A Time of Courage

by John Gwynne

  ‘I would never,’ she said. ‘We are wed, bound.’

  Asroth stared at her long moments, his face expressionless, but Fritha’s skin goosebumped, as if caressed with frozen hands. He held her gaze a moment longer and then turned back to his task, resumed his muttering. Abruptly he stopped, his hand finding something in the bark, not quite a hole, more like an old wound, as if the bark had been stabbed. Amber resin had leaked like blood from a sword-cut, scabbed and hard now. Asroth’s fingers probed and he continued to mutter. ‘Geata rúin, taispeáin duit féin, geata rúin, taispeáin duit féin, geata rúin, taispeáin duit féin.’

  There was a cracking sound, like an axe splitting wood, and a line appeared, spreading, an arched gateway was outlined against the bark, wide as two giants. Asroth gripped inside the hole he had found and pulled, and with a creaking and hissing of air long-captured the door swung open.

  A stairwell stood before them, carved out of the heart of the tree, leading downwards. The air was musty, thick with mould, but there was something else there, too. Fritha inhaled, scenting the tang of metal, like a blacksmith’s forge, but as faint as morning mist.

  Bune flew down from above them, landing with a soft scrape of leather on stone.

  ‘A torch,’ Asroth commanded, and Bune swept one from a sconce on the wall, handing it to his master.

  Asroth stepped into the stairwell, touched his torch to a bowl mounted upon the wall. Blue flame crackled and Fritha recognized it for the oil she had once found in giant ruins. More of them lined the stairwell; Asroth lit them as he descended.

  Fritha followed, stepping quickly in front of Bune.

  Her fingers traced the wall as she spiralled downwards. They came away sticky with sap, the scent of resin thick in the air. And then the stairs were levelling out and they were entering a circular chamber. Asroth touched his torch to a trough built into the wall and it flared with blue fire, spreading around the room with a hiss and crackle, and the stench of oil. Fritha took a moment to take in the room. It was edged with racks filled with giant weapons: war-hammers, battle-axes, spears and swords. Further on, tools replaced the weapons: tongs, pincers, hammers of all sizes, chisels and awls. In the room’s centre stood a huge anvil, and behind it a bellows and forge loomed, still banked with ancient charcoal and cinder.

  Asroth approached the anvil and, almost reverently, laid his hand upon it.

  Fritha saw runes inscribed upon the wall, and other things, symbols. The whole circle of the wall was filled with them. One looked like a spear, another like a double-bladed axe, elsewhere a cup.

  ‘It is a map,’ Asroth said, watching her. ‘Of the Banished Lands, and of where the Seven Treasures were kept.’

  ‘The Seven Treasures,’ Fritha whispered. So many tales of them: cauldron, spear and axe, dagger, torc, necklace and cup. All of them were said to have been created from the Starstone, and all had power. She touched a hand to the hilt of her sword.

  ‘Yes, like your blade,’ Asroth said, ‘though that is a crude thing compared to these treasures. The giants used them in their war, when their Clans were sundered.’

  ‘It is all true, then,’ Fritha breathed, the tales of antiquity in this place feeling like a real weight, heavy and bearing down upon her.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Asroth said. ‘And this is where they were forged.’ He patted the anvil, a meaty slap. ‘But those treasures are no longer where the map says they are. They are all up there, in my wooden chest.’

  Fritha looked at him.

  ‘All of the treasures were cast into the cauldron, by Corban and his witch-sister, Cywen. They were undone by her sorcery, melted and made new again as my prison. A skin of starstone metal. Ach, how it burned.’ His face twisted in a snarl.

  ‘But they will be made new again, and I shall wield them.’

  Fritha looked at him with a fierce smile. And I shall be by your side when you do.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  RIV

  Riv began the descent to Dun Seren, far below her.

  The fortress was a dark smudge upon a green hill, the river Vold curling around its northern walls like the black carcass of a great serpent. Riv could hear horns blowing, see pinpricks moving upon walls. She glanced at Meical, who flew silently beside her, his face set in hard lines.

  ‘They’ve seen us,’ Riv shouted over the roar of air as they swept downwards. Meical stared ahead, eyes fixed on the fortress.

  ‘That is Dun Seren?’ he called to her, his face shifting, emotions rippling.

  ‘Aye, you know it?’

