A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  ‘DREM.’ He heard his da roar, ‘DREM.’

  ‘Da,’ he tried to yell back, but the noose around his neck was too tight to flex his vocal cords fully. He saw branches overhead, a rope hurled across them, hands grabbing it, and the pressure about his neck was growing and he was being hoisted upright, his feet dangling and men were shouting and jeering and he couldn’t breathe, his hands grasping at the rope around his throat.

  It’s too thick, too tight, and a blind terror gripped him, his lungs burning, screaming for a breath, everything about him fading as the instinct to live, to breathe, consumed him. Black spots blurred his vision, joining like spilt ink, blotting out the world.

  Another sound, merging with the frantic drumbeat of his heart, drowned out the roar of the baying mob about him, a rhythmic thunder. Voices, shouting, louder, and then he was spinning, someone grabbing him, lifting his legs and abruptly he could breathe, only a trickle as if through a reed, a gasping burn but nevertheless sweet, glorious relief. A jerk on the rope, realized someone had cut it. A voice close by and his vision was returning, blurred, focusing slowly.

  ‘What’s that Olin feeding you?’ the voice said and he saw Hildith, owner of the mead-hall, sitting upon a horse. One of her burly guards had hold of Drem. Another guard cut the rope above him and he was dumped unceremoniously onto the ground.

  ‘My thanks,’ Drem managed to rasp and Hildith nodded to him.

  ‘Gather them up,’ Hildith shouted, more of her guardsmen appearing and rounding up the men who had tried to lynch Drem. Ulf appeared in the courtyard, riding at the head of a dozen men. He looked around wildly and then saw Drem, dismounted and hurried over.

  ‘Da,’ Drem croaked.

  ‘Your da’s fine,’ Ulf said. ‘Least, I don’t think any of the blood he’s covered in belongs to him.’

  Ulf began to laugh, a baritone chuckle that soon turned into something that resembled the braying of a donkey. Then Drem’s vision blurred again, the darkness swooping in from the edge of his vision. His last sensation was that of weightlessness, of falling.

  Drem jerked upright, coughing and spluttering. His throat felt as if it was on fire, and that air was trickling through a hole the size of a needle.

  They’re killing me, hanging me.

  ‘Easy, son,’ a voice said close by, his da, instantly soothing him, and he calmed.

  ‘Keep breathing, nice and slow. You’re fine.’

  Drem did and, opening his eyes, saw his da leaning over him, that anxious look on his face.

  ‘Ah, my boy, I thought I’d lost you, for a few moments back there,’ Olin said. He cupped Drem’s cheek. ‘My wonderful, wonderful boy,’ he whispered, a smile softening his eyes. Blood-spatter freckled his face and his clothes.

  All of him, Drem realized as he sat up, taking his time, his da offering him a ladle of water.

  The first sip felt like knives slipping down his throat, but after that he started breathing more easily, drinking more normally.

  ‘What happened?’ Drem croaked, his voice grating like rusty hinges.

  ‘Hildith and Ulf arrived, with half of Kergard, it looks like.’

  Drem looked about, saw he’d been carried back to the porch and was sitting up now on a bench under a window. His back was wet from snow-melt.

  ‘What’re they doing here?’

  ‘They’re leading a bear-hunt; thought we might like to join them. Arrived just in time.’

  ‘I’m in definite agreement there,’ Drem said, touching his throat. The skin was raw, weeping in places from rope-burn. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Aye,’ his da said, ‘though I wouldn’t have been if Hildith had arrived a hundred heartbeats later.’

  ‘And the others, those trappers and miners?’

  ‘They’re still here. Ulf has threatened them, and there’s more swords at his back than there are behind Burg.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Their leader. The bald one with the scar. So they’ll abide by Ulf’s word. For now.’

  ‘For now,’ Drem muttered, sitting up, rising slowly. He looked about, saw men and horses milling about their courtyard, a few braces of hounds baying excitedly. Wispy Beard was giving him a dark look. Drem looked away, saw a row of bodies stretched out upon the porch, seven of them with cloaks wrapped about them.

