A Time of Courage

by John Gwynne

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DREM

  The wall of mist was a mere half a league away now, if that. The Revenant host had covered over two leagues at shockingly quick speed.

  A blast of air from above and Drem looked up to see Meical and some of the Ben-Elim descending. Riv was with them. They hovered close above, the air from their wings stirring the grass.

  ‘Ethlinn,’ Byrne said. ‘I think our enemy needs to come out from behind its cloak. We need to see what we are facing.’

  ‘Aye,’ Ethlinn said, ‘just what I was thinking.’

  ‘ELEMENTALS!’ Byrne called out.

  Riders drew up either side of Byrne, forming a line that faced the black mist. Ethlinn, Balur, Alcyon and Tain were amongst them. Keld rode over to Byrne’s side and Drem made to guide his horse after the old huntsman. Cullen grabbed Drem’s reins.

  ‘This isn’t for the likes of us,’ Cullen said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Drem frowned.

  ‘We are not Elementals.’

  Elementals – those who have learned to use the earth magic. Byrne had used that word when she had taken him into the secret passages beneath Dun Seren and shown him the Order of the Bright Star’s sacred book. It was a great responsibility, she had said, and only those judged capable of handling that responsibility were chosen. They were the elite of the Order, and most of them were gathered here. One of the marks of an Elemental in the Order was that they rune-marked their own blades. Byrne had spoken of teaching Drem the earth power, had showed him the chamber where the Elementals learned their craft. She had hinted at teaching him, and Drem had felt both scared and excited at that thought.

  Byrne and Ethlinn were at the centre of the forming line. Balur, Alcyon and Tain were the only other giants there, the rest hanging back on their great bears. Utul and Shar joined the line, along with two score Jehar that had ridden with Utul from the south. Utul drew his curved sword from his back and ran it across his hand.

  ‘Lasair,’ he said, and flames ignited along its blade. He held it up in the air.

  ‘Always the show-off,’ Shar said beside him.

  Kill, Keld, all of Byrne’s honour guard and a few score other warriors from the Order rode up to the growing column. Drem and Cullen remained close to the giants, all of them separate from Byrne’s gathering. Drem figured there were about ninety riders spread either side of Byrne, all facing down the ridge.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Drem whispered to Cullen.

  ‘Patience.’ Cullen winked.

  Drem frowned. Of which you normally have none.

  Ethlinn and Byrne pulled knives from their belts, drew them along their palms and cast their hands into the air, spraying speckles of blood.

  ‘Cumhacht an aeir, scrios an dorchadas seo ón talamh,’ Byrne called out, and repeated the words, Ethlinn adding her deep voice to Byrne’s. The words rose and fell, washing over Drem. They set a tingling in his blood, like the thrum and vibration of a bowstring.

  Others in the line drew blades from scabbards and more blood was welling. They raised their hands and joined their voices to Byrne and Ethlinn’s.

  ‘Cumhacht an aeir, scrios an dorchadas seo ón talamh,’ they cried. ‘Cumhacht an aeir, scrios an dorchadas seo ón talamh.’ Over and over again, voices ringing like a wake dirge, and even though Drem did not understand the words, he felt them seep into him and twist and twine through his veins.

  ‘Cumhacht an aeir, scrios an dorchadas seo ón talamh.’

  ‘CUMHACHT AN AEIR, SCRIOS AN DORCHADAS SEO ON TALAMH,’ the voices rang like a thunderclap.

  A gust of wind rose up, tugging at Drem’s hair, building to a roar in his ears. It swirled around him, growing stronger, and within two dozen heartbeats became a howling wind that swept down the slope, stirring up a dust cloud in its wake. Drem could almost see the forms of warriors in the wind, a sharp-edged gale that slammed into the tenebrous mist, cutting into it. There was a moment where the mist swelled, holding and bending like a dam under pressure, and then it began to tear and fracture, ripping like an old desiccated parchment. The outlines of figures appeared, a seething mass. They were too far away for Drem to make out their features, but he had seen their like before: long-taloned, pale-faced, hollow-eyed creatures. Once these beasts had been men and women of Ardain – Drem even saw the silhouettes of children amongst them – people who had had lives, friends, families, dreams and hopes. Now they were Gulla’s Revenant horde, driven by a baser hunger.

