A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  The Kadoshim stilled a moment.

  ‘I will tell you nothing,’ Rimmon spat, voice as broken as his body. A trickle of black blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘We shall see,’ Sig said, retrieving her net from the ground a dozen paces away. ‘Perhaps not now, and I am not the most patient of questioners. But I shall take you back to Dun Seren . . .’

  Something swept across the Kadoshim’s face at the mention of Sig’s home, the fortress where the Order of the Bright Star were based.

  Have the Kadoshim learned to fear us? A hundred years of bloodshed has given them good cause.

  Suddenly the Kadoshim had a knife in his fist and he was stabbing frenziedly at Hammer’s paw, sinking deep, blood spurting. The bear roared and jerked away, the Kadoshim – abruptly free – was up and stumbling at Sig, knife lunging for her belly.

  Then Hammer’s jaws clamped around Rimmon’s torso, lifting him bodily from the ground, jaws snapping tighter as it shook the Kadoshim furiously, blood spraying, bones snapping. The bear hurled the Kadoshim to the ground, slammed one paw upon the winged demon’s torso and grabbed its head, ripping it from its shoulders with a wet, tearing sound.

  Sig stood and stared. It was all over in a handful of heartbeats.

  ‘I think you are more bad-tempered than I am,’ she muttered, patting the bear’s neck.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RIV

  Riv cursed under her breath, a continuous muttering as she scrubbed the floor of one of the many communal latrines in Drassil. It was early and she was on latrine duty, not her favourite of tasks at the best of times, but even less so today. Her sleep had been troubled with bad dreams. In the light of day they were ephemeral, only a vague memory of weightless, endless falling.

  ‘What’s that?’ Carsten said. Just like Riv, he was the child of a White-Wing, born in Drassil and raised to become a warrior of the White-Wings. He was a year younger than Riv, as were all on the latrine team with her; because she had failed her warrior trial, all of her friends were training on the weapons-field as White-Wings, but not her.

  ‘For my shame,’ she muttered, then looked up at him. ‘What’s what?’

  Carsten was supposed to be pouring buckets of water over the long stone seating block that Riv had just scrubbed, but he had stopped. The walls behind him were filled with pastel depictions of Ben-Elim casting Kadoshim from the skies, a reminder of the great sacrifice they had made to protect mankind from the evil of the demon horde. Riv was just about to give Carsten a piece of her mind for shirking his duties when he said it again.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, and then she heard it, filtering in through the unshuttered window and open doorway. The blowing of horns.

  ‘That’s the call to the Lore Chamber,’ Riv said, leaping to her feet. Usually the Lore Chamber convened once a ten-night: Israfil and his captains gathering in Drassil’s Great Hall and sitting in judgement upon all manner of issues brought before them, whether they be disputes between residents of Drassil, petty charges of drunkenness or minor disobediences to more serious matters, even murder.

  But the next meeting’s not due for another four nights.

  The horns blew again.

  ‘Come on,’ Riv said, making for the open doorway.

  ‘But, the latrines,’ Carsten said.

  ‘It’s excrement, it’ll still be here when we’re done.’ Riv strode out into the streets of Drassil, hearing Carsten following her.

  The streets were full, all those not on essential duties making their way to the great chamber of Drassil.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Riv asked a White-Wing in the street.

  ‘Ethlinn and Garidas are back,’ she said.

  The horns blew again and Riv began to run, feeling aches in her joints that hadn’t been there a few days ago.

  Can’t sleep, and I’m aching like I have a fever. I’ll visit the healers when I have some time.

  Crowds grew thicker as Riv reached the courtyard of the Great Hall, people pouring through the open gates, Riv elbowing through them. Inside everyone was filing along the tiered stone steps, using them as benches, hundreds already sitting there. Riv saw her mam, Dalme, a few rows down and squeezed and shoved her way through the crowd to reach her.

  ‘Hello, my darling,’ her mam said.

  ‘I hear it’s Ethlinn and Garidas returned,’ Riv whispered as she sat beside her mam.

  ‘Aye, it’s true,’ Dalmae said, gesturing to the hall’s floor below them.

