimace, but that only seemed to amuse her and she did it all the more.

‘I simply took some of their centuries into my own flesh,’ she said staggering and lurching around them, wincing and wheezing as she went. ‘So that when you landed they could barely remember your face.’ She stumbled and, despite his revulsion, Haldus reached out to grab her.

She looked at him with milky, unseeing eyes. ‘I do feel a little tired now though.’

He stared at her, shocked by what she had said. ‘You did this to yourself, because I asked you?’

She patted him playfully on the face. ‘What can I say, Prince Haldus? I’m fond of you. It must be your cheery disposition and delightful manners.’ She stepped away and sat down with an exhausted groan. Her bones clicked like kindling as she settled into a cross-legged pose. ‘And besides, you have some powerful friends watching out for your interests.’

Haldus frowned.

Laelia winced as she shifted into a different position. ‘The Mage Queen’s final words to me were that I should watch over you. She seemed to consider you worth looking after, Prince Haldus. Naieth the Prophetess agreed. She has foretold that our survival hinges on your survival.’

Haldus reeled away from her. ‘Naieth said that?’

‘Amongst other things. She sees a link between you and the future of our king.’

Haldus looked down at his leathery, copper-clad limbs, as though learning the value of them for the first time. ‘Then why did you let me lead this ridiculous attack?’ As always, when he was emotional, Haldus’s glowering features blushed a deep crimson. ‘You should have locked me away somewhere.’

‘And stop you performing the very deed that Naieth has foreseen? I’m not sure that would win me any favour at court, are you? For all I knew, this battle might have been the moment of your greatest victory.’

Haldus sat heavily on the stones, looking dazed.

Avernus stepped past him and looked down at the strange, wrinkled little figure. ‘But what now? If Haldus is to perform some great act, he won’t do it here, sniffing flowers.’

Laelia laughed. ‘No. We must get you all out of this pretty valley.’

Haldus shook his head. ‘We will be butchered. There are more daemons out there than I have seen since the plague began.’

Laelia narrowed her eyes and looked at something in the fields. ‘I’ll have to leave you for a while,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘They’re not so fond of me. I think they sense, on some level, that I have robbed them.’ She grinned at them both. ‘Laelia the time thief!’ Then she slipped away into the grass with surprising speed.

Haldus lurched to his feet, reaching out to her. ‘Wait! What will become of you?’

‘What will become of me?’ asked Lady Ailerann, drifting across the field towards them. ‘What do you mean?’

Haldus backed away and shook his head.

The noble looked confused, but said simply. ‘The Warden is ready.’

The hare watched them closely as they entered the gloomy chamber.

‘I remember you,’ it said, as Haldus kneeled before the arboreal throne.

Prince Haldus looked to see if there was anger in the animal’s eyes, but saw none.

He wracked his brain for cunning or beguiling words with which to win over Calaingor to his cause but, as ever, he could think of no clever way to adorn the basic facts.

‘I need your help,’ he said.

The hare studied him closely. ‘You have tricked your way into my palace, young prince. I’m not sure how, but I sense the hand of the Mage Queen.’

There was still no anger in the animal’s voice and Haldus decided to risk speaking plainly.

‘I came to you a long time ago, with the idea that you would fight at my side and help me–.’

‘If that is why you have come now, I fear you will be disappointed.’

‘No,’ said Haldus quickly. ‘I was lied to. I understand now that your power is of a different kind. I was tricked into coming here. All I ask is that you help me leave.’

‘You can leave the way you came.’

Haldus tried to keep his voice level, but as he sensed the assembled nobles pressing closer to listen an infuriating tremor entered his voice. ‘We cannot. The whole valley has been consumed by creatures of Chaos. The Plague Father has surrounded your realm and blocked our way home. If we leave this place we’ll be butchered before we can travel half a mile.’

The hare fell silent again. After a few seconds it closed its eyes and seemed to sleep.

More silent figures began to emerge from the shadows behind the throne, staring at Haldus and Avernus. He looked at them properly for the first time and noticed how disparate their outfits were. They must have been assembled from all the great realms of the forest.

‘You must help me,’ he said, turning to face them. ‘The wise have foretold my future.’ It made him blush furiously to make such a grandiose claim, but desperation drove him on. ‘The forest’s wellbeing is in my hands.’

The courtiers backed away, clearly surprised at being addressed directly.

Haldus was about to pursue them when he noticed that they were staring at the throne.

The giant had opened his eyes and leant forwards, snapping twigs, scattering rats and filling the air with a cloud of dust.

As the dust cleared, Haldus saw Calaingor clearly for the first time and realised his flesh had been petrified. His tall, regal body had been motionless for so long it had become a fossil, turning his elegant limbs into a collection of pale, dusty stones, like columns of veined marble.

Calaingor’s cracked, magisterial head was topped by a crown of black leaves but they were the only living thing about him, other than his pale blue eyes, which stared out from their immobile sockets with all the clarity of youth.

‘I must help you?’ Even when he spoke, Calaingor’s face did not move. His voice emerged from between dusty, unmoving lips.

The air in the chamber dropped and Haldus took a few steps back.

‘I need your help, Lord Calaingor,’ he said, but his words sounded weak and unsure.

‘And what help would you ask of me?’

‘Your aid in battle and safe passage from this valley. I have a traitor to find and a forest to protect. I…’ Haldus struggled to find words as he felt the huge blue eyes watching him. ‘I… My way is blocked, Lord Calaingor. I am trapped here by enemies I cannot defeat.’

Lord Calaingor’s body did not move any further. Twigs, insects and small animals were still tumbling into the gap he had formed by shifting into a new position. The chamber was filled with the sound of claws scrabbling on stone and the whispering of the courtiers. None of them had seen such a thing before.

There was a long silence while the giant considered Haldus’s words. Then, finally, he spoke. ‘I can give you what you need,’ he said, ‘but it will cost us both dearly.’

Haldus glanced at Avernus who gave him a warning glance.

‘There is no cost I will not pay, Lord Calaingor,’ said Haldus. ‘I cannot rest until I face the liar who sent me to this valley. My people have died in their hundreds.’ His voice cracked with pain and anger. ‘Take what you need, just get me out of here.’

The giant sighed, sending a cloud of dusty cobwebs drifting from his stone jaw. ‘Very well. Then it is done. The price will not be to your liking, but the Cromlech of Cadai must be preserved. And I cannot tend to it alone. This realm must remain unchanged, even though it is through the power of fresh souls.’

Haldus shook his head, already sensing that he had made a mistake and cursing his impetuousness.

The courtiers began stepping from the shadows with sad smiles on their faces.

‘I will free you from this valley, prince,’ said the giant. ‘It will tire me greatly but I am not without a heart. The Cromlech and I are as one. And we still have power. We can free you from this trap.’

There was sadness in the giant’s eyes but his voice was like iron. ‘But I will have my price.’ He looked towards the fields where Haldus’s army was assembled. ‘Your people will remain here with me. Forever.’

Chapter Twelve

Ordaana. The word rattled round her head like an infuriating tune, but its meaning eluded her.

She crawled out from beneath the weight that was holding her in place and climbed to her feet. Then she drew herself up to her full height, towering over the tallymen and unfurling the oily membrane of her wings. The tallymen scattered and cringed, sensing violence, but she was too confused to do anything but stand there, beating her wings against the breeze. The fawning, drooling faces of the tallymen were familiar, but for the life of her she could not recall why.

I am a flesh fly, she thought, picturing herself crawling on a piece of decomposing meat. The thought depressed her. A simple insect. It was not the fate she had hoped for.

Ordaana. The word jarred her again and spoke of another life. A time before she crawled on carcasses, leaving maggots in her wake.

She looked down at her body and saw to her surprise that, despite the oil-black tessellations of her skin, she was more than a simple insect. She had two arms, two legs and a slender body, still clad in the remains of a once-beautiful lemon-coloured gown. There was a silver knife tucked into her belt and the sight of it brought everything back to her.

‘Lady Ordaana.’ The words emerged from her throat as a thin, rasping croak. Her vocal cords were too warped to form the words clearly, but a croak was enough. It brought her back to her senses. As she recalled everything that had led her to this point, a familiar, comforting sensation flooded her thoughts: hate.

In a second, her confusion vanished. She had been leading the tallymen into the tunnel so that she could spring her trap. Prince Haldus had come dangerously close to harming her child, the wonderful product of her union with Alkhor, but she had agreed a plan with the traitor, Cyanos, to lead Prince Haldus here; to lead him to his death.

But something had gone wrong. She frowned and looked back at where she had fallen. The dead weight she had been trapped beneath was an enormous hawk. Its steaming guts were spread across the ground, mingling with a carpet of fuchsia-coloured fungus. The rider was absent, but she could easily guess what had happened to him.

She looked at the tallymen and saw that she was right.

They were huddled round the corpse of the fallen asrai, forcing insects and spores into his wounds; pouring vile draughts down his broken neck.

After a few moments, the corpse began to judder and change.

She looked away in disgust. She may have finally given in to Alkhor’s ‘gifts’ but she did not wish to see such transformations taking place in others.

‘Have they emerged from the Cromlech, yet?’ she demanded, turning towards Ganglion.

The crimson-skinned daemon was staring, fascinated, at the corpse as it climbed to its feet, reborn as another shambling plaguebearer.

‘Ganglion,’ she snapped, grabbing the horn between the daemon’s eyes and swinging it round to face her. ‘Has Prince Haldus emerged?’

Ganglion recoiled and bowed. ‘No, proctor, he has not. It cannot take much longer though. Lord Cyanos assured us the prince would not find aid here.’

Ordaana shoved the daemon aside with a disgusted hiss and launched herself into the air.

As she flew, she saw that the fighting was all done. Haldus’s warhawk riders had been butchered. Their bodies were everywhere – either piled in mounds or responding to the obscene ministrations of the tallymen. It was the same sight she had watched countless times in the recent weeks. As the year ended, so did the reign of the Mage Queen. Ordaana’s host had fallen on each of her lords and ladies in turn – leaving their halls in ruins and transforming their armies into gibbering mobs. It was more glorious than she had ever dreamt it would be – tearing those pompous cowards from their thrones and seeing the final, wonderful moment of recognition in their eyes just before she destroyed them. The nobles who let her be driven from Ariel’s court were now begging her for mercy as she tore their halls down around their ears.

Ordaana’s fury rushed through her. And yet the final victory eluded her. Haldus was the key – Alkhor had assured her of that. There was a link between him and Orion and her final revenge could not be achieved until she took his life, but he, and over half of his riders had vanished into the Cromlech of Cadai.

‘Did you lie to me, Cyanos?’ she whispered, drooling bile and maggots. ‘I pray for your soul that you did not.’

She flew higher, scouring the vast tunnel that Alkhor had used to consume the valley. There was no sign of Haldus or that smirking strumpet Ariel had sent to watch over him. She sank her nails into her black, glinting forearm, struggling to hold back a scream as pus oozed up over her fingers. ‘You said Lord Calaingor would not help them.’ She howled: ‘You said he would not help them!’

She tried to calm herself. All was not lost. Haldus was still trapped. Since he entered the tunnel, she had filled it with thousands more of Alkhor’s offspring. There was no way out. Haldus would not cower behind some old stones while his people died. Her child would continue flooding the Saros valley. The lords and ladies gathered around the Crowfoot Falls would continue to drown. Without Haldus to lead them, they were nothing, and he knew that. They would bicker and strut even as the waters rose over their heads. Still, her anger coursed through her. Haldus had tried to destroy her child and she itched to watch him die.

She flew closer to the ancient towers, peering into the mysterious gaps between the crumbling statues. She could see nothing; nothing but the judgement in the eyes of her former gods. She flew lower and saw that, despite their numbers, Alkhor’s tallymen had still failed to cross the boundary of the ancient shrine. They were piled up in great mounds at its base, clawing at the ground with tools and claws, but failing to gain an inch.

‘You cannot escape, Haldus,’ she said, flying away from the mass of toiling bodies and back to the tunnel’s entrance. ‘You can delay me a little, but that is all. As you stall me here, my child destroys your army. I can wait. Either way the end is at hand.’ She shivered in anticipation at the thought. With the asrai defeated, Ariel would have no option but to strike out against Alkhor herself. She would come in the spring, or whatever pitiful season passed for spring, and she would bring her hunter king with her. They would throw themselves at Alkhor’s impossible creation and then… Ordaana closed her eyes and touched the silver knife at her belt. And then she would have her revenge.

She flew like that for a few moments – eyes closed and her hand on the knife, picturing her final victory, picturing the moment when she would take Ariel’s life. Then a dull clanging sound dragged her from her blissful fantasy.

She looked down and saw that the larger tallymen, the ones they used as heralds, were ringing their brass bells in warning. Dozens of them had risen up from the throng, signalling an alarm.

‘What are you doing?’ she said, looking down at them in confusion. She had never seen them do such a thing before. On the rare occasions they rang their bells, it was to celebrate the birth of a new disease or the sight of a new mutation, but never like this – with a frantic urgency that was infecting the whole army.

At first she could not see what had alarmed them so, then she noticed that they were all staring at the circle of stone towers. Some of them were even backing away. Her head reeled. The tallymen were retreating. She had never seen them behave like this.

She turned back towards the Cromlech to see what could have caused such a stir in her empty-headed servants.

What she saw was so shocking that she almost tumbled from the air.

The gods had come to deal out their judgement. The far end of the tunnel was flooded with light and, silhouetted by the glare were seven towering figures. They were each over a mile tall and, as the valley shook beneath their weight, Ordaana whispered their names in terror.

‘Isha, Asuryan, Hoeth, Lileath, Loec, Ladrielle,’ she said and then, finally, with a shuddering sob, ‘Kurnous.’

The stone effigies were marching towards her. Their eyes shone with the light of a thousand suns and their crowns were the spiralling heavens. All of them were majestic, terrible and filled with wrath, but Ordaana could not see beyond the first of them: Kurnous. The rage and power she had glimpsed when Orion led his Wild Hunt was only a tiny fraction of the animal fury that was now striding through the valley. His crumbling antlers were shrouded in thunderheads and illuminated by flickers of lightning. As his hooves pounded down into the crowds of tallymen, the ground shattered and slumped, as though in the grip of an earthquake.

For a while, Ordaana could do nothing but stare in awestruck horror, but then, as the gods pulverised her army, crossing the length of the valley in a few strides, she realised what had happened. The stones of the Cromlech had come to life. The gods had imbued their avatars with their essence and strode forth to destroy her army.

The ranks of tallymen crumbled before their wrath, either turning to flee or dying beneath feet of crumbling stone. Ordaana saw that the light behind them was not simply a glimpse of the Otherworld, it was a vast hole that the gods had torn in Alkhor’s tunnel. They were destroying his trap.

Ordaana tried to calm herself with a long, deep breath. As she flew towards the tunnel entrance she wondered if, even now, she could win the battle. After so many victories, the thought of defeat was incomprehensible. Perhaps, even against the gods she could find a way? The army of tallymen was vast beyond anything she had ever seen before. Perhaps, if she rallied them she could–

Ordaana’s thoughts were obliterated by a deafening howl.

It was so loud she felt as though claws had been jammed into her ears. As she turned, she felt blood rushing down her neck.

The noise had driven the entire army of plaguebearers into a desperate rout. Even such simple minds could recognise the sound of their doom and they clawed at each other in a desperate attempt to reach the opening at the end of the valley.

Ordaana looked briefly at the origin of the noise and then clamped her hands over her eyes, unable to bear the sight.

Kurnous had lifted a great, flame-shrouded horn to his lips and filled the world with the sound of his bloodlust. It was the incomprehensible music of the Otherworld. It was the threads of the Great Weave, twisted into sound, and Ordaana wept to hear it. She screamed, trying to drown it out as she soared from the tunnel along with hundreds of other mutant insects. As Ordaana left the valley, the tunnel collapsed behind her in a blaze of white-hot, celestial fire.

Flies poured from the valley like plumes of smoke, wheeling and banking as the tunnel caved in behind them. Ordaana looked back through tears of rage and caught a brief glimpse of the stone gods. They were pummelling her army – smashing the tallymen into pulp with weapons the size of mountains. They were shattering the ground with each blow but, to Ordaana’s relief, they did not pass beyond the mouth of the valley. As her glistening wings hurled her up through the clouds, she saw the face of Kurnous one last time. His dreadful, infernal eyes burned into her soul, filled with rage and accusation.

She groaned and turned away, fixing her gaze on the rest of the forest. It eased her suffering a little to see that it was still firmly in Alkhor’s diseased grip. Her home had become a colourful explosion of fungus and enormous, mutant insects. The few areas of woodland left were islands of sanity, surrounded by lunatic swathes of colour and steaming, yellow rivers. Ordaana relaxed a little as she flew north.

‘My child,’ she whispered, excited by the thought that she would soon see her offspring. She had left it with the bulk of Alkhor’s army, at the Crowfoot Falls. They had cornered the last of the asrai lords in the Saros Valley and she smiled as she pictured the scene that would be waiting for her. By now, they would all be either transformed into tallymen or drowned. Surely that would be enough for Alkhor? What could it matter if the wretched hawk lord lived when she had killed everyone else?

As she approached the valley, Ordaana’s view was obscured by clouds of crows, flies and other insects, all hurtling towards her. She smiled, assuming that they must have already picked the bones clean and be moving on to find the next battlefield.

It was only as she glided down between the arms of the valley that she saw what had happened. At first her mind was unable to comprehend the scene and she thought she must be lost. The valley was crowded with thousands of dark, tightly packed fir trees. The River Saros was visible only as flickering shimmers of light beneath the pines. She flew lower, peering through the clouds of flies, and saw asrai nobles, charging between the trees with their banners trailing behind them. Her once-great army of tallymen was destroyed. Most of the daemons had been butchered by the advancing asrai, but those that remained were running for the hills, abandoning weapons, jars and ledgers as javelins flew after them.

Ordaana whirled desperately back and forth above the trees, unable to understand. Then a dreadful thought gripped her. ‘My child,’ she groaned, swooping towards the eastern end of the valley.

As she flew downriver, she saw that the trees were packed even more tightly near the mouth of the valley. It was as though they had exploded from the riverbed.

Ordaana began to whine as she saw great mounds of white blubber scattered across the valley. She refused to accept the truth at first, trying to convince herself that this must be a different valley. Then she looked back to the west and saw the glittering claw-like falls.

‘Alhena,’ she groaned, looking for her child.

As she flew further she saw more hunks of white flesh and then, the final, dreadful proof: spread across the riverbank, like a stranded sea monster, was the mound of tentacles that had once been the daemon’s face.

She flew towards it, starting to sob, but before she could embrace her fallen child, arrows began whistling past her.

She tried again to dive lower, but more of the asrai archers had seen her now and hundreds of arrows began flying from the trees. Some of them sliced through her wings, turning her sobs into furious cries, and she flew south, gliding up into the clouds and leaving the carnage behind.

‘What happened?’ she screamed, singling out a tallyman who was hurrying off from the valley.

She landed on a monstrous, blue-green mushroom and glared at the daemon. ‘You had them trapped. How can you have allowed them to drive you out like this?’

The daemon was clutching a long, tail-like piece of meat that was crawling with lice and disease. It gave Ordaana a vacant, loose-lipped grin and held up its treasure.

‘Our grandfather will be so pleased with this. An entirely new strain of jelly spine. See how the bones have started to congeal and melt.’ The daemon threw the spine over its shoulder and took out a rotten, leather notebook that was dripping with pus. ‘Look at the records, proctor,’ said the daemon, tracing one of its long, crooked fingers over tiny, neatly written names. ‘There has never been such a virulent strain. This is the first time–’

Ordaana leapt from the mushroom with feline grace and attacked the daemon, grabbing its necrotic neck and slamming its head against the ground.

‘How could you lose?’ she screamed, spewing maggots into the daemon’s face. ‘I handed you a victory!’ Her voice spiralled higher. ‘How could you let my child be killed?’

The daemon’s single, yellow eye stared back as its skull collapsed.

‘What could be more of a victory?’ it said in a bloody garble, holding up the piece of meat and pointing at the white dots that were scurrying over it. ‘This disease has never been seen before. We have created new life, proctor – do you see? New life. When I bring this to our grandfather he will mingle it with all his other great works. It will feed the change he is working.’

Ordaana remained crouched on top of the daemon for a moment, then howled and reeled off through the quivering stems and the garish, bell-shaped caps. She ran for a moment, then launched herself into the air, still howling with grief and panic. She had lost her child, but also she had lost the battle. She had failed Alkhor. He would be furious. What if he denied her the revenge he had promised? Everything was slipping away from her.

She flew higher over the glades of fungus and clouds of spores and saw that it would be easy enough to find her master. The rivers of bile that networked the forest had formed the shape of a huge, eight-pointed star and, where the arms of the star joined, several miles to the south, a huge black column of flies was reaching up, tornado-like, to the clouds.

Ordaana flew with all the speed she could muster, horrified by the battles that raged below. Bands of asrai, emboldened by their victory at the falls, were pushing the daemons back, driving them south towards the column of flies. She had failed horribly. The asrai were winning.

As she travelled further south, she left the fighting behind and entered a region so confusing it seemed like the world had broken down into nothing but colour. It was as though a collection of paints had been spilled across the landscape, spiralling into a bewildering vortex of pinks, blues and yellows. The rivers of bile burned on through all of it though, seething and bubbling and growing wider as they went. Tallymen were dashing through the fungus and steam, clutching their finds: fragments of diseased flesh; twitching, mutated creatures and bell jars filled with swirling, luminous gases.

There were other shapes dashing between the legs of the plaguebearers – tiny replicas of Alkhor. Ordaana grimaced at the sight of them – bloated little balls of blubber, no bigger than a child. They had wide, grinning faces and skirts of intestines that trailed from their gaping bellies. These smaller daemons carried prizes too – gastropods with human heads and sacks filled with wriggling, glistening worms. And, slithering alongside these smaller shapes were larger creatures – oozing, ponderous molluscs with teetering spiral shells and probing, glistening antennae. There was a revolting opera of squelching slurps and moist pops as the creatures slithered towards the centre of the star. The air was heavy with a damp, saccharine stench.

Ordaana realised that, despite the spores and gases, she could see with horrible clarity, in fact, she could catch every tiny movement of the fat little daemons waddling between the legs of the tallymen. As soon as she noticed this, she was assailed by thousands of images. It was as though her vision had been shattered into a mosaic of powerful lenses. She reached up to shield her eyes but immediately withdrew her hands in shock. Her eyes had grown; and they had changed.

Ordaana quashed her panic and fixed her powerful gaze on the column of flies up ahead. Nothing mattered now, but revenge. The changes warping her flesh were irrelevant – as long as she remained whole long enough to see Ariel die. Everything was the Mage Queen’s fault. Everything. Everything. Everything.

As she neared the sky-high column of flies, the sound of it became deafening. Its coiling, roiling mass roared like the ocean, drifting back and forth, wrenching tree-sized puffballs and mushrooms from the ground and hurling them through the air.

Where the eight rivers of bile met there was a broad, dazzling lake of yellow acid, filled with spiralling, serpentine shapes and, slumped proudly at the centre of it, like a grinning mountain of grey-blue fat, was Alkhor. The sac-like daemon was enormous and terrifyingly real. The insubstantiality of its flesh had all but vanished. It was now a great, leering boulder of disease, haloed by bluebottles and robed in screaming crows.

Ordaana frowned as she approached, thinking for a moment that the daemon had been wounded. Then she saw her mistake and, despite all the nauseating things it had already endured, her stomach finally rebelled. Ordaana vomited in disgust.

Alkhor had transformed its pockmarked, spherical body into a living cabinet. It had sliced open its chest, snapped its ribcage apart like a gate and allowed its viscera to spill out into the lake. In the space left by its absent organs there were now curving shelves of bone, lined with thousands of rusty meat hooks, all of which carried a specimen of some kind. Ordaana wiped the sick from her mouth and flew closer to look, conscious as she did so that Alkhor was watching her approach with interest.

Hanging from the hooks were a perplexing collection of objects: scraps of mildewed parchment, covered in tightly packed text; wooden crates full of scuttling rodents; locks of hair writhing with maggots; scraps of skin that twitched with infection; beautiful iridescent beetles, whirring and rattling against the walls of murky glass bottles; root-trailing plants, with eyes for fruit and fingers for leaves; featherless birds with the tails of fish and, finally, most disturbing of all, asrai nobles with rotten, featureless sacs for heads, reaching out blindly for help.

This whole collection was bathed in the harsh, yellow light of the lake and it seemed to Ordaana like a great bonfire of madness and decay, with the flies as its smoke.

For a while, Ordaana could do nothing but stare at Alkhor in amazement and disgust; then, recalling her purpose, she flew across the lake, feeling its heat on her flesh like a summer’s day and landed on one of Alkhor’s vast, pitted hooves.

‘We can still win,’ she cried out, struggling to be heard over the sound of the flies. She waved at the hundreds of tallymen that were wading through the bile, clutching more objects to be hung from Alkhor’s ribs. ‘Look how many children you have now. I can lead them out against the nobles.’ She spoke fast, tripping over her words in her haste to reassure him. ‘They may have defended Crowfoot Falls, but I can still drive them out. If you just give me more warriors I will finish what I started.’ Her voice faltered as she thought of what they had done to her daemon child. ‘They must have played some trick. The forest must have helped them somehow. I do not understand. But if you just–’

Alkhor raised a webbed hand, splaying the long, black talons to signal that she should be silent.

‘My brave, beautiful Queen Ordaana,’ said the daemon. Its voice was like a thunderclap: rich and booming, but with a liquid rattle at the edge of the vowels. It was like the sound of food slops, gurgling through an enormous pipe. ‘We have won.’

Ordaana shook her head, confused. Thinking she might have misheard, she launched herself into the air and flew up towards Alkhor’s face. As she flew over the gaping cavern of the daemon’s torso, she could not help but look inside. She saw hundreds of the tiny, bloated daemons, hurrying back and forth along the bone shelves, tending and prodding the exhibits, scratching endless notes in their tiny ledgers and pinning yellowed labels on everything they passed.

She shuddered and flew on, until she was just a few feet away from Alkhor’s gaping mouth.

‘My lord?’ she asked, beating her wings against the clouds of flies.

‘You have played your part with all the grace and determination I expected, Ordaana.’

The daemon was still grinning and Ordaana thought for a moment that it was mocking her, but then it continued, explaining: ‘Crowfoot Falls meant nothing, my lover. It was just a distraction. All I needed was a little time to tend my garden. You and our brave prodigy have bought me the time I needed. Everything is now coming into bloom.’

The daemon raised its rusted, iron sword and waved it at the quagmire. The yellow pool was surrounded by slime, fungus, effluence and rotting meat, all painted in dazzling colours and shimmering with microscopic life. Everything was coated in fleas, mites, mould and bubbles of scum. Ordaana’s vision was now so fast and powerful that she could see all of it in mind-numbing detail.

The sight was too much for her. Vibrant, animated alluvium flooded her brain, drowning the remnants of her past. She saw one last, pure vision before she lost herself forever. She saw her lover, Thuralin, handsome, young and bursting with pride. It was the day she told him she was pregnant with Alhena. She recalled holding him and feeling how fast his heart was racing. She remembered the warmth of his tears on her face. Then her mind was gone – snatched away from her on a tide of animated sludge. Only one thing remained – the certainty of revenge. As she looked into the filmy void of Alkhor’s eyes, she saw her purpose reflected back: she would kill Ariel.

There would be vengeance.

Chapter Thirteen

Atolmis rode hard, thundering through the shadows, his spear extended before him. When the forest began to die, Naieth had joined them, bringing dark prophecies and fresh, powerful steeds – piebald stags, with amber runes blazing between their eyes and antlers that spiralled around their proud, equine faces. The prophecies had not been much help, but the stags made Atolmis’s heart sing.

There was a dull crunch as his spear tore through the chest of a daemon. He kept riding and slammed his prey against the bole of a tree. The tree was as rotten as everything else and it collapsed, spraying splinters and maggots through the air.

The horned priest rode on with the daemon struggling on his spear. It was a grinning, humanoid creature with russet, wrinkled skin and a single, yellow tusk jutting up from its forehead.

His face remained expressionless as the thing began hauling its rotten body down the length of the spear towards him. The stag knew, without any signal from Atolmis, to break from the grove of rotten trees and make for the shoulder of a nearby hill. They reached the summit and, just as the daemon was about to grasp Atolmis’s arm, the stag came to a halt, digging its hooves into the ground and hurling the daemon from the brow of the hill.

It grinned as it fell, tumbling into a deep crevasse. After a few seconds, it clipped the edge of the gulley and its skull exploded, spraying bone and black blood. Atolmis could still see the daemon’s expression for a few more minutes as it fell into the darkness below. He noticed that, even as its body was torn apart by the rocks, it never stopped smiling.

‘Blood, bark and bone,’ he muttered, attempting to calm himself by repeating the mantra, but the smile stayed with him.

He turned the stag around and looked back down the slope. His fellow priests were finishing off the last of the daemons. The valley was almost clear and they were less than a mile from the Crowfoot Falls – their destination and the setting for all of Naieth’s recent dreams.

He looked around for the witch and felt a moment’s fear as he failed to locate her. It occurred to him that, in all the long centuries they had served Ariel and Orion, he had never really considered how much she meant to him. With no king or queen to follow, and no clear hope of seeing them again, Naieth’s obscure visions were all he had to follow. Everything he trusted had been overturned. His life was guided by ritual and rite, but his rituals were now meaningless – they were tied to Orion and the changing of the seasons. Now there was no Orion – nor any seasons. He was lost in his own forest. Naieth was all he had.

He glimpsed her copper tangle of hair through the branches and relaxed. She was moving from tree to tree, examining each rotten husk for signs of life.

Atolmis rode the stag back down the slope and dismounted, stepping back beneath the drooping boughs.

Naieth did not look up at his approach – she was clawing at a piece of bark with one of her long, coiled fingernails. The bark came free with a loud creak and revealed a wriggling shape. She nodded, seeming pleased as she lifted a grub up into the light. Then she grimaced as the thing burst between her fingers, spewing yellow spores into the air. They billowed in the murky light, settling on her face and her intricately embroidered robes and smouldering there, like embers.

The sorceress lifted her staff of knotted twigs and slammed it into the mud. The spores flashed brightly then vanished, along with the grub that had spawned them.

‘The threads are undone,’ she said, her voice low and husky. ‘Every strand.’ She sensed Atolmis, watching her from a few feet away and turned to face him.

‘You said there was still a way,’ said Atolmis, unnerved by her tone. ‘Even without Éorann-Ostallis. Even without the spring. Even without the Consort-King.’ The words felt like ash in his throat. A life without Orion. What could be more pointless? He and the other horned riders lived for one purpose only – to serve their king. They were born to tend his ashes and guard his life, but the auguries had taken all that from them. The first blow was learning that Finavar was the Chosen One. How could Finavar be the soul who must undergo the Quickening? He was dead – thrown to the Wildwood by the lunatic sorcerer, Elatior. No such prophecy could be fulfilled. The second blow was more gradual, but just as crushing. As Atolmis and the other riders searched for answers, they had seen winter fade from the boughs around them. Not through a natural thaw – it was too early for that – but through the retreat of the seasons.

The world had turned itself inside out and become a reeking, festering lie.

The death of the seasons shocked Atolmis more profoundly than if his own hands had become flippers. The winter had been replaced with a fusty, turbid warmth that had no place in the forest. It had taken his very faith from him. What could he believe in now? Without seasons, how could there be a spring? With no great conjunction in the stars, how could there be an Orion?

When Naieth found them, the riders were heading north towards the boundary stones, lost, disconsolate and confused, their horned heads hanging low between their weary shoulders. Atolmis had no idea where he would go, but he could not bear the forest any longer. It had become alien and offensive. He would rather face death in the cities of the outsiders than this mockery of his home.

Naieth had been waiting for them by the stones. Atolmis doubted anyone else could have persuaded him to stay. He had once been an asrai lord, but that was no more than a dream to him now. His duties as a pyre warden had long ago lifted him beyond the mortal confines of his flesh. Like his lord, Atolmis had half a foot in the Otherworld. No pleas of logic would have halted his flight, but the cryptic, ominous words of the prophetess gave him pause.

‘You said there was a way,’ he said, fixing his featureless black eyes on her.

She studied the specks of ash she had scattered across the mud. Then she shook her head and looked up at him. Her expression was grim.

‘The Great Weave is undone.’ She was still speaking in quiet, husky tones. ‘But there is something crawling towards us. Someone.’ She squeezed Atolmis’s arm. ‘I believe it is a god. They have not forsaken us, Atolmis. They will paint the forest in its true colours.’

The other riders emerged from the shadows and surrounded Atolmis and Naieth, watching them in silence from the backs of their stags.

‘But what do we do?’ asked Atolmis. ‘Where are you leading us?’

