A Time of Courage

by John Gwynne

  Drem and Alcyon reached for the saddle-girth, but a rumbling growl stopped them. It wasn’t from Hammer, but from the white bear.

  ‘Think you better have a look at this,’ Cullen said, slapping Drem’s back.

  Drem turned to see that the white bear had dropped his shoulder and dipped his head, like Hammer had just done to Alcyon. He was looking at Drem with intelligent black eyes.

  Drem froze, staring. Then he stepped forwards, around the white bear’s lowered shoulder, gripped a handful of fur and leaped up onto the bear’s back. He teetered a moment, almost falling, but the white bear stood and rolled its shoulder, shifting Drem onto his back.

  Drem sat there, the world looking different from this high vantage point. Men, women and giants were staring at him; Cullen open-mouthed, Keld with a wry smile on his face, Alcyon nodding. Drem felt . . . overwhelmed. A happiness soared through him, such that he hadn’t felt since before the death of his father. He leaned forwards, patting the bear’s neck, and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ he breathed.

  The white bear looked up over his shoulder at Drem and gave a contented rumble.

  ‘Well, I think that bear deserves a name. We can’t keep on calling him white bear,’ Cullen said from down below.

  ‘Time for a naming,’ Alcyon agreed, grinning.

  ‘What’s it to be, then?’ Cullen said. ‘Death From Above? Avalanche?’

  The white bear rumbled a growl in Cullen’s face.

  ‘Terrible Breath?’ Cullen said, pinching his nose.

  Drem sucked in a deep breath, emotions still flowing through him. He looked at his friends about him, felt such a sense of belonging at this moment – the act of the white bear’s friendship sealing something in him. It was an act of loyalty that would never be forgotten.

  ‘Friend,’ Drem said. ‘His name is Friend.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  FRITHA

  ‘Help me,’ Fritha said to Bune, as she struggled with a shirt of mail that was laid out across her bed.

  The Kadoshim stepped close and took one side of the shirt. He touched it hesitantly, respectfully.

  It was forged from starstone metal.

  The links were black, greased for protection, so it looked like liquid oil as Fritha and Bune lifted it, rippling and shimmering in the light. They settled it over Asroth’s outstretched arms and around his back. He was on the dais in Drassil’s Great Hall, their bed behind him, a hundred Kadoshim surrounding them, Asroth’s personal honour guard, all of them hand-picked by Bune. Wrath lay a short distance away, enjoying the warmth of a beam of sunshine that sliced down through a window in the domed wall. Fritha and Bune pulled the mail coat along Asroth’s arms, over a shirt of padded linen, across his broad shoulders, and then each of them was stepping behind Asroth. Unlike a normal coat of mail, it was not one enclosed piece that would have been threaded over the head. The Kadoshim had wings that had to be tailored for. Fritha and Bune stepped behind Asroth, buckling straps that pulled the mail tight and snug around the arched mounds of muscle where Asroth’s wings met his back.

  ‘There, my beloved,’ Fritha said with a grunt, as she threaded the last buckle. She stepped back in front of him and watched as he rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight, letting the mail coat settle around him. He swung an arm, punched the air.

  ‘It feels good,’ he said.

  ‘This will make it feel even better,’ Fritha said, taking a belt and buckling it tight about his waist. It had a long knife hanging from it, almost as long as Fritha’s short-sword. A knife with a black, starstone blade. Fritha pulled some of the mail coat up above the belt, let it hang so that the belt took some of the coat’s weight.

  Asroth grunted. ‘That is better on the shoulders.’

  Fritha lifted a helm of black iron. Asroth dipped his head as she placed it upon him, adjusting the nasal bar, settling the curtain of iron rings over his neck and shoulders. Black cheek-plates hung as protection; they were engraved with silver. She buckled the chinstrap, then stepped back.

  ‘Ah, but you are fine,’ Fritha breathed as she looked at Asroth. ‘A god of war.’

  Asroth smiled at her. ‘The god of war,’ he corrected.

  Fritha dipped her head in agreement.

  She had worked to exhaustion and beyond to craft Asroth’s war gear, seeking out the finest smiths, metal crafters and leather-workers within their ranks, overseeing everything, and blending all with her blood magic and words of power.

  Asroth looked at Fritha and held his hand out. His new hand, wrapped in a black metal gauntlet.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he said.

