Orion: The Tears of Isha Page 3

  Sharp heat flared across Orion’s chest and he stumbled – more from shock than pain. The rites of midsummer had lifted him beyond the petty concerns of flesh. What kind of sorcery could have power over him?

  He slowed to a jog and looked down at his chest.

  There was nothing there, but in his mind he glimpsed a flash of silver again. The image was brief, but it seemed to be a knife. He picked up his pace and ignored the pain. Kurnous was in his bones. He could still feel the god’s spirit, as real as the rain. He was invincible.

  Orion had only gone a few more feet when the same sensation erupted in his chest. Along with the pain came something more potent: doubt. Was there something he had misunderstood? Something beyond the hunt? Something he had forgotten? Someone?

  An idea crept into Orion’s thoughts – a terrible idea that he immediately tried to suppress. He saw an image of curling leaves, edged with copper. There was something awful about the image, something that filled him with dread. He crushed his doubt with a howl and charged on. The feel of bones, crunching in his fist, would set him right.

  The hunters answered with ecstatic screams, delighted by his wordless command and, from somewhere up ahead, he heard his hounds, howling back at him, leading him through the dark.

  On either flank of the charge were riders, mounted on pale, ghostlike steeds. Orion recognised his feral priests, with their tall, jagged masks and thin, spiralled horns. The one named Atolmis raised his horn and let out a long note, spurring the horses on. They rode so fast it seemed as though the storm had hurled them through the darkness. They tore ahead of the main group, crossed the final half-mile and crashed through the huddle of buildings around the keep.

  Some of the outsiders were still racing towards a pair of huge gates, clutching belongings and livestock as they slipped and stumbled through the mud. Atolmis and the other riders tore through them, leaving spears embedded in backs and faces, before circling around to retrieve their weapons.

  By the time Orion and the others arrived, the riders had already dragged their spears free and spurred their horses on, making for the quickly closing gates.

  Arrows flew out to greet them, but Atolmis and the others moved with bewildering speed, jamming the hinges with their spears.

  Seconds later, Orion arrived and smashed the gates apart with a delirious howl.

  The hunt poured over his shoulders and flooded into a cobbled square.

  Outsiders were waiting. Crowds of wide-eyed, white-faced men clutching scythes and clubs, huddled behind metal-clad soldiers with iron helmets on their heads, garish shields on their arms and terror in their eyes.

  Orion was oblivious to these details as he bowled into them, sending shields and bodies clattering across the cobbles.

  His huntsmen followed: lords and beasts, still snarling as they collided with the wall of shields.

  Some of the outsiders buckled under the impact, but many held their ground, driven to heroics by fear.

  Above this onslaught screamed diaphanous spirits, flooding over the battlements, hauling archers from the walls and casting them down onto the soldiers in the square.

  Orion finally came to a halt, his way blocked by a crush of bodies and shields. He lashed out wildly, revelling in his rage. These people. This building. They were like white noise in his head. They were like a flaming brand, jammed into his skull. Everywhere he looked he saw perversion and constraint. They had brought order and artifice to the wildness of the forest; now he would bring the wildness of the forest to them. Wood, teeth and bones crunched beneath him and a glut of warm blood washed over his forearms as he jammed his spear into the wall of screaming faces.

  Then, for a third time, pain knifed into his chest, accompanied by the flash of silver, but this time the feeling was different: final, somehow. He knew he would not feel it again.

  Orion wrenched himself free from the flailing bodies and staggered back into an open space, trailing limbs and scalps as he reeled towards the gates.

  He looked down at his muscle-lashed limbs, smeared with blood and soil. They looked utterly alien to him.

  What’s happening to me, he thought again, looking back at the heaving throng and feeling another shadow of doubt. Something had changed. For a brief second, the spirit world disappeared and he saw the battle for what it was – a pitiful orgy of violence.

  One of the outsiders had followed him and Orion saw his opponent clearly for the first time. Until that moment, he had seen prey and nothing more. Now he saw a panting, bloody mortal, desperate for life.