  ‘There’s blood feud now,’ Olin said. ‘This will only get worse.’ He lowered his voice, handing Drem back his seax and axe. ‘It’s time for us to leave the north.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ Drem said, the thought of getting away from this murderous bunch a happy thought, though oddly his next thought was of Fritha kissing his cheek beneath snow-heavy boughs.

  Maybe she could come with us. Don’t like the thought of leaving her here with the likes of them about.

  He shot Burg and Wispy and their crew a dark look as he slipped his weapons back into their sheaths and loops at his belt. As he did so, he felt the hilt of his new sword, realized he hadn’t even thought of using it during the fight.

  ‘Habit.’ His da shrugged, seeing his look. ‘Besides, it was close-quarter fighting, you made a good choice.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You’re still breathing, but there’s two down there that aren’t, and that’s because of you.’

  Drem felt that like a punch, somewhere deep inside. Two lives, gone, because of him. He looked at the shape of their bodies beneath their cloaks, once men who laughed, loved, smiled, swore, now reduced to sacks of meat and bone.

  ‘Would you rather it was you down there, instead of them?’ his da said, watching his face closely.

  ‘No,’ Drem said, no hesitation there.

  ‘That’s all there is to it,’ his da said. ‘You didn’t go looking for blood, didn’t make this happen. Sometimes you can only respond, and sometimes the only answer is—’

  ‘Blood and steel,’ Drem finished.

  ‘Aye. Sig taught me that.’ Olin smiled, a hesitant twitch of his lips. ‘Ah, but it feels good to be able to talk to you of her. To talk of the past. I feel like a weight has been lifted. I should have told you sooner.’

  Aye, you should.

  The thud of footsteps: Hildith and Ulf thumping up the stairs to them, Ulf favouring his injured leg, Asger the market trader at his side.

  ‘You all right, lad?’ Hildith asked Drem.

  ‘Thanks to you.’ Drem nodded.

  ‘Might have to agree with you,’ she said, grinning. ‘Think you might owe me one, there.’

  ‘I do,’ Drem said.

  ‘We both do,’ Olin added. ‘All of you.’ He looked to Ulf and Asger.

  ‘You should come with us,’ Ulf said. ‘On this bear-hunt. So I can keep an eye on you. And you’re not bad when it comes to tracking, I’ve heard . . .’

  ‘What about them?’ Olin nodded at the group of trappers who had tried to hang them.

  ‘They’re coming too. We’ll have a line, you at one end, them at the other, me, Hildith and our lads in between. You’ll never be closer than half a league.’ Ulf tugged on his greying beard, looking around the hold. ‘Don’t like the thought of you two here, alone.’

  Neither do I, thought Drem. Don’t really like the thought of wandering around in a forest with them, either. But sometimes it’s safer when you can see your enemy.

  Olin frowned. ‘We’ll come,’ he said.

  ‘And when we get back,’ Hildith said, ‘we do need to ask you two some questions about Calder. You were seen at his forge through the dead of night, seen leaving Kergard at dawn.’

  ‘I paid Calder to use his forge,’ Olin said. ‘Had some ironwork to do. He was supposed to meet us at Kergard’s gates at dawn. He wasn’t there, we left.’ Olin shrugged.

  ‘Huh,’ Ulf grunted. ‘Doesn’t explain what he was doing out here in the arse-end of the Wild, though.’

  ‘Or what looks like a knife-wound in his corpse,’ Hildith added.

  ‘That’s jumping to conclusions,’ Ulf said. ‘Calder could have fallen on som
ething sharp, even his own blade if he was trying to defend himself.’ Ulf shrugged. ‘There’s questions, and there’ll be plenty of time to answer them, but for now we know a bear’s out there, and we need to kill it, before it attacks again. So, we’ll get that job done first, eh?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Hildith grunted.

  Ulf winked at Drem and then he was turning, shouting commands, and men were climbing into saddles. Drem was running to the paddocks, his da fetching saddles and tack. It wasn’t long before they were all riding along the track that led from Drem and Olin’s hold, back towards the spot where they’d followed Fritha’s tracks. The plan was to return to the location that Calder’s body had been discovered and begin their search from there.

