A Time of Courage

by John Gwynne

  With a burst of strength, Riv flew after them and grabbed a trailing rider, dragging him from his mount, the warrior twisting, elbowing Riv in the mouth, the two of them falling to the ground as the horse galloped away. Riv spat and cursed, stabbed and punched, but the Cheren warrior avoided her blade and drew a knife. Then the man was being hauled away from her; Vald’s bulk was standing over them. His sword cut the Cheren’s throat and he cast the dying man away.

  ‘You can’t kill them all single-handedly,’ Vald said with a grin as he grabbed Riv’s wrist and pulled her to her feet.

  A whistle of arrows and Vald turned, raising his shield over them. A drum of impact as arrows punched into wood.

  ‘Fly,’ Vald said to Riv.

  ‘I’ll not leave you like a fish in a barrel,’ she grunted.

  Then more shields were slamming down around them: Aphra and her shield wall forming. Riv grinned at her mother.

  ‘What now?’ Jost’s voice called out.

  Riv bunched her wings and launched herself skywards, rising above the shield wall, hovering to take in the field.

  Below her, seventy or eighty shields were tight around Aphra, elsewhere combat still raged in smaller knots: handfuls of White-Wings trying to stand against a swarm of acolytes.

  The shield wall can hold for a while against the Cheren, but it won’t be able to march and reach the East Gate. The Cheren are too accurate, will exploit the gaps in the wall that movement brings. And every moment we are held here we risk the Kadoshim and their dark creatures finding us.

  Shadows flitted across the ground and Riv looked up.

  Oh no.

  Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, a rolling battle in the air that swept their way like wind-blown storm clouds. Some of the Ben-Elim surged down from the sky, spears and swords stabbing at the Cheren, who were turning, aiming their bows skywards.

  Another roar rose from the west and Riv saw figures swarming into the field: men and women, even children, rushing into the weapons-field, snatching up the practice weapons that lay in racks and barrels. Riv recognized some of the traders she’d seen in Drassil’s streets, the ones she’d urged to head for the East Gate. There were many more of them now. They charged at the Cheren and Kadoshim acolytes. Riv felt a swell of pride at their bravery, these ordinary people. The Cheren line fractured again as swords were drawn to deal with this new foe.

  ‘Now!’ Riv shouted as she turned to Aphra. ‘To the East Gate, NOW!’

  Aphra hesitated a moment, staring at the Cheren line.

  Riv felt it, too, the compulsion to stay and fight. To help those brave people that had attacked the Cheren. But if they stayed, the end was inevitable. She had seen the Kadoshim war-host.

  ‘NOW!’ she bellowed again at Aphra.

  Her mother stood a moment longer, then she was turning, yelling orders, and the White-Wings took off eastwards. Riv saw them smash into the rear of a few score acolytes and scatter them, freeing a beleaguered knot of White-Wings, who joined them in their dash for the East Gate.

  Riv hovered a moment, looking back towards the Cheren and those brave souls who had rushed them.

  I cannot leave them, she realized, and made towards them.

  The Cheren had recovered from the surprise of that first onslaught and were setting about carving the people of Drassil into bloody strips.

  Riv reached them, chopped into a Cheren’s neck, wrenched her sword free as she flew past. Meical scattered a handful of Cheren with his sword and wings.

  ‘FLEE FOR THE EAST GATE!’ Riv yelled to the people of Drassil around her. Some of them looked, breaking off from their combat, running for the gate.

  A Ben-Elim and Kadoshim suddenly crashed to the ground in an explosion of feathers and dust.

  In a heartbeat Riv and Meical were there, hovering. Together they stabbed down, piercing the Kadoshim’s torso. He screamed, wings spasming, and then flopped still. Meical dragged the corpse off the Ben-Elim and Riv reached down, gave the survivor her arm.

  It was Hadran, the warrior Kol had set as Riv’s guardian during those early days in Drassil when she had been revealed as a half-breed. He staggered to his feet, sweat-stained and bloody.

  ‘I am glad you are still alive,’ he said to Riv.

  ‘You almost weren’t,’ she said, a flash of her fierce grin.

  ‘My thanks,’ he acknowledged, a dip of his head. Then his eyes shifted to Meical. He blinked, took a step back, eyes widening.

  ‘Meical,’ he breathed.

  Meical stood before him, silent. Then nodded. ‘Hadran,’ he said.