She frowned. ‘Without the Gyre to lead my thoughts, I am hard-pressed to see my way, but Prince Haldus’s bravery was calling me. I saw his name in the flames of your master’s funeral pyre.’

Atolmis tensed. ‘Then perhaps the auguries lied. Perhaps Prince Haldus is the Chosen One?’ His claws sank into the shaft of his spear. ‘The signs spoke of a prince.’

Naieth shook her head. ‘No. He is something else, I’m sure of it.’

Atolmis frowned at her but she shook her head. ‘No matter. We must continue on our way.’ She pointed her staff south, into the festering haze. ‘I can see one thing clear enough: Haldus has gathered the last of our lords and ladies at the foot of the Limneonas. He seeks to guard the oldest of the Dark Paths, the Aisir-Anach.’

Atolmis knew the name and understood the significance. The Aisir-Anach was a route to their ancestors – a way back across the ocean to the silver, forgotten towers of their forebears, but it was the mention of Haldus that interested him more. ‘The prince is here?’

Naieth gave him a warning glance. ‘Haldus is not the Chosen One, Atolmis.’

He looked down at her in silence, unconvinced. If she saw hope in the name of Haldus, surely it was because Orion’s blood ran in his veins. Atolmis thought of how close Prince Haldus had always been to the king. Every year they hunted together.

He shared none of this with Naieth and said simply: ‘Lead the way. Let us find what we find.’

They crossed polluted streams and tainted groves and after a few hours they heard the falls up ahead. The stags picked up their pace, sensing the urgency of their riders and soon the foetid air grew damp with spray and the noise of the falls became a booming, rolling drum.

They reached the northern lip of the valley and looked out, expecting to see a fierce battle below. To their delight, they saw a limb of pure, green forest, reaching out into the mounds of offal and fungus. The forest was fighting back – reclaiming the ground that had been lost.

Atolmis leant forwards, excited by the idea. Then he noticed that the trees had not spread far beyond the banks of the Saros.

There were pockets of fighting below, but the battle was clearly over and the asrai had won. There was a great gathering of banners and nobles near the foot of the falls and Atolmis guessed that there was a council of war taking place.

‘I don’t see his standard,’ he said, turning to Naieth. ‘There are hawk lords there, but none from the Cáder Donann.’

Naieth ignored him. She was looking away from the asrai to the opposite end of the valley, where the trees were most tightly packed. ‘I see his hand in this.’

‘Whose hand? Haldus’s?’

‘No.’ Naieth looked irritated and confused. ‘Or yes, in a sense. Their paths are joined. Haldus is here. Or he has been here. It is his council you see down there. But he did not win this battle. It was the figure I saw on the thread.’ Her eyes widened. ‘It was Kurnous.’

Atolmis clutched his spear tighter and stared at the crowds of warriors, trying to make out the prince.

Naieth saw his excitement and shook her head. ‘It’s not what you think.’ She nodded to a winding path, leading down to the river. ‘Let us see what happened here.’

Atolmis nodded and urged his stag forwards.

At that moment a wave of daemons exploded from the slopes below, pursued by a band of asrai warriors, clad in heavy leather armour and clutching long, ornate glaives.

The stags reared in alarm as the daemons rushed towards them.

Atolmis had never seen the monsters look afraid, but these creatures were clearly panicked, despite numbering in the dozens and being pursued by only six asrai. They were already on them, however and he had little time to think.

He stood up on the stag’s back, twirled his spear around and cracked the blunt end into the face of the first daemon, sending it cartwheeling back through the air.

His fellow riders edged backwards, drawing blades and readying spears as the daemons charged.

Caught between their pursuers and the riders, the daemons grew even more desperate, throwing themselves wildly at Atolmis and the others.

The riders fought with quiet brutality, lunging, hacking and slicing until there was a pile of twitching limbs scattered around them.

The armoured asrai soldiers faltered at the sight of the riders. It was clear that they were almost as afraid of the horned priests as they were of the daemons, but as Atolmis and the others began to kill their prey, they overcame their fear and crested the brow of the hill, smashing into the panicked daemons from behind.

The daemons stood little chance, but their erratic movements confused the stags and the skirmish quickly descended into a chaotic scene.

Atolmis had to stay his hand several times, for fear of injuring his own kin and some of daemons began to grow bolder, turning back on their pursuers.

Finally, with a snarl of frustration he dropped from his mount and waded into the fray.

He immediately regretted his decision. At ground level things were even more confusing. He was about to call his steed when a brittle, female scream rang out.

Atolmis felt a chill of terror as he looked around for Naieth and saw what a fool he had been.

The daemons were not the panicked prey he had thought they were. While Atolmis and the others had been busy running in circles, several larger shapes had crept quietly from the rotten trees. They were of a similar breed to the other daemons – bony limbs, rotten, diseased flesh, pot bellies and single, yellow eyes – but they were twice the size and clad in thick, armour-like hide. Rather than a single tusk, their heads were crowned with a cruel nest of jagged horns and as they began to laugh, long, segmented tongues tumbled from between their fangs.

Naieth had pinned one of them to the ground, binding it to the spot with cords of green light that were spiralling from her staff. But Atolmis growled in alarm as he saw the reason for her scream. Another of the giants had plunged its rusty, slimy sword deep into her back.

Atolmis charged through the scrum of figures, fending off blows and vaulting over a wounded asrai warrior.

When he was still a few feet away he stopped, rocked back on his heels and launched his spear at the daemon.

His aim was true and the giant stumbled backwards, clawing at the new addition to its face.

Atolmis sprang forwards again, drawing a knife as he leapt over the wounded sorceress and threw himself at the giant daemon.

He collided with it just as it managed to steady itself and raise its bloody sword.

The two blades clattered off each other and Atolmis tumbled to the ground.

He leapt to his feet to see the grinning daemon rearing up over him, drawing back its sword to take his head.

There was a series of thuds as more spears slammed into the giant daemon.

It was jolted forwards by the impact of several blows, staggering past Atolmis and dropping its sword.

He looked back at the fight and saw that every one of his fellow riders had seen his fall and hurled their spears. Each of them spared him a few more seconds of their attention then, as the giant toppled to the ground, looking dazed, they drew blades and turned back to the battle.

Atolmis clambered to his feet and ran over to the fallen daemon.

It attempted to rise but there were seven spears lodged in its torso and, as it thrashed and lurched across the ground, spitting bile, Atolmis wrenched one of the spears free and jammed it into the daemon’s giant eye with such force that the tip broke through the back of its skull and pinned it to the ground.

Even blinded and skewered with spears, the daemon continued thrashing around on the floor, like an overturned beetle trying to right itself.

Atolmis grabbed a sword from the ground and brought it down through the daemon’s neck, finally wiping the disgusting leer from its face and causing it to grow still.

He heard Naieth cry out again and whirled around to see that she was fending off another attack. She had crushed the life from one giant daemon, but her robes were drenched in blood and she was staggering weakly away from a row of the smaller daemons who were all hacking at her with crude, broken swords.

Atolmis called for help and raced towards her.

Again, the other riders responded – rushing to his aid and crashing into the daemons with fists and swords. As Naieth toppled, white-faced to the ground, their attack became even more ferocious and, in a few minutes, the daemons had been torn apart or driven from the precipice.

The armoured soldiers backed away, watching from a few feet away as the blood-splattered riders hurried to Naieth’s side.

She stared at Atolmis as he lifted her head from the ground, seeming not to recognise him, then she stiffened in pain and passed out, collapsing in his arms like a bundle of rags.

He clenched his fists beneath her back and shook his head. ‘Blood, bark and bone,’ he whispered, crushing her to his chest and burying his face in her neck. ‘You will not leave us.’

The other riders looked shocked and seemed at a loss to know what to do, while the asrai warriors simply looked on with panicked expressions, guessing that a great noble had been killed.

As Atolmis nestled his face in Naieth’s neck he felt her pulse, throbbing weakly.

‘She lives,’ he gasped, looking at the others.

One of the armoured warriors dared to speak up. ‘There are mages here,’ he called out, pointing his glaive at the valley. ‘Powerful mages. Mälloch the Elder is amongst them.’

Atolmis nodded and lifted Naieth from the ground.

‘Lead the way,’ he growled.

The nobles had gathered on a hilltop, a few hundred feet from the falls. They were sitting cross-legged in a circle, regal and proud, despite their tattered robes. Several of them had standards planted in the ground behind them, but the flags were slashed and filthy and some of the nobles carried grave-looking wounds, hastily dressed. Their soldiers and subjects were gathered around the hill in their thousands. It was a huge gathering of kindreds. People from all corners of the great realms were hurrying back and forth carrying water and herbs to the injured, cleaning weapons, fletching arrows or just resting on the churned, muddy grass. As Atolmis rode through the shallows of the river towards them, carrying Naieth’s lifeless body in his arms, he saw spellweavers moving amongst them, healing some and ending the suffering of others. It was a grim scene, but he did not pause, riding straight for the nobles on the hill.

Cries rang out as people spotted the horned riders and their antlered steeds. Some backed away in fear, making the sign of Kurnous across their chests and muttering prayers; others rushed forwards begging for news of the Consort-King. Atolmis paid them no heed as he dismounted and strode up the hillside towards the nobles who had now risen to their feet and were walking towards him. Some were draped in exotic furs, some wore tall, plumed helmets and some were wrapped in flamboyant, shimmering robes, but all of them were clearly great guardians of the forest, with proud, terrible faces, crowds of attendants and guards scurrying around them.

Most of the nobles had seen Atolmis before, at rites and ceremonies and, despite their stature, they nodded their heads respectfully as Orion’s honour guard reached the top of the hill.

The first to approach Atolmis was a heavily armoured lord. What little of his face was visible revealed cruel, angular features and he carried a long spear of living maplewood that rippled with slender, spiralling tendrils, as though it were constantly engulfed in green flames.

‘Pyre warden.’ His voice was clear and confident. ‘Your timing is good. Victory is finally within our grasp.’ He waved his rippling spear at the surrounding valley. Asrai warriors were everywhere, rushing through the new trees, dismembering the few daemons that had not already fled. ‘And with your help…’ His words trailed off as he saw the prone figure in Atolmis’s arms. ‘Is that the prophetess?’

Atolmis nodded. ‘Where are the spellweavers, Lord Findol?’ he demanded.

The noble paled as he saw Naieth’s terrible wound.

‘Mälloch!’ cried Lord Findol, whirling around and looking into the crowds of injured warriors at the foot of the hill. ‘Join us!’

Several faces turned to look back towards the riverbank where a tall noble was tending to the wounded. He was dressed in a huge bearskin and his flesh shimmered with an odd, otherworldly light. He looked up at Lord Findol’s voice and Atolmis recognised his long, aquiline face and a hooked nose. He barged through the crowds towards him, conscious of the blood that was still flowing from his charge.

Mälloch moved quickly to meet him. The noble was so tall he almost matched Atolmis’s height and he showed none of the wariness the asrai displayed at the sight of him. When he saw the state of Naieth, however, he grimaced and shook his head.

‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘place her on the ground.’

Atolmis did as he was asked and watched anxiously as Mälloch crouched beside Naieth and examined her wounds.

‘By the gods,’ muttered the noble as his fingers traced over her bloody robes. ‘We are living in strange times.’ He looked up at Atolmis. ‘She’s half way to the Otherworld.’ The words were awkward in his mouth. ‘We may lose her.’

‘No we may not.’ Atolmis gave Mälloch a dangerous look.

Mälloch nodded. ‘Be quick then. Find me some…’ He rose to his feet and looked over the heads of the amazed onlookers. ‘There,’ he said, pointing to the foot of the falls, and the cave-like openings in the trunk of Hallos. ‘There might be some Lus-Cora leaves. That would be a start.’ He placed his hand on Naieth’s pale forehead. ‘She hasn’t given up the fight yet, but she’s wandering in some strange, distant groves.’

Atolmis nodded to the other riders and they ran from the hillside, leapt back onto their stags and raced towards the waterfall.

Atolmis watched them for a moment, then looked back at Mälloch. The spellweaver had now placed both his hands underneath Naieth’s head, tilting it back slightly. Lord Findol and the other asrai nobles had come to stand beside Atolmis: together they watched as tiny tendrils of light coiled around Mälloch’s fingers, forming a shimmering mesh around Naieth’s head, rippling like liquid metal beneath the copper curls of her hair.

Naieth’s body began jolting and twitching. Her eyes opened, but only the whites were visible and a crimson froth had formed at her lips. She made a low, whining noise and Mälloch looked even more troubled. He looked around anxiously, but there was no sign of the riders, so he drew his sword and ran one of his fingers along the edge of its blade. A vivid red trickle ran down the palm of his hand and he cradled it in his fist, muttering a charm. Then he held his fist over Naieth’s mouth, squeezing a few drops of his blood between her lips. This only made her spasms more violent. Mälloch cursed and shook his head.

Naieth started choking and Atolmis felt a growing sense of panic. He looked up and saw that one of his fellow priests, Olachas, was running back up the slope towards him, clutching a handful of leaves.

Atolmis lunged forwards, snatched them from his hand and thrust them at Mälloch.

Mälloch crushed the leaves in his bloody hands, grinding them between his palms until a gooey pulp started to bubble up between his fingers. Then he rose to his feet, held his hands over his head and shouted a single word: ‘Bethsobhal!’

There was loud crack and the entire hill juddered, as though stirring in its sleep. Several of the nobles stumbled and Mälloch reeled away from Naieth, still holding his bloody hands over his head. Then, recovering his balance, he rushed forwards, dropped to his knees and jammed both his fists into Naieth’s back, pushing through the gaping spear wound and gripping her spine.

She opened her eyes and screamed.

Emerald flames enveloped them both.

Naieth lurched to her feet and hurled Mälloch away from her. Then, with green flames still dripping from her fingers, she pointed at Atolmis and began to laugh.

‘Let the hunt begin!’ she cried.

Naieth’s lips moved as she spoke, but the sound came from the earth. It groaned and rumbled through Atolmis’s feet and filled him with fear and hope. There was fury and determination in the command. They were the words of someone who still had faith.

‘The hunt?’ He looked at Olachas, to see if he understood, but the other rider looked just as confused.

‘We have no king,’ said Atolmis, stepping towards the blazing sorceress. ‘Who would lead the hunt?’

‘My vision is finally clear, Atolmis,’ she said, rushing towards him and grabbing his shoulders. ‘I was almost lost.’ She looked up at the clouds. ‘The gods are but a breath away.’ She glanced suspiciously at Mälloch who was still lying on the grass a few feet down the slope. Then she laughed incredulously. ‘I almost glimpsed their plan, Atolmis. Think of that – the dreams of gods.’

Atolmis shook his head in confusion.

‘Orion lives!’ cried Naieth, squeezing Atolmis’s arms. ‘He lives, Atolmis. You must plant the eternal seed in his chest and begin the rites. We must dress him for spring.’

Atolmis still looked dazed.

‘Orion was here,’ she continued, trembling with emotion. ‘He was the one who brought victory to this valley. He was here less than a day ago.’ She laughed. ‘He is Finavar,’ she whispered, shaking Atolmis like a child. ‘He did not die. The Chosen of Kurnous is out there, waiting for you to anoint him.’

Atolmis grinned back, revealing his long, yellow incisors.

‘Finavar?’ asked Mälloch, climbing to his feet, still drenched in Naieth’s blood.

Naieth seemed to notice the crowds for the first time and grimaced as she saw how many people had heard her words.

‘I know where he was heading,’ continued Mälloch, lowering his voice as he approached. ‘One of my own kin is travelling with him, as well as some of the shadow-dancers who escaped the fall of Locrimere.’ He pointed to a narrow pass at the far end of the valley. ‘He took the north route out of the valley. They can’t be far from here.’

Atolmis howled and jabbed his spear at the sky. The nobles standing closest to him backed away, unnerved by the unearthly sound of his voice, but Olachas mirrored the gesture, raising his own spear and letting out an equally fierce roar. The other riders did the same and the valley was filled with the sound of their strange cries.

Atolmis closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to sprout from his flesh, spreading out through the soil and reaching out towards the far end of the valley. Until this moment, he had stifled his senses, afraid to taste the forest’s corruption, but now he braved the cloying, creeping grasp of the plague and allowed the forest back into his soul. He staggered under the weight of its pain and fury, but sensed that Naieth was right. Kurnous was out there. The forest god was amongst them.

Without sparing another glance for Naieth or the nobles, he ran back towards his steed. The stag was waiting for him and bolted as soon as he was on its back. Olachas and the others followed close behind, galloping through the forest on a wave of renewed hope.

Naieth watched them go, her eyes blazing. Then a cloud passed across her face and she shook her head.

‘There is something you did not tell them,’ said Mälloch, climbing to his feet, blood dripping from his hands. ‘What else did you see?’

Naieth glanced at him. ‘I saw more than I would have liked.’

Chapter Fourteen

‘My earliest memory,’ laughed Alhena, ‘is of a nightmare. I suppose that says a lot.’

Her eyes were dry but she was rigid with grief. The other wardancers were sitting around her, high in the boughs of a stately old poplar, their heads bowed. The tree stood alone, several miles north of the Crowfoot Falls, at the centre of a wide, grassy plateau that had so far resisted the plague. Night had fallen, edging the landscape with silver, but it could not hide the brutality of the scene. The horizon was contorted and ugly, swollen by humps of fungus and the hunched backs of monsters. Even the sounds of the forest had been replaced with something more sinister. The night rattled with the sound of creeping, whirring death.

Finavar, Sibaris and Caorann watched as Alhena dredged up her painful past.

‘I remember shifting lights. At first I thought it was one of my mother’s games. She used to entertain me with magic lanterns that she’d conjured from the air. She’d paint the most beautiful scenes with no more than her fingertips. But my mother never came. Pain came instead – an awful heat that spread over my skin. It sent me scrambling to the corners of my bedchamber. I remember screams and running feet, but I was sure my mother would come if I waited long enough. She had told me, for as long as I could remember, that we were destined for greatness – that the forest’s future lay in our hands. She told me I would be a powerful ruler one day. I knew that my fate was not to burn in some pathetic accident. I knew she would come for me.

‘I reached out to save my playthings but smoke poured from their eyes and that terrified me more than anything. They had become monsters. It was like they were the ones trying to hurt me.

‘The smoke spread and I began to choke, but I still thought my mother would come. Even when the walls of my bedchamber cracked, spitting flames and twisting my playthings into horrible shapes. I tried to calm myself with a lullaby. It was the one my mother used to sing to me when I was afraid of the dark. The one about sleeping in new green leaves.’

Alhena paused, staring through her friends, looking deep into her pain. The memory of the lullaby seemed on the verge of overwhelming her. When she continued, her voice was unsteady and Finavar noticed that she was flicking imaginary objects from her skin, as though even now she could feel embers settling on her arms and face.

‘The lullaby did not help. And, as my robes started to shrivel and smoke, I realised the truth. My mother had forgotten me. In fact, it was worse than that: she had abandoned me.’

Alhena’s face was like stone. Her limbs were still for a change, but pain was written so clearly across her features that Finavar found it hard to look at her. Since Thuralin first brought her to him, on the borders of Locrimere, she had always seemed taut to the point of breaking but now, with her father’s death still in her eyes, Finavar wondered if she might finally snap.

‘I started to scream.’ Her voice was so soft that the others had to lean closer to hear. ‘It wasn’t the pain, it was the betrayal.’ He eyes widened. ‘How could she have left me? My own mother?’

‘But you escaped,’ said Sibaris, leaning towards her, his features knotted with concern.

Alhena’s gaze remained fixed in the middle distance, but she nodded. ‘I thought at first that one of my playthings had decided to finally kill me. I thought one of my dolls had grown and become a huge daemon. Then I realised that the door to my chamber had been smashed and the daemon had come in from the outside. It was covered in fire. Its clothes were made of fire. And it was making such a terrible sound – choking and roaring. I thought it had come to finish the job the fire had started, so I tried to run. The daemon threw something over me – a piece of material, heavy with water. Then it picked me up and ran from the chamber.

‘As we ran, I looked at the daemon through the weave of the cloth. It was terrifying. It was melting and screaming and making such a dreadful noise. I felt as though I would give anything to just not hear that sound anymore.’

Alhena focussed back on the present, looking at the faces of her friends. ‘It was my father, of course. It was Thuralin. He destroyed his body so that mine could survive.’

‘And then what?’ asked Sibaris, placing his hand on her forearm.

Alhena flinched at his touch, but did not remove his hand. ‘And then he trained me to kill.’ A cold smile spread across her face. ‘He taught me that I could rely on nobody, not even him. He taught me that nature is cruel and the forest is crueller. He taught me that I must be brutal. More than brutal.’ She clutched the handle of one of her swords. ‘He taught me how to survive.’

Alhena turned to face Finavar. ‘And now he is dead.’

Finavar felt the weight of her stare but he did not look away. ‘He died as he lived – a devoted guardian of the forest.’

Alhena continued staring at him.

Finavar met her gaze with equal passion. ‘If we had not braved Hallos we would all be dead. The entire army would have been drowned.’ He stood up, flexing his fingers, suddenly eager to leave. ‘Your father knew that, Alhena. He knew we had to do something. Whatever he may have thought of me, he knew that my foolishness was the only hope.’

He stepped closer to Alhena and the moonlight turned his eyes into silver discs. ‘And it worked. The army has survived. Now we must stop the traitor who led us to this point, so that Prince Haldus can lead our kindreds to victory.’ He glanced around and saw two pairs of eyes watching them from the branches overhead. ‘My guides know the traitor well. They will find a way. They will lead us to her and I will reveal her treachery to everyone.’

‘How?’ Sibaris’s voice was hesitant. ‘How will you convince people that she is the traitor? What proof do you have?’

Finavar had not considered this, but as soon as Sibaris asked him an image flashed into his mind – three small circles; dark and menacing on smooth white skin. ‘She has been transformed,’ he said, with no trace of doubt. ‘The mark of the Dark Gods is on her flesh. I will simply demand that she uncover her shoulder and, if she refuses, her guilt will be obvious.’

‘Who is she?’ Caorann had a look of wonder on his face. ‘And how do you know all this?’

Finavar avoided Alhena’s gaze as he answered. ‘Our own Lady Ordaana is the traitor. She told me so herself after the Battle of Drúne Fell, as I was grieving the loss of my brother. Later, when I had my chance to speak against her, in the halls of Prince Elatior, I…’ he hesitated, shaking his head. ‘I was too confused by grief to see clearly. I was not myself. And Ordaana had confused me even more with her lies. I failed to speak against her when I could have and then, to ensure I could never accuse her, she poisoned Elatior against me, convincing him that I was the traitor.’

Caorann and Sibaris both looked amazed, but Alhena flinched as though she had been slapped.

‘I knew you were not a traitor,’ said Sibaris, flushing with shame and anger. ‘And so did Mälloch. But there was nothing we could do.’

Finavar shook his head. ‘It was fate that took me into the Wildwood, Sibaris, not you. I can see that now and I bear you no ill will. If I had not travelled those dark ways, I would never have been healed.’ He placed a hand against his ridged flesh and realised he had come to cherish its strangeness. ‘I would not have become what I am.’

Caorann looked from Sibaris to Alhena then back at Finavar. ‘From the moment I jumped into those falls, protected by your bony elbow and a bit of leaf, I gave up doubting you, Fin. If you say that Lady Ordaana is the root of all this, I believe you. It explains a lot of her actions. Gods alone know how we will get near her if she sees you coming, but we’ve faced bigger challenges this past year.’ He looked at the other two, waiting to hear their response.

Sibaris nodded eagerly in agreement, but Alhena was still looking dazed.

‘I believe in you, Finavar,’ she said, sounding awkward, ‘because I know my father did. He was no fool and, whatever he may have said in the past, he knew that you weren’t either. He would not have braved Hallos without knowing the risks. I can see that now.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But there is something else you need to say.’ She gave Finavar an odd look. ‘You promised me the truth about my past. Who is my mother, Finavar?’

Finavar hesitated and a tense silence fell over the group. He knew that everything hinged on her response.

‘Your mother is our prey, Alhena. Ordaana is your mother.’

He tensed, ready for outrage, or disbelief, but to his amazement she simply nodded. Then she closed her eyes, still nodding.

A single tear ran down her tattooed cheek.

‘I’ve waited my whole life,’ she said, with her eyes still closed, ‘hoping that I was wrong and knowing I was not.’

‘You knew?’

She opened her eyes and wiped away the tear. ‘Of course.’ Her voice was flat. ‘My father never had an untroubled night in his life. Sometimes he cursed her in his sleep, sometimes he prayed for her, but he always spoke of her. I guessed the truth when I was still a child. He kept me from the heart of Locrimere, afraid that Lady Ordaana would recognise me. Afraid that she would realise I was still alive. And I played along. It would have terrified him to think that I knew the truth.’ She glanced at Sibaris, looking oddly guilty. ‘But I could not be sure. I always hoped I was wrong.’

‘She is the traitor,’ said Finavar, conscious that Alhena was still clutching the hilts of her swords. ‘We must stop her.’

Alhena gave him a rigid, awful smile. ‘Good. She left me to die, Finavar. I never dreamt she was behind…’ she looked at the contorted shapes that surrounded the moonlit glade. ‘I never dreamt she was responsible for this, but she has long been my enemy. Our paths are aligned, Finavar. You will only kill her if I fail to kill her first.’

Dawn crept into view, peering at the world through a smudge of yellow and brown. When Finavar awoke, he felt as though he were hanging in a blanket of fumes and mist. His skin was clammy. His cloak was damp. The forest smelled of rotting meat. He smelled of rotting meat. He grimaced, wiped his face and looked around the treetop. The other three were still asleep, so he left them for a while and climbed down alone into the little meadow. The plateau was still mostly untainted, but as Finavar walked away from the tree he noticed that the soil was rippling and pregnant with life, giving it an odd, liquid quality. He drew one of his swords and scratched the tip across the ground. An arc of yellow liquid sprayed up at him and he had to jump back to avoid it covering his legs.

He saw hundreds of tiny shapes in the pus – miniature versions of the one-eyed monsters that had been marching across the forest.

He stamped the soil back into place and hurried on. As he reached the edge of the plateau his heart sank. The morning light was murky and unwholesome, but it was enough to reveal that there were only a few patches of green left on the horizon. The plateau was surrounded by an ocean of yellow fog and clouds of flies. He felt like the survivor of a shipwreck, drifting in a nauseating, mustard-coloured sea.

He shook his head and turned back to the tree. They needed to find Ordaana as quickly as possible. Whatever daemonic power was behind the plague owed its success to her.

Before Finavar had taken a few steps something made him halt. Besides the ever-present humming of flies, there was another sound echoing through the fumes. He frowned, wondering why it sounded so familiar. He listened harder. It was a low, mournful cry, coming from the south, but the fumes made everything so ghostly and indistinct, he could not place it. Was it some kind of animal?

He turned and walked back to the edge of the plateau. The sound rang out again, still muffled by the thick yellow clouds. Then he heard another identical call, coming from the east. Then another from the north. More rang out and Finavar realised they were coming from every direction at once.

‘The hunt,’ muttered Finavar. It was hard to be sure, but the sounds were suspiciously like hunting horns – the horns of the Wild Hunt. He felt an odd mixture of emotions. As much as he despised the riders that took Jokleel’s life, it comforted him to know the priests of Kurnous still survived. Then another thought hit him. Had the highborn learned of his escape from the Wildwood? Perhaps the riders had been sent to dispatch judgement?

Finavar’s dread grew. That must be it, he thought, edging back towards the poplar tree. How could he have expected to escape his sentence so easily? How could he have expected to simply leave his Wildwood prison and re-enter the forest? They were coming for him. Orion’s priests had tracked him down.

The horns rang out again and he realised that the fumes had deceived him. The sounds were much closer than he had originally thought.

He pulled his black cloak tighter, feeling suddenly cold. ‘Wake up, he said, but his voice was no more than a hoarse croak. ‘Wake up!’ he repeated, raising his voice to a yell as he reached the foot of the tree.

Caorann and the others looked sleepily at him from the branches and the two polecats emerged to stare at him.

‘The riders’ he said, staring up at his friends.

They looked blankly at him, uncomprehending, then the horns rang out again and their eyes widened in shock.

‘The highborn have sent their huntsmen. They’ve come to track me down!’

The other wardancers dropped from the branches, drawing their weapons.

‘We need to leave,’ gasped Finavar.

He looked at the two polecats, still watching from the branches overhead. ‘Quickly.’

They stared back at him for a moment, unmoving, then they slipped down the tree trunk and raced away through the grass.

‘No time to waste!’ cried Finavar running after the polecats and waving for the others to follow.

‘But Fin,’ cried Caorann, ‘how can you know?’ He peered into the yellow haze, trying to make out a sign of the riders. ‘They might be here to help us. They may have no idea of what happened to you.’

Finavar only vaguely recognised Caorann’s words. He was sure that the riders had come to kill him. As he ran down the far side of the hill, he glanced from left to right, staring into the murk; sure that danger was only moments away.

The others shrugged and jogged after him, fastening belts and cloaks as they went.

Mormo and Mauro led them beneath the arch of a stooped, broken oak tree and back into the forest. They found a looping, muddy path that seemed to avoid the worst of the infestations but, as soon as they passed beneath the rotten boughs, Finavar gagged on the vile stench that hung in the air. Beneath the canopy the smell was unbearable. It was more than the stink of decay – it was the smell of eager, unnatural life.

Finavar pulled up his hood and clenched it in front of his face, trying to block out the smell.

He heard the others groaning and cursing as they followed him, but all his attention was locked on the polecats darting ahead of him. Why had he agreed to sleep? There was so little time. Now he was in danger of being executed or returned to the Wildwood before he could reach Ordaana. At the thought of the Wildwood a gruesome memory filled his thoughts: bodies, dangling from the branches, all of them screaming in pain.

He shook his head and ran faster.

A horn rang out from the trees up ahead and Finavar cried out in alarm, staggering to a halt.

The other wardancers caught up with him and looked around.

‘Where are your guides?’ gasped Sibaris.

‘There!’ cried Alhena, pointing south through the trees.

Finavar saw the two little shapes vanishing into the shadows down another, narrower path. He nodded and started after them; then stumbled to a halt as a shape emerged from the trees, blocking his way.

It was a broad, powerful stag, with wide, gleaming antlers and a hide that shimmered as though lit from within. Sitting on its back was a powerful, towering figure – a warrior wearing a cloak of metal leaves and a helmet that almost covered his face. Vines and shoots spiralled up from beneath his skin, merging with his hair and entwining his wide horns. There were two points of green light flickering inside the helmet where his eyes should have been.

As the stag trotted closer, Finavar froze, overwhelmed for a moment. Knowing that a Rider of Kurnous was approaching was not the same as actually seeing one. He backed away, holding one of his swords out in a silent warning.

He had only taken a few steps when he bumped into his friends. He turned to see that they had their weapons raised too, looking warily at a second rider, coming slowly down the path in the other direction.

Finavar saw the fear in his friends’ eyes and, somehow, it steadied his nerves.

‘There’s no option,’ he said calmly. ‘One of us has to reach Ordaana.’

The others looked back at him with confused expressions as the two riders continued steering the stags towards them.

As the riders came nearer, roots and branches rippled away to let them pass, moving like curtains opened by the breeze.

‘And your plan is what, exactly?’ asked Caorann.

Finavar grinned. ‘We scatter. They can’t catch all of us, and I think it’s only me they’re after.’

‘But, your scouts.’ Sibaris was staring at the riders in horror. ‘How will we find Ordaana without them?’

Finavar hesitated, and before he could think what to say, the riders charged.

The wardancers flipped and cartwheeled from the path, vanishing into the trees, seconds before the riders reached them. They did as Finavar advised, racing in different directions, but the riders only had one target in mind – they rode after Finavar, lowering their spears and driving their stags through the mud.

As Finavar sprinted through the gloom, the forest tried to block his way – branches lashed out at his legs, attempting to trip him as he ran and leaves flew up to greet him, plastering themselves across his face. Finavar felt a growing sense of fury as he sliced and hacked his way through the trees.

‘You will not have me,’ he growled under his breath, bounding up into the branches of an alder tree. It was rotten with plague and collapsed beneath his weight, but Finavar vaulted free of its diseased embrace and landed in a more secure perch. Without waiting to see how close his pursuers were, he leapt on, crossing dozens of treetops in seconds and climbing higher with each jump.

The sound of approaching hooves told him he was far from safe, but with every jump, Finavar felt more certain that he was not destined to die; not yet. Rather than growing weary, his muscles became more energised as he ran. There was an invigorating heat spreading from his chest, pulsing out through his limbs.

He started to laugh. Despite their magic, the riders were falling behind.

