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The Orion Trilogy – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

Winter was fading. As Sephian ran he felt all the fury of spring, drumming in his pulse. The first breath of a new year was already straining against the cold, filling the trees with hunger; fanning the flames of their wrath. It was a dangerous time to be abroad but Sephian felt no relief in his homecoming. As he hurried through the shifting dark he grimaced, glimpsing the gaudy lights of the Silvam Dale up ahead. It had only been three months since he last saw his home, and the thought of mingling with his kindred again, so soon, filled him with dread.

People. He shuddered, already picturing their ridiculous incantations and their smiling, pointless deceits. He assured himself that his visit would be brief. He would convey his message and flee, back to the mute, honest violence of the trees. More than ever now he craved their company. The great conjunction was approaching: Ostaliss, the Even-Night, when the forest shuddered back into life, filled with dreams of sunlight and blood. What more beautiful, exhilarating moment was there to be alive? He cursed his luck. As the spirits of day and night approached each other, preparing for their passionate, vernal embrace, he would be trapped in airless, enclosed rooms and smoky, crowded halls.

He reached the entrance to the valley and dropped to his knees, weak with pain and exhaustion. He had bound his arm with a poultice of dried leaves and the blood flow had lessened, but his head was still dangerously light. He pressed his palms against the steel-hard ground and muttered a prayer; begging the ghosts of the earth to sustain him a little longer.

After a few seconds, the earth began to shift and roll.

Sephian held his breath as the path closed in around him. Branches cracked and groaned as they crawled over the soil, reaching hungrily for his trembling limbs. Rather than leaves, they were clad in scraps of skin and hair – the remnants of last year’s victims. Sephian waited as long as he dared, feeling the first scratch of thorns against his skin, then he lurched to his feet and ran on.

The bloodstained branches reached after him for a moment, grasping and claw-like, then they withdrew into the shadows.

A long, winding greensward led him into the dale, canopied by silver birch trees that gleamed like bones against the darkness. As he passed beneath their naked branches he listened for a voice, a sign that they would forgive him yet another return to society.

He heard nothing and shook his head. Years of watching the forest had honed his instincts. He could feel its displeasure as clearly as the pain of his wound.

He noticed lights pulsing in the shadows: tiny spirits, ignited by the approach of spring. Sephian eyed them with envy, craving the freedom they flaunted so joyously, then, with a sigh, he approached a pale arch at the far end of the avenue. The gateway to his kindred’s shame; the realm of the Enchanter, Prince Elatior.

Sentries guarded the gate, silent, sombre and hidden in shadow. They made no move to question Sephian as he entered. He had already walked past them when he realised how odd that was. He had made no attempt to conceal himself. Why did they not stop him, or at least greet him? He paused, looking back at the pale arch, trying to discern the figures that watched over it. Then he shrugged and moved on, hurrying beneath another tunnel of plaited branches and heading for the halls of the prince.

Elatior weaved his spells beneath the roots of a sprawling goliath known as the Wilding Tree. Sephian grimaced as he approached it. What had begun life as a cruel, bristling hawthorn had been neutered and stifled by centuries of brutal charms. Prince Elatior had bound its heart, creating a living, hate-filled citadel; a memorial to his arrogance. Sephian could barely discern a trunk amidst its writhing, bastard growth.

Such conceit, he thought, placing his hands against the tortured bark and looking up through its branches. The Wilding Tree towered over him, brooding and mutant; a vile hybrid of thorn and leaf. Beech and willow had been threaded through its crown and Sephian grimaced at the sight of such cruelty.

In recent years, the Wilding Tree had grown taciturn, nursing its wounds in bitter silence. Only at the culmination of Prince Elatior’s most invasive rites would it cry out – cursing its captors with a brittle, outraged voice.

Sephian placed his hands on the knotted wood and smiled. However much the Enchanter might convince himself otherwise, Sephian knew that the Wilding Tree was only biding its time.

A day of reckoning would come.

At the base of the trunk roots fanned out across the earth, framing a gaping hole. There were no steps, just a void in the loamy soil. Sephian approached the hole then paused, noticing that he had gone unchallenged for a second time. ‘Arthron?’ he called into the shadows. ‘Does the dale sleep so heavily? Will no one welcome me home?’

