by John Gwynne
Asroth smiled.
‘This one has some strength to her,’ he said, and Fritha felt for a moment as if the sun shone upon her face. Asroth’s attention shifted from her to Bune and the Kadoshim before him. ‘I was entombed in starstone metal?’ Asroth said.
‘Yes, my King,’ Bune said.
‘Where is it?’
Bune shrugged, looked around. The dais and floor of the Great Hall were littered with congealed fragments of the black metal, hardened again after Fritha’s spell had melted and shattered Asroth’s skin-hugging gaol.
Asroth stooped and picked up a black shard, turning it in his hand.
‘Gather it all,’ he said. ‘Now, before the battle is ended.’
‘Yes, my King,’ Bune said, and he and the other Kadoshim set about their task.
There is a lot of metal there. She looked at the Starstone Sword she held. I could do so much with such a resource.
‘Except you, Bune. You follow me. And you,’ Asroth said to Fritha. He strode from the dais. ‘And you.’ He brushed a hand across Morn’s shoulder.
Fritha shared a look with Morn as they marched across the dais onto the chamber floor, passing beneath the protective circle of Kadoshim above them. Fritha felt a tremor in the ground – Wrath was following her.
‘Don’t tell him we lost the battle against the Order of the Bright Star,’ Fritha whispered to Morn. ‘Don’t tell him. Or Gulla.’
The half-breed frowned at her. ‘I should tell my father,’ she muttered.
‘Please, not yet,’ Fritha whispered. ‘Give me some time, a few days.’ She knew her fate and future stood upon a knife-edge.
I must make my mark now, consolidate my place before Gulla hears of our defeat. She looked pleadingly at Morn. ‘We are bound, you and I,’ Fritha said, ‘the unwanted and despised, sisters of combat.’ She twisted her arm round to show the scar on her palm where she had cut herself and mingled her blood with Morn’s. A pact, an oath between them. ‘Please.’
Morn’s scowl deepened but she gave a short, curt nod.
Asroth made towards the closest knot of combat, two score White-Wings fighting in a shield circle, beset by Kadoshim acolytes. Fritha glimpsed helms and faces behind the locked shields, saw the familiar short-swords stabbing out into the mass of warriors assaulting them. Blood was flowing, the shield wall holding. A tide of the dead lay at their feet. At the sight of Fritha’s old comrades, respect and hatred tugged at her.
A ripple passed through Asroth’s wings and he hefted his short-sword in his left hand, though it looked more like a knife in his fist.
‘No, Lord,’ Bune said, hastening in front of Asroth and grabbing his arm, ‘you are newly awakened, not recovered. It is too dangerous.’
Asroth froze, looked down at the grip on his arm, then raised his gaze to Bune’s eyes.
‘Two thousand years I laboured and plotted to bring us into this world of flesh,’ he said, his words calm, quiet. ‘And once I am here, within a handful of moments I am caged in starstone, for . . .’ he looked to Fritha.
‘One hundred and thirty-eight years, my King,’ Fritha said.
‘Two thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight years I have waited for my revenge on Elyon. To be flesh, to feel.’ He paused, drew in a deep breath, as if savouring the reek of battle, of blood and sweat and excrement. ‘I will wait no longer,’ he snarled.
Bune’s hand slipped from Asroth’s arm and he dipped his head.
Asroth’s leathery wings snapped out, and he was airborne, rising above the horde of acolytes, passing over the White-Wing shield circle and alighting within it. Fritha saw him smile as he skewered a warrior through the back, the short-sword punching out through mail and leather, an explosion of blood.
Bune and Morn took to the air, following their lord, landing beside him even as some of the White-Wings turned to face him. Fritha’s face twisted in anger at being left behind.
‘Wrath,’ she yelled, vaulting onto his back, and the draig was lumbering into motion, powerful bowed legs working, claws gouging the stone. His wings beat to launch himself at the enemy. Fritha screamed a battle-cry, Wrath opened his jaws and roared. It felt to Fritha that the whole world shook with their coming.
Acolytes leaped out of their way and Wrath slammed into the wall of shields. Bodies erupted into the air, Wrath’s jaws snapping, claws slashing, Fritha with the Starstone Sword in her fist, chopping either side of her. Mail, leather, flesh and bone, all parted like butter for the black sword. In heartbeats the shield circle was breached, acolytes flooding into the rent Wrath had made, and it turned into a slaughter.
