Shira turned. The spear took her in the belly, lifting her high in the air, the bloody point emerging from her back. Almost casually the Daroth flicked the spear and Shira was flung from it to the ground. All his life Duvodas had been taught to eliminate anger from his soul, allowing it to float through him, leaving him untouched. But it was not anger he felt in that dread moment.
It was a blind, bottomless rage.
Letting out an animal scream he pointed at the Daroth, sending out a heat spell which burst to life inside the creature’s skull. With a hideous shriek, the Daroth dropped his spear and grabbed at his temples.
Then his head exploded.
The second Daroth bore down on Duvo. There was no fear now in the Singer, and a second heat spell exploded in the Daroth’s chest, sending white blood and shards of bone spraying through the air. Duvo continued to run, coming alongside Shira and dropping to his knees. The wound was terrible, and he cried out in anguish to see it. Her body was almost torn in half, and Duvo saw the tiny arm and hand of his dead son protruding from the wound.
Something died in him then, and a terrible coldness settled on his soul. Trembling he touched his hand to Shira’s blood, then smeared four bloody lines down his own face.
Duvodas rose and walked slowly towards the Daroth line. There were hundreds of riders, but they were not
moving with speed. It was as if they wanted to delay the moment, so that every ounce of fear could be extracted from the helpless refugees.
‘Fear,’ hissed Duvodas. ‘I will show you fear!’ Raising his hands, he drew on the magic of the land. Never before had it felt so strongly within him, pulsing with a power he had not realized could be contained in a single human frame. Darkly exultant, Duvodas extended his arms, redirecting the magic, flowing it like a storm over the gorse and the heather. Every seed and root beneath the earth swelled with sudden, rushing life, writhing up from the ground, the growth of years erupting in seconds.
The ground below the Daroth writhed and trembled. At first it only slowed the huge horses, whose powerful legs broke the new roots and branches.
Stronger and faster grew the plants and bushes and trees. The horses were forced to a halt and the Daroth swung in their saddles, their dark eyes seeking out the sorcerer. Duvodas felt their power strike him, and he staggered. He sensed their hatred, and their arrogant belief that they had defeated him, and he allowed them a brief moment of exultation. Then he fed upon their hatred, and hurled it back at them with ten times the force. The nearest riders shrieked and pitched from their saddles. Sharp roots pricked at their skin, then burrowed through muscle and around bone. Horses reared and fell, toppling their riders. The Daroth tried to hack their way clear of the eldritch forest, but even their massive bodies were no match for the power of nature.
One Daroth tried to reach Duvodas, his huge sword cutting left and right to smash through the surging growth, but he stumbled and fell to his knees. A fast-growing oak sliced into his stomach, lifting him upright. One branch burst through his lungs and out through his back, another
surged up his throat, slithering from his mouth like a grotesque tongue.
Roots clawed their way into flesh – ripping into bellies and chests, lancing through legs and arms and necks.
And still the forest grew. The struggling bodies of the Daroth and their mounts were lifted higher and higher, dangling like corpses on a colossal gibbet.
The refugees watched in awe-struck silence as hundreds of Daroth were destroyed.
At last Duvodas let fall his arms, and men, women and children gazed upon the dangling corpses which moments before had been a terrible threat. There were no cheers from the saved. No one rushed forward to congratulate the blood-smeared young man who stood staring malevolently at the dead.
The officer Capel rode slowly towards him, dismounting by his side. ‘I don’t know how you did it, man, but I’m grateful. Come, let us bury your dead. We must move on.’