Shadows rippled together like ink in water, forming a tall, slender figure – a hooded sentry with a longbow slung over his shoulder. ‘The kindreds have gathered below, watcher.’ He spoke in formal, singsong tones. ‘The princess is amongst us. She is wearing the shades of the past, in celebration of the coming thaw. The forest is blessed by her radiance.’

There was something odd in Arthron’s voice – a stiffness that added to Sephian’s sense of dread. He was used to the toadying descriptions of the old princess, but why did Arthron not use his name? Why did he address him as a stranger?

Sephian stepped closer, trying to discern the sentry’s face in the gloom, but Arthron shuffled awkwardly and averted his gaze.

‘I see,’ replied Sephian, confused by the guard’s discomfort. He turned back to the hole in the knotted roots and looked down into the darkness, feeling a vague, nameless fear. What was waiting for him down there? He cursed his own ridiculousness. However much he despised it, this abomination was his home. He nodded at Arthron, ignored the sentry’s distant gaze, and stepped into the void.

The tree cradled him in the darkness. Sephian had only dropped a few feet before he was caught. Thin, needle-like tendrils prickled against his face, and thick, creaking roots moved beneath him, rolling like waves. He was weightless in the arms of the Wilding Tree. The roots groaned and cracked as they carried him deep below the earth.

Sephian watched vast, hulking shadows roll past him. The magic of Prince Elatior’s magi had sunk deep. The tree’s roots were barely anchored to the physical world. Strange scenes flickered into view: faces and limbs, trapped into the shifting mass, ghosts of the past. Such distortion of time and nature filled Sephian with sadness. As the roots finally let him go, he hurried off down a gloomy avenue, eager to complete his errand as quickly as possible.

After passing through a slender archway, Sephian stepped out beneath a domed vault of root and thorn. The chamber had been summoned into being over two thousand years ago and over the centuries it had silvered and petrified. He looked up to see frozen veins of starlight snaking through the wood, filling the air with warmth and movement. Golden boughs of dried mistletoe glittered overhead, pulsing with the light of a forgotten sunrise, but, despite all of this, Sephian hurried on, racing through the antechambers, scowling under his hood, disgusted by wonders designed to astound.

He passed through another room, filled with towering columns of roots. They spiralled over his head, twisting into ephemeral, ever-changing statues. Today they had assumed the forms of gods: the snarling, stag-headed lord of the hunt, Kurnous; the laughing trickster, Loec; and the mother of life herself, Isha, wearing a gown of ivy and a circlet of shimmering fireflies.

Sephian swept on into the Tourmaline Hall, a vast chamber of shifting hues, in which hundreds of his kindred had gathered. The air was thick with herb-scented wood smoke and the pungent aroma of roasting game, and there were more fireflies here, drifting through the darkness in delicate cages of silk thread, painting the assembled crowd in columns of hazy light before plunging them back into pools of darkness.

Long, pale faces rippled into view as Sephian hurried past, fixing him with anxious glances and whispering his name behind delicate fingers: sorcerers, all of them, both lowborn and high, and all unwilling to meet his gaze. The few who were unable to avoid him nodded briefly before moving on and edging gratefully back into the shadows.

At the far side of the hall Sephian saw flashes of light. He frowned, unsure what he was seeing. It looked like the flicker of silent, distant lightning, trapped beneath the earth. The flares blinked across a circle of awed faces and Sephian’s heart sank. Princess Asphalia must indeed be present. Such a visit was rare, but always induced the most revolting, sycophantic displays. Perhaps this might be enough to explain the strange greeting he had received? Asphalia was adored and feared in equal measure and her strange magic rarely passed without incident. He stepped closer, noticing again how even the most familiar of his kindred shied away from his approach. Sephian had no desire to be part of their games, but such open hostility seemed odd.

Finally, he saw a face that he was sure would not turn away.

‘Isére!’ he called, conscious of how his voice rang out around the hall. Every conversation faltered as he rushed towards his former lover.

