by John Gwynne
A silence, like an indrawn breath, followed by a long sigh. A winged figure rose up from the ground, dapple-grey wings, two short-swords raised.
‘The half-breed,’ Fritha whispered.
The half-breed Ben-Elim let out a victory cry, echoed by the White-Wings below her.
She’s slain another of Gulla’s captains.
And as Fritha stared, horns blared and voices cried out. The shield wall beneath the half-breed reformed and was beginning to march, straight towards Fritha; maybe four or five hundred shields, a handful of Ben-Elim circling above them. And behind them all was another ditch and two more legions of White-Wings, both at full strength.
We are going to die. It dawned on Fritha in a moment, like a candle being snuffed out.
Where is Asroth and his Kadoshim? Where is Jin and her Cheren? Where is Morn and the half-breeds, or Gulla and his Revenants? There are still thousands of them left, but none of them are here.
She looked down at Aenor, at Arn and Elise, and she stroked Wrath’s bloodied neck.
A glorious death, then, and take as many of them as I can with me.
‘Let’s do this,’ she said, her companions hearing her. They all hefted their weapons, shifted their feet. Prepared themselves for one last charge.
And then she saw the White-Wings in front of her staring beyond her, eyes wide, mouths gaping.
Fritha turned in her saddle, looked at the blue flame barring her way.
The earth around the ditch was moving, crumbling away, as if something were burrowing beneath it, sucking it down. The blue flames rippled, flickered, thinned. Fritha heard a voice.
‘Crochnaíonn an talamh an lasair, buail mo shliocht. Lasair, bogha do do rí . . .’
‘Earth, smother the flame, bear my passage. Flame, bow to your king,’ she whispered, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
The earth began to seethe and bubble.
‘CROHNAÍONN AN TALAMH AN LASAIR, BUAIL MO SHLIOCHT. LASAIR, BOGHA DO DO RI,’ the voice bellowed, and earth exploded upwards in a great gout, spraying over the blue flames, raining back down into the ditch, and with a hissing crackle the flames went out. A ridge of earth rose up from within the ditch, wide enough for a score of men abreast to cross.
Asroth rode across the hard-packed earth, blue flame still crackling either side of him. Warriors marched behind him in ordered rows. Behind them Fritha glimpsed a wall of dark mist concealing Gulla and his Revenants. And above them all flew the Kadoshim and their offspring. Fritha saw Morn amongst them, a spear in her fist.
And then Asroth was beside Fritha. He looked at her, smiled, for Fritha the world fading for a moment. Asroth dismounted, marching forwards to stand between Fritha and the White-Wing shield wall.
Asroth stared at them, his coat of mail and dark helm glistening and shimmering like oil. Then he shrugged his long axe from his back and gripped it in both hands, swirled it around his head in a looping circle, leaving a trail of black smoke in the air.
‘Who is first to die?’ Asroth said.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
RIV
Riv froze in the air, hovering, speechless.
‘Asroth,’ Meical breathed.
It felt as if the whole world had stopped. Was holding its breath.
For a moment Riv felt . . . scared. A wyrm uncoiling in her belly, fear slithering through her.
He looks . . . unstoppable. No Ben-Elim, no warrior, not even Balur One-Eye, carried the same aura of malice and menace.
‘Who is first to die?’ she heard Asroth call out, his long axe circling his head.
The shield wall in front of Asroth did not move, though to their credit they did not turn and run, either. And then Asroth was striding forwards. He loomed over the first row of the shield wall, Riv seeing shields tighten up, warriors bracing themselves, setting feet and leaning shoulders into their shields.
Asroth swung his axe, a cracking, splintering sound as the blade hacked into shields, an explosion of timber and blood, screams, and three or four warriors fell, shields and flesh sheared by the axe. A warrior at the edge of the axe’s reach stumbled forwards, her shield snagged. Asroth’s second swing chopped into her at the waist, a wet, sickening crunch and she was hurled to the ground, her body almost severed in two. Asroth put one boot on her corpse and wrenched the axe blade free.
The shield wall moved, warriors stepping forwards to fill the gap left by the dead, countless years of drill making the act subconscious.
‘ADVANCE!’
Riv felt a flush of pride and respect for whoever called that.
