by Leo Carew
Portolés stiffened and gave Sir Hjortt a pathetic frown that told him she’d been holding out hope that he would change his mind. Not bloody likely. Also in Azgarothian, the war nun said, “I’m … I’m just going to have a look inside before I do. Make sure it’s safe, Colonel Hjortt.”
“By all means, Sister Portolés, welcome, welcome,” said the older woman, also in that ancient and honorable tongue of Sir Hjortt’s ancestors. Unexpected, that, but then the Star had been a different place when this biddy was in her prime, and perhaps she had seen more of it than just her remote mountain. Now that she was closer he saw that her cheeks were more scarred than wrinkled, a rather gnarly one on her chin, and for the first time since their arrival, a shadow of worry played across the weathered landscape of her face. Good. “I have an old hound sleeping in the kitchen whom I should prefer you left to his dreams, but am otherwise alone. But, good Colonel, Leib was to have been at the crossroads this morning …”
Sir Hjortt ignored the mayor’s wife, following Portolés through the gate onto the walkway of flat, colorful stones that crossed the yard. They were artlessly arranged; the first order of business would be to hire the mason who had done the bathrooms at his family estate in Cockspar, or maybe the woman’s apprentice, if the hoity-toity artisan wasn’t willing to journey a hundred leagues into the wilds to retile a walk. A mosaic of miniature animals would be nice, or maybe indigo shingles could be used to make it resemble a creek. But then they had forded a rill on their way up from the village, so why not have somebody trace it to its source and divert it this way, have an actual stream flow through the yard? It couldn’t be that hard to have it come down through the trees there and then run over the cliff beside the deck, creating a miniature waterfall that—
“Empty,” said Portolés, coming back outside. Sir Hjortt had lost track of himself—it had been a steep march up, and a long ride before that. Portolés silently moved behind the older woman, who stood on the walk between Sir Hjortt and her house. The matron looked nervous now, all right.
“My husband Leib, Colonel Hjortt. Did you meet him at the crossroads?” Her voice was weaker now, barely louder than the quaking aspens. That must be something to hear as one lay in bed after a hard day’s hunt, the rustling of those golden leaves just outside your window.
“New plan,” said Sir Hjortt, not bothering with the more formal Azgarothian, since she spoke it anyway. “Well, it’s the same as the original, mostly, but instead of riding down before dark we’ll bivouac here for the night.” Smiling at the old woman, he said, “Do not fret, Missus Mayor, do not fret, I won’t be garrisoning my soldiers in your town, I assure you. Camp them outside the wall, when they’re done. We’ll ride out at first”—the thought of sleeping in on a proper bed occurred to him—“noon. We ride at noon tomorrow. Report back to me when it’s done.”
“Whatever you’re planning, sir, let us parley before you commit yourself,” said the old woman, seeming to awaken from the anxious spell their presence had cast upon her. She had a stern bearing he wasn’t at all sure he liked. “Your officer can surely tarry a few minutes before delivering your orders, especially if we are to have you as our guests for the night. Let us speak, you and I, and no matter what orders you may have, no matter how pressing your need, I shall make it worth your while to have listened.”
Portolés’s puppy-dog eyes from over the woman’s shoulder turned Sir Hjortt’s stomach. At least Iqbal had the decency to keep his smug gaze on the old woman.
“Whether or not she is capable of doing so, Sister Portolés will not wait,” said Sir Hjortt shortly. “You and I are talking, and directly, make no mistake, but I see no reason to delay my subordinate.”
The old woman looked back past Portolés, frowning at the open door of her cabin, and then shrugged. As if she had any say at all in how this would transpire. Flashing a patently false smile at Sir Hjortt, she said, “As you will, fine sir. I merely thought you might have use for the sister as we spoke, for we may be talking for some time.”
Fallen Mother have mercy, did every single person have a better idea of how Sir Hjortt should conduct himself than he did? This would not stand.
