Orion: The Tears of Isha Read online

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  Principal Characters

  SURVIVORS OF LOCRIMERE

  Finavar the Darkling Prince

  Jokleel younger brother of Finavar

  Thuralin old, crippled follower of Finavar

  Alhena Thuralin’s daughter

  Caorann Finavar’s oldest friend

  Lord Beldeas highborn; Warden of Locrimere

  Lady Ordaana highborn; wife of Beldeas

  Death’s-head forest spirit that accompanies Ordaana

  Hauran Quillwort Lord Beldeas’s advisor

  Eremon captain of the Locrimere’s kinbands

  THE SILVAM DALE

  Princess Asphalia highborn; senile old spellweaver

  Prince Elatior the Enchanter; highborn ruler of the Silvam Dale

  Varamus spellweaver; servant of Prince Elatior

  THE COURT OF THE EVERQUEEN

  Ariel the Queen in the Wood

  Laelia handmaiden; powerful mage

  Naieth revered prophetess

  Lord Salicis deceased noble

  THE KING’S GLADE

  Orion Ariel’s Consort-King

  Atolmis the Hunter High Priest of Kurnous

  Sélva priest of Kurnous

  Luabh, Fuath and Druan Orion’s spirit guides

  THE BRÚIDD (THE COUNCIL OF BEASTS)

  Sativus forest spirit; resembles a great, noble stag

  The Wrach Keeper of the Dark Paths; the Blind Guide

  Zephyr forest spirit; resembles a playful child

  THE FIÙRANN

  Mälloch the Elder lord of the Fiùrann

  Sibaris young wardancer

  THE VALE OF FINCARA (TURAS-ALVA)

  Lord Cyanos ‘King’ of the alvaír

  THE KINDRED OF ARUM TOR

  Prince Haldus Warhawk Rider; Lord of Arum Tor

  BRANCHWRAITHS

  Drycha

  Liris

  DAEMONS

  Alkhor

  Ganglion

  Bule

  DRAGONS

  Tamarix

  OTHERS

  Clara human sorcerer from the Amber Hills

  Coeddil ancient forest spirit

  Chapter One

  An old woman stumbled through the dusk. She was bowed by rain, buffeted by wind and leaning heavily on a tall crook. She looked like a scarecrow, cut loose and sent tumbling across the wind-blasted heath. Her gangly body was draped in pelts and her face was hidden beneath the battered remains of a stag’s head. A snake’s skeleton rattled around her neck and her crook was a femur, carved with runes and topped by spiralling ram’s horns. In her other hand she clutched a length of twine that was leading her through the heather.

  ‘Here?’ she asked, digging her heels into the mud and leaning back against the wind.

  She looked quizzically at the bones but they gave no answer. She was about to speak again, but the length of twine jerked taut and dragged her on, leading her through the waist-high shrubs towards an ominous wall of darkness at the edge of the heath.

  The old woman’s name was Clara and it was clear she had travelled a long way. Her head nodded beneath the weight of her hood and, as she neared the boundary of the field, she stumbled to her knees, cursing under her breath as the twine slipped through her fingers.

  She scrambled to her feet and howled into the storm. There were words in the howl, but they were hoarse and slurred – the sound of a dog, attempting to mimic its master. The stag’s head slipped back to reveal a lined, snarling face that was almost as fierce as her voice.

  Clara lurched on through the rain, chasing the twine as it snaked through the gloom.

  She saw that the wall of darkness was a row of densely packed trees – the borders of a forest, stretching off in either direction; a forest so vast she could see no end to it. The trees disappeared into the banks of rain and mist, shifting as she tried to focus on them and every thirty feet or so, they were punctuated by a tall, white standing stone. The stones gleamed in the half-light, like a row of bared teeth.

  ‘Everwood.’ She spoke to her necklace again, her voice full of awe. ‘He’s brought me to the blessed Everwood.’ She stared at the dark, ugly trees, knotted with briars. ‘By the gods. Am I really up to this?’

  Rainwater blurred her vision and the trees shifted again. They were straining against the stones, as though trying to hurl down their ancient guardians. Clara shivered and let out another canine howl. Then she reached into a leather sack, searching for the one thing that she knew would calm her. Despite her fear of the forest, she stepped closer, sheltering from the rain as she removed a fragment of human skull from her sack. Some moonlight had broken through the gloom and she could just about make out the words carved into the cranium.

  ‘I’m the one,’ she growled, nodding furiously and spraying rain from the antlers of her hood. ‘It has to be me. This will prove it. I know I can do this. I know I can.’

  So much had happened since the skull’s owner had passed away, but Clara’s certainty remained: only she should replace him. She had been chasing the light since long before the others were born. Only she could be trusted to lead them. Only she could be trusted to wield that much power. The Brothers of the Amber Hills would see it, eventually, however much they snarled and glowered. There would be no more doubts. No more sniggering in the shadows. After this, they would see what she was worth – that she was truly one of them. She had crossed so many borders, both physical and spiritual. She had gone further than all of them. No one else in the brotherhood would attempt something as dangerous as this.