  ‘But, if you’re . . .’

  ‘Aye. Asroth walks amongst us,’ Meical said grimly.

  Hadran took another stumbling step backwards.

  ‘Hadran.’ Riv shook him. ‘Look at me. The battle is lost. Where’s Kol?’

  The Ben-Elim’s eyes focused on her. ‘Up there.’ Hadran gestured to the skies above them.

  ‘Tell him of Asroth, tell him that we must flee now, live to fight another day.’

  Riv saw shame ripple across Hadran’s face. ‘Flee the Kadoshim?’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘How has this happened?’

  ‘No time to question,’ Meical said, glancing at Riv. ‘Do as she says. This is one battle, not the war.’ He stepped close to Hadran, gripped his wrist. ‘Do not sell your life on the Kadoshim here. Live, and gather as many of our kin as you can. This need not be the end.’

  Hadran blinked, then nodded. ‘What of you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m following her,’ Meical said, then looked at Riv.

  ‘The cabin in Forn,’ Riv shouted to Hadran, and then she was leaping into the air.

  Something drew Riv’s eye further westwards, to the wide entrance to the weapons-field.

  A dark cloud appeared, spilling from the street beyond, rolling onto the field like a mist. She glimpsed figures moving within it.

  Riv had seen the damage just one of those things could do. Shouting a warning, she watched in horror as it washed over the rear ranks of those who had attacked the Cheren.

  The screaming followed quickly.

  With a savage growl, Riv rose higher in the air. She knew there was no defeating those things right now. People were screaming, the sound of death and slaughter spreading fear through their ranks. They began to break apart and run, but with the Cheren before them and the mist behind, there was no escape.

  Riv dived, seeing a familiar face, blond hair and terror-filled eyes. Tam, the child of a wool-trader. He had never looked at her, a half-breed, with fear or disgust, only awe and excitement – she had let him ride on her shoulders once. She grasped his hand and heaved him into the air.

  In Riv’s arms the boy screamed as he watched the people he knew and loved slaughtered beneath them, but Riv knew there was nothing she could do against those creatures.

  She turned and flew with all her strength, Tam’s cries filling her world. Tears flowed from her eyes as she beat her wings and sped after Aphra. Meical caught up with her and together they overtook the White-Wings, coming to the smaller East Gate. Riv set Tam upon the ground and moved to the gate. It was barred, but Riv and Meical made short work of it, heaving the iron bar out of its brackets and throwing it to the ground. They put their shoulders to the gates and thrust them open.

  A tunnel led beneath Drassil’s thick walls. Light at the end of it revealed the empty plain beyond.

  Riv turned and swept Tam back up into her arms. He was still crying.

  Aphra reached them and Riv ushered her through, Jost and Fia, behind her, baby Avi strapped across Fia’s chest, then scores more White-Wings, sixty, eighty, a hundred, more. Each one of them nodded to Riv as they passed into the tunnel. She was pleased to see the old weapons-master Ert amongst them, old, white-bearded and limping, but his face set in resolute lines and his sword red to the hilt in his fist. Behind him came Sorch, the White-Wing she had fought with more than once, even carried into the air and threatened to drop him. His eyes fixed on the sobbing Tam and he
drew to a halt before her.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ Sorch said gently. He reached out a hand to Tam.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ Riv said.

  ‘You’re injured,’ Sorch said, staring at her wings.

  Riv frowned, glancing at herself. She was covered in blood, most of it not her own, although there were countless cuts and scratches on her limbs. She became aware of a dull ache in her back, from her wing. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that her wound from a Cheren arrow on the muscle of a wing-arch had reopened. It pulsed blood in time with her heartbeat.

  ‘Won’t be able to fly far with that and extra baggage,’ Sorch said with a small smile.

  He bent down to Tam. ‘Trust me, little man, I’ll take care of you.’

  ‘Go on,’ Riv said, giving Tam a pat on the shoulder. ‘Sorch’ll look after you for now. I’ll catch up with you soon.’

  Tam nodded and allowed Sorch to sweep him up, then without another word the big warrior was running into the gate tunnel.

  Riv waited until the last of the survivors had passed through and then searched the ground and sky behind them.

  Where is Vald?

  Riv had not seen her friend pass through the gates.

  Without thinking, she beat her wings, began to move back towards the weapons-field.

