by John Gwynne
Hammer growled, a deep-chested rumble.
Upon its back the giant sat and regarded them. He wore a spiked helm of iron, cheek-guards, a curtain of riveted mail hung from the back. Most of his face was in shadow, but Riv saw a long, drooping moustache tied with leather. He wore a vest of scaled plate, like Bleda’s, but the iron plates bigger and thicker, and his body was wrapped in billowing linen. Tattoos of vine and thorn coiled up one arm, and part-way down the other. He carried a long spear, the spear blade longer and wider than a sword, curved and single-bladed, like the blades the Sirak wore strapped across their backs.
The draig opened its jaws and roared, spittle spraying, the sound filling the harbour, drowning out all else for a moment.
‘Bás dár NAIMHDE!’ the giant cried out, bellowing the last word.
The draig charged.
Horns blew from within the ship and more lumbering shapes appeared, surging down the gangplank. All along the dockside more doors crashed open, an explosion of dust, draigs roaring, lurching out of the ships’ bellies.
The first draig hit the White-Wing shield wall. A concussive, bone-crunching impact, rippling through the wall, bodies hurled into the air, crashing to the ground. The draig ploughed deep into the wall’s lines, six, eight rows in, not quite breaking through. White-Wings pressed around it, pushing close, stabbing with short-swords. Riv saw a hundred red lines open up across the draig. It roared, lashing out with head, claws, tail, more White-Wings falling. The giant upon its back swung his huge spear, carving through wood into mail and flesh. A head sailed through the air.
More draigs hit the shield wall, twenty, thirty, forty of the beasts, still more disgorging from the ships moored along the docks, and Riv saw more ships behind them, rowing into the harbour.
The shield wall disintegrated, a thousand warriors cast into havoc and ruin in a score of heartbeats. The White-Wings fought back, tried to regroup, pressing around draigs, stabbing with their short-swords. One draig reared and crashed to the ground, White-Wings swamping it, stabbing at the animal’s softer belly and the giant. But there were too many draigs. They were crushing, tearing, eviscerating all in their path.
Blue flame was spreading across the dockside, the wind helping it jump from the burning jetty to grain stores and ship-houses.
Bleda and a dozen Sirak drew their bows, loosed. Riv saw arrows skitter off the draigs’ thick, scally hides, and from the giants’ iron-plated armour. One giant fell, an arrow in his eye.
Kadoshim came swooping from the sky, screaming and hissing their hate.
The din of battle drifted to them from the north. Shouting, screams, the clash of arms.
‘Asroth has broken through the second ditch,’ Meical said.
Riv felt any hope left within her drain away. She gripped her weapons anyway and spread her wings, bent her knees.
Rab squawked, flapped in front of her.
‘Riv warrior of Bright Star,’ the bird croaked. ‘Can’t stay. Stay means die. Fly with Rab, save your friends, save yourself.’
Meical touched Riv’s shoulder.
‘The crow’s right. This battle is lost,’ he said.
Riv looked at Meical, then to Bleda and Aphra, even Raina was looking at her, waiting on her word. She saw Alcyon, and the giant nodded at her.
‘We will run and live, fight another day,’ Riv said. ‘If we can.’
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
BLEDA
Bleda touched his heels to his horse, barking out orders. His Sirak broke and spread around Aphra’s White-Wings as they jogged away from the harbour. Raina and Alcyon were leading the way, out of the town, towards the west. Riv leaped into the air, wings taking her away. Meical tried to do the same, but he swayed in the air, his injured wing failing him.
‘Here, brother,’ Bleda called to him, riding close, offering Meical his arm. Meical took it and swung up behind Bleda.
‘My thanks,’ Meical said, and they rode on.
Shrieks from above and Bleda twisted in his saddle, looked back over his shoulder and saw Kadoshim and half-breeds sweeping down after them, calling down to Shekam giants, pointing at Bleda and his companions.
‘WARE THE SKIES!’ Bleda called, as he reached for arrows, nocked and loosed, guiding his horse on with his knees. The hiss of arrows as other Sirak saw the Kadoshim and loosed at them. A ripple of screams in the air as a hail of Sirak iron slammed into flesh, Kadoshim falling, spinning from the sky. Another burst of arrows raked the Kadoshim and the survivors broke off their pursuit and wheeled away, searching for easier prey.
