A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  ‘Ahh,’ Byrne and Tain said together.

  ‘No matter,’ Craf cawed. ‘Only good Kadoshim is a dead Kadoshim.’

  ‘Well, what’s done is done,’ Byrne said. ‘No point wishing it were not so. But I think you are right, Sig, this heralds something new. Not just another skirmish in the endless war. A new strategy. But what are they up to, and why?’

  ‘Craf will think on it,’ the crow squawked, as if they could all stop worrying now. Craf fell from Tain’s shoulder, spread his wings and glided to Byrne’s desk, where he hopped over to the Kadoshim’s head. He stabbed his beak down, came back up with a long strip of decaying flesh.

  ‘Ugh!’ Cullen groaned. ‘That’ll make you gut-sick, that will!’

  ‘Dead is dead, meat is meat,’ Craf squawked as he swallowed noisily, ‘and Craf not fussy.’

  Clearly not.

  Even Byrne pulled a disgusted face.

  ‘We must talk more on this,’ she said, turning her back on Craf, though that didn’t blot out the wet, disgusting sounds of his feast. She spoke louder. ‘The Captains of Kill and Cure must be told. We’ll hold a meeting on the morrow, with all the captains and masters of Dun Seren. And Tain, word must be sent to our outposts at Brikan and Balara.’ She pursed her lips, thinking. ‘And we should tell the Ben-Elim. This is bigger than our . . . differences. Choose a bird and send word to your father at Drassil.’

  Tain nodded.

  ‘I urge you all,’ Byrne said, worry creasing her eyes. ‘Think hard on this. I have a feeling in my gut; the Kadoshim are coming out from the shadows, attacking for the first time in a quarter of a century. The question is: why? To what end? we must solve this riddle, before it is too late.’

  ‘What feeling?’ Cullen asked. ‘In your gut, I mean.’

  ‘Dread,’ Byrne said, and Sig nodded her agreement, for she felt it, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DREM

  Drem sat in the darkness of his cabin, staring at nothing. Two fingers were pressed to the pulse in his neck as he rocked gently back and forth, counting.

  It was the third day since his da had died. Or at least, that was what he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. It had taken a day to get back home, after Ulf and Hildith had gathered their scattered hunting party back to them, he was sure of that. He strained to remember, a wave of fresh pain crashing over him with the coming of memories, making him wince and groan. They’d camped in the forest that night, lit blazing fires, and wrapped the dead in cloaks. It was not only his da who had fallen to the white bear. The next day had been a sombre procession back through the forest, carrying litters fashioned from spears and cloaks, Drem carrying his da. He’d been aware of men around him, Ulf offering his sympathy, others like Wispy Beard and Burg saying nothing to him, and for the most part Drem had been unaware of anyone else’s existence. All he could think of was his da, the fact that he was gone now feeling like when the giant bat had sunk its fangs into his shoulder. Sharp, excruciating pain, followed by a numbness to all else, then a memory surfacing through the fog that would drag him back to the pain, followed by the numbing sensation again, over and over.

  They had reached his hold on the evening of the first day, bringing his da’s body into the cabin. On the second day Ulf and Hildith had returned with half a dozen men and they had carried Olin’s body into the paddocks and there helped Drem to raise a cairn. Words had been spoken, by Ulf, and Drem remembered even saying something himself, though he could not remember what he’d said. More vivid was the pain in his knees where he had dropped to the ground in his grief. His breeches still bore the snow-salt and grass stains as a reminder.

  And now it was the third day since his da had died.

  I think.

  His stomach growled, but he ignored it, the thought of putting food in his mouth making him feel sick.

  Or is it the fourth day? How long have I been sitting here?

  He didn’t know.

  A shiver rippled through him, his body telling him he was cold, but he didn’t care. He was close to the hearth, though no fire burned in it; only cold ash and black embers filled it. Blinking, he looked at the shuttered windows, realized that it was getting lighter outside, faint beams of light stretching through the slats.

  The fourth day, then.

