A Time of Courage

by John Gwynne

  Byrne appeared, looking down on them. She rested a hand on Drem’s shoulder. A long look from her as she assessed their wounds, and then she nodded.

  ‘You’ll live,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, though Keld may as well be dead, with his pretty looks all ruined,’ Cullen said.

  Keld cuffed Cullen across the back of his head.

  Byrne shook her head and strode away, threading her way to Riv, who was still standing over Arvid’s corpse.

  Byrne put a hand on Riv’s shoulder and smiled at her.

  ‘You saved us tonight,’ Byrne said. ‘Saved more than you know. We are in your debt.’

  Riv shuffled her feet, looked at the ground.

  ‘We fought together,’ Riv said. ‘I was just the first to pin Arvid down. I got lucky.’

  No, you weren’t, Drem thought, looking at Utul and Shar. Luck had nothing to do with it. And Utul and Shar are blade-masters. He looked at Utul. Was.

  Meical and the Ben-Elim landed around Riv and Byrne.

  ‘Thank you,’ Byrne said to them.

  ‘We are allies,’ Meical said, then paused, looked into Byrne’s eyes. ‘And friends, I hope.’ He offered his arm.

  Byrne looked at him, then down to his arm. A hush fell over the chamber.

  ‘Aye, friends,’ Byrne said, taking his arm in the warrior grip.

  ‘Good,’ Meical said. ‘I hoped to right a wrong I committed against Corban. I feel now that I have.’

  ‘You fought with me, bled with me. Risked your life.’ Byrne shrugged. ‘That is the most any man or woman can do.’

  ‘So, there are no thanks needed between us,’ Meical said. ‘But there are questions that need answering.’ He looked up.

  Shadowed figures circled near the ceiling.

  Byrne gazed up at them and nodded.

  ‘Faelan,’ she called out.

  A winged figure flew into the air from the tunnel that led out of the chamber, slow, powerful beats of his dark wings. Others fell in behind him, swooping down from the shadows, thirty, forty, more of them. The one Byrne had called Faelan circled above them and landed before Byrne. He was shorter than the Ben-Elim, though broader, his hair and eyes dark, where the Ben-Elim were fair. Clothed in mail and a hunter’s belt, quiver, knife, axe in loops on the belt, a sword in his fist.

  ‘Who are you?’ Meical asked, frowning.

  Faelan looked at Meical, dark brows knotting. Slowly he looked away, at Byrne.

  ‘I am no friend to the Ben-Elim, and I do not answer to them,’ he said. His voice was strange to Drem, deep and halting, as if he didn’t use it much.

  Abruptly there was a tension in the air, a score of Faelan’s kin alighting behind him, all glowering at Meical and the surviving Ben-Elim.

  ‘Peace,’ Byrne said, holding a hand up and stepping forwards. ‘You cannot judge all Ben-Elim the same. These are my allies.’ She looked at Meical. ‘And my friends.’

  ‘They are not my friends,’ Faelan said, looking Meical up and down.

  ‘I am no Ben-Elim,’ Riv said, stepping forwards. Her wings rippled, dapple grey. ‘And Meical is my friend.’

  Faelan looked at Riv, eyes widening as he took in her wings.

  ‘Then things have changed in the world,’ he said.

  ‘Ha, that is a truth.’ Meical laughed. ‘A moon ago I was imprisoned in iron.’

  Another blink from Faelan as he stared at Meical. ‘You are . . . Meical? Who fought Asroth?’

  ‘Aye, I am Meical. And I still fight Asroth. I’d fight alongside you, if you’d allow it.’

  Faelan stared at Meical, his frown returning.

  ‘This is a conversation for another time,’ Byrne said. ‘Faelan, you held these creatures. My thanks. I was worried for you.’

  ‘We would never let you down,’ Faelan said. ‘We owe a great deal. I have something for you.’ He sheathed his sword and dropped to one knee before Byrne, hands reaching inside his cloak. He pulled out a leather-bound book and offered it up to Byrne.

  ‘Ha, you are a good friend to have, Faelan,’ Byrne said. ‘And never, ever kneel to me,’ she added, putting a hand under his arm and pulling him to his feet.

