Corban looked up. In the sky shapes swirled, winged shapes. Some were faint in the clouds, others lower, closer. They circled down, pale-skinned warriors with shields, spears and swords in their hands, wings looking like leather or stretched skin. I know them. In my dreams they have chased me, fought over me. I am in the Otherworld. Fear threatened to overwhelm him. The ground shuddered as they landed, then they fell in silently about Corban and his companion, escorting them on.
They reached the building in the shadow of the mountain. It was a huge dome, with an arched doorway before them. They walked through a long tunnel; Corban gazed about in wonder, his hand touching a column that the doorway was attached to. It seemed to pulse, almost as if it were living, breathing. He lifted his fingers away, shaking off a mucus-like fluid. The whole building was carved from the same material. The walls were thin – the diffuse glow of light passed through them – with thick curving columns bracing the tunnel like huge, membranous ribs. The columns throbbed, as if blood were passing through them.
They stepped out of the tunnel; a domed roof made from the same material arched high above. A wide space opened before them, punctuated by great pillars rising high to the roof. About them were more of the winged creatures. They fell silent as Corban and his captor passed by, a pathway opening amongst them.
They came to a set of wide steps that stretched across the entire room. They climbed them; with each step a mounting dread grew in Corban.
At the top he stopped, Rhin walking forwards a few paces. She knelt before a throne and the creature seated upon it, then abased herself, arms outstretched, palms flat on the ground. Corban just stared. The throne looked to be carved from the same fabric as the rest of the building, its legs and back looking like the looping coils of a great snake, like the white wyrm Corban had seen in the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg. He did not want to look at the creature sat upon this throne – everything in him trying to look away, to turn and run – but fear held him tight. Against his will his eyes rose.
Upon the chair sat a great winged man. He wore a coat of mail, black and oily. His skin was pale, like all the others of his kind, flaking like the scales of a snake. Dark veins mapped his alabaster flesh. A sword lay across his lap, the hint of smoke rising from its blade. All this Corban saw in a glance, his gaze drawn to the man’s face. It was as pale as milk, all sharp bones and chiselled angles, coldly handsome. Silver hair was pulled tight into a warrior braid that curled across one shoulder. But it was the eyes that drew and held Corban – black as a forest pool at midnight, no iris, no pupil, just a pulsing malice. Something lurked beneath those eyes, something feral, a barely contained rage.
He regarded the woman and Corban with those black eyes. Corban felt a cold fist clench deep in his belly.
‘On your knees,’ a voice said from behind him, and a blow hit the back of his legs. He dropped to the ground.
‘What have you brought me, faithful servant?’ the creature on the chair asked.
‘A great prize, my lord,’ the lady said. She kept her eyes down. ‘I believe I have found the enemy’s avatar. The Seren Disglair.’
The creature leaned forward, eyes boring into Corban. He took a deep sniff, a black tongue flickering from his mouth, tasting the air.
‘Yes. I recognize his stink.’ He laughed. ‘Rhin, your reward will be great indeed for this.’
‘Who are you? What are you?’ Corban asked, the words coming out as a whisper. Deep down he knew, a name surfacing like a fist from water.
‘We have met before. Do you not recognize me?’ the creature asked. It rose and stepped from the throne, sinuous and graceful, the ground rippling with each step. With the wave of a hand its shape changed, shimmering and blurring. Then a man was standing before Corban, the wings replaced by a travel-stained cloak. Old, handsome, a neat beard and lines of laughter about his eyes. Yellow eyes.
Corban did remember him. ‘I saw you, at the oathstone in the Baglun.’
‘Yes. I offered you my friendship once. My patronage. The chance to side with me. That chance has passed now. I have found another.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yes, you do. You just do not want to. You humans are all the same. Willing to live a lie, any lie, as long as it is prettier than the truth. It’s one of the few things that I love about your race.’ He held his sword loosely in one hand.
‘Who are you?’ Corban repeated, more a last denial than a question.
‘I am Asroth, Lightbearer, Fallen One, Death of Nations,’ the man said. ‘Death of you.’
He reached out and laid a broken-nailed hand upon Rhin. A shiver ran through her body.
‘Stand,’ he said to her. ‘You must go back to your world of flesh, and slay him. Cut his heart from his body. I shall keep his spirit here, and talk a while until you do the deed.’
‘As you command, my lord,’ Rhin said.
A noise filled the dome, a long, eerie note, a horn blast.