A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  She didn’t say anything, had done so many things of late that she wasn’t sure what Israfil was referring to, and didn’t want to incriminate herself any further.

  ‘Fighting, with White-Wings, while on a mission.’

  Kol has told him.

  She dipped her head with a sigh. ‘I am very sorry, Lord Protector,’ she said.

  ‘I have watched you on the weapons-field. You have the potential to become an exceptional warrior, Riv. One of the most skilled I have seen come up through the ranks of Drassil since the Ben-Elim have dwelt in this world. But more than that, there is a fire in you, a purity of dedication to our cause. You hate the Kadoshim, long to take your place in the ranks in this holy war.’

  ‘I do.’ Riv breathed, looking up now, meeting Israfil’s gaze.

  How can he know me so well?

  ‘But there is something else in you. An anger that cannot be quenched.’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘What I said to you, during your warrior trial. You remember?’

  About my father. About my pride. About needing to prove myself. That I am shallow and brittle. Out of control . . .

  Even at the memory of Israfil’s words Riv felt her blood stirring, her anger flexing.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It was not true. It was a test, designed to provoke, to push, to strengthen your control, your ability to weather any storm.’

  It’s as Aphra told me, then. And I failed.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You are the first person that I have told this truth to, before they have passed. All go through it unknowing. It is a hard test.’

  She nodded grimly.

  ‘I want you to pass your warrior trial, Riv. And soon. Dark times are ahead, I feel it. Your sword arm and fervour will be needed.’

  ‘There is nothing I long for more.’

  ‘You shall retake your warrior trial soon. So master your anger.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Protector.’

  ‘There are other things that I wanted to talk to you about.’ Israfil fell silent, just staring at Riv, a level of sternness in his gaze that she had not seen before.

  Oh no. He knows about all of the fights.

  ‘The other fights,’ Riv said, then paused. Israfil was frowning. ‘What did Kol tell you?’ she asked.

  ‘Kol? No, it was not Kol that told me of your altercation at Oriens. It was Aphra.’

  What! My own sister! How could she?

  Riv did feel her anger stir then, a snake uncoiling, hissing and rearing, fangs bared.

  ‘Riv!’ A hand slapping on his desk, a loud crack. ‘You remember that last command. To master your anger. I suggest you start right now. I can see it in you.’

  It’s getting worse. I can feel it there all the time, like a deep ocean, any insult or injury, the wind that whips it into a storm.

  ‘Please, help me,’ Riv said, fighting back a sob. ‘I can feel it, moving through me.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘It is like a drug in my blood. Like when you drink wine, I feel it in my belly, a warmth, a glow. Then it is in my veins, spreading through me, seeping through every part of me, into my fists, making them clench, and into my head, like a mist, fogging all thought. And then . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Then it is just me, and I am it.’

  ‘A dark affliction, it sounds.’

  ‘It can be,’ Riv nodded. ‘And it can move from the belly glow to the head mist in a few heartbeats. No slow process, no time to fight it.’

  ‘Perhaps fight it is the wrong phrase. Control is what you need. To harness that rage, and use it. You would be formidable.’ Israfil stared at her a long time. ‘Maybe some time at Dun Seren would help you,’ he said, sounding as if he was talking to himself rather than Riv.

  ‘I thought things were not good between us and Dun Seren,’ Riv said.

  ‘Oh, there has always been a tension,’ Israfil said with a wave of his hand. ‘Their founder, Corban, took issue with our tactics from the very first day. Overly emotional and sentimental, I always thought him. Unable to see the greater good. Always obsessed with notions of kin and friendship and loyalty. Leaders must act for the greater good.’ He shrugged. ‘But they are the enemy of the Kadoshim, as are we. And of a time we will share information. I only think of them now because Balur and Alcyon speak of their training with much respect.’

  ‘I train hard, none harder,’ Riv said, ‘and no warriors train harder than the White-Wings.’

  ‘So quick to judge, when you have not seen,’ Israfil said, raising an eyebrow.

  That is a fair point.