  Drem and his da were riding at the head of the column, their numbers more like a small warband.

  Calder was well liked by all in Kergard. If we find that bear, it won’t be walking away from this lot.

  Drem glanced towards Fritha’s hold as they reached the spot where they’d seen her tracks that morning. He frowned and reined his horse in. Stared.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘What?’ Olin grunted beside him, followed his look.

  Drem spurred his mount on, tugging on the reins, reached a gallop in a score of heartbeats. He heard hooves behind him, voices shouting, but he didn’t stop or even slow, dug his heels in his pony’s ribs as they approached the fence and his mount was leaping, flying through air, the fence passing beneath them, hooves thudding, snow exploding, galloping on. Drem reined in as they drew near to the timber cabin, a spray of snow, and he was leaping from his mount’s back, drawing his sword this time, and running up timber steps to the door.

  It had been smashed in, the frame and wall around it a splintered wreck, wide enough for two horses abreast to ride through. Blood was smeared on the floorboards.

  ‘Drem, wait,’ he heard his da shouting behind him, but he ignored it and stepped inside the cabin.

  He had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust, no fire or torches burning, just shadow, pierced by beams of daylight that flooded through a huge hole in the side of the cabin. Then Drem saw a shape, gouts of dark blood pooled on the floor about it, and he rushed forwards.

  It was Surl, the hound, its belly and flank opened by raking claws. Drem put fingers in the blood. There was an echo of warmth, faint as dawn’s first kiss. There was blood on the hound’s teeth, too, some flesh and fur, what looked like a shred of leather.

  Brave hound, gave some back before the end, then, Drem thought, patting the animal’s head.

  Fritha, where are you? Please, be alive.

  He stood, continued searching as his da’s silhouette was framed in the smashed doorway.

  A denser shadow in the darkness, a body. Drem felt his heart lurch as he approached it, slowly this time, trying to prepare himself to see Fritha’s blonde hair, the pale, fine-freckled beauty of her face. He stood over the body. It was turned away from him, half-buried beneath the shattered door. He crouched down, put a hand on its shoulder and turned it towards him.

  It was Hask, Fritha’s grandfather. Eyes and mouth wide open, shock and horror mingled, a huge, ragged wound across his chest, flecks of bone in the torn flesh. Drem heard his da going through the debris, searching meticulously, the consummate tracker.

  Drem strode to the hole in the wall, saw a bloody bear-print, the timber floor claw-gouged. More blood.

  But no Fritha.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  RIV

  Riv sat in her barrack’s feast-hall, picking at a plate of boar ribs and sweet parsnips. Jost and Vald were with her, sitting beside each other. At any other time the sight of them would have made her chuckle, Jost slim and tall as a sapling, looking as if he was all sinew and bone, and Vald, so muscled that his linen shirt and leather vest were straining to contain him, making him appear squat, which he wasn’t, being taller than Riv.

  No, not taller than me now. I must have grown, and quickly. Is that normal?

  It was quiet in the feast-hall. Aphra and her captains had been summoned to a meeting with Israfil and the Lord Protector’s council.

  That’s not the only reason it’s quiet in here, though.

  The mood amongst Aphra’s hundred had been subdued and sombre ever since the afternoon’s judgement in Drassil’s Great Hall had taken place.

  Poor Estel, having your wings torn from you – something you have worked and trained your whole life to achieve – and then exiled. No kin, no friends, having to start all over again. And where would she go? Ardain, Tarbesh, Arcona, the Desolation? Where else is there?

  Riv sighed, prodding her food with a knife. She knew what Estel and Adonai had done was wrong, an act that disobeyed the greatest of Elyon’s Lores that forbade the Great Transgression.

  But they did not actually do that. What were they caught doing? Kissing, in an embrace? Flirting? Riv had seen them at Aphra’s table, thought they were too close, a touch lingering too long, and she’d felt the wrongness of it then.

  But does that deserve so great a punishment? Adonai’s wings cut from his back. Estel exiled . . .

  She felt confused, and guilty, too, for even questioning Israfil’s judgement.