  Fritha stepped behind Asroth and nodded to Bune. This was definitely too heavy for her to lift alone. Bune stepped forwards and together they lifted a long axe, turned and placed it into Asroth’s fist.

  His gauntleted hand closed about the shaft. Thick wood, ringed with bands of black iron. Asroth touched the butt to the stone floor, a black iron cap on the haft’s end scraping on stone. The axe blade stood at a height with Asroth’s head, single-bladed and bearded, a wicked-looking spike on its spine. There were pits in the iron and dark mist curled around the blade. Asroth wrapped his other hand around it and swung it in a hissing circle. A trail of mist marked where it sliced the air. Fritha had the distinct impression that he could have decapitated a giant with that blow.

  Asroth inspected the blade, scraped his gauntlet against the spike, tested the balance of the haft, then looked up at Fritha.

  ‘I am ready,’ he said to her.

  ‘I have something for you, a surprise,’ Fritha said, barely able to contain her excitement. She opened a hemp sack and reached inside, took out a rolled bundle and held it out.

  A whip, the handle made of leather-bound wood. The whip comprised a dozen strips of leather twined with thin black wire. Towards the end of each strip were three hooks, the heaviest ones on the tip. They were made of black metal.

  Asroth took the handle, the strips of leather dropping to the stone with a slap and clink of iron.

  The whip swung loose in his hand, then he was bringing his arm back, and with a fluid snap the whip cracked, twelve barbs of iron lashing out at his bed, some snaring in the sheets and straw mattress, others in the wooden frame. A flick of his wrist and the bed seemed to just explode, a cloud of straw and linen and splinters of wood filling the air. Fritha raised a hand over her face.

  Asroth stared at the whip.

  ‘I like it,’ he said.

  He rolled the whip and hung it on his belt, then spread his wings wide. A few powerful beats and he was rising, turning and hovering.

  He is truly formidable. Clothed in starstone metal, wielding starstone blades. A man to follow, to lead a nation, to conquer a world. And he is father to my child. Tendrils of pride and fear coiled through her.

  ‘This is our time,’ Asroth said to Fritha and to the Kadoshim about him, one hundred warriors. ‘This metal,’ he said, raising an arm and looking at the sleeve of his mail coat, ‘it was my prison for over a hundred years. Now it is my weapon and my shield.’ He nodded an acknowledgement to Fritha. ‘How long have we fought the Ben-Elim and their tyranny?’ he asked the Kadoshim. ‘Our Long War. More than two thousand years we have struggled against them, and now we will end it. We will end them.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  RIV

  Riv sat in a high-vaulted chamber, a cup of wine in her hand and a plate of bread, cheese and fruit before her. She was high in a tower, large windows with shutters flung open looking out over the land about Dun Seren. Meical and Hadran were there, Balur One-Eye and Ethlinn sitting opposite. Queen Nara of Ardain was with them, her hair jet black, a wolven-fur about her shoulders. Her battlechief, Elgin, sat beside her, and Madoc her first-sword stood behind her chair. Other chairs were empty.

  Riv drummed her fingers on the table.

  The creak of a door.

  ‘Welcome,’ Byrne said as she strode into the chamber. Kill m
arched one side of her, Tain the crow master at the other, Craf perched on his shoulder. Others followed behind them: Shar, Drem, Keld and Cullen.

  And Faelan, the half-breed.

  Riv’s breath caught in her chest.

  She had so many questions.

  Byrne sat down, the others settling into seats around her. Faelan’s wings rippled, glossy dark-brown feathers, almost black. His eyes glanced over Meical and Hadran, then settled upon her. He looked as if he had questions of his own.

  ‘And welcome to this, our council of war,’ Byrne said.

  Close to a ten-night had passed since the Battle of Dun Seren. That time had not been spent sitting idly. ‘This meeting is long overdue,’ Byrne said, ‘but there has been much to do. The dead deserve our respect.’ She hung her head a moment, genuine grief twisting her features. She had lost a lot of people, Riv realized.

  And she is a leader who actually cares about her warriors. I am so used to the Ben-Elim, to Israfil and then Kol. They saw us as servants, pawns. Byrne is not like that.

  ‘But before we talk of war, and the way forward, there is something that must be resolved. Something that has long been hidden, and is now in the light.’ She looked at Faelan, who returned her gaze, unblinking.