  ‘I understand, you are defending the pride and honour of your people, the White-Wings,’ Israfil said. ‘But do not let that sentiment cloud your vision, or your understanding. A warrior sees to the heart of his enemy, sees strengths and weaknesses honestly, dispassionately. And casts the same gaze upon himself. Or herself. That is purity of mind, what the Lore demands we strive for. Removing the ego.’ He paused, a slight smile. ‘My apologies, this was not supposed to be a lesson on the philosophies of combat.’

  ‘I like it,’ Riv said with a shrug.

  ‘Another time, then. As for your sister, do not be so hard with her. She did tell me of your misdemeanour at Oriens. She also told me that it was you who first saw through the Kadoshim ruse; that Oriens was a lure.’

  Oh. There is some pleasantness left in her still, then.

  ‘Now, on to the other matter I wished to speak of with you. It is a grave matter, and its possible consequences far-reaching.’

  ‘If I can help in any way, Lord Protector, I will.’

  ‘Adonai and Estel,’ Israfil said, and suddenly Riv’s head was full of blood and feathers, of Estel’s White-Wings insignia torn and stamped upon on the flagstoned floor. ‘You know of what I speak.’

  It was not a question.

  ‘Improper relations,’ Riv murmured, remembering Israfil’s words in the Great Hall.

  ‘Yes. I am hearing rumours. That this behaviour . . .’ He paused, face twisting with uncommon passion. ‘This sin is more widespread than I would have hoped. That Adonai was not the only Ben-Elim, Estel not the only mortal engaged in these . . . practices.’

  Riv felt a heat flush through her, as if she were racked with guilt.

  But I have done nothing wrong.

  And then she thought of Kol, on that moonlit night beyond Oriens. His smile, the touch of his fingertips against her lips. The shiver it had stirred in her.

  ‘Do you know of any such conduct?’ Israfil asked her.

  She gulped. ‘Me, I, no. No, Lord Protector.’

  He regarded her a long moment, then nodded slowly.

  ‘It may be that I am wrong. But, if it is happening, it must be stamped out, quickly and ruthlessly, before it spreads. It is wrong, and it would destroy us.’

  Riv nodded, though again she got the feeling that Israfil was talking to himself more than to her.

  ‘I am gathering a small group about me,’ Israfil said, definitely talking to Riv now, as he pinned her with his gaze. ‘A few that I trust. You are one of them, Riv, because I see your passion and dedication to the cause, despite your, issues. I am placing my trust in you, even talking to you of this. But I would ask more. I would ask you to be my eyes and ears.’

  He is asking me to spy on my own. But he is the Lord Protector, the highest power in my world. How can I refuse him?

  ‘Of course, Lord Protector,’ she heard herself say.

  There was a knock at the door, making Riv jump.

  Israfil took a long moment, eyes fixed on Riv. ‘My thanks,’ he said to her. Then. ‘Enter.’

  Ethlinn walked in, Balur One-Eye at her shoulder.

  ‘We’ve had news from our scouts tracking the Kadoshim,’ Ethlinn said. She saw Riv sitting before Israfil, raised an eyebrow, but continued.

  ‘Has one of my Ben-Elim returned?’ Israfil asked.

  ‘No,’ a croaking voice came from the unshuttered window, and a big black crow flew into the room, flying around and
then landing on the arm of Riv’s chair. It looked up at her with one beady eye.

  ‘Our friends from Dun Seren have sent help,’ Ethlinn said, a twitch of a smile on her lips.

  ‘Flick,’ the bird croaked.

  Riv had heard of the talking crows of Dun Seren, but never seen one in the flesh. She’d always thought it would be amusing to meet one, but now that it was sitting a handspan from her and regarding her with all too much intelligence, the whole experience felt far more like unnerving, rather than amusing.

  ‘Is Flick your name?’ Riv said, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes. You?’

  ‘My name is Riv,’ Riv said.

  ‘Well met,’ the crow rasped.

  ‘Yes, this is all very polite,’ Israfil interrupted. ‘But do you have news of the Kadoshim force that attacked Drassil?’

  ‘They scattered, fled in many directions, lost in Forn,’ the crow squawked, its talons clenching alarmingly with each syllable. One group, largest, went to Varan’s Fall. Grinding Sea.’

