by John Gwynne
That’s simple enough to remedy.
The rest of the bow looked almost the same as it had ever been.
‘You have, I can see,’ Bleda said. ‘It is in fine condition.’
She smiled at him, then, warmth and happiness radiating from her.
She is like the sun when she is happy, like a furnace when she is angry. I have never known anyone so utterly opposite to my people. All seething emotion bound within a sack of skin, blood and bone. Only when alone with our kin or Clan are we Sirak able to be like this. When in front of our enemy the cold-face is king.
There was something appealing about it, almost, if not for the countless years that discipline and control had been drummed into Bleda’s every waking moment.
A freedom to being like that, no secrecy, no hiding who you are. And sometimes the effort to keep that control is so exhausting, the sense of failure at just the slightest slip crushing.
‘You’re pleased, then?’ Riv said, frowning.
‘I am,’ Bleda said, an inner chuckle at the understatement in that.
‘Well, you could at least be a little grateful,’ Riv said.
‘I am,’ Bleda said. ‘Very grateful.’
‘Really? You sure?’ Riv said, eyes narrowing.
‘Yes. I have never felt more grateful in all my life. Words cannot express my thanks.’
‘Well, you don’t look it,’ Riv said, ‘but I’ll take your word for it, then.’
‘I would do something for you, to repay this debt I now owe you,’ Bleda said. He felt immediately and profoundly indebted to Riv, and compelled to try and do something about it. Although by his reckoning nothing could ever repay Riv’s act in full.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Riv said with a shrug. ‘Just wish I’d done it sooner, now.’
‘There must be something I can do for you,’ Bleda said, though in truth he could think of nothing at that moment.
‘Is your aim as good as Jin’s?’ she asked, a gleam coming to her eye.
‘Better,’ Bleda said, no hint of boast or bluster in his voice, only an utter conviction.
‘Teach me, then. To use a bow. I’m not very good.’
‘You’re not,’ Bleda agreed, remembering her efforts that day with Jin. ‘I will try, though I cannot promise miracles.’
‘Ha.’ Riv barked a laugh. ‘I’m not expecting any.’
‘And I do not know how well I will be able to teach the use of your bows. They are like a giant’s club.’
‘Well, I’d appreciate any help I can get. Don’t want to miss the straw man during my warrior trials. If Israfil ever lets me take another one,’ she muttered.
They stood there in silence, then. Bleda unsure what to say. Riv shuffled her feet. The sun was gone now, only different degrees of darkness about them.
‘Why did they do that to you,’ Riv asked him, touching her lip, ‘in the weapons-field?’
‘You would have to ask them,’ Bleda said. ‘I was not very good at your shield wall, slow to manoeuvre. It threw their timing. I kept bumping into Sorch, the one who started . . .’ He touched his own lip.
‘I know Sorch,’ Riv said. ‘A high opinion of himself.’
‘Pride, that’s the first step on the road to defeat,’ Bleda quoted from the Sirak code. For a moment he was astride a horse, the wind in his hair, his mother and father either side of him, Altan and Hexa, his brother and sister, riding the wind. He could hear their laughter.
‘Pride, first step to defeat,’ his father had said to him.
‘Emotion, the wild horse that must be tamed,’ his mother had intoned. ‘Be the master, not the mastered . . .’
‘Wear courage as a cloak, live free, never bend the knee,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ Riv said.
‘Nothing,’ Bleda said. ‘Sorch. He does not like me. I think it was just because I am Sirak. Not one of them.’
‘That’s stupid.’ Riv shrugged. ‘What matter if your eyes are a strange shape, or your skin a different colour? We all come from somewhere else when we start our training. Well, I didn’t, but many do. People come from all over the Land of the Faithful to finish their training at Drassil, in the hope of becoming a White-Wing.’
‘The White-Wings are fine warriors. Their discipline is to be admired,’ Bleda said, and he meant it. He had trained in the weapons-field for many years, but had chosen his preferences. It was only recently that he had lifted a shield and attempted to train in the wall. It was a lot harder than it looked. Not just a case of standing around and pointing your shield one way or another, as Jin always mocked. There was unity of cause about it, a bond forged in shielding your brother-in-arms. There was a whispered appeal there.