  ‘By another name. It was Gramm’s Hold then, a hall of timber and thatch, and it was in flames when I left it. Dun Seren,’ he said, a smile ghosting his lips. ‘Fortress of the Star.’

  ‘The Order of the Bright Star,’ Riv corrected him.

  Meical said nothing.

  Riv did not know what to make of Meical. All her life she had seen him as a symbol of the fight against the Kadoshim. A literal image of that battle, locked in combat with Asroth for all to see. Though now, looking back, Riv realized that during all of her history and Lore lessons her Ben-Elim teachers had barely mentioned Meical or Corban. That was strange. And, judging by the words Meical had exchanged with Kol back at the cabin, something had happened to sour Meical’s relationship with his kin.

  A flicker of white wings and Hadran overtook them, another dozen Ben-Elim with him. Kol had sent them with Riv and Meical, as protection against Kadoshim and half-breeds, Kol had said, but Riv knew that was no truth. Kol wanted to keep a leash on Meical. He was a threat.

  If Kol doesn’t like Meical, or trust him, then that alone is a good reason for me to like Meical.

  Riv felt no bond of daughterly love for her Ben-Elim father, who she knew would have slaughtered her as a child, had her mother Aphra not concealed her existence.

  She knew Kol would have been here to watch Meical himself, but he had another task to accomplish. The debate at the cottage in the woods had swept back and forth for half a night about the best course of action. The next day they had separated, all going about their own tasks, each one vital. Each one dangerous.

  I miss Bleda. Riv felt his absence like a punch in the gut. She had felt such a rush of joy at seeing him upon the wall at the cabin, after so much fear and death, and now they had been separated again. She pictured his face, his beautiful almond eyes, could for a heartbeat feel his fingers upon her bare skin, the sensation of his lips against hers.

  I will see him again, she vowed.

  Dun Seren was much closer now, the tower and courtyard clear, a crowd forming. Hadran led them down in a slow spiral, making sure that all below could see that they were Ben-Elim, that their wings were white feathers, not leather and gristle, like the Kadoshim.

  They circled above the courtyard and touched down between the statue in the centre of the yard and the wide stone steps that led up to the keep. Riv saw Ethlinn and Balur One-Eye emerge from the keep’s shadows and could not keep the smile from her face at seeing the old giant. Byrne, High Captain of the Order, emerged between them. Riv felt nothing but respect for the woman who had bested Kol in this very courtyard, not so long ago, to Riv’s surprise and great satisfaction.

  Others were with Byrne. A slender giant Riv remembered as Tain. Craf the old crow was on his shoulder. There were five human warriors as well, a dark-skinned woman and four men. One she recognized: Drem. He had been the reason Kol and Byrne had fought – some old grievance between the Ben-Elim and the Order of the Bright Star.

  Byrne saw Riv and dipped her head in a greeting.

  Hadran stepped ahead of Riv and the other Ben-Elim, and took a few paces up the steps towards Byrne.

  ‘Drassil has fallen. Asroth is free,’ he said, loud enough for all to hear.

  Gasps and oaths muttered around the courtyard. Byrne jolted to a stop, her face turning ashen.

  ‘No,’ Ethlinn said.

  Balur One-Eye made a growling sound.

  Riv looked around for Meical and re
alized he was not standing with her or the other Ben-Elim. He was standing behind her, gazing sadly up at the statue in the courtyard, of a warrior and a wolven.

  Corban, the founder of the Order, and his wolven, Storm.

  Riv stepped close to Meical, saw that his lips were moving, though she could not hear what he was saying.

  A loud squawking filled the courtyard.

  ‘MEICAL, MEICAL, MEICAL,’ and Riv saw the old crow on Tain’s shoulder hopping up and down and flapping his scraggly wings.

  Meical turned and stepped out from behind the Ben-Elim. He smiled at the exuberant crow.

  ‘I did not expect to see you here, Craf,’ Meical said, striding up the steps. He stopped before Byrne and dipped his head.

  ‘You must be Byrne,’ he said, ‘the High Captain of this Order.’

  ‘I am,’ Byrne said, no emotion on her face. ‘And you are Meical. I have seen you before, frozen in starstone metal.’ She took a long moment to study his face, holding his gaze.

  ‘I am free, now,’ he said. He rolled his shoulders and looked from Byrne to Ethlinn. ‘It is good to see you, Lady.’