  Israfil looked to Ethlinn. ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘There is nothing there, only sea.’

  ‘Boats,’ Flick croaked.

  ‘The ground is marked with boats that had been moored on the shore,’ Balur said, his voice a deep growl. ‘They rowed away.’

  ‘Where to?’ Israfil mused. ‘It is a clever move, making them untrackable. What options are there for their destination?’

  ‘The coast runs west to east. East is a few hundred leagues of Forn Forest, then mountains, then Arcona.’

  ‘So, unlikely they would go that way. West?’

  ‘Is Dun Seren and the Desolation.’

  ‘Dun Seren is as unlikely a destination as I can think of,’ Balur rumbled. Riv realized that he was laughing.

  ‘And north?’ Israfil asked.

  ‘The Grinding Sea,’ Ethlinn said, open handed.

  Riv had felt uncomfortable, initially, as if she wasn’t supposed to be involved in this meeting, and not enjoying the way the crow seemed to be sidling its way closer to her arm. But now she was engrossed in the conversation.

  ‘So,’ Israfil said. ‘Unless there is some hidden location in the Grinding Sea, the logical conclusion is that our enemy have fled to the Desolation.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  DREM

  Not the best time of year to decide to go camping in the Desolation, Drem thought, not for the first time, as he woke to find ice in his growing beard. He cracked it free and scraped more ice from his eyebrows, then crawled from his makeshift tent, a bearskin propped up by branches, only to see that it was covered in another layer of fresh-fallen snow. He regarded the sky through a canopy of pines, saw a clear bright blue far above. Breaking camp was a swift affair, Drem taking comfort in the routine of it, all the little practices that his da had drummed into him over countless years. Soon his bag was across his shoulder and his thick-shafted spear in his fist and he was walking on through the snow.

  He’d been following the trail of the bear that killed his da for over a ten-night, now. Twice he had lost its tracks completely, fresh snow masking everything, and he’d had to retrace his steps, searching not just the ground but all that grew, shrubs and bushes and trees, until he’d found the bear’s trail again. And once he’d seen two sets of boot-prints, one uncommonly large, but it could have been a big man wearing snow-boots.

  The trail had led northwards, into the foothills of the Bonefells, though in a looping arc, and Drem had found a number of pits and traps along the trail, as if the bear followed a trapper’s trail, returning to collect its prey. And now the trail was circling back, southwards. Drem paused as he stepped onto a plateau, open and free of pine trees. He walked to the edge, stood on a ridge and looked south onto a world of white that seemed to go on forever. The only blemishes were Starstone Lake, directly south of him, its waters dark and glittering in a winter’s sun, and Kergard, further west and south.

  And that, he thought, eyes narrowing. A few leagues ahead of him, beyond the tiered roll of foothills and forest, there was a small village, smoke rising from hearths and fire-pits. It was built upon the edge of Starstone Lake, a pier jutting into the dark waters.

  ‘The mine,’ he said to himself, feeling something shift in his gut.

  Somehow he knew, sensed, this was the place he would find his answers. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he stared. Then he gripped his spear and walked on.

  Drem crept through the last patch of bush and scrub and crouched in the snow.

  It was twilight, the sky a mixture of purples and pinks, and he was situated at the top of a gentle slope, looking down upon the mine spread before him, a squat, sprawling mess of buildings. Even from this distance Drem knew something was wrong about the place. Barns, huts and barrack-like cabins were scattered around the enclosure with no seeming logic to their positioning. All of it was ringed by a palisaded wall that curled around to the lakeshore, gates on every side. And most of it was in darkness, a few torches belching smoke on the wall, some lights flickering inside huts. He could see no signs of life, no movement on the walls, no voices, singing, not even the rhythmic crack and crunch of miners at work, carving their living from the rock.

  Then an animal noise rose up, part roar, part mournful howl, and ice skittered through Drem’s veins.

  He’d spent many years in the Wild, hunting, trapping, and thought he’d heard all there was to hear from an animal’s throat, but this sound . . .

