Orion: The Tears of Isha Read online

  ‘Enjoy your death,’ she said and strode from the clearing, muttering to herself as the wooden spirit clattered after her.

  Finavar lay on the ground until she had vanished from view, then he let out a long, relieved breath. He knew that Ordaana had been seconds away from killing him and, to his enormous surprise, he was glad she had not. He looked down at his skeletal body. Perhaps he wanted to live after all. But why? What purpose could he serve? Everything he believed had been proved wrong. He played through the conversation in his head and realised that in amongst the madness of Ordaana’s grief there was a kernel of truth. He tried to imagine a forest free of Orion’s tyranny; a realm in which his brother’s life would never have been taken so cruelly; a realm in which the asrai kneeled to no one.

  He used a low-hanging branch to drag himself back onto his feet. Then he looked back up at the cave. Perhaps there was more that he could do than waste away in a meaningless vigil? Perhaps there was a better way to remember his brother’s death? He stood for a long time by the brook, considering Ordaana’s words and his place in the forest. His life was forfeit. Apart from Ordaana, nobody even knew he had survived the battle. The thought gave him a strange feeling of weightlessness.

  As Finavar climbed slowly up the face of Drúne Fell, he was followed by the dawn, rippling and tumbling over the ancient stone, throwing back the shadows that had haunted him for so long.

  Chapter Four

  The garden reeked of death. As she crossed the final few miles, Ordaana had no need of her guide and strode ahead, leaving Death’s-head to clatter into the daemon’s strange, incipient realm alone.

  It was early morning and, as the autumn light broke through the branches, Ordaana saw how busy Alkhor had been. A whole swathe of the forest was defying the season and springing into new life – moulded to the daemon’s will. Trees that should have been naked were bloated with vibrant fungal growths and twisted into narrow, looping avenues – all painted a lurid shade of purple and pink by tiny, cilia-like flowers. As Ordaana hurried beneath them, she saw that a pattern was starting to emerge: a vast, irregular spiral of rotting boughs, reaching out into the leafless forest and filling it with the daemon’s sweet-smelling contagion. Clouds of lurid yellow spores filled the air, settling on everything, so that Alkhor’s garden resembled the nightmare of a lunatic confectioner – grotesque, swollen mounds, dusted with garish colour and hazed by shifting veils of flies.

  Ordaana stumbled to a halt, bewildered by the maze of yellow and pink. ‘What is he making?’ she whispered. Then she heard another sign of Alkhor’s presence: the harsh cawing of crows. She changed direction, hurrying down another coiled corridor, then paused, drawing her knife.

  One of the mauve trees had split open, spilling its contents across the path. Its bark was moist and sponge-like, and it had fallen away to reveal a writhing mass of grubs: worms, maggots, lice and ticks, all pouring out of the dead tree and rippling across the ground towards her.

  It was not the smaller bugs that made her pause; there was something else, something still trapped in the bark – a long, segmented abdomen, as thick as her waist and thrashing with hundreds of ink-black legs.

  She edged closer, keeping the silver knife levelled at the rotten trunk.

  The gleaming, armoured mound shifted and more of the bark tore open, sending thousands more of the smaller grubs tumbling to the ground.

  Ordaana hissed and froze again, sensing that the thing was about to wrench itself free. Dozens more of its legs were now visible, rippling like grass in the breeze and clawing at the soft bark.

  ‘It will not harm you,’ came a voice from the air.

  Alkhor’s voice, like everything else about the daemon, had changed. The crisp, refined tones it had adopted when masquerading as Aestar Eltanin were gone, replaced by a throaty gurgle, always on the verge of laughter.

  ‘Really?’ she muttered, her tone full of disdain, but she edged forwards just the same, keeping her knife drawn as she passed the mound of grubs and followed the sound of the crows.

  The heart of the garden was a spiral of trembling terraces, all painted dazzling yellow by the clouds of spores and occupied by a lurid carnival of moving shapes. The trees themselves were in motion, heaving their crumbling bark in a convulsive dance; lurching this way and that like drunks struggling to hold down the contents of their stomachs. The circular terraces were also moving. The grassy mounds were rolling like a luminous tide, still forming into whatever outlandish shapes Alkhor had in mind. The air was a blur of spores and flies and, above it all, screaming their approval, were hundreds of saffron-coloured crows.

