by John Gwynne
‘It’s Old Bodil,’ Calder said, hanging his head.
‘What happened here?’ Fritha asked, looking from the bonfire to the frozen corpse.
‘I reckon Bodil might have met your bear,’ Ulf said to Olin.
Drem looked at the ground, already covered in a thin layer of snow. He scraped some away and stamped on the ground beneath, sending a jolt up through his heel into his leg.
Ground’s frozen solid.
He still would have expected to see some sign of the bear’s presence, the memory of its great bulk vivid in his mind, but the snow was covering all, and there was little point in looking: Old Bodil’s wounds told the tale clearly enough.
‘Made the fire to scare the beast off,’ Calder said, looking from the corpse to the bonfire.
Drem felt himself nodding. That was a tactic that he and his da had used before, against wolven, not bears, but it worked much the same, as long as you kept the fire burning all night.
Didn’t work for Old Bodil, though.
‘We should raise a cairn over him,’ Fritha said.
‘Aye,’ agreed Olin, still checking over Bodil’s wounds.
‘Not if we want to be by our hearths by nightfall,’ Ulf said. ‘Won’t be digging any rocks out of this.’ He dug a heel into the ice-bitten ground.
‘Can’t leave him to be gnawed at,’ Calder muttered.
‘No. A pyre,’ Ulf said. ‘And quick about it.’
It didn’t take them long to gather more dead wood. Drem helped his da, Ulf and a few others carry the frozen corpse to the bonfire. Then flint and tinder were being struck, flames catching in the dry wood despite the falling snow, and soon hungry flames were clawing at the sky, the snow hissing and steaming.
They rode back to their homes in silence, Bodil’s pyre roaring and belching flame and smoke behind them. Drem didn’t like the smell: flesh sizzling and charring.
Fritha tried to talk to him as they rode through the trees, eerily silent as the snow fell thicker, but he was distracted, preoccupied with his thoughts. He had that anxious feeling he had in his belly when he felt something was wrong, tingling in his blood, all the way to his fingertips. An inexplicable dread.
A bonfire to hold back a bear, maybe, but what about the other fire we saw, in the distance, far to the south-west?
It was a question he wanted answered, but something else was foremost in Drem’s mind. He was thinking on the feel of Bodil’s corpse in his hands as he’d carried the dead man to his pyre, and the scar he’d seen on Bodil’s wrist when Ulf had tripped.
No, not a scar. A fresh wound. As if he’d been bound at the wrist and struggled to break free, like an animal in a wire trap.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RIV
Riv hovered at Aphra’s shoulder, pouring her more wine as her sister held out her empty cup.
They were in their barrack’s feast-hall at Drassil, Aphra’s hundred were finishing their evening meal. Once the White-Wings were done, Riv and the other trainee warriors would sit and eat, though usually Aphra was more informal, allowing Riv and the others to sit and eat with them. On occasion some of the Ben-Elim would visit and take their evening meal with Aphra and the White-Wings. This was one of those evenings: white-winged, blond-haired Kol sitting upon the bench beside Aphra, a Ben-Elim named Adonai with him, as perfectly handsome as all the Ben-Elim, a disarming innocence to his smile. A dozen other of their kin were scattered about the feast-hall.
They are not all as aloof as Israfil, Riv observed; the Ben-Elim were looking relaxed, eating, drinking cups of wine and laughing.
‘I wish they’d hurry up and go, or finish their meal. I’m starving to death!’ Jost whispered to Riv. He stood close by, his broken arm from his failed warrior trial out of its sling now but still bound tight. He was attending to Fia, Aphra’s closest friend, and a handful of others, and making a fair job of pouring wine despite his injured arm. Fia was deep in hushed conversation with Aphra. There seemed to be a tension between them, Riv observed. No one else would notice, but Riv saw something in the set of Aphra’s shoulders, the jut of her jaw.
Aphra held her empty cup out to Riv and she poured some more wine.
She doesn’t usually drink like this.
‘What do you make of the news?’ Riv said to her sister, as much to distract her and somehow shift her mood with Fia as anything else. Aphra looked up at her, an unfocused stare for a moment, as her mind lingered on whatever she had been talking about with Fia.
