CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY

CORBAN

Corban held Gar in his arms. Blood was pulsing from the wound in Gar’s torso, soaking through his shirt and mail, breath a stuttering, blood-speckled whisper on his lips. Slowly Gar’s legs gave way and he slumped to the ground, Corban lowering him gently. Tears blurred Corban’s eyes as he crouched with his mentor and greatest friend. He knew there was no coming back from a wound like that.

“Hold on,” Corban whispered, his voice cracking. Gar’s head came up, trying to say something, Corban lowered his ear.

“Calidus,” Gar breathed.

Corban looked up, saw the Kadoshim coming at him and threw himself backwards to avoid a swing that would have taken his head, feeling pain exploding in his shoulder from Asroth’s blow, and a hundred other places. Corban rolled to his feet, saw Calidus stepping over Gar’s body.

He saw his sword on the ground, snatched it up and raised it, trying to control the grief and hatred that was boiling within him.

A Ben-Elim swept down from above, sword slashing at Calidus. The Kadoshim ducked, swinging his own sword, missing, the Ben-Elim reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Calidus’ mail shirt, heaving him into the air with powerful beats of his wings, Calidus was twisting in his grip, trying to bring his sword to bear. Higher and higher.

Corban ran after them, tracking Calidus as he was carried higher, weaving amongst Ben-Elim and Kadoshim.

“CORBAN,” voices shouted, and Corban turned, saw Cywen, Farrell and Dath yelling, beckoning to him. He gave a last look to Calidus’ disappearing figure.

“Kill him,” he whispered to the Ben-Elim, then turned and ran back, stooping to check Gar, who was ashen pale, the shallowest of breaths within his chest. With a grimace, Corban hurried to Cywen, not wanting to leave Gar, but knowing the destruction of the Treasures was what they had all risked their lives for this day. He would not betray Gar by abandoning that quest now. Cywen was standing before the cauldron. When she saw him coming, she threw a vial into its belly, saw it flickering with dark light. Sweat was pouring from her head, her body stooped.

“I need more,” Cywen said.

“More what?” Corban asked.

“The blood of an enemy,” she gasped.

Corban remembered Calidus heaving Brina and Laith into the cauldron. He signalled to Farrell, and together they grabbed a Kadoshim corpse from the ground and heaved it up and into the cauldron, its body slipping between the Ben-Elim that still poured through.

“Fuil ar mo namhaid, cumhacht chun mo focail, seoda ó deannaigh ar ais go dtí anois deannaigh,” Cywen cried, raising her arms, and behind them the other Treasures hummed with power.

“Now,” Cywen shouted, “throw the Treasures in.”

Corban turned and ran, swerving across the dais, the dozen paces to the spear seeming far greater, Kadoshim and Ben-Elim everywhere, Dath and Farrell either side of him. A Kadoshim swooped down at him, blade raised, and their swords rang out, Corban ducking as he slashed high, cut through chainmail. Blood gushed down onto him, the Kadoshim crashed to the stone.

Then he was standing before the spear and snatched it up, the necklace, too, saw Dath grab the torc and cup and Farrell hefting the axe and running for the dagger, then Corban was sprinting back to Cywen.

A burst of wings slammed down before him: Meical and Asroth, still fighting, one side of Asroth’s face slick and matted with blood, one of Meical’s wings hanging limp. They rolled on the ground, snarling, spitting, cursing one another, blades clashing.

Corban swerved around them, heard Cywen screaming at him, yelling for him to bring her the spear and necklace. Dath and Farrell were already throwing their Treasures into the cauldron’s maw. Corban ran as Asroth rolled on top of Meical, raked his face with his taloned fingers and clamped his fist around Meical’s throat; Meical was trying to rise.

Corban reached Cywen.

“Throw them in throw them in throw them in,” she cried, muttering her chant. A tear of blood leaked from one of her eyes.

Corban hurled the spear and necklace into the cauldron.

The cauldron swelled, rippling, expanding, in and out as if it were breathing, but with each breath it grew larger, and it began to glow, heat rippling out in waves, bubbles appearing in the iron.

“RUN,” Cywen yelled, and they all did, hurling themselves away from the cauldron, past Asroth and Meical, who were still struggling together, Asroth beating his wings, trying to fly away, Meical hauling him back down, hands reaching for the Kadoshim’s throat. Dath was first off the dais. A Kadoshim was flying overhead, and Corban yelled a warning as the Kadoshim stabbed down with his spear. Dath twisted and the spear pierced his back instead of his neck. Corban surged forwards and grabbed Dath, lifting him, Dath groaning, lolling in his arms as Corban ran on. He glanced back, saw Cywen stumble and Farrell swept her up and threw her over his shoulder. Behind them the cauldron was swelling impossibly huge, bloated, and then there was a booming crack, all light was sucked into the cauldron, and for a pulsing heartbeat the chamber was drenched in utter darkness, then a burst of white light, blinding, a concussive explosion of air that hurled Corban from his feet, and molten liquid was fountaining out from the cauldron, glowing hot, incandescent, raining down upon the dais, upon Asroth and Meical, screams, a great hiss and a cloud of expanding steam engulfing the room. Corban climbed to his feet, lifted Dath, who seemed to be unconscious now, and tried to find Gar in the murk. He heard Storm growling and snapping and made his way to her. He found her with a pile of Kadoshim corpses heaped about her which she had slain while standing over Coralen.

He lay Dath down, felt his pulse, ripping cloth to bind the wound, then checked Coralen. She was still unconscious, but groaned a little when he moved her.

And then the cloud of steam was melting away. Corban saw Farrell and Cywen lying on the ground, knocked flat by the blast. Upon the dais the cauldron was gone, the other Treasures vanished with it. The Gateway to the Otherworld was closed; no longer was a flood of Ben-Elim or Kadoshim pouring into the room. And upon the dais still were Asroth and Meical, Asroth standing with wings unfurled, spread wide, Meical gripping him, pulling him back, the two of them locked together in snarling combat, frozen, captured forever within a cooling skin of iron.