Finavar slipped easily through the forest, as though gravity had relinquished its hold on him and, as he ran, he realised that the wonderful heat he could feel was pulsing from the bark-like plates across his torso. The energy of the Wildwood spirits was growing, filling his body with power. The murmurs he had heard in the Wildwood began rolling around his head again. The language was still meaningless but the sound filled him with righteous rage.

Finavar felt so alive that his laughter became a delirious howl. Everything combined in one dizzying rush – the thrill of his new-found strength, the ease of his escape and the voices in his head. He was so elated that when a third rider charged into view up ahead of him, he decided that flight was no longer enough.

‘Do you want me?’ he howled, diving through the branches at the rider and drawing back his swords to strike.

The rider faltered, reining in his stag in surprise. It was clear that he had not been expecting to become prey.

Finavar’s swords flashed as he crashed into the rider and bowled him from the back of stag.

The pair of them tumbled and rolled through the mud, ending up sprawled across the blubbery roots of a diseased tree.

Despite the unexpected nature of Finavar’s attack, the rider had managed to block his sword strikes with his spear. The weapon had been sliced in half as a result though and, as the horned rider clambered to his feet, he drew a long, wooden knife.

Finavar was faster. Still grinning, he vaulted the rotten pulp and smashed the hilts of his swords into the rider’s helmeted face.

The horned rider was huge – at least two feet taller than Finavar – but the ferocity of Finavar’s attack sent him reeling backwards through the fumes and spores.

The stag lowered its antlers and charged, but Finavar was already gone.

He had sprinted down another path, following the route of a yellow, fungus-crowded river.

His rage at the riders was growing all the time, but he had glimpsed something that reminded him of his true purpose – Mormo and Mauro. His rodent scouts were still with him, leading the way along the riverbank, so he hurried after them before the other riders could delay him any further.

Finavar heard stag hooves behind him, but he paid them no heed, sprinting in the direction of the polecats. The river gurgled and spat as he ran alongside it and he glimpsed huge, segmented serpents, rolling beneath its surface.

The polecats scampered up an incline, slipping easily through the strangled mess of dead roots and dazzling fungus.

Finavar leapt across the bubbling river and ran after them.

Then he was lying on his back in the mud, staring at the branches overhead.

For a moment, Finavar was unable to understand what had happened. He looked, uncomprehending, at the mesh of branches, then he noticed that the forest had turned red: his eyes were full of blood.

He tried to stand but could only manage to sit up. The world swam around him in sickening waves and pain exploded across his face.

He reached up to touch his jaw and felt a ragged mess of warm, torn flesh.

Then he saw a rider, watching him in silence from a few feet away. He was masked, like the others, but there was something infuriatingly arrogant about the way he casually rode closer, wiping Finavar’s blood from the shaft of his spear.

‘Do not be afraid,’ said the rider. His voice was coarse and bestial, but strangely deferential and, as he removed his helmet, Finavar saw that the light had vanished from the rider’s eyes, leaving two sombre black orbs.

Finavar could still feel a furious sentience, rushing through his head and, without a thought, he hurled one of his swords at the rider.

The movement was so fast that the rider had no chance to dodge the blade.

The sword sliced through the side of his throat, throwing him from his mount and sending him rolling back down the slope.

Finavar wiped the blood from his face and climbed to his feet, using his remaining sword as a crutch. ‘I wasn’t afraid.’

The sound of snapping branches alerted him to the arrival of other riders. They had dismounted and, as they approached from several directions, clutching their spears, Finavar saw that there were now six of them.

He looked back at the one he had wounded and saw that he was standing again, clutching his neck, but looking at him in the same oddly respectful way.

‘My leaf-liege,’ said the rider, his voice a low growl. ‘You do not remember me. I am Atolmis the Hunter. My blood is your sap. My bones are your roots.’

The words hit Finavar with more force than any blow the rider could have laid on him. Leaf-liege. He understood immediately. Everything slipped into focus. It was as though this moment had been in his thoughts his whole life. The riders had not come to punish him; they had come to anoint him.

Finavar was stunned. Could it be? Could he really be the very thing he despised? Despite his disgust, it made horrible sense. The feelings of power and destiny that had driven him to this point. The sense that he–

Finavar’s thoughts were interrupted by arms, grabbing him roughly from behind. He struggled, but it was no use. The riders had already bound him. They dragged him through the mud and lashed him to a tree and, as the other riders approached, Finavar wondered if he had been right the first time. As the priests of Kurnous crowded round him, he saw that they were all clutching wooden staves.

‘You can’t do this,’ he gasped, his mouth full of blood.

Atolmis’s jaw opened to reveal long, yellow teeth.

‘Orion,’ he growled, drawing back his wooden stake to plunge it into Finavar’s chest. ‘I have come to make you immortal.’

The voices in Finavar’s head reached a crescendo and combined with the heat blazing in his chest. He wrenched his hand free in an explosion of vines and snatched the stake from Atolmis’s grip.

The priest’s face filled with horror and he tried to grab the weapon back, but Finavar wrenched his other hand free and latched it around Atolmis’s throat.

The huge priest attempted to free himself, then froze as he saw something even more shocking. The ridged bark encasing Finavar’s chest had sprouted a forest of flame-like tendrils. Finavar and the riders watched in amazement as the tendrils lashed themselves around Atolmis’s wrists and began to cut, razor-like into his flesh.

Atolmis grunted in surprise and struggled to free himself. He looked at the other riders in confusion, but they simply shook their heads and backed away. None of them had ever seen anything like this before.

The heat in Finavar’s chest blossomed up into his mind, filling his thoughts with a final, incredible truth. He saw countless lifetimes spreading out behind him and before him. It was true: he was Orion. His horror faded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of destiny.

He looked at Atolmis again and recognised the face of his oldest friend. He hauled the shocked priest back towards him.

Atolmis was too stunned to react as Orion reached into his cloak and drew out the treasure he knew would be waiting there – an oak apple.

His actions were no longer his own but the actions of a god. He used the stave to tear open his own chest with a brittle crack. Then he jammed the oak apple deep between his ribs and let Kurnous consume him.

Power and history flooded his mind. He savoured it, revelling in the act of becoming himself. Then he waved for the priests to approach. His mouth was full of hot blood but his meaning was clear: Begin.

They looked back at him in amazement and seemed unable to move. This was not how the rite was meant to proceed.

Then Atolmis gave a hesitant nod and they hurried forward.

As they began to carve their new king, Orion kept his eyes locked on Atolmis. The priest was still clutching his neck but he managed to nod his head in a bow. When Atolmis looked up again, the being that was Finavar was no more.

As the bond between them grew, Orion saw his servant was afraid. He gripped Atolmis’s shoulder tighter, sensing without the need for speech, what troubled him. Atolmis thought the battle for their home was already lost.

‘Not while there is a single green leaf,’ he said quietly.

Atolmis closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again, the fear was gone.

The rituals were abandoned. In the span of one missing season, the old rites had become meaningless. In every previous year, the priests had carried the Chosen of Kurnous on a litter, dressed for spring in a mantle of blood and magic. This year, he strode proudly ahead of them through the trees, trailing skin and muscle like a regal gown. The branches formed a ceremonial arch, forcing back disease and mutation to grant him passage back towards the heart of the forest.

Atolmis and the other riders stared in wonder. None of them could recall such a wrathful, defiant offering. He had already grown in stature, without the blessing of the equinox. It was as though Kurnous was impatient to begin. Vines and shoots were already winding, snake-like under the skin of the nascent Orion.

They reached their destination quicker than they expected – a perfect circle of water, hidden deep in a grove of linden trees. It should have been a beautiful scene but the linden trees were dead – collapsed under the weight of blight, leaving a mound of corpse-like heaps. The rotten bark was buzzing with flies and crawling with grubs. The pond itself was brackish and unwelcoming and choked with weeds, but the Consort-King strode towards it with no sign of doubt.

Atolmis called out a warning, unnerved by the unwholesome appearance of the pool, but his lord paid him no heed, wading powerfully through the water and plunging into its murky depths.

Orion sank through the blood-warm darkness. He kicked his legs, diving deeper and, as he swam, the murmuring in his head grew louder. The weight of the water pressed against his skull and his lungs began to burn, but his thoughts were only for the voices. With every stroke, they became louder and more determined. The language was becoming clearer. It was a deep, rolling poetry, burning with outrage. Orion sensed that a powerful sentience was speaking, not just to him, but through him. He was the conduit for incredible wrath. Every trial he had endured had tempered him into the perfect weapon – the loss of his home, the death of Jokleel, even his months of starvation and the shredding of his flesh – everything had prepared him for his fate.

Outrage burst from Orion’s lungs in a single, ragged howl as he broke from the surface of the pool.

For a moment he remained in the mud with his eyes closed, roaring, his head thrown back. Then he climbed to the shallows and strode towards the water’s edge.

The sound of hooves and wings alerted him to the fact that he was not alone and he opened his eyes.

There was a blur of grey as something flew towards him.

Orion just had time to raise his arms before a snarling, thrashing shape slammed into him.

He toppled back into the water, teeth slicing through his forearms. He felt a brief flash of fear but it was quickly washed away by the furious voices in his head. He leapt to his feet and looked around.

He was back in the clearing, but it had changed. The linden trees were alive. Their grey-brown bark was free of disease and their branches were laden with small, lime-green leaves. His heart swelled at the sight of an untainted forest, but he had little time to admire the view. Shapes were hurtling towards him from every direction – bestial shadows, glimmering and shifting as they moved. Their diaphanous flesh did not make them any less fearsome. Orion glimpsed talons as long as his arm and vast, leathery wings. It was a brutal carnival of claws and teeth.

Orion cursed as another one crashed into his stomach, doubling him over in pain. He backed away and, for a moment, he saw his attacker clearly. It was a wolf, almost as tall as he was, its pure, white fur bristling with hate and its muzzle crimson with blood. Orion stepped back into the water, attempting to buy himself a few seconds to get his bearings. He had only taken a few steps when the other creatures tore into him.

Orion fell back under a torrent of grasping claws and pounding wings.

For a second his head was forced beneath the water. The voices in his head swelled to such a pitch that they drowned out the snorts and growls of his attackers. Along with the voices, Orion felt another flash of heat in his chest.

He exploded from the pool, shrugging off the animal spirits as easily as the water and landing punches on those that were nearest.

The wolf was thrashing in the water a few feet away and Orion grabbed it by the throat.

It howled as he lifted it, then vanished, leaving him to stagger, unbalanced, through the shallows.

Shapes were whirling around him, screeching and roaring, but Orion ignored them and charged up onto the grass beneath the circle of linden trees.

The spirits backed away, still snarling, preparing for another attack and Orion peered into the shifting gloom, trying to see them more clearly. Anger gave him focus as he glared at each of them in turn. They were familiar, animal shapes, but they were large – far larger than natural beasts and they shone with an inner fire. Orion’s head was a spiral of newly acquired memories and, though he had never seen these beings before, he knew they had been with him since the dawn of the forest.

‘I am your king,’ he roared, shedding the last vestiges of his doubt. The voices in his head spilled out through his mouth. ‘You may not taste my blood.’ The heat in his chest grew. ‘I am here to save your home.’

The creatures flickered, ghost-like in the shadows, but he saw enough to know that he had shocked them. They had not expected such defiance.

The wolf howled and threw itself at him again. Its lips curled back from long, gleaming incisors as it flashed across the clearing.

Orion’s flesh was faster than thought. He batted the animal away before he had even registered the attack.

The wolf skulked away, growling and limping as the other spirits backed away into the shadows, gathering beneath a wide, circular embankment.

‘How dare you speak of our home,’ hissed a sibilant voice.

Orion saw a hooded, stooped figure, hiding in the darkness at the foot of the embankment. He felt a wave of revulsion as he recognised the warden of the forest’s darkest paths.

‘I speak of whatever I choose to, Wrach,’ he said, keeping his tone low and controlled.

The hooded figure edged forwards and replied in a furious whisper. ‘No doubt you do, murderer.’

The wolf limped back into view, glaring at Orion and repeated the accusation in a cold, regal voice. ‘Murderer.’

Orion shook his head. He was about to demand an explanation when he realised who was missing from the gathering. There should have been a proud white stag waiting to greet him: Sativus, the Spirit King of the beasts. He felt a rush of shame as he sensed that Sativus’s absence might be his fault. He peered back through the endless reflections of his past and saw that, in a previous guise, he had battled with the ancient spirit. His memories were vague and fluid. He could not remember any details – only that he had fought and the struggle had ended with Sativus dead. He sensed another powerful being was involved but then one of the beasts snorted and Finavar’s memories slipped away from him.

‘He had already fallen.’ Orion frowned, still shaking his head, scouring his memory. ‘It was the plague. Before I found him, the plague had already ruined his mind.’

The raised area behind the animals suddenly moved and Orion saw his mistake. What he had taken for an embankment was actually a vast serpent. It uncoiled its huge, scaled mass and slid across the ground towards him, raising its low, diamond-shaped head as it approached. The serpent’s skull was crowned by a pair of bleached, spiralling ram’s horns and its eyes were two empty sockets.

‘And who unleashed the plague on us, Orion?’ asked the snake, lifting its head way above the treetops as it looked down at him. Its voice sounded like rainwater, drumming across a forest canopy, but the words were sharp with rage.

Orion felt a brief moment of doubt. What had he done? What shame had attached itself to him as he swam through the pool? Then he remembered the voices in his head. The words were bewildering, but there was defiance in their tone. He knew he could not be to blame for all that had befallen the forest.

He glared at the serpent. ‘The name of our betrayer is Ordaana. I will hunt her to the end of the world if I have to, but she will pay for what she has done. And when she is dead, I will banish whatever forsaken worm she has smuggled into my forest.’

The snake hesitated, surprised by Orion’s defiant tone.

The other beasts edged out from the shadows, eyeing him closely. Orion saw that behind their snarling, ferocious expressions, there was a deeper emotion. They were afraid.

A bristling, slavering boar thudded across the grass. ‘Your hunting days are over,’ it said. It did not move its lips but spoke directly into Orion’s mind, mingling its voice with all the others that were bouncing around his skull.

Orion was so buoyed by the voices in his mind that he felt as though he could have flown across the clearing and torn the boar’s head from its body, but he managed to keep his voice low as he replied. ‘I will hunt and you will hunt with me. All of you will. When spring comes and the Wild Hunt–’

‘There will be no spring, Orion,’ hissed the Wrach from the shadows. The spirit’s voice was a poisonous mixture of spite and panic. ‘Don’t you understand?’

For the first time since the Wildwood, the voices in his head fell silent. He would not be deterred though and jabbed a finger at the hooded spirit. ‘You will all hunt with me. It can be in the snow for all I care, but we will ride together and we will make the forest whole.’

The white wolf padded back into view, looking at him with a puzzled expression. ‘You think you are already King, but you have not been through the rites. We have not approved your birth. And, even if we did, how can you become king if there is no Even-night? The stars are your wet nurse, Orion, and they have been scattered.’

‘You will hunt with me,’ howled Orion but as he stepped towards the wolf, he noticed that the huge serpent was no longer hovering overhead. It had vanished. As he looked around the clearing for it, he noticed that the other spirits were vanishing too, shaking their heads, their hatred now softened by looks of pity.

‘We would not follow you when you had a chance of success,’ said the wolf. ‘Why would we follow you now that you do not?’

‘Try it,’ hissed the Wrach, pointing his staff at the pool. ‘See if you can be born. You think you already have been, so why not return and rule?’

Orion saw the spirit’s pale, worm-like fingers, spiralling and coiling around its staff.

‘See what you are without seasons.’

Orion noticed that the voices in his head remained mute, but his thoughts still rang with the echoes of their determined song. ‘I am the king,’ he said simply and strode back towards the pool. ‘I do not need your approval. I will be born.’ He glanced back at the wolf. ‘And then I will come for you.’

He saw a flash of emotion in the wolf’s eyes, then it was gone and Orion saw that he was alone with only the linden trees to watch him re-enter the water.

This side of reality the water was cool and clear and, as he looked into its depths, he saw Atolmis and the other riders waiting anxiously for his return, surrounded by the fumes and spores of the plague. They looked so close he felt as though he could reach into the water and touch them.

He paused for a moment, waiting to see if the voices would return. There was nothing, so he dived back in.

At first he powered easily through the water and it seemed as though he would be back with his servants in a few minutes. Then the water became clouded with silt and weeds and his way was less clear. His lungs ached with the same pain as before, but the harder he kicked, the further away the Wild Riders were. The silt swirled around him and formed into bestial shapes: the Council of Beasts, watching him with a strange mixture of pity and desperation. Even when painted in clouds of dust their hatred was clear, but they were also willing him on. Orion realised that they wanted him to prove them wrong. They wanted him to be born.

He swam through them, infuriated by the implication that he might fail. As he powered through the banks of drifting silt, he saw that Atolmis and the others had vanished. There was nothing ahead of him but a cold, featureless void.

His lungs throbbed, his pulse hammered in his ears and, finally, the voices returned. They now sang a different song. As his consciousness slipped away, the host of Orions trapped in his mind began to howl.

Before the darkness took him, Orion saw his body start to dissipate. He was becoming as vague and insubstantial as the spirits that were trailing in his wake.

The voices roared in outrage and he saw that the beasts had been right. There would be no rebirth.

He was the last of his line.

The rites had failed.

Chapter Fifteen

Finally, Prince Haldus’s blood started to cool. With only Nuin to keep him company, he skimmed across the rolling clouds, calmed by the song of the wind, howling through the spines of his helmet. The warhawk beneath him was his ideal companion: faithful, brave and most of all, silent. Nuin would never have convinced him to play at being a king. Such a noble, wise creature would never indulge in facile politicking, any more than she would have advised him to lead the asrai to war. And, despite the bond they shared, Nuin would never judge him for being such a damned fool.

He gripped Nuin’s feathers tighter. How could he have promised Lord Calaingor anything? How could he have left his people in that hellish paradise? He played the final moments over in his mind as Nuin flew back towards their mountain home. As soon as Haldus made his promise, the giant’s courtiers had flooded in from the fields. They had arrived in incredible numbers, surrounding Haldus’s kin with a wall of spears and glaives. Then their giant lord rose from his throne and grasped Haldus in a cold, crumbling fist.

Haldus had struggled to free himself, then abandoned the attempt, overwhelmed by the sight of Calaingor dragging magic from the fields, engulfing the stone circle in verdant fire, imbuing the enormous figures with life. The sight had been so shocking that Haldus’s strength had failed, leaving him slumped and dumbfounded in the giant’s hand as the world erupted around him. The animated statues towered over even Calaingor and, as they lurched into life, the whole valley had shook to the rhythm of crashing, stone feet.

The veil between the Cromlech and reality had evaporated as the stone gods marched to war. Haldus recalled his horror as the diseased host rushed towards him, more numerous than ever. But, before the battle was joined, Calaingor did as he promised and set Haldus free. Before destroying the daemon army he plucked Nuin from the fields, placed Haldus on the hawk’s back and, with a whispered charm, launched them both into the sky.

Haldus had tried to order his mount back to the golden fields where his kinsmen were trapped, horrified by their pleas for help; but Nuin was deaf to everything – possessed by Calaingor’s magic.

Nine days had passed since then. As they headed east across the forest, Haldus had regained control, but he had made no attempt to send her back. They were already halfway home and Haldus had settled on a more appealing plan. He would hunt down that treacherous dog, Cyanos, and force him to share all that he knew about Lord Calaingor and the Cromlech of Cadai. Then, once Haldus had learned enough to free his kin, he would put an end to Cyanos’s lies forever.

His pulse raced as he saw the Pine Crags up ahead, slicing, claw-like through the clouds. He knew that he should head back west, rejoin the army he had abandoned at Crowfoot Falls but, try as he might, he could think of nothing but Cyanos. Fury smouldered in his guts. He knew it was his own lack of guile – his poor judgement – that had killed half of the hawk lords and robbed the others of their freedom, but the true guilt lay with Cyanos. He had to die.

Haldus peered east into the rising sun. This high it was possible to imagine a forest free of corruption. All he could see from Nuin’s back was the dazzling red-gold palette of the dawn, blazing across clouds and mountain alike. Turas-Alva was directly ahead of him. He could see it clearly: a cruel, beautiful talon of granite, silhouetted by the cold, winter sun, and he knew that Cyanos would be there, but he steered Nuin south, away from his goal, towards an even higher peak. After months of war, he was finally heading home. The asrai who dwelled in the Pine Crags were mostly scattered across the forest, battling the plague daemons, but Prince Haldus doubted that Cyanos would be alone. The false king would still be guarded by his strange, bird-masked, honour guard and Haldus knew that he could not face him alone.

As Nuin swooped down through the clouds, Haldus locked his gaze on the unforgiving shard of rock he called home: the Cáder Donann.

Up in the mountains, the seasons still held sway. Winter had descended and the slopes wore a dismal crown of mist and sleet. But as Haldus dropped from Nuin’s back he ignored the cold and took a grateful breath, savouring the smell of his own lands. Even here, miles above the rolling foothills, the forest had made its presence known. Brutal, towering pines, with bark like blackened steel, jutted from every crevasse. They stood proud and straight, defying the howling wind, glowering majestically at the surrounding slopes and filling the air with the scent that had caused Haldus to smile. He closed his eyes and let his head rock back, taking another draught. It was a pure, clean smell, and, for a moment, it washed away all the filth and madness of the plague.

Nuin dragged one of her massive claws across the rock, alerting Haldus to the fact that they were no longer alone. Vague, ill-defined figures were approaching through the icy mist, silhouetted by the dawn.

It was a while since Haldus had returned home and much had changed during the interim. He unslung his bow from his back and nocked an arrow. The figures were slender and moved with a graceful economy, clearly asrai, but Haldus kept his bow ready. Who knew how far Cyanos’s treachery had taken him? Who knew who ruled these slopes? When he flew to war, Haldus had robbed the Donann of its most skilled defenders and left it in the hands of children. Was it still his to call home?

‘Who are you stranger?’ demanded a stern voice. ‘And who gave you permission to land on the Córran Edge?’

Haldus lowered his bow, smiling as the figures emerged from the mist and surrounded him. There were a dozen or so of them – slender, fresh-faced youths, masquerading as veteran warriors. Haldus felt a rush of pride as he saw their proud, determined faces.

‘Am I so quickly forgotten?’ he replied.

‘Father!’ cried one of them, lowering her bow and dashing towards him.

‘Clorana.’ Haldus tried to maintain his usual scowl, but his daughter gripped him in such a fierce hug that he could not help laughing.

After a few seconds, he pushed her back and held her at arm’s length, studying her face. He realised she had changed more than he thought. He had left behind a child and returned to find a warrior. Her beautiful, russet locks no longer flowed down over robes of emerald silk – they were knotted tightly back and tucked into a battered, leather jerkin. Her face was gaunt and stern and where her freckled cheeks had once been smooth, they now bore deep, circular scars, identical to his own. They spiralled around her eyes, giving her a harsh, warlike demeanour.

Haldus felt a mixture of sadness and pride at the sight of the scars. His daughter was a child no longer. She wore the marks of a killer.

‘What happened?’ he asked, speaking in soft, respectful tones.

She blushed and lowered her head for a moment. Then she lifted her chin and looked him proudly in the eye. ‘War happened, father. It has reached us even here. And we have been hard-pressed.’ She looked around at the other youths. They all wore the same, ritual scars and most carried other wounds – ones that were too ragged to be self-inflicted. ‘But we kept your halls free of the Chaos taint.’ Her voice trembled. ‘We knew you would return.’

Haldus was unable to speak for a moment, for fear that his voice would betray his emotions. These children had clearly been through terrible ordeals, but there was no doubt in their eyes. They looked at him with fierce determination. Somehow, the sight of these slender young warriors, buffeted by wind and sleet, brought home to Haldus all the horror of what was happening in the trees below. If they knew all that he had seen – if they knew what had become of the forest – they would drop to the ground and scream. Their confidence came from ignorance and he found that heartbreaking.

Clorana grew pale as she saw her father’s expression.

‘What is your news?’ she asked, her eyes bright with fear.

Haldus took a deep breath and shook his head. Then he nodded at a gulley to their left. ‘Show me a little mercy, child. I’ve been on the wing for days. At least let me find a place to drop before you ply me with questions.’ The wind and sleet were still lashing against them. ‘Córran Edge is no more welcoming than I remember.’

Clorana laughed, but it was a half-hearted sound and the fear remained in her eyes.

‘Take me home, Clorana,’ he said. ‘You know who it is I wish to see.’

The Cáder Donann was topped by a bizarre vision – an ink-black pine, named Clar-Cáragh. It reached up into the clouds, as tall and menacing as all the other trees that littered the mountain and it was huge – nearly fifty feet in diameter – but that was not what made it strange. This particular tree had a peculiar history. Long before the arrival of the asrai its trunk had been transformed – torn apart by the sorcery of a forgotten race. As Haldus allowed his subjects to lead him home, he glanced up at its strange, hovering clusters of towers, no less awed than the first time he had laid eyes on them. The prehistoric race – Haldus knew them only as the Old Ones – had captured an explosion in the heart of the mountainous tree. A white-hot flame was forever preserved at its core, captured in a frozen instant. A single detonation of magic power was tearing the tree apart, but, rather than taking seconds, the incident was playing itself out at a glacial pace. Over thousands of years, the vast shards of wood were gradually drifting free, moving no more than a fraction of an inch each year. The resultant sight was bewildering and wonderful – countless, huge fragments of wood, hanging around a blazing core. The huge pieces of wood moved so slowly that Haldus’s ancestors had built homes on the drifting shards – a whole civilisation, crawling through a moment of endless destruction.

They reached the roots of the tree – a sprawling nest of knotted limbs that poured like waterfalls over the rocks – and began to climb the thick vines that dangled from the branches. As he climbed higher, Haldus saw how deserted Clar-Cáragh was. War had robbed the tree of its guardians. The creaking, groaning walkways, once crowded with his subjects, were now silent and gloomy. Half an hour passed without them seeing another soul, but when he looked down at his daughter with a questioning glance, she nodded for him to continue.

‘Has she changed?’ he asked as they climbed.

Clorana laughed and this time her mirth was more genuine. ‘She does not change.’

Finally, Clorana waved Prince Haldus onto a wide, flat branch, drifting just a few feet away from the trunk. Haldus leapt gracefully from the vine and saw that there was a dwelling place at the far end of the platform – a tangle of branches woven into a dome-shaped bower. He nodded, recognising the home of his old friend, and strode along the branch towards it.

‘Damára?’ he said, squinting into the gloom as he entered the chamber. ‘Is that you?’

The chamber’s mesh-like walls threw confusing lights across the furs on the floor. For a moment, Haldus was unable to see anything but diagonal splashes of light and the snarling faces of fallen beasts. After a moment he noticed that not all of the snarls were lifeless. Dozens of wildcats were circling in the shadows, padding in and out of view and following his movements with their glinting, yellow-green eyes. Then a robed figure shuffled from the back of the chamber and the cats scattered, hissing at her in annoyance. It was a spellweaver – her tall, wiry frame enveloped by furs and robes. She looked vaguely in Haldus’s direction and sniffed suspiciously.

She came closer, feeling her way with a horned staff and as she emerged into a patch of light, it revealed that where her eyes should have been there were only two smooth, featureless hollows. She sniffed again and then relaxed. ‘So you do remember the way home,’ she said with a wry smile.

Her hair was long, white and parted around a copper leaf on her forehead, hanging from a leather cord around her head. Other than her blindness, her face was almost identical to Clorana’s.

Haldus took her head in his hands and kissed the copper leaf, but he could think of no words. Seeing the mother of his child reminded him again of the horrors overtaking them all. His journey home had shown him how close the plague was to the Pine Crags. The foothills were already crawling with foetid creatures and gaudy, creeping fungus. It would not be long before the black firs of his home began to shiver and rot.

Damára looked troubled by his silence. ‘What news do you bring of the war?’ she asked, placing her hand on one of the torcs that encircled his arms.

For a moment, Haldus was at a loss to know how to answer. ‘Daemons,’ he said finally. ‘The Chaos Gods. They’ve cast a shadow across the Great Weave. They’ve…’ His words trailed off as Clorana and the others entered the chamber. ‘The Plague Father is amongst us,’ he muttered, lowering his voice. ‘He is spreading his filth across the forest.’

Damára shrugged. ‘We have faced such things before. Spring will rid us of unwelcome guests. The ancients will rise and the king and queen will return. Orion will not permit such beings to remain amongst us for long. He will lead the Wild Hunt, as he has always done.’ As Damára spoke, her words became less sure. ‘Or, is there something more?’

Haldus sighed and dropped heavily onto the fur-strewn floor. ‘There is much more. Daemon-plague has consumed the whole forest, Damára. The noble halls of our kin have fallen one by one. I tried to lead those that remained, but…’ His face was suddenly twisted by a mixture of fury and regret. ‘I’m no king,’ he growled, glaring at the floor. ‘I’m not made to lead. They wouldn’t listen to my plans.’

Clorana looked pained and crouched next to her father, placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m sure you did what you could, but it no longer matters. Winter will end soon. Orion will return to us.’

Haldus shook his head. ‘The corruption is too great, child. The Great Weave itself has been unravelled. Down in the forest, there is no winter.’ He glanced at his daughter. ‘And there will be no spring.’

She laughed in disbelief. ‘Of course there will be a spring.’

Her words were followed by a stunned silence that nobody seemed willing to break.

‘Haldus,’ said Damára, frowning. ‘Have you come here to wallow in self-pity? What use is despair? If things are as bad as you say, why have you returned home?’ She lifted her chin, showing exactly the same expression of pride her daughter had displayed when she met Haldus on the Córran Edge. ‘You may not be a king, Haldus, but you are also no coward. If the forest is in such danger, why are you slumped here in my chambers?’

Haldus flinched and rose shamefully to his feet. He was exhausted. Weeks of battle weighed heavily on his limbs and he had not slept for days. But he drew back his shoulders and gave the blind spellweaver a weary nod. ‘You’re right, Damára – cowardice is the one weakness I can rightly deny. I did not come here to rest, though my bones are screaming at me that I should, I came here to slay a traitor and free our kinsmen.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Clorana, looking shocked. ‘There are no traitors in the Cáder Donann.’

‘Not here, child. My visit is only brief. I seek weapons and warriors, nothing else. My prey is Lord Cyanos.’

‘Cyanos,’ spat Damára, leaning heavily on her staff. ‘Good. I am glad you mean to finally rid us of that devious wretch.’

Haldus was shocked by the venom in her voice. ‘What has he done to earn your hatred?’

Clorana answered before her mother could. ‘Since you left he has tried repeatedly to seize your lands, father. It is not just the daemons who have assaulted our home. We have repelled Cyanos countless times.’ She ran a finger absent-mindedly across the scars that circled her eyes. ‘It is his hawk-masked idiots that have cost us so many lives.’ She grimaced. ‘But now he hides in his mountain, filling the valleys with smoke and screams.’

Haldus clenched his fists. ‘I should have killed him when I had the chance, but when Orion saw some good in him I thought I must be mistaken. Cyanos tricked me into an unwinnable attack. It cost me half of our kinsmen. And the other half will remain trapped forever in a sorcerer’s prison, unless I can pry some truth from Cyanos’s lying lips.’

Damára shivered. ‘My dreams have been haunted by that false king. I knew he was linked to this plague.’

Haldus nodded. ‘I need weapons,’ he glanced at the youngsters watching from the doorway, ‘and warriors. Then I mean to bring his mountain down around his ears.’

Damára shook her head. ‘Turas-Alva has grown strange since you last visited. We can round up some more warriors for you, but you’d be ill-advised to openly approach Cyanos. Besides, his home has hidden itself.’ She waved at her empty sockets. ‘You’ll need my help to gain access.’

Haldus raised his eyebrows. In her youth, Damára had been a powerful weaver of spells, but of late she had only given the vaguest prophecies and predictions.

‘I’m not as dull-witted as you think,’ she continued. ‘I can still see the odd truth. I can still navigate the old paths.’ She pressed one of her fingers to the leaf on her brow. ‘There is a high pass drawn in my mind, still visible above the clouds. I could take you there without his sentries observing your approach.’ She shrugged. ‘It would at least give you a little time to learn his secrets before he knows he has guests.’

Haldus stared at her, shocked. Then took her hand and kissed it. ‘Damára, forgive me. I tried to convince myself that I only needed soldiers, but your help is worth more to me than a hundred spears.’

Damára shrugged. ‘I know.’

The wildcats yowled as the chamber grew darker. It was a low, alien sound that even Haldus found unnerving. The branches in the walls crushed closer to each other, creaking, snapping and blocking out the morning light. As Damára worked her spell, she whirled blindly around the chamber, feeling her way by tapping the horns of her staff against the ground and muttering indecipherable rhymes. With each blow, the horns dragged shapes from the wooden floor – gnarled, knotted spirits made of moonlight. They moaned and wheezed as they gathered around her, mimicking her dance and waving their branch-like limbs.