“My good woman,” he said, “it seems that we have even more to parley than I previously suspected. Sister Portolés’s business is pressing, however, and so she must away before we embark on this long conversation you so desire. Fear not, however, for the terms of supplication your husband laid out to us at the crossroads shall be honored, reasonable as they undeniably are. Off with you, Portolés.”
Portolés offered him one of her sardonic salutes from over the older woman’s shoulder, and then stalked out of the yard, looking as petulant as he’d ever seen her. Iqbal whispered something to her as he moved out of her way by the gate, and wasn’t fast enough in his retreat when she lashed out at him. The war nun flicked the malformed ear that emerged from Iqbal’s pale tonsure like the outermost leaf of an overripe cabbage, rage rendering her face even less appealing, if such a thing was possible. Iqbal swung his heavy satchel at her in response, and although Portolés dodged the blow, the dark bottom of the sackcloth misted her with red droplets as it whizzed past her face. If the sister noticed the blood on her face, she didn’t seem to care, dragging her feet down the precarious trail, her maul slung over one hunched shoulder.
“My husband,” the matron whispered, and, turning back to her, Sir Hjortt saw that her wide eyes were fixed on Iqbal’s dripping sack.
“Best if we talk inside,” said Sir Hjortt, winking at Iqbal and ushering the woman toward her door. “Come, come, I have an absolutely brilliant idea about how you and your people might help with the war effort, and I’d rather discuss it over tea.”
“You said the war was over,” the woman said numbly, still staring at the satchel.
“So it is, so it is,” said Sir Hjortt. “But the effort needs to be made to ensure it doesn’t start up again, what? Now, what do you have to slake the thirst of servants of the Empire, home from the front?”
She balked, but there was nowhere to go, and so she led Sir Hjortt and Brother Iqbal inside. It was quiet in the yard, save for the trees and the clacking of the bone fetishes when the wind ran its palm down the mountain’s stubbly cheek. The screaming didn’t start until after Sister Portolés had returned to the village, and down there they were doing enough of their own to miss the echoes resonating from the mayor’s house.
if you enjoyed
THE WOLF
look out for
A TIME OF DREAD
Of Blood and Bone
by
John Gwynne
Acclaimed epic fantasy author John Gwynne with the first book of a new trilogy.
The Ben-Elim, a race of warrior angels, once vanquished a mighty demon horde. Now they rule the Banished Lands. But their dominion is brutally enforced and their ancient enemy may not be as crushed as they thought.
In the snowbound north, Drem, a trapper, finds mutilated corpses in the forests—a sign of demonic black magic.
In the south, Riv, a young, tempestuous soldier, discovers a deadly rift within the Ben-Elim themselves.
Two individuals with two world-changing secrets. But where will they lead? And what role will Drem and Riv play in the Banished Land’s fate? Difficult choices need to be made.
In the shadows, dark forces are gathering, waiting for their time to rise.…
Chapter One
Bleda
The Year 132 of the Age of Lore, Reaper’s Moon
“I should be down there,” Bleda said, knuckles whitening on the grip of his bow. He was crouched upon the steep slope of a hill, looking down upon a scene of wonder.
A war.
Horses and their riders swirled upon the plain in constant motion, from this height seeming like two great flocks of birds looping ever closer, the distant rumble of hooves setting the ground trembling beneath Bleda’s feet. As he stared in envy and fascination, the faint echo of hurled challenges and insults, the harbing
ers of violence, drifted up to him.
“No, you should not be down there,” a voice said behind him, Old Ellac absently rubbing the stump where his right hand used to be. The skin around his eyes creased and cracked like old leather as he squinted at the battle about to begin on the plain below.
“Of course I should,” Bleda muttered. “My mother is down there, leading our Clan. My brother rides one side of her, my sister the other.”
But not my father.
“Aye, but they are all more than ten summers old,” Ellac pointed out.
“So?” Bleda snapped. “I can fight, am more skilled with a bow than most. Than you.”
“That’s not hard these days.” Ellac snorted and cuffed Bleda across the head with his one hand.
