A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  Sig strode into the darkness, the chanting growing louder as she climbed higher, past another flickering torch. She felt her flesh goosebump, a creeping dread seeping into her, thick in the air, making her limbs grow heavy. The urge to stop and go back wormed into her mind.

  Something is at work here.

  ‘Truth and Courage,’ she hissed at the darkness and saw either side of her Cullen and Keld straighten at those words, the Order’s battle-cry and mantra. And then, in front of them was an arched doorway, a form silhouetted against the fire’s red glow. The chanting was loud, echoing down the tunnel, filling Sig’s head and heart with dismay.

  Go back, go back, fear’s voice whispered in her head.

  ‘Truth and Courage,’ she snarled back at it and surged forwards. The silhouette turned, a man, head shaven to scabbed stubble. His mouth opened at the sight of Sig storming out of the darkness, hounds and warriors about her. A spear in his hands levelled at Sig but her great sword was already cutting upwards, shearing through the shaft, lopping half of his hand off with it. The man stumbled backwards, amputated digits spinning through the air, his eyes fixed on the stumps where his fingers had been. A roll of Sig’s shoulders and her sword came back down to chop into the meat of him between neck and shoulder, a wet sound like an axe cleaving damp wood, bones cracking, and the man was falling back in a spray of bloody froth. Sig ripped her blade free and stood over his twitching corpse.

  A circular chamber spread before her, high and wide, the roof hidden in shadow and smoke. Braziers of fire belched red light, casting misshapen shadows. A crowd of men and women at least forty-strong gathered around a dais at the chamber’s centre, chanting in a tongue Sig had never heard before. They were all shaven-headed, and Sig glimpsed the gleam of chainmail and weapons.

  These are not disgruntled farmers, or deluded dissenters, Sig thought. More like warrior-acolytes.

  Upon the dais was a wooden cross-frame; a figure was bound wrist and ankle upon it, a man stripped naked.

  And close as a lover to this man stood a figure, tall, head shaved, its skin pale as alabaster, mapped by dark veins. It wore a shirt of rusty mail, a sword sheathed at its hip, and from its back great wings of leather and skin were furled. Power and malice pulsed from it like a heat haze.

  Kadoshim.

  Something inside Sig leaped at the sight of it, a jolt of hatred racing through her, burning away any remnants of fear that lingered in her veins. Once she had seen these Kadoshim in their thousands filling the skies above Drassil, and since then she and those like her had hunted these dread creatures, over a hundred years of blood and war. At first the fighting had been constant, but in the last score of years the Kadoshim were rarely found – so much so that her Order was questioning whether the creatures had been brought close to extinction in the Banished Lands.

  Not extinct yet.

  As Sig stared, the Kadoshim thrust a knife into the belly of the prisoner, a gush of blood and coiled entrails splashing from the gaping wound. There was the sudden rush of blood-stink and hot metal in the air as the man screamed his agony over the fevered chanting from the crowd.

  Then the Kadoshim saw Sig and the shadowed figures of her companions behind her. Their eyes met and the chanting about the chamber stuttered and died.

  The Kadoshim pointed its blood-slick knife at Sig, faces turning.

  ‘Kill them,’ it rasped.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BLEDA

  Bleda stood upon the walls of Drassil, looking down at the weapons-field below. All manner of warriors were training, learning the craft of spear, bow and sword, as well as other things.

  ‘Strategy, they call it,’ his friend Jin said as she pointed to a shield wall that had formed near the centre of the field. She was a ward of the Ben-Elim, too, taken the same day as him. That had been grounds enough for a friendship.

  ‘Cowardice is what I call it,’ she continued, head cocked to one side as she considered the warriors far below. Her jet hair was short-cropped to her head, the sharp features of her cheeks and the slight hook of her nose reminding Bleda of the stooping hawk that was the sigil of her Clan. ‘A warrior should stand one against another, whether with bow, spear or blade. That is skill, that is honour. Not that! Hiding behind your weapons-kin, hiding behind wood and iron!’