Prince Haldus was sitting at the centre of the bower, encircled by a series of runes Damára had scratched into the bark. He was also surrounded by his kinsmen. At his command, Clorana had gathered all the warriors that remained in the Cáder Donann. There were less than fifty of them, but they gripped their bows and swords proudly as they settled around him – proud for a chance to serve their prince.

As Damára’s dance grew more frenetic and her words more wild, dozens more of the spirits arrived and joined their ghostly voices to hers.

Finally, she drew a blade from her robes and lurched towards the circles.

Haldus felt a brief moment of panic as she rushed in his direction, lifting the long, curved blade over her head with a garbled scream. Then he relaxed as she hammered it down into the ridged floor, just inches from his leg.

The chamber juddered.

Light pulsed briefly from the hole Damára had made and then the spirits all hurled themselves into it, vanishing from view and plunging the chamber back into darkness.

Haldus shook his head, as confused as ever by Damára’s strange behaviour.

‘Are you sure this will work?’ he asked, peering into the darkness. ‘Damára?’

She gave no reply. Instead, she drew the knife from the wood, rose to her feet and began stabbing at the dark.

For a moment, Haldus thought she had lost her mind. Then, he noticed that for every slash of the knife, a piece of the darkness fell away. And, as Damára sliced, Haldus saw that the circle of furs was no longer on the floor of her bower. Each tear in the darkness revealed a new scene: the cold, rain-lashed outcrop of a mountain.

It only took Damára a few more minutes to cut down the remaining shadows and then, as she tumbled from view, Haldus found himself on a rocky peak, blinking in the morning light as he looked out across the fog-mantled peaks of Turas-Alva.

‘By the gods!’ laughed Haldus, looking around for Damára. She was sprawled on her back a few feet away, breathing heavily and trembling. A wildcat was sitting on her chest, licking itself with an air of cool, self-satisfaction.

His warriors were scattered around her, gripping their weapons tightly and studying the surrounding slopes for signs of attack.

‘You needn’t sound so surprised,’ muttered Damára, without looking in his direction. ‘I was once something other than the mother of your daughter.’

Haldus felt his cheeks burning and was glad Damára could not see his embarrassment. She had the measure of him. He had heard tales of her power, but during their years together he had rarely witnessed it. To send the whole group of them through the Great Weave and land them miles away, on another mountain top, was sorcery to match anything in Ariel’s court.

Clorana climbed to her feet, oblivious to her father’s discomfort and looked around. ‘See?’ she muttered, pointing her bow at the misty slopes below. ‘Cyanos is as dangerous as the plague. What’s he doing down there?’

Haldus saw that his daughter was trembling too and realised that the whole mountain was shivering and jerking. He stood and followed her gaze. The mountainside he remembered was gone, hidden behind a boiling mass of virulent green clouds and flickering, ghostly lights. It was hard to see anything clearly, but the clouds were clearly masking a disaster of some kind. As the fumes shifted, Haldus caught glimpses of movement, movement on a grand scale.

Clorana turned to face him, her eyes wide.

She looked afraid, but Haldus noticed excitement in her eyes too. He realised that a part of her was thrilled to be abroad with her father, joining him on one of his adventures.

He glared back at her. ‘I’ve seen this before. The plague has come further than I thought.’

Damára took the wildcat in her arms and climbed to her feet. ‘The plague?’ She walked towards them and one of the warriors rushed to guide her, stopping her before she reached the precipice.

‘What kind of plague causes a mountain to tremble?’ she asked.

Haldus grimaced. ‘Whatever daemon has set itself against us, is hungry for life.’ He shook his head, unsure what to do next.

‘Is Cyanos definitely down there?’ asked his daughter.

‘I can’t be sure,’ replied Haldus, ‘but I believe so.’

‘Then, plague or not, we know where our route lies.’ She pointed her bow at a narrow, high-sided pass, snaking down through the icy rocks. ‘You said we need to find Cyanos. Let’s find him.’

He softened his expression and nodded, making for the path and signalling for the others to follow.

He paused at the top of the slope and shook his head. The climb would be hard, even for such sure-footed travellers. There was a good reason this spur of the mountain was unoccupied – the path that led away from it was a sheer drop over icy, smooth slopes. The rain was still pounding down and Haldus realised that Damára would not be able to join them in the descent. There was a brief argument, but he finally managed to convince her by asking, if she plummeted to her death, who could spirit them back to the Cáder Donann?

Damára watched them as they started to climb, then headed off to find shelter from the rain, still cradling the sodden wildcat.

Haldus cursed as he climbed, frustrated by the slow progress. It was almost impossible to find sure footholds and, every time he did, the mountain would judder and almost send them all plummeting to their death. All they could do was hold tight and pray each time there was a tremor.

After several hours of this tortuous progress, they entered the clouds of green smog that they had glimpsed from the mountaintop. It was oddly warm in the fumes and they were now almost blind. Haldus wondered if Damára might not have done better than the rest of them. Each time he glimpsed his daughter’s face though, he saw the determined glint in her eyes and it drove him on. Cyanos was down there somewhere and he held the key to freeing his kinsmen and Laelia.

After another hour of climbing, the fumes stung Haldus’s eyes and burned his lungs. He heard the others above him, coughing and spluttering and knew they were feeling the same. He had noticed something equally unnerving. With every step he took the air grew warmer. By rights, at this time of year, the whole mountain should have been covered in frost, but instead the paths were slick with moss and pockets of brackish water. Haldus could feel sweat trickling down his chest. The fumes drifting over them were moist and warm, tropical almost: the sweet, rotten stink of the plague.

The mountain shivered again, shedding rocks and causing Haldus and the others to flatten themselves against the rock face. The rumbling continued for several minutes and, once it had faded, another sound emerged from the clouds – an angry, urgent buzzing. Haldus felt a mixture of anger and disgust as he recognised the familiar sound of his enemy.

‘What is that?’ asked Clorana.

Haldus looked grim. ‘We need to find a place to stand and fight.’ He carried on climbing, trying to move a little faster, but in his rush he slipped on the wet rock and felt his legs go from under him.

Clorana howled and reached out to grab him, latching on to his hand just in time.

Haldus was large and powerfully built. As he dangled in his daughter’s grip, she began to slide free of her handhold. The next climber in line managed to grab onto her shoulders, just before father and daughter fell to their deaths.

Haldus grasped the rocks again and, when she was sure he was safe, Clorana let go of him. The three of them panted heavily for a moment, conscious of how close they had come to death. The rest of the climbers looked anxiously down at them and checked their own handholds.

Haldus sighed and was about to start climbing again when he heard another loud buzzing. Clorana’s scream had alerted something to their presence.

‘There!’ he cried, nodding at a long, narrow lip of rock, just a few feet away. ‘Make for the ledge and draw your weapons.’

As the buzzing sound grew louder, Haldus made it to the ledge and grabbed his bow. The others did their best to reach him, but having just seen Haldus nearly fall, none of them were willing to rush.

An enormous, boulder-sized fly hurtled from the fumes. It was fat, glistening and its carapace was layered in plates of rusted iron. A long, shiny proboscis was dangling from its face and pus-green flesh was hanging from its intestines in a lacy mess of skin and muscle.

Haldus had no time to shoot his arrow. The fly was on him as soon as it appeared. All he could do was use the arrow like a spear, jabbing it into the monster’s face. The arrow passed through one of its three eyes and showered Haldus with bloody fluid.

He howled in disgust and pain as the liquid ate into his skin and the insect battered against the rock face, thrashing its four, ragged wings.

An arrow sliced into one of its remaining two eyes, producing another arc of yellow liquid.

Haldus saw that Clorana was now beside him on the ledge, preparing to shoot a second arrow.

The fly swung around in her direction, raising a quivering nest of mandibles and stingers.

Clorana loosed another arrow but she slipped and the shot went wide, whizzing off through the yellow fumes.

The fly brought its poisonous, armoured limbs down towards her face, but Haldus was faster. He had drawn his sword and, before the monster reached his daughter he leapt from the ledge, clutching the blade in both hands, landing on the fly’s back and hammering the sword down through its head.

The monster spasmed beneath him, thrashing its wings even more wildly, then plunged from the ledge, taking Haldus with it.

Clorana screamed as her father vanished from view, still stabbing at the creature.

Haldus and the fly plummeted through the clouds. The thing thrashed beneath him, full of dreadful life, but it could not coordinate its wings. They drummed uselessly against its bloated abdomen, without rhythm or power. All Haldus could do was hang onto a piece of rotten flesh and wait for the inevitable impact.

Briefly, the fly managed to right itself. It gave all four wings one powerful beat and swooped up out of its dive. Haldus exhaled the breath he had been holding and prepared to continue the fight.

Then, as one of its wings gave way, the fly lost control and smashed back into the mountainside, showering them both in blood and pus.

Pain flashed across Haldus’s face and neck, but he managed to reach out and grasp onto something as the fly dropped away, broken and lifeless.

Fumes swirled around him and he saw that he was hanging from a shattered branch, jutting out of the mountain like a spear in the flank of a huge beast.

He grabbed on to the slippery bark with his other hand and hauled himself up with a pained grunt.

For a few seconds he lay there, hugging the dead branch; eyes closed, heart pounding. He lifted his head to look around. It was hard to see more than a few feet through the clouds, but he made out another, easier path, just below the branch and continued his descent.

Haldus could hear the distant cries of his kinsmen. Desperate, plaintive calls rang out through the smog, but he gave no reply. Every sound would draw more of the fly creatures and he prayed that his lack of answer might silence them.

After another ten minutes of clambering, Haldus reached the bottom of the slope. The ground felt odd – tacky and giving, but he did not pause to examine it. He rushed across the floor of the crevasse, staring up at its brutal walls, trying to spot his warriors. The lurid clouds parted for a moment and he caught a glimpse of battle, way overhead. Another huge fly had appeared, wheeling and diving and lashing out with its barbed limbs. Haldus could just about discern the slender shapes of his kin, fighting for their lives as they climbed slowly down the slope. As he watched, Haldus saw one of them stumble and fall. He could not be sure who it was and, as the tiny figure bounced and rolled down the sheer rock face, he prayed that it was not Clorana.

Haldus guessed that the others were still several minutes’ climb away from him. He cursed and looked around. What to do? If he tried to reach them, he would be attacked every step of the way.

He took his bow from his back and began shooting arrows through the clouds. The first arrow bounced uselessly from the rocks but the second and third sliced into the daemon-fly. It looped around and hurtled away from the climbing figures, diving towards Haldus.

He loosed another two shots. The first went wide and the second hit home, but still the fly kept on hurtling towards him.

The thing was almost on him and, as he drew another arrow, Haldus realised that there was no cover he could take. If this last shot failed, the fly would smash into him.

He shot the arrow and it thudded into the creature’s abdomen with no discernible effect.

The fly continued hurtling towards Haldus and he held his hands in front of his face.

There was a splintering crack as the ground next to Haldus split open. He staggered to one side as a thick, green shoot flew up from the rocks and collided with the approaching daemon-fly. It pierced the creature like a spear, showering the rocks with gore and causing Haldus to reel away in shock.

He came to a halt a few feet away and looked back in amazement. The monster was suspended several feet in the air by a green column of growth. It thrashed its wings furiously, but only succeeded in tearing itself apart. Then it fell silent and slid to the ground.

Haldus shook his head in disbelief as he saw Damára walking towards him through the fumes and mist, feeling her way across the uneven ground with her horned staff.

She gave him a curt nod then looked up at the others, still climbing down the wall of the crevasse.

‘How did you get down here so fast?’ asked Haldus.

She turned in the direction of his voice. ‘There are many kinds of sight, Haldus. I’ve only lost the unimportant one.’

He was about to press her further, but Clorana and the warriors had now reached the valley floor and were rushing towards them.

‘We must be quick!’ cried Clorana. ‘The whole mountain is coming down.’

Haldus looked around and saw that his daughter was right. The landscape was juddering with violent tremors. Rocks and pebbles were bouncing down the walls of the crevasse and there was a deep, grinding sound coming from beneath their feet.

‘Help Damára,’ he said to one of his subjects and sprinted off down the narrow gulley.

As he ran, Haldus scoured his surroundings for a familiar landmark. It was hopeless. Everything was warped by the shifting miasma of smoke and spores. Haldus could not see anything that reminded him of his journeys with Orion. The walls of the chasm closed in on him as he ran, and the ground became less stable with each step. As the tremors became more violent, they began opening fissures and spewing dust into the already clouded air. Haldus sank into pools that suddenly appeared before him and stumbled across the trembling ground, but he kept focussed on something up ahead of him. After a few minutes of this running and scrambling, Prince Haldus came to a halt, just inches from a sheer drop. Ahead of him was a mile-long, natural bridge of granite. It arced over the abyss like a slender rope hurled by a god and Haldus nodded, pleased that he had finally found something he remembered. This was the place he had landed with Orion, all those months ago, in the days before the plague.

He looked back and saw that, even accompanied by Damára, the others were only a few minutes away. He looked back at the bridge and saw that, like everything else, it was quickly disintegrating. Each fresh tremor threatened to destroy it, but on the far side there was a portal – a tall cave mouth that was also familiar. He recalled that he had passed through the portal with Orion, on his first visit to the Vale of Fincara. He had little time to reminisce, though. Each fresh tremor caused the bridge to slump and crumble. Haldus stepped onto it, then paused, sensing that the whole edifice was about to collapse.

The others reached his side and looked at him expectantly.

‘This isn’t the first time you’ve been here,’ said Clorana, noticing how Haldus studied the archway.

‘I came here with the king,’ he replied, peering into the darkness.

‘Orion came here?’ asked one of the young warriors, his voice full of awe.

Haldus frowned. ‘He was troubled. He wished to pit himself against the forest spirits. I sought him out, wishing him to lead the Wild Hunt, as he has done so many times before, but he was obsessed with something I mentioned in passing. I had spoken of Cyanos’s strangeness and mentioned how he had begun worshipping a spirit by the name of Amphion.’ Haldus shook his head. ‘As soon as I mentioned the forest spirit, Orion could think of nothing but hunting it down and demanding fealty from it.’

‘Amphion,’ said Clorana, looking puzzled. ‘The eagle spirit. I thought that was just a story.’

Haldus shook his head. ‘Cyanos created a sculpture in the shape of the spirit and he meant to sacrifice his own people by burning them alive in it. Then we arrived and he discovered that the spirit was playing him for a fool. Cyanos was so tormented that he begged Orion to forgive him and let him join the hunt.’

Haldus looked pained. ‘And I was the biggest fool. I believed he was genuinely contrite.’

‘Cyanos has been a liar since he was a child,’ muttered Damára.

Haldus nodded, sounding bitter as he continued. ‘I see that now. But he has a honeyed tongue. Since Orion burned on his winter pyre, Cyanos has been my shadow. He convinced me that all his learning gave him knowledge no one else had – even Naieth. He was the one who tricked me into a battle that lost me my army. He was…’ Haldus glowered across the bridge. ‘I will make him pay.’

They crossed the bridge at a brisk jog, sensing that, at any minute it might collapse. Then, upon reaching the other side, they rushed into the cave mouth.

They were immediately enveloped by darkness and noise. The mountain’s death-throes were all the more terrifying when heard from inside. Rolling, apocalyptic explosions rocked the walls and ground. After feeling his way blindly through the chaos, Haldus felt a rush of hope as he saw stairs up ahead. He fell again, scraping the skin from his legs and arms, but the pain only focussed his thoughts. He was haunted by the haughty, refined features of Lord Cyanos, smiling serenely as he assured Haldus that he should take his hawk lords to the Cromlech of Cadai. Haldus seethed as he considered all that Cyanos had lost him. A third of his kinsmen dead, and the rest trapped forever in the Cromlech.

Haldus led the others on, up the stairs and through the clouds of dust. They climbed in silence for a while, listening for the angry whirring of the giant flies. Then, the prince’s thoughts were interrupted as he saw lights up ahead. He thought at first that it was daylight, but then he realised it was grubs, circling overhead, pulsing with a lemon-coloured glow. He stopped for a moment to watch, stunned by this latest horror. Each grub was a kind of ridged, winged sac, enveloping the severed head of a fallen asrai warrior. The light came from the acid that was slowly digesting each of the heads.

Haldus watched for a moment, horrified, then he flinched and backed away as something flew from the shadows and bounced off his chest.

As he staggered back towards the stair wall, he saw that the object was another grub, but one without light. It hurtled towards him again and he realised that, unlike the ones overhead, this grub was an empty sac with a gaping, serrated mouth. It rushed towards Haldus’s face and he lashed out wildly with his fist.

The grub swallowed his forearm and blazed with yellow light as it started to digest him. He punched it furiously with his other hand until it fell away.

‘Guard yourselves,’ he called to the others. Then he hurried on.

Finally, a more natural light appeared and Haldus emerged into another fume-filled gully. It was hard to see anything clearly, but he knew this was the approach to Cyanos’s halls.

‘Almost there,’ he called back as he jogged through the clouds with the others staggering after him.

Gloom enveloped them again as they entered Cyanos’s home but this time the darkness was punctuated by fires. Sconces lined the walls and, despite the chaos outside, several of them were still lit – guttering and spitting each time the mountain shook.

‘Let me guide you,’ said Damára, appearing at Cyanos’s side as he paused to consider his route.

He looked gratefully at her. ‘I may need your help when we find him, too.’

She smiled in the shifting light. ‘The great Prince Haldus needs my help. These are strange days indeed.’

Haldus blushed in the darkness.

Damára laughed softly and touched his face, tracing his deep scars and low, brutal brow. Then, using her staff for support, she lowered herself to the ground and touched the rock.

Clorana and the other young warriors watched with fascination as she muttered incomprehensible phrases. Light pulsed beneath her fingers and the air took on a sulphurous tang. Then she nodded and stood up again.

‘He’s close,’ she said, with distaste in her voice, ‘but he’s not alone.’

‘Lead the way,’ said Haldus and, as they trooped off down the passageway, he looked back at the others. ‘Keep your weapons ready.’

Damára’s silver hair was a beacon, leading them past the yawning, pitch-black openings that surrounded them. As they ran, the tremors grew even more violent. There was now a constant shaking that rattled stones down on their heads and shoulders and, every now and then, opened fissures at their feet.

Damára paused beside a door and turned towards Haldus with a confused expression. ‘The eagle spirit is here, still trapped in the mountain, beyond this door. Cyanos has made no attempt to free it. I can see them both clearly. One is distracted by pain, the other by madness. They do not know we are here.’

Haldus looked at the door. It was closed and locked, but the tremors had jolted it from its frame. It would be an easy enough job for a few of them to dislodge it. The mountain shook again and a series of brittle cracking sounds rang out overhead. With dust and pebbles bouncing off his helmet, Haldus stared at Damára. ‘How far away are they?’

‘They’re close,’ she replied, with a strange smile.

The ground shuddered and several of the torches went out. Haldus looked back the way they came.

‘Will you let him live?’ asked Damára.

Haldus glowered and waved some of the warriors over to the door. ‘He has to pay for what he has done.’

The door had already been dislodged and it took them minutes to lift it from its hinges. It clattered noisily to the ground, but Haldus saw no need for caution. The air was filled with creaks and groans as the mountain began to collapse.

The doorway led into a neatly hewn passageway that unnerved Haldus and the others almost as much as the madness outside. The plastered walls were lined with intricate maps and cases full of leather-bound books. Haldus grimaced as he stepped closer. These were the trappings of humanity – the strange industry of outsiders with their printing machines and their colleges. He hurried past the books and made for another doorway at the far end of the small antechamber. This opening had no door and there was a blazing light coming from beyond the threshold, along with a mixture of ominous sounds: a chorus of muttering voices and a weird, inhuman screeching noise.

Haldus glanced back at the others and signalled that they should approach with care, then he crept up to the doorway and peered around the frame.

He saw a circular chamber, lined with rows of seats, surrounding a wide platform – a stage of some kind. The light was coming from a blazing fire in the centre of the stage, in which a huge figure was struggling and thrashing.

Haldus recognised the incredible being as Amphion – the eagle spirit. It was as huge and terrifying as he remembered, but it was still pinned to the stone floor by the spear Orion had thrust through it in the spring. The walls were scorched and blackened by fire and he realised that this chamber must be all that remained of Cyanos’s ‘Great Work’ – the vast sculpture he had built to sacrifice his people in. Amphion must have remained trapped for all this time, enveloped in the flames that spilled from its own feathers as it tried to free itself. The screeching he had heard was the sound of the spirit’s pain and fury.

The voices came from several hundred asrai warriors – Cyanos’s alvaír, with their strange, avian masks. They were dressed for war, clutching bows and spears, and they were all leaning forwards, listening eagerly to the speaker striding back and forth in front of them. It was Cyanos. He was still clad in his black, iron breastplate and, despite his attempts to hide them beneath a thick, fur-lined mantle, Haldus saw that he still had two strange lumps where his wings had once been. His face shone with the same radiance and beauty, but his once vivid green eyes were now dull, and clouded by madness. There was a brazier behind him, burning with an amber glow and filling the chamber with heady fumes.

‘These are not just my ideas,’ said Cyanos with a smile. He spoke in soft, comforting tones. ‘All of this was explained to me by Lady Ordaana.’

As Haldus and the others peered into the chamber, Cyanos waved his spear towards his struggling prisoner. ‘The forest ancients were once the holders of great power, but they have had their day. Try as they might, they cannot help us in the great wars that are looming. The world is facing dangers they can scarcely dream of.’ He looked pityingly at Amphion. ‘So we must abandon the old ways. We must join our strength to the storm that approaches us from the north. My children,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper and leaning out from the stage, ‘the true gods have offered us a chance to join them. Ordaana thinks we are her slaves. As does that hate-warped tree spirit, Drycha. But I tell you now, we serve a power far greater than any of them.’

The masked warriors roared their approval, rattling their seats and hurling rocks at the trapped spirit.

Haldus backed away in shock. They were deranged, bestial even. He sniffed the air and sensed that the fumes coming from the brazier were charged with sorcery. This was not simply the devotion of eager subjects; Cyanos had enchanted them.

Cyanos strolled across the stage and held up a small, crumbling book. ‘Join your voices to mine as I perform the final rites. Rid the forest of this deceiver. Lend me your spears.’ A harsher edge entered his voice. ‘Bring death to Orion.’

Cyanos’s voice was still soft, but it had an incredible impact on the crowd. The warriors leapt to their feet, whooping like dogs and clattering their weapons.

Damára edged closer to Haldus and whispered in his ear. ‘I did not foresee this.’ There was panic in her voice. ‘He means to do something terrible. I don’t know what. I don’t understand…’ She shook her head. ‘It’s worse than I thought. He’s part of something bigger. The power he speaks of is the Dark Gods of Chaos. You were right. We have to kill him.’

Haldus looked back to the stage as Cyanos pointed at the flaming eagle. ‘Orion left us this gift and finally I am ready to use it.’ He tapped his book. ‘Once I have drained its power I will be unstoppable. We will be unstoppable.’ He arched his back and read out a single, grotesque syllable.

The crowd echoed his gentle utterance with a furious roar and the chamber filled with light. The flames around Amphion flared brighter and the whole mountain juddered. Rocks crashed down amongst the asrai and several new fissures opened up in the walls, but Cyanos and his subjects seemed oblivious to the danger.

Cyanos crooned a second word and, as the crowd roared their reply, there was another, even more violent blast. A huge chunk of granite fell from the shadows and smashed down into the crowds. Still, they seemed oblivious.

‘Quickly, father,’ said Clorana. ‘He is insane.’

Haldus scowled. ‘I need to question him. I need answers.’

She shook her head. ‘There is no time.’

Haldus closed his eyes, then nodded. ‘Very well. Wait one minute, then shoot once,’ he said. ‘Then flee for your lives.’

He crouched low and ran into the chamber, keeping to the back wall and circling around behind the back row of seats.

Clorana reached out after him in shock, but did not dare cry out. Then she turned to the others and nodded. They edged forwards and nocked arrows to their bows, while Damára clutched her staff and lowered her head in readiness.

Rocks were falling all around them now and the ground felt like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. As Cyanos read another word from the book, the resultant howl wrenched another great chunk of the ceiling free, adding an explosion of dust to the fumes that already filled the chamber. Amphion’s screeches grew even more terrible but, however hard the spirit twisted and writhed, it could not free itself from the spear Orion had planted in its chest.

Haldus was blinded for a moment, then, as the dust cleared, he saw that Amphion was being torn apart as a result of Cyanos’s magic. The spirit was in terrible torment.

Cyanos paused, halfway across the stage, to admire his handiwork. He looked at the struggling spirit with an expression of intense satisfaction then he looked back at the book and traced a finger over the page, preparing to read the next word.

All that emerged from his throat was a hoarse cough and he frowned in confusion. Then he reached up and touched the shaft of wood that had appeared in the centre of his neck.

His eyes widened and he looked past the stunned audience to where Haldus was standing at the back of the room, still holding his bow.

Blood rushed from Cyanos’s throat as he tried to move and he dropped to his knees.

The alvaír roared in drug-fuelled outrage and turned to face the criminal who had shot their lord, but at that moment, a wave of arrows slammed into them as Clorana and the others did their work.

Haldus dropped from view and the masked warriors charged towards the doorway, hurling spears and curses at their attackers.

With the crowd distracted, Haldus circled around the back of the room and jumped onto the stage, where Cyanos was still choking and spluttering. Haldus strode towards his betrayer with hate burning in his eyes, drawing a sword from his back as he leapt over the pieces of rubble.

‘Wait,’ said the noble, recognising Haldus’s intent. He tried to smile, despite his pain. ‘I can explain. I did not know I was sending you into such danger. If I did, I would–’

The chamber shuddered as another slab of rock crashed onto the stage, throwing Haldus from his feet and hurling him into the front row of seats.

He lost consciousness and when he came to, there was a searing pain in the back of his head. Warm blood washed over his back, but when he reached around to examine the wound he found that his helmet had saved his skull.

Haldus swayed drunkenly as he climbed to his feet. The chamber was a mess of flying rubble, dust and fumes and he struggled to get his bearings for a second.

A masked warrior barged past him and he saw that the whole chamber was about to give way. The doorway had vanished behind a wall of rubble and huge cracks had opened in the ceiling, flooding the chamber with daylight and growing wider by the second. He looked back towards the stage to find that it had been obliterated. Where Cyanos had been, there was just a swirling mass of debris and a huge, jagged boulder. He rushed towards it with a howl, and clattered his sword against it, furious at being denied his vengeance.

Haldus could bear the thought of his impending death, but not the idea that he had been cheated of his prey. He snatched a battered object from near the boulder. It was Cyanos’s book and he stared at it in outrage and disgust.

He dropped to his knees, deaf to the chaos that surrounded him and began pounding the book on the broken stage.

A shape loomed over him and he paused as heat washed over the side of his face.

As the walls came tumbling down, Haldus looked up to see a terrifying vision. The splintering ground had freed Amphion. The flaming spirit was looming over him, all four wings extended, screaming in relief and hatred. The bone-spear was still embedded in its chest, but the rock that had held it was gone.

Haldus cowered as the blazing creature attacked.

Heat and light enveloped him.

Chapter Sixteen

It was not the death Haldus had expected. Heat sank deep into his body, burning away memory and thought. Spirit flames coursed through his limbs and flooded his heart, but caused him no pain. As his body dissolved in the furnace of the eagle’s feathers, Haldus saw visions of his life with Orion. Every terrifying hunt – countless centuries of untrammelled wildness. Then, as the heat grew, he realised the memories were too strange and varied to be the record of a single, mortal life. As this idea took hold, it lifted him free of the flames and placed him at the heart of a celestial glade, surrounded by blazing boughs and immortal, impossible beings.

The gods, he thought, and I am one of them. I am a god.

Haldus’s soul swelled as he realised he was an immortal. He trod proudly beneath the dazzling branches, studying the incredible beings that surrounded him. One in particular drew his gaze – an antlered brute, the size of a mountain, seated on a towering throne of living oak. Kurnous had eyes like two enormous burning coals and the air around him shimmered with the heat of them. As Haldus approached his eternal lord, he dropped to his knees, awed and afraid.

No, he realised, I’m not a god, but the servant of a god.

In a moment, Haldus understood everything. There was a reason he felt such a bond with each incarnation of Orion. His entire purpose was to serve and watch over him. It always had been. It was the reason he had been sent to the physical realm.

‘The final test approaches,’ said the horned god, leaning forwards in his throne.

Kurnous spoke with the roar of a tempest and Haldus cowered at the sound. He heard laughter coming from some of the other beings in the trees, but dared not face them. He had recalled his true station. He might not be as humble as a mortal, but he was humble nonetheless. To converse with one god was enough.

‘Keep him safe,’ said Kurnous. It was not a request.

Haldus tried to rise, and assure his master that he would never fail him. He would die before he let Orion be harmed.

The words stalled in his mouth but the god seemed to hear them just the same. He nodded and sat back in his throne.

Haldus cowered on the ground for a while, waiting to be dismissed; then he realised that the gods had forgotten him. They had shifted their gaze west and their terrible faces looked troubled. Haldus tried to see what they saw, but his eyes were too weak. All he could make out was a faint glow on the horizon, somewhere beyond the sea. It was the flicker of a vast fire, seen from hundreds of miles away and it filled Haldus with an awful sense of dread.

The thought of fire reminded Haldus of Amphion, the eagle spirit that had consumed him. As soon as he recalled his mortal self, the impossible glade began to vanish. Flames washed over everything until all that Haldus could see was Kurnous’s feral gaze. That soon vanished too but, before it did, Haldus noticed a softening of the god’s expression. He saw gratitude, perhaps even pity, and then the eyes were gone.

Haldus roared in pain and staggered backwards, clutching at his burned flesh. He stumbled over a fallen tree and landed on his back in a pool of weed-knotted water. The air was thick with the rancid stench of plague and the sky was yellow. There was no mistaking the diseased wreckage of his home. He looked down at his body, expecting to see something equally ruined. To his surprise, he was not burned. He was bruised and scarred from countless battles, but there was not a single blister from his embrace with the eagle.

‘What is this?’ he moaned, struggling free of the pallid weeds. As he climbed to his feet he started to recall a strange dream, filled with blazing trees and terrible gods. The memory was fleeting. The more he tried to grasp it, the more the details slipped away, leaving him with a single, worrying thought. He had to protect Orion.

‘What are you?’ asked a thin, scraping voice.

Haldus looked across the little pool and flinched. On the far side of the pool was the eagle spirit. It was sitting patiently, watching him from its halo of flames, its four wings folded behind its back. He looked around. They were in a small, muddy clearing, surrounded by the pathetic stumps of diseased trees. It was early morning, not much after dawn by the looks of it, but the light coming from the spirit was enough for Haldus to see that there was no escape. Beyond the trees was a quivering, garish obscenity. Whichever direction he looked, there were mounds of pink and purple fungus. Each of the growths was surrounded by clouds of gnats and spores and leaking rivers of eye-achingly yellow pus. Haldus groaned as he saw animals lurching and limping between them. There were foxes, boars and birds, all mutated beyond recognition. They screamed and whimpered as they moved, tormented by the changes rippling through their bodies. Haldus gripped his head, as though in pain. To see his home like this was agony. How could things ever be as they were?

‘It comes this way,’ said the eagle spirit. Its voice was a little lower, softened by fear or sadness. It turned and fixed one of its large, oil-black eyes on Haldus. ‘The plague is unstoppable now. It will pass through here any minute. Your flesh will change, like everything else.’

The spirit did not sound saddened by the prospect of Haldus’s death. It clearly despised him.

‘Why did you not kill me?’ Haldus asked.

The flames around the eagle dimmed slightly as it considered this. When it replied, it sounded hesitant.

‘You are not what you appear to be. What are you?’

Haldus shook his head, confused. ‘I am the Prince of Arum Tor. My home is in the mountains. The Cáder Donann is where–’

The spirit interrupted him with a screeched laugh. ‘You don’t know. You don’t know your own nature.’

Haldus decided that the spirit must be insane. Perhaps its imprisonment at the hands of Lord Cyanos had unhinged its mind.

The spirit looked disappointed. ‘I thought perhaps you were something new – something that might save us.’ It laughed again, but this time at itself. ‘I am a fool. I may as well have killed you along with the others.’

Haldus was about to speak when the spirit thrashed its four wings and launched itself into the air. The second its huge talons left the ground, the spirit vanished, leaving Haldus with only an after-image of its flaming silhouette.

He cursed and looked around. The spirit had been right – the mutant fungus was rolling and tumbling towards the little pool he was standing in. Tentacle-like growths had lurched up from the gaudy mass of shapes and were already stretching towards him. They were moving painfully slowly, but it was only a matter of time until they reached him.