  As Ordaana climbed and stumbled down the shifting banks, she heard another sound beneath the cawing of the crows: a cheerful, melodic humming that led the garden’s lurching dance. She peered through the yellow haze and made out a hulking shape, moving in circles through the centre of the mounds.

  She held some of her torn robes over her face as she continued climbing, trying to shield her mouth from the clouds of flies that surrounded her. Then, as she reached the very centre of the garden, and entered the final circle, the air was suddenly clear. It was as though she had broken the surface of a yellow lake and emerged into the air. Alkhor was waiting to greet her and, for a moment, she wondered if she could force her eyes to take the daemon in.

  Alkhor’s appearance had been gradually changing since it first appeared to her after the battle of Drúne Fell and now she could hardly recognise it. Her errand had taken her less than a week, but Alkhor had doubled in size while she was away. All pretence of humanoid form was gone. Alkhor now resembled one of the bugs she had seen falling from the rotten trees, only much larger, and built around a pockmarked grin and a pair of tiny, glassy eyes, embedded like cherries in an enormous, dough-like mound of grey. There was another change. As Alkhor grew in size, it seemed to be fading from the world. There was a vague, insubstantial quality to its flesh, and in some places, she could see through its skin to the trees on the far side of the clearing.

  ‘Ordaana!’ cried Alkhor, extending a pair of ragged wings from its back and lurching itself into the air.

  The daemon’s trembling bulk hovered over her, borne by spindly, pounding wings that could not, in any sane world, have carried the weight of a fly.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t fail me.’

  Ordaana nodded, still struggling to look directly at the daemon, and brushed her fingers across the knife’s hilt. ‘The Eternal Guard took pity on me.’ She sounded vaguely embarrassed by her admission. ‘I told them I had been attacked by outsiders and had come to consult with Naieth. None of the lords were there, anyway. Prince Haldus has gone back to his mountains and his hawks, and Captain Eremon and the others are all racing around the forest with Orion. ’ She sneered as she chose her words. ‘They are basking in the light of Orion’s glorious rage.’

  Alkhor nodded, still grinning and clearly not listening to her. ‘Have you seen how quickly things are progressing?’ The daemon drew its rusted sword and waved it at the maze of rotting trees. ‘See how my garden grows, Ordaana, see how it grows!’

  Ordaana had to concede that the sight was impressive, if disgusting. ‘What is it?’

  Alkhor laughed kindly. ‘Of course, you do not have the pleasure of knowing my grandfather – so how could you recognise him?’

  Ordaana frowned and looked again at the ridged, purple tunnels that surrounded them. ‘Your grandfather?’

  ‘Of course! What subject could be more worthy of an artist’s time? And that’s just what a gardener is, Ordaana – an artist who works with life itself, in all its wonderful guises.’

  The daemon saw that Ordaana was still confused and tried to adopt a serious expression. ‘Forgive me, I’m not being clear.’ The daemon waved at the bulging, tuber-like growths. ‘This is a portrait of my grandfather’s most beautiful feature – the part of him that illustrates his genius more than any ot
her. The part of him that I first saw.’ Alkhor could contain its ebullience no longer. ‘It is his stomach, Ordaana! I am recreating the wonderful, intricate workings of his gut.’

  Ordaana grimaced as she realised that the pinkish tunnels of trees were intended to resemble muscular, quivering orifices and curtains of mucus-lined membrane. Her own stomach turned and she felt an overwhelming urge to flee, but she steeled her herself and glared at the daemon as it landed beside her. ‘Is it time, then?’ She gripped the knife. ‘Are you ready to strike?’

  Alkhor laughed. It was a rattling, liquid sound that shook the daemon’s entire bulk. ‘Strike? Oh, my queen, my eager queen; there will be no “strike”.’

