by John Gwynne
Fritha was sitting upon her draig, both of them slumped with exhaustion, both thick with blood. Morn the half-breed sat with her back against one of Wrath’s legs. Elise the snake-woman was coiled, leaning over Morn, wrapping a bandage around the half-breed’s head.
Fritha looked up as Jin crossed through the flame. She smiled.
‘Good,’ Fritha said. ‘I feared you might be dead.’
‘Not yet,’ Jin said, grimacing. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘Pillaging the town, hunting for survivors,’ Fritha said. ‘Gulla is leading his Revenants in a hunt for their supper, no doubt; what is left of them.’ She frowned at Jin. ‘You should not have ridden off. I thought you Cheren were masters of your emotions.’
Jin opened her mouth to say something, an angry, bitter defence of her actions, but then she thought better of it.
The truth is clear to all. Best to admit to it, deal with it.
‘Bleda, he brings out the worst of me,’ Jin said. She shrugged. ‘He led me a merry chase through the hills and then dropped a rock on me. It’s the last time I make that mistake.’
Jin felt a tremor in the ground and looked up to see Kadoshim winging through the sky. Draigs walked below them, huge creatures of slabbed muscle ridden by giants. Asroth strode at their head, acolytes behind him.
As Asroth drew near her, Jin saw he was limping, one leg of his breeches blood-soaked, and his right arm was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. His long axe was slung across his back, his whip and short-sword in his fists.
‘Ah, my fierce hawk has returned to me,’ Asroth said to Jin. ‘A little late,’ he said, a coldness filling his voice.
‘I am sorry, my Lord,’ she said. ‘I erred. The next battle will be different.’
Asroth approached her, reached out and cupped her chin in his palm, looking into her eyes. He held her gaze a long while, then nodded.
‘Plans go astray once the blood is being spilt,’ he said. ‘But this battle is won, Ripa fallen and our enemies crushed at our feet.’
‘Not all of them,’ Fritha said.
‘Enough for one day,’ Asroth said. ‘Too many even for the crows.’ He turned and gestured to one of the giants upon a draig. A huge man, tattooed, a wicked-looking long spear in his fists.
‘Meet my ally, Rok of the Shekam,’ he said.
The Kadoshim Sulak descended from the sky, alighting beside Asroth.
‘I told you we would be here,’ Rok said to Fritha, giving her a mocking half-bow.
‘I’m glad you were,’ Fritha replied, dipping her head to the giant.
The giant looked down at her. He unbuckled his helm and lifted it off, revealing a shaven head, tattoos of thorn and vine swirling upon it.
‘Well met,’ he grunted.
His draig snorted.
‘Pretty draig,’ Wrath rumbled, snapped his wings out wide.
‘Stop showing off,’ Fritha said to him.
The Shekam draig looked at Wrath, curled a lip and growled at him.
‘I like her,’ Wrath rumbled.
‘Ha, he has earned that,’ Asroth said. ‘We all have. Faced our fear and won, slain our enemies. But even so, the plan has not gone exactly as I’d hoped.’ He looked up at the tower on the hill. Blue flame wreathed it, and most of the hill about it, smoke belching into the purpling sky as the sun dipped into the west. ‘I wanted to feast in Ripa’s tower.’
‘It’s back to Balara for us,’ Fritha said.
‘Aye,’ Asroth agreed. ‘To some wine, a celebration, and then we sharpen our weapons for the Order of the Bright Star.’
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
DREM
Drem sat in a glade in the moonlight. He glanced up, looking at the moon, saw it was close to midnight.
A rasp as Drem drew his seax, stroked the steel with gentle fingertips. Then he loosened the leather ties of a vambrace and slipped it off his forearm, exposing grimy, sweat-soaked skin. He drew his seax across it and watched blood run down his arm, across his palm, dripping from fingertips to the grass.
‘Now we wait,’ he said to Fen. The wolven-hound was curled at his side, back to a boulder. Its coat of mail shimmered in the half-light.
Time passed, Drem murmuring to Fen, absently tugging on one of the wolven’s ears.
Abruptly Fen shifted, climbed to his feet, ears pricked forwards. He growled, almost inaudibly, more of a vibration deep within the wolven-hound’s broad chest.
Drem’s hand moved to his neck and silently started counting the beats of his pulse.
A sound in the forest, deep within the darkness. The rustle of foliage, the snap of a twig.
