The Forest should know the truth. Who could say what part its ancient will might play in the unfolding events?
As he looked up, the wavering columns seemed to be both cold stone and gnarled trunks. He had a momentary vision of Ethriss binding a wounded place with a strange knowledge that he had found and that he himself did not understand, a knowledge that he suspected perhaps was older than his own.
Was this where his own doubts began? In the Great Forest?
Hawklan let the thought pass and extended a placating hand to Dar-volci.
‘Far worse than the Great Evil returns,’ he said inwardly, to the Forest.
A deep silence filled him, listening.
‘Your judgement – the judgement you most feared and that you revealed to Farnor – has been sound. That which ended the time before and remade all things was indeed deeply flawed. Now a wind is coming that may uproot and scatter us all beyond any knowing. All your wisdom and knowledge, all that you are, is needed to oppose it. And that of Farnor and Thyrn.’
The silence lingered for a moment. Then, timelessly, Hawklan felt a myriad sky-turning seasons pass through him as, with a fleeting hint of both gratitude and terror, the Forest went from him.
He did not move for some time.
‘Are you all right, dear boy?’
Gavor’s anxious tones brought him to himself again. ‘It was the Forest,’ he said, attempting no explanation. ‘The Forest and the Labyrinth are joined. They’ve taken Farnor and Thyrn to shelter them. I told them the truth.’
Dar-volci and Gavor looked at him steadily, then both said, ‘Funny things, trees.’
‘Still, better they know than they don’t,’ Dar-volci added. ‘You did right.’
Hawklan was less convinced. Andawyr had judged him to be somehow pivotal in the pending events but he had only a growing sense of inadequacy and ignorance. He looked around. As before, the columns seemed to be both stone shafts and tree trunks.
But now, in one direction, it was lighter. He pointed.
‘That way.’
Pinnatte’s eyes were full of pain and desperation. Within the wavering lights he had created could be seen two worlds. One, alive with mingling rivers of molten rock, its wound-red sky black-streaked with choking smoke and lit by a rain of blazing stones. The other, stark and dead – a bitter landscape, so cold that the wind itself was frozen and ancient mountains had been crushed and remade into buttressing heights and frozen cascades of glittering ice.
The two Uhriel, held by the lights in the space which was of no world, struggled frantically to escape, their steeds rearing and screaming.
The Goraidin moved forward hesitantly.
‘Keep away from me,’ Pinnatte gasped. ‘Keep away from the Gateways. I thought I could send them through, but… I can’t… I’m not strong enough, I…’ Sweat was running down his face and he was swaying. He was obviously weakening.
‘What can we do?’ Yatsu shouted.
‘Whatever you have to if they break free,’ Pinnatte managed. ‘You’ll have little time. I can…’
Then he was sinking to his knees and the Uhriel were redoubling their efforts.
The Gateways closed.
Pinnatte slumped forward.
The Goraidin needed no discussion to determine their actions and only a brief flurry of hand signals presaged their plunging forward towards the suddenly released Uhriel.
Swift and cruel sword strokes cut the throats of the two foul mounts before their riders could fully control them, while others hacked and thrust at the two Uhriel as they fell amid a confusion of flailing legs and writhing bodies. Though it was not in the nature of any of the Goraidin to murder, the ability to kill quickly and efficiently was something they took a dark pride in – it was a necessary part of their profession. They brought it to bear now, four of them setting on each of the fallen Uhriel while Marna and Gentren stood back, looking to reach Pinnatte through the fray.
But it was to no avail.
Whatever armour it was that the Uhriel wore, it withstood such blows as struck it. But, more frightening by far, though many well-placed points struck through open joints and at exposed flesh, and though wounds gaped and what might have been blood poured out, the Uhriel did not fall.
Marna felt her mouth parch and the blood drain from her face as she watched both of them rising to their feet despite a hail of attacks that would have killed a score of men. A seemingly deliberate slowness of their movements added a further horror to the sight. Her stomach was hard with a cold terror as she saw them look around at their futile attackers. Attackers on the faces of whom Marna saw open fear.
Yet they pressed their savage attacks relentlessly.
Until the Uhriel drew their own swords.
Devices of strange vanity for such powerful creatures, they were long and bright, and they shimmered and sang like the Uhriel themselves as they cut through the blue light. Then the roles of the fighters were reversed as the two moved against the many. The swords, moving from hand to hand and swinging in wide and unexpectedly swift arcs, forced the Goraidin out into a defensive circle. Injured though they had been by the Goraidin’s assault, any hurt done to the Uhriel had not been sufficient to still their intent. Bleeding and ghastly, they moved towards Pinnatte whom Marna and Gentren had finally managed to drag to comparative safety.
Marna looked at Pinnatte, now barely conscious, and understood.
‘He’s still binding them somehow!’ she shouted. ‘That’s why they can’t use the Power. Kill them! Kill them now, while you can! Quickly!’
She drew her own sword and stood in front of Pinnatte, as did Gentren. The air was ringing with the high screeching of the Uhriel and the dreadful sound of their whirling swords. Yrain attempted to parry a scything blow from Dowinne but the impact tore her blade from her grasp and sent it spinning high into the blue air. Only long-sharpened reflexes took her backwards quickly enough to avoid Dowinne’s shrilling point. As it was, it slashed through the slack of her tunic. The gash became blue and crystalline. Yengar and Jaldaric lost their swords similarly whilst Tirke’s was shattered and his arm numbed into uselessness. There was a momentary lull, then knives were drawn and the Goraidin were rushing into the backwash of the swinging swords to attack their foes. But, stripped though they might have been of the Power, the Uhriel were still oblivious of the wounds they were receiving and were also possessed of great physical strength. One by one, the Goraidin were hurled back across the rock terrain.
Then the Uhriel were at Pinnatte, the Goraidin, exhausted and broken, scattered about them. Dowinne’s sword swung in a broad, singing arc over them, while Rannick faced Gentren and Marna, his whitened eyes and blasted face alive with hatred.
Marna stared back at him with an expression that was little better, though she tried to look through what he had become to what he had been before they had both been drawn into this nightmare – vicious and cruel, but still human, still vulnerable. But there was nothing there, no weakness in him to wring out pity in her. Teeth bared like a cornered animal, she tightened her grip on her sword and held it high.
Rannick paused momentarily, his head inclined as though he were listening to something. Then, as she struck at him, his arm swung up dismissively and knocked her off her feet. She landed several paces away. Gentren replaced her, crouching low and as determined as he was terrified. He met the same fate.
Rannick looked down at Pinnatte for a moment, a dreadful smile lighting his dead face. He raised his sword.
‘No!’
It was Olvric. The Goraidin, grim-faced and bloodstained and with a bone protruding from a useless arm, was levering himself up on his sword. Dowinne could have struck him, but she hesitated, as did Rannick. For a frozen moment, it seemed as if the ground beneath their feet was coming alive, as those Goraidin who were still conscious struggled to follow Olvric’s lead.
Doomed they might be, but not defeated.