  ‘Clara,’ she spat, even more urgently, repeating her name like a mantra, imagining the sound issuing from dozens of grudging throats.

  Once her heartbeat had steadied, she looked around for the length of twine. At first she struggled to locate it in the dark, but then she saw the other end of it, several feet away, knotted around the throat of a rain-sodden fox.

  ‘Tolmun,’ she snapped, reaching out through the rain.

  The fox remained motionless, watching her intently.

  ‘Is this really the place?’ She waved her crook at the impenetrable wall of trees. ‘The Everwood? Is that what it will take?’ She let out a gravelly laugh. ‘By the gods, I’ll need some nerve.’

  The fox gave no reply, but Clara knew this was right. The winds howling through the eaves carried more t
han just the scent of rotting leaves. There was power in the dark. Such power. She could smell the deep, heady aroma of it, leaking into the mortal realm. Vast draughts of magic surrounded her: lightning-charged and lethal, coiling through the heather like a serpent.

  She looked back at the wind-battered fox and croaked with laughter. ‘I suppose we’ve faced worse, eh? Come on, let’s get this over and done with.’

  The fox remained motionless, staring at her in expectant silence.

  Clara looked pained for a moment, then laughed again, this time with more genuine amusement. ‘Of course. You’re right. I must perform the rite alone. If I am to rule, only I can carry this burden.’ She glanced slyly at the fox, clearly hoping she was wrong, but the animal remained motionless.

  Clara sighed and reached out to touch its head.

  The fox flinched and Clara did the same. ‘Tolmun,’ she whispered, ‘have you forgotten yourself in there?’ The idea filled her with another sickening wave of fear. Should she really do this? Could she really harness the Everwood? Was she risking too much? Could she forget herself, like Tolmun? Her fears threatened to send her scrambling back across the field. Then she remembered the sniggering doubt of the Amber Brothers and her resolve hardened.

  She pursed her wrinkled lips and made a gentle clucking sound, holding out her hand to the fox again. After a few minutes of nervous pacing, it finally held steady and allowed Clara to release the twine from its neck.

  As the animal bolted into the night Clara raised an open palm in farewell, wondering which of them would survive the longest.

  ‘You’d better watch out for those peasants.’ Clara grimaced as she recalled the red-faced morons who stared at them from the walls of Garonne. She had hidden her tattoos and marks of allegiance, pulling the stag hood as low as she could, but she knew from experience that it would only pique their interest. They would crawl out of their neat little houses once the rain cleared and come looking for the mysterious fur-clad stranger.

  She caught a glimpse of the fox as it crested a hill and she called out, her voice feral. ‘Tell the Amber Brothers! Tell them what I’ve achieved! Tell them I’ll return!’

  The rain doubled in force, as though in mockery of Clara’s words, and she was forced even further beneath the trees.

  ‘Be quick, Clara,’ she muttered, rummaging in her sack again. Her auguries had been clear: midnight would see a powerful storm of magic. The cause was unknown – a whim of the gods, perhaps – but it would dwarf the squalls currently whipping through the trees. The full weight of it would tear her apart, but if she could perform her rites before the storm hit she could borrow the power she needed and flee.

  Clara shivered as she peered into the forest. Who knew what was rising from the darkness? Who knew if she could really harness it? Her gift was as strong as ever, stronger maybe, but her flesh had been ravaged by the decades. The older she got, the more it felt as though the power wielded her, rather than the other way around. Her memories were a jumble of human fear and animal hunger. Since her apprenticeship in the Amber Hills she had stretched herself to the limit – always attempting to prove her worth, assuming ever-wilder forms, throwing her soul into the strangest of hosts. She looked at the brooding trees.

  ‘I can do this,’ she muttered. ‘I can do this and then I can rest.’

  Lightning flickered on the horizon, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

  Clara’s heart began to pound and she laughed again. It was too late to doubt herself. She had never sensed such raw hunger. Something truly wild was coming. Something unstoppable.

  ‘Be quick, you old goat,’ she said, rummaging in her sack again. She took out a small ebony box, carved with stylised arrows and sealed with a bronze clasp. With an anxious glance, she stepped further into the forest, sheltering beneath a hunched old oak. Once she had found a patch of ground that was relatively dry, she placed the box on the ground and opened it. Something tiny was moving inside, but she ignored it and took out a piece of waxed cloth. There were more symbols on the cloth – a circle, punctuated by eight compass points and overlaid with another stylised arrow. She flattened the cloth onto the rotting leaves and muttered under her breath.

  Clara gasped as light shimmered between her crooked fingers, almost as bright as the lightning overhead. The flesh of her hands glowed a warm, blood-red and she saw a delicate network of vessels, pulsing beneath her puckered skin.

