by John Gwynne
‘My thanks,’ Meical said, and stepped closer. Kill handed him a bundle of spears to distribute amongst the Ben-Elim.
‘Can I have a sword?’ Riv said, looking in the wain. ‘And some arrows.’ She patted the curved bow in a case at her hip and looked up at Byrne in her saddle. ‘Please,’ Riv added.
Byrne nodded to Kill and then Riv was walking away with a sword and a sheaf of arrows, which she began threading into her belt quiver.
‘Spread the weapons amongst the mounted,’ Byrne said, as she reached down and gripped a spear. ‘Make sure Cullen has a rune-marked sword,’ she added.
The crack of hooves as more riders cantered into the courtyard from the direction of the stables: Utul and Shar, other warriors of the Order who possessed rune-marked blades, all of them in mail and leather. Behind them there was the creak and roll of empty wains drawn by horses rather than auroch, as was usual for the big wagons. It was a convoy of them, more than Drem could count.
‘And remember,’ Byrne cried, standing tall in her saddle, ‘protect yourselves at all costs. A coat of mail, iron helm, gloves, or you don’t ride out with me. If these things bite you, you’re finished.’ She looked at her warriors. ‘More time and we could have rune-marked helms and shields, our armour.’ She shrugged.
Drem’s hand shifted to the iron helm strapped to his saddle. It was more of a cap, and he hated wearing it, but knew that Byrne was right. He was already wearing his gloves, thick, boiled leather with strips of iron stitched in to protect the knuckles.
Meical, Riv, Hadran and the other Ben-Elim leaped into the sky, wings beating. Byrne turned her mount and cantered for the gate. ‘WITH ME!’ she cried, and with a roar Drem was swept through the courtyard and out of the gates of Dun Seren.
Three leagues south of the fortress, Drem saw the host of Ardain. The sun was high in the sky, a pale light behind darkening clouds. A sharp wind brought the taste and scent of rain to Drem. At first the host before Drem was little more than a dark smudge across the land, a sheen of dust hovering in the air above them. Riv, Meical and the other Ben-Elim had already flown out to the vanguard and given word of Byrne’s coming. Now the Ben-Elim flew above Byrne’s riders, crows smaller dots flapping amongst them. Drem glanced up, saw Rab flying close to Riv. They looked to be talking.
The survivors of Ardain were spread across the land, a swirl of people thousands strong, disappearing over a ridge on the horizon.
I have never seen so many people in my whole life, Drem thought. He felt a shifting in his belly, still a sign of his inherent discomfort at such crowds. Muscles in his arm twitched, fingers wanting to search for the steady reassurance of his pulse. With an effort he kept both hands upon his reins and drew in a long, steady breath, as his father had taught him.
‘You all right, lad?’ Keld called to him.
‘Aye,’ Drem grunted. He looked at Keld, felt something was missing. Then he realized.
‘Where are Fen and Ralla?’ he asked.
‘Told them they couldn’t come. They’ve not got rune-marked teeth or claws, they wouldn’t stand a chance against those Revenants.’
He’s right. As vicious as Fen and Ralla are, tooth and claw won’t stop Gulla’s Revenants.
A hand drifted to his seax, feeling the smooth-worn bone of the hilt.
A loose line of riders stretched ahead of Ardain’s host, the glint of steel from weapons and mail.
Ahead of him Byrne touched her heels to her mount, picking up the pace. Drem and the other mounted warriors matched her, eighty or ninety riders, a gap opening between them and the column of empty wains that were being driven across the land. Ethlinn and her bear-riders broke into a loping stride, matching the speed of Byrne’s riders. Drem glimpsed Balur One-Eye with Sig’s sword across his back, and Alcyon upon Hammer. Behind Alcyon and Hammer there was a flash of white fur. The white bear had followed them and was loping along close to Hammer and Alcyon. Drem felt a twinge of worry for the bear.
I didn’t know you’d followed us. Hope you don’t get into any trouble if this comes to a fight.
The drum of hooves filled Drem’s ears and soon they were close to the sprawling host. Some were on horseback, here and there was a wain crowded with too many people, but most were on foot. Gaunt, hollow eyes gazed up at Drem and the others. A ripple of cheers rose from them as Byrne and her riders approached. A warrior rode out from the vanguard, a woman, dark hair tucked beneath a helm, her warrior braid sweat-stained and stuck to her skin. Byrne slowed.