Drem slipped his vambrace back on and stood, tightened the leather cords with his teeth, then slipped his hand-axe from its belt hoop. He set his feet, seax and hand-axe ready, eyes flitting across the glade.
Sounds from all around now, moving closer. Padded foot-falls, the whispered crackle of forest litter, bodies pushing through foliage.
Then a growl from something that prowled on the edge of darkness.
A silence, a held breath.
Figures burst from the forest, part man, part beast, creatures of tooth and claw, hunched and muscled, limbs elongated, patched with fur and bare skin.
Ferals.
Ten, twelve, more leaping from the darkness, a whole pack of the creatures.
Fen jumped, colliding with one of the Ferals in mid-air, a bone-crunching collision, a deep-throated snarling, snapping.
A hissing sound filled the glade, arrows raining down from above, punching into Ferals. Faelan and others of his kin swooped down from boughs, bows thrumming. Some of the Ferals dropped instantly, pierced many times. Some evaded the iron-tipped death, launched themselves at Drem.
Another explosion from the trees, this one as big as a boulder, a wall of white fur and a gaping maw, and Friend flew into the creatures hurling themselves at Drem. The bear’s jaws clamped on one, a paw swiping another, shredding ribs and an arm, the other collided with Friend’s chest and was sent hurtling through the air, crashing into a tree.
One evaded the white bear and came straight at Drem. He ducked and spun on one heel, slashed with his seax as the Feral flew past him. It turned, came at him again, ploughing into him. They fell together, rolling in the grass, a tangle of limbs. Drem tried to strike at the creature, found one of his blades was trapped in the Feral’s flesh, the other weapon gone from his grip.
The Feral’s jaws were close to Drem’s face, snapping, teeth clicking, a finger’s breadth from his ear.
Another snarling sound, and then jaws were clamping around the Feral’s neck and shoulder, the sound of flesh tearing, blood spurting in Drem’s face. The Feral howled and whined in pain as Fen tore chunks of flesh. Its claws raked on riveted mail and Fen did not let go, continued to shake the Feral like a rat. Then Friend was there, a paw crashing onto the Feral’s back, pinning it.
An arrow punched into the Feral’s head.
Drem looked up from the ground, chest heaving as he gasped for breath, saw Faelan hovering over him.
‘Trust me, you said,’ Drem breathed.
Faelan alighted beside him, offered him his arm.
‘You’re alive.’ Faelan shrugged.
‘How many?’ Drem asked as he climbed to his feet. His body ached like he’d been hit with a tree.
‘Twenty-six of them,’ Faelan said. His kin were circling the glade, loosing arrows into any Feral that still moved. ‘Is that all of them?’
‘I don’t know,’ Drem said. ‘But we can do no more.’ He patted Fen’s neck, the wolven-hound pressing close to him. ‘My thanks, Fen,’ he said, then turned to the white bear.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ he said, the bear dipping his head and rubbing his muzzle against Drem’s chest.
Cullen rode into the glade, moonlight casting him in silver and shadow.
‘What are you doing here?’ Drem asked. ‘Is the whole warband coming this way? And you shouldn’t be riding in the dark.’
‘If he’s allowed to disobey orders,’ Cullen said, pointing at the white bear, ‘then so am I.’
Drem shook his head.
The trap had been his idea. Craf’s crows had spied the Ferals in the forest, better scouts and guardians for Asroth’s warband than any warrior. It would have been impossible to slip past them unobserved. So Drem had come up with this plan. He’d insisted on standing alone, because the Ferals would have smelled the white bear, or hidden warriors upon the ground, and been put off their attack. Only Faelan and his kin had a chance of going undetected.
‘Have I missed all the fun?’ Cullen asked.
‘Aye,’ Drem said, rolling his shoulder, which throbbed as if it had been dislocated.
‘I’ll be your guide back to camp, then,’ Cullen said. ‘Shouldn’t take us long. Friend’s made a road as wide as a barn.’
Drem’s eyes snapped open.
He was lying on the forest floor beside a tree, head on his kit-bag, his cloak pulled tight around him. Cullen was snoring close by. Or it might have been Fen.
Booted feet were in line with Drem’s eyes and he pushed himself upright, the weight of his mail coat feeling heavier than normal. Exhaustion was becoming a well-known companion. Byrne was approaching him, threading through sleeping warriors. Beyond her he heard the constant murmur of the river they were following through the forest. Drem sat up, rubbed his eyes, looked up through the trees. It was full dark, long before dawn. He hadn’t been asleep long.