She smiled at his approach, but with little conviction. Her cinnamon locks were plaited with the feathers of a sparrowhawk and tied tightly back, hanging down between her ivory shoulders and giving her features an oddly severe appearance. Her cool, blue-grey eyes glittered in the shifting light and as Sephian pulled her close he realised that she had been crying.

‘Home so soon,’ she muttered, after a brief, chaste kiss.

Sephian shook his head, confused by her coolness. ‘Why does everyone look at me like a stranger tonight?’

Isére laughed. It was a sad sound. ‘What are you, if not a stranger?’ She shook her head as she studied him. His long, hangdog features were locked in their usual mournful expression. ‘Since when did you crave conversation? Surely that one sentence has exhausted your supply of words for at least a year?’

Sephian’s frown deepened. ‘Does every thought need to be spoken?’ He looked around in disgust. ‘Is it so bad to keep one’s own counsel?’

Isére shook her head in disbelief. She waved at the flickering lights around the princess. ‘Do not worry yourself, you’re just not the most exciting guest tonight.’ She turned away and looked anxiously at a distant silhouette.

Sephian felt his stomach knot as he realised it was her current lover.

‘You must learn a little humility,’ continued Isére, ignoring his scowl. ‘The forest does not revolve around you, however much time you spend praying to it. You may be the Enchanter’s favourite watcher, but you are as lowborn as me, Sephian. We still share that much.’

Sephian was too angry to speak for a second. Then he shook his head, trying to rid himself of painful memories. ‘I have news,’ he said, grabbing a necklace from around his neck and holding it up to her face. It consisted of several loops of gleaming, yellow incisors. ‘Five of these are new this evening,’ he said, rattling the teeth. ‘Harvested less than three miles from this spot.’

Isére frowned. ‘Outsiders, three miles from the Silvam Dale?’ There was a note of disbelief in her voice. ‘Surely a guard would have–’

‘It was Tethea’s corpse that alerted me to the trail.’ His voice faltered as he recalled the scene. ‘It took me a while to recognise her.’

Isére’s eyes widened. ‘Tethea is gone?’

Sephian muttered a prayer and looked up at the vaulted roots of the Wilding Tree. ‘Not gone, Isére, evergreen. A brave young handmaiden for Isha.’

Isére saw the bloody poultice on Sephian’s arm and blanched. ‘You’re hurt.’

Sephian shrugged.

‘You must speak to Princess Asphalia,’ she said, surprising him by gently stroking the poultice. Her eyes were suddenly full of pity. ‘She will give you an audience, I’m sure of it. You deserve that much.’

Sephian’s sense of unease grew. You deserve that much. What an odd choice of words. He looked over at the flickering lights. The princess was famously capricious. It was never wise to predict her mood. ‘Well, my news is important…’

‘She will see you,’ insisted Isére, leading him across the hall.

The princess was a spent force. Sephian had suspected it before most, but her powerlessness had become an undeniable fact over the last few years. Her decrepitude did nothing to deter the sycophants, though. As Sephian made his way through the simpering crowds, he felt as though he were wading through sap.

As he reached the princess he saw that she was floating several feet above the ground. Her arms were raised over her head and she was surrounded by tendrils of light, and the drifting skeletons of leaves. The dazzling shapes made it almost impossible to discern her outline. Blue wisps of light rippled around her naked body like fire, washing over the faces of her spellbound audience, and painting them with fanciful images of the past. It was an incredible display of power, but Sephian was no more fooled than any of the other spectators. Princess Asphalia was ancient and her power had long since deserted her. Her delusion was maintained by a row of pitiful figures slumped in the shadows – Elatior’s most powerful sorcerers, skewered by the tree’s grasping roots. Dozens of them, threading their magic through the princess, as their own bodies were slowly being torn apart. It was a gruesome charade, fuelled by terror, but Sephian understood the reasoning. If the princess’s happiness were not maintained at all times, Prince Elatior would hear of it. His response would be brief. Brief and bloody.

Despite himself, Sephian was beguiled by the display. Despite their agony, the magi had woven a powerful glamour. He saw diaphanous, rippling pictures of spring and new growth and even the wild hunts of the summer. He noticed with embarrassment that many of the scenes involved him. In recent years, he had become Prince Elatior’s most trusted advisor. His calm, earnest determination had earned him the respect of the entire kindred, if not the love. He knew that tales of his tireless wandering had spread even further, to the other kindreds of the forest. As he thought of this, Sephian felt suddenly amazed at the cool reception he had received.