‘Where is Nara?’ Byrne called out to the warrior.
‘With the stragglers and the rearguard,’ the warrior shouted, gesturing over her shoulder with a spear.
‘Wains are coming, fill them with the neediest first,’ Byrne called, and then she was urging her mount on and breaking into a canter, riding along the outskirts of the host. Drem and the others followed.
‘Where are they?’ Cullen said, riding close to Drem. The red-haired warrior was staring ahead, searching the distance.
‘Who?’ Drem called to him.
‘Our enemy,’ Cullen shouted, a grin on his face. ‘My arse is getting sore and I need to stretch my legs.’ He had a flush in his face and a gleam in his eye that Drem was starting to recognize.
Drem glanced up, saw the outline of Ben-Elim above them, and ahead the dark spots of Dun Seren’s crows, circling.
I think they’ve found our enemy.
They crested a ridge, cantering down a gentle slope. The crowd was thinning, only a few score stragglers hobbling up the slope. A little further down the ridge was a line of horsemen, five, six hundred of them, spread in a long row. All were warriors, spears and swords in their fists, the grey-checked cloaks of Ardain fluttering from their backs in a sharp breeze. They were facing away from Byrne and her companions, towards the bottom of the ridge where the ground levelled out. A black mist seethed and boiled there, filling the land to the horizon, like storm clouds rolling in a sullen sky. It was moving steadily towards them, against the breeze. Drem felt a shiver’s chill course through his veins.
Gulla’s Revenants.
He guessed it was no more than three leagues away.
A banner snapped and rippled in the middle of the horsemen, a snarling wolven, teeth bared. Byrne rode towards it.
Faces turned to them: a woman, straight-backed and dark-haired, skin pale, a coat of mail beneath a thick cloak.
That must be Queen Nara. She had a drawn sword in her hand, resting across her saddle. To one side of her was an older warrior, broad-shouldered and mail-clad, a short beard upon a stern face. On the other side of the Queen sat a man in leather and mail, slimmer, dark-haired, his warrior braid coiling out from his helm. His eyes flitted across Byrne, Drem and the others, hovering on Ethlinn and Balur to the rear of Byrne’s companions. Something about the way he sat on his horse, his posture and his sharp glance told Drem this was a dangerous man.
‘Well met, Queen Nara,’ Byrne called out as she reined in before the dark-haired woman. Byrne dipped her head in greeting.
‘You have come, but I wish now that you had not,’ Nara said with a calm gaze. ‘It is too late. They are almost upon us, and I would not have you or your people risk your lives for the impossible.’
‘You should not be waiting here for them,’ Byrne said.
‘That’s what I said,’ the older warrior muttered, his voice as stern as his face.
‘Elgin,’ Byrne said with a nod.
‘My Lady,’ Elgin replied with a dip of his head.
‘I will not run while my people stand and die,’ Nara snarled at the older warrior. He did not wither before her anger, just nodded soberly.
‘Aye, that is what makes you the queen you are,’ he said slowly, ‘but with you Ardain lives or dies. I would rather it live on. We could stay, fight, buy you the time you need to escape. You should go while there is still hope.’
Drem got the impression this was not the first time they’d had this conversation.
‘No,�
� Nara said. ‘There is no hope, now. They are too close, and there are too many. You would buy us some time with your courage, Elgin, but not long enough for my people to reach Dun Seren’s walls. Better that we shall die fighting together, on our feet, steel in our fists and facing our enemy, not showing them our backs.’
‘There is hope,’ Byrne said grimly, ‘but you need to leave.’ She drew her sword, a rasp of steel and leather and held it in the air. ‘This blade is rune-marked and can kill those things in the mist,’ she cried, her voice loud, carrying along the line. ‘Each warrior here with me carries such a weapon. We can kill them. So, let us stand, guard your rear while you tend to your people. We have wains, beyond the ridge, to carry your injured, your children and old folk to Dun Seren’s walls, and fresh horses. Go, save your people. They need you.’
Nara looked at Byrne, then to the roiling mist in the valley.
She has made her peace with death. It is hard to come back from that place.
