CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR

CORBAN

Corban kicked Calidus in the belly, doubling the Kadoshim up, punched him on the temple, dropping him to one knee, then kicked him in the head, sending him arching back into the air, high, to slam to the grey-cloaked ground. Calidus lay there, his breath ragged, a groan escaping his lips. He flapped his leather-dark wings, but to no obvious effect.

They were in the Otherworld, and Corban was finishing what he’d started in the world of flesh. They were in a valley with steep-sided cliffs, a flowing river of deep blue beside them, the grass growing green.

This is where I first came. When I saw Meical speak to the Ben-Elim. This river leads to a lake.

He shuddered as he remembered his last visit here, and his encounter with the creature that lived within the waters there.

“Get up,” he said to the Kadoshim now, striding over and kicking him in the ribs, lifting Calidus off the ground. Corban felt a pain in his belly, low, above his hip, but it was a dull, muted pain, one that he could ignore.

“No, stop,” Calidus spluttered as Corban followed him and kicked him again. Corban didn’t stop. He dragged Calidus to his feet and punched him in the gut, hauled him back up by his braid-bound hair, silver even in this eternal world, though his features were more reptilian here, a scaly quality to his skin. And he had wings.

“What are you doing here?” Calidus said, a line of spittle dripping from his mouth as he pulled away, stumbling back.

Corban strode after him, drawing the sword at his hip. He looked at it a moment, saw that it was still the sword his da had made him, wolven-pommelled, though it was different here, burning with a cold fire. Calidus held a hand out.

“I’m going to finish what I began on Drassil’s steps,” Corban said. “I’m going to kill you.”

Calidus choked back a laugh. “You can’t,” he hissed.

“Watch me,” Corban snarled and chopped at Calidus two-handed. His sword sheared through Calidus, from collarbone to hip, but as Corban’s sword passed through his body the wound healed up, became a raw, inflamed scar, like the wound upon Calidus’ neck.

Calidus screamed and collapsed writhing upon the ground, but still smiled up at Corban with bloody teeth.

“What I mean,” Calidus said, gasping, “is that it is virtually impossible to destroy a soul. Wounds that would cause death in your world do not have the same effect here…We could do this for an eternity.” He looked up at Corban. “You’ve won. Asroth is imprisoned. Our plans lie in ruins, our hosts vanquished. Is that not enough for you?”

“No, it’s not,” Corban growled and raised his sword again, but it hovered at its apex. As much as Calidus deserved an eternity of pain, Corban was not one for torture. A painful death, yes. But torture…?

Then he had a thought.

He reached down and grabbed Calidus by a leathery wing and began to drag him across the grass until they reached the lake with the red-leaved tree beside it.

“What are we doing here?” Calidus said, a new edge of fear creeping into his voice.

Corban put a hand to his mouth and shouted.

“VIATHUN,” he yelled, and waited.

“What?” Calidus said, the fear in his voice rising a level. “What are you doing? Not hi—”

Corban punched Calidus in the gut again, dropping him to his knees.

The waters of the lake bubbled and boiled, and a figure appeared: a man, wrapped in a black flowing cloak. He rose out of the lake, visible to the waist, and began to speed towards them, as if the water were carrying him on a great wave. He stepped onto the lakeshore and approached them, oil-dark hair, his skin grey-mottled and dark-veined, cloak swirling around him like a living thing.

Corban remembered it well, and hoped that he wasn’t making a mistake.

Viathun stopped a score of paces before them and looked first at Calidus, upon his knees, and then up at Corban.

“Welcome back,” Viathun said. “A surprise.”

“Aye. For me, too,” Corban said. “I am hoping that this visit will be more mutually beneficial than the last one.”

“Well, the Ben-Elim tried to poke me full of holes last time, so that shouldn’t be hard.”

“Aye, and you tried to eat my soul,” Corban said.

“We all have our appetites.” Viathun shrugged.

“Are you hungry now?” Corban asked.

Calidus whimpered, tried to flap away, but Corban held his wings tight.

“Always,” Viathun grinned, revealing the tips of very sharp teeth.

“Well, here you are, then,” Corban said, hurling Calidus forwards, “though I don’t imagine he tastes very nice.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Viathun replied.

Calidus tried to run, but he was weak and feeble, and Viathun’s cloak was viper-fast, oily tendrils whipping out and wrapping around Calidus’ ankles and wrists, around his throat, coiling and flexing tight.

“What do you want in return?” Viathun asked.

“I want to go home,” Corban said. “Back to my body in the world of flesh.”

“That’s a trifle,” Viathun said, “not a fair trade, really.”

