by John Gwynne
‘She will come,’ he said again.
‘Huh,’ grunted Ellac. ‘How long will you wait?’
Bleda shrugged. He had not dared to think of that question, did not want to acknowledge the possibility that Riv would not return to him, and what that would mean.
‘If she does not come soon, we should go,’ Ellac said.
‘No,’ Bleda muttered.
‘If she does not come soon, then she is dead,’ Ellac ploughed on. ‘Staying here will not bring her back from the dead.’
Bleda looked at Ellac, felt his knuckles whitening again.
‘Don’t say that.’
‘You are our leader now, our king. You must lead us.’
Leader? King? I have only led you into defeat. Love, revenge, duty – these things claw at me, drag me in different directions.
‘Lead you where?’ Bleda muttered.
‘To Arcona. To our people. They need you.’
Bleda knew it was logical, that Ellac’s words were wisdom, but the thought of leaving, of riding away and turning his back on Riv – it took his breath away.
‘She will come,’ Bleda whispered.
Twigs crunched and Bleda looked up to see a score of Sirak warriors approaching, Yul at their head, more joining them.
Yul was no more than thirty summers old and looked like any other Sirak warrior, shaven-haired in a long coat of mail split in the middle for riding, the sleeves cut short above the elbows to allow for bow work. He moved with a grace and efficiency of movement that marked him as dangerous. He had been Erdene’s first-sword. Champion and guardian to the Sirak Queen. Bleda could see that her death still sat heavily upon him.
Bleda and his Clan had arrived here only three nights ago, injured and exhausted from eight days of struggling through Forn Forest. It was only a timber cabin and a small grove of cairns, but they had already turned the area into a defensible position. They had cleared trees, dug the foundations for a stockade and used the trees they’d felled for timber posts to make a wall. A paddock had already been made; their first priority was to look after their mounts, because without a horse a Sirak was only half a warrior. Rows of felt gers lined one side of the encampment, pots hanging over fire-pits. Bleda was keenly aware of their vulnerability to attack, but they had to rest somewhere, there were too many wounds to heal, and he had agreed to meet Riv here. Even if they managed to complete their encampment, Bleda knew it would not stand against a concerted attack from their enemies, but it would help, would buy them some time at the very least, and it had given them something to do other than wait.
Yul skirted the cairns that lay beyond the cabin, each one the size of a bairn, testament to the terrible secret Kol and his Ben-Elim had been keeping for over a hundred years. Half-breed children, the progeny of relationships between Ben-Elim and humans – killed or died – and buried in this lonely clearing.
Until Riv. She could have ended up in one of those cairns, if not for Aphra.
They have changed the world.
As Yul drew close, yet more warriors fell in behind him, until it looked as if the whole company was gathered.
What is happening here?
Yul stood before Bleda, who remained sitting upon his stump, looking up at the warrior.
‘There are things that must be said,’ Yul croaked. A gash across his throat had been stitched, blood crusted on it, and a dark bruise covered one side of his face, orange and green now as it began to fade. Bleda had found Yul on the road where the battle had taken place. After Riv had left him, Bleda had led his small band of followers, just over a score of his own honour guard that had survived the attack in the forest, back to the site of their defeat, to the road where they had been ambushed by Kadoshim and Ferals.
And betrayed by the Cheren.
There they had gathered arrows, weapons, food from saddlebags, tools and provisions, and said words of respect over their dead. Bleda and his band had wanted to wrap them in shrouds and light their balefires, but that would have alerted every living thing within ten leagues, so they had left the dead where they lay.
During their search of the battle site, Bleda had been thrilled to find survivors. Injured, wounded, but alive. They found more scattered and lost in the forest, and now their group numbered almost a hundred. Half of them were too injured to ride or draw a bow, but they would heal.
If we are given the time.
Bleda had dragged Yul out from beneath his dead horse and the huge carcass of a Feral. Yul was unconscious, half-crushed by his horse as it fell, and he had a claw slash across the throat that would have ended him if it had cut only a little deeper. But he was alive.
‘What things?’ Bleda asked.
‘Some here have served you, trained with you, at Drassil,’ Yul said. His voice ground like breaking ice.