  Drem sat and waited, watched as the sun became a thin line on the horizon. He shrugged off his kit bag, pulled out a roll of rope and hooked it on his belt, and then he stood and sprinted, bent low, straight towards the wall. His heart pounded in his head, waiting, expecting a voice or horn to ring out the alarm.

  Thirty paces left, he looked up, saw the wall was empty.

  Fifteen paces. Ten.

  And then he was there, back against the timber, sucking in air.

  He was close to a large, double gateway, a smaller, single door beside it, a simple latch on the door. He’d planned to loop his rope around one of the timber beams of the palisade and haul himself up, but thought he might as well try the latch first.

  The door opened.

  He slipped through, closed it behind him, and moved along the wall. It was near dark, now, the solid buildings and shadows in between merging. Stars flickered into life. He looked about, unsure what to do, where to go.

  What am I doing here?

  A pang of fear, threatening to overwhelm him. He took a moment to remember.

  The bear. My father’s killer. The Starstone Sword.

  He took a deep breath, focused on those three things, stiffening his resolve, and moved on. Ran across the gap between wall and a building, slipping deeper into the enclosure.

  Then the smell hit him. First the clear smell of animal dung, but there was more to it, not sweet-scented like a horse, something acrid in it.

  A meat-eater.

  Voices. He followed the sound, found himself in an alley between two long buildings, what looked like sleeping barracks, and beyond them a larger building, longer and wider, timber-walled with a grass-sod roof. Lights flickering in shuttered windows, the murmur of voices. One man’s rising in laughter.

  He moved close to a shuttered window and carefully peered in.

  A long table, a score of shaven-haired men around it, a wooden board, one man standing, grinning as he tossed the bones onto the board, watching them roll.

  Playing knuckle-bone.

  The man barked a laugh, punching the air, turning so that Drem could see his face.

  It was Wispy Beard.

  Conflicting emotions at seeing him, anger and fear mixed as he remembered the noose around his neck, being hoisted into the air. Wispy laughing.

  Drem scanned the others, recognized some, though he didn’t see Burg there, the leader with the scar on his face. In the gloom someone else sat, the firelight and darkness making him look
too big, longer and wider than a man, legs outstretched as he leaned back in his chair, arms folded, seemingly asleep.

  The animal-roar again, a sad thing, closer, louder, vibrating through the snow-slush and into the soles of Drem’s boots. Most in the room ignored it, the big man’s legs twitching, but nobody moved to tend whatever it was that made such a sound. The stench of excrement was stronger, too, insinuating itself into the back of Drem’s throat.

  He moved on, a lifetime of trapping having taught him silence and patience. He knew instinctively when to wait, when to move, and how to tread as silent as a fox. But there was no light-footed trick in the world that could avoid footprints in snow. He tried to follow well-used tracks, his footprints mixing with a stream of others.

  A stable block stood before him, a torch burning outside it, fixed atop a post. Drem froze in the shadow of a building and stared. In time a head loomed over the stable-door, but it was no horse. A bear, dark-furred, huge, its eyes baleful. It opened its jaws and let out a sound closer to groan than growl.

  Is that the bear that killed my da?

  Drem’s fist tightened on his spear, the urge to run over and plunge it into the creature’s chest sweeping him.

  Wait. The hunter is patient.

  In answer to its mournful groaning another sound echoed around the encampment, a chorus of howls and whines.

  ‘Shut your row,’ a voice called out. Drem’s head snapped around to a dark hollow, dense and thick behind the bear pen. He crept along the building’s wall to get a better view and saw an open space, a long table set within it, legs of timber thick as trunks. Shapes were scattered upon the table, unclear in the darkness.

  Strange, a table out in the open.

  Behind it was a huge boulder, rising like a cliff face. As Drem moved to get a clearer view, the stench grew worse, fetid and cloying.

  A man stood in the boulder’s shadow, wrapped in furs and cloak, a spear in his hand that he rattled against the rock, clanging on iron, and Drem saw darker shapes in the boulder, iron bars slatted across them.

  Cells, dug into the rock face, iron-barred gates.

  ‘Shut your row,’ the guard shouted again as strange howls and whines echoed out from many cells, haunting, chilling Drem’s blood.