  ‘Huh,’ Bleda grunted, his eyes drifting from the shield wall to the figure of a mounted warrior galloping, spear raised, charging a straw man. The drum of hooves drifted up to Bleda, simply the sound of it stirring his blood, even if the horse was a huge, muscle-bound beast as far from the swift and hardy ponies he had grown up riding as he was different from a giant.

  Ah, to ride through the plains of grass with nothing but wind and sky before me. A recollection of doing just such a thing filled his mind. It was a dim, faded memory, more precious to Bleda than gold, silver or jewels. He closed his eyes a moment and concentrated, almost feeling the wind whipping across his face, could almost hear the distant echo of his laughter mixing with his brother’s, who had been riding at his side on that long-ago day.

  Altan.

  Before he had a chance to control it, another image flashed through his mind. His brother’s severed head in the dirt, eyes bulging, tongue lolling. With an act of will he pushed the memory away, forced it into a shadowed hole in his mind and let out a long breath, as if he had completed some physical exertion.

  ‘They are cowards, no?’ Jin said, clearly enjoying her rant against the warriors of Drassil, and wanting Bleda’s support on this point. It was not often that they were alone enough to be able to speak like this, always someone was around teaching or watching over them. Even now they were supposed to be with a loremaster and hard at work learning their letters. Instead they had sneaked off and made their way onto Drassil’s walls, finding a rare spot between guards on watch duty.

  ‘Their ways are strange and without honour,’ Bleda said, and in truth many of the Ben-Elim’s ways still seemed so to him, even after five years of living amongst these people as their ward. But there was much more to the Ben-Elim and their allies than that. Much of what had once seemed strange now made a lot more sense.

  And they are not cowards, as much as I would like to agree with Jin on that point. But Bleda kept his opinion to himself, as he often did. I’ll not argue with my only friend, the closest thing I have to my kin in this strange land.

  In truth, Jin should have been his enemy. Until Bleda had been snatched away by the Ben-Elim on that dark and distant day, Jin had been his enemy: daughter and heir of the Cheren’s lord, the Clan that Bleda’s people had been fighting the day the Ben-Elim came. Technically there was blood feud between Bleda and Jin, as Bleda’s da had been slain by members of Jin’s Clan, and in return Jin’s older brother and heir to the Cheren Clan had been slain by the Sirak. But now, for five long years, all they had had was each other, each of them acting for the other as some tenuous bridge to home.

  The thrum of arrows leaving bows dragged his eyes from the galloping horse, in time to see a score of straw targets shudder as loosed arrows hit their mark. Even Bleda could not stop his lip from curling in a sneer at that.

  Great longbows of ash or elm. How could you string or shoot one of those from the back of a horse?

  He saw one archer give a congratulatory slap on the shoulder to another.

  No doubt thinking they have great skill. I was hitting such targets as that when I was eight summers old. And when is a fight ever like that? Your enemy standing helpfully still while you take careful aim?

  He shook his head, disgusted, and Jin grinned to see it.

  ‘They would be no match for the Cheren,’ she said, following his gaze, ‘or even the Sirak,’ she added with a twitch of a smile.

  ‘They defeated both our Clans, though,’ Bleda muttered.

  Jin scowled at that. ‘They took them by surprise,’ she spat.

  ‘Aye, they did. But there was more to their victory than surprise. I was there. I saw it.’ It was a fact he neve
r failed to remind her of, giving him a slight advantage in their discussions of home.

  ‘Still, if our Clans had been ready, and stood together,’ Jin said, jutting her chin out.

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ Bleda agreed, though he was not so sure.

  ‘As they will when we return home and rule our Clans.’ She flashed him a grin.

  ‘Just so,’ he replied, hiding the doubt in his heart.

  Bleda turned away from the weapons-field and stared out over the walls of Drassil. High above him the branches of the great tree arched, spreading wide over the plains that surrounded the ancient fortress, dappling the meadow-grass in sunlight and shadow. The plain to the west was covered in cairns, thousands of them, burial mounds of moss-covered stone raised over those who had fallen on the day the Ben-Elim came, the day the Kadoshim were defeated. A road ran through the centre of them to the gates of Drassil.

  A road watched over by the dead, Bleda thought.