  ‘This is a moment I have long dreamed of,’ Faelan said, ‘but now that it is here, I do not know where to begin.’

  ‘Let me help you, then,’ Byrne said gently. ‘Faelan has been here more years than I have drawn breath. His mother brought him to these walls in the year 65 of the Age of Lore.’

  ‘That means you are at least seventy-three years old,’ Riv snorted. Faelan did not look that old.

  ‘Aye,’ Faelan dipped his head. ‘Remember, the blood of Ben-Elim runs in my veins. I suspect I am not immortal, like my father; I am but a half-breed, blessed or cursed with long life.’

  ‘Who is your father?’ Riv asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ Faelan said. ‘My mother took that secret with her to the grave. Who is your father?’

  ‘Kol,’ Riv said.

  I will keep his dirty secrets no longer.

  Byrne frowned at that.

  Faelan nodded slowly.

  ‘Why do you live in darkness? A secret hidden in the dark.’ Riv looked at Byrne, feeling her anger pulse. ‘You speak of truth and courage here. I do not see much of that at work in this.’ Her lip curled in a sneer.

  She saw people tense, Drem sitting straighter, Cullen scowling at her. She did not care.

  ‘I understand your saying that,’ Byrne said. ‘I have long struggled with it. Faelan’s secret was handed to me by my predecessor, the day I became high captain of the Order. With it came an oath of secrecy, sworn in blood. Right or wrong, I do not know, but here is the logic of it.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Faelan’s mother came to my predecessor, a babe clutched in her arms, barely a moon or two on this earth. She told my predecessor and his captains of the Ben-Elim’s ways, their dirty secret. Of what they did to hide that secret.’

  Hadran shifted in his seat, looked at the floor.

  ‘She told us of the cabin in the woods,’ Byrne continued. She looked at Riv. ‘You will know of this place, I presume?’

  ‘Aye. I have seen it,’ Riv said. ‘I have seen the cairns.’

  ‘I was told that the captains of the Order discussed it; at first they were outraged, and were of a mind to confront the Ben-Elim. Who knows how that would have gone? Faelan’s mother pleaded against taking that course, for Faelan’s sake. She said the Ben-Elim would not rest until he was dead. You must remember, Israfil was their lord. He would not brook such an affront to Elyon’s Lore. To him Faelan would have been an abomination.’ She looked at Drem. ‘We nearly went to war with the Ben-Elim over you,’ she said to him. ‘Just imagine what would have happened over us sheltering a Ben-Elim half-breed.’

  ‘It would have been war,’ Riv said, remembering Israfil hacking the wings from a Ben-Elim who had committed the crime of kissing a human. ‘Israfil would not have stopped until Faelan and all who protected him were dead. There is no question about that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Byrne said. ‘That is what my predecessors believed.’ She shrugged. ‘So, the decision was made to acquiesce to Faelan’s mother. The Order agreed to give her and her child shelter, to protect them and keep them secret. The tunnels were the obvious place.’

  ‘That is no place to live,’ Riv said.

  ‘I like it,’ Faelan said. ‘The tunnels are safe. My people have been safe there for over seventy years, and we leave at night by secret ways, feel the wind in our wings, patrol the night skies and the darkness. We watch over Dun Seren at night, a small way to repay our debt.’

  ‘Craf’s crows watch over Dun Seren,’ Craf squawked.

  ‘Aye, and a grand job you make of it,’ Faelan said. ‘But even crows have to sleep.’

  Craf ruffled his feathers.

  ‘Aye, we sleep safer in Dun Seren knowing that you protect the skies from dusk till dawn,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Your people?’ Meical interjected. ‘How is it that there are so many of you?’

  ‘I met a woman.’ Faelan shrugged, a ripple of his wings. ‘One of the Order’s high captains. The chamber we fought the Revenants in – that is where those of the Order go to learn their Elemental ways.’

  ‘The captains of the Order have always been party to this secret,’ Byrne said. ‘They would meet with Faelan, teach him. His letters and history, martial skills. Orina was in Kill’s rank, fifty years ago.’

  ‘Ah, but she was beautiful as the moon,’ Faelan breathed. ‘We had seven children, and those children met others within the Order.’ He shrugged. ‘We have lived a good life, thanks to the Order; thanks to Byrne.’