He climbed up the shattered remains of a tree and made one last attempt to save himself: he placed his fingers to his lips and let out a long, clear whistle. The sound bounced back from the miasma and Haldus had the impression that it travelled no further than the first wave of fungus. He slumped back in the fork of the tree, filled with despair. He thought of Damára and Clorana and the others he had left behind, and prayed that they were still alive.

As he sat back, something pressed into the small of his back. He reached round to move what he thought was a broken branch and his fingers brushed against the book he had taken from Cyanos’s theatre. It was a small, bulging notebook, hundreds of pages thick and crammed with small, tightly packed lines of handwritten text, written in scratchy black ink. Haldus shook his head in distaste as he studied it. Over the top of the words, Cyanos had scribbled diagrams and sketches in other colours. There were countless equations and formulas and portraits of forest spirits: a great stag; a bloated toad; a golden child caught in a tempest; a hooded mage, with flesh made of serpents; a flaming eagle, clearly Amphion; a serene-looking wolf; and, finally, separated from the others by a harsh line and rows of notes, the forest dragons.

Haldus peered at the tiny characters, forgetting for a moment about the daemon-plague rushing towards him. Some of the text was written in the crude, indecipherable alphabet of mankind but Cyanos had also used elven runes. The runes were of an archaic style, but Haldus began to piece together what they meant. Cyanos was boasting – boasting of how easily he had beguiled the forest spirits. He had divided them, deliberately, from the great drakes, by seeding lies over hundreds of years. Haldus shivered as he realised the full extent of Cyanos’s lunacy. Serving different masters at different times, he had driven the great drakes into self-imposed exile – telling them a lie of some kind, concerning Orion. Cyanos had learned that, with the Council of Beasts divided, the forest would begin to die. His original hope was that, as this catastrophe struck, the forest would drive out the asrai forever.

Haldus skipped to the final pages. The writing here was more erratic, careering across the page in a series of manic spirals. From what Haldus could glean, Cyanos had recently fallen under the sway of a new master. His final words were gibberish – describing a beautiful garden, tended by a benevolent, smiling grandfather. This was his new vision for the forest. Cyanos had written at great length about how delightful this garden was, but the accompanying illustrations showed a bloated, knotted stomach, severed from its body, floating in a pool of liquid and swarming with flies.

Haldus shuddered and threw the book from the tree. It flew across the clearing and into the approaching wave of fungus. As he watched in disbelief, a snake-like growth sprang up and swallowed the book before it could hit the ground. The tube of fungus was topped by the head of a leprous wolf and it grinned at Haldus as it gulped the pages down.

Haldus climbed higher and stared out across the forest. Wherever he looked, he saw nothing but swollen, diseased life, feeding on the forest’s corpse.

‘I have to reach Orion,’ he muttered.

Chapter Seventeen

Drycha tasted the blood of her enemy and smiled. The ground was sodden with it. The interlopers had fought hard to defend the Blessed Oak and they had died in their hundreds. The daemons had already moved on, as the Ancient One told her they would, but not before tearing down Ariel’s pathetic defences. As Drycha clicked and clacked through the shadows, blood oozed through her knotted feet, nourishing her hate. Behind her came the Wildwood Host: nearly two thousand of her vengeful sisters. Even the Ancient One’s visions had never predicted this. Nothing could stand against such numbers. And now, as Coeddil had promised her, the final barriers were about to come down – destroyed by the same fools who constructed them. Drycha had answered the witch’s summons because she felt the terror and desperation in her magic.

Freedom was close. She could taste it as clearly as the blood.

Drycha made no attempt to disguise herself as she approached the Oak of Ages. She did not even take her sisters with her. At a wave of her brittle-bark claws they folded into shadow, vanishing into the rotten trees like ghosts, leaving Drycha to approach the interlopers alone.

What a pitiful group. The council of the great realms had been scattered. Drycha had foreseen their demise months ago on the threads of the Great Weave, but that made it no less satisfying to see now. Less than half of the pale lords survived. A few of them were leading their people to their deaths in the south and the rest were here, huddled at the foot of the Oak, whimpering like abandoned children.

They recoiled at the sight of her, turning to the red-haired figure at their centre.

She did not tell them I was coming, thought Drycha. Laughter bubbled in her narrow chest but she suppressed it. So many crimes were about to be punished, so many debts repaid. She would not demean the lives that had been lost with laughter. Drycha heard the witch address her, but her attention had wandered to the Oak. It was dying. The bark had split in several places and blood was flowing from the wounds, raining on the criminals cowering in its roots.

‘This is what you have wrought.’ Drycha wrapped her mouth around their vile language and hurled clarion, cold words through the darkness. She kept her gaze locked on the ancient tree, horrified by the sight. ‘I have made mistakes,’ her voice was cracked and hoarse, ‘but I can atone and the forest will forgive. You are not meant to be here. And this is the result of your trespass.’

Someone began speaking and Drycha realised it was one of the false king’s priests – one of his horned riders. ‘What hope is there in this, Naieth?’ he demanded, fixing his black eyes on the witch and jabbing his spear at Drycha. ‘She despises us, more than the daemon.’

The witch shook her head and this time Drycha heard her words. They were filled with sadness. ‘It is another’s hate you see, Atolmis. She is just the vessel.’

Rage boiled through Drycha’s sap. It took all her strength not to butcher the pitiful lot of them. ‘My hate is my own.’ She flexed her claws and stepped closer. To her satisfaction, most of the nobles backed away, but Naieth and Atolmis stood firm.

Naieth rattled her long, black nails along her staff. ‘Your master has lived too long, dryad. He has nothing left but treachery and bitter remembrance. His vision is dimmed. And he has lied to you.’

A dozen furious retorts sprang to Drycha’s lips but she bit them all back. The end was almost at hand. She would not tarnish her moment of victory by squabbling with such unworthy souls. ‘Why have you summoned me?’ She felt a flush of pleasure, knowing what was about to come.

Naieth closed her eyes for a second, looking troubled. Then she looked back at the bleeding Oak, as though waiting for an answer. None came and she turned back to Drycha, mouthing words under her breath but not saying them out loud.

‘Speak up, witch,’ said Drycha, relishing Naieth’s discomfort.

Naieth straightened her back and said: ‘You know what I would ask of you, dryad. The forest is consumed. Our halls have fallen. The future of our race hangs in the balance. My visions have shown me a wound, in the south of the forest – a hole in the mortal realm. The daemon that has entered our home has created a tear in the Great Weave, allowing the winds of Chaos to leak through. If we do not heal the wound, the forest – perhaps the world – will be destroyed.’

There was sharp crack as Drycha nodded her head. ‘This I have seen, witch, long ago. You have interrupted me as I lead my sisters to war. Once I am finished here we head south, where we will remove the forest’s other unwelcome guests.’

Naieth’s eyes glittered as she stepped closer. ‘Your master has misled you. You cannot do this alone. Without Orion and the Wild Hunt, there can be no victory.’ She waved her staff at the shadows. ‘The forest must strike as one – not just you and your sisters, but Orion too.’

Drycha said nothing but her eyes burned in their narrow, splintered sockets.

‘We need your help,’ said Naieth. ‘The daemon has robbed the forest of its seasons.’ She looked at Atolmis. ‘The Chosen One has been found, but he cannot be born. With no Even-night he will remain trapped in the Otherworld, nameless and disembodied. We need a spring, Drycha, even if it is only for an hour, we need a spring.’

Drycha smiled, causing the nobles to flinch. ‘Then use your bullying magic, witch. Twist the threads as you have always done. Wring out whatever reality you desire. You have no need of me.’

Naieth clenched her jaw. ‘Savour your moment, dryad, if you must, but give me an answer. You say you have seen all this. You know our power is failing. But the host you have been granted has strength enough to do this. With so many spirits at your command you could turn the very elements to your will. You know this is within your grasp, dryad. Will you help us?’

Drycha stepped up to Naieth and traced a splintered talon across her cheek. ‘And if you’re right – if I can do this, why would I help the imposters who have destroyed my home? Why would I help the self-appointed jailers who have kept my kind locked away in the Wildwood?’

‘If you do not, the forest will die.’

‘I do not believe you.’

Naieth paled. ‘But you will help. I have seen it in my dreams.’

‘For a price.’

Naieth looked suddenly tired and lowered her head.

‘We will give you nothing!’ cried Atolmis, levelling his spear at Drycha, his face full of outrage.

She ignored him and kept her eyes locked on Naieth. ‘Your witch thinks differently.’ Still smiling, she turned and began summoning her sisters into the sacred grove.

Nuin glided low over the treetops as they neared their destination. Prince Haldus scoured the darkness as they flew, straining to recognise anything in the bubbling cesspool below. Nuin had arrived so quickly after he whistled that Haldus knew she must have foreseen his need. And she had not come alone. On either side of Haldus, half-glimpsed in the darkness, were other hawks, their feathers snapping and fluttering in the breeze. Haldus could not see their riders, but he smiled as he thought of them. Damára and Clorana flew together on one bird and the others were ridden by more of his subjects – survivors from the assault on Cyanos’s lair.

Haldus looked upwards, trying to see the stars, but it was no use. The heavens had led them this far but now, as they descended through the pestilent fumes, he had lost all sight of them. Haldus was blind in his own realm. To make matters worse, the air was filled with a haunting, sinister sound. It seemed to be a song, but it was so violent and brutal that he could hardly recognise it as music. The words were indecipherable and they were screeched rather than sung.

After nearly an hour of circling, assaulted by this horrible music, Haldus thought he might lose his mind. Then Nuin changed course, veering south down the shoulder of a steep-sided valley and gliding over a series of small, moonlit hills. Haldus crouched lower and placed his face next to hers. ‘What do you see?’

The other hawks swooped after Nuin and soon he saw what she was leading them towards: the slumped carcass of an old oak tree.

Haldus frowned, then gasped as he recognised the circular area around the broken tree. ‘By the gods,’ he breathed as he saw what had befallen the Oak of Ages.

As they descended, Haldus and his fellow hawk riders saw a strange scene in the sacred grove. From a distance, it looked as though thousands of saplings had been planted around the old Oak but, as they got closer, they saw that the saplings were actually willowy forest spirits – dryads, with brutal faces and lithe, bark-clad limbs. At the centre of the circle were two figures. A robed spellweaver and a dryad. They were clutching each other’s forearms and appeared to be performing a strange dance – swaying and jerking in time to the screamed chorus.

Haldus’s kin had supplied him with fresh weapons and he raised his spear as Nuin neared the Oak, thinking that the asrai council must be under attack.

The hawks landed at the centre of the clearing, inside the circle of dryads and not far from where the two dancers were jerking back and forth.

Haldus leapt down and raced towards the Oak, with the other hawk riders sprinting after him. As they neared the dancers, Haldus saw other asrai standing nearby. They were nobles, he saw – members of the council – but their robes were in tatters and their shoulders were slumped under the weight of failure. He recognised some of them from the army he had abandoned at Crowfoot Falls and wondered what had become of the others. He felt a rush of guilt as they recognised him, but he noticed that none of them were doing anything about the host that had surrounded the sacred oak. There was even one of Orion’s pyre wardens amongst them. The Wild Rider did not look as cowed as the other nobles, but he was making no attempt to fight.

‘What is this?’ demanded Haldus as he approached.

This close, he could see that the spellweaver was Naieth the Prophetess. Her face was locked in a grimace as the dryad wrenched her this way and that, screeching the same song as her sisters.

The Wild Rider strode towards him. Haldus was tall, but Atolmis towered over him. His eyes blazed behind his birchwood mask. ‘Do nothing!’ he cried, in a low, dangerous voice. ‘Keep your people at bay.’

Haldus shook his head, confused, but before he could demand an explanation, something happened that left his question forgotten.

The song reach a crescendo and the two dancers were picked out in a shaft of sunlight. It broke through the swirling clouds like the finger of a god. Haldus knew it was night, but this was clearly sunlight – the fresh, clear sunlight of a spring morning. Haldus reeled as he caught the scent of a real forest, freed from the cloying, diseased warmth that currently lay over the trees. It was intoxicating. For a moment, he even heard the sound of birdsong.

The two dancers stood still and looked up into the column of light, their faces blazing. For a moment, their expressions were identical in their bliss, as they recognised the taste of the banished season.

Then the light failed and the sacred grove vanished – plunged into darkness. Even the moonlight was absent and Haldus heard his daughter hiss in shock. He reached out and placed a hand on her arm.

The dryads ended their song.

Clorana stepped closer to her father and he could sense Damára and the others edging towards him.

A wild, triumphant shriek rang out, causing all of them to flinch. Then the ground began to shake. It felt as though a leviathan was tunnelling its way beneath the sacred grove. A low, groaning sound filled the air.

Then the whole clearing was bathed in lurid, red light.

Haldus saw Clorana’s face inches from his, ugly with terror and crimson as blood. Naieth and the dryad were still standing in the centre of the grove but they were now staring at the ancient oak; one with delight and one with dread.

Haldus whirled around to look at the tree and saw that it was the source of the light. A blood-red furnace had been lit at its core, sending shafts of crimson light in every direction. It looked like a shimmering, blood-drenched star.

The light burned brighter, the ground shook harder and the groaning grew louder.

Naieth staggered past Haldus without noticing him, her eyes fixed on the tree. Her expression was a mixture of hope and terror and she was mouthing spells as she walked, jabbing her staff left and right.

Dryads and asrai alike watched in amazement as the slight figure of the spellweaver reached the foot of the tree. Naieth was silhouetted by the scarlet blaze as she raised her staff and cried out a final command.

There was a deafening crack and a new hole appeared at the heart of the Oak.

The red light vanished and the ground was once more bathed in silver as moonlight returned to the clearing.

Naieth dropped to her knees, hanging weakly from her staff.

Haldus hurried towards her but before he reached the prophetess, the sound of laughter caused him to turn around.

Naieth’s fellow dancer, the dryad, was pointing at something nestling in the roots of the tree. Her laughter was brittle and mirthless but, one by one, the other dryads echoed it, until thousands of derisive shrieks rang out through the trees.

Haldus helped Naieth to her feet and they both recoiled from what lay before them.

In the knotted roots were two broken, malformed horrors. One was a grotesque hybrid of a noblewoman and a mottled, grey insect. Her twisted back sported bristling, spine-like hairs and a coat of shimmering scales. Her blunt, eyeless head was crowned by a pair of feathery antennae that twitched as she moved and her whole body was slick with blood and viscera. This pitiful wretch tried to haul herself into a sitting position, but her jumble of crooked limbs and half-formed wings collapsed under her weight, sending her crashing to the ground. Despite her blindness, she clearly sensed that others were nearby and she tried to cry out for help. Rather than words, a long, scaled proboscis rolled and thrashed in her mouth, unable to extend and causing her to choke.

‘The ritual is complete,’ said the dryad and Haldus heard the victory in her voice. ‘False rulers, born of a false spring.’ She kept her talon levelled at the two struggling shapes. ‘You have what you wanted and, I sense…’ she paused, throwing back her head and sighing with pleasure. ‘I sense that you have paid me my price.’

Naieth moaned in horror and reeled away from Haldus. ‘Deceived,’ she whispered, making for the roots of the tree.

‘They’re going,’ said Clorana, her voice full of relief.

Haldus looked back and saw that his daughter was right. The dryads’ leader was striding triumphantly back towards the trees and the host that surrounded the sacred grove was dispersing and vanishing from view.

‘I have been deceived,’ hissed Naieth as she reached the two twitching shapes. There was terror in her voice.

Haldus rushed past her to study the things she had summoned. The hideous mixture of moth and noblewoman had collapsed into a bloody heap, shedding its organs as it tried to beat its wings and gasp for breath.

The other figure was just as shocking. It was a butcher’s slab of mismatched animal parts, flickering and changing faster than the eye could take in. Haldus saw antlers, wings and claws attempt to rise from the pile of gore, but each one collapsed before it could fully take shape.

‘She tricked me,’ said Naieth, staring at the horrors dying before her.

‘Do something!’ cried Atolmis, rushing across the grove and grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘Save them! Use your magic!’

Naieth slumped in the Wild Rider’s grip. ‘It is no use.’ Her voice shook. ‘Drycha knew this would happen, but she hid the truth from me. She wore a mask. I could not see.’

Atolmis glared at her and waved at the wretched figures. They were twitching in pain and attempting to crawl back into the tree. ‘And what have you done in return for these abominations? What did you promise her?’

Naieth stood up straight and stared back at him, her eyes glazed with horror and shock. ‘I loosed the final wards. I have undone the charms that bound the waystones.’

Atolmis shook his head. ‘What do you mean?’

Naieth groaned. ‘I gave her what she asked for. I freed the last of her sisters. I’ve set the Wildwood loose.’

For a moment, Haldus thought Atolmis was about to strike her. ‘How could you do–?’

His words were interrupted by a scream.

Haldus saw that it came from Clorana. She was pointing at the two figures struggling in the roots.

One of them, the mis-born Orion, had climbed to his feet. His flesh was still mercurial and bubbling, but he managed to stand and howl. The sound was wet and gurgling, but it was full of defiance.

Haldus and the others backed away.

The half-formed figure raised a fist to the sky. It became a hoof, then a bear claw, then a fist again. The fury in the howl was not enough to maintain a fixed shape though. Organs and limbs boiled like a stew, spitting, gurgling and spraying blood across the ground.

Some of the others looked away in pity and disgust, but Haldus had noticed something and stepped closer to look at it. The centre of the thing’s body was fixed and unmoving. It looked like plates of bark, formed into an armoured breastplate and there was a rune blazing at the centre of it. As the body parts rippled and flowed, the armour of bark began moving in time to the howls that came from a dozen kinds of throat.

Finally, as the bark reached the thing’s neck, the roar became gargled, bellowed words. ‘I will!’ cried the dreadful figure. ‘I will be born!’

The asrai looked on in amazement and fear. The rune blazed brighter and the monster reached down and lifted the sack of blood, wings and antennae from the ground and held it to its chest. Then it turned and staggered back into the trunk of the tree.

Haldus and the others watched in stunned silence, waiting to see what happened next.

The crimson light flashed even brighter, knifing from the cracks in the tree, and the ground began to shudder again. Then the heavens began to rotate. Haldus looked at the others to see if he was losing his mind, but they had clearly seen the same. All of them watched, wide-eyed as the stars circled overhead, centred on the dying tree. Music filled the air and it took Haldus a few moments to realise it was coming from his throat.

The others dragged their eyes from the dancing stars, almost as surprised by the sound of Haldus’s song. The words were strange and laden with power. They seemed to be the work of a vast choir – a host of powerful voices, channelled through Haldus’s gaping mouth.

He staggered backwards under the weight of the song, and felt a growing fear. As the music grew louder and more impassioned, he felt as though his mind would split.

The stars spiralled faster, Haldus’s song grew louder and the earth shook harder. Several of the nobles backed away into the shadows beneath the trees, terrified, but Naieth rushed to support Haldus, staring at him with growing awe.

‘I knew you would save him,’ she howled, trying to be heard over the din.

The song reached a crescendo and the stars became a single, blazing vortex, centred over the tree. Haldus collapsed onto his back, despite Naieth’s attempt to hold him. As his head hit the ground he realised there were faces in the light – faces that were both terrible and familiar at the same time. The whirlpool of light poured a column of pure energy into the Oak of Ages, turning the glade into a frozen, monochrome vision.

Then the noise ceased and the light vanished.

They all looked towards the tree, filled with renewed hope, but there was nothing there. The Oak of Ages looked as broken as before and, as natural moonlight flooded back over the grove, Haldus saw nothing but terrified nobles and a few scraps of glistening flesh where their rulers had failed to be born.

Despair threatened to overwhelm him when he heard the song again, coming from somewhere to the left of the tree.

Haldus and the others whirled around and saw that the words were coming from a pair of tall thrones, constructed of pale, knotted roots.

He and the other nobles rushed across the clearing and then dropped to their knees, filled with awe.

Ariel and Orion were sitting calmly in their thrones, looking more beautiful and magnificent than Haldus could ever recall seeing them before. Ariel’s form was almost impossible to make out, hazed by a dazzling mantle of spectral wings and clouds of tiny, diaphanous spirits. Her brow shone with stars and her eyes were full of glittering tears.

Orion, meanwhile was a vision of wrath. His head was lowered, as though he were about to charge forwards and tear his subjects apart with his antlers. He wore a cloak of metal leaves, as always, but this year it was slightly different – it was black as night and bristling with razor-sharp burrs and thorns. He had a spear in his hand and at his belt there was a bow and horn of bone. His chest was broad and his whole frame was lashed with slab-like, angular muscles. Haldus noticed something else new – Orion’s torso was clad in jagged, pitted armour, made of bark and branded with a single glowing rune. The rune shimmered with green light as he leant forwards in the throne and locked his burning eyes on Haldus.

Haldus felt like fleeing or cowering, but he managed to hold his nerve and gave the royals a deep bow, prompting the other nobles to do the same.

Orion turned to Ariel with a question in his eyes. She gave him a look full of love, memory and pride, then nodded.

The Consort-King rose from the throne and addressed his subjects in a rolling baritone. ‘The ancients of this forest,’ he said, running his talons across the bark-armour that covered his chest, ‘know more truths than can be described by prophecy.’ He looked at Naieth. It was only the briefest glance, but it was enough to make her cower. ‘We belong. More than anything, we belong. The forest is our blood. We are the blood of the forest.’ He glanced at the surrounding trees and Haldus saw movement in the dark – low, canine ghosts that edged forwards towards the grove, drawn by the power of Orion’s voice. ‘Lies have been spread. Oaths have been broken. We have been divided. We have allowed an enemy into our home.’ Orion stood and lifted his spear to the sky and howled. ‘But no more!’ His voice shook the trees and caused Haldus’s heart to pound. ‘Seasons or not, I will hunt.’ He stepped away from the throne and slapped the horn at his belt, lowering his voice to a growl. ‘We will all hunt.’ He looked at the rotten, pitiful trees. ‘The threads must tighten. The guardians must unite. The forest must become one.’

Most of the nobles had averted their gaze, but Haldus dared to address Orion. ‘My king,’ he said. ‘I have learned–’

Orion turned to face Haldus and the prince faltered over his words.

‘I… I have learned of a great treachery. I… One of your subjects… A noble by the name of Cyanos has poisoned some of the forest spirits against you. I discovered a–’

Moonlight flashed in Haldus’s eyes as Ariel raised a hand to silence him. Her eyes moved in his direction, and Haldus had the unnerving sensation that they saw far more than his physical presence.

‘Most loyal of subjects, Prince Haldus,’ said the Mage Queen. ‘We have seen your trials. And we have also seen what you have learned. Naieth’s vision was clear,’ she glanced lovingly at the cowering sorceress, and Naieth rallied a little, ‘as it ever was. You have found the canker at the heart of all that we hold dear. He was in the thrall of many who would hurt us. It was the lies of Cyanos that divided and weakened the Council of Beasts. We have suffered many blows, but that was the hardest. Losing the great drakes was the beginning of their doom.’ Pain flashed in her eyes. ‘The fall of the Great Stag, Sativus, their Spirit King, stems from this sundering. And without him…’ she paused and looked at the ground. The lights that surrounded her dimmed and the tiny spirits fell back into her robes. She shook her head.

Orion placed a hand on her shoulder.

Ariel looked into his eyes for a moment and they shared a silent exchange. Then she nodded and continued. ‘You must ride with your king again, Prince Haldus. Hawks must join hounds. The Wild Hunt will be the instrument of our wrath.’

Haldus felt his heart begin to race as Orion looked towards him and bared his long teeth in a smile.

The rangy, shadowy forms began padding from the trees. The hounds of Orion were ready for war.

Before Orion could leave, however, Ariel placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Wait,’ she said, reaching into her robes.

Naieth nodded eagerly as Ariel drew out the tip of a bleached, dusty incisor.

‘Of course,’ muttered the prophetess, her eyes flashing.

Ariel gave her a nod as she handed the tooth to Orion. ‘The Council of Beasts must become one, Orion. And then they must answer your call. Naieth believes this will be the key to your success.’

Orion looked at the tooth and frowned. ‘What is it?’

Ariel smiled. ‘Nothing happens by chance, my love. To bring the shard of a great serpent from a realm of death is a matter of significance. I found this in your funeral pyre, hidden in your ashes. It was left in your flesh by the ghost of a forest dragon. There is a prophecy here but–’ she glanced at Naieth ’–we cannot read all of the details. It is a talisman of some kind, perhaps – a charm to bring you luck. Naieth’s rites have all been unclear. Whatever the reason, we’re sure you must take it.’

Orion frowned at the memory of the dragon, but he took the tooth and hid it beneath his cloak of thorns.

He turned and held up a hand to the hounds. ‘Soon,’ he said quietly, ‘we will hunt.’

Then he thudded from the clearing, with Haldus and the other warhawk riders sprinting after him.

‘Tal Mhór!’ cried Haldus as the hawks carried them across the surface of a wide, glassy lake. They were deep in the Chasm Glades, far to the east of the Oak of Ages, and Orion was leading them towards a vast tree, nestled between the toes of the mountains. They were at the eastern-most reaches of the forest, away from the stranglehold of the plague and north of the craggy peaks Haldus called home. It was mid afternoon and the skies were clear. There was a ghost of winter on the breeze that buffeted them as they flew but, even here, the seasons were in retreat. The air was laced with an acrid smell and traces of humid, tropical warmth.

‘This is a place I have never been foolish enough to approach,’ continued Haldus as they approached their destination.

Orion’s hawk was near to Haldus’s and the prince glimpsed a flash of humour in his eyes. As always, Haldus felt as though he and Orion shared a deep bond of understanding but the king’s latest incarnation was different. There was something playful – devious even – in Orion’s eyes that Haldus had not seen before.

The Consort-King glanced at him. ‘Unlike your king.’

Haldus felt his cheeks flush red and he silently cursed his lack of deference.

Orion looked back at the tree and Haldus followed his gaze.

Tal Mhór was a cornerstone of the World Roots – one of the portals that linked the forest to the forests of the wider world. But there were few travellers, asrai or otherwise, who would brave its boughs now. The tree was a sister to the guardians that watched over the Crowfoot Falls. It was half a mile in circumference and its crown was lost from view, way above the clouds – taller even than the mountain peaks that flanked it. Centuries earlier, it had become host to some of the forest’s most dangerous predators – the great drakes. Until recently, no one had known what drew the forest dragons to that specific spot, but in Cyanos’s scribbled notes, Haldus had discovered the truth – lies had driven them to self-imposed exile. They brooded and slept, high in the boughs of Tal Mhór, seeking nothing but food and a chance to punish those stupid enough to approach. Haldus had heard tales as a child that the dragons served the forest – protecting it at times of great need – but that had not proven to be the case. As he tried, unsuccessfully to save the asrai halls from plague, he had looked to the skies in hope of their coming, and been disappointed every time.

They landed near the roots and Haldus waved for Clorana and the others to wait a few feet away as he spoke to the king.

Orion was hunched over something and, as Haldus reached him he saw that he had removed the fragment of dragontooth from his cloak and was staring at it.

‘The memories are all there,’ said Orion.

Haldus waited a few feet away not sure if he was being addressed.

‘I am Finavar,’ said the king, ‘and I am Sephian. I am Valerin, Nathair, Cirean, Nimhír and a hundred other souls.’ His eyes widened. ‘I can hear them all.’ He looked up at the tree. ‘Sephian advises we set the tree alight and drive the serpents out with flames.’ He laughed. ‘Nimhír believes we should abandon this plan and hunt Drycha down instead, before she destroys every spirit in the forest.’ He ran his calloused, taloned hands over the antlers that crowned his head. ‘But we are more than we ever were alone.’ He closed his eyes. ‘There is a wildness in this world, Haldus. There is a power greater than anything I ever imagined.’ He looked up at the bone-white vault of the sky. Wisps of cloud were scudding across the heavens. ‘Even the darkest conjuring of sorcerers is nothing to the simple power of nature. Even the gods are in thrall.’

Orion’s words were dazed and full of awe and Haldus felt as though he were intruding. He began to back away but, before he had taken a few steps, Orion looked up at him. ‘You are part of it too, Haldus. You have been with me since the beginning.’

Haldus shook his head, confused, Orion continued.

‘Do you recall the eagle spirit, Amphion?’

Haldus winced. ‘I do.’

Orion noticed his discomfort. ‘What troubles you?’

‘When I returned to Turas-Alva, Amphion was still there, held captive by Lord Cyanos. Cyanos intended to sacrifice the spirit so that he could steal its power for his own.’ He hesitated. ‘I rescued it and then, although it clearly despised me, it let me live.’

‘In gratitude?’

‘No.’ Haldus frowned. ‘It told me I did not understand my own nature. It said I was something it had not expected.’

Orion looked at Haldus in silence for a while. Then asked: ‘Do you recall how Cyanos’s spear pierced its flesh?’

‘Of course, yes. The spear was still intact when I freed Amphion.’

Orion held up the shard of tooth he was holding. ‘This comes from the same source. It was left in my corpse by the dragon, Tamarix.’

Haldus stared at it. ‘So it could pierce the hide of his kin.’

Orion nodded. ‘If all goes ill, it could buy us our escape.’

He turned and signalled for Clorana and the other warhawk riders to dismount and join them.

‘We must climb,’ he said. ‘I will lead the beasts to war. The Wild Hunt is a greater power than anything the Plague God can wield. With a dragon as my mount, the spirits will see what I signify. And if I can stir the Council of Beasts to war, the forest will unite. I’m sure of it.’

Haldus nodded, then looked anxiously up at the tree. All that he had heard of this place was that it meant death for anyone foolish enough to approach.

Orion caught his gaze and smiled. The smile was an odd mixture of ferocity and cunning. ‘Trust me.’ He tapped the ridged, mossy plates that covered his chest. ‘The forest is on our side.’

They climbed quickly. The asrai were born for this kind of work. Even Orion’s battered hooves found easy purchase in the craggy boughs. By sunset they were several miles from the foot of the tree and the branches were silvered with frost. It was not until well into the night that they caught a trace of their prey.

Damára’s blindness had been no more of a hindrance than Orion’s hooves; if anything, her nimble fingers seemed even more adept than the others’ at finding handholds and sturdy branches to climb. Starlight gleamed in her silver hair as she overtook the others, using her horned staff to lever herself over obstacles and haul herself through gaps. With dawn just a couple of hours away, she paused and sniffed the cold night air.

Orion, Haldus and the others all paused to look at her.

‘There is death here,’ she announced, pointing her staff at a wide, flat branch, swooping away to the east. ‘It happened a long time ago, but it’s too much to be the work of birds.’

Orion gripped his spear and stepped out onto the branch, peering along its length.

Haldus noticed, to his surprise, that the hunter king was hesitating.

‘My lord?’ he asked following him onto the wide branch.

‘Everything hinges on this, Haldus,’ said Orion, still keeping his gaze fixed on the other end of the branch. ‘I must convince one of them to carry me. Then the others will follow.’

‘My lord,’ said Haldus. ‘I have never seen you so powerful. The forest itself has lent you its armour. And you carry a weapon that even dragons could not–’

‘No,’ interrupted Orion. ‘This is not a question of power.’ He turned to Damára, who was standing a few feet away. ‘Can you smell them? Can you smell their anger? Their hurt?’

She nodded but gave no answer and Haldus realised she was afraid of Orion. He was about to reassure her that the King in the Woods was not to be feared, but then he recalled the deaths he had seen at Orion’s hands. He held his tongue, noticing how Damára was keeping their daughter at a safe distance. Perhaps her caution was not so ill-advised?

Orion nodded in reply. ‘They are wounded and bitter. If we fight them they will either kill us or die. I must reason with them.’ He took a few steps along the branch. ‘I can picture them as they once were – loyal servants of the forest, ready to fight when the trees called. They were as wise as Sativus and…’ His words trailed off and Haldus saw that the mention of Sativus had derailed his thoughts.

‘Then we will reason,’ said Haldus.

Orion clenched his jaw, considering something, then strode off down the branch with the others rushing to keep up.

The tree pressed closer and, even though they were miles above the ground, it felt as though they were approaching the borders of an ancient grove. There was a thick mesh of twigs up ahead and the branch led, road-like, to a tall, oval entrance.

Haldus waved to his kinsmen as they neared the doorway. They unslung their bows and nocked arrows into place as they followed Orion.

Orion paused briefly at the threshold, gripped his spear in both hands, then plunged into the gloom on the other side.

Prince Haldus rushed after him and saw that they had entered some kind of vast antechamber, hanging way above the forest. Beyond the doorway the branch widened to form a circular platform, several hundred feet in diameter and canopied by a huge, arched dome. The whole tree was leafless and stars glittered through the gaps in the dome, spilling light onto the wooden floor and proving Damára right. There were bones everywhere – femurs and skulls, heaped in mounds and covered in dust.