  Faelan rose, Byrne taking the book from him and embracing him.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that’s done,’ Cullen whispered to Drem and Keld. ‘Now can we go and find something to drink? I’ve worked up a thirst.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  JIN

  Jin held up her hand, reining in her horse, and her warband rippled to a disciplined halt behind her.

  ‘What’s wrong, my Queen?’ Gerel said, his eyes darting left and right, scanning the dark trees and shadows of Forn Forest, his hand resting on the clip of his bow-case at his hip.

  ‘Nothing is wrong,’ Jin breathed, staring at the sight before her.

  The road they were upon was edged with Forn’s tall trees. To Jin’s left, between her and the treeline, a river frothed and foamed, the water cold and clear. Ahead of her the trees thinned, fading into meadows. The road and river ran on, side by side, cutting a wide line through the meadows. They led up to a towering cliff, a wall that filled the horizon and rose high as the sky. The river cut a stark line through it, cascading white-spumed from the great heights down to the meadows, not quite a waterfall.

  ‘The plateau of Arcona,’ Jin whispered. The road led up to the cliff face, and carried on, weaving its way up the cliff. To the Sea of Grass.

  Home.

  Moths fluttered in her belly.

  All my life I have longed for this moment. To return home. Many a night I would lie awake, thinking of my triumphant return to my people. But never did I imagine it under these circumstances. My father, Uldin, King of the Cheren, slain by my betrothed.

  She clenched her teeth, the moths in her belly incinerated in a flush of anger, and she glanced back over her shoulder, staring beyond her warband to the road that faded into the dark of Forn.

  Is he riding on this road? Fleeing to his people? Or is he doing as Asroth said, following his half-breed southwards, like a dog in heat?

  She felt her fist clench around her bow, knuckles white.

  ‘Onwards,’ she shouted, spurring her mount on.

  Wind tore at Jin’s warrior braid. She was a long way up, the treetops of Forn just a smudge far below. Her second horse was tethered behind her. Each of her warriors had a spare horse, allowing them to ride hard and switch mounts to maintain their pace. Less than two ten-nights to reach Arcona from Drassil, and she was proud of that. Now that she was queen, everything was a challenge. Every task asked the same question. Was she good enough? Could she lead her people well and accomplish great things? These were exceptional times, a time for warriors to make their name, to stake a place and live for eternity; or to fail, and die two deaths. The death of flesh, and the death of shame. A sharp, indrawn breath to control the fear that thought stirred in her veins.

  Her warband rode behind her, four hundred and seventy-eight warriors spread along a switchback path that was carved into the cliff’s face. It allowed three or four to ride abreast, no more. Just room enough for one large wain. There were other roads into Arcona, but not for a hundred leagues north or south. Her hawk banners snapped in the wind; the river tumbled in a roar, deafening.

  And then she was at the top, the path spilling out into tall grass, black granite boulders protruding from the earth around the river’s lip. An ocean of grass spread before her, undulating and sighing into the horizon, a cold wind rolling off it. She breathed deeply, drawing in the chill air, let it fill her lungs, scouring away the filth of Drassil, of her life as a slave. Exhaled it out in a long, slow breath.

  The river cut a dark line through the ocean of green, in the distance flowing from a lake, a dark stain upon the land. In the lake’s centre was an island of tree and rock.

  The Isle of Kletva.

  To the north of Kletva lay Jin’s lands and her people, the Cheren. She longed to see them. Jin let her eyes wander south and east, far into th
e distance. To the lands of the Sirak.

  ‘Soon,’ she promised to the wind, grass and sky.

  Warriors rode out to greet them, a dozen scouts guarding the Cheren’s borderlands. They wore no mail and were dressed for speed, deels of blue felt and wool, leather jerkins, strung bows in their fists. Jin’s banners told them most of what they needed to know, but they were still alert.

  Jin reined in and waited for them, her warband settling behind her. Leather harness creaked, a horse whinnied. She reached inside her deel and took out a long strip of embroidered cloth, a tablet weave of wool in blue, green and grey, a hawk still clearly entwined upon it, all beak and talons and wings. Her father’s blood stained the fabric. It was his king’s band, all that the Cheren needed to signify his status in their Clan. Jin remembered Gerel untying it from her father’s corpse and giving it to her, that night in Forn. Her hands had been slick with Erdene’s blood, her grief over her father and elation at having slain their enemy’s queen still thick in her veins. When Gerel had given it to her, she had not been able to wear it, the grief of Uldin’s death was so heavy upon her. She had not felt that she deserved it. She still didn’t. But she knew there was no other choice now.