  ‘And not so good to see you,’ Ethlinn replied, ‘for to see you means that a hundred years has been undone. Asroth is free.’

  ‘Aye, he is,’ Meical said. ‘But that means he is also free to die. To be sent back to the Otherworld, once and for all.’

  Riv liked the sound of that.

  ‘And you, old One-Eye,’ Meical said. ‘It is good to see you, too.’

  Balur stared at Meical with his one eye, a scowl on his face.

  ‘You caused us a lot of trouble,’ Balur grunted.

  ‘I did,’ Meical said, a pinching of his eyes.

  ‘Corban said Meical redeemed himself, at the end,’ Ethlinn reminded him gently, reaching a hand out and resting it on Balur’s arm.

  Balur nodded. ‘And that is why I have not taken this winged man’s head,’ he growled. ‘But still . . .’

  Craf flapped his wings and took off from Tain’s shoulder. The bird rose unsteadily, winged through the air, a few feathers drifting down to the ground, and landed on Meical’s shoulder.

  ‘Meical good friend,’ the crow croaked. ‘Craf saw Meical save Corban, fight Asroth.’

  Meical scratched Craf’s head.

  ‘No, Craf, it was Corban who saved me,’ Meical said.

  ‘Corban saved us all,’ Craf squawked. ‘And Cywen.’

  ‘The victory was won by many,’ Ethlinn said.

  Riv looked at Meical. That’s not how most Ben-Elim would have us know it. They told us they were the saviours of humankind. There was little mention of Corban and his followers . . .

  ‘How is it that there’s still breath in your beak, old friend?’ Meical said to Craf.

  ‘Secret,’ Craf cawed, with a touch of smugness to his tone.

  ‘There is much to speak on,’ Byrne interrupted. ‘War is upon us. Hadran, Meical, join us in council, there is much we need to discuss.’ She paused, eyes shifting to Riv. ‘And you, too,’ she added.

  Horns blew loud behind Riv, from the gate tower.

  ‘Riders approaching,’ a voice boomed down to them.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DREM

  At the alarm, Drem followed Byrne as she hurried towards Dun Seren’s gates. He watched Riv open her wings and take to the sky, flying upwards in a tight spiral. Craf squawked from Tain’s shoulder and spread his wings, flapping awkwardly into the air.

  ‘Be careful,’ Tain called up to the old bird. Other crows cawed and croaked above them, flying south to where the riders were approaching. Drem saw the white smudge of Rab amongst them.

  When they reached the battlements’ top Byrne walked until she stood over the gate, Ethlinn and Balur either side of her.

  Drem put a hand over his eyes and stared to the south.

  Dun Seren spread in tiers below them, shifting into rich green pastures. A road cut through the green, and upon it a plume of dust marked riders approaching.

  ‘What do you see, lad?’ Keld muttered beside Drem. He knew Drem’s eyes were excellent.

  ‘Three riders,’ Drem said. ‘Warriors.’ He strained his eyes, but they were too far for him to tell anything else.

  A flapping from above and Craf descended, alighting clumsily on Tain’s outstretched arm.

  ‘Craf tired, too far,’ the crow muttered.

  ‘Your children will do your flying,’ Tain soothed.

  They waited.

  The riders drew closer. It seemed to take a long while but Drem could tell they were riding hard. He saw a winged figure swoop down, circling the riders: Riv, he thought, from the colour of her wings, though he could not be sure at this distance. Crows circled above them. Then the winged figure was speeding back to them, straight as an arrow’s flight, crows following in her wake.

  Drem was right, it was Riv. She approached at a dizzying rate, wings spreading and checking her when she was almost upon them. Her feet touched gently onto the stone wall before Byrne.

  ‘Riders from Ardain,’ Riv said. ‘They say they are scouts of Queen Nara, who follows behind them. They have been attacked.’

  ‘Who by?’ Byrne asked.

  Riv pulled a face. ‘Monsters in the mist, they said.’

  Byrne looked at Ethlinn, then turned to the honour guard beside her.

  ‘Sound the call to arms,’ she said. ‘Every warrior with a rune-marked weapon rides with me.’

  The riders clattered through Dun Seren’s gates as Drem rode back into the courtyard, Keld and Cullen either side of him.