‘News? You mean the beacons?’
‘Aye.’ Riv nodded. Word had reached Drassil, spreading through the White-Wings faster than fire through a summer-dry forest, that blazing bonfires had been spied throughout the Land of the Faithful, and even further afar, in Ardain to the west, and the Desolation to the north. Rumours of unrest were spreading along with them. Rumours of human sacrifice, like the body that Ethlinn and Garidas had discovered in the Kadoshim lair where they had captured the half-breed.
Aphra shrugged, draining her cup and holding it out for some more. ‘I shall do as a good soldier does, and wait on the word of my commanders,’ she said. ‘You could always ask him, though.’ She nodded at Kol, who was sitting beside her, though he was turned away, his wings taking up a space of their own. He was laughing good-naturedly with Adonai and one of Aphra’s captains, Estel, blonde-haired and recently promoted.
‘Not that he seems too concerned,’ Aphra commented.
‘These beacons,’ Kol said, shifting on his seat to look at Aphra.
The wine hasn’t affected his hearing, then.
‘These beacons,’ Kol repeated, louder, conversation nearby stuttering to a halt, silence rippling outwards from him, drawing the attention of the room. ‘Whispers and rumours breed fear and shadows, so I’ll not add to them.’ He stood, a pulse of his wings and he was standing upon the table.
‘Kadoshim,’ he said. ‘They are behind the beacons; that is the information I have been given. What they portend, I do not know.’ He shrugged, wings rippling. ‘What I do know, though, is that we shall watch, and if the Kadoshim move, we shall be ready. The Ben-Elim and their White-Wings protecting the Faithful, as we have done for over a hundred years.’
A cheer roared out from Aphra’s hundred at that, echoing around the vaulted chamber, Riv joining her voice to it. A different sound cut through the roar, closer, higher, a gasp, and Riv saw Estel blinking at Adonai as he whispered in her ear, a shy smile spreading across her blushing face.
Riv frowned; there was something unfitting about the way Adonai lingered too close to Estel.
A memory of the Kadoshim half-breed in the Great Hall, a shiver of revulsion passing through her.
Kol jumped down from his perch on the bench, even that made graceful by the spread of his wings, more glide than crash.
‘Some wine, if you please,’ he said to Riv with a flourish of his cup. As she poured she felt his eyes upon her.
‘Ah, but you’ve the look of your mother about you,’ he said, ‘except for her hair.’ He brushed a hand across Riv’s short-cropped fair hair, still stiff and spiky from sweat and dirt in the weapons-field. ‘And you have your sister’s eyes, which is a compliment.’
Riv felt herself smiling.
‘And her smile,’ Kol said, his own eyes shining with mirth.
‘Riv’s smile and eyes are her own,’ Aphra said curtly as Kol sat. ‘What else can you tell me about these bonfires or beacons?’
‘My thanks,’ Kol said for the wine, giving Riv a shrug and a final rueful smile as he turned to talk to Aphra, as if to say he would have liked to talk more with her.
Riv stood back awhile, just watching the meal go on, topping up wine where desired, clearing trenchers.
Aphra talked quietly with Kol for what seemed like half the evening, and as soon as he left the table Fia leaned close and whispered in Aphra’s ear, her jaw tight, which annoyed Riv, because she wanted to talk to Aphra. And she wanted to eat.
Fia sat as still and stiff as
stone as Aphra whispered back to her, then gave a curt nod. Riv shuffled closer, trying to pick out Aphra’s words, but she heard nothing, and then Fia rose and walked away.
Now’s my chance to ask permission to eat! I’m starving!
A loud call, nearby.
Riv ground her teeth.
It was her friend Vald, sitting on a bench with a dozen White-Wings, brandishing his drinking cup, calling loudly for Jost to fill it for him.
He’s only a few moons past his Long Night, and before that stood in the line with Jost one side of him and me the other!
Riv eyed Vald with a frown; there was a big grin on her friend’s face. She was pleased for him, or more accurately, had been pleased for him. But seeing him now, hearing him talking of the White-Wings as if he was a veteran of a hundred missions, all puffed up with his own self-importance, she found herself grinding her teeth.