Bleda immediately felt shame at his remark, more painful than the slap. He knew that neither of them wanted to be sitting on this hill while their kin fought and bled on the field below.
Your tongue is sharper than your sword, his father used to say to him.
“Look,” Ellac said, pointing with his stump. “Altan.”
On the plain below a lone rider separated from their Clan, instantly recognizable to Bleda as his older brother, Altan.
Seventeen summers is not so much older than me. Yet he is old enough to fight, and I am not. Bleda scowled at the injustice of it, though none of his ire was directed at Altan. He loved his brother fiercely.
Altan was galloping hard, curling close to the enemy warband. As he did so a rider emerged to meet him, galloping just as fast. Both warriors dipped in their saddles, arms extended as they drew their bows.
Bleda felt a jolt of fierce pride, as well as a cold fist of fear clench around his heart.
Aim true, Altan. I cannot lose you as well.
The world seemed to slow, sound dimming as Bleda stared at the two champions.
And then Altan was wheeling away, the other rider swaying in his saddle, toppling sideways, falling to the ground, dragged along as one foot snagged in a stirrup. Ellac let out a grunt of admiration and Bleda punched the air with his fist, whooping and yelling his pride. He felt Ellac’s disapproval at his burst of emotion, the warriors of his Clan were supposed to wear the cold-face like a shield, but that was Altan down there, and he had just felled a champion of their ancient rivals.
A swell of cheering rose up to them, changing into battle-cries as the two warbands came together with a concussive crash. Bleda gulped, a squirm of anxiety uncoiling in his belly. He had seen death before, held his da’s cold, wax-smooth hand, heard the tales of warriors back from their raids, even helped stitch their wounds—but this.…
The death screams of men and horses echoed up to them, within moments the plain becoming a choking, seething mass of bodies, the splash of blood, the harsh clang of steel.
“What’s that?” Ellac said behind him, pointing to the skies. “Your eyes are better than mine.”
“Vultures and crows,” Bleda said as he squinted into the searing blue and glimpsed the silhouettes of wings.
“Too big,” Ellac muttered.
Bleda tore his eyes away from the battle and stared. More and more winged shapes were appearing in the sky, speeding towards the battlefield, growing in size with their approach. Great white wings beating through the air, then Bleda saw the glint of sunlight on steel.
“The Ben-Elim,” he whispered.
Winged warriors wrapped in gleaming mail swooped down to the battle-plain, skimming above men’s heads, stabbing indiscriminately with spear and sword, lifting men into the air, rising up steeply and dropping them, screaming, limbs flailing.
“No!” Bleda hissed, hand reaching for arrows in his belted quiver as he stood, about to launch into a scrambling run down the hillside. Ellac grabbed his wrist.
“We must help,” Bleda shouted. “This is not the Ben-Elim’s fight; they should stay out of it.”
“They said they would come, would not allow the Clans to go to war,” Ellac said. “And whether it’s their fight or not, they are here now. Look.”
To the west of the battle the realm of Arcona stretched into the horizon, a never-ending sea of grass, the vast plains punctuated here and there by clusters of low-lying hills. From around the closest range Bleda saw a wall of dust rising up, knew such a cloud could only be stirred by the tramp of many feet. A great host was coming.
The Ben-Elim’s Holy Army. Giants upon their great bears, and their wall of shields.
Then Ellac was dragging him back up the hill, towards their tethered horses.
“What are you doing? We must help my mother,” Bleda yelled, but Ellac ignored him, hoisted him into his saddle, and then, mounting agilely for a man with one hand, grabbed Bleda’s reins. With a click of his tongue and touch of his heels against his horse’s side they were cantering up the hill.
“Please,” Bleda cried. As a prince of the Sirak it was a word that rarely touched his lips.
Ellac looked between Bleda and the battle.