‘Princess Asphalia,’ he cried, louder than he intended. ‘I bring news.’

The princess lowered her eyes and dropped from the air. The lights settled over her sagging flesh as a shimmering cloak.

The assembled crowd turned to face Sephian, but he saw that none of them were surprised by his interruption. They were all expecting him.

‘Sephian,’ said the princess, turning her incandescent eyes on him. There was a mixture of emotions on her lined, regal face: eagerness, excitement and something else, something quite unexpected.

She’s afraid of me, Sephian realised.

‘What news do you bring?’ she asked, keeping her voice flat and neutral.

Sephian hesitated, still shocked by the fear in her eyes. ‘I-I have seen outsiders, Princess, to the south.’

Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd and the princess looked around at her subjects with a wry smile. ‘And is that so unusual, watcher?’

Sephian turned on the sneering crowd and noticed how they flinched from his gaze. What do they see in me, he thought? Despite all their fawning and hand-wringing the asrai assembled around the princess were the most noble in the Silvam Dale. Few of them would have even acknowledged one so lowly as him before; now they were cowering before him. What has changed, he wondered?

Realising that the princess was still awaiting his reply, Sephian tried to calm himself and continue, reminding himself that the sooner his message was understood, the sooner he could leave. ‘Outsiders have reached the borders of the Silvam Dale,’ he announced. ‘Cloven ones. Creatures of Chaos. They have already slain Tethea and perhaps others.’ He shook his head, shocked by his own words. ‘The enemy has followed the secret ways to our home. They have navigated the darkest paths. They have discovered routes that should be known only to us.’

For the first time that evening, Sephian saw surprise on someone’s face. The princess’s odd expression was replaced by one of confusion. She turned to a figure at her side – an ancient silver-haired mage, clutching a long birch-wood staff. The mage was wearing a cloak of white ermine and a bleached, wooden mask that completely covered her head. The mask was carved to resemble the mournful, heart-shaped face of a barn owl.

‘That cannot be,’ stated the mage, her voice muffled by the mask. ‘No one can follow our most secret ways.’ She did not look at Sephian as she contradicted him, keeping her gaze fixed on the princess. ‘The watcher knows that better than anyone. The presence of outsiders, so close to your realm, can only be the result of luck.’

Sephian stepped closer and noticed, to his amazement, that the crowd edged away from him, as though his touch might poison them. Incredibly, even the princess took a step back. He paused, losing his train of thought at the sight of such strange behaviour. Then he shook his head and continued, ignoring the white-robed mage and keeping his eyes trained on the princess. ‘Your majesty, I have encountered the beasts of Chaos many times but I have never seen them advance with such confidence. Something is wrong. I must speak to the Enchanter.’

The princess looked concerned and seemed about to reply. Then the masked figure leant close and whispered urgently into her ear. Princess Asphalia nodded, and as she listened her fear was replaced by a look of growing excitement and pride. Finally, she turned back to Sephian and beamed at him. Her eyes were blazing with a mixture of sorcery and passion. ‘We thank you for your vigilance, Sephian.’ She looked at the vast wooden ceiling. ‘The gods and I will consider your words.’ She waved across the glittering hall to a distant flight of stairs. ‘Now you should rest.’

Colour rushed into Sephian’s face as he realised he was being dismissed. ‘Princess–’ he began.

‘Please,’ insisted the princess, her voice heavy with borrowed power. ‘Leave.’

Sephian felt the weight of her words like a physical blow. He looked around for support but saw a circle of stony faces. Even Isére showed no sign of recognition as he reeled past her. It hardly surprised him to see that the vast crowd had already parted to create a wide path for him.

His desire to leave overwhelmed him. The strange, oppressive atmosphere in the chamber was unbearable. As he marched past the rows of mute faces, he had to resist the urge to break into a run.

‘Tears of Isha,’ he muttered, emerging from the tree and taking a grateful gulp of the crisp night air. ‘What is happening this evening?’ He looked up through the dense, evergreen branches of the Wilding Tree and watched the stars wheeling overhead, as though they might give him an answer.