  They were moving at a steady, uniform pace, but Drem saw many of them falter as the tattered mist dissipated around them, faces looking up to the sky, black eyes blinking, confused. Others came on, seeing Byrne and the warband ahead of them. Some of them broke into a run.

  ‘They’re running,’ Cullen said, beside him. ‘Half a league away and they’re running. Ha, they will be running away when they see me and my sword.’

  Somehow, I doubt that.

  There were thousands of them. Drem looked at Byrne’s line of warriors and the other two score giants close to him.

  A hundred and thirty of us, maybe a hundred and forty. He looked up, saw Riv and the dozen Ben-Elim. A hundred and fifty.

  Back to the horde of Revenants surging up the slope.

  We are outnumbered, twenty, thirty to one, maybe more. Even with our rune-marked blades, how can we hope to defeat so many?

  A tingle of fear twisted in his belly.

  Byrne lowered her hands and looked either side of her.

  ‘Too many for us,’ Kill said. ‘We should retreat.’

  ‘Then they would catch Nara and her people,’ Byrne said. ‘We must slow them, somehow.’ She looked at the approaching mass, then at the warriors about her. ‘TWO LINES!’ she bellowed. ‘The Order and giants mixed. First line hits them, retreats, second line hits them, giving the first some room to get out. Second line retreats . . .’ She looked up at Meical and the Ben-Elim. ‘You strike then, help the second line to get out.’

  Meical gave a stern nod.

  ‘Then we retreat, see what having a taste of our blades does to them. Once they know they will die easily, it may give them pause.’

  Or it may not, Drem thought, remembering the Revenant horde they had fought in the Desolation. They are capable of thought, Ulf spoke to me, remembered me, but it was through a veil. Their bloodlust made them more like the Ferals than humans.

  ‘Once we are all out, we shall see. Maybe harry their edges, but keep our distance.’ Byrne rose up in her saddle, raising her voice for all of them gathered about her. ‘We slow them, but this is no last stand. I need you for the war ahead. Do not throw your lives away.’ Her eyes flickered across everyone, lingered on Cullen a few moments. ‘And remember,’ she cried, ‘DO NOT let them bite you. You know what will become of you if that happens. One day at most and you will become one of them.’

  Drem shivered at that. The thought of becoming one of those blood-mad creatures turned his stomach to ice. He unbuckled his iron cap from his saddle, slipped it onto his head. He shifted it around to get the leather and sheepskin liner that padded it more comfortable and tried to buckle up the chinstrap. He spent a while fumbling at it, getting nowhere.

  ‘Straps first, gloves last,’ Cullen whispered to him with a smile.

  Drem took off his gloves with his teeth, buckled his helm’s chinstrap with ease, and pulled his gloves back on.

  ‘There’s a lot more to the art of war than stabbing what’s in front of you,’ Drem muttered.

  ‘Now we can see them, it’s easier to kill them,’ Balur bellowed. He drew Sig’s longsword from behind his back, swept it through the air in a figure of eight. Warriors shouted their approval. Somehow the act checked the fear that sat like a coiled wyrm in Drem’s gut.

  ‘And that’s what we are going to do,’ Byrne called out. ‘WARRIORS, ON ME!’ she cried, and nudged her horse into a walk down the slope.

  ‘Now it’s time for us,’ Cullen said, slapping Drem on the shoulder and kicking his horse
on. Drem followed, feeling something shivering through his veins, the echoes of magic, Byrne’s words, a combination of both. He drew his father’s sword as he joined the line.

  Byrne turned and saw him, beckoned him over.

  ‘When you slew their leader in the Desolation, they all died,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Drem agreed.

  ‘And you told me his name was Ulf. That he was one of the Seven that Gulla turned.’

  ‘Aye,’ Drem nodded. He knew where Byrne was going with this; his thoughts were taking him a few paces down the same road.

  ‘Do you know who all seven were? And would you recognize them now?’

  Ulf. Tyna, his wife. Burg, the man who tried to hang me. The brothers Thel and Ormun, trappers who wintered at Kergard, like me and Da. He closed his eyes, picturing that dark night, black pools of blood glistening on the table. Gulla, teeth bared and arms open, wrapping people in a deathly embrace. A man, tall, lean, but not someone from Kergard. And Arvid – she was one of Hildith’s strongarms.