The shield wall took a step forwards, towards Asroth, and another. He stood a moment, as if surprised, then swung his axe again, more screams, shields and warriors shattered and broken, a spray of blood, but the shield wall did not falter. They stepped forwards again, closing on Asroth, and spears stabbed out, grating on his mail.
Asroth roared, a rage-filled sound, his right leg going back as he swung his axe again, more White-Wings hurled from their feet, blood spraying.
Horns blew from Ripa’s tower. She looked up to see Ben-Elim leap into the sky, hundreds of them, white feathers glowing red in the sinking sun. They swept down the hill, towards the plain and Asroth.
A cry rang out from the Kadoshim and half-breeds behind Asroth, wings beating as they rose higher in the air, powering towards the Ben-Elim.
There was another roar, louder and deeper than Asroth’s, filling the whole field, and Fritha’s draig lurched forwards, lumbering into a run. It smashed into the wall beside Asroth, hurling a dozen White-Wings through the air, trampling a dozen more.
The acolytes behind Fritha yelled and broke into a jog, shields up, charging at the White-Wings.
Riv shook herself, a spell had been lifted, as if she’d been mesmerized by Asroth’s appearance.
Now she just wanted to kill him.
She looked a Meical and Hadran.
‘Let’s end this,’ Meical said, and the three of them shared a grim smile.
Without another word, their wings spread wide and they flew towards the battle.
The acolytes hit the White-Wings, a concussive crash echoing, warriors thrown to the ground, most of the White-Wing shield wall holding. The din of battle rang over the field again.
In the air the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim met above the warriors on the ground, an aeons-old rage palpable as they clashed, the battle breaking down into a myriad of individual conflicts as Ben-Elim, Kadoshim and half-breeds swirled around one another, spears and swords stabbing, feathers and wings slashed, blood pouring from the sky like rain.
Kadoshim and half-breeds saw Riv, Meical and Hadran, a dozen, maybe more, and they hurled themselves at them. Riv snarled, a fierce joy sweeping her.
She tucked her wings, a burst of speed, and spun between two Kadoshim, swords slashing. The clang of steel on one side, a spray of sparks. On the other side her sword bit through mail and flesh, mail links shattered and blood flowing. The wounded Kadoshim screeched, lurched in the air and then gave out a gurgling scream as Meical’s sword chopped into its neck.
The world condensed to a swirl of noise and fractured images as Riv snarled and raged and killed.
She heard a voice calling out, filtering through the red haze that filled Riv’s mind.
‘ASROTH!’ Meical yelled. Asroth paused in his death-dealing and looked up. Silver hair spilt over his shoulders. He smiled and raised his axe at Meical, an invitation.
Meical closed his wings and dived.
‘No,’ Riv whispered. We have to attack Asroth together.
A pulse of her wings and she was flying after Meical, but then a weight slammed into her side, a leather-winged half-breed crashing into her, the two of them spinning through the air, locked. The half-breed had a spear in one fist, a knife in the other, and Riv felt white-hot pain lance along her thigh. She could not bring her swords to bear, snared in a spinning dive, not knowing which way was up or down. A glimpse of a snarling face, black-stubbled hair, and Riv punch
ed her sword hilt into that face, again and again. The half-breed fell away; Riv stretched her wings and pulled out of the dive, hovering in the air.
She saw the half-breed dropping, then its leathery wings snapped out and it was rising, turning to look at Riv. A woman, her nose and lips pulped and bleeding from Riv’s sword hilt.
She still gripped her spear and knife.
A long, black-bladed knife.
Drem had told her of a half-breed with a black-bladed knife.
‘Morn,’ Riv said. ‘You slew Keld.’
The half-breed smiled, blood on her teeth.
‘Aye, and now I’ll do the same to you.’
‘Come and try,’ Riv said, curling her lips, holding her short-swords wide.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
FRITHA
A voice rang out somewhere above her.
‘ASROTH,’ and Fritha looked up, many upon the ground pausing, doing the same.
It was Meical, hovering in the sky, brandishing a longsword.
Asroth lifted his axe, an acceptance of Meical’s challenge, and then the Ben-Elim was tucking his wings and diving. Close in the sky Fritha glimpsed Morn, locked in a spinning embrace with the Ben-Elim half-breed.
Meical descended from above like a well-cast spear, his sword pointing straight at Asroth’s heart.