Orion and the others spread out to investigate and saw that some of the bones came from animals and some had belonged to asrai warriors. All of them had been torn apart and left in splintered fragments.

There was no sign of the dragons.

At the other side of the chamber there was another portal, even larger than the first and there was a pale light leaking through.

Orion strode through into the next chamber and the others rushed after him.

At first, Haldus thought they were surrounded by statues. Towering, dusty columns surrounded another circular chamber – each one the perfect likeness of an enormous, winged serpent. But then he noticed that, beneath inches of dust and cobwebs, their eyes were moving, watching Orion as he strode into the centre of the chamber.

‘Which of you is Tanos?’ demanded Orion, recalling the name he had heard at the Council of Beasts.

There was no sound but the breeze, whipping between the naked branches that made up the walls of the chamber.

Haldus and the other warhawk riders hesitated nervously in the doorway, awed by the vast monsters looming over them. Even their powerful king looked pathetic surrounded by such terrible grandeur. It looked as though the dragons had not moved for an age, but that did nothing to soften the ferocity of their appearance.

Clorana gasped and to Haldus’s shock, he saw her mother was hurrying over to Orion, stepping out into the view of the dragons.

The sound of the wind made it hard for the blind spellweaver to find Orion, so she called out to him.

Haldus winced as her voice rang out, but the dragons remained motionless.

Orion stepped over to her and nodded as she whispered something in his ear.

Haldus rushed over and dragged Damára back to the doorway, glaring at her as Clorana gripped her arm.

‘What did you tell him?’ he whispered.

Damára was pale and shaking from her exchange with Orion, but she managed a weak smile. ‘I merely reminded the king of how proud dragons are.’

Haldus was about to ask more when Orion cried out again to the immobile serpents.

‘This is just what they warned me would happen.’

He waited for a response, but none came so he continued. ‘I passed through the Darna-Càoch. The forgotten pool admitted me to the sacred grove and ordered the Council of Beasts to join me. They refused, and when I asked why, they told me a shameful truth. They said that the greatest of their number had grown afraid. They told me that they could not fight without you, and that you have long forgotten your bravery.’

Orion’s hooves rang out as he strode around the circular chamber, glaring up at the serpents’ long, imperious faces.

‘I should have listened,’ he cried, jabbing his spear at each of them in turn. ‘You are not worthy of a place in my hunt. You are not worthy of sharing in my victory!’ He began walking back towards the doorway. ‘Stay here and cower, while your betters fight to save your wretched skins.’

Orion had almost reached the doorway when a sound filled the chamber. It was a low, derisive snarl that gradually formed into ragged, growled words.

‘There are no cowards here, only betrayers and betrayed.’

As Orion whirled around, Prince Haldus saw one of the dragons climb down from the wall. It landed with a juddering crash that shook the whole chamber and caused him and the other warhawk riders to stumble back a few steps. The serpent stretched its wings and reared over Orion, like a great eagle towering over a fledgling. Dust billowed from its scales, revealing a vivid, apple green hide and eyes that were shimmering crescents of amber and red.

‘Are you Tanos?’ demanded Orion.

The dragon slowly nodded its massive head, shedding more dust and causing Haldus and the others to cough and splutter.

‘And will you fight with me, Tanos?’ demanded Orion, pointing his spear back at his companions. ‘Will you join the hunt?’

Tanos lowered its head until it was just a few feet from Orion’s face. As it exhaled, the force of its breath was enough to send him back a few steps.

‘Why would I fight for you? You have no power, Orion. Your promises have come to nothing. Under your rule, the forest has been destroyed.’ The dragon raised its voice, causing Orion to stagger back a few more steps. ‘We do not sleep, Orion. We see all. This perch is high. High enough to show us all your weakness and treachery. The asrai have failed us. You have failed us. The forest is lost. The Council of Beasts has been destroyed – but not by our absence.’ Tanos’s lips curled back from teeth as big as spears. ‘The Council was destroyed the moment you murdered Sativus!’

Haldus saw Orion wince at these words, but before the king could reply, Tanos continued, venting a long-held grudge.

‘You murdered the oldest of us, Orion. The best of us. You killed the Great Stag. Do you understand what that means? Sativus was the very soul of the forest.’

Orion shook his head. ‘You had already withdrawn from the Brúidd before the fall of Sativus.’ He strode forwards, sounding as angry as the dragon. ‘And if you truly see everything, you will know that Sativus was crazed. He attacked my queen. I only sought him out to beg forgiveness for standing against him. But he was not himself.’ The rage faded from Orion’s voice, replaced by sadness. ‘Chaos took him long before I did.’

Tanos sneered. ‘You know nothing, little elf king. And it matters not.’ The dragon’s eyes grew dark. ‘The heart of the forest is gone. Your battles are meaningless. We will wait here and defend our home. And you will reap what you have sown.’

Haldus felt Damára step forwards. He held her back but Orion saw her move and nodded.

‘Admit it, Tanos,’ he said quietly. ‘You are afraid to fight.’

Tanos’s eyes blazed white-hot and the dragon tilted its head back with a roar, spewing a poisonous-smelling spiral of fumes across the ceiling of the chamber.

Haldus gripped his bow and nodded for the others to do the same.

Orion started walking back to the doorway again.

Haldus saw, to his horror that the dragon was about to pounce.

‘Orion!’ he cried as Tanos launched itself across the chamber with a deafening howl.

Haldus and the others fired their arrows but they bounced uselessly off the dragon’s iron-hard scales.

Orion cast aside his spear, rolled to one side and, as Tanos crashed down where he had been standing, he threw all his weight into a punch, slamming his fist hard against the dragon’s jaw.

Tanos’s head jolted to one side, but it was laughing as it turned and settled on its haunches. ‘So this is how you die, little elf king,’ said the dragon, its voice low and dangerous. ‘Did you think you could make the tiniest scratch in one such as I? Do you truly understand so little about the forest? Do you know nothing of my nature?’

Haldus noticed that the other dragons were descending from the walls, shedding their robes of dust and revealing a rainbow of armoured hides.

‘I am your king, Tanos,’ said Orion. ‘Where I lead, you follow.’

The dragon sneered, but Orion continued, unperturbed. He nodded at the floor of knotted branches beneath the dragon. ‘And where I strike, you will bleed.’

Haldus saw the shock in Tanos’s eyes as it looked down and saw a dark, glinting pool forming around its claws. The dragon reached up to touch its jaw and felt a flap of loose hide, hanging from below its teeth, shedding blood down its scales.

‘You cannot–’ began Tanos, but before the dragon could finish, Orion had bounded across the chamber and planted another punch into one of its legs.

The force of the blow was great enough to topple the dragon. It slammed to the ground and howled.

As Orion backed away, Tanos looked down and saw with disbelief that Orion had torn a great gash along its leg. There was more blood pouring from the dragon and bone was clearly visible.

Tanos pounded its wings and flew across the chamber at Orion. Again, Orion ducked aside and landed a punch on the dragon’s head.

The dragon veered off to the left, still flying and smashed into the wall of branches. Bark, dust and splintered wood covered the serpent as it tried to rise. Blood was rushing from the other side of its head and, as it turned to face Orion, Haldus saw that there was fear in its eyes.

Haldus cried out a warning as the other dragons rushed forwards to attack. He loosed an arrow, knowing it would do no good, and the other warhawk riders did the same.

Orion paid no heed to the warning and charged at Tanos, raising his fist for another blow.

‘Wait!’ roared Tanos, raising one of its claws and backing away along the wall.

Orion halted but the other dragons kept hurtling towards him. He dodged the first of them and punched a hole through the second’s wings. It rolled clear with a howl and, before the next one had reached Orion, Tanos cried out.

‘Stop!’

The dragons crashed to the ground all around Orion, but did not attack.

The king reeled backwards for a moment, then came to a halt and glared at Tanos.

‘I do not need the help of a coward,’ he cried. ‘I can kill twelve dragons as easily as one.’

Tanos shook its head, spraying blood through the air.

Haldus could see the shock in its eyes.

‘What power do you have over us?’ gasped Tanos.

‘I am the King in the Forest,’ replied Orion. ‘The last dragon I vanquished was named Tamarix. I fight you now with the strength I took from his corpse.’

Tanos looked at the other dragons in amazement.

They shook their heads and began rising up over the king, readying themselves for another attack.

‘No!’ snapped Tanos. It moved closer to Orion, limping as a result of its wounds. ‘I thought… I thought you were a fool. But you are…’ The dragon’s words trailed off.

‘He is your king!’ cried Haldus, striding across the chamber to Orion’s side. The others rushed after him, surrounding Orion in a protective circle and levelling arrows at the dragons.

Tanos shook its head, bewildered.

As Haldus edged closer, he glimpsed the shard of dragontooth Orion was clutching in his fist. It was not hard to spot, but he realised that Tanos was not looking for tricks. The dragon was looking for hope.

‘He is my king,’ said Tanos in a quiet, awed voice, and the other dragons recoiled in shock.

Chapter Eighteen

The fly queen was tormented by glimpses of her past. As she whirred through the clouds, her mind boiled with confusing images: mounds of rotting meat and bubbling tumours merged with glimpses of a proud and noble past. She tried to stay focussed, fixing her compound eyes on the scene below. The daemon’s garden was finally completed and ready to serve its purpose. Its shape was now unmistakable. Miles-long spirals of pink fungus had come together to create a vast, luminescent stomach, fed by eight rivers of bile and covering the entire south-western corner of the forest.

As the yellow rivers fed this grotesque organ, it gurgled and grew – an endless explosion of life, enveloping and digesting, consuming the few pulpy trees that remained. The walls of the stomach were lined with a dazzling array of fungi and glistening, unnatural beings. She saw groves of arrow-headed toadstools, painted in impossibly garish shades of purple and puce, reaching high into the swirling spore clouds. There were truffles the size of boulders, crawling with lice and scurrying around on glistening, serpentine legs. Colossal puffballs erupted from every crevice, pale as bone and oozing dark trails of blood. Sunbursts of golden lichen were splashed over the rocks and crawled up the stems of black, ridged morels. Fungus covered every surface and, rushing through all these ridges and parasols were tiny, bloated daemons – horned balls of blubber, frolicking through the madness on their fat little legs.

The fly queen felt neither pride nor shame as she studied the nightmare below. She looked at the point where the eight yellow rivers met and knew that her time had almost come. There was only one part of her past still lodged in her insectoid brain – a simple desire for revenge – and that revenge was about to be granted. Seated at the conjunction of the rivers was the daemon, Alkhor, smiling proudly at the culmination of his work. He looked like he had been slapped to earth from a giant ladle: a tumbling, almost pyramidal pile of flab. His torso was gaping open like a pair of rotten doors and his innards were crammed with every mould and contagion imaginable.

As viscous liquid rushed into his body, his gruesome cabinet of curiosities shivered and hissed. With every shiver the grim trophies popped and multiplied, dividing like cells and forming new, even more grotesque forms of life that merged with Alkhor’s flesh. As these births shook his body, Alkhor grew larger and laughed harder.

The fly queen flew towards him. Her wings were nearly twelve feet in span and her body was a huge, armoured hulk of bristles, but beside Alkhor she looked no bigger than a bluebottle.

She was only thirty feet away when Alkhor noticed her.

One of the cyclopean tallymen emptied a jar of spores into the daemon’s chest cavity and triggered another violent judder. The unwitting daemon turned around and was about to head back to the forest when Alkhor enveloped it in vomit.

A column of blazing yellow liquid spewed from Alkhor’s mouth, flying with such violence that his chins trembled and clapped against each other, applauding the display.

The torrent was brief – no more than a few seconds – but powerful enough to do its job. As the fly queen whirred higher, attempting to dodge the jet of liquid, she saw it hit an invisible barrier, several feet away from Alkhor’s wobbling face. For a brief moment it splashed across the air, as though hitting a pane of glass, then it broke through, creating a tall, black gash, hanging in the air above the garden.

The fly queen circled and spiralled, unsure what to make of this new wonder. It was a hole in nothing – a tear in the sky – and, as she flew closer, she saw that there was something moving on the other side.

There was a wet popping sound as the hole grew wider and began spraying shapes into the garden.

The fly queen looped out of the way as hundreds of daemons began pouring from the hole and slapping down onto the ground – a violent hail of blubber and horns.

Alkhor laughed as he witnessed the scale of his success. The pressure of the daemons was forcing the tear in reality to widen and strain. As it did so the area of garden nearby began to undulate, like a reflection seen in rippling water.

‘My children!’ he gurgled, opening his arms as hundreds of daemons bounced off his face. Heaving his massive bulk upright, Alkhor grasped the two sides of his gaping chest and slammed them together, so that he could start dancing around with them.

‘Lead them to victory, my queen!’ he cried, looking around the garden. He caught sight of the fly queen and waved her over. ‘Our children have arrived in the nick of time. The tree fairies are coming to drive us out, Ordaana. They will not…’ his words broke down into giggles as the influx of daemons pounded against his face with even more force, filling his gaping mouth with wriggling, pallid monsters. ‘They will not expect to find so many new friends,’ he managed to say eventually. ‘You must hurry to greet them while I complete my work. He’s almost here, my queen.’ Alkhor’s eyes widened as he realised the truth of his own words. ‘I can feel Him forming in my flesh, Ordaana. Just a few more specimens and He will arrive. Now that the portal is open, He’s free to become part of this realm.’ Alkhor’s voice trembled. ‘Soon, I will become Him. Soon, I will be a god. A god that walks the earth.’

The fly queen tried to reply, but all that emerged was a lisping, incoherent hiss.

Alkhor nodded, understanding her just the same. ‘The king and queen are yours, Ordaana. None shall have the pleasure of killing them but you. That was my promise.’ Then he turned back to the wound he had made in the air and began using his huge, rusty sword as a lever, wedging it in the gap and trying to widen it. Another glut of daemons poured out as he jammed the sword deeper and the ground beneath Alkhor’s feet began to bubble and change.

The fly queen felt a rush of joy. She could no longer recall what slight had driven her to despise Ariel and Orion with such passion, but the thought of their deaths shone through all the filth and filled her with purpose. The daemon’s dreams of godhood sounded like lunacy to her, but what did it matter if she could take Ariel’s head from her lying shoulders? She let out a long, screeching cry and the daemons all flooded in her direction. A host of plague-bearing tallymen, bandy-legged and cyclopean, led the charge, waving rusted swords and blowing discordant, three-stemmed horns. Scrambling between the larger daemons’ legs came the blubbery, little replicas of Alkhor, giggling, scampering and cartwheeling with pleasure. Larger, shapeless monsters bounded dog-like through the crowd, slobbering and panting and powering towards her on muscled, tentacle-legs. Finally, entering the garden from every direction came vast squadrons of the daemon-flies, each as big as she was and carrying spear-wielding, cyclopean riders.

The army was vast, but as the fly queen led them north towards the border of the garden, it grew even larger, bolstered by the torrent of daemons spraying from the hole Alkhor had created. The numbers were beyond counting – in the thousands, certainly, but with every second that passed the hole in the sky added hundreds more.

The army waddled, giggled and slithered north with the fly queen at its head. The stomach garden was surrounded on all sides by towering, impenetrable walls of fungus, but at its northern-most point there was a blubber-lined valley – a giant oesophagus, that allowed Alkhor’s children access to his noisome playground. The blubbery passage had formed on the site of a narrow valley called Còlgarran Pass and the name swam up from the depths of the fly queen’s mind, giving her an odd chill of recognition.

The rocky walls of the valley were no longer visible, subsumed by a rippling forest of mauve, coral-like fingers, but its original shape was still recognisable – a deep cleft through the landscape, half a mile wide at its northern entrance and no more than fifty feet across as it entered the garden. Alkhor had grown a sentinel to guard its entrance: a gelatinous, indigo tower of fungus. Ordaana felt a distant sense of awe as she studied the repulsive thing: a slumped column of greasy lobes, reaching high up into the clouds, like a glistening blue stalagmite. The tower was adorned by sinister, slow-moving tentacles that drifted around it, floating like weeds in silt. The tentacles were studded with glistening white barbs and the gelatinous tower was peppered with hundreds of murder holes, each one revealing the grinning face of a tallyman, watching over the entrance to the valley.

Alkhor had summoned the watchtower from the ground weeks ago but, until now, its tentacles had stood idle, waiting for a chance to deploy their venomous embrace. As the fly queen led her daemon host north up the Còlgarran Pass, she saw that the watchtower would soon have its first taste of asrai blood. It was nearly dawn and, as the sunlight tried to break through the tropical haze, it silhouetted a line of figures emerging from the trees.

Who has reached us first? wondered the fly queen, as her thoughts filled with images of raw, bloody meat.

The sun rose higher and pierced the miasma, revealing the first glimpse of the enemy.

The fly queen laughed in disbelief as she saw how pitiful the attackers looked. It was a line of asrai spearmen, a few hundred at most, wearing suits of dark, leather armour and moving in phalanxes, their spears lowered.

The crowds of daemons below her heard her laughter and echoed it. Thousands of malformed throats howled in derision at the approaching army and many of the tiny daemons collapsed to the ground, rocked by hysterics.

The fly queen realised that this pathetic force was all that remained of the forest’s defences. She waved her armoured forelegs and the daemon army flooded out to meet them.

The daemons quickly filled the wasteland surrounding the entrance to the valley. The land sloped up towards the oncoming spearmen, but the fly queen did not see that being a problem when the numbers were so heavily weighted in her favour. Their eagerness to greet the enemy gave the daemons a burst of speed that saw the entire host spew out from the valley in less than an hour. Then they paused on the crest of the hill, glancing back at their queen.

She howled and thrashed her wings, triggering a chorus of trumpet blasts from the plague-bearing heralds below. The daemons charged.

Or, rather, they lurched, capered and gambolled. It was a wild, mind-shattering sight, but the asrai spearmen continued their implacable march, their stern, pale faces becoming visible as they advanced and their banners hanging limply in the humid air. Even the tattered shreds of the fly queen’s mind were enough to know that this was not a usual tactic for the asrai. To advance slowly, across open ground, was their least favoured form of attack. They would prefer to slip unexpected from the trees. She laughed again, considering that there were no trees. For miles around Alkhor’s garden, there was only a circle of desolation. He had channelled so much energy into filling his garden with life that it had drained the surrounding area, leaving nothing but a carpet of lime-green mushrooms.

The fly queen’s laughter faltered as she saw more figures emerging with the dawn. The spearmen were just the vanguard, she realised, as other shapes moved into view. Behind the spearmen was a larger force of footsoldiers, moving just as slowly. These soldiers also carried spears and glaives and wore plates of leather armour, but there were far more of them – nearly a thousand, she reckoned. She looked at the tide of mutation rushing toward them. There were at least ten daemons for every spearman and more would be arriving all the time as Alkhor widened the portal.

Bile dripped from her mandibles as she fixed her hungry gaze on a figure flying back and forth over the enemy lines. It was a nobleman, mounted on a great hawk and wearing an elaborate spined helmet. His brow was low and heavy and his face was a fierce spiral of ritual scars, but the fly queen was not afraid. She could already imagine the sensation of his bones dissolving in her abdomen. She gave a final hissing screech and swooped down to attack.

The noble rose up in his saddle when he saw the fly queen drop from the clouds of smog. He raised a bow and shot an arrow, howling a curse as his mount carried him up to meet her.

The fly queen and her rancid host crashed into the asrai lines.

Seconds before impact, the spearmen stopped advancing, dug their heels in and raised a thicket of spears.

There was an explosion of daemon flesh as the asrai lines held.

The fly queen smashed the nobleman from his hawk and they both slammed into the crush of bodies, tumbling back through the front lines.

The nobleman leapt to his feet and hacked down at the fly queen’s wings with a spear.

The blade bit home, cutting deep into the black carapace. As it did so, green shoots shot up from the ground and pounded into the fly queen, attempting to latch onto her wings.

The fly queen thrashed her huge bulk, sending spearmen flying in several directions as she fell on the nobleman.

Her mandibles locked around her opponent’s head and closed with a satisfying crack.

Blows rained down on the fly queen as she wrenched herself free from the tendrils and launched herself back into the air. To her rage, she saw that she had only succeeded in crushing the nobleman’s helmet. Her intended prey had rolled clear and was still alive, helped to his feet by the other asrai. The nobleman looked back at her with an infuriating, nonchalant expression. He was covered in the wounds of many battles and the golden torcs that he wore around his biceps were dented and misshapen, but he was utterly calm as his warhawk swooped down and bore him up for another attack.

As the nobleman was carried into the air, preparing to continue the duel, the fly queen screeched in rage. This scarred brute was one of the Mage Queen’s servants. She could smell Ariel’s deceit pouring from his skin. She prepared to attack, then paused, distracted by a booming sound that was so loud it rang out over the din of the battle. She thought she could hear the low rumble of thunder and flew higher to investigate.

Her rage grew as she saw that the sound came, not from the heavens, but from hundreds of horses, charging towards the rearguard of her army from the west. She had been lured into a trap. The nobleman and his footsoldiers were bait, sent to drag the daemons from the safety of the narrow valley. As the fly queen flew higher she saw hundreds of asrai riders crash into her army from behind, ploughing through them with spears lowered and arrows flying, tearing a deep gash into the daemonic horde.

The riders trailed banners from several of the forest’s realms and they were moving at such speed that the tallymen collapsed under the charge, unable to lay their diseased blades on their attackers.

Hundreds of daemons fell, torn apart by spears, swords and hooves and their attack faltered. As the daemons realised they were being attacked from two sides they floundered and lurched in different directions, crashing into each other in the confusion.

The nobleman saw his chance and waved the spearmen forwards. He was flying thirty feet or so over their heads and the whole army saw his signal. The phalanxes charged with a defiant roar, smashing deep into the daemons’ vanguard as the cavalry ploughed into their flanks.

The fly queen panicked, thinking that, yet again, her lack of skill might delay Alkhor’s victory. She screamed furiously at the daemons. Then she swooped low and wrenched one of them apart with her claws, waving its broken limbs at the others as a warning.

The sight of the enraged fly queen was so terrifying that it drove the daemons to launch a counter-attack.

As the daemons formed themselves back into ranks, the riders’ momentum slowed. The deeper they advanced into the daemon horde, the harder they found it to move. The scene descended into a chaotic rout and the fly queen saw that neither side held the advantage.

The fighting grew frantic and confusing and the fly queen was consumed by bloodlust. What had seemed to be a simple victory was already becoming a desperate, bloody scramble for survival. She plunged back down into the press of bodies, thrashing her wings, lashing about herself with barbed limbs and searching for the nobleman who had defied her.

For a while she was too busy killing to find her enemy, then something shimmered in her peripheral vision and she felt the noble’s spear plunge into her abdomen.

The fly queen rounded on her attacker, raising her barbed limbs and towering over the asrai that surrounded her.

The noble was still calm as he drew his bow and loosed several arrows at her.

The fly queen batted them aside and lunged at him, drooling blood as she prepared to feed.

Chapter Nineteen

Alkhor fell backwards across the ground. Daemons popped, bursting beneath his weight and spraying him with pus. ‘It tickles,’ he cried in good-humoured tones. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’ He lashed out with his quivering arms, squashing several more daemons. ‘I don’t have time for these games, my beloved children! I have to work!’

He stood up, wiped blood and bile from his gut and turned towards his creation. ‘Our grandfather is starting to arrive.’

The hole in the sky was now taller than he was. Since the departure of Ordaana, he had been hacking and stabbing at it with his sword. By leaning all his weight into each sword strike, he had made steady progress in widening the hole.

His grandfather’s garden was now clearly visible through the gap – a place of such wonderful fecundity and colour that it made Alkhor realise how much more work he had to do on his own little plot. To his delight though, some of the bizarre flora was already starting to leak through the hole, along with the crowds of daemons. It would not be long now. Soon, his grandfather would be able to take hold – spreading His garden into the heart of the forest. And then He would emerge, through Alkhor’s willing flesh and claim dominion over the world. Alkhor was about to give Him a gift that would surpass anything he had received before: a foothold in the physical realm. The two worlds would become one and the Lord of Decay would be free to roam wherever he pleased, without constraint, spreading His gifts across the entire world. Through Alkhor, Nurgle would do what none of the lesser gods had managed to achieve. He would seize this world for his own. The Pleasure God, the Blood God and the Changer of Ways would all be forced to kneel before the pestilent majesty of the Great Corrupter.

Alkhor thought he might cry. Powerful emotions rocked his mountainous frame: pride at what he had achieved, devotion to his grandfather and bottomless love for the manifold forms of life he was about to spread across the world. He paused to take in the incredible sight – the pus-drenched realm of the Plague Lord, seeping into the equally deranged mortal domain. He could hold back his emotion no longer and a tear formed beneath one of his cherry-red eyes. He thought of all that had happened to him. He pictured himself as he was before the Plague Father adopted him – a poor, misunderstood young doktor, arrested for his groundbreaking work and left to rot in a lightless dungeon. How long ago that seemed now. How long since he began his journey by striking up a conversation with the boil that appeared in his armpit. How could he have foreseen this? How could he have known that he was destined to bestow this wonderful cornucopia on the world? He thought proudly of Ordaana and shed another tear. She barely knew the glorious future he had shared with her.

The daemon shook his head and laughed at his own sentimentality. He was far too kind-hearted for his own good. He scooped up an armful of daemons and crushed them to his porridge-like chest, eliciting a mixture of screams, giggles and popping sounds.

After cradling his slimy children for a while, Alkhor remembered that he had work to do and lifted his sword for another strike. As he peered through the hole, however, something made him pause. The garden of Nurgle was swarming with life as daemons flooded towards reality: bloated, loping things with pallid, pockmarked flesh, pouring from the fungal groves. All was as he had been promised, and yet there was something he had not foreseen.

Some of the daemons were being diverted as they pranced and skipped through the garden. He could see, far in the distance, lines of daemons turning away from him and heading back to face something he could not see. He pulled the tear a little wider and jammed his head through, peering into the other realm. The daemons continued clambering into the real world, squeezing over his shoulders and round his head. Alkhor could see nothing for the mass of daemon flesh, so he sighed and heaved his entire body through the hole, widening it considerably in the process.

As soon as he entered the Realm of Chaos he felt a wave of power flood through his limbs. The very air was magic and he felt his skin rippling and tingling in response to it as he moved. He paused to savour the sensation, realising that this was a glimpse of what lay in store for him. Once the Lord of Decay had taken ownership of his flesh, he had no doubt that he would feel this powerful all the time. But for now, he knew he must not be swayed. Power in the immortal realms was a given; it was the mortal realm that mattered now.

He waded through the crowds of giggling daemons, using his bulk to barge through the parade of leering faces. He was still unable to see clearly so he scoured the landscape for a vantage point. A few hundred feet away was a vast, rotten carcass. It was large enough to be the foot of a mountain and far too decayed for Alkhor to recognise its original shape. There were holes in its lime-green hide though, that revealed a gleaming ribcage that would make a perfect stair.

‘That will do us,’ Alkhor muttered cheerfully, waddling over to the enormous corpse. As he got closer, Alkhor saw that the carcass had been hollowed out and occupied by enormous grubs. They were hundreds of feet long, with greyish, ridged flesh and flat, humanoid faces. As Alkhor dragged his sagging flesh up the ribcage, the worms pushed their faces between the gaps and laughed at him.

‘Time is running out,’ sang one of them. Its eyes were white, featureless orbs, but they followed Alkhor’s every movement. It had the piping, high-pitched voice of a child and spoke in a sing-song, nursery rhyme. ‘You tarried, dallied and shilly-shallied and now your time is up.’

Alkhor smiled at the worm as he climbed. ‘What do you mean, my musical friend?’

‘Working work and workedy work has made you dull, but your wife is shining bright. She has been seeeeeeen.’ The worms coiled and snaked around each other and began laughing. ‘Seeeen.’

‘Be quick!’ giggled the worm. ‘Quick as you can! Nooo time to play! Your wife has been talking. The others are coming!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Alkhor, still smiling.

‘Your garden is soooo pretty,’ sang the worm. ‘Be quick, be quick, be quick, or the others will take their pick.’

‘The others? Who do you mean? Who, may I ask, has my queen been talking to?’

The worms coiled away, laughing nervously, and Alkhor continued climbing. When he reached the top of the corpse, he could not help but smile. The host rushing towards his portal was like an ocean of fantastical beings, all jeering and singing with delight as they hurried past. The whole shifting landscape was alive with movement as daemonkind saw their chance to broaden the boundaries of their realm.

Then Alkhor recalled what he had seen earlier and looked to the rear of the vast crowd. In the distance, on the horizon, there were columns of yellow smoke, reaching up across a violet sky. The magic-charged atmosphere allowed him to see miles into the distance and his panic grew. There was a triangle of crimson, slicing into the pallid, colourless ranks of his fellow daemons. He shuffled across the ridges of the spine he was standing on and stared at the red figures.

‘I see,’ he said quietly.

The crimson figures were usurpers – the bloody hounds of Khorne. They had sniffed victory on the winds of magic and come to claim it as their own.

‘Be quick, quick, you must be quick!’ trilled a worm with the face of a fat man.

‘Quick,’ muttered Alkhor. ‘Oh, yes. Speed is the key.’

He flapped his pathetic little wings and launched himself from the back of the corpse. To his delight, the air was so thick with magic that he was able to glide over the heads of the daemons, flying back towards the hole. Upon reaching it, he hacked left and right with his rusty sword and barged his way back to reality.

‘More!’ he bellowed, landing at the confluence of the rivers and wrenching open his chest. The garden shook at the sound of his booming, gravelly voice. There was no longer any trace of humour in his words. ‘Give me more!’

Chapter Twenty

Darkness lingered over Còlgarran Pass. The barren plains around Alkhor’s watchtower were mired in shadows and death. The asrai cavalry had succeeded in sundering the daemon army and the foot soldiers had pushed south down the slope, killing so many of the cyclopean horrors that they were almost at the entrance to the gulley. The fly queen was still locked in a fruitless duel with her prey. Ariel’s scarred servant was still riding his warhawk over the battlefield. The pair of them swooped over the fighting, clashing and parting and then clashing again.

The nobleman was now wielding an emerald sword, dealing out vicious, graceful blows each time they engaged and the fly queen lashed out repeatedly with a grim array of barbed limbs.

Above them was the cause of the darkness – a boiling ceiling of flies, fumes and crows, hanging low over the battlefield and leaving only the unnatural glare of mage-fire to illuminate the bloodshed.

The fly queen screamed again as she launched herself at her glowering prey. Her brain was being crushed by rage. She could not seem to kill the wretch who was tormenting her and, for every second she spent in this fruitless duel, her army grew more scattered and divided. There were countless hundreds of the horned, bandy-legged oafs. More of them were pouring from Alkhor’s garden all the time, clutching their swords and ledgers and clanging their atonal bells. If she could just take a moment to lead them, the asrai would be destroyed but… Her mind was clouded by fury again as the graceful shape of the warhawk slipped past her.

The part of the fly queen’s mind that was still Ordaana could not distinguish this figure from Ariel herself and the thought that she could destroy him was intoxicating.

Finally, she realised that she would have to share the kill. Anything was better than allowing the noble to live. She screeched a command and summoned the surprise she had meant to reveal if the asrai army reached the watchtower.

The blue lobes of the tower quivered and hundreds of shapes burst from its windows. The asrai faltered as they saw what was hurtling through the air towards them – hundreds of daemon-flies with giggling, daemonic riders. The giant insects did not join the battle, but answered their queen’s call. They poured from the tower and headed straight for the warhawk.

Exhausted, the fly queen finally glided away from her opponent, leaving the way clear for her subjects to strike.

The daemon-flies hurtled over the heads of the embattled warriors and were minutes away from their prey when the fly queen saw that he was making no attempt to flee. The noble was just hovering over the battle on his hawk, still wearing that same stern scowl.

As the daemon-flies approached him, half a dozen figures drifted up from the asrai ranks. The fly queen realised with a stab of panic that they were sorcerers. They had been biding their time, waiting for this moment to reveal themselves. Even now, without a single tree to hide behind, the nobles were playing their devious games. Ordaana watched in horror as a tall, hawk-nosed noble, draped in white bearskin, lifted a curved sword and summoned shapes from the earth. The other sorcerers followed suit and the fly queen saw that the objects were writhing, magic-charged cages – spheres of knotted root that rolled and shimmered as they rose into the air.

The banks of daemon-flies reached the sorcerers at such a speed that their riders had no time to register the wall of spheres that had suddenly appeared in front of them.

The fly queen watched helplessly as the balls of root enveloped the daemon-flies and crushed them, showering the battlefield with blood and broken wings.

The fly queen’s rage finally overcame her and she fell, howling from the sky. As she crashed, painfully to the ground, her thoughts were jarred into something more coherent. As she lay there, surrounded by the scrum of panicked daemons and watching the massacre taking place overhead, she recalled, with absolute clarity, the day Ariel banished her from her court and sent her on the path to ruin. The memory was so vivid, so painful, that it seemed to have been shone into her mind.