“Well, then let’s say you owe me.”

Viathun grinned then, his mouth suddenly too big for his face, teeth long and sharp and glistening.

“We have a pact,” Viathun said.

“You can still stop this,” Calidus said. “Please, I can help you. You and I, we could achieve great things together, Corban, PLEASE.” The last word was screamed, as Viathun’s cloak began to drag Calidus down the lakeshore.

“This is called justice,” Corban said to him, face hard as stone. He turned and began walking away.

“You pathetic excuse for a man, you have not won here, you can never win,” Calidus spat after him. “Your mother screamed when I killed her, do you remember the blood on her lips?”

“I do,” Corban whispered, and carried on walking. He heard Viathun whispering words as he dragged Calidus into the lake, Calidus’ screaming rising in pitch, the sound of water splashing, cascading, Calidus’ yells becoming a choking splutter as the Otherworld faded around Corban.

Corban took a great, shuddering breath, feeling as if his lungs had been emptied of all air. Pain throbbed in his torso, above his hip, an explosion with every breath. And people were all around him.

I was stabbed in the belly.

There was a weight upon his chest, but as he sucked in lungfuls of air, gasping as if he’d just sprinted a league, he felt the weight move, a fluttering of feathers in his face, and Craf was squawking joyfully. And a rough tongue was licking his ear, his cheek, Storm making snuffling noises. She bounded away, spun in a circle, making people jump and shout, and leaped back, resumed licking his face. Corban tried to sit up.

The first face he saw was Coralen’s. She was smiling at him, such a beautiful smile, it made his heart feel it had melted to mist.

There were tears on her cheeks.

“You’re crying,” he said, though it came out a croaked whisper.

“Well, you were dead,” she answered, and started kissing him.

Voices rang out, other faces drifting into focus, all standing around him in a great circle. He glimpsed Balur One-Eye, Edana, a Ben-Elim with its white-feathered wings furled. Again he tried to move but pain stopped him. He felt pressures upon him, one of them around his wound, knew that Calidus had put a sword through him, which couldn’t be good. He was surprised to see the sword was still there, though, hilt and some of the blade standing proud of his torso. Cywen was there, crouching beside him, her cheeks still bloodstained, though there seemed to be more tears now. She’d cut away his clothes around the wound and she was looking at him with an expression somewhere between incredulity and joy. She reached out a hand and stroked his cheek.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said, “I don’t think I could have managed without you.”

Corban put a hand over hers, smiled weakly at her. Then he tried to grab Calidus’ sword and take it out. He didn’t like seeing it there, sticking out of his body.

“No,” Cywen said, “leave it there until I get you to the hospice. You’ll lose too much blood.”

There was a gasping noise and Corban saw Farrell kneeling beside him. One side of Farrell’s face was covered with blood, and he was weeping uncontrollably. He was saying things, but Corban wasn’t sure if they were words as they were coming out in a spluttering torrent, and behind Farrell Corban saw Dath, leaning on Kulla. His old friend was smiling at him—no, grinning, wide enough to split his face, tears streaming down his cheek.

“Knew you wouldn’t leave us like that,” Dath said.

And then Corban remembered it all.

“Gar?” he wheezed.

“He’s here,” Coralen said, and Corban realized what the other pressure on his body was.

Gar was lying beside him, his head propped against Corban. And he was so very pale, looking at Corban with dark eyes. For a moment Corban thought he was dead, but then Gar blinked, and Corban saw the movement of his chest, shallow, breaths far apart.

“I’ve been…waiting for you,” Gar said, a whisper.

Corban made to move his hand, realized that Gar was already holding it. Corban squeezed it.

“I saw you,” Gar said quietly, “take a wound, to give one.” His lips moved, and Corban saw he was smiling, no, laughing. A wet cough, and blood sprinkled his lips.

“I had a good teacher,” Corban said, smiling too.

“Things to say,” Gar whispered, “need to say.”

Corban felt a knot of fear and anguish draw tight in his belly.

“Say them later, when we’re both…healed,” Corban rasped.

Gar just looked at him, into his eyes.

“I love you, Ban,” Gar said, the words coming out a wet whisper, but there was strength in his grip as he squeezed Corban’s hand. “You are the son I never had, and no son could have made me prouder.”

Tears filled Corban’s eyes. “I love you, Gar, as my da, my brother, my greatest friend,” Corban whispered.

Gar’s grip on his hand tightened, then slackened.

“Don’t go,” Corban whispered, Gar’s face a blur through his tears. “Please, Gar, don’t go.”

But he already had.