  The iron-covered statues of Asroth and Meical were where they always were, tall and brooding before the trunk of Drassil’s ancient tree, and ringed about them were Ethlinn’s giants, as always. On the wide space between them and Riv a dozen chairs had been set, for Israfil and his captains sitting either side of him. Blond-haired Kol sat at the far end. Riv found her gaze lingering on the scarred Ben-Elim. He seemed different, somehow, from the Ben-Elim he sat beside, his perfect features altered by the scar that ran down his face, changing the straight line of his mouth. Perhaps he felt her eyes on him, because he looked up, straight at her, as if she were the only person in the room. She held his gaze a few heartbeats, then looked away.

  Before the Ben-Elim was a wain, something bulky upon it, covered with a sheet of stitched hides. A score of White-Wings and giants were standing about it. Riv saw Garidas, who was captain of a White-Wing hundred, just as Aphra was. He was standing straight-backed and stern, as always, short-cropped dark hair framing a serious face. Riv liked him: he was a devout man, utterly committed to the Ben-Elim, and a fine warrior. He’d given Riv a fair few bruises on the weapons-field, although recently she usually gave as good as she got. If anything, Riv thought, it wouldn’t harm him to smile more.

  Beside Garidas towered Ethlinn, Queen of the Giants. She was pale as milk, long-limbed, even for a giant, slimmer and less muscled than most, though there was an obvious strength in her musculature. Black hair knotted in a thick braid coiled about her shoulder and a thin torc of silver rested about her neck.

  ‘Where have they been?’ Riv asked her mam. There had been rumours, but no one really seemed to know, even Aphra, which was rare, because Aphra always seemed to know everything that was going on.

  ‘I think we’re about to find out.’ Dalmae shrugged.

  The murmuring of the crowd stilled as Ethlinn strode to stand before Israfil.

  When Israfil sat in his chair on the Lore-Giving days, he would start the proceedings with a prayer to Elyon and a reading from the Book of the Faithful, but today was different. He stood, the hall settling into immediate silence.

  ‘Faith, Strength and Purity,’ Israfil intoned.

  ‘For that is the Way of Elyon,’ Riv responded automatically, along with all the others.

  Israfil sat and gave a nod to Ethlinn.

  ‘The rumours were true,’ Ethlinn said. ‘We found a Kadoshim lair, though recently deserted. There was evidence of large numbers dwelling there, thirty, forty at least.’

  Gasps and murmurs rippled around the crowd. Kadoshim sightings were rare; the last one had been in the Agullas Mountains far to the south, over a year gone. It had been hunted and slain, a half-starved, pathetic thing, by all accounts, only a handful of deluded servants with it, more farmers than warriors.

  ‘Where?’ Israfil asked.

  ‘In Forn. Thirty leagues south, between here and Brikan,’ Ethlinn said.

  So close. How dare they? Riv thought, her anger flaring.

  ‘How do you know it was a Kadoshim lair,’ Kol said, ‘if it was deserted?’

  ‘We found a body, nailed to crossed timber. He’d been sacrificed, runes upon the floor, written in his blood.’ She paused. ‘Terrible things had been done to him.’

  Israfil said nothing, but the other Ben-Elim about him whispered to one another.

  ‘And we found this,’ Garidas called out, at the same time ripping off the hide covering from the wain.

  A cage of iron bars lay underneath, within it a figure. Riv st
ared, straining to see properly. One man, heavily muscled and shaven-haired, clothes ragged and torn. He sat upon his knees, a chain hanging between his wrists. There was something . . . wrong, about him. Then he moved and something shifted on his back. At first Riv thought it was a cloak, but it was moving.

  ‘It cannot be,’ her mam hissed beside her.

  Because the man in the cage had wings.

  ‘Is that a Kadoshim?’ Riv asked. It was not what she expected, looked nothing like the paintings on the latrine walls she’d just been looking at. It appeared far more human than she had been led to believe, and although he was sitting, he seemed short, definitely shorter than the tall, elegant Ben-Elim.

  ‘No,’ her mam said.

  ‘Bring him closer,’ Israfil ordered, a tremor in his voice that spoke of fury.

  White-Wings unlocked the cage and dragged the winged man out. He did not put up a fight, just walked towards Israfil, with Garidas and half a dozen White-Wings about him. Riv saw the winged man pause, staring at the dais and the entwined figures of Asroth and Meical. Garidas yanked on his chains and he stumbled forwards.