‘My Queen, go to your people, and we shall meet you at Dun Seren,’ Byrne urged.
Nara blew out a slow breath, looked away from the mist and into Byrne’s eyes. She nodded.
‘Ardain is forever in your debt,’ Nara said.
‘No debt. We are allies, and friends,’ Byrne replied. ‘Besides, one day soon you may be returning this favour.’
A ghost of a smile on Nara’s lips. ‘Gladly,’ she said, then reached out and gripped Byrne’s wrist.
‘Kill those bastards,’ she hissed. ‘They have torn my land and its people to pieces.’
‘We will make them pay dearly for it,’ Byrne said.
‘Good,’ Nara snarled. ‘Madoc, sound our withdrawal.’ The dangerous-looking warrior put a horn to his lips and blew, three short blasts, and Nara turned her mount and cantered up the ridge after the last of her disappearing people. Her warriors turned and rode after her, Madoc first to reach her.
Byrne watched them go.
‘Right,’ she said, turning back to Drem and the others. ‘Let’s get ready for a fight.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FRITHA
Fritha blinked sweat from her eyes as her hammer rose and fell, the clangour filling her head, echoing through the room. She was in the forge room of Drassil, this wondrous place secreted right at the very heart of the fortress, a chamber carved out within the great tree’s heartwood. She liked it here; she felt as if she was party to some ancient secret.
And I am. The Seven Treasures were forged here. And out of their molten destruction, something new shall be reforged.
Fritha paused in her work, muscles burning in her arm, shoulder and back. She wiped sweat from her face and looked to one corner of the chamber. Blue giants-fire flickered in the trough set around the circumference of the room, warring with the white-orange blaze of the forge. Combined, the two light sources cast an eerie glow on the huge chest in which Asroth had stored the shards of starstone metal that had once been his gaol.
The lid was open.
Fritha looked down at the shape on the anvil before her. An iron glove of black metal, riveted and articulated for ease of movement. It was big, made to fit a large hand, larger than most men’s, though smaller than a giant’s hand.
‘He will be here soon,’ a voice said, Choron, standing close to the chamber’s entrance. He was one of half a dozen Kadoshim in the chamber, all of them watching her every move. It was an honour that Asroth trusted Fritha to be in this room, to be carving and making something from his horde of starstone metal, but he did not trust her completely.
Not enough to leave me to work in peace. I have to have their black eyes watching me.
If Wrath were down here you would speak to me with a different tone, she thought, staring at Choron. Her draig was too wide now to fit down the stairwell that led to this chamber, even though it had been built by giants, for giants. Fritha knew that he would be waiting for her in Drassil’s Great Hall, though.
She bit back a retort and reached for her tongs, gripped the glove and thrust it into the forge fire, held it there until it glowed white-hot, then laid it back upon the anvil. She took up a small, sharp knife and neatly sliced her palm, another red line that would soon join the myriad scars that were testament to her dark work.
Everything has a price, especially power.
Blood dripped from her palm onto the white-glowing metal, sizzling and spitting, then she picked up a small hammer and an engraver’s chisel and hunched over the glove, tapping in careful, measured beats.
‘Réalta dubh, foirm nua, saol nua. Bí láidir, ná sos, crush do naimhde,’ she breathed as she tapped. ‘Réalta dubh, foirm nua, saol nua. Bí láidir, ná sos, crush do naimhde,’ she repeated, again and again as she carved runes into the backplate of the iron gauntlet.
A blast of air made the forge fire roar, flames leaping hungrily, and Fritha looked up from her work. Footsteps echoed on the stairwell and Bune appeared, and behind him, Asroth himself.
‘Is it done?’ Asroth asked, approaching Fritha.
‘Yes,’ she said, taking the gauntlet in tongs and dipping it hissing into a vat of oil. She pulled it out, held it up for him.
Asroth took it in his one hand and studied it, turning it this way and that. He saw the runes carved into it.