You fool, she thought, seeing how close she had come to throwing everything away. The asrai were playing games with her. They knew they were hopelessly outnumbered so the noble on the warhawk had kept her distracted while her army floundered, leaderless.

She shook her head and laughed. The fall had saved her. She knew, now, what she must do.

The fly queen launched herself into the air and flew away from the asrai sorcerers, leaving the daemon-flies to their gruesome end. She darted in and out of the battle lines, screaming orders at the rearguard of the army, driving them forwards and steering all of them in the same direction. They responded like automatons, lurching forwards with such purpose that the ground shook a second time. Still the fly queen did not rest. She ignored her enemy and continued haranguing her own army until every one of them was marching forwards. They turned their backs on the asrai cavalry, ignored the sorcerers drifting overhead and flooded across the plain in their thousands.

It was a massacre. The fly queen wheezed with pleasure as the full weight of her army smashed home.

The lines of asrai spearmen collapsed and hundreds of them died within minutes of the fly queen’s order.

She rose to face the sorcerers, exultant, and to her delight, she saw that the warhawk was nowhere to be seen.

The spellweavers turned their magic on the daemons below, summoning tendrils and roots and hurling columns of emerald fire, but it was no use; the daemon army was unstoppable.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Do not speak until I say,’ said the child in the autumn leaves. The spirit looked around the rotten clearing, clearly anxious. ‘They will not like it that I have brought you into our home. We have been tricked and lied to so many times.’

Clara was standing at the edge of a brackish, fly-hazed pool and, as she studied the water, her heart sank. ‘Do we really have to go in there?’

The spirit twitched and spat, suddenly furious, clapping its hands against its golden locks and spinning around in the mud. ‘Yes!’ it cried. ‘You said! You said you wanted Zephyr to make you human again. This is the way.’ It jabbed a glinting, leaf-shrouded finger at the pool. ‘The only way!’

Clara shook her head. All the disease and mutation that she had seen across the forest seemed to be concentrated in this one stagnant puddle. What good could possibly come from entering it? She patted down her filthy, mud-splattered furs and robes. For the moment, at least, she seemed to be vaguely in control of her own body. She had no doubt that her eyes were still the same freakish, bestial monstrosities she had seen on the heath, but at least she had arms and legs again. She reached up and realised to her delight that her snake-bone necklace was still hanging around her neck. ‘What do I do?’ she whispered to the bones.

As always, she felt as though the bones were guiding her. It was the bones that had set her on the path to greatness, all those years earlier in Altdorf. She had never shared her secret with the rest of the Amber Brotherhood, but it was the snake bones that had given her the animal sight that had so impressed them. Even here, in the madness of the forest, the bones gave her a sign – a sudden itch on the side of her cranium. Her other hand moved up, as though controlled by an external source, and touched the wound on the side of her head. There was no mistaking it – her skull was sprouting a horn. The message was clear.

‘I’m already half damned,’ she muttered. ‘So I have nothing to lose.’

Zephyr nodded eagerly as Clara stepped into the water and sank into its clinging, oily depths.

She closed her eyes and, when she opened them again, she was shocked to find herself not in water, but standing at the foot of a long, dark tunnel of trees. The trees were venerable, mossy giants, free of the gaudy mutations she had grown used to. They had formed an arched walkway along a narrow, gloomy path of soft, springy turf. Clara had seen so many strange things since entering the forest that, after the briefest of hesitations, she began walking down the path.

There was an archway of sunlight at the far end of the tunnel and, as Clara approached it, she saw that it was the silhouette of a magnificent stag. It was the size of a stallion and its head was held aloft with all the dignity of royalty.

Clara’s pulse raced as she recognised the beast that had originally lured her into the forest. She was sure that, if the stag had not filled her with its strange, invigorating light, she would never have undergone the bizarre changes that had been plaguing her ever since.

The stag began trotting towards her.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘Let me go!’

Clara turned and fled, hearing the stag’s hooves pounding towards her down the path.

She burst from the surface of the water and found herself back in the glade, only, it was changed.

The pool was far larger than before. It had become a huge lake. No, she realised, the lake was no larger, she had become smaller. As her reflection looked back at her, she saw that she was a tiny, lime-green frog, powering itself through the water. She laughed at this latest absurdity.

Then she noticed that there were other changes. The grove of linden trees had returned to health. The decay had vanished. The trees looked down proudly over a lawn of grass and wildflowers. It was dusk and Clara struggled to see clearly, but she sensed that there were more shadows than trees – and the shadows were oddly mobile, rushing and swooping across the grass, despite the lack of breeze.

The water next to Clara bubbled and revealed the glum, shimmering face of a trout.

‘Wait until I give the word,’ it said, and Clara recognised the voice of Zephyr.

She could do nothing but laugh, but the fish seemed satisfied with this and disappeared back beneath the water.

Again, Clara’s spells had served her well. Despite the lunacy of her situation and her fear at seeing the stag, she had managed to protect a fragment of her consciousness. She knew, despite everything that had happened, who she was and why she was there. They can save me, she thought, kicking her long, amphibian legs and heading towards the moving shadows.

As she approached the water’s edge, she saw them a little clearer. Zephyr was there, and no longer a trout, whirling back and forth in his coat of spinning leaves. As he moved the gold of his leaves flashed light on some of the other shapes, lifting them briefly from the darkness. There was a strange menagerie gathered by the pool. Clara made out the faces of wolves, bears and other wild beasts, but they did not seem to be physical beings. They shimmered and drifted, refusing to reveal themselves. As she reached the edge of the pool, she saw even stranger shapes. Some were so vast that Zephyr’s light only revealed a giant talon or a ragged claw. Her hope grew as she saw what seemed to be a human mage or priest. He was shuffling between the other shadows, dressed in a hooded robe and leaning on a staff. Perhaps he was another wanderer from the Amber Hills? He might be someone like her. She might even know him. Then Zephyr passed in front of him and Clara struggled not to scream. The priest’s face was a mass of pale serpents, twisting and looping inside his deep hood.

Zephyr was trying to get the attention of the other spirits, but they were all ignoring him.

Clara hopped onto the grass and shuffled slowly closer, remembering Zephyr’s warning that she would not be welcome.

As she approached them, Clara realised that she could understand their words. This seemed stranger, somehow, than her transformation. It was not as though she had gained the ability to speak an unknown language. It was more like they were speaking a language she had always known.

‘This is not the only forest,’ said a hulking, toad-like thing, so hidden in shadow that Clara could only see its silhouette.

‘It is the only one we understand,’ said another voice. Clara turned to see a white wolf. It was the complete opposite of Zephyr. Where the golden youth was spinning around in a manic attempt to get the others’ attention, the wolf was sitting motionless at the foot of the linden trees, serene and aloof. ‘What purpose would we have anywhere else?’

‘What purpose do we have here?’ demanded another spirit. Clara saw that it was a huge eagle, with four wings. As it spoke, flames shimmered across its feathers, revealing a white spear, buried deep in its chest.

The others seemed to find this argument convincing. Several of them lowered their heads and none seemed willing to speak for a moment.

Clara sensed that there was an air of dejection and defeat hanging over them. She wondered how willing such miserable beings would be to help her and hopped through the grass, looking for Zephyr.

The golden youth was about to speak up when the flaming eagle continued. ‘Without the stag the forest has no soul. It is just a collection of trees. Whatever happens now, we are set adrift. We are nothing. We have nothing.’

Clara cowered as the spirits all turned suddenly in her direction. Then she realised there was a splashing sound coming from the pool behind her.

She turned to look and saw something that finally tore a scream from her. It was the green-skinned, antlered giant – the same hideous brute that had almost throttled her when she arrived at the borders of the forest. She recalled how mercilessly he had butchered the peasants when she first encountered him and she grew rigid with terror.

None of the spirits seemed to notice Clara’s scream and she realised it had emerged as a quiet, rattling croak.

‘You have your king,’ said the giant as he climbed from the water, clutching a spear. His physique was as Clara recalled – humanoid, but built on a massive scale. He was eight or nine foot tall – with broad, angular muscles that seemed carved from wood. His crown of antlers made him seem even taller and his legs were those of a stag, with thick, ridged hooves. There was something she had not noticed before though – his torso was encased in an armour plating of thick, ridged oak, with a green, serpentine rune glowing at its centre.

The spirits hissed, snarled and rushed to confront the giant.

‘He has been born,’ gasped one of the spirits and Clara saw shock written across all of their faces.

‘How dare you return now,’ cried the wolf, shaking off its surprise and replacing it with outrage. ‘Whatever trickery has given you life does not give you the right to enter this grove. You have not been summoned. This is not the season of rebirth.’

‘There are no seasons, you know that as well as I do,’ replied the giant.

‘What do you want, Orion?’ asked the hooded sorcerer. His voice was a thin, hateful hiss. ‘We have already told you we will not hunt.’

Clara hopped aside as Orion strode onto the grass.

‘You will,’ he replied calmly.

The animals looked at him with a mixture of confusion and derision, then they turned and began to fade into the shadows.

Clara panicked, ‘Wait!’ she tried to scream, but she only managed the same pathetic croak.

The spirits had only gone a few steps when they paused. The pool was boiling and bubbling as something else emerged behind Orion. Something far larger.

They gasped and hissed as the colossal shape of a dragon rose from the pool, his eyes blazing as he towered over the clearing.

‘Tanos!’ cried several of the spirits, staggering back into view. Even the venom-tongued sorcerer shook his head. ‘What does this mean?’ he gasped, looking from the dragon to Orion.

As the spirits watched in amazement, Tanos climbed from the pool, lowered his head and allowed Orion to climb along his neck and take a seat between his wings. Then he reared up and let out a deafening roar.

‘What is this?’ asked the white wolf.

‘This is your purpose!’ howled Orion. ‘This is a hunt!’

The spirits reeled before the magnificent sight of Orion and his mount.

Clara saw that they were at a loss to know what to do.

Then the wolf padded up to the dragon and threw back its head, letting out a long, mournful howl.

Other cries followed, one by one, until the grove was filled with the sound of screams, howls and roars. The sound swelled to such a painful volume that Clara pounded at her head with her forelegs, trying to block it out. She buried her face in the mud, but she could not escape it.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the sound ceased.

Clara looked up and saw that the grove was empty. The spirits had vanished, along with the giant and his dragon. There was nothing but the trees and the dusk.

She hopped around, looking desperately for a sign of Zephyr, but he had vanished with the others. She was alone.

Despair overwhelmed her as she realised she must have lost the last shreds of her sanity. There were no hoof prints or tracks of any kind on the grass. She must have hallucinated the whole gathering. Perhaps even Zephyr had only been in her mind. She looked around. There was nothing but the forest… and her mutated flesh.

With growing horror at her fate, she hopped back towards the pool, sensing that there was only one way to escape what she had become. The water could help her, if only by ending her miserable existence. She realised she had misunderstood the bones. Death was her only escape.

She dived into the pool, closed her eyes and began swallowing as hard and as fast as she could.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Orion plunged through the clouds on Tanos’s back, haloed by a burning sky. Sparks flashed along his antlers and danced on the bone-white tip of his spear. He sang as his dragon mount bore him through the fumes, filling the air with majesty and leading his strange kin to war. Countless other beasts tumbled in his wake, each more incredible than the last. The sentinels of the forest lifted their voices in reply to his song and it became a deafening, magisterial round. This was the hunt to end all hunts. Sinew, spirit and bark, tempered into a single, vengeful blade. They hurtled into the valley singing of ancient bowers and lonely, sunken paths. They sang of the roots of the world, its Shadow-glades and ghostways. They roared in praise of the wild. Howled to the untrammelled. Screamed for blood.

The fly queen dragged her face from a corpse and skittered up onto a mound, batting away swords and fists. She wiped gore from her eyes and hissed, shocked by the nature of Orion’s host. It looked like sunlight slicing into a darkened room. The king was ablaze with emerald light and flanked by incredible creatures – forest dragons, briar-winged hawks and silent, ivy-clad owls. Below them, emerging from the trees in one snorting, tidal rush, came bears, followed by boars, followed by wolves, stags and noble, moon-flanked unicorns. The fly queen stared, bewildered, and the longer she stared the more her mind unravelled. The forest wore many masks, not all of them easy to comprehend, but she knew these feral lords; she knew them from her former life and she felt their pull.

The asrai raised bloody weapons, roaring tributes to their king. Pitiful few remained but at the sight of the Wild Hunt they grew in stature and wrath – hurling themselves back into the fray, joining their blades to a storm of claws.

Orion watched through a blood-red haze as Alkhor’s army collapsed before him. The dragons tore daemons from the air. Their armoured flesh was immune to plague or disease and they fed as they flew, gulping down daemon-blood like honey, slashing and clawing through their enemy.

Daemon-flies pounded against Orion, but he barely registered them. The wrath of Kurnous was pouring from him. With the dragons at his side, he was incandescent. Unstoppable. Tanos and the other dragons batted attackers aside as easily as real flies, sending them spiralling into the toiling ranks below. Then Orion raised his horn to his lips and called the forest to battle.

A spearhead of animals and spirits charged beneath him, cutting across the horseshoe plain, bolstering the ranks of asrai and rushing the watchtower. With the dragons leading their charge, they were utterly fearless. Tallymen crumpled under the momentum of the attack. They still outnumbered the king’s army but numbers were meaningless against such fervour.

As he neared the column of fungus, Orion saw tendrils lash out, burning and poisoning his army. He tried to stem his wildness and consider tactics, but it was no use. His mind was awash with bloodlust. He howled and drove the dragon on into the daemon-fly clouds, hacking and tearing as he went.

Drycha paused, wrenched her wooden claws from a twitching daemon and backed away from the fighting. Her branchwraith sisters were making painfully slow progress. Forcing their way through the daemon hordes had proved to be far more difficult than she had hoped. As the dryads fought, cankers sprang up across their bark, stiffening their joints and blunting their teeth. Each time they tore into a daemon, blight enveloped their claws, rotting their talons and withering their limbs with fungus.

Drycha’s army was so vast that it was gradually pushing across the plain from the east but, to her amazement, the tattered banners of the asrai were moving faster. As she climbed up a slope to get a better view, she saw that they were smashing through the daemons from the north and their vanguard was already within a stone’s-throw of the watchtower.

Liris climbed up beside Drycha, her eyes filled with horror. ‘The hunter king is with them.’

‘No,’ hissed Drycha. ‘He is not. He can’t be.’ But she began to shiver and rattle as she saw the truth. Orion was there. Even from half a mile away, she could see his proud, antlered form. He was fighting with all the power and ferocity of the very first Consort-King: hale, healthy and driving the asrai straight into the daemon’s realm. ‘I saw him,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I saw him spewed from the dying oak. He was useless. A puling wretch, just as the Ancient One described.’

‘Look,’ gasped Liris.

Drycha had been so shocked by the presence of Orion she had failed to notice the monsters flying with him. She clenched her talons into fists, watching dozens of lithe shapes swoop through the clouds. ‘Dragons,’ she spat. ‘Cyanos has failed us. He swore they would never return.’

Liris grimaced at the mention of the asrai noble. ‘Of course he has failed us.’

Drycha did not register her sister’s words. She was still staring at the horizon. It was not just the dragons that had joined Orion and the asrai – the other spirit beasts had followed their lead. ‘Why would they follow Orion? After all that has come of his rule?’ Pain knifed through her crooked frame. ‘Why would they side with him?’ She looked around at her toiling sisters – each one prepared to sacrifice themselves in defence of the forest, after all their centuries of silent, unwavering guardianship. ‘Why are they not here, with us?’

Orion’s horn rang out and Drycha saw his army wash up against the watchtower. The grotesque digit shivered under the weight of the attack and lashed out with barbed, snake-like limbs, killing asrai and scattering beasts. Hundreds more daemons were still pouring from Còlgarran Pass and the two armies reached a juddering, grinding impasse. The Consort-King soared through the clouds, felling more daemons, until a vast shape loomed from the shadows and hurtled towards him. It was hard to see clearly through the filthy, fly-filled haze, but Drycha thought it must be another daemon-fly, only much larger than the others and dressed in the shreds of a lemon-coloured gown.

Orion and his dragon mount joined battle with the monster and an asrai cheer rang out as he drove the monster back.

Drycha stared at Liris. ‘If he wins, the spirits will forgive him everything. They will sanction his rule. They will let him stay.’ She screamed and jabbed one of her talons at the tower, ordering her sisters forwards. ‘This victory must be ours!’

The branchwraiths pushed forwards, clawing desperately at the mass of daemons, but it was no good. The crush of mottled, necrotic flesh was impassable. It was like trying to cut through mud. For every few steps forwards, hundreds of the one-eyed monsters glooped around the dryads, miring them in sticky, gangly limbs and pinning them to the ground with their pitted, iron swords.

Drycha watched in silent fury as her army reached the same deadlock that had stalled the Wild Hunt.

Liris glanced at her and then looked at the crevasse that divided their army from Orion’s. Drycha knew what her sister was thinking and her sap boiled in response.

Drycha clawed at her own face, weeping tiny spirals of bark. ‘Never.’ Her voice was desolate.

She hurled herself from the slope and smashed through her sisters, making for the daemons, but it was impossible. The combatants were so tightly packed that she could not reach the battle lines. She could not even join the fight. She jerked and thrashed, horrified by a growing realisation. After all she had done, the Council of Beasts had sided with the false king rather than their own kind.

Through tear-filled eyes Drycha saw a vision of the bear she had been forced to kill. Then the diseased corpse was transformed into the eternal bear spirit, Bruithír. Deep down she had known the truth since the moment Bruithír spared the nascent king. Why would the forest allow Finavar to escape? Why would it free him from the Wildwood, unless it wanted him to live? Unless it wanted a king?

It took a few more minutes for Drycha to accept defeat. She remained hunched and shivering on the ground until splintering bark and brittle screams forced her to relent. She rose from the throng and lurched wearily back up the slope, knowing what she must do.

She howled the order to retreat.

Alkhor quivered as his children emptied jars into his chest. Spores, bile and twitching mutants sloshed into his gaping ribcage and with each new sample his body grew. The Plague Father was starting to form in his flesh. Alkhor could feel the dizzying sensation of impending godhood. The vast, rotten hulk of his body was surrounded by such a fierce tornado of flies that his garden was barely visible, but he knew it was there, growing along with him; preparing for the great arrival. The muddy pool beneath him was gurgling, spitting and starting to boil over.

‘My lord,’ cried a voice, straining to be heard over the roaring column of flies.

Alkhor recognised the moist lisp and laughed. ‘Almost there, Ganglion!’ he bellowed, causing several smaller daemons to tumble from his ribs and disappear into his knotted, glistening guts. ‘The Plague Father is almost with us!’ He looked around and saw the cyclopean, pot-bellied daemon, hovering a few feet from his face, sitting on the back of a giant daemon-fly. The whirling clouds of insects were buffeting the daemon-mount, forcing Ganglion to hang desperately onto one of its studded antenna.

‘Smile,’ boomed Alkhor, snorting out flies. ‘We will soon have a garden to cover the world!’

Ganglion jabbed his rusty sword at the hole in the sky. There was an unusual note of panic in his voice. ‘Look, my lord,’ he cried. ‘Others have discovered you. They have found the rift. We must stop them. They are not your friends. They will take the world for their own.’

Alkhor’s boulder-sized head split into a gaping grin. He looked back at the patch of nothingness, noting how prettily it was framed by his gaudy tumours of fungus. Ganglion was right. Something new was flooding through the gap. Even through the whirlwind of flies he could see it. Rather than shambling, rotten lines of tallymen, Alkhor saw a new army – a vivid red column of slavering beasts. The brutal, crimson-skinned head-takers of Khorne. They were bestial, howling daemons. Knots of bloody sinew, lashed together by hate, snapping and straining at an unseen leash.

They entered the world with a strict, martial discipline that turned Alkhor’s grin to laughter. Seeing such feral creatures marching in orderly lines reminded him of circus animals, strutting around in ludicrous outfits. Drums and braying horns accompanied their advance, adding to the impression of a bizarre parade. There was no mistaking their cruel intent though. Every one of the daemons clutched a huge, two-handed sword – sculpted, jagged blades, forged of unholy alloys that shimmered and flashed. White-hot sorcery, burning in a prison of tempered steel.

At the head of the daemons trundled a warped, steam-hissing chariot – a jagged, sharpened lump of brass and iron, ridden by another crimson monster. Like the others, this one was all whiplash sinew and low, backwards-swooping horns, but the daemon driving the chariot was clearly a great lord. It was larger than those that followed and the oddly precise movements of the footsoldiers corresponded to its barked commands.

Ganglion shook his head as he saw that Alkhor was laughing. ‘They will seize victory for the Blood God!’ The storm of flies forced his mount away from Alkhor, and his voice became desperate. ‘You must stop them!’

Alkhor laughed harder and slumped back, relishing the sensation of more diseased body parts being emptied into his chest. ‘Victory is mine. It always was. They are the most moronic, dribbling, dog-brained fools, Ganglion, but they are all part of the plan.’ His laughter became a smug grin. ‘I keep my wife on a tighter leash than their master imagines.’

Alkhor frowned. ‘Enough!’ He closed his chest with a slap and held up a warning hand. ‘I’m full. Sated. Replete.’ He smiled again. ‘I am done.’ He closed his eyes and settled back into the mud with a satisfied belch. The wound healed itself and Alkhor’s body began to ripple and change. As the transformation gathered pace, the storm of flies grew fiercer and the daemon vanished from view.

Ganglion steered his fly back and forth, attempting to enter the spinning cocoon, but it was no use. He fixed his single, yellow eye on the red fiends hurrying through the garden towards him.

‘Proctor,’ he whimpered and steered his mount back towards the battle.

‘We have them!’ cried Caorann, vaulting over a muddy ditch and bounding towards another huddle of plaguebearers. They lifted iron blades with their rotten, mangled fingers and lurched towards him. There was no sky. No horizon. The world was a smear of brown, yellow and pink. But Caorann laughed and sang as he approached his prey.

Before Caorann could bring his swords to bear, arrows whistled past his ear, slamming into the daemons’ faces. The one-eyed horrors stumbled and fell, blinded, as Sibaris reached the lip of the ditch, shooting arrow after arrow.

By the time Caorann reached his foes, they were all staggering like drunks, clutching at spurting irises.

‘Not fair,’ spat Caorann, removing their heads with a balletic whirl of sword strikes. ‘You’re taking all the sport out of this.’

Alhena burst from the clouds of flies, her eyes straining. Every inch of her was trembling with fury. She saw Caorann, whirling at the centre of the confused daemons and bolted to his side, bringing her own swords down in a flashing arc and taking the last few heads.

The wardancers had learned that, while the daemons seemed unwilling to die, they could at least be halted by a good beheading. Sibaris rushed to join the other two, firing more arrows at the half-glimpsed shadows that surrounded them.

Every now and then the fumes would part, revealing crowds of battling figures. It was a brutal sight. The daemons were hacking down asrai spearmen and pouring plague into their still-warm bodies, while feral beasts, more spirit than flesh, tore through the mud, snarling, clawing and devouring everything they encountered. There were no tactics, no battle plans, just slaughter. But every time the combatants faltered, wearied by the directionless death, a hunting horn rang out from the heavens and it all began again.

The three wardancers paused for a moment, leaning against each other as they caught their breath.

‘There he is,’ said Sibaris, pointing his bow at the bluebottle clouds.

Where the fumes were thinnest, the wardancers could see a vast, winged serpent, looping and diving through the sky. On its back was their king. He was close enough that they could even make out his twisted antlers and glinting spear. Orion was duelling with a bloated, six-winged daemon-fly and, as the two combatants looped in their direction, they caught a glimpse of Orion’s cloak, streaming behind him. It was black, and studded with thorns.

‘Fin,’ said Caorann. For once, there was no laughter in his voice. His eyes were full of awe. ‘Save us.’

The others followed his gaze, drinking in the glorious sight of their king and savouring it as an antidote to the desolation that surrounded them.

Orion blew his horn again. The wardancers howled in reply, holding their weapons aloft. Beasts and spirit beasts exploded from the smog, hurtling towards them from every direction. The three warriors were lifted up like flotsam and hurled across the battlefield, still howling as they rushed towards Alkhor’s garden.

Orion jammed his spear into the monster’s abdomen and wrenched the blade up towards its head, filling the air with acid-yellow gore.

At the same moment, Tanos vomited a column of green poison, enveloping the thing’s thrashing wings.

The daemon-fly screamed and Orion saw again that its face was unlike the other fly monsters. This one was a revolting combination of insect and asrai. It had two huge, segmented eyes, but the rest of its face was that of a pale-skinned noblewoman. Her features had been twisted and tormented by the horror of her transformation but she must have once been beautiful. As her black, bristling carapace shivered in pain, the asrai face screamed – spitting garbled words that Orion could almost recognise.

Something tugged at his thoughts. There was something horribly familiar about the face. With dawning horror, he mouthed the word Ordaana. All his rage and hatred for his betrayer faded when he saw what a pitiful end she had come to. Treachery had consumed her. She was a creature of Chaos. She was damned.

Before he could think any more on the subject, the other Orions howled at him to keep fighting. Their voices rebounded from the inside of his skull, filling him with a horrible sense of urgency.

End this abomination, they cried. End her suffering. No one deserves such a fate.

He wrenched the spear even higher, almost reaching the head of the daemon-fly, but at that moment she found the strength to fight back, lashing out at him with a jumble of barbed limbs. They clattered against his bark-armoured chest and sent him tumbling along the dragon’s back.

Orion would have fallen, but the huge serpent recoiled – beating its huge wings and freeing itself from the daemon’s grip.

The two winged creatures circled each other, gathering their strength and looking for an opening in the other’s defences.

Orion took the opportunity to blow the horn of Kurnous. The sound drowned out even the voices of his forebears. His heart pounded fiercely in response and, as he saw the chaotic rout below, it took all his strength not to leap from the dragon’s back and join the charge. He knew such a fall would destroy his body, but the pull was incredible.

He regained his footing and lifted his spear, bracing himself as the daemon-Ordaana prepared to launch another attack. At the last moment his opponent changed direction and veered away from him. Something had caught her attention – something down below. Her already-tortured face was wracked by even more suffering.

Orion took his chance, rocked back on his heels and hurled his spear with all his might. It whistled through the air and sliced through the daemon’s beautiful, agonised face. The blade burst from the back of her skull and what remained of Ordaana tumbled from the sky.

Tanos dived after her and gave Orion chance to retrieve his spear, before leaving her to spin and roll out of sight.

Orion steered the dragon away from the sight of Ordaana’s fall and flew higher, wondering what had distracted her. He saw that nothing had changed at the entrance to the garden. There was still a hopeless crush of figures battling at the foot of the watchtower. The fury of the Wild Hunt was incredible when seen from such a height. His subjects were crashing against the daemons in wave after bloody wave, heedless of their own safety. But the tide of daemons pouring from the gulley was never ending and the two armies were still locked in a bloody, unyielding knot.

He looked back towards the rearguard of his army. Something was pouring from the forest. Orion thought that a lake must have flooded its banks. There were shadows rushing from the fungus-bloated boughs. Then he saw that the shadows had claws, crooked backs and long, branch-like limbs.

He flew higher for a better look, amazed by the nature of his new ally.

The torrent of voices in his head coalesced into a single name and it exploded from his lips.

‘Drycha.’

She led her sisters across the plain with a howl. An unexpected joy shuddered through her slender, mossy frame. Beasts and ghosts ran with her and, as the forest united, animal, tree and dryad alike, she felt increasingly calm. Even as she began slicing through rotten daemon flesh, Drycha’s fury and shame continued to ebb, replaced with an intoxicating sense of unity. She hacked and tore and felt a truth long denied her. There was no shame in this. This was meant to be. They were one. The Ancient One was wrong. They were not divided. The faces that surrounded her belonged to a single, eternal soul. Asrai became boar, boar became stag, stag became gnarled, deadwood husk, and all of them sang with the same voice. It was the voice of defiance. The voice of the forest.

Drycha let herself be carried by the Wild Hunt. All her doubts faded as Orion’s horn drove the forest smashing through its invaders. They crossed the plain in minutes and swarmed up the walls of the watchtower. Arrows flew out to greet them, followed by thrashing, glistening tentacles, but the forest would not be stopped. The deepwood host rolled on. Tearing through the watchtower like a swarm of locusts. Devouring its walls. Hurling its guardians to their deaths.

With a slow, subterranean groan, the watchtower slumped under the weight of the assault. Daemons and dryads toppled from its walls as it listed and started to fall.

Drycha leapt free and rushed on, entering the final approach to Alkhor’s garden as the tower collapsed behind her.

The gulley was packed with warring figures. Screams and war cries echoed strangely from fungus-clad walls and the air was crowded with fat, frenzied bluebottles. But Drycha’s army was so vast that it finally broke the deadlock, slicing deep into the ranks of daemons and carving a passage into the garden beyond. The rest of the Wild Hunt followed, powering through the gap and emptying the plain. The forest’s defenders charged through the gulley, howling victoriously as they reached the heart of their enemy’s realm.

Drycha was at the head of the army and, as she entered the circular garden, she finally paused. Even after all that she had seen, this was appalling. Bright pink lobes of fungus towered over her forming a huge amphitheatre, watered by hissing torrents of acid-yellow bile. At the centre of all this madness Drycha saw a whirling tower of flies and spores – the living shroud of a vast, bloated daemon.

Drycha sensed immediately that this was her prey and let out a howl of delight. This was the monstrosity she had allowed to live. This was the being she had buried beneath the Torr-Ildána all those centuries ago. Finally, she could right her most terrible wrong. To her delight, she saw that there were only a few hundred of the plaguebearers left between her host and the daemon.

She raised her fist and was about to launch the final attack when Liris hauled her round to face the other side of the stomach garden. Beside the column of flies was a sight that caused her head to pound. It was a hole in the air. Drycha stared in shock as the Wild Hunt juddered to a halt around her. The hole was trailing a long, crimson tongue of daemon warriors. These were not the lurching oafs that had polluted the forest, but something far more deadly – precise, orderly ranks of blood-red monsters, marching to a slow, ominous drumbeat with murder in their eyes. Drycha was about to warn the others when a shadow washed over them and a hunting horn rang out.

Drycha looked up and saw a brief glimpse of Orion, then the charge began again. Driven on by their king, the guardians of the forest poured into the garden, smashing through the remaining plaguebearers and making for the architect of the horrors that surrounded them.

Drycha was knocked to the ground and felt hundreds of feet pounding over her. She could see nothing but mud until, with a groan of exertion, Liris dragged her to her feet and hauled her out of the way of the stampede.

‘Those things are killers,’ she gasped, staring at the red-skinned daemons.

Liris nodded and they both watched in horror as the daemons sliced into the flank of the forest’s defenders.

Upon reaching their enemy, the bright red daemons abandoned their orderly ranks and gave in to a frenzied orgy of slicing and stabbing, butchering whole swathes of dryads in seconds. The ecstasy of killing was written across their bestial faces and the pounding of their drums raced into one long, furious roll.

‘We must help!’ cried Liris, pointing at the crimson monsters. ‘We must stop them.’

‘No.’ Drycha pointed at the whirling column of flies. ‘That is my fault. That is the cause of all this. That is where we must strike.’

Liris’s limbs clattered in fear as she shook her head. ‘Too late.’

Drycha howled again as she saw that Liris was right. The red-skinned daemons had broken into dozens of separate columns, performing a bewildering series of manoeuvres, and they had already blocked the way across the garden. As she staggered towards them shaking her head, several more columns poured from the hole, carpeting the garden with scaled red muscle and flickering blades.

Drycha screamed the order to attack and the deepwood host spilled from the gulley.

The wardancers slowed as they neared the garden. Through the clouds of flies they saw that the dryads had finally halted.

‘Is it over?’ gasped Alhena, tilting her head back and peering through the haze.

Caorann noticed the disappointment in her voice and looked at her in disbelief. How much death would be enough to satisfy her?

She did not notice his surprise and kept staring into the distance. ‘What could have stopped such an army?’

‘We must have won,’ said Sibaris, his eyes gleaming. ‘Look around.’ He waved at the piles of dismembered daemons that lay all around them. With the forest united, the plaguebearers had not stood a chance.

‘I think not.’ Caorann shook his head and held up his hand to silence them, tilting his head to one side, indicating that they should listen. The stragglers of the Wild Hunt were still staggering past – those too exhausted or wounded to keep pace with the dryads – and for a moment, the wardancers could hear nothing but their panting and snorting.

Then, as the crowd thinned out, Alhena nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said, as the dryads rushed on and the sound of clattering weapons drifted from the garden up ahead. She smiled at Sibiris, sliced her blades through the air and raced on, clearly excited. ‘We’re not done yet.’