The long axe swung, a huge loop, at the last moment Meical shifting the angle of his approach, sweeping up, the axe skimming his belly. Meical’s sword slashed down, clanged on Asroth’s helm, staggering him, and then Meical was sweeping up into the air.
Asroth bellowed at him, his wings snapping out, beating, and he was rising into the air after Meical, dust swirling in a whirlwind upon the ground. Meical turned and flew at him again.
Asroth gripped his axe two-handed, like a staff, blocked an overhand swing from Meical, steel sparking, turning as Meical swirled around him, blows struck faster than Fritha could see, always answered with the clang of steel, a stuttered staccato of blows that lasted a dozen heartbeats, ending with a crunch and Meical spinning away, dropping from the sky, crashing to the ground before Fritha. He rose unsteadily, blood sheeting from his head.
Asroth descended slowly, landed before Meical, a grin upon his face.
‘You’ve had more than two thousand years to prepare for this,’ Asroth said. ‘I thought you’d be better.’
Meical shook himself, a ripple through his wings.
‘Cré a bheith ina bholg, coinnigh mo namhaid,’ Meical shouted, and ran at Asroth, sword held high, two-handed.
The ground beneath Asroth’s feet shifted, seemed to melt, and Asroth lurched, sinking into the earth. He swayed, straining to heave a leg free, but the ground had become a sinking bog, sucking at Asroth’s legs.
‘Lig saor mé,’ Asroth snarled, and the ground solidified, seemed to spit him out.
Meical slashed down as Asroth stumbled and raised his axe, steel grating as their weapons caught in a bind. Meical broke away, a flurry of blows at Asroth, head, thigh, shoulder, ribs, all blocked, Asroth standing there like a rock before a storm, Meical swirling, moving faster than Fritha’s eyes could follow.
Meical stepped back, breathing hard.
Asroth put his gauntleted hand to his cheek, wiped away a thin line of blood. Gripped his axe again.
Meical stepped in fast, a straight lunge at Asroth’s chest, dipping under Asroth’s block, sweeping back up and in, stabbing high. Asroth stepped away, Meical’s blade touching him, sparks on mail. A twist of Asroth’s arms and his axe shaft had locked Meical’s blade.
Asroth kicked Meical in the groin, dropping the Ben-Elim.
A beating of wings and more Ben-Elim were swooping down, a score at least. Kadoshim were close behind them, Bune leading Asroth’s honour guard, who had been fighting in a loose circle above Asroth.
Fritha recognized some of these Ben-Elim. Dumah was there, whom she had served under for a time. He flew at Asroth, Ben-Elim either side of him, the three of them breaking through Bune’s guards. Spears stabbed out at Asroth. He stepped back, away from Meical, who was still on his hands and knees, retching onto the grass.
Asroth set his feet and swung his long axe, an explosion of splinters as he sheared through the Ben-Elim’s spear shafts, a backswing and the wicked spike on the reverse of the axe crunched into a Ben-Elim’s skull, the warrior dropping like a stone, crashing to the ground. Asroth tugged the blade free, bits of bone and brain in the air, slammed the butt into the second Ben-Elim’s belly, doubling him over, Asroth’s knee crunching into his face, sending him flying, slamming onto the ground.
Dumah swept past Asroth, turned, dropping his shattered spear shaft, reaching for his sword hilt, and Asroth’s axe sliced into his neck, a spurt of arterial blood and his corpse collapsed to the ground.
A swarm of Ben-Elim were swooping around Asroth now, Kadoshim interweaving amongst them, trying to hold them back.
Fritha urged Wrath towards Asroth, swiping a path through White-Wings in her way.
Meical was back on his feet, his sword in his hand. He charged at Asroth, but Bune slammed into him, knocking him back to the ground. Meical rose, sword swinging in an arc around his head, chopping at Bune’s neck, parried, Bune stumbling away, then coming back at Meical. A furious exchange, steel clanging, grating, Meical eventually stepping out of range. Bune followed, relentless, sword swinging in a horizontal blow with enough force to take Meical’s head.
Meical dropped to one knee, sword stabbing straight out and punching into Bune’s belly. It tore through mail, then leather and flesh. Bune’s sword dropped to the ground and he fell to his knees, staring at Meical. Then toppled backwards.