‘Where were you born, then?’ Bleda asked Riv.
I was born into the White-Wings. My mother was a White-Wing, had me while on a campaign. She got back up and went back to her post right after, or so the story goes. Not sure I believe that one, though I wouldn’t put it past my mam. She’s a tough one.’
‘What of your father? A White-Wing also?’ Bleda could not recall having ever seen Riv around a man.
‘He was. Died on the same campaign where I was born. Fighting Kadoshim in the Agullas Mountains down south, Mam told me. Lasted almost two years, that campaign.’
‘I am sorry,’ Bleda said.
‘I never knew him.’ Riv shrugged.
‘I, too, have no father. He died in a raid. A rival Clan.’
Jin’s Clan.
‘I know. That’s why they were at war, your Clan and Jin’s, when . . . we came to Arcona.’
‘Aye,’ Bleda grunted.
Another silence grew between them. Bleda ran his hands over his bow once more, then put it back into its leather bag.
‘We should be getting back,’ Riv said. ‘Else I’ll miss prayers.’
They turned to walk back to the road, then heard a sound. The pad of footsteps, and instinctively both of them were slipping into the shelter of an oak.
The footsteps grew clearer, more than one person. Two shadows appeared on the road, one tall, one shorter. Starlight silvered them, fractured beams glistening upon the road.
By some mutual consent the two figures stopped and faced one another. Bleda strained to see them, but the starlight was weak and shifting all the time. The taller one was clothed in cloak and furs, seemed dressed for winter travel.
‘This is as far as I can come,’ the shorter one said, a woman’s voice. Bleda heard Riv hiss, her body become tense as a warrior’s under inspection. ‘You must go on alone, now.’
‘I don’t want to,’ the taller one said. Also a woman.
‘I wish I could come further, be with you through—’
‘No. I mean, I don’t want to do this. Any of it.’
A silence.
‘You have to. You have no choice,’ the shorter woman said.
‘There’s always a choice,’ the taller one answered, a whisper.
‘Aye, and you made yours. Now you must see it through. The bad with the good.’
‘What good!’ the tall one spat. ‘I tell you now, the only reason I’m leaving is because I cannot bear one more day around them. If I am I might . . .’ A hand reached to a sword hilt.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the shorter one. ‘Go. Now.’
A sniffing sound, the taller one wiping at her eyes.
A silence, even Bleda’s own breath sounding loud in his ears. He could feel the tension leaking from Riv.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ the tall one said into the quiet. ‘I . . . can’t.’
‘You must, else you’ll kill us all,’ the shorter one said, pushing something into the other’s hand. They embraced, a whispered goodbye, and then the tall one was striding along the road, turning off a dozen paces on, down the embankment on the far side and breaking into a loping run. Within moments she disappeared into the shadows of Forn Forest.
The shorter one stood still as stone, staring after her companion long after she’d disappea
red. Just when Bleda thought he couldn’t bear it any longer she turned and marched back down the road, towards Drassil.
‘Wait,’ Riv whispered, her hand gripping Bleda’s wrist. He could feel the strength in her grip, iron-edged.
They stood there a hundred heartbeats. Then another hundred. Finally, Riv breathed out a long sigh and without a word walked back to the road. Bleda followed.
It may have been too dark for me to recognize them, but Riv knew who they were.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SIG
Sig sat at the end of the Queen’s bench in Uthandun’s feast-hall, her legs stretched out to the side of the too-low table. A ten-night had passed since the rescue of Keld and the lighting of the beacons. Six days spent travelling back to Uthandun, four more as Sig prepared to leave. Keld had needed time to heal, as had his hound Fen. And although Sig was eager to be gone, she lingered an extra day or two so as to hear news as it trickled in to Queen Nara. Sig hoped for clues as to what the lighting of the beacons signified.
Nara was reading over a newly arrived parchment now, as servants cleared food from the table where they had all gathered to break their fast.
Nara’s eyes were narrowing the further she read. She screwed the parchment into a ball and looked up with a glare.