‘Aye, my honour guard,’ Bleda said. ‘What is left of them.’ Little more than twenty left from a hundred. I let them down, led them into a trap. He sighed and looked at his hands, remembering the blood of Tuld, his oathsworn man. He had died in Bleda’s arms. He looked back up at Yul. They don’t want me to lead them. And who can blame them? Not me.
‘But we were oathsworn to your mother, to Erdene, the Falcon of the Sirak. We have not ridden with you.’
Old Ellac stood.
‘He is your Prince,’ the old warrior said, not quite keeping the snarl from his voice. ‘And now your King.’
Bleda felt Ruga tense behind him.
‘Peace, Ellac,’ Bleda said. ‘Let him speak.’
Bleda stood, too, his coat of lamellar plate chinking. It was a weight upon his shoulders, but he was always dressed for battle, now.
‘We had not seen what kind of a man you are. What kind of a leader you are,’ Yul continued quietly. ‘We have, now.’
Quicker than Bleda thought possible, Yul reached over his shoulder and drew his curved sword, before he, Ellac or Ruga could react, and stabbed it into the soil. All the while Yul held Bleda’s gaze. He reached for his bow, took it from its case at his hip, and then he knelt, placing his bow reverently on the ground between them. The four score men and women gathered behind him did the same.
‘You slew Uldin, King of the Cheren, lord of our sworn enemy. You slew Uldin our betrayer, in the heart of his camp, before his sworn honour guard and before his heir. You slew Uldin, our blood-sworn foe, in the sight of Erdene, our Queen. My Queen.’ Yul paused, a tremor running through his cracked voice. ‘For that, if we knew nothing else about you, we would follow you to the ends of the earth. Our bows, our blades, our lives are yours.’
‘HAI!’ shouted the kneeling warriors, making crows squawk in the canopy above. Each of them took an arrow from their quivers and sliced their palms. Fists were made, blood dripping onto their sword blades.
‘With our blood we swear this,’ Yul said.
Bleda stared.
‘HAI!’ cried the Sirak.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FRITHA
Fritha sat at a table, drinking wine from a pewter goblet. Asroth sat one side of her, Morn on the other.
Well, this is surreal, she thought, draining her cup and looking about for some more wine.
They were still in Drassil’s Great Hall, but it looked markedly different now. The corpses had been removed, though the ground was still slick with pooled blood. Fritha’s feet had stuck to the floor as she’d walked to her seat. The hall was filled with the stench of it, cloying and thick.
Tables had been found and dragged from all parts of the fortress, because Asroth wanted to feast. Hundreds of them were there: Kadoshim, acolytes, half-breeds, Cheren warriors, all eating and drinking. Upon the dais that had held Asroth and Meical entombed in starstone, a ring had been fashioned, spears rammed into the ground and ropes of human entrails hung between them, glistening in the flickering torchlight. Within this space a handful of prisoners had been made to fight. At first, they’d refused, but Fritha had let Wrath eat one of them, and not too quickly. That had persuaded the onlookers to
cooperate. Fritha had earned a respectful nod from Asroth for that, which had given her a thrill of happiness.
She sat back in her chair and looked up, taking in the huge domed ceiling on the hall. Dark pockets gave away where the Ben-Elim had built fly-holes into the walls and roof.
I spent so many days in here, on my knees, praying, reciting the Ben-Elim’s Lore. Being brainwashed, having my life ruined. They took my reputation, my child . . . my life away from me.
And now I am here, eating and celebrating their defeat.
Outside, Gulla’s Revenants prowled, the countless many in their rolling mist; a hundred half-breed Kadoshim kept vigil in the sky. There would be no stealthy counter-attack that could get past them while Asroth feasted this night.
And feast is what we’re doing. Fritha leaned forwards and speared a joint of lamb, dragging it closer so that she could cut a small slice. It tasted wonderful, spiced and crusted with something sweet and delicious.
I’ll say one thing for the Ben-Elim – they had good cooks in Drassil.