Fritha looked up from her death-dealing to see two White-Wings attacking Asroth. The Kadoshim kicked out, stamping a foot at the raised shields, the two warriors stumbling apart. Asroth’s wings beat, rocking them more and propelling himself between them. He backhanded one with the stump of his wrist, sending the warrior spinning through the air, and chopped his sword into the other White-Wing, hacking deep from shoulder to ribs, leaving the blade stuck in bone. Asroth kicked the falling corpse away, released his grip on his sword and swept up a spear. He looked around for the warrior he had backhanded just in time to see Wrath rip the woman’s head from her shoulders. Asroth looked up and met Fritha’s eyes. He grinned, and then he was airborne, rising higher, stabbing at a Ben-Elim who was locked in combat with a half-breed.
The Ben-Elim’s back arched as Asroth’s blade pierced it; a scream, the Ben-Elim’s wings were failing, and he dropped to the ground.
Fritha looked around for the next enemy to kill and realized Asroth’s opponent was the last of the Ben-Elim still fighting. She saw a few flashes of white as Ben-Elim survivors fled the battle, speeding out of the Great Hall’s high windows. Then the air was clear above them, only Kadoshim and half-breeds swirling in the high-domed reaches.
Further away a horde of Revenants were swarming over the last resistance, another shield wall falling.
The last screams echoed and faded. A silence fell upon the hall as Asroth glided down to the dais, his chest rising and falling, a look of joy sweeping his face. Spatters of gore were dark upon his alabaster skin. He licked blood from his lip.
‘This world of flesh tastes good.’ He sighed.
He raised his spear, bellowing his wordless exultation, and then the hall was echoing with the roar of victory from Kadoshim, half-breed and acolyte lips.
‘ASROTH, ASROTH, ASROTH.’
Fritha added her voice to theirs.
The horde of Revenants had drawn closer, a mass of them standing on the steps of the hall. They were motionless now, as unnaturally still as they had been all frenzied motion only moments ago. Strands of mist seemed to leak from their bodies, to swirl about them.
Asroth regarded them a long moment, taking in their elongated limbs, their gaunt features and sunken dark eyes, their mouths slick with blood, clawed hands dripping gore.
‘And what are these foul, beautiful creatures?’ Asroth asked.
‘They are mine,’ a voice called from above. Gulla swept into the chamber, circling and descending with a few score Kadoshim behind him. He landed before Asroth and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.
‘Meical?’ Asroth asked.
‘He has evaded us, for now,’ Gulla said bitterly.
A dark rage swept across Asroth’s features. ‘A shame,’ he said.
‘I will bring him before you in chains, I swear it,’ Gulla said.
‘Good.’ Asroth nodded. ‘In a way I am glad you do not have him. Now I have something to look forward to. Rise,’ he said, resting a hand upon Gulla’s head. ‘You are . . . changed.’
He is, Fritha thought, part Kadoshim, part Revenant, by my hand.
‘Yes, my King,’ Gulla said. He was taller and thicker-muscled than most of the Kadoshim about him, though Asroth still stood half a head taller than Gulla. Where he had been coldly handsome, like many of the Kadoshim, Gulla’s sharp-angled face had become more severe, the skin taut. One of his eyes was go
ne, only a talon-scarred hole where the white crow had raked him, and the other eye was a red glowing pit. Sharp teeth protruded from his drawn lips. A shadow seemed to outline Gulla, shimmering about him like a black halo.
‘I have become something new,’ Gulla said, his voice low, but feeling to Fritha as if it spread through the great chamber, scratching on the inside of her skull. He held up a long-fingered hand, nails grown to talons. ‘It was the only way to free you, the only way we could stand against the Ben-Elim and their pawns.’
‘How?’ Asroth breathed.
Gulla nodded at Fritha. ‘Our new allies. She is talented, a powerful sorceress.’
Asroth looked at Fritha with appraising eyes as she sat upon Wrath’s back. The draig’s wings were folded now as he crunched contentedly on the leg of a dead White-Wing.