‘You should rest, watcher.’ The voice came not from the stars, but from the shadows.

Sephian nodded, making no attempt to find Arthron in the darkness. He trod heavily beneath the boughs, feeling trapped in a waking dream. Why had Isére let him leave alone? And where was everyone? The Silvam Dale was silent and dark. At this time there should be countless, irritating lights snaking between the trees and raucous songs echoing between the branches.

Full of confusion and doubt, Sephian wandered the glades and hollows of his home. Then, as quickly as he could, he left the sorcerers of the Silvam Dale and passed back into the wilds of the forest.

He paid no attention to his route, allowing ancient, shifting paths to lead him blindly onwards. His sense of foreboding faded as he yielded to the bewildering embrace of the forest. After just a couple of hours he knew that he was hopelessly, blissfully lost and sat down to rest for a while against the shattered bole of a poplar tree.

Sephian tried to sleep, but his thoughts were restless with images from the Silvam Dale. He was haunted by the nervous glances of his kindred. ‘Even the princess,’ he muttered, shaking his head and pulling his cloak tighter. To soothe himself, he listened to the voices of the forest – the breeze bustling through the undergrowth, the creak of the leafless boughs, the patter of hungry beasts – but still his sense of foreboding grew.

When sleep came it was a skein of dark omens. First he saw an enormous oak, oozing blood from its thick bark. Then he saw a barn owl, thrashing violently in a cage of stone. Finally he saw his own face, peeling away from his skull to reveal a dark mound of shaded grass, punctured by a long, silver knife.

In the false light before dawn Sephian awoke. A familiar sound was drifting through the forest – a horn blast that sounded like the long, lowing cry of a wounded beast. He peered into the grey, bruise-like void between the trees. ‘It can’t be,’ he muttered. The sound was answered by another, identical note, and then another, until the forest rang with the sound of hunting horns.

Sephian felt his pulse quicken as he climbed to his feet. Spring was still several days away, the Wild Hunt could not be abroad so early; and yet, the evidence was all around him. As the horns grew nearer, animals began to bolt – rats, squirrels, birds and deer exploded from the darkness and scrambled past him.

He vaulted lightly up into the branches of a tree, avoiding the stampede, and peered through the darkness. Sure enough, after a few minutes he began to see movement in the distance – the gleaming white flanks of stallions, smashing through the undergrowth.

‘By the gods.’ Sephian shook his head as he saw the horses’ riders – towering giants with spirals of horn snaking from their ivy-bound hair. Their faces were as pale and beautiful as the moonlight, but their eyes burned with a dark spectral fire.

‘The horned riders.’ Sephian recognised them immediately and his voice trembled with awe. ‘Priests of Kurnous.’

He watched in stunned silence as they thundered past, but then his sense of awe began to be replaced by the same dread that had driven him from the Silvam Dale. This time, however, it was no vague, nameless fear: he knew exactly what made his breath come in short, sharp gasps.

The riders were coming for him.

Suddenly, everything that had happened that evening made sense. As the drumming of hooves filled his mind, drowning out even his thudding pulse, Sephian realised that he was the riders’ prey.

The hunt was for him.

His excitement at seeing them vanished, washed away on a wave of primal terror. This was the fear he had seen in the eyes of the princess, and all the others too. They knew. The witches of the Dale had been afraid of him because they had seen his fate.

He was marked for death.

He turned and fled, dashing through the trees, leaping from branch to branch, before dropping to the ground and sprinting across the frost. He was a watcher. Even by the standards of the asrai, he excelled in the arts of concealment, but as the riders approached, filling the forest with their dreadful din, he forgot all that he knew, smashing wildly through the paths and glades, as clumsy and noisy as an outsider.

He had glimpsed the riders before, but only from afar. Their haunts were the deeps of the forest, where even he feared to tread. Their domain was as perfidious and strange as anything in the forest and it had turned them into something more than just asrai – daemonic beings with a half a foot in the spirit world.

Sephian felt sure that he knew the reason they had singled him out. He had failed them by mingling with the sorcerers of the Dale. ‘I had to return!’ he howled as he ran. ‘I had to warn the Enchanter! But I am not like him!’

