An arrow sank into its chest, making it stagger.
Dath. He was standing a dozen paces behind Corban, drawing another arrow to his ear, letting fly. It hit the possessed Jehar in the throat. It grabbed the shaft and tore it out.
Corban saw Farrell and Coralen attack it, Farrell smashing his hammer into its knee, Coralen darting in and sinking her wolven claws into its back. It just seemed to make it more angry, a white foam frothing from its jaws. Then Gar was there, his sword a blur, beside him Akar, the two of them working together now.
Corban snatched his sword from the ground, flexed his wolven claws and ran at the beast. As he did, he saw a flash of white to his side, Storm loping in close, then bounding away. With a burst of speed she hurled herself at the Kadoshim, slammed into his chest, jaws clamping around his head, teeth sinking deep. They both crashed to the ground. The creature writhed, great muscular spasms, Storm refusing to let go. Its hands sank into her fur, deeper, spots of blood welling about each finger. She whined, but still she would not let go.
Buddai appeared, bit into the creature’s knee, shaking it.
Corban saw the creature’s muscles standing taught, veins rigid. He screamed, remembering the man torn in two, and hurled himself forward, slashing wildly, hacking into its belly, its thigh.
Storm’s body spasmed and she shook her head, violently. There was a popping sound, then a wet ripping and she staggered away, spitting the beast’s head from her jaws.
Its body convulsed violently, feet kicking, arms flailing, blood leaking like oil from its neck. It stiffened, a black vapour boiling out from it, issuing from every pore, converging above the spasming body. It took shape, human-like, but with great leathery wings upon its back, glowing amber eyes like hot coals sweeping them. The mist figure screeched, a frustrated rage, then evaporated, melting into the air. The body on the ground collapsed, abruptly limp.
‘So that’s how you kill them,’ said Farrell.
‘Their heads,’ Gar yelled. ‘Take their heads.’ The cry went up about them, spreading through the chamber.
‘Ban, with me,’ Gar said to him, then turned to Cywen and Gwenith, standing close together again. He pushed them towards the exit, calling to Farrell, Dath and Coralen. They all ran, Storm limping after them, Buddai beside her. Corban saw more of the mist figures appearing about the room, swirling in the air — only a few, here and there.
The Jehar are taking their heads. The shapes screeched their fury as they evaporated, banished back to the Otherworld after only brief moments in the world of flesh.
Corban and his companions wove through the battle, calling to comrades as they passed them, gathering them, rushing towards the archway and safety. He saw Brina, still wielding her flaming sword, stabbing it into the arm of a Kadoshim that was busily pulling the limbs from a Jehar warrior. Flames rushed from the blade, engulfing the Kadoshim. It dropped the remains of the warrior in its arms and stumbled away, shrieking, a torch of flesh.
The clash of arms grew in pitch behind him. He risked a glance back and saw a man appear from the crowd — tall and silver haired, a red sword in his hand. Shadows danced behind him, a dark cloak that floated like wings. His eyes fixed on Corban. One of the Jehar swirled in front of him, sword chopping downwards. With an effortless shrug the old man blocked the blow, his sword blurring in fluid movement and then the Jehar was falling away, blood spurting from his throat. The old man stalked forwards, straight towards Corban.
Run. I must run. But something held Corban in place, kept him from fleeing. Instead, he found himself turning, lifting his sword, flexing his wolven claws, shifting his balance to face this man.
Other Jehar attacked the old man, all sent reeling away, blood spurting.
Corban moved forwards, raising his sword. It felt as if time had slowed around him. One of the Kadoshim came roaring at him and he swerved out of its path, swung his sword two-handed and saw its head fly spinning through the air. The creature’s body stumbled on, then crumpled to the floor, mist congealing into a winged form above it, quickly melting into ragged tatters.
Then they were standing before each other. The old man regarded him with amber eyes.
‘Bright Star,’ the man said, lifting his sword and dipping his head; a recognition.
‘Who are you?’ Corban said.
‘Your death.’
Corban heard voices behind him, calling his name, then his blade was moving, blocking a blow that moved faster than he thought possible. He pushed his enemy’s sword high, over his head, and stepped in fast, raking his wolven claws across the old man’s belly. They sparked on chainmail, breaking links but nothing else. The old man smiled at him. Then Corban was retreating, their swords clashing, incandescent arcs tracing the flow of exchanges, a discordant melody of violence.
Corban stumbled and the man was on him, pushing his guard away, a hand gripping Corban by the throat, pulling him close.
‘I knew you would come,’ the man said. ‘You pathetic creatures, risking all for love.’
Corban heaved a knee into the man’s groin and his grip loosened. Corban staggered back, stumbling and falling onto his back. The old man followed, but something slammed into his shoulder, making him stagger back a pace. An arrow.
Dath.
Then Gar was leaping over Corban, standing before him, sword raised. The old man snarled at him, an annoyance, and launched into a blistering combination of blows, the arrow in his shoulder seeming to have little effect on him. Gar swerved to the left, trying to lead the old man away from Corban. He blocked a dozen blows, then stepped into an attack of his own; Corban heard their blades clash, six, seven times, more. When they separated, the old man was bleeding from a thin cut along his forehead; blood dripped from Gar’s elbow.
The old man touched a hand to his wound, then licked his fingertips. With shocking speed he powered forwards. Gar took an overhead blow on his blade, his legs spread, braced against the force of the attack. For heartbeats both stood there, the old man looking as if he was trying to grind Gar into the ground, Gar standing like an oak in a storm. Then Farrell suddenly appeared, ploughing into them. They went down in a mass, rolling together. The old man rose first, Gar spinning free. Farrell clambered to one knee and the old man struck out, punching him in the chest, sending him crashing to the floor. Gar rushed in, but the old man kicked out, a boot connecting full with Gar’s gut, hurling him away. The old man’s eyes swung back to Corban.
Corban realized he was still on the ground. He staggered to his feet as the old man strode towards him. Their swords clashed, a brief flurry, then Corban was tripping over a body, dropping to one knee. The old man snarled, a victory grin, raising his sword. Abruptly he stopped, frowning, gazing at his chest. A knife hilt protruded from it. There was another impact and he reeled back a step, another knife hilt poking from his shoulder.
Mam.
She ran past Corban, spear levelled at the old man. Cywen and Coralen appeared either side of Corban, hooking arms under him and hoisting him to his feet.
‘Very touching,’ Corban heard the old man say.
Gwenith stood before him, her spear raised. She thrust with all her strength as the old man surged forwards, but he slashed once, splintering the spear shaft, then again, Corban hearing the sound of iron impacting on flesh, a solid blow. He stared at his mam, saw her sway, then she collapsed in front of him.
He screamed, yanking his arms free from Cywen and Coralen, but before he could charge at the old man another figure was there, Meical.