A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  He rolled onto his back, saw the bear powering towards him, a mountain of fur and muscle blotting all else out, small eyes gleaming in its huge head. Fear coursed through Drem. Bone-chilling, limb-numbing fear. He knew he should do something, move, run, hobble, anything, as death hurtled closer and closer, but he could do nothing, only stare wide-eyed as it came to claim him.

  And then his da was standing over him, axe and knife in his fists.

  ‘Run, Da,’ Drem wheezed.

  Olin drew his arm back and hurled his axe with all his might; the axe spun through the air, slamming into the bear’s shoulder with a meaty thunk. It gave a rumbling growl but surged on. Drem remembered his own hand-axe at his belt, fumbled to draw it from its loop as his da grabbed Drem’s spear and sent that too hurtling towards the creature. Before knowing if the weapon had struck true, Olin threw himself upon Drem, covering him with his body.

  The world turned dark, the sound of the bear like a thunderclap overhead, a roar of pain, the smell of his da’s sweat, the ground shaking as the bear closed on them. Then his da was dragging, pulling and rolling to the side, the bear so close Drem could smell it and feel the air of its passing. He lashed out with his small axe at a paw bigger than his head as it thumped into the ground less than a handspan away, tasted the copper tang of blood on his lips. Scythe-like claws raked the ground, spraying soil as the bear’s momentum carried it on.

  ‘Up,’ Olin grunted, hauling Drem to his feet. Pain lanced up from his ankle and he almost fell, his da grabbing an arm and hauling it over his shoulder. A score of paces away the bear was skidding to a halt, turning, Drem’s spear protruding from its chest. With a swipe of its paw, the spear was ripped free; blood welled, the shaft splintered. The beast lumbered back towards them.

  Abruptly Drem was hoisted like a sack of grain onto his da’s back and carried away from the path. Drem saw the bear lurch after them, pounding through the trees, closer and closer.

  Fear enveloped Drem like a fog, snatching his breath away, but through it one thought pierced the haze. His da was going to die trying to save him. A wave of love for his da drove back the consuming fear of imminent death, but a new fear rose up, that his da was going to die.

  ‘Leave me, Da, save yourself,’ Drem breathed. A grunt from Olin was the only response. Then Drem glimpsed where his da was running.

  Towards the river.

  And then Olin was leaping, the bear swiping at them with its claws, his da crying out, an arc of blood in the air and they slammed into ice-cold water. Drem gasped in the white foam, then was pulled under, not knowing which way was up, hands flailing, feet kicking, lungs burning. His head broke water and he sucked in a great lungful of air, spluttered as the current grabbed and spun him, slammed him into a rock. He pushed away, glimpsed his da bobbing on the water ahead of him, speeding through icy spume, then disappearing as the river fell away. He swam after, the current catching him again and sending him speeding in the same direction. Behind him he glimpsed the white bear leaning over the river’s edge, roaring its rage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  RIV

  Riv’s spear slammed into the target with a satisfying thud, piercing the straw man’s heart. She gave a fierce snarl as it swayed and fell backwards, her eyes flickering to the crowd that stood about the weapons-field, watching her and a score of others at their warrior trials. Her eyes found her mother and Aphra, her sister, looking like a warrior-born in her best war-gear, white wings embossed upon a black leather cuirass that gleamed beneath a cold winter sun. Their eyes met and Aphra’s shone with pride, making Riv’s chest swell.

  ‘Shield wall,’ a voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls of Drassil, and Riv focused again, speeding towards her companions, slipping her shield from her back as she ran, hand reaching for the wooden short-sword at her hip. She was one of the first in line, her comrades settling around her, raising shields, setting feet. Vald pushed into her left side, dark where she was fair, all muscle and sweat, half a head taller than Riv, and almost as wide as he was tall.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Vald grunted. ‘Won’t be long and we’ll be off on the Long Night.’

  ‘If old One-Eye doesn’t break our bones to kindling first,’ Riv replied, and grinned at the speed with which Vald’s smile twisted into a frown.