Byrne reached him and crouched down.
‘You did well,’ she said, her voice hushed.
Drem grunted.
‘Cullen,’ Byrne said.
The warrior continued to snore.
Drem poked him with his boot.
‘What?’ Cullen muttered, opening his eyes and, seeing Byrne, sat up.
‘Good morning, Aunt,’ he said.
‘It’s a long way from morning.’ Drem sighed.
‘Aye, it is,’ Byrne said. ‘But when morning comes it will bring battle with it. We are close to the forest’s border, and Ripa. Less than half a day’s march.’
Drem nodded.
‘I wanted to see you both, before it begins,’ she said. Shrugged. ‘You are my kin.’
Drem looked at her, a strong woman, muscles honed, a sharp intelligence and wisdom in her eyes. She always appeared so strong. Led with strength, but with a streak of kindness also.
‘I’m proud to call you my kin,’ Drem said, speaking his thoughts, as he often did.
Byrne smiled. ‘And here it was me coming to tell you both that same thing.’ She looked away, her eyes shining. ‘Whatever happens on the morrow, know this. I love you both. This war feels as if it has been my whole life, and sometimes it can become hard to remember why I am fighting it. There has been so much death and tragedy.’ She blew out a long breath, rubbed her eyes. ‘When it comes down to it, though, when I strip all the politics and strategies away, it is quite simple: I am fighting this war for you. For my kin, the people I love.’ She smiled at them. ‘You are worth fighting for.’ She reached out and squeezed Drem’s wrist.
‘I’ll fight for you until my last breath,’ Cullen breathed. ‘Follow you into the Otherworld, if I have to.’
Byrne stood, looking down at them. ‘I know you would.’ She turned away, paused. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Here’s something for you, Cullen.’ She held out something long, wrapped in wool.
Cullen stood up and took it, unwrapped it. Gasped.
‘But . . .’
Cullen held up a sword, drew it slowly from its worn leather scabbard. It was Corban’s sword. Sounds came from Cullen’s throat, but no words, his eyes bright with tears. The sword glinted in the moonlight.
‘But . . .’ he said again.
‘It’s mine to give,’ Byrne said, ‘and I know, here, that it is you who should wield it.’ She touched a hand to her heart. Then smiled. ‘Just don’t lose it.’
Cullen grinned. ‘That I won’t,’ he said, ‘not while there’s life in my bones.’
‘Sleep while you can,’ Byrne said, turning away.
A flapping of wings and loud squawking, they all heard it together, and a white bird came flying above the river.
‘RIPA IS FALLEN,’ Rab squawked.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
RIV
Riv swayed on her feet and Drem reached out an arm and steadied her, then pulled her into an embrace. She just stood there, her arms trembling, a sea of emotion churning within her.
Drem stepped back, held her at arm’s length, looking into Riv’s eyes.
‘What has happened?’ he asked.
Riv just stared at Drem. She did not want to say it, did not want to think it. Her face was throbbing, the taste of blood in her mouth, and she couldn’t breathe through her nose. Asroth had broken it. All she remembered was Asroth’s gauntleted fist filling her vision, and then nothing, until she’d regained consciousness upon Bleda’s horse. For a moment she did not know where she was, could not remember what had happened. And then memory had swept in like a huge wave, destroying everything in its path.
Bleda was standing behind Riv, holding his horse by the reins. He hovered close, worry in his eyes.
‘Aphra, Riv’s mother, fell in battle,’ Bleda said. ‘At Asroth’s hand.’
Those words seemed to open a floodgate inside her and Riv swayed, almost dropped to her knees, but Drem and Bleda grasped her, held her up. Riv shook her head, fresh tears flowing from her eyes. She felt . . . everything. A pounding in her head, as if it was about to explode, pain in her chest as if her heart were being squeezed, waves of nausea in her belly. There was a bottomless grief deep inside her, blended with a flickering, white-hot rage, all of it twisting and turning within her veins, spiralling, sweeping her along in a dizzying torrent of misery and fury.
‘There is no greater wound, no greater pain,’ Drem breathed, his face full of care and worry.
‘Aye,’ Bleda whispered behind her, his hand still under one of her arms.
Some distant part of her knew that Drem and Bleda had lost kin in this war, a memory of Bleda’s grief as Riv had carried him away from the scene of his mother’s death, but all was overwhelmed by the fresh rawness of her own pain.