‘You’ll do,’ Vald said, seeing Riv watching him. ‘Some wine over here.’ He grinned straight at her. Riv curled a lip and looked purposely away.
‘Hey, Fledgling Riv,’ Vald called out, using her official and never-used title.
Riv felt her limbs tense.
Just ignore him. He’s in his cups, is enjoying the fulfilment of his dream, to become one of the White-Wings. Let him have this moment.
‘Do your job,’ Vald finished.
Riv spun on her heel and marched straight towards him. Vald was sloshing the dregs of his cup at her, the wide grin still stretched across his face, though with each step she took closer to him the smile seemed to wither a little.
Riv stood over him.
‘Your cup,’ she said, shaking her wine skin.
Vald’s smile returned and he held his cup out for her.
Riv unstoppered the skin and poured the wine over Vald’s head.
Laughter rippled along the bench, as well as a warning cry or two. Someone was calling her name. Riv heard it as if through fog.
‘I’ll not be mocked and treated like a slave by anyone, least of all you, you fat pig,’ she snarled. ‘Want some wine? Pour it yourself.’
He leaped up, spluttering, and pushed Riv in the chest. Vald was as wide as he was tall, and strong as a bull, but Riv was ready for it, had sparred with him many times. She stepped to the left, slapped his hands away and kicked out at him. She must have connected with his stones, because he turned purple and dropped to his knees, hands clutched over his groin, gurgled curses foaming from his mouth. He tried to rise, but didn’t quite have the strength for it, instead staggering into Riv, his bulk sending her stumbling back. Her heel hit something and she began to fall, with a moment of perfect clarity knew that they were both headed for the fire-pit where a deer’s carcass was turning above the flames, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Then she was being yanked by the collar, dragged upwards, a great blast of air beating about her. The flames in the pit hissed and crackled, leaping high.
Riv found herself suspended in the air, Kol’s fist bunched in her cloak, feet dangling. Vald hung suspended from Kol’s other hand.
Now that is an impressive feat of strength, knowing Vald’s bulk.
‘We’ve enemies enough to fight, without starting on one another,’ Kol said, throwing them both to the ground. He looked from Riv to Vald, then shook his head.
‘You should eat something,’ he said to Riv. ‘Aphra, you’ve kept the fledglings waiting on us too long – they’re starving on their feet. And hunger frays tempers, you know. And you,’ he said, looking to Vald, who was grunting under the weight of his bulk as he struggled to one knee. ‘Perhaps you should consider exercising the humility and honour that befits a White-Wing.’
Vald wobbled to his feet.
‘And maybe try eating a little less.’
Laughter rippled around the room, Kol joining in at his own joke.
Riv avoided looking at her sister, knowing the stern glare she’d receive, and made her way to the food bench.
‘My thanks,’ Riv said to Kol as she sat at the table with a bowl of hot venison stew, fried onions and mushrooms bobbing in the fat-glistening gravy.
Kol drank from his wine cup, only to find it empty and Riv leaned close to fill it for him. He reached out to take the wine skin from her. As he did so, his hand closed around Riv’s, big and warm, heat pulsing from it. Riv’s instinct was to jerk her hand away, but she resisted, instead looked at him. The ghost of a smile twitched his lips, his eyes sparkling with mirth, and he winked at her, a flicker in the firelight.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
Then his hand was gone and he was taking the wine skin and pouring his cup full. Riv went back to her venison stew, not sure what exactly had just happened.
Riv murmured a command and dug her heels into her mount, moving from canter to gallop in the space of a few heartbeats as she leaned forwards, her spear gripped tight, shaft tucked between her arm and torso. Wind whipped her face and dragged tears from her eyes. She wanted to yell for the joy of it, the thundering hooves beating a shuddering time, echoed by the rhythm of her heart.
Her target seemed a long way away, everything around her slow, moving at quarter time. To one side of her, White-Wings were training in the shield wall, on the other side giants were shaking the ground in individual sparring. Closer, she glimpsed Jost, a blur attacking a training mannequin; even with his broken arm still bound he was fast and deadly.