  In the distance a forest ringed Drassil: ancient Forn, though its trees had been cut and thinned for over a hundred years now as the Ben-Elim had rooted Kadoshim from the dark places. Slicing through the forest were roads that radiated out from the fortress, north, south, east and west, like spokes from a wheel hub. They were wide and straight, connecting Drassil, the Ben-Elim’s seat of power, with the rest of the Land of the Faithful, and it was along these roads that their armies marched, whether it was to fight Kadoshim or to enforce peace upon lands within their ever-expanding boundaries.

  Bleda found himself looking east, as he often did, imagining that he could see the rolling plains of his homeland beyond the green-leaved bulwark of Forn Forest. This time, though, he saw a column upon the east road, marching steadily towards Drassil, the distant ripple of banners snapping in the breeze.

  He slapped Jin’s shoulder. She was still pouring scorn upon those in the weapons-field, but her eyes narrowed as she saw what he was pointing at.

  ‘Giants and bears at the front,’ she whispered.

  ‘And Ben-Elim above,’ Bleda said, spying shapes circling in the air above the column.

  ‘But banners?’ Jin said. ‘Not Ben-Elim troops, then.’

  They stood in silence, wondering who these approaching visitors were, important enough to warrant such an escort. A shadow crossed over them and there was a gust of wind, light footsteps and a Ben-Elim landed close by. He was tall, graceful and beautiful as a fine statue, as were all the Ben-Elim, though he was fair-haired where most were dark. Bleda felt a stirring of anger in his blood at the sight of him, for this was Kol, the Ben-Elim who had thrown the heads of his brother and sister at his feet.

  ‘Many are looking for you two,’ the Ben-Elim said. ‘You are wanted in the keep.’

  ‘What for?’ Jin answered, haughty as if she were already Queen of the Cheren.

  ‘You have visitors,’ the Ben-Elim said, looking out onto the plain before Drassil.

  The approaching column was still a way off, but close enough now for Bleda to see the swirl and snap of the banners. Jin gasped, her eyes always a little keener than his, but he recognized the images soon enough, and his heart lurched within his chest.

  Two banners, one with a stooping hawk upon a blue sky, the other with a rearing stallion in a field of green.

  The Cheren and the Sirak Clans.

  Our kin have come.

  Bleda sat at a table in a chair too big for him, fidgeting and picking at a scab on his thumb. In response to their barrage of breathless questions, Kol, the Ben-Elim, had given them nothing, except for a dark scowl. The only thing Bleda really wanted to know was who rode beneath the Sirak banner.

  Has my mam come to claim me? Finally to take me home?

  Jin was seated beside him and he could see her trying to look calm and indifferent despite him being sure she felt the same mixture of fear and excitement as he. The Lord Protector swept through the open doors, a dozen White-Wings marching behind him. Israfil’s expression was as emotionless as usual.

  His mastery of the cold-face would earn even my mother’s respect.

  There was something in his stride that spoke of something else, though.

  Agitation?

  Israfil stood before Bleda and Jin, somehow managing to hold both of their gazes at once. Bleda noticed a twitch in his wings sending a ripple through the white feathers.

  ‘You were not at your letters,’ Israfil said, a statement. ‘You could not be found when you were needed and, as a result, you have not been briefed on the arrival of your Clansmen, or been able to prepare for it.’

  Bleda returned Israfil’s gaze as long as he could, felt Jin doing the same beside him, felt her shift as her head bowed. He was not long behind her.

  ‘You are given every advantage here. Learning – language, your letters, the histories, all manner of knowledge. You are taught your weapons, no less than our greatest warriors. Food, clothing, everything that you could want for, you are given; a preparation for the great task ahead of you, to rule your people, to spread the peace of Elyon.’

  To be trained as your puppet king and puppet queen of the Arcona Clans, you mean.

  ‘You are given the utmost respect; are you not?’

  Bleda and Jin were silent a few moments.

  ‘We are, Lord Commander,’ Bleda said. He could not deny that they were treated well.

  For prisoners.

  He felt Jin’s eyes burn into him, a look that did not go unnoticed by Israfil.