The drumming of the hooves grew nearer, approaching from several directions, and the horns grew wilder, turning from a deep moan to an otherworldly howl.

As he ran, Sephian snatched a terrified glance over his shoulder. To his horror, one of the riders was already bearing down on him. His speed was incredible and even a brief glimpse was enough to still Sephian’s heart. Both rider and beast were glistening with blood and sweat, and draped in the trophies of their previous hunts: scraps of flesh and scalp trailed behind the rider like pennants as he raised his spear and prepared to catch a new trophy. He wore a tall spiked helmet of birch bark, but his ashen face was exposed. His eyes were rolling, feral and dark.

Sephian’s fear mingled with another sensation: rage. He had done nothing to deserve the wrath of Orion’s guardians. He, above anyone else in his kindred, observed the ancient precepts. He had never so much as stepped foot in the King’s Glade. ‘You’ve made a mistake!’ he gasped, leaping to safety just seconds before the rider thundered past and slammed his spear into the ground.

Sephian had lived by his wits for as long as he could remember. He had hunted and evaded all manner of creatures in Prince Elatior’s name. ‘I am not your prey,’ he cried, swinging on a low branch and flying back in the direction of the rider. As he hurtled through the air he drew his bow and arrow in a single fluid movement, loosing a shot before vanishing into the trees on the far side of the path.

The rider stiffened in his saddle and let out a cry that had no place in the mortal realm. Sephian’s arrow was buried deep between his broad shoulder blades and as he reined in his steed, the horned giant slumped awkwardly in his saddle.

Sephian watched in horror as the rider wrenched the arrow free, without a murmur of pain.

The other riders raced towards him and he ducked beneath a fallen tree, sprinting off down a narrow, icy gulley, knowing that the stallions would be too broad to follow. As he slipped and scrambled through puddles, the horns continued to wail, seeming to come from every direction at once.

A lifetime of wandering had sharpened his senses to an almost unnatural degree. A barely perceptible rushing of air alerted him to another attack and he rolled aside, scraping his skin painfully across a clump of frozen roots, but dodging the spear that whizzed past his ear and thudded into the side of the gulley.

A figure dropped into view, just ahead, and Sephian immediately drew a bead on the horned shape rushing towards him.

Before he had chance to fire, something made him pause.

Rather than hurling his spear, the muscle-bound giant dropped to one knee and held out his hand.

Sephian stumbled and lowered his bow, confused by the hunter’s strange behaviour.

He opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, but his words twisted into a howl of frustration as thick tendrils of ivy were thrown around his arms.

Sephian cursed his own stupidity.

He had been tricked.

Gentle hands bound him with more ivy and lifted him from the ground, fastening him to the trunk of a tree. Sephian struggled to free himself but the surrounding branches coiled themselves snake-like around his legs, fixing him firmly in place.

The kneeling giant rose to his feet and stepped closer, looming out of the darkness with his hand still outstretched. Seen close up, the rider was even more unnerving. The dark leaves in his hair were actually growing from beneath his pale flesh and knotting themselves around the slender horns that emerged from behind the birch-bark helmet.

‘My leaf-liege,’ said the rider, his voice a low growl. ‘You do not remember me. I am Atolmis the Hunter. My blood is your sap. My bones are your roots.’

Sephian ceased his struggling and slumped in his bonds, confused. Leaf-liege. What does he mean?

Atolmis stepped closer, drew a blunt wooden knife and pulled open Sephian’s cloak, exposing his chest.

‘Do not be afraid.’

He jammed the knife home.

‘Through death, you will live.’

Sephian tried to reply, but hot blood was already rushing from his mouth.

Atolmis’s jaw opened to reveal long, yellow teeth.

‘Orion,’ he growled, punching the blade deeper between Sephian’s ribs.

‘I have come to make you immortal.’

Click here to buy The Orion Trilogy.

A Black Library Publication

Orion: Vaults of Winter first published in 2012.
Orion: Tears of Isha first published in 2013.
Orion: Council of Beasts first published in 2014.
This eBook edition published in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Tatyana Kupriyanova.

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