Asroth was backing towards Fritha, half a dozen Ben-Elim setting upon him in a frenzied attack. His long axe kept them all back. Fritha saw another Ben-Elim land to his right, beyond Asroth’s vision, spear poised, waiting for an opening to stab in.
Fritha felt her heart freeze in her chest.
It was Kol. The father of her child, Anja.
She had loved him once, with a passion that burned as bright as the sun. She hated him now, with a passion just as fervent. He had ordered the murder of her baby.
‘KOL!’ she screamed, the White-Wing hearing, turning.
‘Wrath, crush him,’ Fritha snarled, and the draig leaped forwards, head swaying, sending any White-Wings in their way hurtling through the air. Kol saw them charge, turned, wings opening to leap into the sky, but the air was thick above him with fighting Ben-Elim and Kadoshim. He dived to the right, just as Wrath’s head lunged out, jaws wide. The draig’s teeth snapped on air, claws raking the ground, turf spraying as he skidded to a halt, Fritha dragging on her reins, Wrath turning.
Kol was on the ground, rolling. He grabbed a White-Wing shield as Wrath swiped at him with a taloned claw. The shield exploded in a spray of splinters, Kol flying through the air, over the heads of fighting warriors, crashing to the ground thirty or forty paces away, disappearing amongst the turmoil.
Fritha searched for him, screamed.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
RIV
Riv twisted in the air, Morn’s spear jabbing at her, fast as a snake. She curled around the spear as it stabbed past her, one short-sword hacking down at the spear shaft, splintering it, the head falling away, her other sword stabbing at Morn’s belly.
The Kadoshim half-breed swayed, too slow, Riv’s sword slicing into her hip, shattering mail and grating on bone.
Morn screamed, hacking at Riv with her black knife. She felt the blade score a red line across the side of her neck, then slammed her head forwards, headbutting the half-breed across the bridge of her nose. A burst of blood and cartilage and Morn’s eyes rolled back into her head. She began to fall, fingers limp around the black knife.
Riv’s hand snatched out and grabbed the knife, watched Morn fall, crashing into a knot of combat below.
Hadran was spinning through the air, two Kadoshim pursuing him. She flew at them, crunched into one’s side, slashed
wings with her short-sword, stabbed Morn’s knife into the Kadoshim’s chest. The weapon pierced mail like a hot knife through butter. Riv twisted the blade, pulled it free and the Kadoshim was falling. Hadran had dispatched the other Kadoshim.
‘Meical,’ Hadran said, and they looked down at the battlefield below them.
Asroth was standing amongst a swarm of violence. Dead Ben-Elim and White-Wings ringed him like storm-wreckage left by the tide.
Meical was the only Ben-Elim trading blows with Asroth.
Hadran’s wings folded and he dropped into a dive, Riv following him. They smashed through the combat. Somehow Asroth glimpsed them coming. He stepped away from Meical and swung his axe at Hadran. The Ben-Elim swerved, the axe slicing through his wing as he hit out with his spear, punching into Asroth’s bicep, but the black mail held, the spearhead glancing away, and Hadran crashed into a knot of acolytes and White-Wings.
Riv was right behind Hadran, hidden from Asroth’s view, and she flew straight at him. He saw her, then pulled his axe back, the spike swinging at her, but she twisted her wings and flew under it, skimming the ground, and lashed out with her short-sword, felt it bite through wool and flesh.
Asroth bellowed in pain.
Riv’s momentum swept her on and she ploughed into the acolytes where Hadran had crashed. She swung and stabbed with sword and knife, righted herself. Grabbing Hadran’s arm, she dragged him upright. They turned and ran at Asroth.
Meical was there before them, leaping in, striking down in a powerful two-handed blow, right to left, Asroth’s long axe parrying, knocking Meical’s sword wide, Meical twisting, a burst of speed that avoided the counter-swing from the butt-spike of Asroth’s axe. He swung his sword at Asroth’s waist, slashing into mail, black smoke bursting from the starstone coat. Asroth grunted, twisted on his feet, axe swinging in a circle, its blade slashing through part of Meical’s wing. Meical stumbled, dropped to one knee, one wing hanging limp, Asroth followed him, a booted foot crunching into Meical’s chest, hurling him twenty or thirty paces through the air, crashing to the ground.