  ‘You are a half-breed. Spawn of improper relations between a Kadoshim and a woman, are you not?’ Israfil said, barely able to keep the rage from his voice.

  ‘I am,’ the man said, standing tall before Israfil, his voice deep and guttural.

  ‘Kneel before the Lord Protector,’ Garidas said; one of the White-Wing guards slammed a spear shaft across the half-breed’s shoulders. He swayed but remained on his feet, another blow and he dropped to one knee.

  Shouts and angry yells echoed from the benches around Riv. She looked about, saw White-Wings and many others shouting curses and shaking their fists. Amongst the crowd a few stood still and emotionless: Bleda the ward, alongside those from his Clan who had arrived recently. He was staring at Israfil and the half-breed, his darker skin and almond-shaped eyes drawing Riv’s eyes to him. His companion, Jin, saw Riv’s gaze and nudged Bleda. Riv looked away.

  Israfil stood, a ripple passing through his wings, and he strode closer to the half-breed.

  ‘Whose seed are you spawned from?’ Israfil asked. ‘Who is your sire?’

  The half-breed looked up at Israfil, eyes cold with hatred.

  ‘You are a filthy abomination, a tainted stain upon the land,’ Israfil said. ‘Your very existence is justification for the war we wage against the Kadoshim. They have broken the greatest law, mixing the blood of eternal with mortal, and you are the result.’ Israfil’s face twisted in disgust.

  A movement drew Riv’s eyes away from Israfil to the Ben-Elim seated behind him, to Kol. A flash of anger flickered across his face, making his scar twitch, then it was gone.

  ‘Who is your sire?’ Israfil repeated.

  ‘Why would I tell you?’ the half-breed said. He spat at Israfil’s feet.

  A cascade of blows fell upon the half-breed, head, shoulders, back. He fell forwards, onto his hands.

  ‘Hold,’ Israfil snapped.

  ‘Who is your sire?’

  ‘We know of you, Israfil, petty pawn of the Tyrant,’ the half-breed said. He smiled through bloodied lips. ‘Your days are numbered.’

  ‘No, half-breed scum,’ Israfil said. ‘It is you who will soon be taking your last breath. But not before you are put to the question. It will not be quick – there are Ben-Elim who have mastered the art of keeping a body alive indefinitely, on the knife-edge of death. By the end we will know everything that you know. It is surprising how long even a piece of corrupted filth like you can live.’ A look of contempt and loathing. ‘It is not a task I take pleasure in, but my holy charge is to protect Elyon’s creation, and you and your ilk are a corruption that must be eradicated.’ Israfil raised a hand, signalling for the beating to continue.

  ‘Drekar is my father,’ the half-breed blurted. ‘And I am Salk.’

  ‘You have no name, should not exist. You are a pestilence,’ Israfil said. ‘Where is Drekar, now?’

  ‘You will see him, when he chooses,’ Salk said. ‘But for now he sends you a message.’ With a burst of unbelievable speed and strength, Salk surged to his feet, leathery wings beating as he threw himself to the side, crashing into one of his White-Wing guards, wrapping the chain that hung from his manacled wrists about the warrior’s neck. Other White-Wings stabbed with their blades, but the half-breed was faster, leaping from the ground in a burst of powerful legs and wings, other warriors rushing forwards.

  There was a collective gasp throughout the chamber, Riv jumping to her feet and vaulting through the tiered crowd, though she knew she was too far, too late.

  The half-breed lurched into the air, hovered above his captors, the White-Wing in his grasp fighting and twisting, but Salk gave a last savage wrench of the chains and there was an audible crack, the White-Wing’s limbs suddenly dangling, head hanging slack. Salk hurled the body at the warriors below him, snatching a short-sword from the dead man’s scabbard, tucking his wings and hurtling towards Israfil. He bellowed a wordless cry.

  Israfil drew his own sword, other Ben-Elim behind him taking to the air.

  Salk’s lips drew back in a primal snarl as he levelled his sword at Israfil.

  Ethlinn stabbed her spear into the half-breed’s shoulder, bursting out of his back in a spray of blood. She kept hold of it, swinging and slamming Salk to the stone floor, where he twisted and writhed on her spear like a stuck salmon.

  Israfil and a score of others rushed to him, but before they could reach him Salk had the short-sword at his own throat.