  Byrne was already waiting there in her war gear, her coat of mail and iron helm gleaming, and mounted ahead of a score of her guards, waiting for the riders of Ardain. They were mud-spattered, eyes dark with exhaustion. Byrne cantered to them as stablehands ran to help them. One warrior slid from his mount and lay still on the stone-flagged ground. Men ran to help him.

  A trembling of the ground and Drem looked over his shoulder. He saw Ethlinn approaching, mounted upon a bear, a spear in her fist, two score giants upon bears behind her. All of the bears bore coats of mail, strapped with leather and iron. They were a formidable sight, muscle rippling beneath their riveted mail. Alcyon was there, the sides of his head freshly shaved and his two axes slung across his back.

  ‘What news?’ Byrne asked. Drem rode as close as he could to hear. ‘Is it true that Queen Nara is behind you?’

  ‘Ardain is fallen,’ one of the warriors panted, a younger man, tufts of beard on his chin.

  ‘What?’ Byrne blinked, leaning forward in her saddle as if she had misheard.

  ‘The monsters in the mist, they have swept Ardain like a plague. Queen Nara tried to fight them, but it was impossible. In the end she gathered the survivors and fled the realm.’

  ‘She is coming here?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Aye. We had nowhere else to go. But they have followed us, and they are gaining. They were almost upon us when Queen Nara bid us ride to you.’

  ‘Lead us to her,’ Byrne said, calling for fresh mounts for the riders.

  ‘I’ll find them,’ Riv said, spreading her wings, ‘lead you to them.’

  ‘No,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Why not? You don’t trust me?’ Riv scowled.

  She doesn’t like being told what to do, Drem observed.

  ‘Not that,’ Byrne snapped. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’ Riv bridled.

  ‘I didn’t say that, either,’ Byrne said, frowning at Riv. ‘You must learn to listen,’ she added. ‘Did you not hear my orders, on the wall.’

  ‘Something about runed blades,’ Riv said. She put a hand to the two short-swords at her hip. ‘I don’t need runed blades. These are all I need.’

  If you want to die a quick death at the hands of Gulla’s Revenants, Drem thought. Drem’s sword and seax were both rune-marked, both of them forged by his father, Olin. Drem had raised an eyebrow at Cullen when he had appeared at the stables and sad
dled his horse. He knew Cullen didn’t have a rune-marked blade, and so should not be preparing to ride out with Byrne, but he’d learned not to tell Cullen he couldn’t do something. That was the surest way of getting Cullen to do it.

  ‘Not against these creatures,’ Byrne said, ‘if they are the same that we fought in the Desolation. Only a rune-marked blade can slay them. I forbid anyone to trade blows with these creatures unless they are wielding a rune-marked blade. I’ll not have my people dying in a fight they can’t win.’ Her face softened. ‘Or you.’

  ‘These mist-walkers, I’ve killed them before,’ Riv grunted.

  They are called Revenants, Drem silently corrected.

  Byrne raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you? How many?’

  A long pause.

  ‘One,’ Riv muttered. ‘And that wasn’t . . . easy.’ A longer pause. ‘And I had some help.’

  Cullen barked a laugh.

  ‘Rune-marked blades kill them. Hurt them like any blade would hurt us,’ Drem said.

  Riv stared at Drem a long moment, then looked back to Byrne. ‘Well, have you got one of these blades I can have, then?’ she said.

  Byrne smiled, looking to her left, where Kill and a dozen warriors were leading a horse and wain into the courtyard. They creaked to a halt before Byrne, and Kill pulled back a waxed sheet to reveal a mound of weapons. Spears, swords, axes, some bundled arrows.

  ‘Not enough,’ Kill grunted, ‘but this is all we have been able to craft in the last moon.’

  ‘How many?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Forty swords. Seventy spears. Sixty-five axes. Fifty arrows.’

  ‘It will have to do, for now,’ Byrne said.

  Riv edged closer, peering into the wain.

  Meical stepped forwards.

  ‘We are not of your Order, but it would be wise to give us Ben-Elim a weapon. We can fly out, could be a great help in bringing Nara and her people back within these walls.’

  Byrne looked at him, and at Hadran and the dozen Ben-Elim behind him.

  ‘Trust us,’ Meical said. ‘Trust me. I will not let you down.’

  Byrne gave a curt nod.

  ‘Take spears,’ she said.