  A horn blast rang out, and all along the line wood and iron thudded together, great rectangular shields overlapping, Riv and her companions pressing tight together as they had been drilled countless times. Riv peered over her iron rim to see Balur One-Eye step out from the crowd, captain of the Ben-Elim’s legion of giants, his battle fame almost larger than his own huge form. He stood a man and a half tall, his white hair bound in a thick warrior braid, moustache knotted with leather, and tattoos of thorn and vine swirling up his thick arms. Wrapped in leather and fur, he strode towards them, gripping a long-hafted war-hammer in his massive fists. More grimfaced giants followed him, striding towards Riv’s shield wall. A worm of fear threaded through her belly at the sight of old One-Eye and she fought the urge to laugh, a wild joy leaping up inside her.

  I have dreamed of this for so long, since I was born, it feels. Sixteen summers of wishing I was a warrior of the White-Wings, and now it is so close I can taste it.

  ‘Ready,’ she called out, her voice trembling with the emotion of this moment, and she tucked her head down and pressed her shoulder firmly into her shield.

  Vald grunted unintelligibly as shields from the second row rose up to cover the heads of those in the front row, and then Balur was there, the air whistling as he spun his war-hammer and slammed it against them, wood cracking like a burst of thunder. Riv felt the power of it shudder through the shield wall, a tremor that rippled through wood and iron, flesh and bone, but as far as she could tell no one had fallen and the wall held. A thud from further away, one of Balur’s companions joining the fray, and another, much closer, an explosion that numbed her shield arm and rocked her backwards, feet digging grooves in the turf as she fought to stay upright. Riv blinked sweat from her eyes. Still feeling the vibration of that last blow in her bones, she saw there was a crack running partway down the centre of her shield.

  Come on, give the order, Riv thought, her right hand clamped around the hilt of her short-sword, but she knew to draw it early would be to fail this warrior trial.

  She snarled a curse and gritted her teeth.

  More blows rained upon them, grunts and gasps all about as her companions tried to hold and weather the storm, digging deep. Even having practised this so many times before and knowing that it was not real combat, there was still an edge of fear snaking through them, something different about the way Balur and his giants were pounding at the shield wall, a savagery that Riv had never encountered before. A shield burst into so much kindling somewhere above and to the right, followed by a sharp scream.

  A horn rang out, two short blasts, and within a heartbeat Riv’s wooden blade was drawn and she was stabbing out through the small gaps above and below her shield. She felt resistance, heard a grunt and smiled. She tried to peer out past her shield to see if it was Balur she had struck, but saw nothing but fur and the byrnie rings of a mail shirt.

  Another combination of horn blasts rang out from the rear, a signal for the wall to prepare to march, then one more long note and Riv took a staggering step forwards, pushing against the pressure upon her shield, Vald keeping pace beside her, the rest of the wall rippling forwards, gaps appearing between the shields as the pace varied, but closing up quick enough.

  The horn blew again, the sound initiating a movement Riv liked to think of as the death march, when the enemy was close to breaking and the advance of the wall aimed to crush any spirit remaining amongst those that fought on. Riv continued to stab over and under her shield, sweat stinging her eyes, dripping from her chin, Vald holding his own beside her.

  A shouted command from the other side of Riv’s shield, muffled, and then the pounding against the shield wall stopped, followed by one more horn bla
st, long and lingering, and the wall rippled to a halt. Riv lowered her shaking shield; those about her were doing the same, all of them sweat-soaked and aching, bruised and battered by Balur’s assault. One-Eye and his companions were grinning at them, his empty eye socket puckered with mirth.

  ‘Well, they weathered the storm of iron,’ Balur called out loudly to ringing cheers that spread amongst the onlookers around the field. Balur dipped his head to Riv and the others about her.

  Apart from Jost, Riv thought, looking at one of her training companions as he was carried stumbling from the field, one arm hanging limp and broken.

  There was just time for Riv to wipe the sweat from her brow, run her fingers through her short-cropped hair and enjoy the sense of relief at finding herself still standing, and then there was the beating of wings. Several Ben-Elim rose from behind the crowd and swooped down onto the field, landing gracefully between Balur and Riv. Israfil, the Lord Protector, was first amongst them, clothed in gleaming mail, hair ravenblack, eyes like coals. He strode straight towards her, a wooden practice sword in his hand. His companions spread about him to engage Riv’s companions in the final trial.