  Ordaana turned to face the daemon and the awful absurdity of her position suddenly struck her. She was talking tactics with a winged, bloated monster in a purple, stomach-shaped garden filled with groaning trees and whirring clouds of flies. Alkhor’s mirth seemed quite an apt response and she began laughing too. Great spasms shook her body and tears poured from her eyes. ‘Why not?’ she laughed. ‘You have a stomach-shaped garden – what more could a general need?’

  Alkhor’s enormous face lit up, delighted by Ordaana’s joke. ‘Exactly!’ The daemon gasped, struggling to speak for laughing. ‘An army marches on its stomach!’

  The daemon rolled onto its back and Ordaana slumped next to it, laughing just as violently with tears pouring down her cheeks.

  After a few minutes, the two of them fell quiet and Ordaana’s face locked in a dazed grimace.

  Alkhor was oblivious to her pained expression and continued speaking in cheerful tones. ‘The knife is just the first part of the puzzle, my queen.’ The daemon spread its ragged wings. ‘It may look impressive, but it has taken the last of my strength just to begin this haven. I’ve barely started and even now I can feel myself being hauled back to the palaces of my grandfather. All you see here is a fraction of his beauty, Ordaana. A fraction! This will be my greatest creation, but it will take time, my queen.’

  Ordaana’s stomach turned again ‘You’re a messenger of the Dark Gods – immortal and all-powerful. Surely you mean to crush Orion,’ she gripped the silver knife, ‘and let me deal with his simpering queen.’

  Alkhor reached out with one of its small, flaccid limbs, flopping a claw on Ordaana’s shoulder. ‘You are sweet, my queen, but I am far weaker than you imagine. What little power I have is being used just to hold me here. You must understand, my true home is with my grandfather, in that most heavenly of gardens. It was only the enchantments of the tree witches that fixed me beneath those old stones and now, thanks to your curse, Orion has unlocked me from their prison. My ballast is gone, Ordaana. Left as I am I will soon fade completely from your world.’

  Ordaana gripped the daemon’s claw, noticing how easily her fingers sank through the blubbery flesh. ‘You must not leave!’ she cried, staring into the daemon’s glinting eyes. ‘You promised me! You promised me revenge!’

  Alkhor’s face rippled into a grotesque parody of concern. ‘You will have your revenge, my queen – just not yet. While I remain here, in this little paradise, I can cling to life a little longer, but for me to do any more, there is something you need to help me with.’

  ‘Anything!’ cried Ordaana. ‘What must we do?’

  Alkhor chuckled. The sound was like an underground stream, gurgling over rocks. ‘We must cement our union. We must start a family, my queen. Then I will know you are true. Then I will know I can trust you with my secrets.’

  Ordaana backed away, staring at Alkhor in horror.

  Alkhor looked away, adopting a coy, coquettish expression. ‘Oh, my queen. How sweet of you! No, I don’t mean that. Not exactly, anyway.’

  For a while, Alkhor could do nothing but laugh. Then, once it was calm, the daemon nodded at the silver knife in Ordaana’s belt. ‘Our family will begin with a simple cut, Ordaana.’

  ‘You want me to cut you?’

  Alkhor grinned. ‘If you would. I must remain here if I am to cling on to your mortal realm, my queen, I must finish my work, but I am so weak. As this garden spreads, Ariel’s fawning lickspittles will discover it and try to prune it back. I need to have absolute faith in you, Ordaana. I will need you to lead my children! You will be my most trusted servant. My proctor!’

  Ordaana looked mystified. ‘Children?’

  Alkhor giggled. ‘As we spread our delicious contagions, our brood will grow. We will garner children of the most delightful perspicacity. They will bring order and logic to this wilderness. They will create, codify and count, my queen; create, codify and count!’ The daemon reached out with one of its withered limbs and stroked Ordaana’s face. ‘Tell me: why do you think I sent you to retrieve the knife?’

  Ordaana grimaced at Alkhor’s touch, but resisted the urge to flee. She shrugged. ‘We used it to curse Orion. The curse was successful and Orion freed you from your prison. Now that the curse is no longer needed, you wish to have the blade back.’

  Alkhor shook its head. ‘There was more to it than that, my queen. I placed a part of myself in that blade.’ The daemon pointed at the intricate glyphs that ran down its length. ‘Those characters are beyond translation but, in the tongue of my grandfather, they spell my name.’