  ‘Father says he will send you back to the Otherworld,’ the half-breed said, and then he was dragging the sword across his neck, a jet of arterial blood.

  ‘No,’ Israfil yelled, Ethlinn kicking the sword from the half-breed’s hand, but it was too late: a pool of blood was widening about him. In moments he was gone.

  Israfil stood over the corpse, shaking his head. ‘We could have learned much from him.’

  ‘When he was captured we searched him, found this,’ Garidas said, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a tattered scrap of parchment.

  ‘What does it say?’ Kol asked, standing at Israfil’s shoulder.

  Garidas looked to Israfil, waiting for his permission. ‘Perhaps you should see this in private,’ the White-Wing captain said. The Lord Protector nodded.

  Ethlinn spoke out anyway, her voice echoing through the chamber.

  ‘It says Go luath. Soon.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  DREM

  Drem limped along beside his da and their string of packhorses, not for the first time wishing he was sitting upon the back of one of those horses, rather than struggling along beside it with his ankle throbbing. The fact was, though, that they had too many furs and skins to carry, and when faced with the prospect of leaving those skins behind or walking . . .

  Olin had been happy to leave a bundle or two behind, but Drem knew how long and hard they’d worked for those skins, risking life and limb, and they needed them to sell if they wanted to eat through the winter.

  The palisaded walls of Kergard loomed higher the closer they came to the new town sitting upon the rim of the Starstone Lake. Noise and activity rolled off it like heat from a dung heap.

  ‘It looks bigger,’ Drem said, and that was because it was. Bigger than when he had last seen it, six moons ago. Fresh-built holds and houses of timber and stone, roofed with thatch and sod, spilt down the slope and into the meadow and woodland about Kergard’s walls.

  Olin didn’t respond, just stared with a frown upon his face. Without a word, he led their lead-pony off the main road to Kergard and onto a rolling meadow, skirting the town and heading north-east, towards their home. He had been like this since their discovery in the foothills three days ago. Drem saw his da reach out and put a hand upon the lump of black iron they’d hauled from the elk pit, wrapped and hidden now within half a dozen skins.

  He is convinced it is starstone metal. And it is strange: twice as heavy
as it should be, and a black that seems to suck light into it. I’ve never seen anything like it. But starstone . . . ?

  The more Drem thought about it, though, he had to admit that there was a slim possibility that his da was correct, regardless of how farfetched the likelihood seemed. Besides, his da was a practical man, not given to wild theories or flights of fancy. Local legends told how the lake beyond Kergard was supposedly a crater formed by the original Starstone as it crashed to earth. He looked back over his shoulder at the foothills they had only recently left, one hand coming up absently to stroke the bear claw that he had tied to a strip of leather about his neck.

  Behind those hills reared the jagged teeth of the Bonefells, looking as if they were holding up the sky. He squinted his eyes and tried to imagine the Starstone coursing over those mountain peaks, spitting great gobs of fire and smoke and blazing a trail of flames.

  He blinked and nodded to himself.

  Who is to say that part of the Starstone did not crack and fall away as it plummeted to earth.

  He frowned, unsure of what it meant if what they carried hidden in their pack was indeed a piece of the fabled stone.

  ‘No time to stop, we’re almost home,’ his da called back to him.

  I hope it’s not a piece of the Starstone. Look what happened last time – blood, war and death throughout the Banished Lands.

  With a sense of unease seeping through him, Drem hobbled on.

  Drem smiled to see their homestead appear, the rooftop of their barn visible beyond a copse of oak and alder. It was not as isolated as it had been when he and Olin had left. A handful of fresh-built homes were running along the line of a stream that curled out of thickening woodland to the north and fed into the lake. They passed a fence line belonging to the last of these new homes and turned onto the grass-choked path that led to their homestead. A dog barked and a voice called out. Drem saw a big hound standing in their path, lips curled back in a snarling growl. He was old, scars criss-crossing his dun coat, one ear half-chewed. A voice called out, an old man was hurrying from the porch of a timber house, a hobbling run using a long staff for help. A younger woman appeared a dozen steps behind him. The old man reached his fence, gasping for breath and leaned upon the timber rail for a moment, though he still managed to wave the tip of the spear he was carrying in Drem’s direction. Drem had thought it a walking staff, but the old man seemed to have other ideas as he pointed it at Drem and his da.