  She offered the king’s band to Gerel, who took it, and she held her right arm out.

  Gerel nodded, a grunt of approval, and tied the strip of tablet weave around her upper arm, knotted it.

  ‘My Queen,’ he said. ‘Our Queen.’

  The scouts drew near, all of them except two reining in just outside bowshot. The other two rode on, a steady canter until they were a dozen paces from Jin. A click of the tongue from their riders and their mounts stopped.

  ‘I am Tark,’ one of the scouts said, a man who looked more like leather than flesh. He looked from the hawk banners to Jin, eyes fixing on the king’s band upon her arm.

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  ‘Take me to the Heartland,’ Jin said. ‘Uldin is dead.’ She paused. ‘And we are at war.’

  Jin saw the gers from half a league out: white patches speckling the green, like snowdrops in spring, blanketing the ground.

  The Cheren Heartland.

  The Cheren Clan was made from a few hundred smaller families, all related, all Cheren, but they lived a nomadic lifestyle, moving with their herds and the wind, and rarely came together as one. When they did congregate as a Clan, it was usually here. The Cheren Heartland was as close to a fortress or town as the Cheren had, with huge gers built to house thousands. It had stood for as long as Jin could remember. The last time her Clan had gathered here had been a ten-night before she was taken from Arcona by the Ben-Elim. Her Clan had gathered here, summoned by Uldin, where they had prepared to fight the Sirak over the death of her mother. She could remember the cheering for her father, the proud faces of her Clan, their warband sounding like a thunderstorm as they rode south to face the Sirak. But it had gone so terribly wrong. On the day her Clan had met the Sirak on the field, literally as the battle had just begun, the Ben-Elim had arrived, crushing both Cheren and Sirak alike, and taking her and Bleda as wards, a bridle to control the Clans.

  And now I am home, a king’s band upon my arm.

  ‘It is as your father told us,’ Gerel said as he cantered beside Jin, ‘the Clan is gathered, waiting on his word for war.’

  The Heartland could stand empty for moons at a time, even years, but now it was full, lines of smoke marking a thousand fire-pits, the sound of life rippling out from the encampment.

  That was just as Uldin had planned. His small warband that now rode behind Jin was to lure Erdene out into Forn, while back in Arcona the full strength of the Cheren was gathering here, waiting to strike.

  Your plan will bear fruit, Father. The Sirak will be destroyed, our blood-feud settled. I will be Uldin’s Fist.

  They rode between the first gers, round tents of felt, though these were far larger than usual. Children whooped and dogs barked, chasing them. Tark had ridden ahead to announce Jin’s arrival, and he appeared before her now, leading a hundred or so riders, an escort to bring Jin before the gathered Clan. He nodded to Jin and fell in at her side.

  Eventually the tents gave way to an open space that was heavy with the rich tang of horse dung. Paddocks were everywhere.

  Not like the idiots in the west, Jin thought. We keep our horses close to us, safe, they are the heart of us.

  A gentle hill rose up before Jin, around it a mass of mounted warriors, men, women, more riders than Jin had ever seen in her life. Two thousand, three thousand, she could not tell. Uldin had taught her to count riders by their banners, usually fifty or sixty around a banner. There were too many banners here to count.

  Stern faces stared at Jin, hard and weathered by Arcona’s constant winds. Jin did not glance left or right, but set her cold-face and rode up the hill to its peak. Fear fluttered in her belly.

  What if they will not follow me? Blame me for my father’s death?

  She swallowed, fear, grief, rage, all mixing within her, coalescing into something new.

  Determination.

  Jin reined in, her horse turning.

  Thousands of men and women stared up at her, the wind a constant moan through the grass. Somewhere above Jin a bird screeched. She looked up, saw the silhouette of a hawk diving from the grey skies, wings closed, talons outstretched as it swooped into the long grass, disappearing from view. Heartbeats passed, and then the hawk rose from the grass, a hare clutched in its talons.