  Combat was still raging in a few knotted clumps, but most of the field was dominated with the enemy.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Meical called to her.

  ‘My friend,’ she replied, hesitating. ‘I think he is out there.’

  Meical joined her, staring at the field.

  Even as they both looked, the last knot of defence collapsed.

  ‘If he is, he is dead,’ Meical said. He gripped Riv’s hand. ‘Live,’ he said, ‘and avenge him.’

  I do not fear death, she snarled inside her head. But to die here, now, would be pointless.

  ‘Ach, Vald, you big bull,’ Riv murmured.

  ‘Revenge,’ she said brusquely at the field. With Meical she retreated, closed the gates, reset the iron bar and took to the air, climbing higher and higher until they reached the top of Drassil’s walls. They hovered there a moment, looking back.

  Drassil was in chaos, flames blooming, pillars of smoke curling into the sky.

  It was hard, turning her back on her home, the place where she had grown up.

  And now the Kadoshim have taken it from us. My home. I will come back here, Riv swore to herself, and when I do, I shall make a mountain from the corpses of my enemies.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FRITHA

  Fritha stared up at Asroth, into the black pools of his eyes.

  ‘We are betrothed,’ she repeated to him.

  ‘Betrothed?’ Asroth breathed, his voice a dry crackle.

  Fritha was kneeling before the King of the Kadoshim, holding his hand. Power exuded from him like a living thing. It was as if she were sinking into a deep well, the world around her fading, Drassil’s Great Hall, Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, blood and feathers, all the world blurring except for Asroth, who stood before her like a god made flesh. He wore a coat of mail, black and oily; dark veins mapped his alabaster skin, pale as milk. His long, silver hair was tied in a thick braid, his face sharp lines and chiselled angles, a white scar across his forehead. But it was Asroth’s eyes that drew her, black and deep as forest pools at midnight.

  Fritha blinked and shook her head, trying to pull herself back from the dark depths that were enveloping her. Part of her loved this feeling, part of her hated it.

  ‘Yes. We are betrothed,’ she said quietly.

  He is beautiful, she thought.

  Asroth gave her a look of disdain and shook off her hand. He gripped her throat, hauling Fritha to her feet, then into the air, his face thrust in close.

  ‘You are human.’ His eyes burned. ‘One of Corban’s maggots.’ Revulsion twisted his lips and he began to squeeze.

  Fritha tried to answer, but only a rattle came out and abruptly she couldn’t breathe, could only feel the power in his fist as he crushed her neck. He seemed to be in no rush, watching her squirm. She clawed at his hand as he slowly tightened his grip.

  He’s going to kill me . . .

  She reached desperately for her sword. Dots appeared before her eyes, blood pounded in her head, lungs screaming for air as blackness began to envelop her. Panic swept her, but her body wasn’t responding, her limbs becoming heavy, uncoordinated.

  Then something smashed into Asroth, sending them both flying through the air, crashing to the ground. Asroth’s grip was gone and Fritha landed on the corpse of a White-Wing warrior. She lay there, sucking in great, ragged breaths, each one burning her throat. A bulky shadow loomed over her protectively, a taloned claw thumping down beside her head.

  Wrath.

  Her draig stood over her, bigger than a bull, a mass of muscle and fang and claw. ‘No,’ Wrath growled. His tail lashed, sweeping corpses behind him.

  A ragged strip of flesh hung from the draig’s jaw.

  Asroth climbed to his feet, eyes fixed like a predator on them. His right arm moved, as if reaching for a weapon, but his hand had been severed at the wrist. He held his arm up, seeing his disfigurement for the first time. He stared at the stump in shock, then looked about the room, at the corpses strewn all around him, at the Kadoshim and White-Wings fighting.

  Fritha pushed herself to her knees.

  There was a turbulence of air and Kadoshim were landing about Asroth, a score at least. They dropped to their knees. One of the Kadoshim remained standing, clad in blood-spattered mail, his hair shimmering darkness, a spear in his fist.

  ‘Bune?’ Asroth said, as if dragging a name from some distant memory.

  ‘My King,’ Bune said, dropping to one knee with the other Kadoshim.

  Asroth hesitated and pinched his nose, frowned. ‘Where is Meical?’

  ‘He fled,’ Fritha answered before Bune could speak. She clambered out from beneath Wrath’s bulk. The draig nuzzled her with his head. ‘Gulla has gone after him.’