“I cannot let you go down there,” the old warrior said. “Your mother would have my other hand, and my eyes as well.” He spurred his horse on, up the hill and away from the battle. Bleda looked back as they reached the crest and his heart lurched in his chest. On the field below all was chaos and blood, winged warriors diving and swooping, slaying any who came within reach. Then the battlefield was gone and they were riding hard for their camp.
Bleda stared at the horizon as he paced a track in the grass before their camp, still clutching his double-curved bow in his hand. His brother Altan had made it for him, taking moons for it to be finished, Bleda watching and learning with fascination.
It is too big for you, Altan had said to him, tousling his black hair. It is a man’s bow, the draw too great for you, but how else will you become strong, eh?
That had been over a year ago, and now Bleda could loose his third arrow before the first had struck its target.
Tension was thick in the air as everyone waited, behind him a crowd amassed of the young, the old and the infirm; all else who could sit on a horse and draw a bow had gone to fight. Gers and wagons stood empty and unattended, dogs barking, goats bleating.
“There,” a voice said behind Bleda, and all looked to the skies. Winged shapes were appearing. And on the ground beneath them a dark smudge, riders approaching.
“Mother,” Bleda whispered, recognizing her before all others.
Erdene, Queen of the Sirak, rode into their war-camp. Her helm was gone, head bowed, a long cut upon her shaved scalp. The thick warrior braid that had been neatly bound and coiled about her shoulder like a sleeping serpent was now torn and frayed, matted with blood. That morning her shirt of scale-armour had glistened in the sunlight, but now it was dulled and dented. What was left of her honour guard rode about her, silent and battered, and curled behind and around them was a sight that took Bleda’s breath away.
Huge bears, great shambling beasts of tooth and claw, and sitting upon them were giants: men and women wrapped in leather, steel and fur, axes and war-hammers slung across their backs. Swirling tattoos of vine and thorn coiled up their arms.
Erdene reined her horse in and her warriors stuttered to a halt.
Where is Altan? Where is Hexa? Bleda thought, his eyes searching the riders for his brother and sister, and then his feet were moving as he ran to his mother, Ellac stumbling behind him, trying and failing to catch him.
Erdene saw him and shook her head, but it was too late, and in heartbeats Bleda was at her side, staring up at his mother, bears and giants towering about him.
“Altan and Hexa?” Bleda called up to his mother as he grabbed her boot.
Erdene looked down at him with an expression Bleda had never seen before.
Shame.
She blinked, as if not recognizing Bleda for a moment, then Erdene’s eyes snapped into focus.
“Run,” his mother said to him.
Bleda didn’t know what to do; his mind and heart were filled with the Sirak iron code, which told
him to wear his courage like a cloak, to live free and fight to the last breath for his Clan. To show no sign of weakness or fear, and to never, ever, surrender. But his mother had spoken. She was also his queen, and she had told him to run.
He turned, looked around wildly, saw the camp in chaos, giants and bears everywhere. Others were arriving, columns of normal-sized warriors on foot, clad in black leather, with huge, rectangular shields upon their arms, silver wings embossed upon them. They spread in tight-packed lines about the camp, surrounding everyone within it, and their shields came together with a resonating snap. Bleda glimpsed shadowed faces in silver helms, smaller figures appearing amongst them: children, he realized, offering water skins after a hard march. As he stared, he saw a figure staring back at him, pale and fair-haired, a girl, holding a water skin up to a warrior, even as she stared straight at him.
Shadows flitted across the ground and the sound of wings filled Bleda’s ears as the Ben-Elim swooped low. One flew lower than the rest, great wings beating as he hovered above Erdene and Bleda a long moment, grass and dust swirling, then he alighted gently upon the ground. He was tall, taller than any man Bleda had seen, his hair raven-black, wearing a coat of bright mail and gripping a spear in his fist. Blood crusted the spear’s blade.
“Is this him?” the Ben-Elim asked, eyes lingering on Bleda a moment, then rising to Erdene.
Erdene was silent for so long that Bleda thought she would not answer.
“You must be strong,” Erdene said to Bleda.