  ‘All that is expected of you is a measure of that respect returned,’ Israfil said, frowning at Jin.

  Jin remained darkly silent.

  Bleda clamped his lips shut. Part of him agreed with Israfil, knew that his behaviour was insolent and rude, and felt a stirring of shame for that. But another part of him remembered, would never forget. His brother. His sister.

  I represent my Clan, here. Am the face and voice of the Sirak.

  ‘I apologize for our rudeness,’ Bleda said, seeing Jin’s head snapping around and ignoring the look of disgust she sent him.

  ‘Good.’ Israfil nodded and heaved a long sigh. Bleda felt his neck flush red.

  And then horns were ringing and the open doorway of the keep was full of figures, a handful of giants entering first, axes and war-hammers slung across their backs, ringmail shirts gleaming. Jin hissed as the giants moved to one side, revealing a stern-faced man, head shaved apart from a long dark warrior braid curling across his shoulder, an iron-grey beard upon his chin. He wore a fine sky-blue deel, edged in gold thread, belted with soft-tooled leather, his breeches bound tight from ankle to knee, and baggy above. His eyes locked with Jin’s and his stern face softened, eyes creasing in the hint of a smile.

  ‘Father,’ Jin whispered, half rising.

  ‘Stay, child,’ Kol murmured from behind them and Jin sat back down.

  And then everything else in the room faded for Bleda.

  His mother, Erdene, Queen of the Sirak, strode through the doorway.

  She was older, with lines in her brown, weathered face that had not been there the last time he’d seen her, streaks of grey in her thick-bound warrior braid. A white scar stood out across her shaven head.

  She looked as fine a Sirak lord as he had ever seen, dressed in a richly woven white deel tunic, fox fur trimming its collar and hems, a thick leather belt dressed with chains of silver and gold about her waist, and his heart thumped with pride to see her march towards him. He felt his face shifting, mouth stretching into a smile.

  Her eyes looked into his, saw his smile, but he received nothing in return, only her cold-face, flat and impassionate. He gritted his teeth together and with an act of will wiped all emotion from his face.

  Behind Uldin and Erdene walked a small retinue from their courts. Bleda saw an old face staring at him.

  Old Ellac!

  Bleda’s heart leaped a little with joy at another familiar face. The old warrior stared straight at Bleda, though he too showed no spark of emotion.

  ‘Welcome to Drassil,
’ Israfil said as they were all shown to seats around the table. Food was brought and drinks were poured as Israfil continued his greeting, speaking of the journey from Arcona and the new peace in the Land of the Faithful. His voice became a blur of sound that Bleda did not hear, all his attention focused on his mother, and on maintaining the required facade of indifference.

  Is she ashamed of me? Five years since I saw her last, and not even a nod of her head. He was suddenly painfully aware of his appearance, how little he now looked like a Sirak prince. Especially his hair, which should have been grown long enough for a warrior braid, the rest of his head shaved and the long braid bound upon completing his warrior trial and Long Night. Instead his hair was cut short, the same way as the other training warriors at Drassil wore their hair.

  To her it must look as if I have become one of them. Does she think I have betrayed my Clan?

  Bleda felt all this raging within him, rearing and lashing at him, like a wild stallion’s hooves. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead with the effort of keeping it all hidden.

  I will not shame her more than I already have.

  And then Israfil’s voice faded and Bleda realized a silence had fallen over the table.

  ‘My thanks for your courteous welcome,’ Uldin of the Cheren said, his voice warm and strong. ‘It is a pleasure to be in fabled Drassil. Truly, it is a place of magnificent wonders, greater even than we had ever imagined, and I am only left with the question of why have I not journeyed here before. Why have I left it so—’

  ‘What Uldin is trying to say,’ Erdene interrupted, her voice calm and flat as a windless sea, ‘is: why are we here? Why have you summoned us?’

  Israfil inclined his head to Erdene.

  ‘Five years have passed since your two Clans went to war,’ Israfil said, ‘breaking the peace of the Faithful. Breaking Elyon’s Lore. And in those five years your two Clans have known unbroken peace, is this not so?’