Bleda rode on, a slow canter as he curved around Aphra’s White-Wings. She was blowing on a horn, trying to gather more White-Wings to her as they fled. Bleda saw the horn calls working, scattered White-Wings in the harbour running in their direction. They left the harbour behind, the ground shifting from stone to hard-packed earth, the street wide, buildings of wood and thatch rearing about them.
Sounds of battle swirled around them, from the harbour, from the north, where Asroth must have forded the giant’s flame. Between buildings Bleda snatched glimpses of warriors. Some were fighting acolytes, others fleeing. Further off he glimpsed banks of black mist spreading into the town.
Buildings thinned and then disappeared around them and they moved into open grassland. Aphra had swelled the White-Wings to hundreds, warriors filling the road and spilling down its embankments. Bleda led his Sirak wider, riding across trampled grass. To their left the river flowed, lined with boats and jetties and a jumble of buildings, smoke-houses, grain yards, boathouses. A few hundred paces ahead the road was blocked by a wide trench of roaring blue flame, the western tip of the second battlefield ditch.
‘The boats,’ Riv yelled, circling back to them, and Aphra veered off the road, ran for the riverbank. Bleda searched for a way through the fire for his horses, but could not see one.
They reached the riverbank, dozens of boats of various sizes moored to wooden jetties. Aphra barked orders and formed a protective shield wall with a few score warriors, then started ordering the other White-Wings onto the boats, pushing them off, oars dipping into the water. Bleda helped Meical off his horse, Meical staggered and Aphra ran to steady him, helped him onto a boat.
Riv hovered over Bleda.
‘Can your horses swim?’ she called down.
Bleda grimaced. They could, but arrows, bows, strings, so much would be ruined or useless if they drove their horses into the river.
‘Fly on, I’ll find a way,’ he called up to her, ‘I’ll catch up with you in the forest.’
‘I’m not leaving without you,’ Riv said.
A small fleet of boats was in the river now, packed with hundreds of White-Wings rowing upstream, towards the trees and darkness of Sarva. More were still leaping into boats.
Raina took her hammer from her belt and marched to a boathouse, slammed her hammer into one of the hinges of a huge door. She shouted something over her shoulder and Alcyon rode Hammer to the other door and began chopping at its hinges with his axes.
What are they doing?
Bleda turned and looked back at Ripa. More White-Wings were running towards them, trying to escape the blue flame that was spreading through the town, belching black smoke. He glimpsed figures between the smoke and flame: giants on draigs, White-Wings, pockets of shield walls. Kadoshim and Ben-Elim fought in the skies, a constant whirlwind of combat, though Bleda saw some Ben-Elim breaking away and flying their way. Others had already passed overhead, in the direction of the forest.
Further north the roar of battle was echoing, and there were more Ben-Elim and Kadoshim in the sky. Black mist was rolling across the ground, seeping into the town of Ripa, and moving their way, towards the river.
The hinges Raina was hammering at came free with a squeal of iron and the door crashed to the ground. Alcyon’s door followed a few moments later.
‘Help us,’ Raina said, Ukran and a handful of giants rushing to her and Alcyon’s aid. Together they lifted the door
s and carried them over to the blue flame that crackled and roared in the ditch, hurled one of the gates down. It snuffed the flame beneath it, forming a makeshift bridge. Alcyon and his helpers threw their door down on top of the first one, thickening and strengthening the bridge.
Ukran yelled at his giant kin, urging them across the bridge.
‘Get your Sirak across, quickly,’ Raina said. ‘I don’t know how long it will hold.’
Bleda barked an order, Sirak starting to canter across the bridge.
A roaring and figures burst from the town. White-Wings, hundreds of them, engaged in a running battle with acolytes. Some were moving in good order, a disciplined retreat, others were running in full rout. There were wounded amongst them, stumbling, falling. The acolytes behind were slaughtering the fallen.
We must leave now. Become embroiled in this and there will be no escape. We will be overrun.