And then, abruptly, her target was close, rushing towards her, the world around her lurching into speed and motion, and everything faded away, the world reduced to the tip of her spear and its target, one seemingly drawn unerringly to the other.
An explosion of straw and she was letting go the shaft, galloping on, leaning back and shifting the pressure on her reins. A spray of turf as her horse slowed and stopped.
Riv looked back to see her spear still juddering in the head of the straw target, felt the thrill of a blow perfectly struck, a grin splitting her face. She saw Jost raise his good arm to her, a salute; the two of them had become closer since their failed attempts at their warrior trial. It still hurt to see her other friends training as White-Wings, although she had a fierce pride in them as well, sword-brothers and sisters whom she had grown up with, trained beside for over three years. Except for Vald. She still felt a simmering resentment for him, though putting her boot in his stones had helped to dim that a little.
Riv patted her horse’s neck and praised him as she rode him to the paddocks adjoining the weapons-field. She dismounted and set about removing his tack and rubbing him down before she handed him over to the grooms.
Abruptly, she was stumbling into the fence, a pain shooting through her back, snatching her breath away and turning her legs to porridge. She hung onto the paddock rail, eyes screwed shut as the pain stabbed through her torso, radiating out from her shoulder blades, and then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, only a dull ache remaining, the faintest echo of the pain.
‘You all right?’ one of the paddock grooms asked. She stood straight and rolled her shoulders.
‘Fine,’ she grunted, though she wasn’t: an ache in her back and, come to think of it, in most of her joints as well, a throbbing in her wrists and knees.
I must visit the healers about this. When I have some time.
She headed towards Jost and the training mannequins. Along the way a noise drew her attention, a square of warriors, fledglings from another hundred of White-Wings, training in the shield wall. She stopped and stared at them. There was some kind of disruption going on, voices raised, the shield wall splintering, a figure pushed and falling to the floor, another stepping forwards, standing over the fallen one.
It was Bleda on the floor, the young Sirak. He rose slowly, stumbling over the long wooden shield in his hand. The other lad standing over him was laughing. He pushed Bleda’s shield when he was halfway up, sending Bleda rolling to the ground again. He laughed harder and there was more laughter from the rest of the shield wall, about twenty of them
. He stopped laughing when Bleda’s shield cracked into his ankles, though, sending him howling to the floor.
Bleda was up first, discarding his shield this time, the other lad hobbling to his feet a little more slowly. Bleda flew at him, a flurry of punches and kicks sending the lad reeling backwards.
Others in the group leaped forwards, grabbing Bleda. Five of them, seven, more of them. Riv saw punches flying, and then she was running, the injustice of it sending her blood boiling. She was upon them quickly, though not fast enough to prevent dozens of blows landing upon Bleda. She grabbed one of the fledglings from behind, pulled and threw him, leaving him rolling across the grass. The next one wouldn’t come free so easily, so she kicked the back of his leg at his knee joint, sending him crashing to the ground, grabbed his flailing wrist and twisted, heard him scream. The next one saw her, turned and threw a punch at her. She swayed, his knuckles only grazing her cheek, and she punched a fist into his throat, saw him stumble back. Then someone was clutching her leather jerkin and a head was crunching into her nose. She saw an explosion of stars, felt her legs tremble for a moment but, instead of weakness and collapse, the red mist was suddenly there, no creeping growth, just fully formed and filling her; a thunder in her head, her veins, a hot rage pumping strength into her limbs.
‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ she snarled through bloody teeth at the young warrior that had headbutted her.
‘Now you’ve made me angry.’
‘Riv,’ a voice in the darkness. It changed to a red veil, thick and churning, a sea-mist in her head.
‘Riv!’ Louder, insistent, the voice a pinpoint in the murk, a flaming torch burning away the fog. She blinked. Figures in front of her, someone close.
Jost.
She was standing, but couldn’t move. Couldn’t quite understand why.
‘Aye,’ she said, a metallic taste in her mouth. She hawked and spat. Saw blood on the grass. Hers or someone else’s, she didn’t know – or care.
There were bodies. People. Some sitting, holding bloody heads or mouths. Two unconscious. Others behind Jost standing in a group, the trainee White-Wings, glaring darkly at her.