  ‘By the gods,’ she muttered, flexing her fingers and looking up into the rain. Even this, her most humble of rites, felt incredibly potent. The wind was almost entirely Aethyr. She had never encountered such a thing. The entire spectrum of magic was howling around her ears. Instinctively, she closed down her senses. To perceive the entire beauty of it would unhinge her mind; kill her maybe. She focused her thoughts on the thin current she called her own. It was her finest, oldest friend. The Amber Brothers had the most pompous, archaic names for it: Garrack, Ghurrag, Ghur, Gur-maan, but they meant nothing to Clara. She knew it simply for what it was: the hunger of the beast. To Clara it appeared as it had done since she was a little girl, all those years ago in the backstreets of Altdorf. She saw golden fragments of light, coiling through the air like fireflies, eddying and spiralling in the dark.

  As she studied the display, the tingling in Clara’s flesh grew stronger. Her soul was straining against its bonds, craving change; craving wildness.

  Clara cursed herself for being so easily distracted and returned her attention to the piece of waxed cloth. Her incantation had merely been intended to flatten it and make it rigid, but as she looked down she saw that it was blazing with amber light, and the symbols around the circle were trembling, as though preparing to launch themselves into the air.

  ‘Tolmun,’ she said, her voice cracking with a mixture of fear and amusement. ‘Where have you brought me?’

  She reached into the box and drew out a length of fine thread. As she held it up to the moonlight, she saw that her companions were still intact. Tied to the end of the thread, by a complicated series of tiny knots, were eight spiders. They twisted and skittered as Clara studied them, revealing a daub of paint on each of their abdomens. Each daub was a different colour, and Clara felt a swell of pride at the skill she had shown in marking them so accurately. Even now, riddled with arthritis, she was the best of all of them.

  Thunder rolled again, louder this time, and Clara flinched.

  ‘Right,’ she said, carefully lowering the spiders onto the circular design, while keeping hold of the other end of the thread.

  The spiders began to roll and thrash their limbs. The unguents in the box had subdued their natural belligerence but now, exposed to the magic-charged breeze, it returned in force. Three of the spiders were immediately locked into a ball, and four of the others began circling each other, but one made straight for the edge of the circle. Clara grinned. She had a guide.

  The spider settled on the symbol denoting south-

  south-east and Clara looked in that direction. A few hundred yards away there was a length of shattered white rock, buried deep in the heather. She looked at the edge of the forest and realised there was a gap in the waystones.

  ‘Of course,’ she muttered. ‘One of them has fallen.’

  As she stared though the dark, she saw that the trees were already extending their reach: roots and creepers were snaking through the grass like grasping fingers.

  ‘There’s a crack in the dam,’ she whispered, her eyes bright with awe.

  She scooped up the fighting spiders with trembling fingers and popped them back in the box.

  Then she picked up the remaining one and held it before her face. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, before popping it in her mouth.

  She grimaced as it danced across her tongue. Then she crushed it against the roof of her mouth and gulped it down.

  Again, the magic was more potent than she had expected. The soul of
a spider would usually give her a little burst of frenetic energy, a nimbleness in her fingers, nothing more; but tonight it made her feel as though she could scale trees. Her crooked old limbs sang with energy and the clouds rolled back from her rheumy eyes.

  Before the effect wore off, she packed away her box and scuttled back out into the rain, moving incredibly fast and occasionally dropping to all fours as she went. As the lightning flashed she blinked in and out of view and, for a brief second, as one of the flares picked her out, it looked as though her limbs had multiplied and segmented, elongating as they threw her across the heath.

  Clara reached the fallen stone and placed her crook against it. It was covered with the kind of symbols and runes that would have usually fascinated Clara but she ignored them and closed her eyes. Midnight was approaching fast. She needed to make her attempt and leave.

  As she ground her crook against the stone it began to pulse with the same golden light she had seen moving through the forest. She laughed as the power lanced through her palms and raced into her chest. The feeling was intoxicating. She closed her eyes and savoured the sensation.

  ‘By all the bloody, blessed gods,’ she breathed, tilting back her head as magic rushed into her brain. ‘This is it.’

  For a second, Clara was so lost to the power of the growing storm that she forgot herself. Her face rippled in the darkness and began to assume another, more bestial shape. Her shoulders swelled and hunched, sprouting clumps of fur.

  ‘No!’ she snapped.

  The transformation ceased and her shoulders dropped back into place.

  ‘I’m human.’ She snatched the fragment of skull from her bag and stared at it, determined to remember her purpose. ‘I’m Clara.’

  She returned her attention to the crook and began to recite her invocation. She had been practising for weeks as she travelled south from Altdorf and the words tumbled easily from her mouth. She prayed to whichever gods would listen – begging their indulgence – begging leave to fulfil her destiny. Willing them to grant her power, one last time. The winds of Aethyr responded to her pleas, whipping around the shattered waystone and clawing at her ragged furs.