  The warrior was taller than the others and clad from head to toe in links of metal, so that no part of his flesh was visible. His face was hidden behind a grilled, bucket-shaped helmet and he was holding a two-handed sword that was almost as tall as Orion. He wore the same gaudy colours as the other men, but the images emblazoned on his tabard were worked in far more detail and gilded with golden thread.

  As he strode towards Orion, he called out in a deep pompous voice, levelling his sword at Orion’s face.

  The words were gibberish but Orion guessed their meaning: this petty interloper was attempting to order him away from his own realm.

  Orion’s doubt vanished, replaced by fury.

  He tried to draw himself to his full height but, infuriatingly, his knee gave way and he dropped awkwardly to the ground. He cursed bitterly. How could such a thing happen to the spirit of Kurnous?

  The outsider had a clear chance to strike, but he lowered his sword and waited patiently for Orion to rise, calling out another pompous command.

  Orion’s anger spiralled as he realised the outsider had deliberately given him a chance, as though he were facing some pitiable cripple.

  Rather than standing, as the man was expecting, Orion launched himself through the air, antlers first.

  The pair of them rolled across the cobbles and the man howled in pain. One of Orion’s antlers had torn a hole through his chainmail and blood was rushing from his side.

  Orion jammed the haft of his spear across the man’s throat, meaning to crush the life out of him, but the knight was faster, hammering the hilt of his sword into the side of Orion’s face.

  Incredibly, Orion found himself on the ground again. He stood and looked down at his body. The image of bronzed leaves flashed into his mind again as he realised the green tint was fading from his skin. He backed away, shaking his head in horror. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘It can’t be.’ But he could not deny that his body looked smaller; frailer, even. As the battle raged around him Orion began to guess the meaning of his dreams. He let out a howl of such fury that his opponent briefly lost his nerve, lowering his sword and taking a few steps backwards.

  Orion launched his spear at the knight.

  The man hacked down with his sword but Orion’s strength was too great and the spear gouged a deep wound in his chest.

  The man rolled clear, clutching the wound. Then he collapsed onto the cobbles, loosing his sword as a fit of coughing overtook him.

  By the time Orion reached him, the man was trying to rise. Despite the blood rushing from his chest, he was still refusing to accept defeat. Once he had made it to his feet, he wrenched his helmet from his head and turned his face to the stars, taking a deep, ragged breath. His agony had clearly done nothing to dampen his courage. He glared back at Orion, as determined as ever. His armour was torn to shreds and his pain was obvious, but he clearly did not intend to back down.

  The force of the storm dipped for a second and Orion hesitated, struck by the bravery of the outsider. The man’s proud demeanour moved him somehow, reminding him of a world beyond the frenzied bloodlust of the hunt. He realised that since the moment he left the Oak of Ages, on Midsummer’s Eve, he had seen nothing with this much lucidity. Summer had passed in a blur of rage and bloodshed. He could recall nothing with any clarity. His pulse quickened as he wondered what he might have
done in Kurnous’s name. Images of crazed hunts filled his mind. He glimpsed groves and meadows, torn apart by his rage – filled with maddened howls and butchered flesh. He saw proud, ancient spirits, begging him for mercy. Suddenly his actions seemed to be those of a lunatic. What had driven him to such a rage?

  For a few seconds the two opponents faced each other in silence; a sliver of calm at the heart of the battle. Then Orion held out one of his clawed hands, drawing the knight’s attention to the carnage that surrounded them. The outsiders were being torn apart. It had taken a matter of minutes for the hunters to butcher almost half of them.

  The knight turned, shedding more blood and almost falling as he did so. He took in the full horror of the scene, then he looked back at Orion with a frown, sensing that something was being offered.

  ‘Flee,’ snarled Orion, confused by his own generosity. The words felt odd as they left his mouth. ‘Leave my home. While you can.’