‘And these are my children, now,’ Gulla said, gesturing his hand at the Revenants gathered on the tiered steps behind them.
The clatter of hooves echoed into the chamber and Fritha saw riders canter through the flung-open gates of the Great Hall. A rider reined in and stood there, silhouetted a moment: a woman with jet black hair. More riders filled the space behind her, then they were riding into the chamber and down the steps towards them. Wrath looked up from his feasting and growled; Fritha hefted her sword. Gulla called out a greeting and Fritha realized these were the allies Gulla had spoken about, the ones she had seen fighting at Drassil’s gates.
The Cheren. One of the Horse Clans from the grass plains of Arcona.
Gulla gestured and the Revenants parted for them, making a pathway for the Cheren to ride through. They reached the floor of the great chamber, thirty or forty riders. Most of them reined in there; the woman rode on alone, approaching Asroth and Gulla. With effortless grace she dismounted and walked the last few paces to them, though now she was on foot she limped. Fritha saw a bandaged, bloodstained patch on one thigh. She was small-framed, though Fritha recognized a strength in this woman, both in the honed leanness of her musculature and the way her eyes met Asroth’s as she walked towards him. She was clearly moved by his presence, but Fritha could see a determination not to be awed. A curved bow was sitting in a case at her belt, a quiver of arrows on the other hip. A sword hung from her saddle. She wore a coat of mail, beneath it a sky-blue deel of felt and over it a vest of leather lamellar. Blood was congealed on a scabbing cut across her forehead.
She reached Asroth and Gulla and stood before them, meeting their eyes. Then, slowly and awkwardly, she dropped to one knee, though she did not bow her head.
This one does not like to kneel.
‘Another ally, Lord King,’ Gulla said. ‘Jin, Queen of the Cheren. She took the gates of Drassil and held them open for us. Without her, the assault upon the fortress would have been far from certain.’
‘Yet another ally – how things have changed,’ Asroth said, a smile twitching the edges of his mouth. ‘Well met, Jin of the Cheren.’
Gulla touched her shoulder and Jin stood.
‘Welcome to the Banished Lands,’ Jin said, her accent harsh and guttural.
Asroth’s smile grew broader. ‘I have been here longer than you, Jin of the Cheren, long before you were born, but I was sleeping, so in a way you are right, I am newly come to this world of flesh. There is much to learn, much to savour.’
‘I brought you a gift,’ Jin said, and raised a hand. ‘Gerel,’ she called.
A rider clicked his horse forward; he was a man, head shaved apart from one long warrior braid. The warrior held a rope in his hand, was leading a line of men and women on foot. A score of prisoners: White-Wings, mostly, all of them battered and bloody. Fritha’s eyes were drawn to one man in particular, a young warrior, though he was built like a bull, his hair close-cropped, the muscles of his upper back so big he appeared neckless. One eye was purpled shut and he held a blood-drenched arm cradled to his chest.
Gerel led them to Asroth, where they shuffled to a halt. One warrior collapsed.
Asroth took a step closer, came to stand in front of the White-Wing built like a bull.
‘You should kneel before your King,’ Gulla said in his scratching voice.
The warrior looked from Gulla to Asroth. He was broad and tall, only a little shorter than Asroth. ‘He is no king of mine,’ he said, and spat in Asroth’s face.
Five hundred Kadoshim blades left their scabbards.
Asroth held a hand up, then slowly wiped spittle from his cheek. He smiled.
‘So much to savour,’ he said. ‘So many things to experience, so many feelings. Joy. Exhilaration. Anger. Fear.’ He paused, leaned close to the warrior. ‘Pain.’ He looked to Jin. ‘My thanks for your gift. I will enjoy them.’
‘More like him escaped,’ Jin said with a frown. ‘By your leave, I would go and find them. Bring them back on their knees.’
Asroth’s smile cracked into a laugh. ‘Are you humans always in so much of a rush?’
Jin scowled.
‘We will find any who have escaped us, will hunt them down. Will crush them,’ Asroth said. ‘All of them, along with any who oppose us. But this is a hunt that should be savoured. I am newly come to this flesh, and I would enjoy it.’
‘But, they are . . .’