Laughter drew her attention and she looked along the table to where Asroth was leaning to whisper in Jin’s ear, who sat the other side of him. Asroth was commenting on the duel before them, two White-Wings half-heartedly circling one another. Asroth laughed again, and even Jin smiled, an expression that looked out of place on her face.
Fritha felt a tinge of jealousy.
The atmosphere was euphoric, but she did not feel safe. Gulla was sitting opposite Asroth. He sipped something red from a goblet, like Fritha, though she knew he was not drinking wine, and every now and then his red eye fell upon her. Of all of his Revenants, only his captains remained within the hall. Some stalked the shadows, while others stood as still as stone. There were five of the Seven that Gulla had turned that night in Starstone Lake. The Seven, who had become his generals, spreading Gulla’s blood throughout the Desolation and beyond, gathering to themselves their own disciples, as they were Gulla’s. She saw scar-faced Burg, who had once been a brigand. Fritha had fought with him when he was newly come to Kergard, because he had leered at her. Now his face was as pale as ash, and his deep-sunken eyes no longer sought her out as they once had, because he lusted for other pleasures. Blood was all that he cared about. Close to Burg stood Rald, prowling softly in the shadows, like some restless wolf. He had been an acolyte, one of Fritha’s Red Right Hand. His lips and chin were crusted with blood. Elsewhere, still as a statue, stood Tyna. She had been another resident of Kergard, once the wife of Ulf the tanner, now a blood-hungry killing machine. Thel and Ormun stood close together, perhaps some shred of their kinship remaining, for they had been brothers. They watched those in the duelling ring with famished eyes, each drop of blood drawing their gaze like the predators they were.
Only two of the Seven had not come to the battle. Arvid, who had been sent into the west to sow destruction and gather a host. She had gone to Ardain and should be somewhere on the way to Drassil. And then there was Ulf, the Revenant who had stayed with Fritha, had supposedly been her secret weapon, her surety in defeating the Order of the Bright Star. But somehow he had found himself in a fight with Drem, and Drem had taken Ulf’s life with a rune-marked blade. Ulf had died, and his warband of Revenants had died with him. That had been the end of Fritha’s chance, the end of all hope of victory.
Ulf, the idiot. If he had only stayed hidden in the shadows, as I’d told him. Stayed out of the battle. His hunger ruled him.
Fritha’s eyes flickered to Gulla.
What will he do when he finds out that Ulf is slain, that his Revenant is dead? That I lost the battle against the Order of the Bright Star?
She drank a large gulp of wine.
Wrath won’t be able to protect me from Gulla’s anger. There are only so many Revenants he could eat. I must consolidate my position before Gulla finds out.
She reached out a hand to Asroth, hesitated a moment, then touched him.
Asroth’s head snapped around, regarding Fritha with a flat stare. She jerked her hand away.
‘It was I who took your hand,’ she said.
‘My hand,’ Asroth echoed, a twitch of his lips that could have been a snarl. He looked at the stump of his wrist.
‘We tried to free you, but the attack was too weak,’ Fritha carried on. ‘And Ethlinn was here. She is no weakling, I can tell you.’ She gave Asroth a wry smile. ‘I warned Gulla of the risks, but he was determined. Even so, I thought that if we failed to free you, perhaps we could take something that would help us to release you later. I told Gulla of an alternative plan. A way to fashion victory from a defeat.’
Asroth shifted his weight, turning his back on Jin.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I told him of a way we could build a new warband, of creatures utterly loyal, and very hard to kill. Gulla’s Revenants.’ She nodded at Gulla. ‘But to do it I would need something of great power, not inanimate, like the Starstone, but something living, or that had recently lived. Something that had pulsed with blood. My work, I use blood . . .’
Asroth continued to stare at her.
‘There is something in our blood,’ Fritha said, ‘when Elyon created flesh, blood was the key. It is . . . magical,’ she breathed.
‘Aye,’ Asroth said, a dip of his head.
‘So, when the battle to free you was clearly lost, Gulla ordered me to take your hand.’ Fritha held her breath and looked into Asroth’s eyes, could read no emotion there. It was unsettling. She knew this was a risk, that it could go badly wrong.
‘You took my hand,’ he said, quiet as a whisper, and the sound of it turned Fritha’s blood to ice.