  ‘I . . . think so. Six of the Seven, yes. Five were from Kergard, my home. Two weren’t. I’m guessing they were acolytes from the mine – one of them tried to hang me, so I won’t forget his face in a hurry. The other one, maybe.’

  Byrne nodded. ‘If you see one of them, tell me. Or kill them. Then, with luck, the whole horde will die and save us the job of killing them one by one.’

  Drem nodded.

  ‘Here, beside me,’ she said, making a space for Drem to stand to her left. She looked to Cullen. ‘And you, in the front row. Keep an eye on Drem.’

  Cullen grinned at Drem’s frown.

  Horses jostled, bears growled, gouging at the turf with long claws. Drem rolled his shoulders, shifting the weight of his mail coat. He smelled the sweat and grease that coated the riveted mail.

  The Revenants were surging up the slope, now, all of them seemingly accustomed to the daylight.

  And not as hindered by it as I’d hoped.

  The slither of fear in his belly uncoiled, worming through his body.

  How have I come to be here, standing before a horde of snarling creatures who want to kill me? I don’t even like crowds.

  He fought the urge to be sick.

  I hate battles.

  And then he remembered his father’s shattered body, holding his da’s hand, trying to stroke the blood away from his lips. His father’s last breath. He remembered the oath he had sworn, of vengeance, the oath that had set him upon this course.

  These Revenants were born of Fritha’s magic. Born of the Starstone Sword my father made, that was stolen from him. That he was killed for.

  His fear was still there, but he felt a sliver of anger, a resolve that tempered the terror, that kept the dread from ruling him.

  A horn blast and the first row moved into a canter, swords drawn, spears levelled. Despite his fear, Drem did not hesitate. To his right Byrne held her reins loosely, sword in her fist, to his left Cullen was grinning as if it was his name-day.

  The Revenants were rushing to meet them, running with unnatural speed, mouths gaping, sharp teeth glinting, saliva hanging in thick threads from their mouths.

  Thousands of them.

  Drem sucked in a deep breath, snarled a curse at his fear.

  The first Revenants were five hundred paces away. His eyes flickered across them, searching for something familiar, for one of the Seven.

  ‘TRUTH AND COURAGE!’ Byrne cried, a hundred voices echoing her, and the first line charged. Drem squeezed Rosie’s flanks, a whispered word as he bent close to her ears, and she obeyed instantly, leaping forwards from canter to gallop in a burst of muscle and power and speed.

  The world became a thunder of hooves, blood pounding in his head, voices screaming the Order’s battle-cry. Dimly he realized he was yelling it, too. And then they crashed into the Revenants, a wave of horse and bear smashing into meat, a concussive crack as bones broke and bodies were flung through the air. Drem glimpsed Ethlinn and her bear, Revenants hurled like so much kindling, her spear stabbing about her. He slashed with his sword, a spark of blue light as his blade crunched into a skull, his arm wrenched as his mount’s momentum carried him on, but managing to keep a grip of his sword as it ripped free of the skull, trampling Revenants, cutting to either side of him with his blade, eruptions of blue light all about him as blades bit into their blood-hungry enemy, wounding, maiming, killing.

  They carved deep into the Revenants, their enemy falling away. Those that weren’t crushed and broken by hoof and claw were stabbed and skewered by magical blades, but then the charge slowed. The weight of bodies in mounds underfoot were a growing pressure before them, until Drem felt as if they were wading through water. His sword rose and fell, hacking, chopping, his arm and shoulder burning. Sweat blurred his eyes. To his left Cullen was laughing and singing, dealing out death like a reaper on harvest-day.

  A hand grabbed at Drem’s hip, talons raking his mail coat, a Revenant hauling itself up, its mouth gaping wide, teeth bristling. Drem stabbed into its mouth, a burst of blue light and he ripped his blade free, teeth flying as the creature slumped back into the throng.

  Three more leaped at him. He thrust, pierced a chest, feeling ribs crack, then his wrist was grabbed in an iron grip and he was dragged forwards.

  A sword swipe, a blue explosion and Drem was leaning back in his saddle, a severed hand still gripping his wrist, Cullen laughing even as he stabbed another Revenant in the face.