  Israfil raised his sword, dipped his head and then he was attacking her, his weapon arcing down from above. Riv lifted her shield, knocking Israfil’s wooden blade to one side, then countered instinctively with a chop to his neck. He pivoted away, as a man, not using the advantage of his wings, and set about striking at her with combinations of the forms she had been taught, which she knew more intimately than any friend.

  In no time at all she was sweating, wrists, elbows and shoulders aching deep as her bones, the power in Israfil’s blows shocking her, even as he maintained perfect balance and poise.

  He hits harder than Vald, and faster than anyone I’ve ever come across.

  Then Israfil was stepping back, giving her space and a moment’s respite. His white wings, held furled behind his back, were twitching as he marched back and forth before her, his bright eyes appraising her, head cocked to one side like a predatory bird. With a flick of his wrist he indicated for her to drop her shield. Even before it hit the ground he was coming at her again, his blade slicing from all directions as she retreated before him. Even her speed, which she was well known for amongst those that used the weapons-field, only just saved her from a dented skull and cracked ribs. And then, without word or warning, his wings gave a great beat and he was lifting into the air, above her, behind her, Riv twisting desperately to fend off his blows, grunting as his sword grazed her shoulder.

  What better way to test if we are ready to hunt Kadoshim? The Ben-Elim are the closest thing to our enemy.

  Riv ducked a blow that would have taken her head and rolled away, jumping back to her feet and leaping at Israfil as he followed, which, judging by the brief twist of his lips, caught him by surprise – Riv’s sword snaking through his defence and stabbing into his thigh.

  If it was cold steel you’d be bleeding like a speared boar now, she thought, then grinned.

  ‘You try too hard,’ Israfil said as he swept in closer, his sword chopping at her head, deflected, sweeping into a slice for her throat, knocked away, coming back to stab at her face, Riv swaying, stepping back, thrown off balance by his words, not his blade.

  I have tried hard all my life to be the best I can be, to be worthy to wear the white wings, to fight for the Ben-Elim. How is that wrong?

  ‘You fight to prove yourself to others,’ Israfil continued, voice low and fierce, meant only for her ears. ‘Pride drives you, and you think it makes you strong.’ His words pounded her as hard as the flurry of his blows that followed. Riv staggered backwards, her parries and blocks wilder, her counters slashing only empty air. ‘But you are wrong,’ Israfil ground on, ‘your pride is your weakness.’

  She felt a squeeze of pain in her chest at his words, the world dimming around her, her vision focused solely upon Israfil.

  ‘It makes you brittle,’ he said, lips sneering in disgust and disappointment.

  Riv reeled, spinning into open space to give herself a moment to recover; she was gasping as if she had just been gut-punched.

  Brittle? No. I am strong, have trained every day, all my life for this.

  Israfil’s blade slipped through her guard but her quick feet pivoted her away, its edge grazing the leather of her jerkin.

  ‘Is it because you have no father?’ Israfil said as he swirled around her. ‘That you feel you must try so hard to prove yourself?’

  ‘What?’ Riv spoke for the first time, feeling her shock and hurt shift into something else, edged in red. ‘No,’ she said in a snarl, ‘my sister is a White-Wing, as was my mam before her. I have enough to admire . . .’ More blows, driving air and words from her lungs, Israfil’s wooden blade connecting with her shoulder, one blow flowing into another, cracking into her ribs. A great pulse of his wings and she was stumbling back, slipping to one knee, the pain in her side fuelling the anger that was swelling in her gut, outrage at being so wronged by someone she had respected completely and utterly until only a handful of heartbeats ago.

  My father? He is long dead.

  She looked up at Israfil, who hovered above her, mouth twisted in some unreadable emotion.

  ‘You are weak,’ he said to her.

  Riv leaped at Israfil, a red rage flooding through her. She grabbed his belt and hauled herself higher, saw his mouth was moving but could only dimly hear his shouted words because there was a roaring in her head like a storm shaking the trees of Drassil, and then her fist was slamming into Israfil’s face, once, twice, blood gushing from his nose, and his wings were beating, lifting them higher. Part of her was appalled at what she was doing, but that part of her was small and powerless, an observer to events, nothing more, watching as she rained blows upon the Ben-Elim. Even then all she could hear were his words, you are weak, you are brittle, and then the red mist filled her head and her vision until she saw and heard nothing except her own wordless howl.