Orion steered Tanos lower, sensing that something was wrong. He could see his goal at the centre of the garden – the mountainous bulk of the daemon was visible, even within the tornado of flies – but his army had faltered. This was not what he expected. What could hold up against the fury of the entire forest? As the dragon dropped through the fly-clouds, he had his answer – the attack dogs of the Blood God. The voices in his head cursed and railed as they beheld the crimson horde.

The brutal killers had already surrounded the Wild Hunt with a confusing array of bristling columns. As the spirits and beasts tried to break into the garden, the red daemons slashed into their flank and steered them towards a sunken pit, just to the east of the gulley. Orion’s heart pounded as he saw the danger. The hunt was nothing without the furious momentum that had carried it across the plain. Once his kin were trapped in the pit, there would be no escape. The daemons would butcher them.

He scoured the enemy troops for sign of a leader and saw the chariot and its hulking driver. It was still leading them on with low, snarled commands. He was about to steer the dragon down to the front lines and behead the army, when they let out a deafening roar. Several of them were looking back over their shoulders as they advanced.

Orion looked back towards the rift in reality and saw a flash of red hurtling towards him through the clouds.

The attack was sickeningly fast. Orion barely managed to roll aside as a huge, two-handed axe sliced down towards him.

The blade bit deep into the dragon’s back and it roared in pain.

Orion staggered to his feet and saw the full horror of his assailant.

Hovering over him, borne on a pair of massive, leathery wings, was a daemon the size of a full-grown oak. It was a hulking, muscled brute, with red, scaled flesh and a suit of hammered, brass armour. It had the head of a vicious hound, with a long, feral snout and a greasy, shaggy mane. Two enormous ram’s horns circled its brow and its blazing red eyes were fixed furiously on Orion.

Orion raised his spear, but before he could strike, the daemon pounded its wings and backed away, wrenching its massive axe free in a shower of dragon’s blood.

Tanos slumped beneath him and Orion saw that the dragon’s body had been cleft almost in two. There was a deep gash through the centre of its back and one of its wings was hanging limply at its side.

Orion staggered as the dragon rolled in pain, snorting blood and fumes; barely alive.

The daemon flew back for another attack, bellowing and lifting its axe high above its head.

Before the second blow could land, Orion launched himself through the air, leaving Tanos to tumble, lifeless, from the sky.

The axe sliced through thin air as Orion landed on the daemon’s armoured shoulder.

This close, he could feel an unholy heat, pulsing through its scarlet hide. The air around the daemon was cracking and curling, like bark shrivelling in a fire. The world could not contain such brutality. Orion did not have long to consider the dreadful nature of his foe. As the dog-headed brute turned to face him, Orion jammed his spear up through its massive jaw, shearing the blade up and out through the top of its skull.

The daemon howled and stiffened in pain, throwing back its head. Then it rallied and slammed the haft of its axe down into Orion’s chest, sending him flying into the clouds.

Orion kicked wildly as he fell, then cried out in surprise as his fall was broken and he found himself hanging in the sky.

‘We cannot kill it,’ said a voice in his ear. The tone was cold and full of pain, but Orion recognised it immediately.

‘Ariel,’ he gasped, turning to face his queen.

She was pale with grief and worry, but she managed to give him a faint smile as she nodded in reply.

Orion looked around and saw that he was cradled in drifting, spirals of cloud, formed into the shape of branches. He looked down and saw a glittering trunk of mist, descending hundreds of feet below him to the ground.

Remnants of the mist were still trailing around Ariel’s fingers and Orion realised that, yet again, she had saved his life.

He was about to thank her, when she pounded her tawny wings and looped away from him, seconds before the daemon’s axe plummeted through the clouds.

The monster hurtled past Orion, carried by the weight of its own strike, but it quickly whirled around to face him. The spear was still jammed through its jaw but, with a brutal roar, the daemon reached into its mouth and snapped the weapon in two. The head of the spear remained in place, sticking up from its forehead like a third horn, but the daemon seemed oblivious, pounding its wings and lifting its axe in both hands, preparing to hurl another blow at Orion.

Hatred and disgust rushed through the king and he threw himself at the daemon for a second time. He was unarmed now, but he jammed his antlers into the daemon’s throat and wrenched them free, filling the air with fire, tendons and vocal cords.

The daemon arched its back in pain and Orion clambered up its serrated brass breastplate and pounded his fist into its wounded jaw.

The daemon’s head jolted back and, at that moment, Ariel flew from the clouds and lassoed its wings with a mesh of spectral vines.

The daemon roared, but the more violently it struggled, the more Ariel’s bonds tightened.

With a furious howl, the daemon fell through the flies and crows towards the battling armies below.

Ariel swooped down to rescue Orion, but the daemon lashed out with its axe and the flat of the blade smashed into her, sending her hurtling from sight.

Orion continued wrestling with the daemon as they both plummeted through the air.

The fly crawled blissfully across a plain of warm, glistening meat. There were weapons, limbs and faces scattered throughout the food, but the fly took no notice – crawling, devouring and vomiting in an endless cycle of gluttony. Her wings no longer worked. They had been broken. And there was a hole through her head that felt very strange. But the fly did not care. There was a lifetime of mindless consumption spread out before her. She dragged her abdomen on through the gore, belching and laughing as she ate.

Something jarred in her mind. Flies do not laugh. This brief moment of understanding was enough to ruin everything. It opened the door on countless other, disturbing thoughts. The fly sensed, to her dismay, that she could not indulge herself with such idle pleasures. She was heading somewhere – looking for something.

Along with memory came pain. As the fly saw glimpses of her past, she felt all the broken parts of her body, screaming out at once. The pain combined with horrible guilt as she became aware of the battle raging around her. She looked up from the corpses and saw her people dying. The deepwood host was being massacred by waves of red-skinned, brass-armoured daemons. She saw spearmen and archers, huddled against the spirits of ancient, noble trees and proud, feral beasts, and all of them were dying at the hands of the daemons. They had been forced into a sunken corner of the garden with no way to escape.

The fly’s agony grew as she watched the awful scene. She knew, without recalling all the details, that she had done this to them. She had betrayed the forest to its death.

‘Ariel,’ she spat, recalling the witch who had driven her to this wretched condition. Even through all her fidgeting lunacy, Ordaana could recall one, clear truth. Ariel had driven her to murder. And everything since then had been her fault. This bitter thought was enough to remind her of her purpose. She had to find her only ally. Alkhor had promised her revenge. Revenge. She had nothing else left.

She dragged her broken body up onto its six legs and began hauling herself over the bodies.

The column of flies was only thirty or so feet away and she realised that her lapse into forgetfulness must have been just one of many that had overtaken her as she hauled herself across the battlefield. But now she was almost there. If she could just remain conscious for a few more minutes, she would be within shouting distance of the daemon.

A shadow passed overhead and she paused to look up at it. A great, winged monster was falling through the clouds. She shivered at the sight of it. The thing had a grotesque, canine head that dredged a horrifying memory from her mind. She had seen the crimson-skinned brute before. She had seen it through a pool of blood, hacking heads from shoulders as it warned her that Alkhor would fail. The thing had claimed that it was her only hope. Could it have been telling the truth?

‘I am Ordaana,’ she moaned, as more of her dreadful history slotted into place.

‘You are my queen,’ belched a deafening voice, and Alkhor’s grey, porridge-like claw lifted her from the ground and into the storm of flies. ‘And I will not fail you.’

His face was a vast, sagging boil. A lumpen bag of pus, studded with a pair of tiny, glinting eyes. Rolls of grey flesh tumbled down over his chest in a mottled jumble of chins and thousands of tremors were moving across his skin. He looked like the surface of a stagnant pool, rippling in the breeze.

‘The time is now,’ he laughed, lifting her dangerously close to his gaping maw.

‘Now?’ Ordaana’s voice quivered. ‘I can kill Ariel now?’

‘Yes,’ smiled the daemon. ‘I am true to my word.’ He lifted his iron sword from the ground. It had grown along with him and it was now over a hundred feet long – a vast slab of pitted, rusted iron. ‘You will have to be quick though. My generosity will extend to one chance only.’ He closed his eyes and groaned as the tremors in his flesh grew more violent. ‘The Great Corrupter is almost here. This wonderful garden has drawn Him to us. The life we have fostered in this forest has done its work. He is on his way, Ordaana. He is on his way. You have only minutes left, and then He will bless all of us with unimaginable gifts. The world will be made anew.’ He opened his eyes and they were full of tears. ‘It will be made beautiful.’

Ordaana thrashed at his claw with her legs. ‘But how? What do I do?’ Panic gripped her. Revenge was the only thing that made sense of what she had done. Ariel had to die by her hand. ‘How can I kill her?’

There was a booming crash, like the sound of a landslide, as Alkhor launched himself into the air. His ragged wings lifted him with ease, flinging him across the garden with Ordaana still trapped in his claw.

‘Remember the blade, my queen,’ he grinned.

Ordaana panicked at the thought of the silver knife. She could not remember seeing it for weeks. Then, as she looked down at the black bristles of her abdomen, she saw that it was still there, strapped to her rotten hide by a shred of yellow cloth. It glinted dangerously as she grabbed it – a pure, untainted mirror, reflecting a hideous, tormented face.

‘Even an aspect of a god will fall at its touch,’ said Alkhor. ‘Trust me. Its power is more than you could ever imagine.’

Ordaana began to scream as the daemon bore her down towards the remnants of Orion’s army. She did not know if it was a scream of victory, or a scream of terror.

Orion’s breath exploded from his lungs as he and the daemon smashed into an enormous puffball. The fungus exploded, shedding clouds of spores into the air and when Orion and the daemon stood to face each other, they were both dusted white.

The daemon roared and drew back its axe to strike, and Orion stood there, unarmed and too dazed to flee.

A wall of figures crashed into the daemon, driving it back into the punctured ball of fungus and dragging it to its knees.

Orion looked on with pride and awe as the forest protected him. He saw warriors from each of the asrai realms, fighting side-by-side with dryads and tree spirits. When their weapons broke, they fought on, tearing at the daemon with splintered, wooden claws and broken fingernails. Animals followed in their wake, screeching and howling as they covered the daemon’s armour.

Within seconds the daemon had vanished beneath a host of Orion’s subjects.

‘They cannot kill it,’ said Ariel in exhausted tones, as she landed beside him.

The thing had managed to stand, despite being covered in struggling shapes and it was attempting to raise its axe. Flames leaked from its jaws and from the joints of its brass armour, dragging screams from those who were trying to subdue it.

‘No,’ said Orion, facing his queen with an uncharacteristic smile, ‘but they do not fight alone.’

Ariel frowned, then nodded as more bestial shapes rushed passed them. These were no more than shadows – half-glimpsed in the whirling clouds of flies, but Ariel gasped in recognition. ‘The Brúidd.’

The Council of Beasts joined their flesh-bound kin in silence and they moved so fast Orion could barely make out their forms. He saw the hooded figure of the Wrach, hurling serpents from its staff and the frost-coloured wolf, leaping for the daemon’s throat. Then, in a whirl of golden leaves he saw Zephyr, followed by a horned serpent that rose up and sank its long, curved incisors into the daemon’s neck.

The daemon roared, shrugged off some of its attackers and brought down its axe. The blade passed through the Wrach and thudded into the ground without even halting the spirit in its tracks.

Another spirit whirled into view, shrouded in flames. It was a vast, four-winged eagle, with a bone-spear jutting from its chest.

‘Amphion,’ grunted Orion.

The eagle spirit attacked with such fury that the daemon finally gave way, crashing on to its back, even as it batted Amphion away with a roar.

Sensing victory, Orion managed to stand and began hobbling towards the stranded daemon.

As he reached the struggling shapes, a towering spirit rose from the murk and wrenched off the daemon’s brass armour, pulling away most of its crimson chest muscles as the same time.

Orion saw that it was the spirit of an ancient tree – a venerable old thing, driven to fury by the Wild Hunt. It turned to face him and he recognised it as the spirit that hadfreed him from the Wildwood and dressed his wounds with bark. Then it vanished in the whirling crush.

Flames burst from the daemon’s shattered ribcage but, incredibly, it began to rise, reaching out for its axe.

Orion looked around for a weapon but, at that moment, Ariel flew past him, wrenched a sword from the ground and jammed it through the daemon’s arm, pinning it to the ground.

There was another explosion and Ariel was silhouetted for a moment by a wall of flames.

Orion was staggered by the blast, but sensed other figures hurtling past him.

The light failed and Orion saw three wardancers, covering the daemon in a blinding flurry of sword strikes.

The daemon batted two of them away but the third jammed both of his swords deep into its exposed heart.

The daemon roared, arched its back and fell to the ground in a cloud of spores.

A cheer resounded across the garden as the light faded from the daemon’s eyes.

The three wardancers reeled away from the daemon’s corpse and turned to face Orion.

Despite the fury racing through his head, Orion could not help smiling at the sight of Caorann, Sibaris and Alhena staggering towards him, accompanied by a pair of blood-drenched polecats.

The wardancers looked at him with the same awe as everyone else but, as Caorann wiped his blades and bowed, Orion caught a flash of humour in his old friend’s eyes.

Orion nodded in recognition, then turned to see the effect of the wardancers’ work.

The crimson, sword-wielding ranks faltered as they saw what had happened. None of them had expected such a thing. The slaughter stopped and they lowered their blades, looking around to see who would lead them. The neat, orderly ranks began to break up.

Ariel returned to Orion’s side, still clutching her borrowed sword. Her robes were scorched but her eyes were blazing with determination.

Over the next few minutes, the remnants of Orion’s army rushed to his side, waiting on his order. Naieth came staggering through the mounds of bodies accompanied by several of Ariel’s handmaidens. Mälloch the Elder was there, his white bearskin streaked with crimson and a whole cabal of furious sorcerers at his side. Caorann and the other wardancers remained close, twirling their swords and watching proudly over their king. The Council of Beasts shimmered in and out of view, slithering, fluttering and crawling past eyes that would never see them. Finally, leading the scowling, brittle ranks of her sisters, came Drycha. Her bark was stained black with blood and her face was a knot of anger, but she lowered her head to the king as she reached his side.

Orion faltered as he saw that the forest had become one soul, united in wrath, ready for his command.

Someone reached out from the crowd and handed him a spear. The warrior was so drenched in blood that it took Orion a moment to recognise him. Then he noticed the scarred, brutal-looking forehead and the intense scowl.

‘Haldus,’ he growled, taking the weapon and gripping the prince’s arm. The voices in his head were now a deafening howl, joining the cry of the hounds that had gathered around him, begging him to hunt, to kill, but he managed to hold steady for a moment and stand with the loyal prince.

‘You saved me,’ he said and the eyes of the whole army settled on the glowering prince.

Haldus looked humbled and shook his head, but Orion saw the flash of recognition in his eyes.

With his eyes still locked on Haldus, Orion lifted his horn and took a deep breath.

A deafening explosion tore through the air, shaking the ground so violently that Orion was thrown sideways. He landed with a pained grunt and his horn clattered away from his fingers.

As the echoes of the blast faded, a new din rose up in its place. Orion was blinded by dust, but he could tell by the volume of the cries that both armies were howling in shock.

As the dust cleared, Ordaana looked down from her perch in Alkhor’s fist. Two great hosts looked back at her – those who would destroy and those who would preserve. She cared for neither. All that mattered was revenge.

The impact of Alkhor’s landing had left a crater and he leant back in it with a sigh, as though bathing. His flesh was starting to split and crack and Ordaana realised her time was almost up. The Plague God was about to enter the physical realm.

The two armies recovered from their shock at the arrival of Alkhor and continued the battle, lifting swords and spears and renewing the slaughter.

The flies, spores and dust thrown up by the battle made it a bewildering scene. Ordaana began to panic as she scoured the warring figures. Then she saw her. Ariel and Orion were standing not far from the fallen daemon, surrounded by asrai nobles and a bizarre menagerie of animals and tree spirits.

‘Allow me,’ chuckled Alkhor. He was now so massive that his voice caused the ground to shake. He shuffled from the crater and waded through the battle. As he moved, his slug-like bulk crushed hundreds of warriors, filling the air with screams and howls. He seemed oblivious, humming merrily as he approached the king and queen. ‘Ooh,’ he said, smiling as his skin began to fall away, revealing something oily and green beneath.

‘No!’ cried Ordaana drawing the blade. ‘Not until I have my revenge!’ Ariel, Orion and the others were rushing towards her, raising weapons and mouthing spells.

Alkhor was moving with surprising speed and she could already see Ariel’s hateful face. Her mind whirled with sounds and visions. She saw everything she had done to reach this point. As the battle raged around her, the voices of the dying and injured rose up to haunt her. She heard names, cried out in pain and grief. They twisted her thoughts like a drug. So many names. So many memories. So many deaths. Only revenge could justify so many wrongs. Magic swirled around her like the clouds of flies and she felt her body change. As her mind slipped between present and past, her flesh did the same – alternating between a bloated fly-creature and beautiful noblewoman.

Ariel was flying now, rushing towards her.

Alkhor was laughing so hard, Ordaana struggled to keep her balance. His body was breaking apart – revealing something even larger, something coiled within him.

Ordaana took a deep breath and rose up on her six legs. Her body changed again and she was standing on two legs – her slender, asrai body intact once more, draped in the shreds of a lemon-coloured dress. She shook her head to try to clear her thoughts. It did not matter who she was, her purpose was the same.

She drew back her knife as Ariel approached.

The cries of the dying pounded against her and then, with a stomach-churning jolt, she heard the one name she did not expect.

‘Alhena!’ cried a voice from somewhere below.

‘Mother!’ screamed another voice.

Ordaana froze.

Alkhor laughed harder as his skin peeled away from his guts. The smell grew worse as something began dragging itself into the world.

Ariel frowned and hovered in the air, her spell left incomplete.

Ordaana ran along one of Alkhor’s talons and looked down into the crowds. Figures were rushing back and forth, hacking, stabbing and fleeing, but one of them was standing stock still, staring up at her. It was a young, female wardancer, surrounded by a small group of her kinsmen. She had a shaven head, blood splattered across her chest and a look of horrified shock on her face. Her features were horribly familiar. Ordaana felt as though she was looking into a mirror.

‘No,’ breathed Ordaana. ‘It cannot be. It can’t be her.’

Alkhor tried to stifle his laughter. ‘Your chance is almost up.’ He grinned as his face started to slide away. ‘In fact, I think you’re out of time, my queen.’

The clouds grew even darker and Alkhor’s voice shifted into such a low register that the ground shook in response. ‘HE IS HERE.’

Ordaana’s eyes stayed locked on Alhena’s face. ‘You are alive,’ she whispered, numb with shock. ‘I did not kill you.’

Ariel looked in confusion from Ordaana to the wardancer below, her spell still stalled on her lips.

As Alkhor’s flesh bubbled and changed, a dreadful, sulphurous stink filled the air. Ordaana looked around, as though seeing the garden for the first time. The hole in the sky was even wider now and hundreds of daemons were pouring into the world.

‘What have I done?’ she whispered. Her daughter still lived. And now, thanks to Ordaana, her world was about to be destroyed. ‘What have I done?’ she repeated, lifting the silver knife towards her own throat.

‘Alhena!’ howled voices from below.

She looked down and saw that her daughter was surrounded by daemons but unwilling to withdraw. The other wardancers were begging her to flee but she was motionless – staring up at her with such hurt in her eyes that Ordaana sobbed. Her daughter was alive. For all these years Alhena had survived without her love and now she was about to be destroyed by a daemon Ordaana had unleashed.

Something swam up from the depths of Ordaana’s memory. A glimpse of hope. She turned, scampered along Alkhor’s arm and plunged the silver knife into the daemon’s face.

Orion barged and jostled his way through the battling figures, making for the daemon. Ariel was already there, hovering near the thing’s face but, for some reason she had failed to act. Other spellweavers had joined her in the sky but she had signalled that they should not attack.

He broke into the open space near the daemon’s enormous hooves. A terrible stench hit him and he gagged, stumbling backwards.

Haldus, Mälloch and the other nobles were there to steady him and he pressed on through the stink, still clutching the spear Haldus had given him.

The mountain of blubber towered over him as he approached and, when he was still thirty feet away, it let out a shrill, panicked shriek – quite unlike the low rumbles it had previously emitted.

Orion looked up and saw that a noblewoman had somehow reached the daemon’s face. She was hacking at its flesh with a silver blade.

The huge daemon screamed again, crushing the noblewoman in its fist and hurling her to the ground.

A wardancer, standing just a few feet from Orion howled out in grief, but he had no time to wonder why. The daemon was moving, launching itself back into the air, all the while letting out a horrified, keening wail.

Ariel and the other sorcerers moved closer, but Alkhor lifted his huge iron sword and thousands of crows poured from the rusted blade, battering against the spellweavers and thrashing wildly in their faces and robes. Ariel and her handmaidens fell back, struggling against the clouds of birds.

Alkhor pounded his ragged wings and began flying back towards the centre of the garden.

Orion whirled around, looking for a way to follow.

‘My lord!’ cried Haldus, pointing up through the clouds.

Orion looked up and saw Haldus’s enormous warhawk, Nuin, swooping towards him.

Orion leapt as Nuin passed overhead and hauled himself up onto her back as she swooped away after the daemon.

Huge as Nuin was, she struggled for a moment under the weight of her new passenger. Then she managed to regain control and she hurtled across the battlefield. The two armies were milling around in confusion as Alkhor fled, still screaming.

Nuin carried Orion closer, swooping through the flies so fast that he could do little but hang on to her feathers.

They emerged from the clouds just a few feet from the daemon’s face. The combination of the daemon’s face, seen at close quarters, and the dreadful smell oozing from its guts was horrific. Orion gagged but managed to look his foe in the eye.

Alkhor looked terrified. Rather than attack Orion, he reached up to his face, gingerly touching a piece of silver, stuck in his grey skin, just below his eye. As he fingered the knife, his expression changed to one of relief.

Orion saw that the noblewoman’s blade had barely broken the daemon’s skin.

The look of terror had given Orion his cue though. Knowing how the afraid the daemon was of the knife, he leapt from Nuin’s back and rammed the blade deeper into Alkhor’s cheek.

He was engulfed by an explosion of gas and flies and then, as Alkhor’s face collapsed beneath him, he fell into the daemon’s body.

Rather than innards, Orion found himself falling through a whirl of shapes and colours. His mind tried to comprehend the incredible sights washing over him, but it could not. Orion sensed that he was passing through a place of pure magic – pure Chaos. His own body began to dissolve. Countless visions swam out of the madness, dazzling him with their clarity. He saw gods and mortals locked in an endless battle. He saw oceans of fire and rivers of stone. He saw his people battling their metal-clad brethren from across the sea. Finally, he saw a dragon-helmed warrior, lunging towards him with a magic-charged sword and death in his eyes. Then the images began to fade.

And so I die, he thought. The concept seemed oddly abstract – as though he were thinking of someone else. Then another, far more worrying idea came to him. Did I save the forest?

He fell deeper into the whirl of colours with no sense of direction.

Then, as his body grew more faint, other shapes emerged from his chest.

His forebears gathered around him – the other Orions, staring at him with stern, unyielding expressions. Your work is not done, they seemed to say as they dragged him in a new direction.

There was another explosion and Orion was battered by noise, sound and smell: his ears filled with the sound of screaming crows and whirring flies, his eyes filled with the hideous colours of the garden and his nose recoiled from the revolting stink of Alkhor’s flesh.

The ghost Orions remained visible for just a few more seconds as they hurled him away from the daemon.

Orion’s breath exploded from his lungs as he slammed down into a pool of pus and pallid, grass-like toadstools.

Alkhor was directly above him. There was a wide gash running all the way from his face to his belly. Through the hole Orion could see nothing – the same mind-numbing nothing that was hanging in the sky just a few feet away.

The daemon’s scream shifted up several octaves until it passed beyond the point of being audible. His mountainous body was shaking so fast that its outline became blurred. The wound grew wider and then, with an odd tearing sound, it joined with the hole in the air.

At the moment the two holes joined, the thousands of flies that filled the garden began hurtling towards the rift, like smoke sucked up a chimney.

Soon the flies were streaming through the garden in a deafening torrent, causing the two stunned armies to falter and cower.

The flies were followed by the crows. Hundreds upon hundreds of the birds started spinning and tumbling towards the hole in the sky, however furiously they attempted to fly elsewhere.

Orion looked back at Alkhor and saw that the same invisible current was tugging at the daemon’s juddering flesh. Shreds of grey, rotten skin tore free, flying through the air like the pennants of a conquered fortress.

As the wind pulled him Alkhor slumped sideways. There was a loud crack as one of his horns snapped and hurtled from the world.

Oddly, Orion could feel nothing tugging at his own body. As he climbed from the pool, he was able to stand quite easily, despite the storm of debris that was roaring past him.

He looked back to the opening of the gulley, where his army was still waiting, and saw that they too were unaffected.

Their foes were not so lucky. Orion saw that the crimson daemons of Khorne, along with the few remaining plague daemons, were staggering and tumbling towards the hole formed by Alkhor’s collapsing body.

The roaring grew to a deafening volume and Orion clamped his hands over his ears as the daemonhost was wrenched, screaming and howling out of sight.

As the last few monstrosities flew through the air and vanished from view, Alkhor folded in on himself, like water spiralling down a hole.

Then they were gone.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As always, the hunt roared on. The timeless ritual of Kurnous. Ever brutal. Ever wild. Ever pure. The beasts, nobles and spirits of the deepwood host charged through the rotten trees, clawing and screaming as they went, drawn by the howl of their feral king. Only Ariel remained, immune to her lover’s call; watching them leave. Orion and his hounds had already vanished from view, but his horn was still audible over the din, demanding that his subjects submit to the wildness in their soul. She saw familiar faces, bobbing like flotsam in the crowd. Haldus was there, sprinting after his king with pride and madness in his eyes. Even her own handmaidens had been unable to resist such animal fury. With the power of the entire forest behind him, Orion had broken the barrier between the worlds. He had become Kurnous. Dragons tumbled in his wake, roaring and looping as they revelled in the violence.

Ariel’s heart swelled at the sight and for a while she could do nothing but watch. This tribute of blood was what made them whole. This was the pulse of the forest. Then, as the noise and clamour of the hunt faded into the distance, heading for the borders of the forest, Ariel’s heart slowed. As Orion’s horn grew fainter, she felt as though she were emerging from a heady dream. She realised, to her amazement that even she had been possessed by Orion’s power. She smiled, delighted that her eternal consort had become so powerful. Then she turned around and her smile froze.

Ariel was surrounded by the wreckage of their home. As the hunt headed west, towards the wild heath, an eerie quiet descended over the remains of Alkhor’s garden. The plague daemons had vanished and, without Alkhor’s magic to sustain it, the gaudy fungus that covered the forest was shrivelling and withering, crumbling to ash in the sunlight that had been revealed by the destruction of the flies.

The Mage Queen looked up and saw that the sky was as clear and blue as it should be. There was a woodlark spiralling overhead, rising and falling as it sang. She watched it for a while, but the thought of spring gave her no pleasure. They had won the battle. The enemy was gone. The Wild Hunt had begun and the seasons would return, but as Ariel headed back towards Còlgarran Pass it was with a weary, dejected air. She picked her way through the mounds of corpses, helping those she could and realised the full horror of their loss. As the sounds of the hunt faded, its madness left her and she saw the brutal, pitiful truth: the forest was dead.

She saw a young wardancer with a shaven head, sitting in the lee of a bare, broken stump. She was cradling the corpse of a noblewoman and singing to her in cracked, husky tones. Ariel stopped to listen and realised it was a lullaby. She recognised a couple of lines and mouthed the words.

Sleep my child, in new green leaves;

Drop your worries from the eaves.

There was so much pain in the wardancer’s voice that Ariel struggled to contain her own grief. She staggered to a halt and closed her eyes. The plaintive song seemed to be an elegy for the whole forest. Ariel looked around with growing shock. Where the plague had receded it left nothing but a barren wasteland. The blight was falling from the few trees that still stood, but all that remained were broken, lifeless shells. They had lost their soul.

Ariel pounded her wings and launched herself from the battlefield, flying low through Còlgarran Pass and out into the wider forest. Wherever she looked, the story was the same. The forest was a shattered corpse. Its spirit had gone.

She made a haphazard course over a latticework of bare branches but, however far she flew, the song of the wardancer still rang in her ears, haunting her with its grief.

After hours of mindless wandering, Ariel finally landed on a muddy verge, near the banks of a fast-flowing stream.

‘What do I do?’ she said, staring at her pale reflection. Her robes were in tatters and stained with daemon-blood and she was still clutching the sword she had stolen from the corpse. She tossed the blade in the stream. The water was clear and she saw the blade settle onto the sun-dappled rocks.

No answer came and Ariel clutched her head. She was born to preserve and heal, but the forest was beyond her help. The physical damage would be nothing if its soul was still intact, but Ariel knew that it was not. This was a far more profound hurt. The plague had stolen the very essence of her home. And she herself had played her part. She and her consort had killed the Great Stag. With Sativus gone, there could be no healing. The forest spirits would scatter and fade.

There was a muffled clatter as the sword moved to one side, nudged by the current of the water. The morning light flashed along its blade and threw an odd shape over the stone. It was as though the blade were pointing to something – something downstream.

Ariel stepped into the water. The cold clamped around her naked feet, aching deep in her bones, but there was something cleansing about the sensation that calmed her. She knelt and washed away the grime of battle, dunking her head beneath the surface and gasping at the cold. Then, when she was clean, she began walking downstream.

The sensation of the current, gently hurrying her across the rocks, gave her an odd sense of purpose. Despite her despair, she gave in to the feeling, stepping quickly over the silt and stones.

The sun rolled higher as she spent the morning in this pointless pursuit. Then, as midday turned the stream into a sheet of dazzling gold, she noticed something struggling on the far bank – thrashing and rolling in the shallows. She bent down to examine it and saw that it was a tiny, lime-green frog.

Ariel held it gently in her palm, feeling the patter of its tiny heart against her skin. The creature had broken its back and was clearly in pain.

Shame washed over Ariel. How could she have forgotten herself like this? The forest may have lost its lifeblood, but she had not. The gods had given her a clear purpose. She could not save the forest, but if there was one soul that she could nurse back to health, it was her duty to do so.

As her determination returned, so did her attendants. As Ariel lifted the frog to her mouth and blew over its skin, her robes flickered into life – glittering with bestial spirits.

Her breath washed over the frog like a coat of liquid silver, shimmering and flashing, before slipping in through its mouth.

The frog shivered in Ariel’s palm and she smiled as she saw its back straighten.

Then she frowned. The creature was healed, but it continued to shiver. The silver light blazed brighter, until Ariel had to shield her eyes.

The frog continued shivering in her palm and, when she looked again, she saw that it had been transformed into a tiny fledgling.

Confused, she laid it carefully on the ground, in a bed of ashes and scarred earth.

The bird flew away from her, singing cheerfully as it soared over the dead trees.

Ariel flew after it, with a growing sense of wonder.

The bird landed near the hollow trunk of a blasted oak, then, as Ariel landed nearby, it vanished inside.

She moved to follow, then stumbled to a halt as it re-emerged, transformed for a second time. Ariel laughed, recognising an old friend. The bird had become a proud, white stag.

The animal trotted out into the light, its eyes locked on Ariel.

She noticed something rattling around its neck and reached out to touch it.

The stag did not flinch, but continued watching her calmly with its huge, black eyes.

Ariel frowned as she touched the object. It was a snake-bone necklace.

Then, as Ariel’s fingers brushed against the stag’s neck, the animal bolted, leaving her alone next to the hollow trunk.

Ariel’s eyes filled with tears and she began to smile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darius Hinks’s first novel, Warrior Priest, won the David Gemmell Morningstar award for best newcomer. Since then he has carved a bloody swathe through the Warhammer world in works such as The Island of Blood, Sigvald and Razumov’s Tomb, along with the epic Orion trilogy, consisting of The Vaults of Winter, Tears of Isha and The Council of Beasts. He has also ventured into the Warhammer 40,000 universe with the Space Marine Battles novella Sanctus.

For Arthur. (I promise to come out of the shed now.)

With thanks to Kathryn, Nick and Eddie for helping

me find a safe path through the forest.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2014 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

© Games Workshop Limited 2014. All rights reserved.

Cover illustration by Slawomir Maniak.
Internal illustration by Nuala Kinrade.

Black Library, the Black Library logo, Warhammer, the Warhammer logo, Time of Legends, the Time of Legends logo, Games Workshop, the Games Workshop logo and all associated brands, names, characters, illustrations and images from the Warhammer universe are either ®, ™ and/or © Games Workshop Ltd 2000-2014, variably registered in the UK and other countries around the world. All rights reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-78251-549-4

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise except as expressly permitted under license from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.