  The lure of the hunt remained. Orion could feel its pull, like a powerful tide, demanding more violence and blood, but he realised to his shock that it was fading. He could refuse its call.

  Orion’s words must have been unintelligible to the knight, but he nodded, recognising a rude kind of chivalry. The idea of retreat obviously appalled him, but as he looked back at the bloodshed he nodded with more certainty.

  The entire weight of the forest was still pressing against Orion, urging him to butcher and kill, but the voices were definitely weaker; more distant.

  The knight saw that his chance might soon pass. He gave Orion an awkward, crooked bow, that almost sent him toppling to the ground; then he turned to his men, calling out a command and waving at the broken gates of the keep.

  The relieved outsiders did not need telling twice. They scattered like vermin, but the knight remained, lifting his sword from the ground and swaying as he turned to face Orion. He clearly did not allow himself the same chance of escape he had offered his men. Before he had taken a few steps though, blood loss overtook him and he fell to the ground again, slumping awkwardly against a pillar and gasping in pain. His sword clattered across the flagstones.

  Some of the hunters stormed after the fleeing outsiders but most turned to stare at Orion, sensing the change in him. A column of dazzling spirits spiralled around his body like fireflies, lighting up his doubt-filled features, while others gathered around the fallen knight, intrigued by his bravery.

  A white stallion barged its way through the crush, ridden by a solemn-faced Atolmis. He dismounted and stepped to Orion’s side.

  ‘Autumn is almost over,’ Orion said quietly.

  The high priest gave no reply.

  ‘I’m dying,’ said Orion, looking at Atolmis with rage in his eyes.

  As the echoes of violence faded into the night, the power of the hunt began to seep from Orion’s flesh. After months of headlong pursuit, he finally felt his heart begin to slow. Every bruise and scar suddenly screamed out for attention. Exhaustion, long held at bay by adrenaline, washed over him. He stumbled back against a wall as the celestial spheres began turning around him again, filling the stronghold with a strange lustre – a dazzling vortex of stars and gods that blinded him to everything else.

  As the king gave in to his fatigue, his hold over the hunt slipped. The gore-splattered nobles looked down at their ruined bodies in horror, coming to their senses like sobering drunks. The glittering spirits dispersed, filling the sky with lights and taking the knight with them as they headed back towards the trees. The animals bolted, pounding across the cobbles and thundering off into the night.

  Atolmis had dismounted and, as Orion swayed, on the verge of falling, Atolmis caught him and lowered him gently to the ground.

  The crowd started to disperse as the asrai remembered that they had names, families and lives. Several of them collapsed, clutching at terrible wounds they had been unaware of until that moment; others staggered off into the rain with glazed expressions on their faces.

  ‘What have I done?’ asked Orion.

  Atolmis and the other priests remained silent, watching him with featureless black eyes until sleep took him.

  Orion awoke, bathed in autumn light. He looked up at tall, ivy-clad walls, struggling to remember where he was. Then, as he saw the knight’s bloodstained helmet lying a few feet away, the previous night came back to him.

  He groaned. Every part of his body ached and as he looked down at his wounds he cried out. Where once there had been broad, ivy-lashed muscle, there was now a bruised, battered body that looked scarcely any different from that of a mortal. The emerald hue had almost vanished from his skin and his frame was a fraction of its former bulk.

  Orion lay there on the cold stone, unwilling to rise and face the day. He saw nothing ahead of him but pain and loss. Then he noticed voices muttering, talking to him in deep, rumbling tones of disapproval. He looked around but the voices were from somewhere deep in his consciousness. They were familiar, and he found it oddly comforting to realise that they had always been there – he had just chosen this moment to listen. The voices urged him to rise and shrug off his fear. He was hearing the ghosts of his former lives, speaking to him from the heart of the forest – guiding him from the Oak of Ages.

  He listened to them for a while; then something tugged at his memory – something from the previous night that stood apart from all the wildness and rage. He shook his head and willed the voices to be silent. Something had halted him in his tracks and it had seemed incredibly important. The idea needled at him. What had he seen, out there in the valley?