  What does it matter?

  Da’s gone.

  I’m alone.

  No one and nothing to live for.

  He felt so alone, a depth to the feeling that the word couldn’t hope to contain, and he felt lost, like a broken compass with the needle spinning wildly. His da had been his compass, his lodestone, his north star, and now he was gone.

  He realized he had something in his hands, looked down as the daylight washed over it, a gleam of silver.

  Da’s silver cloak-brooch.

  Sunlight reflected from the four points of the star on it.

  The Order of the Bright Star. My da was a warrior, fought for a cause.

  But he walked away from it, turned his back on it.

  Aye, for me. To protect me, and to avert a war.

  That’s what he was doing, even to the end. Telling me to run, standing before me, protecting me. He was only there, in that forest, for me. Because I wanted to find Fritha. And she’s gone too.

  Tears came then, not the first time he’d shed them since his da had fallen, but this time they came as great, racking sobs, heaving out of him, his whole body convulsing, his voice and throat a raw, wounded howl. At the end of it he sat there, rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his knees. The brooch glinted on the floor where he’d dropped it, and, not knowing why, he bent and picked it back up, wiping tears and snot from his face.

  He was a warrior, and even though he walked away from the Order he never turned his back on me.

  One of the few things that Drem did remember clearly from those tangled moments when the bear attacked was the sight of his da setting his feet and raising his sword, and the battle-cry that had issued from his lips.

  Truth and Courage.

  Why that?

  Hooves drummed in the courtyard, one horse, no more, the sound of someone dismounting, feet thudding up the steps. A knock at the door.

  ‘Drem?’

  The handle turned, the door opening slowly, a creak of hinges, light flooding in. A silhouetted figure stepped in, opening the door wider.

  ‘There you are, lad,’ the figure said, turning now so the daylight washed his face. It was Asger, the market-stall holder. He had been on the hunt, Drem remembered, and been one of those who had helped raise a cairn over his da.

  Asger looked at Drem, then about the room, finally at the hearth, and went to work. He threw the shutters open, letting in a blast of cold air and daylight, the sky a pale blue beyond the window frame. He scraped the hearth clean of ash and cinder, found a pile of split logs, a basket of kindling, and started a fire, then went to searching in the kitchen. It wasn’t long before an iron pot was hanging over a fire crackling in the hearth, the smell of porridge wafting about the room as Asger stirred it with a wooden spoon. To Drem’s surprise, when his stomach rumbled this time he didn’t feel immediately sick, as he had the last time.

  ‘It’s a hard thing, what’s happened to you,’ Asger said to Drem as he passed him a bowl of porridge and scooped one for himself. He pulled up a stool and sat with Drem.

  ‘No words that’ll make it go away, no deed, either.’ Asger looked hard at Drem, who had been staring into his porridge bowl. Drem stirred it with his spoon, then took a mouthful.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about something,’ Asger continued. ‘I’m leaving; me, my wife and bairns. We’re packing up and leaving Kergard, heading back south. Don’t much like the way things are going up here. Don’t much like the new crowd, either. All together it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.’

  He spooned a mouthful of porridge while he waited a few moments for a response from Drem, but didn’t get one.

  ‘So I’m leaving on the morrow. And I
was wondering if you might like to come with me.’ He held a hand up. ‘It’s not charity, though maybe there is a bit of kindness in it. But I need some help with the stall, and my bairns are too young to give it. I’d pay you fair, feed you, put a roof over your head.’

  He shrugged, coming abruptly to the end of his speech, and went to finishing off his bowl of porridge. Then he stood, washed it clean and left it in the kitchen, came back.

  ‘Ulf will be leading a fresh hunt out after that white bear, in a few days, he says. Guess you may have a mind to stay and have some revenge. I’d understand that, though revenge won’t bring your da back.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. Just wanted you to know, the offer’s there if you want it. I’m leaving at dawn on the morrow. You know where to find me.’ He stood in front of Drem a while longer, then made for the door.