  She could still see the deep crimson of Adonai’s blood, dripping onto his severed wings as they lay in the dirt.

  To have flight taken away from you. It must be like losing your legs.

  I should have told Aphra, when I saw them. She would have known what to do.

  ‘Don’t want that? I’ll finish it for you,’ Vald said, eyeing up her plate while mopping up the last of his gravy with a thick slice of black bread. The wooden plate looked so clean, as if it hadn’t been eaten from.

  ‘Have it,’ Riv said, pushing her unfinished food towards Vald.

  ‘I’d have had that!’ Jost exclaimed, eyes bulging in his gaunt face. He ate almost as much as Vald, not that you’d know it to look at him, the two of them often arguing over food.

  ‘Too slow.’ Vald winked at Jost.

  How can they joke at a time like this?

  She spied her mam sitting in a shadowed corner of the feast-hall and stood.

  ‘Going to see my mam,’ she said to Jost and Vald, scooping up a skin of wine and two cups, and left them bickering over her half-eaten plate of food.

  Riv had felt deeply moved by the judgement upon Adonai and Estel, still did, her feelings swinging from judgemental to pity every few heartbeats.

  As her mam looked up at Riv she thought how much she looked like an older version of Aphra, creases around her eyes and mouth, the streaks of grey in her hair spreading – there was more than black, now. It struck her that she herself looked very little like them, her hair fair where theirs was dark, her features finer where her mam’s and Aphra’s were stronger.

  Aphra is so like Mam. I must resemble our father, instead. I wish he were here, that I had known him. Is my temper his legacy, as well? Because I see none of it in Aphra or Mam.

  Dalmae gave Riv a wan smile that shifted partway through into resolute, but couldn’t quite conceal the worry that lurked behind her eyes.

  ‘What is it, Mam? Upset about Adonai and Estel?’ Riv said as she sat, pulling the stopper from the wine skin with her teeth and pouring wine glugging into the two cups.

  ‘Aye,’ her mam said, ‘a terrible thing.’ She sighed. ‘And I am worried about Aphra,’ she added.

  ‘Worried about Aphra?’ Her sister was always so capable, the perfect disciple of Elyon’s Lore. Disciplined, calm, a consummate warrior and leader, and devout, embodying Riv’s idea of what Faith, Strength and Purity were in reality. And yet now she agreed with her mam. Aphra had been acting out of character, ever since the night Riv had seen her with Fia. ‘I was going to ask you about her. She’s been . . . strange, lately.’

  ‘You think so, too?’ Dalmae asked. ‘How so?’

  ‘Bad-tempered, not interested in anything I have to say to her.’

  ‘Leading is hard, sometimes,’ her mam
said, squeezing Riv’s hand. ‘All the time,’ she corrected herself. ‘And these are dark days – the beacons, rumours of the Kadoshim moving. Estel.’

  ‘Aye,’ Riv said as she took a long sip from her cup.

  Truth be told, Riv didn’t spend much time thinking about the difficulties and stresses of leading the hundred. Only the glory of it. The pride and respect she felt for her sister, and for her mam, who had accomplished the same task before Aphra. And an ever-growing pressure upon her own shoulders, made all the worse by the thought that she might not actually ever become a White-Wing, let alone rising through their ranks into a position of leadership.

  ‘What do you think Israfil’s meeting’s all about? It’s late to call it, eh?’ she asked her mam, wanting to steer herself away from that uncomfortable thought.

  ‘It is,’ Dalmae said with a slow, deliberate nod. ‘Whatever it is, it must be important.’

  Riv’s mam had led the hundred for many years, only stepping down when the combined effect of age and cumulative injuries made the decision for her. If anyone understood the pressures and politics of leadership within the hundred, it was her.

  ‘Maybe these beacons,’ Riv said.

  ‘Maybe.’ Her mam leaned close to her. ‘Don’t let Aphra’s moods trouble you. She has her own pressures, and sometimes we take them out on those that we are closest to.’

  ‘So it’s a compliment, then.’ Riv snorted, smiling.

  ‘Aye, you could say that.’ Her mam laughed.