‘On Gulla’s order,’ she answered.
Asroth’s one hand drifted to a knife hanging at his belt.
Telling him was a mistake.
Shouts from the duelling arena grew loud, Fritha and Asroth both looking. It was the big White-Wing, the one who had spat at Asroth.
He was refusing to fight. Well, not exactly that. The sword song was ringing out as blades clashed, but it was immediately clear to Fritha that he was fighting defensively, making no effort at all to attack. He was retreating, circling, parrying, but there was not one strike, and even with one arm crusted with blood and curled tight to his torso he clearly outclassed his opponent.
The spectators were booing and hissing, Cheren warriors shouting insults. Gulla stood from his chair, legs scraping.
The big White-Wing saw, and quick as a blink he darted forwards, smashed the hilt of his sword into his opponent’s temple, dropping her.
‘Bring him to me,’ Asroth ordered. ‘If he won’t fight, I’ll find a different entertainment in him.’
Gulla slipped from his chair, a snap of his wings as they extended and took him into the air, over the ropes of entrails and he glided down into the ring.
The White-Wing looked at Gulla, froze a moment, then launched himself at the Kadoshim.
Gulla flicked his wings, sidestepping with unnatural speed, a knife suddenly in his hand, and he clubbed the White-Wing across the back of the head, sending him crashing into the intestine ropes, falling, tangled.
Gulla snapped his fingers and two acolytes leaped forwards to grab the White-Wing, who was groggily trying to rise. They dragged the man towards Asroth, though he struggled against them.
A sensation inside Fritha’s skull, like a whisper, or the flutter of moth’s wings.
Frrrithaaaa . . .
She knew that voice.
Elise. You live! A moment of pure joy. It had torn Fritha’s heart to fly away from Elise, her friend, her creation, part woman part white wyrm. It had hurt her to leave all of her followers, her Ferals, Arn, her Red Right Hand.
Now that Fritha was concentrating, she could feel Elise. It was like a thrumming in her blood. At the same time she became aware of her Ferals, so few now compared to what there had been. They filled her with a quick joy. She felt so vulnerable here, so alone. She needed her creations around her, her children. Wrath was all
she had, but now there were more.
Oh, my Elise, she whispered back, and felt a thrill of pleasure, knowing that Elise had heard her. My babies. Come to me, Elise, come to me, all of you. I need you.
‘What are you smiling at?’ a voice asked, Morn, beside her.
‘Elise lives, she is coming,’ Fritha said. ‘Help them. Fly out and find them, guide them home.’
‘Father has tasks for me. Scouting,’ Morn said with a frown.
‘I am not asking you to disobey Gulla,’ Fritha said quietly, ‘but you could scout to the north and west, could you not? Maybe travel a little further in that direction?’
A hesitation.
Fritha looked down at her cuirass, the white wings embossed upon it now stained a deep, dark red. A reminder of Fritha’s and Morn’s blood mingled. A reminder of their oath, to help each other in their vengeance.
‘I will do what I can,’ Morn said, her attempt at a whisper more like gravel rattling in a pot.
And then the White-Wing was thrown onto the table before Asroth, scattering trenchers and spilling Fritha’s wine.
Asroth stood, towering over the young warrior, who struggled to free one hand, punching an acolyte and sending them reeling.
Asroth raised his knife, the White-Wing lifting his hand in a futile defence.
‘Don’t kill him,’ Fritha blurted.
Asroth froze, knife hovering.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I need his hand,’ Fritha said, looking at the White-Wing’s fist. It was big, almost as big as Asroth’s.
Asroth frowned.
‘I can give you a new hand.’ She smiled. ‘A better one.’
A moment’s hesitation, then Asroth slammed the knife down, deep into the table beside the White-Wing. Asroth gripped the White-Wing’s face.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
The White-Wing didn’t answer.
Asroth squeezed, Fritha seeing the warrior’s skin starting to tear, his eyes bulging, the crackle of cartilage and bone. The warrior screamed.
‘Your name,’ Asroth said, calmly, his expression fascinated, studying the man as if he were some kind of insect.