  ‘My thanks,’ Drem said hoarsely and Asger stopped and looked back.

  ‘You’re welcome, lad. Your da was a good man. And so are you.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Drem said, looking up at him.

  ‘Course you can. I might not have the answer, but asking never hurt nobody.’

  ‘Truth and Courage. Have you ever heard that before?’

  Asger snorted. ‘Not heard it used, but I know where it’s from. Thought everyone did.’

  Drem just looked at him.

  ‘It’s the battle-cry of them at Dun Seren. The Order of the Bright Star.’

  Drem nodded, feeling something shift inside him.

  Drem shovelled the steps to his cabin free of snow, piling it in banks to either side, then scraped the last of the ice clear. Once it was done he sat on the steps.

  After Asger had left he’d felt a little life return to him; maybe it was the porridge, or the fact that another human being had cared enough to come and find him, he didn’t know. He still had that weight of grief in his heart and belly, like a cold, hard stone, but he didn’t feel incapacitated by it, at least, not for the moment. He’d finished his porridge, got up and let the goats and chickens out, checked on the horses in the stables, stood by his da’s cairn, rested a hand upon it and shed some more tears, and now he was here. Thinking.

  He was grateful for Asger’s visit, grateful for the act of kindness in it, though it was a dim, distant gratitude, his grief too raw and potent a thing for other emotions to make any kind of lasting impression. And he was considering Asger’s offer. Leaving was what he and his da had been about to do, after all. Though Drem knew that his da had a different destination in mind.

  But Drem liked Asger, had always thought well of him, and the offer was a good one. A new life. A fresh start. Just the thought of some kindness and company was a tempting enough reason to go, without the fact that there were men not so far away with a blood feud against him. That wasn’t going to go away, either. And, as much as he felt like his heart was broken, that all of the colour of life had just drained away, the thought of being skewered upon the end of Burg’s or Wispy’s blades was still not an appealing one.

  And he’d been thinking on other things, too. Things that he needed to sift through first, before he fully faced up to Asger’s offer. He’d been thinking on his da’s last words. His cry of Truth and Courage, how that had still been so much a part of him, even after sixteen years of living a new life with Drem, that it had burst from his lips at such a telling moment.

  A life-or-death moment.

  And then, when he was dying, when he knew he was dying, he’d asked for his sword. The Starstone Sword.

  Drem had not been able to search for it as he’d sat with his da, not while his da still had breath in his body, and every breath and moment had been precious. But after, Drem had searched everywhere, all the more desperate to find it because his da had asked for it.

  But Drem had not found it.

  Maybe I just missed it. It was dark. I was wounded and grief-stricken.

  No. He knew how methodical he was, even in anxious, stressful times.

  Then where is the sword?

  He moved to his da’s very last words.

  I was wrong.

  What did he mean?

  It could have meant so many things. Wrong to walk away from the Order of the Bright Star. Wrong to think he could protect Drem. Wrong to go after the bear. Wrong to give in to Drem’s desire to find Fritha, even when they both knew she was most likely dead and that they were wasting their best opportunity of leaving without being noticed.

  But none of those options rang true with Drem.

  I was wrong.

  There’s more, I know it. Think back further.

  Fritha’s cabin. Da was concerned, then.

  Drem closed his eyes, seeing the cabin, the destruction and bodies. He remembered his da crouching by the hound, then moving on to Hask’s body, lifting a piece of timber.

  Part of the door.

  Maybe he wasn’t as concerned by the need to leave as he was about what he saw in the cabin.

  And that wasn’t the first time da had been troubled lately. Think back, further.

  He remembered their night at Calder’s forge, sifted through their snatches of conversation over or between the din of hammer blows.

  We spoke of Bodil, how we were both troubled by the death-scene. No tracks. And the strap-marks torn into his wrist, like an animal caught in a snare. And Da said that Calder’s corpse bore a knife-wound.

  Drem stored this information away, a nagging voice telling him he was missing something. He felt as if he was sitting at a loom, staring at the threads of a tapestry but not quite seeing the picture.