  ‘Gulla,’ Asroth said, ‘my captain.’ He nodded. His eyes focused on Fritha, took in Wrath. The draig spread his wings, a ripple running through them, and growled. Fritha put a hand upon Wrath’s jaw.

  Bune looked up to see Asroth glaring at the two. ‘Lord, they are our allies . . .’

  ‘What is happening here? Where is that maggot, Corban?’ Asroth said. ‘And explain this to me.’ He waved his stump at Fritha and Wrath.

  ‘You are newly awakened, Lord King,’ Bune said. ‘You and Meical were frozen within starstone metal. Fritha –’ Bune pointed to Fritha with his spear – ‘she set you free.’

  A pause as Asroth took that in.

  ‘How long?’ he asked.

  ‘One hundred and thirty-eight years,’ Fritha said. She saw the Starstone Sword upon the dais and took a slow step towards it.

  ‘Corban? The battle?’ Asroth touched the white scar on his head.

  ‘We . . . lost,’ Bune said, bowing his head. ‘You and Meical were frozen,’ he repeated, ‘a sorcery of the enemy.’

  ‘That witch, Corban’s sister,’ Asroth spat.

  ‘Aye, Cywen,’ Bune said. ‘After you were trapped, we were routed and scattered. Gulla saved us from destruction and from that day to this we have fought. A hundred and thirty-eight years we have struggled, survived and planned for this moment.’

  A shriek above them. Two figures fell from the sky, two pairs of wings, white feathers and dark skin. The two rolled on the ground, frantically stabbing at each other.

  Asroth pulsed his wings to stand over the fighting warriors. He stamped down upon a white-feathered wing, grabbed the Ben-Elim’s arm and twisted. There was an audible crack and the Ben-Elim cried out. Asroth grabbed a fistful of the Ben-Elim’s hair and put a foot in the small of the warrior’s back, then heaved. The Ben-Elim screamed again, arms flailing, his face purpling, eyes bulging, and then there was a series of concussive cracks, vertebrae snapping, the Ben-Elim’s lim
bs flopping. Asroth dropped the corpse back onto the leathery-winged warrior, a rattling sigh escaping the dead Ben-Elim’s throat.

  The dark-winged figure shrugged off the Ben-Elim’s corpse and stood. It was Morn, Gulla’s half-breed daughter. She was blood-soaked and broad, slabbed with muscle, her close-cropped head slick with sweat and blood.

  She looked about her, giving Fritha a curt nod. Then she dropped to one knee before Asroth, her eyes filled with awe.

  ‘What are you?’ Asroth said, frowning at Morn, studying her. As a half-breed she had the leathery wings of a Kadoshim, but her features were coarser, her frame squat and broader than the long-limbed, fine-boned Kadoshim.

  ‘Gulla’s daughter,’ Bune said. ‘We have not been idle. We have sired an army of half-breeds in this world of flesh, to replenish our numbers. Our losses were heavy on that day, but we have bided our time and made new allies.’

  ‘Allies, humans and half-breeds,’ Asroth growled, his lip curling as if the words had a foul taste. His eyes fixed on Bune a long moment, then snapped from Morn to Fritha.

  ‘Aye. Allies,’ Fritha said, feeling her anger stir. She had sacrificed much, all, to bring this moment about, and Asroth sounded ungrateful. She took a few steps and stood over Morn, placed a hand on the half-breed’s shoulder. ‘We are the difference between defeat and victory. Look about you, Lord King.’

  She gestured a hand around the huge chamber that was Drassil’s Great Hall.

  In the air above them combat still raged, Ben-Elim and Kadoshim fighting with all of their aeon-fuelled hatred. Kadoshim and their half-breeds had formed a kind of protective dome around Asroth, the remaining Ben-Elim hurling themselves against it, desperately trying to break through, but their numbers were dwindling; the end was looking close. On the ground the combat was even more one-sided. Pockets of White-Wings fought against shaven-haired acolytes, while further away a tide of Gulla’s Revenants were decimating all in their way, a boiling mass that overwhelmed any who dared to stand against them.

  As Asroth looked about the hall, Fritha bent and picked up the Starstone Sword.

  ‘Victory,’ Asroth breathed slowly, tasting the word. He looked back to Fritha, holding her gaze, and again she had that sensation of sinking, drowning, but this time she resisted, her anger giving her strength.