  Drem brushed sweat from his eyes and snatched a glance at Byrne, saw her slicing and stabbing at a dizzying speed, though each stroke was economical and tight. The line had not broken, but Revenants were pushing between Drem and Cullen now.

  Much longer and we will be swamped.

  Byrne shouted something to one of her honour guards and a horn blew, sounding the retreat. Drem swung with his sword, a flurry of blue bursts of flame as his father’s blade carved through flesh and bone, and he tugged on his reins, Rosie neighing, rearing, lashing out with her hooves and half-turning.

  A face in the horde, eighty, a hundred paces away. A tall woman, the remnants of a muscled physique visible through a thick-grimed tunic. Once it had been fine wool, embroidery on the neck and sleeves. Her eyes were fixed on Byrne. She looked less feral than the other Revenants, more in control, something calculating in her expression. And she held a hand-axe in her fist, the first Revenant he had seen with a weapon beyond its teeth and talons. Revenants were grouped around her, a protective mass.

  He knew that face, though it took him a moment to place her, changed as she was.

  Arvid.

  Rosie’s hooves slammed down, Revenant bones splintering. Cullen was yelling; Byrne had already turned, kicking her mount away, back up the slope. Drem hesitated, stared into the Revenant horde.

  Arvid. Kill her – the battle is won.

  But there were five hundred Revenants between them.

  Not possible. Get out, tell Byrne, maybe another charge.

  He tugged on his reins. Rosie shifted her weight, then there was a thud as a Revenant leaped up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist and chest. Teeth bit down into his shoulder, and Drem screamed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RIV

  Riv swooped low over the Revenants, slashing with her sword. Arms reached out to grab her, some Revenants leaping startling heights to grasp at her, but she twisted and rolled, avoiding them, chopping and hacking limbs and heads, always just out of reach, as if she were skimming the surface of a turbulent lake.

  A lake full of flesh-hungry monsters.

  Well, I want to kill you as much as you want to eat me, she thought, losing herself in the joy of battle. It was the simplicity of it she loved the most. Gone were the politics of Ben-Elim and half-breed, all the precepts and rules of the Lore that she had lived her life by, the confusion and anger-inducing betrayals of the last year. With the Revenants it was simple: kill or be killed.

  A shape lunged at her from the mass
below and her sword slashed, a ripple of blue light as the blade sliced the lower jaw from a Revenant’s head.

  I love this sword.

  The Revenants were still unnaturally fast, their strength incredible and their single-minded drive to tear the life out of anyone in front of them was daunting, but with these blades they felt pain and could die just as any normal human.

  Riv smiled as she killed them.

  A voice, faint, filtered through the din of battle and Riv’s own bloodlust. Calling her name. She angled her wings, sweeping higher, twisting away from the horde below.

  ‘RIV,’ the voice called.

  Meical.

  He was hovering above her, Hadran and the other Ben-Elim around him. She flew up to join them. Riv could taste the moisture in the air, the tingling of imminent rain.

  ‘We will be needed soon,’ Meical said when she reached him.

  Riv turned and looked down at the battle beneath them. She had watched with a mixture of envy and respect as Byrne had led a charge into the oncoming Revenants.

  Sixty or seventy riders in that first line, against thousands, and Byrne at the front.

  She had looked at Meical. ‘We should go and help.’

  ‘I cannot,’ Meical answered with a frown. ‘Byrne asked for our aid; we are needed for the extraction of the second charge. The timing will be vital, I cannot risk becoming embroiled in my own separate battle.’

  She had looked down at the conflict below, watched as Byrne and her warriors had carved a wedge deep into the onrushing Revenants. It was hard to watch other people fight her enemies.

  ‘I can’t just stay here and watch,’ Riv said with a growl.

  ‘I am not your captain, but I gave Byrne my word,’ Meical said, his face unreadable, but Riv saw something in his eyes.

  Approval.

  ‘I’ll be back soon.’ Riv grinned, tucked her wings tight and drew her rune-marked sword as she plummeted towards the ground.

  ‘Return when I call you!’ Meical had shouted after her.

  And she had. She hovered now with the rest of them, heard the horn blast sounding the retreat of the first line, saw Byrne, Ethlinn, Alcyon and a few score others turn and ride out of the destruction they’d caused. One of the riders had not pulled away with the others. She stared harder, saw that it was Drem. He’s in trouble.