‘Come,’ Drem said, ‘let’s find some quiet, a place for you to sit, some food and drink.’
Riv just looked at him numbly, but when he took her hand she followed.
All around her the Order of the Bright Star’s camp was in motion. Torches lit, warriors rushing to help the survivors of Ripa, horses stamping, giants, bears, wolven-hounds, an endless tide of living things. Fia and Ert were standing on the riverbank, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, both of them helping White-Wing warriors climb out of their boats and scramble up the bank. Riv saw fractured moments; Raina reunited with her son, Tain, tears streaming down the crow master’s face, Craf flapping his wings and squawking. Someone handing a bowl of porridge to Jost, who took it and just cupped it. Ruga checking the hooves of her horse. Kill unwrapping the bandage about Meical’s wing and inspecting the wound. Kol arriving, battered and bloody, a few score Ben-Elim with him. He just sat on the riverbank and looked into his hands.
‘Welcome home, child,’ Byrne said in Riv’s ear, her arm around Riv’s shoulder. ‘Go, eat something. Rest. I’ll find you soon.’
Riv sipped a spoonful of Cullen’s stew, holding onto it with both hands. She was trying to stop her hands from shaking. She was not sure if she was starvingly hungry or on the verge of vomiting. Both. Something warm in her belly seemed to help.
Cullen spooned out more bowls from his pot. A lot of people had followed Riv to Cullen’s pot. Bleda, Ellac, Ruga and Yul, Ukran, Jost, Ert, Fia and Sorch. All of them were sitting, eating and drinking, all of them lost in their exhaustion and thoughts.
Footsteps and Ethlinn appeared out of the gloom, Balur One-Eye at her shoulder. She looked around the campfire, saw Riv and came to put a hand on Riv’s shoulder, squeezed it, then strode to
Ukran and crouched beside him.
‘Welcome, Ukran of the Kurgan,’ Ethlinn said. Balur stood over them. ‘You have travelled far to join us. We are grateful, and I am happy to see more giant kin in this world.’
‘I haven’t come to bend my knee to you, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Ukran said gruffly.
Ethlinn shrugged. ‘There are more important things than the bending of knees,’ she said, though Riv was not so sure that Balur agreed, by the way he was glowering at Ukran. ‘The end of the Long War. The Battle of the Banished Lands is upon us.’
Ukran looked at Ethlinn a long while. ‘It is a battle that cannot be avoided,’ he said. ‘I fight now, or when the Kadoshim are knocking on my door in Arcona.’ He grimaced. ‘Better to fight now.’
‘Aye, that is wisdom,’ Ethlinn said.
‘It was the little man’s idea. I just followed him here.’ Ukran pointed at Bleda, who lifted his bowl in a greeting to Ethlinn.
Ethlinn smiled. ‘Just followed.’ She laughed. ‘Over a hundred leagues. You have made your choice, Ukran of the Kurgan, and it is a brave one.’
‘Sit, eat with us,’ Cullen said, trying to find bowls big enough for Ethlinn and Balur. He’d already given his other pot to Ukran.
‘I think we will,’ Ethlinn said.
Cullen filled her a bowl and gave it to her, though it looked tiny in her hands.
‘Just give me the pot,’ Balur rumbled. He sat down next to Ukran.
More figures stepped out of the trees. Byrne, with Kill and Queen Nara at her shoulder, and Meical. Byrne looked at Riv and the other survivors of Ripa.
‘Meical has told me of the battle,’ Byrne said. ‘Of Asroth and his black mail. Of his starstone weapons. He also told me that he saw Asroth bleed today. A knife put through his arm by Riv.’
All faces turned to stare at Riv. She had not even told Bleda of her fight with Asroth, her heart so raw and wounded from the loss of Aphra. She was experiencing moments where nothing seemed to matter anymore, but they were swiftly followed by bursts of hot rage, images of vengeance all-consuming.
‘Asroth wore a coat of black mail,’ Riv said, her voice sounding strange in her own ears, flat, emotionless. ‘I think it is made from the same substance as the knife. I saw Hadran’s spear explode when he stabbed Asroth. A blow that would have skewered a wild boar. My mother’s sword shattered when she stabbed his coat of mail.’ Riv paused, felt a tremor in her voice. Breathed deep, then drew the black knife from her belt. ‘This is the blade I stabbed him with. It pierced his mail. I think this is a starstone blade,’ she said. ‘I took it from Gulla’s daughter, Morn.’