  And then, finally, he forced himself to think of the scene in the woods, amidst twilight and snow, where his da had died. A shivering breath threatened to overwhelm him again, a blur of tears and pain in his chest, but he took a few long moments and breathed deep as his da had taught him when he was worried or anxious, and slowly the sensation subsided. Not gone, but it became a calm sea of grief, not a great wave.

  The white bear, sounds of it fading. A conversation – what to do.

  He realized he was standing, physically re-enacting the moments and steps with his da.

  Pursue. Stay. Go. That’s what we talked about. I said it was time to leave. If only I’d said that before the bear had been brought to bay. Da would still be here.

  The ocean of his grief threatened to rise up at that, and for a while Drem stood there with fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. After a while he gave a shuddering sigh and wiped them away. Forced his mind to return to the scene of his da’s death.

  The bear. We both heard it. To our right.

  He turned, staring to his right, eyes screwed shut as he remembered.

  How did it flank us so quietly, when it had been crashing through the forest so recently?

  No answer would come for that, so he moved on.

  Da telling me to run. Me falling. Snatched glimpses. Da’s battle-cry.

  He was on the ground in his yard now, the snow cold, exhilarating.

  Me trying to get up.

  On his knees in the courtyard, pushing to stand.

  An explosion in the back of my head.

  Dropping back into the snow.

  Waking, pain, turning, standing.

  He re-enacted it all, just as he remembered and saw it in his mind’s eye.

  The blow to my head? What was it? Not the bear – its claws would have carved me like a melon. And besides, it came from the wrong direction.

  He spun on his feet, looking accusingly about his yard for the hidden culprit, but only one of his goats looked back at him, chewing.

  A branch, maybe, sent flying through the air by the bear’s attack.

  He moved on to the last moments when he held his da, spoke to him. First the sword. Then . . .

  I was wrong.

  The goats bleated, the second one there too now. Both of them watching him.

  He felt frustrated because he was still not understanding. His hand rose up to the bear claw about his neck, the bloodstai
ns still upon his shirt from where his da had gripped it.

  I was wrong.

  And then Drem was breaking into a run, past the barn and stables and into the paddock, crunching, almost wading through the deep snow until he was standing before his da’s cairn. He stopped then, breathed in deep, long breaths, as if he’d been running half a day, the thought of what he intended to do stopping him, holding him in a grip of iron.

  I can’t do it.

  You have to. It’s the only way to know.

  Another deep-tremored breath.

  I can’t.

  You must. Da would want you to, if it leads to the truth. To an answer.

  With an act of will he reached out and grabbed one of the stones upon the cairn, covered in a thick skin of snow and ice, and pulled it off. It resisted a moment, its mortar of rime binding it, but then with a crack it was free. He turned and placed the stone carefully upon the ground. Then another, and another. Soon sweat drenched him as he laboured, removing rock after rock, until he saw a hint of wool and a gleam of pallid flesh. He stopped then, a groan escaping his lips. But he was committed to the act, now, and must see it through.

  Until, finally, his da’s body was exposed to the light. A faint smell of damp and rot drifted up to him, though thankfully the snow and ice had made that far better than it otherwise would have been. His hand shaking, Drem reached out and pulled back the cloak, revealing his da’s head and torso. He let out a strangled sob, took another handful of moments to catch his breath and hold his courage. He had cleaned his da as best he could, that night in the forest. His da’s face was a bloodless grey, now, pale as winter’s morning. Drem ripped his eyes away, looking to his task, and gazed at the wounds raked across his da’s chest. He lifted his right hand, fingers curled like a claw, and in slow motion followed the path of the wounds upon his da. One terrible claw swipe, from right to left, high to low, starting at his da’s left shoulder, ending at his right hip, destroying everything in between. Drem paused, thinking, tried the same motion in reverse, up from the hip to shoulder.

  No. Not that. It couldn’t have been that. The flesh is tattered and torn in the other direction. It must have been its right paw, slashing down, from right to left.