Aphra and the White-Wing warriors about her were yelling at their comrades, urging them on. Some of her warriors broke away from the shield wall around the boathouse, moving towards those fleeing the town. Aphra yelled orders, started marching back to help her people.
In the air black figures appeared, rising from the north-east, swirling across the town after the fleeing White-Wings. Kadoshim. A larger figure flew at their head, leathery wings, a long whip trailing from one hand.
Bleda felt fear trickle through his veins. He knew who this was, even before Riv screamed his name.
‘ASROTH COMES!’ Riv yelled above him.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
RIV
Riv stared at Asroth and the host of Kadoshim behind him, looked down at Aphra as she led a score or so of White-Wings to the aid of her warriors. Aphra had reached them, was leading an attack on acolytes, trying to forge a gap, buying time for her comrades to escape. With mounting horror Riv saw Asroth angle his descent towards the snarl of White-Wings and acolytes.
She sheathed her sword and slipped the black knife into her belt, unclipped her bow-case and grabbed a fistful of arrows, at the same time as her wings were beating, propelling her back towards Aphra, Asroth and the Kadoshim. Feathers brushed her cheek as she drew and loosed, her first arrow arcing towards Asroth, flying high, over his shoulder, punching into a Kadoshim behind him. Her second arrow was wide, another Kadoshim shrieked. Her third arrow she thought was aimed straight at Asroth’s chest, but his wings folded as he launched into a dive and the arrow hissed past him.
More arrows in her hand as she dipped into her own dive, loosing as she flew. One of her arrows hit Asroth in the shoulder, but it pinged off his mail shirt. Riv shouted a curse.
And then Asroth was crashing into White-Wings, scattering them, hurling many to the ground. He alighted amidst them, his black wings beating a storm that battered more to the ground, his whip snapping out, tearing flesh from bones.
A figure rose amidst the fallen White-Wings, a lone warrior holding a battered shield and a short-sword. Riv knew instantly that it was Aphra. Fear swept her and she beat her wings harder, slipping her bow back into its case.
Asroth’s whip cracked, iron claws biting into Aphra’s shield, Asroth dragging her towards him. Riv saw Aphra release her shield, run in behind it, using the momentum of Asroth’s tug. It took the Lord of the Kadoshim by surprise, and before he could do anything Aphra was within his guard, ducking under his short-sword and stabbing her own blade up, into his belly.
It was a perfect blow, struck with Aphra balanced, her weight and strength behind it, a manoeuvre that Aphra would have practised ten thousand times in the weapons-field.
The sword shattered, hurled Aphra onto her back.
Asroth’s whip cracked again, this time no shield to protect Aphra. Claws of sharp black iron bit into her, slicing through mail and leather, hooking into her flesh.
Riv heard her scream, echoed it with her own.
‘MAM!’
Riv was close now, a hundred paces, her wings tucked, wind ripping at her hair.
Asroth dragged Aphra towards him, more screams, a thick trail of blood smeared across the ground as Aphra was dragged to his feet, and he sliced down with his short-sword.
Riv slammed into Asroth, hurling him away, sending him crashing to the ground. She spread her wings, checked her flight, swept back to where her mam lay upon the ground. Whip-cords were still wrapped around her, strips of flesh hanging, white bone glistening through the blood. Riv swiped at her eyes, blurred with tears, tried to loosen the cords, but Aphra cried out, a weak, broken sound.
‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ Riv said through her tears, tried to lift her in her arms, but Aphra cried out again. Riv knelt on the ground, cradled her mother’s head. ‘I’ve got to get you out of here,’ she said.
Aphra stared up at her, eyes full of pain. A long, rattling sigh fading to nothing.
Riv looked up at the sky and howled.
A sound behind her, a mocking laugh.
Riv turned, saw Asroth standing over her.
‘I want my whip back,’ he said.
The red haze boiled inside Riv’s head, all else gone from her mind except for a raw, uncontrollable rage. She snarled, tears blurring her eyes, and hurled herself at the demon king.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
BLEDA
Bleda rode after Riv. He’d heard her scream, seen her dive into the fray, but he lost sight of her as a handful of acolytes threw themselves at him, grabbing at Dilis’ bridle, trying to rip him from her back. He put an arrow into one at almost point-blank range, hurling the man to the ground. The other acolytes fell in a heartbeat or two, more arrows thumping into them, and then Ruga and Yul were riding alongside him.