‘Unbreakable, foe-crusher,’ he whispered. Slowly a smile spread over his face. ‘I like it. Now I just need a hand to wear it upon.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Fritha said with a sharp smile. ‘And that is what we are here to do.’ She waved her hand over a table full of tools. Razor-edged saws, spikes, tongs, knives, a wide-bladed cleaver. Strips of leather cord, bone needles and twine. Fritha looked over to the Kadoshim Choron and nodded. He shifted his weight, pulling on a chain, receiving only a groan in response, drifting up from a shadow at his feet. Choron spat a curse and kicked the figure on the floor, dragging on the chains again. The figure slowly stood, a tall, muscled man, swaying unsteadily. Vald, the White-Wing warrior who had spat in Asroth’s face the night of their victory feast.
He did not look like the same man now. His hair had grown out from the close White-Wing crop and now hung lank and greasy, one eye was barely open in a swollen mass of purple bruising, the other eye a black, scar-puckered hole where Asroth had gouged it out. His lips were macerated against chipped and broken teeth. In his half-open eye, though, Fritha saw the same defiance and strength of spirit that had led him to spit in Asroth’s face. It was a stubbornness that no beating would put out. Fritha knew, because she had administered much of the torture; she had tried to snuff it out, and failed. She was still a little annoyed about that, though also felt a grudging respect for the warrior.
‘Bring him here,’ Fritha said.
Choron jerked the chain and led Vald shambling across the chamber to stand before Fritha and Asroth. It was not just Vald’s face that had been beaten. He dragged one leg, blood crusted on cuts and burns all over his torso, the burns weeping yellow pus.
‘Your new hand,’ Fritha said, gesturing at Vald.
‘It is still attached,’ Asroth pointed out.
‘Aye. You must take it and give it to me.’
Asroth smiled, brushing his fingertips over the cleaver upon Fritha’s table of tools, then nodded at Choron.
The Kadoshim dragged Vald forwards, but somehow, despite his condition, he gathered untapped reserves of strength and threw his body towards Choron, taking the Kadoshim by surprise. Choron fell onto Fritha’s table and Vald rose with an iron spike in his fist, stabbed two-handed at Choron, burying the spike deep into Choron’s shoulder.
The Kadoshim shrieked, stumbled backwards.
Bune and other Kadoshim surged forwards, but Asroth was ahead of them. He slammed a fist into Vald’s face, pulping the man’s nose, then wrapped his fist in Vald’s hair and smashed his face into the flat of the anvil. Vald went limp, a pool of blood spreading around his face.
‘Hold him,’ Asroth snarled, and Bune and others pinned Vald to the anvil.
‘His
hand,’ Asroth said, reaching for the cleaver with his left hand and raising it.
Choron gripped Vald’s right hand and pulled it forwards, then Asroth’s arm was rising and falling. A thunk and crack as the cleaver carved through meat and bone, blood sprayed. Vald screamed.
Fritha licked blood spatters from her lip.
The cleaver rose and fell again, crunching into Vald’s skull, his scream cut abruptly short.
Asroth lifted the severed hand and gave it to Fritha. Vald’s corpse was released to slide off the anvil and fall in a heap to the ground.
‘Thank you, my King,’ Fritha said. She took the hand, measuring it against the iron gauntlet, and smiled to see her calculations and measurements matched perfectly.
‘What now?’ Asroth said.
‘Now I will bind this hand to your flesh,’ Fritha said. She offered him a strip of leather. ‘You may want to bite on this,’ she said. ‘I suspect this is going to hurt.’
Asroth took the leather, looked at it and tossed it on the ground. ‘Pain will not master me,’ he said, curling a lip.
‘Put your arm on the anvil,’ Fritha instructed.
Asroth did, eyes fixed on hers.
‘Do not fail me,’ Asroth said.
Fritha wrapped leather cords about Asroth’s forearm, binding it to the anvil. Then she turned to her table and selected a saw. She touched the sawblade to the puckered flesh of Asroth’s stumped wrist, hardly hearing Asroth’s words, her focus on the task ahead, her blood pounding with the thrill of it.
Bune wrapped a hand around her wrist.
‘If any harm comes to our King, you will know pain you could never imagine.’
She ignored him.
‘My King?’ Fritha said, looking into the black pools of Asroth’s eyes.
‘Make me whole. Make me more,’ he said. ‘Your rewards will be . . . great.’
‘An chéad ghearradh, breith na maitheasa,’ Fritha chanted into the chamber, her voice echoing, then a silence fell.
Fritha began to saw.
Asroth opened his mouth and screamed. Then, slowly, the screaming shifted to laughter.