  Riv blinked awake and sat up with a start. She felt a pressure upon her chest and saw her mam’s face staring down at her, eyes creased with worry.

  ‘Easy, Riv,’ her mam said. ‘Rest a while.’

  As if I ever took that advice. Riv snorted, pushing her mam’s hand away. She sat up, saw that she was still in the weapons-field, her mam kneeling beside her, a crowd gathered in a half-circle around Vald and the others who had completed their warrior trial. They were standing in a line, faces glowing with exertion and pride as Israfil stood before them, commending them on their prowess.

  You are weak.

  Riv put a hand to her head, squeezing her eyes shut, remembered frozen moments: leaping at Israfil, blood from his nose, rising into the sky.

  ‘What . . . happened?’ she muttered, an ache in her back between her shoulder blades pulsing up into her head. She twisted, rolled her shoulders.

  ‘You attacked Israfil,’ her mam said, a horrified whisper.

  The voices of her companions and friends rose up, reciting the first lines of the Oath.

  ‘I am defender to the Faithful,’ they all began, voices ringing out.

  I should be there, beside them, she thought. They should be my sword-kin, now, except that they have passed their warrior trial, and I have failed.

  ‘I am the sharp blade that will slay the Fallen,’ echoed across the field.

  She looked back to her mam, who was regarding her with sad, disappointed eyes.

  With a choked sound in her throat, Riv pushed past her mam and ran. She saw heads from amongst the gathered crowd turn and stare at her; her sister, Aphra, her pride-filled gaze of earlier a thing of history now.

  And then she crashed into someone, both of them tumbling to the ground. With a grunt, she climbed to one knee, saw the other person spring agilely to his feet. The youth was staring at her, lean and sharp-featured, with deep, almond-shaped eyes and dark, weathered skin, almost the same colour as the alder-wood hilt of her sister’s short-sword. She knew him, or
at least, knew his name. Bleda, the Sirak prince who was a ward to the Ben-Elim. Riv remembered the day he had been taken, all those years ago when she had been her sister’s attendant, her shield-carrier, weapon-cleaner, water-giver and all other manner of tasks. She had loved it. But not that one, long ago, moment. The scene flashed through her mind, seeing the boy’s proud face, his curved bow falling from his hand, face stricken as his kin’s heads had been tossed into the dirt before him, tears streaking down his face as the giant Alcyon had carried him away.

  Bleda looked at her now, standing over her, his face as emotionless as the Ben-Elim, eyes dark pools.

  ‘I heard what he said to you,’ Bleda whispered. He reached a hand out, not to help, but to wipe a tear from her face. He looked at it, glistening upon his fingertip. Something about him changed, but it was only in his eyes, his face still as carved stone.

  ‘This is his victory, your defeat,’ he said, showing her her own tear.

  She stared back defiantly, letting him see her anger and shame, allowed another tear to roll down her cheek. Her own form of defiance.

  ‘You will come back, stronger.’ He shrugged, then put a hand on her arm to help her rise but she shook it off, leaped to her feet, and then she was speeding around a corner, where buildings hid Bleda and the weapons-field from view.

  Riv ran through the streets of Drassil. The huge giant-built towers of stone loomed all around her, and high up, above even their rooftops, the leafless branches of Drassil’s great tree soughed in a cold wind. Faces passed Riv in a blur, some uttered or nodded greetings, but Riv ignored them all, shame a cold fist clenching in her guts, her need to be away from the weapons-field driving her on. She slowed to a walk, looked around her and saw that her feet had taken her to the courtyard before Drassil’s Great Hall.

  It reared before her, a huge dome of stone built around the trunk of Drassil’s great tree, which in itself was wider than any man-built tower that Riv had ever set her eyes upon. Broad steps led up from the courtyard to massive iron-banded gates of oak, flung open so that the entrance looked like a gaping, shadow-filled mouth in a giant’s skull. Riv crossed the courtyard and padded up the steps, earning a stare from the guards who stood around the doorway, a dozen White-Wings in their black cuirasses of boiled leather and bright silver helms. They knew her, though, and so Riv passed through the doorway without opposition. Once inside she hesitated a moment upon the threshold and looked into the chamber.