‘Where is she?’ Bleda called to them, standing in his saddle as he searched for Riv. All was battle and blood, White-Wings and acolytes fighting, Kadoshim sweeping and screeching, stabbing. The ground trembled as draigs lumbered from the town.
Then he saw her.
A space had cleared thirty or forty paces to his right, White-Wings dead or battered to the ground. Asroth stood there, his dark wings furled behind him, stumbling as Riv slammed into him.
They twisted and turned for a few moments, Riv seemingly trying to gouge Asroth’s eyes out with her thumbs.
‘Clear my way,’ he called to Ruga and Yul, then spurred his mount on. In front of him acolyte warriors spun away, pierced with Ruga or Yul’s arrows. They shot a path in front of him, filled with the dead, and then Asroth and Riv were clear before him. His heart lurched into his chest. Riv was hanging limp in Asroth’s grip, he had one hand clasped around her throat, a black gauntleted fist pulled back for a blow that would surely crush her skull.
The space between them disappeared as Dilis galloped towards Asroth. At the last moment Bleda pulled on his reins, leaning back in the saddle, a lifetime of learned commands passing through the touch of his knees and feet. Turf sprayed as Dilis skidded out of her gallop, then reared up, hooves lashing out, crunching into Asroth, hurling him through the air. Riv fell from his grip.
Dilis’ hooves slammed to the ground and Bleda was leaning low, one hand on the saddle pommel, the other grabbing Riv’s arm and hauling her up from the ground, laying her limp form across the saddle in front of him. He spurred Dilis on again, a tight turn and he was speeding back the way he had come, Ruga and Yul skewering any who came close to him. Then the three of them were galloping away, towards the makeshift bridge across the blue fire.
Ukran, Alcyon and Raina were there, guarding the bridge, allowing more White-Wings to cross. They called out to Bleda, urging him on. In a dozen heartbeats Bleda was clattering across the bridge and then he was riding hard along the road, Raina and Ukran running alongside him, Alcyon upon Hammer’s back. His Sirak formed around him and they swept along the road and plain, the sinking sun sending their shadows stretching long behind them. In a hundred heartbeats they were disappearing into the gloom of Sarva’s trees.
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
JIN
Jin crested the brow
of a hill.
The battlefield before her was a place of ruin. Some of the pits of fire still burned, most were empty of flame, just black, gaping holes now. Two lines of blue fire curled across the field, and much of Ripa was burning, blue flame creeping up the hill towards the tower.
Most of the field was habited by the dead and those that had come to feast on them. Crows squawked and argued.
Closer to Ripa it looked as if battle still raged, shapes in the sky swirling in combat. Screams drifted on the wind.
‘The battle is won, then,’ Gerel said, beside Jin.
She nodded, the action sending shafts of pain through her skull and nausea flaring in her gut. She leaned in her saddle and vomited on the ground.
Reaching for her water skin, she swilled her mouth out, spat it out, and drank. Then put a hand to her head and adjusted her bandage. It was stiff with dried blood.
Gerel had found her, unconscious beneath her horse. It had taken ten warriors to lift the dead animal enough to pull her out. Her leg still throbbed, but it was not broken.
Damn Bleda to a thousand deaths.
A thousand fewer warriors were riding back with her than had entered those hills. She felt a flush of shame, chased swiftly by rage.
Never again will I chase after Bleda. He longs for my death as much as I long for his. If he still lives, I will let him come to me.
If he still lives.
She looked back to the battlefield and kicked her mount on, trotting down the slope.
Tark and a dozen scouts slipped into the lead. Crows leaped into the sky as they passed, squawking their protests at being disturbed from their feast.
Tark led them to the earthwork bridge across the burning ditch, and in silence they passed across it. The other side was thick with the dead, the stench of blood and excrement crawling into Jin’s nose and throat. She rode on, to the next ditch, another earthwork bridge, and she crossed that, too.