  Ordaana raised an eyebrow.

  Alkhor grinned. ‘My name, Ordaana; even an innocent like you can understand. It has the power to part the molecules of my flesh; it can touch me, in a way no other weapon could.’

  Ordaana was about to ask a question when Alkhor reached down to its sagging gut and lifted a roll of fat, revealing a glistening lump of purple intestines.

  ‘Cut a piece,’ gurgled the daemon. There was a repugnant smirk on its face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cut a piece free,’ giggled Alkhor, reaching into its own bowels and wiggling the mass of tubes. ‘See what happens.’

  Ordaana shook her head in disbelief. Then, feeling a sudden hatred for the daemon, she decided to do as it requested.

  She raised the knife, stepped forwards, grabbed a warm, sticky loop and sliced it free.

  Oily blood rushed over her hand and she hissed, hurling the chunk to the ground.

  ‘Thank you, my queen,’ said Alkhor in a husky, affectionate voice.

  The daemon lowered its gut back into place and shooed Ordaana away from the piece of meat.

  She did as she was instructed and began to ask a question.

  Alkhor silenced her with a raised claw and hunched over the piece of intestine. With a muttered oath, the daemon took its pitted, iron sword and placed it across the tube, squeezing more blood from it with the weight of the blade.

  Ordaana was mystified by the daemon’s actions but, as Alkhor continued to mumble, clouds of spores began to spiral overhead, forming a lurching, yellow tornado that trailed down the blade of the daemon’s weapon and surrounded the lump of viscera.

  Ordaana’s robes began to ripple and snap, caught in a breeze that had sprung from nowhere. She edged back towards the daemon, sensing that something momentous was about to happen.

  To her disappointment, nothing did.

  Alkhor continued muttering, and the spores carried on circling, but nothing else changed.

  Minutes passed and Ordaana grew impatient.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she snapped, stepping closer to the daemon.

  Alkhor gave no response, still hunched over the bloody lump.

  Ordaana tried several times to get the daemon’s attention, but it was useless. Alkhor seemed to have slipped into some kind of trance – muttering and burbling to itself like a drunkard.

  Ordaana’s rage grew and she clawed at her tattered robes.

  Finally, as the morning passed and the afternoon wore on, Ordaana’s exhaustion overcame her. She sat down, leant against one of the bloated trees and stared at the daemon in disbelief. What kind of lunatic had she bound
herself too? How could Alkhor grant her revenge? It was a giggling moron, playing with its own innards like a child with some dolls.

  Sleep eventually washed over her, but at various points in the night she woke to see Alkhor, still hunched over the piece of intestine, its face underlit by a flickering yellow glow and its toothless mouth spread in a manic grin.

  Finally, in the deep watches of the night, she was woken by a loud crashing sound and a hiss of escaping air.

  Ordaana lurched to her feet, holding the knife out before her, wondering for a moment where she was.

  She saw the great bulk of Alkhor, slumped on the ground, drooling and staring at the spore-filled heavens, exhausted by its magic. The daemon was insensate and staring at the sky. Its wings were crumpled awkwardly beneath its back and the hissing sound came from somewhere between its folds of flesh.

  Ordaana climbed to her feet and looked around. The mauve of the garden looked even more surreal drenched in moonlight. ‘What am I doing?’ she muttered, looking back at Alkhor. ‘How can this thing grant me revenge?’

  She stepped closer, noticed movement on the ground and stooped to investigate.

  ‘Isha preserve us,’ she gasped.

  Lying next to Alkhor was a tiny, panting daemon, no bigger than a rat. It was made of glistening, white flesh and looked up at her with lidless, black eyes that were a perfect match for Alkhor’s; but where Alkhor resembled an enormously obese grub, this was part canine and part soft, slimy gastropod. There was a far more profound difference, though. Where Alkhor was ghostlike and indistinct, this slug-like creature was horribly present. There was a physicality about it that made it even more grotesque than the enormous hulk that lay next to it. As it squirmed and shuffled in the mud, there was no denying that the tiny daemon was as much a part of the world as its bed of rotting leaves.