  Deep inside Jin she felt a certainty settle upon her.

  I am the hawk.

  ‘My Queen,’ a voice filtered through to her. It was Gerel.

  She sat tall in her saddle.

  ‘My father, your King, is slain,’ she cried out, her voice tugged by the wind. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, though word would have spread from Tark.

  ‘He was slain by the coward Bleda, Prince of the Sirak.’

  Shouts now, oaths of vengeance called out.

  Jin raised her right arm, showing the king’s band. She clicked her tongue, touched her knees to her horse and it turned in a tight circle, letting all see.

  ‘I am your queen, now. I slew Erdene, Queen of the Sirak. I drew a knife across her throat and watched the life drain from her eyes, and I will do the same to her heir.’ She paused, feeling the blood rushing in her veins, pounding. ‘Bleda is King of the Sirak now. But what is a king if his Clan are all DEAD!’

  She screamed the last word.

  ‘DEATH TO THE SIRAK!’ she yelled, spittle spraying, standing tall in her saddle, letting her cold-face slip. Tears streamed from her eyes, her father’s dying face floating in her mind. She was amongst her kin, her Clan, her people, and she was paying them the highest honour, showing the heart of her feelings, her grief and rage in all its rawness.

  A moment’s silence, only the cold wind soughing through the grass, and then the crowd roared back at her.

  ‘DEATH, DEATH, DEATH!’

  Gerel raised his voice beside her, and the warband around her.

  ‘DEATH!’

  Jin smiled.

  I will take everything from you, Bleda. Your people, your kin, your friends, your lover. And when that is done, I will take your life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  FRITHA

  Fritha sat alone in a chamber, staring into the dying embers of a fire. She was in a room above Drassil’s Great Hall. Some said it had belonged to Corban, the one they called the Bright Star. Now it was a cold and empty room. The unshuttered window was open, darkness leaking in, just the scrape of wind in branches. Torches flickered on walls, pools of orange light, shadows pressing upon them.

  I like this time. The darkness before dawn. It is like the world is taking a breath, still and silent for a moment, before the chaos of day.

  She rubbed her eyes, looked at her hands. They were black with the work of the forge, coal and oil and sweat. But Fritha’s chest was filled with a sense of joy. She looked at a linen-wrapped bundle at her feet, lifted a wine ski
n and took a long, sweet draught.

  A knock at the door.

  She wiped wine from her lips.

  ‘Enter.’

  The door scraped open, a sudden through-draught causing the torches on the wall to crackle and hiss, sending shadows leaping. Elise slithered in. Behind her came Elise’s father, Arn, and behind him, the broad bulk of Morn, her leathery wings folded across her back like a cloak.

  Elise and Arn both looked better than when Fritha had seen them last, a ten-night ago, fresh from their journey to Drassil from the Desolation. This was the first time Fritha had seen them alone. Asroth had worked her hard, elated with the success of his new hand, and in truth she had become lost in that work. Now, though, looking at Elise and Arn, she was sorry that she had not seen them sooner.

  Elise came to a halt before her. The scales of her lower torso were a pale, milky-white, her tail wrapping into a circle beneath her. Her upper torso was clothed in linen and wool, a belt at her waist with sword and knife. Her fair hair and freckles blended with her skin, almost glowing in the half-dark of flame and shadow. Fangs protruded from her lips, a gleam of saliva. She looked at Fritha with pain in her eyes.

  ‘You left usssss,’ Elise said, echoing the words she had said to Fritha in the Great Hall.

  Fritha stood, the effort making her realize how exhausted she was.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Fritha said. ‘I love you, Elise, and I am sorry.’

  And that was all it took; Fritha saw the pain lift from Elise’s face. A hesitant smile twitched her lips.

  She is like a puppy, forgiving her master for a beating.

  Fritha stepped forwards and stroked Elise’s cheek. The smile grew broader.

  ‘I will never leave you again, you are too precious to me,’ Fritha assured her.

  Elise’s tail shuddered, a rattle.

  Arn came to a halt beside them, his face stern. He was altogether a different case from Elise.

  We have spent years together in the wild, protected each other, saved each other’s life in battle. But we do not have the bond I have with Elise. Of creator and created, like mother and child.