The Hetton let out a hiss. The one on his right held a sword. The one on his left a spear. Briefly, he wondered about Ania, wondered if she had survived one-on-one with a Hetton. Unlikely.
Then he was no longer thinking.
He was fighting in the flickering light of fire.
Ranya’s web, but they were quick. The sword Hetton swung as it came forward. He dodged back and the spear Hetton used its greater reach and the momentary distraction to thrust the spear at him. The strike was good, trying to smash the spear through the gap between chest plate and back plate. He twisted at the last second and the spear scraped along his breastplate. He felt it as a memory of pain, a ghost of what it would have been ripping through skin. He lashed out with an axe and the spear Hetton jumped backwards. The sword Hetton tried to rush him. Then he was fending off sword strikes so hard and strong that each one felt as if a hammer blow. He retreated, trying to watch his step and the spear Hetton at the same time. It was limping, two arrows in its right thigh. Weakness there.
True.
His best chance was to get close to the wounded spear Hetton. Use it as a shield for the moments he would need to suck the life from it and feed his cowl. It was not a life he would take, not really. He would not be killing a person, only removing something terrible from the world.
Was that true? Or was he lying to himself in desperation?
The sword Hetton came in, a dagger in its left hand. Tried to dummy him with the sword. Its skill fearsome. Its focus total. Its speed frightening. Cahan let himself relax into the cowl, let the cowl defend him. Its greatest drive was to live, to continue to be. It had been a long time since he had done this. Strange, to relinquish his body. To see from outside as the sword Hetton came in, weapons striking, and he defended without any conscious thought. The cowl protecting him and itself. It cost him, it hurt, it promised weakness unless it was fed.
While the cowl defended him, he considered the spear Hetton. Saw it coming in, favouring its wounded leg. Saw it draw the spear back for a thrust towards the same place in his armour it had targeted before. It pushed the spear forward. He took control back.
Leap.
Pushing upwards and back, towards the spear Hetton. His body twisting in the air. Over its weapon like smoke curling round a branch. World diminishing. He felt as if he watched from the slow sentience of the forest. He had ample time to plan his next move. The sword Hetton, mid-sweep, the blade coming round and finding only air. The spear Hetton trying to twist as he landed. As he rolled. Coming up behind it. He dropped his right axe. Moved in close, arm around the Hetton’s head. So near to it. He wanted to retch, to expel the air they shared. His body reacting violently to the thing’s presence. He bit down, pushed revulsion away. Thrust his right fist up and under the jaw of the Hetton, the spike on the gauntlet going into its brain. The thing still writhed and fought against him. He let the cowl flood out, ready to steal the life from the thing and
Corruption.
Couldn’t.
His blood rotting in his veins. His organs becoming sludge. His memories polluted. There was nothing he could use. It was the bluevein of the fields but magnified by a hundred, a thousand.
Corruption.
He looked into it. Past the Hetton. Into something, and something looked back into him.
Then heat. Flowing from him and into the Hetton. He did not ask for it. Did not want it. Something automatic, his control overridden. The Hetton stiffened as fire flooded its brain burning it to ash. It became limp. He let the body drop. Staggering backwards as the smouldering corpse fell to the floor.
The sword Hetton on him. Weapons blurringly fast. He had only one axe. His body shaking, weak from the fire. Strike. A step back. Strike. Two steps back. Pushing him towards his lines. Strike. Step back. Strike, a scratch upon his armour. Strike, a hit on the side of his head. He could not let it into his lines. The carnage would be terrible. Like a spearmaw loose among crownheads.
He forced himself to relax, let the cowl defend him. Let its desire continue to take over. Even weakened he was as fast as the Hetton. Whatever it was, the cowl was its match. Though his cowl was passive, only defensive. They held their own. Defended from its strikes. When Cahan saw gaps, he took over. Hit back. The axe cutting away the Hetton’s armour which, despite the look of rot, was as strong as his own.
But he was winning. Step by step pushing it back. Taking the fight to it.
Behind him, the villagers of Harn were shouting. Screaming encouragement. Chanting his name.
He thought it might be worth his life.
To give them.
This.
Win.
Then he was nothing.
Sorha, the corrupted Rai, stepping out of the line of soldiers. Cahan’s strength gone. His knees gave way beneath him. The link between cowl and man vanished and she smiled. The Hetton raised its sword, gave a hideous cry of triumph.
Something long and furred and vicious hit it in the face. Chittering and scratching and biting at the white eyes. Segur. A ball of fury and hate. The Hetton hissed. Grabbed the creature and pulled it away, despite all the scratches and bites the Hetton did not bleed. Its opened flesh white and filmy, almost see-through. It looked at the garaur for a heartbeat, then lifted its sword to cut it in two.
“Segur!” Cahan reaching out with his empty hand and then cursed himself for letting the Hetton know the garaur meant something to him. The animal growled and spat and struggled in the Hetton’s grasp. The Hetton looked at him, then at Segur and an awful parody of a smile passed across its face. It drew the sword back further.
The song of an arrow cutting through the air.
He expected it to punch the Hetton from its feet but it did not. He heard a scream from the Rai’s lines. Then the Hetton made the most awful sound he had heard them make yet. A vile, grating sound, like an arrow tip being pushed along ceramic, setting all his teeth on edge. The thing was laughing. A word slipped from its lipless mouth.
“Miisssssed.” The awful laughing sound continued. The sword came sweeping round towards the struggling garaur.
Stopped.
The Hetton let out a sound, an “ack”. Cahan glanced back. Udinny in the doorway of the longhouse with a bow in her hand. By her was Venn, their hands stretched out, grimacing and sweating as they concentrated. Between Segur and the sword was the sparkling form of a shield, a smaller version of the one the Forestals had made.
Shouting from the Rai’s lines, he turned.
“No! no!” Past the longhouse he could see Sorha, an arrow sprouting from her shoulder and her soldiers were dragging her away from the front line. Obeying the standing order of “keep the Rai safe”. Not understanding why she wanted to stay. They were programmed to protect the Rai no matter what.
Cahan’s strength returned.
He punched forward with his spiked gauntlet, hitting the Hetton in the stomach. It let out a sound like someone retching after a night’s hard drinking.
“Burn!” he said, and it became fire. Dropping the garaur, taking the last of his strength from him as it fell.
Hands grabbing him, pulling him.
“To the longhouse! To the longhouse! The gate has fallen! To the last line!”