‘No,’ Asroth said, like a door slamming shut. His smile was gone now. ‘This will not be rushed. Long I have waited for this moment, and I would savour it. The hunt will begin soon, but before that there is much to plan, and much that I want explained. The last hundred years. The strength and whereabouts of my enemy.’ He looked around at the assembled host. ‘Have you left anyone for me to kill?’ he called out. Laughter rippled through the Kadoshim in the hall.
There is an army in the north for you, Asroth. The Order of the Bright Star are definitely up for a fight. But I don’t think that’s information I want Gulla to know about, just yet.
‘So many questions,’ Asroth said. ‘What happened to my hand. And what exactly is that beast.’ He pointed to Wrath, and then he looked to Fritha. ‘So tonight, we shall feast, and enjoy our victory, and I shall have my questions answered.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
BLEDA
Bleda unbuckled his weapons-belt and laid it upon the ground, making sure his bow-case and quiver were in reach, and then he sat on a stump of wood at the foot of an old cabin and set about fletching a bundle of arrows. His oathsworn guard Ruga stood behind him, her head shaved apart from one long warrior braid lying across her bandaged shoulder. She held a strung bow in one hand, a fistful of arrows in the other, and her eyes were never still, constantly prowling the forest gloom about them.
There are enough guards on duty out there to warn us of any danger, but she will not stop.
Bleda reached into a bucket where deer-sinew was soaking in warm water, then separated it into strands, selecting one to bind a goose tail-feather to a shaft of birch. Carefully he wrapped the sticky sinew about the feather, binding it tight, then repeated the process with two more feather vanes, careful to space them evenly. When he was finished, he tied it off and laid the finished arrow with the bundle beside him, then started another.
He’d hoped the task would distract him.
It wasn’t working.
Images of his mother swam in his mind’s eye. Her face beaten and bloody, one eye purple and swollen shut. Of Jin standing over his mother, a sword in her hand. The blade stabbing down . . .
The sinew in his hand snapped.
His eyes blurred with tears, grief and anger mingled, as he remembered his mother’s words to him.
Stay strong.
He sucked in a deep breath.
I will, for you. For vengeance’s sake.
Jin’s face filled his world: once his friend, then his betrothed, and now the most hated person in his entire world.
Jin, I will watch the life drain from your eyes, if it is the last thing I do.
The arrow in his hands broke and he looked down to see his knuckles white.
‘Waste of a good arrow,’ a vo
ice said behind him, and Ellac appeared, the old warrior squatting down in the forest litter beside him. ‘Think of the enemy that arrow might have pierced.’
‘I am,’ Bleda muttered, cuffing away his tears. He saw Ellac studying him, but for once the old warrior held his tongue and did not lecture him on the Sirak Iron Code, on the cold-face and the mastery of emotions. Bleda knew it all, knew the benefits of discipline and control, but his anger was like a stallion that would not be broken.
Is this how Riv feels, all the time?
He suppressed a chuckle at that idea. The thought of Riv was the only light in his dark world. Without thinking, he looked up, though it was not as if he would be able to see her winging down to him out of the clouds, because all he could see was trees, thick boughs laced above him like a latticed tapestry, only a few scattered beams of spring sunshine piercing the treetop canopy.
‘It is too soon,’ Ellac said.
‘Aye,’ Bleda answered. Riv had been gone less than a ten-night. Too soon for her to fly to Drassil and then make her way here, to their cabin in the woods. Perhaps another ten-night, if she had kin on foot with her.
Every day would be an agony of waiting.
He remembered watching Riv fly away, towards Drassil, and every day since then he had felt an ache in his chest at being parted from her. She had saved him, flown into the heart of the Cheren camp and plucked him from certain death. Her, and Ellac and a score of Sirak warriors who had ridden out of the darkness in a desperate attempt to save him and his mother, Queen Erdene.
‘She will come,’ Bleda said, ‘soon.’ He was not sure if his words were for Ellac or himself.
Ellac said nothing, just scrutinized Bleda. They both knew that there was no guarantee of Riv’s return. She had flown to Drassil to warn the Ben-Elim, and to save her kin. But Bleda had seen their enemy, had been given a taste of what Drassil and the Ben-Elim were facing: Kadoshim, winged half-breeds; Ferals, savage, unstoppable beast-men, and worse, the creatures in the mist.