  ‘It is no thanks to me. I have just kept the oath I swore, though I have questioned it every day. I have long felt the weight of it.’

  ‘It is no fault of yours,’ Faelan said. ‘That blame lies with the Ben-Elim.’ He glared at Meical, who returned the gaze, sadness in his eyes.

  Hadran looked up then. ‘Do not blame Meical for this. He was imprisoned in a gaol of iron. And in truth, before that came to pass, he was the only Ben-Elim who spoke of you humans as . . . people, and he was mocked and mistreated for that. We Ben-Elim have been so wrapped up in our war with the Kadoshim that all else has paled. We saw you as . . . unimportant.’ He hung his head. ‘I am ashamed to say those words out loud. And I am as guilty as any Ben-Elim. I was part of Kol’s faction.’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot speak for any other Ben-Elim, but for my part, I am sorry, and I will do all in my power to make amends for the past.’

  Faelan stared at Hadran a long time, his gaze unblinking.

  ‘I will watch you, and see if your words ring true,’ he said eventually. ‘Forgive me if I am not disposed to place much faith in the word of a Ben-Elim.’

  ‘That is fair enough,’ Hadran said. ‘My deeds will attest to the truth of my words.’

  ‘Time will be the judge of that,’ Faelan said.

  A silence settled over the room.

  ‘So, we are kin,’ Riv said to Faelan. ‘I am not alone in this world.’

  ‘Just so,’ Faelan said, a shy smile twitching his mouth. Riv felt her own smile spread across her face.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that’s sorted out,’ a voice said. Cullen. ‘Now, can we talk about the business of killing Asroth?’

  Balur One-Eye rumbled a laugh.

  ‘Yes,’ said Byrne. ‘There is much to discuss.’ She looked at Meical and Hadran. ‘You came here for a reason, but Nara and her people arrived before we could speak properly.’

  ‘I apologize for the inconvenience,’ Queen Nara said, though Riv saw a twitch of her lips.

  ‘No inconvenience,’ Byrne said, ‘we are glad to have another thousand warriors in our ranks.’

  ‘We are glad to be alive,’ Nara said.

  Byrne looked back to Meical and Hadran.

  ‘We came to tell you of Drassil’s fall, of Asroth’s return.’

&nbs
p; ‘You have done that already,’ Byrne said, ‘and yet you stay?’

  ‘Aye.’ Meical dipped his head. ‘There was a battle to fight, and a friendship to prove.’

  ‘Granted,’ Byrne said. ‘And yet you are still here.’

  ‘We are allies in the war against Asroth. We should talk of the way forward. Together.’

  ‘I agree,’ Byrne said.

  ‘We should share all we know,’ Ethlinn said. ‘Our expedition in the north, the news from Drassil. Questions we both have may be answered that way.’

  ‘That is wisdom,’ Byrne agreed. ‘Meical, Hadran, when you arrived we had not long returned from the north, where we fought with a warband of acolytes and other creatures.’

  ‘Ferals and mist-walkers?’ Riv said through a mouthful of cheese. ‘Like the ones we fought here?’

  ‘Aye,’ Balur grunted.

  ‘Amongst other things,’ Cullen said.

  ‘Other things?’ Riv raised an eyebrow.

  ‘A snake-woman,’ said Byrne. ‘A terrible creation, born of the earth power, a corruption of blood and bone.’

  ‘And a draig with wings,’ Keld said.

  ‘Where have these creatures come from?’ Meical frowned. ‘This is not the Banished Lands I remember.’

  ‘Fritha.’ The name was whispered. It took Riv a moment to realize that Drem had uttered the name. He was looking down at the table.

  ‘Fritha has done this,’ he said, looking up and meeting Meical’s dark gaze. ‘She is called priestess by the Kadoshim and their acolytes. It was Fritha who changed Gulla, made the Revenants, the Ferals, a draig with wings, all of them.’

  ‘She was at Drassil,’ Riv said, sitting up straighter. ‘With her draig. They smashed the shield wall like twigs. She freed Asroth with a black sword.’

  ‘My father’s sword,’ Drem said. ‘Forged from starstone metal with the purpose of slaying Asroth.’

  ‘Well, that didn’t go quite according to plan,’ Riv remarked. ‘Did your da think this through?’

  ‘Fritha murdered him and took his sword,’ Drem said.

  ‘Oh.’ Riv looked down.