  He rose and stretched his limbs, wincing at the cuts and grazes that covered them. He could no longer deny the truth. The year was ending and so was he. While he had abandoned himself to dreams of violence and godhood, his life had slipped away. His eyes widened as he allowed the idea to sink in. It was over. Already. Self-pity threatened to overwhelm him, so he focused on the mystery of the previous night. What had he seen?

  Orion’s hooves clattered across stone as he staggered towards the gates of the keep. As he neared the shattered wood, figures sprang up to greet him. Atolmis and the other riders had watched over him during the night and they bowed at his approach.

  ‘My lord,’ said Atolmis, hastily gathering his things. ‘Do we hunt?’

  Orion shook his head and barged past him, lurching out into the fields. The valley was grey in the morning light and the air was still.

  Orion peered out into the gloom and realised that retracing his steps would be easy. There was a clear path of destruction, leading back up the side of the valley and into the forest. The hunt had left a trail of crushed grass, broken bodies, shreds of clothing and dark pools of blood.

  Without a word of explanation, he hurried up the slope, staring at the ground as he went; desperately trying to recall what had made such an impression on him. What could have been striking enough to stand out amongst such madness?

  The riders mounted their pale steeds and followed at a discreet distance, their calm, considered demeanour a sharp contrast to their manic charge of the previous night.

  After a half an hour or so of fruitless searching, something finally caught Orion’s eye – a length of white stone, lying on the sodden grass. He felt a flash of recognition and dashed over to it, wrenching a tattered hood from near its broken base. It was made from the head of a stag.

  Orion recalled everything in a moment – he saw the outsider, bound to the rock and wearing this grubby hood, but more importantly, he realised why the hood had disturbed him so.

  ‘Sativus,’ he said.

  Hooves thudded up the slope behind him and he recalled his priests. ‘My lord?’ asked Atolmis.

  ‘He had faith in me,’ he muttered, staring in confusion at the ragged hood. ‘Why did I pit myself against him? Why did I hunt such ancient beings?’ He turned to face Atolmis and his voice became a snarl. ‘Why didn’t you stop
me?’

  There was no emotion in Atolmis’s black eyes. ‘I am here to serve. It is not my place to question you, my king. Besides, what would I have stopped? The rites of the summer gave you your purpose. Our songs filled you with the blood of Kurnous. He lives, through you. He hunts, through you. You have led us in his name, and all summer we have–’

  ‘I forgot myself!’ cried Orion, waving the hood. ‘I tried to bring the Brúidd to their knees. What kind of madness was that?’ His eyes darkened. ‘And I sense that I did worse things. How can I make amends?’ He waved at his scarred flesh, his words full of bitterness. ‘I’m dying and weak. What can I do now?’

  ‘You are far from weak, my lord. Your blood has cooled a little with the passing of summer, that is all. Kurnous is still with you. In fact,’ Atolmis looked up at the clouds, ‘you must be closer now to the gods than ever before. I imagine that, for you, the veil is already wearing thin.’

  Orion followed his gaze and saw what he knew Atolmis could not: the air was indeed teeming with spectres. It took all his willpower to ignore them and keep his gaze fixed on the physical plane. He knew that, if he let them, the spirits would enrapture his soul again and the next time he awoke it would be in another ruined keep, or on a mound of butchered flesh, and he would be a little bit closer to death.

  ‘How long do I have?’

  Atolmis was unruffled by his king’s fury. ‘You are immortal, my lord.’

  ‘My flesh is already wasting away. How long will I live, Atolmis?’

  Atolmis dismounted and stepped to Orion’s side. Then he placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘My king, you have performed deeds others could not achieve in a thousand lifetimes. You have held a mirror up to your subjects and shown them the truth of what they are: proud, noble, but most of all wild.’ He leant close and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you understand? You are more than you were – more than just flesh and bone; you are everything that defines us.’

  ‘And now you expect me to just waste away?’