With a roar that made the ground tremble the draig surged up the steps of the dais, sending one giant hurtling through the air, its claws raking a serpent’s torso while its jaws clamped on another giant. Nathair slashed either side at wyrm and giant. Calidus and Sumur rode behind him, swords swinging in bloody arcs, hundreds of Jehar following their lead. Giants and wyrms surged forwards to meet them, bodies slamming into horses and riders, axes and hammers swinging in this last great defence of their guarded treasure.
Uthas was there, Salach his shieldman close by, attacking the last protectors of the cauldron. A giant saw Uthas. An expression of utter rage swept its face and it threw itself at Uthas, both of them falling to the ground, rolling down the steps, the other giant wrapping fingers around Uthas’ throat.
They tumbled across the floor, grappling, then Salach was above them, his axe hovering. He hesitated in striking — the two giants were too closely locked — so he reversed his axe and struck down sharply; Uthas’ attacker went limp. Uthas climbed to his feet, Salach helping him, his victim lay motionless on the ground.
‘I am sorry, Morc,’ Cywen heard Uthas say.
She suddenly realized that silence had fallen on the chamber. The battle was over.
The Jehar moved amongst the fallen, here and there stilling the twitching of a wyrm’s tail or holding the hand of a wounded comrade or ending their pain with a sharp blade, speeding them on their journey across the bridge of swords. Nathair had dismounted from his draig and was now standing before the cauldron. It stood almost as tall as him, a squat, malignant presence. Nathair stared at it with a look of ecstasy upon his face. Calidus moved up beside him, reaching out a hand towards the cauldron. There was something hesitant in the gesture. As his fingertips touched the black metal a spasm passed through him. He stayed like that for a while, head bowed, hand pressed against the cauldron’s belly. Then he turned, a sudden energy filling him.
‘We will not delay. We will perform the ceremony now.’
‘Is that wise? We are not secure here,’ Nathair said.
‘The cauldron is a weapon. Let us use it. We can open a gateway to the Otherworld right now.’
‘Not alone. The other Treasures are needed for that to be possible,’ said Uthas.
‘We have the starstone axe,’ Calidus said, pointing at Alcyon. ‘The gateway will be narrow, but it will be enough.’
‘A gateway for the Ben-Elim?’ Nathair asked. He looked unsure, suddenly.
‘Yes, the Ben-Elim. With a host of angels at your back the Dark Sun will soon be crushed. Victory will be certain.’
Nathair stared at him; a silence lengthened, then he gave a curt nod.
‘Good. I need blood, from a heart that still beats.’ Calidus’ gaze swept the room.
Alcyon moved slightly, stepping in between Calidus and Cywen. She saw the giant’s hand reach to his belt and draw a knife from its sheath, cutting the rope that bound them together. For a moment their eyes locked.
Someone groaned, the giant who had fought Uthas. He moved.
‘He’ll do,’ Calidus said. ‘Uthas, bring him to me.’
‘Not him,’ Uthas said.
‘I need a sacrifice, now. It could be you, or your shieldman.’ Calidus took a step towards Uthas, who stood frozen for a moment, then Cywen saw something crumble within him.
Uthas and Salach lifted the semi-conscious giant and carried him up the steps.
Cywen peered around the bulk of Alcyon, her curiosity getting the better of her.
Calidus slit the giant’s throat.
‘What are you doing?’ Nathair cried.
‘Throw him in,’ Calidus ordered, ignoring Nathair. Uthas and Salach heaved the giant’s body into the cauldron, blood pumping from its throat.
Calidus’ voice rang out, loud and harsh.
‘Fuil de beatha gen oscail an bealach, dorcha aingeal eirifeoil.’
Silence fell, heavier than the mountain about them. Calidus’ voice rose again, more fiercely.
Cywen felt a vibration, a deep base hum, in her feet, spreading through her body. The pressure grew in her ears; she found it hard to draw breath, as though the air was being sucked from the room, and the cauldron blurred, the air around it growing dark, as if it were leaking night.
‘Gather before the first born,’ Calidus cried out, his voice almost shrill against the deep rumble that pulsed through the chamber. ‘Welcome them to this world of flesh.’ He gestured for the Jehar to step forwards, and uncertainly they approached the dais, hundreds of them, their numbers greatly reduced from the host of two thousand that had ridden through the gates of Murias.
Sumur stood with them, facing the cauldron, a look of rapt wonder on his face.
A darkness formed at the rim of the cauldron, overflowing as if a black liquid were boiling within. It streamed into the air, a dark roiling cloud, expanding before their eyes, churning, a lighting storm within it.
‘Bow before the Ben-Elim,’ Calidus said. Sumur fell to his knees, followed by the rest of the Jehar.
A shaft of darkness from the cloud lanced out, piercing Sumur’s chest. His arms spread wide, his body convulsing. Other shafts, hundreds of them, simultaneously impaled the remaining Jehar, until every single one of them writhed transfixed upon a spear of darkness. They started to scream.
Cywen was terrified; a wave of crippling, all-consuming terror numbed her mind and filled her veins with ice. Beside her Shield whinnied and stamped the ground, his ears flat to his skull.
Cywen saw a flicker of movement, up and to her left. She blinked.
Is that a bird? A black smudge fluttered high in the chamber, on the edge of shadow. No — two black smudges. They circled, then plummeted straight down, swooping upon Uthas, their talons outstretched.
Their attack took Uthas by surprise. One crashed into his face, talons raking, the other gripped his back and pecked at his head. Uthas flailed wildly with his arms, a scream of shock and pain bursting from his lips. The birds rose higher, out of range, hovering, looking for an opportunity to plunge down again. Then Cywen heard it, a croaking torrent of speech flowing from one of them.
‘Betrayer,’ it squawked, time and time again.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN
MAQUIN
Maquin dropped his weapons to the ground. A hush fell upon the crowd, then they were yelling, hissing and booing. Maquin sat in the mud beside Orgull.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I cannot do it.’
Then Vin Thalun were running across the arena, big Emad ahead of them all, reaching him first.
‘Get up, finish him,’ the guard ordered.
Maquin just glared at him.
Emad aimed a kick at him; Maquin rolled to the side, came up on his feet, ducked a hook aimed at his jaw, slapped another kick away.
‘Finish him,’ Emad yelled. The crowd were roaring now, the sound deafening. Maquin’s eyes flickered left and right, saw more Vin Thalun bearing down on him. A blow struck his chest — Emad, seeing his distraction. He collapsed to the ground, fighting for breath. Emad stood over him and drew a knife from his belt.
‘Last chance,’ the guard said. ‘You live or die in the pit; you know that.’
‘Go eat shit,’ Maquin said.
Then Emad exploded.
A great tear in his flesh opened up from his shoulder to his belly, blood and bone showering Maquin. An axe-blade ripped clear of the wound as Emad collapsed. Orgull stood framed behind him.
He reached out a hand and Maquin took it, snatching up Emad’s knife as he rose. Guards were descending on them now, more pouring from the tiers. Maquin glimpsed Lykos, his face contorted with rage.