‘Attacks on my people, my towns, up and down the long length of Ardain,’ she said. ‘Kadoshim have been sighted, though from these early reports the bulk by far of the perpetrators are these new acolytes.’ She swore in an unqueenly fashion and threw the screwed-up parchment on the floor.
Elgin was sitting beside her, and Madoc, the Queen’s first-sword, stood at her shoulder. His eyes tracked the ball of parchment and he bent and picked it up.
‘Looks like we were a little late in stamping on the hornets’ nest,’ Elgin said.
Maybe all I achieved was to kick and stir it up, Sig thought.
‘The Order will help you fight this,’ Sig growled, feeling a deep anger. The thought of Kadoshim and their servants striking at the people of Ardain like this, a close ally and friend to the Order . . .
She felt her fists bunching.
‘I am loath to leave, when my coming may have begun this,’ Sig said. ‘But I must return to Dun Seren first, tell Byrne of what is happening. There is more to this, I feel it, and I do not like the not knowing. The beacons – I suspect they were not confined to Ardain.’
‘No, they were not. My scouts have reported them blazing beyond my borders. Into the Land of the Faithful,’ Nara said. ‘I wonder what the Ben-Elim will make of this outbreak.’
Sig shrugged. She and her Order were not on the best of terms with the Ben-Elim. They tolerated one another, mostly because they shared a mutual enemy, but there was little trust or friendship between them.
‘The Kadoshim are moving, the wheels of some plot turning. I will send aid to you,’ Sig said. ‘More than one giant, a huntsman and a warrior fresh from his Long Night.’
‘We shall fight the Kadoshim together, as we always have,’ Nara said. ‘And you must feel no guilt in returning to Dun Seren now. From the reports thus far it is nothing Elgin and my warband cannot handle. Night raids, buildings torched, travellers attacked on my roads.’ Nara gave a wave of her hand. ‘We will bring them to heel. The greatest crime is that you are leaving without telling me your tales of my great-grandparents, something I was deeply looking forward to.’
‘When I return,’ Sig said, dipping her head at Nara’s graciousness. Nara’s kin flashed into her mind: Edana, Queen of Ardan and Conall, King of Domhain. They had been a good match, Edana’s solid sense and quiet bravery tempering Conall’s fiery temper and spontaneity. One other lost friend flickered through her mind, dark-haired, serious faced. A giant. A stab of pain. Ah, my Gunil. How is it I miss you as much now as I did the day you fell? With a shudder she pulled her thoughts back to the present.
‘By your leave, I shall make for Dun Seren today,’ Sig said.
A light rain was falling as Sig pulled herself into Hammer’s saddle. The bear gave a low grunt; Sig felt the strength and energy in her, eager to be off and out of the fortress after close to a moon of convalescence in a stable block. Her injured paw seemed fine, scars marking where the Kadoshim’s knife had pierced her.
She has her own sgeul, Sig thought, glancing at the fresh tattoos of thorns upon her own arm, marking the lives she’d taken since storming the Kadoshim’s lair. The sgeul was the giant’s ancient tradition, a tattooed band of thorns to mark every soul they had sent across the bridge of swords.
If I keep on going like this I will need a new arm, soon.
Cullen and Keld led their mounts over to Sig, both of them climbing into their saddles a little clumsily. Keld’s left hand was still bandaged around the stumps of his missing fingers, though the wounds were healing as well as could be hoped. There was a new look in Keld’s eye since they had found him strapped to the torturer’s cross, a barely contained anger, and Sig did not think it was over the loss of his fingers, although that had hit him hard. He was a huntsman, skilled with bow, spear, axe and knife. Sig had known him since he had been a bairn, watched him grow through his training at Dun Seren, always deadliest with two weapons in his hands, preferably axe and knife.
He will have to relearn. He is as strong as an ancient oak. It is losing his hound that has hit him hardest.
Sig looked down, saw Fen padding at Keld’s side, the surviving hound’s slate-grey fur striped now with thick scars, one ear almost missing, its edge jagged as a broken tooth.
Ach, the blood that has been spilt over the war between Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, and us caught in the middle.
‘All right, then?’ Cullen said to her. He was looking more himself, his arm out of a splint now, though it was obviously still causing some pain.
‘You need some poppy milk before we leave?’ Sig asked him.
‘No.’ Cullen shook his head. ‘Pain keeps you sharp.’ he grinned.
Sig sighed and shook her head.
There was a flapping of wings and Rab dropped from the sky, alighting on the pommel of Sig’s saddle. Hammer looked up over her shoulder and growled.
‘She doesn’t like uninvited guests,’ Sig said.
With a squawk Rab launched into the air.
‘You can sit here,’ Cullen called out and Rab flew to him and wrapped his talons around his saddle pommel.
‘Thank you,’ the white crow squawked.
‘You’re welcome,’ Cullen said with a smile.
‘Happy,’ Rab observed.
‘I am,’ Cullen replied. ‘I’ve fought Kadoshim, bloodied my sword and spear for the Order. Taken a wound for the Order. And there is more battle to be had out there,’ he said with a wave over Uthandun’s battlements.
To be young again.
‘What more could I ask for?’ Cullen finished.
‘My Hella back,’ Keld snarled. ‘My fingers back. Revenge.’
Cullen’s smile shrivelled.
An affliction of the young – speaking without thinking.
Sig muttered to Hammer and the bear lurched into motion, across the wide courtyard. The edges were lined with faces, the walls as well. Sig saw Queen Nara standing beside the open gates with Madoc and a handful of shieldmen about her, warriors and townsfolk turned out to bid them farewell, the battlements above crowded, too. There were more riders in the courtyard, forty or so of them gathered in front of a long stable block: those who had volunteered to finish their training in the weapons court at Dun Seren, hoping to join the Order and become men and women of the Bright Star.
They look like bairns, Sig thought, though she knew they were all aged around fifteen summers, a mixture of male and female, all having come through their first year in the weapons court. She stopped in front of them and spent a long, silent moment looking into each one’s eyes.
‘Long road ahead of us,’ she said, ‘marching into winter and who knows what else. Kadoshim, maybe. And I’ll be travelling fast, need to be in Dun Seren before
Midwinter’s Day. But if that’s too much for you then you’ll not last long in the weapons court of Dun Seren. Want to wear this bright star?’ She tapped a silver brooch that fastened her cloak about her, saw nods amongst those gathered before her, their eyes bright with dreams of heroism and glory. ‘You’ll have to earn it, through blood, sweat and most likely a lot of tears.’
She gave them another long look, for the main part liked what she saw and grunted approvingly. Just as she was about to give the order to ride out, a horn blast rang from the gate-tower, a voice shouting, a guard pointing into the sky.
Shapes appeared from out of the rain, winged shapes, flying closer. Sig’s hand rose to her sword hilt, thinking it was Kadoshim, but then she saw their wings. They were white-feathered.
A hush fell over the courtyard as the winged warriors grew larger in the sky, a space opening up in the courtyard close to the gate, before Queen Nara. The beating of wings grew louder, three Ben-Elim spiralling down to them, one alighting before the Queen, the other two remaining airborne, looping in slow circles above them.
Hammer growled, deep and rumbling, and Sig rested a hand on the bear’s shoulder.
‘Greetings,’ the Ben-Elim before Nara said with a dip of his head, ignoring the growling bear behind him. He was tall and graceful, as were all Ben-Elim, magnificent wings of white feather furling upon his back, shaking the rain from them. He was dark-haired, wore a dripping coat of scaled-mail, held a long spear in one fist.
Kushiel, Sig thought, knowing him instantly. The arrogance in his stance annoyed her almost immediately.
‘Well met, Kushiel,’ Queen Nara said to the Ben-Elim. ‘It has been many a year since I have had the pleasure of your company. Sadly I have received no word of your coming. I would have prepared a finer greeting for you.’
‘There was no time,’ Kushiel said. ‘I come because of the beacons, have followed their trail. They are lit throughout much of the Land of the Faithful. They have led me here.’
‘Only the three of you?’ Nara said.
‘There are more of us, still on the trail,’ Kushiel gestured west. ‘But I thought it –’ he cocked his head to one side, searching for a word – ‘courteous, to inform you of our presence.’ Kushiel looked about the walls and courtyard, saw Sig upon her bear. He raised an eyebrow.
