by John Gwynne
‘I know his name,’ a voice said. It was Jin. She was leaning forwards and staring at the White-Wing. ‘His name is Vald.’
‘You are sure?’ Gulla asked her.
‘Yes. He is a friend of the half-breed bitch.’
‘Who?’ Asroth said.
‘The Ben-Elim half-breed. The one who rescued Meical.’
‘Ah,’ Asroth said. ‘You are fortunate, Vald, because you will get to live a little longer. My betrothed tells me she needs you alive. But not whole.’ Asroth looked at Fritha and she shook her head.
Asroth adjusted his grip and pressed his thumb into Vald’s eye, pushing, gouging, a steady increase of pressure. His face was not calm, now, a snarl of pure hatred twisting his features.
Vald screamed again, higher, piercing, and then his eye popped, a spray of blood and jelly. Vald’s shrieks rose to a new level; Asroth cuffed him away. Vald collapsed to the ground, hands to his face. Gulla signalled and acolytes dragged Vald away.
Asroth looked at Fritha and licked jelly from his thumb.
‘So, this is what pain tastes like.’
CHAPTER NINE
BLEDA
Bleda’s feet drummed on the timber stairwell and then he was at the top of the wall, looking out into the gloom of Forn. It was a cold spring morning, mist carpeting the forest floor, moving like a slow, languid sea.
He and his warriors had cleared a space beyond the wall, twenty or thirty paces deep. Not much, but enough to make their arrows tell should their enemy find them.
And perhaps they have.
Scouts had returned, telling of movement in the forest. Bleda had ordered the call to arms and now seventy Sirak warriors were spread along the wall, bows strung and fists full of arrows. The rest of his small warband were mounted and close to a rear gate, ready to sally and strike, or cut a path to freedom.
‘I can’t see anything,’ Ellac grunted, as he climbed the last few steps and settled in beside Bleda. The old warrior had a round shield strapped to his right arm, a spear gripped in his left hand.
‘That is because you are old,’ Bleda said, eyes searching the gloom, though in truth all Bleda could see was mist and trees.
‘Eyes above,’ Ellac warned.
Ruga and a few others about him looked skywards.
Let it be her, Bleda thought, and raised a hand to his chest, feeling the bulge of flower and feather wrapped and tucked beneath his coat of plate and tunic. Then he took a fistful of arrows from his quiver.
Hope for the best, be ready for the worst.
Mist coiled out from the trees, churning sluggishly. It reminded Bleda of creatures hidden in the mist.
He nocked an arrow.
A rustle and creak from above and his eyes snapped to the canopy. A shadow, descending. Was that wings? One figure, or two?
‘Hold,’ he cried, unsure if it was friend or foe. Kadoshim wings were dark as leather, Ben-Elim white as snow, but Riv – her wings were dapple grey, beautiful, and well suited to be hidden amongst the shift of branches and leaves.
And then the figure swept through a shaft of sunlight. Blonde braided hair, a White-Wing cuirass. Bleda grinned, his arrow falling away from his bow, because Riv was there, appearing out of the shadows.
Her eyes found him and she smiled, then her wings were beating and she was free of the canopy and speeding down to him. They fell into each other’s arms, Bleda staggering and feeling the breath crushed from his chest as Riv’s wings wrapped around him and she squeezed him tight. He had forgotten how strong she was. His lips found hers and for long moments the world faded around him.
Riv was alive.
‘I feared—’ he said, Riv cutting off his words with her lips. The world faded again. They parted and she grinned at him.
‘It is good to see you, Bleda ben Erdene,’ she breathed.
Bleda just looked at her, took in her blue eyes and pale, freckled skin. She was cut in a hundred places, blood-crusted, bruises, a bandage around her back and wing-arch, but she seemed as full of life and strength as ever. He smiled and nodded. They separated and Bleda became aware of those around him: Ellac, Ruga, Yul, many more.
The world is changing, our lives in the balance. A kiss is not so big a thing.
Riv looked around, at the wall, the rowed gers and paddock. ‘You’ve been busy,’ she said.
Another figure flew down out of the canopy, a Ben-Elim. Bleda did not know him, though he seemed strangely familiar. Long dark hair, bound tight at the nape, white scars raking one side of his face. He gripped a spear in his fist and wore a longsword at his hip. Bleda frowned, trying to place him. Then it came to him. A statue he had studied in Drassil’s Great Hall, many times.
‘Meical,’ he gasped, hardly believing it.
Riv grinned as Meical alighted beside them. He was tall, stern-faced, his eyes a deep purple.
‘Then that means . . .’ Bleda said. ‘Asroth . . .’
‘. . . is awakened, and free,’ Riv said.
A Sirak called out, pointing to movement in the trees.
Bleda’s bow arm rose, but Riv touched his arm.
‘My mother, with the survivors of Drassil,’ she said.
‘Open the gates,’ Bleda cried.
Figures appeared out of the mist, Aphra at their head. She was sweat-stained and gaunt, her cuirass and coat of mail torn, blood staining her undertunic. Others materialized behind her, looking in a similar condition. White-Wing warriors, some others, even a child. Bleda watched in silence as they trailed through the gates into the stockade.
‘How many?’ Bleda said.
‘A hundred and twelve,’ Riv said. ‘All that is left of Drassil.’
Bleda shook his head, feeling the weight of that settle in his belly. Drassil and the Ben-Elim. All his life they had been a tower of strength, sometimes considered his enemy, his oppressor, but never had he thought the power of the Ben-Elim and the walls of Drassil questionable. The possibility of their defeat was unimaginable.
‘Eat, rest,’ he called down, and Sirak warriors were already running to help the injured through the gates, others moving to the cook-pots and water barrels.
‘A good idea,’ Riv said. ‘I’m starving.’
‘And then we shall talk of war,’ Meical growled. ‘I have not woken from a hundred years of sleep to spend my life running.’
Bleda nodded, liking this Ben-Elim already.
Bleda sat in the wide space outside the cabin. Everyone was there, other than the guards on walls and scouts lurking in the forest.
Ellac sat one side of Bleda, Riv on the other. Aphra and Meical were close by. Fai was there with her baby boy Avi strapped across her chest.
He was born here, Bleda thought as he watched the bairn stirring in his sleep. A half-breed child – one day he will have wings, like Riv.
Yul and Ruga stood behind Bleda. Yul appeared to have assumed the role of Bleda’s first-sword. Bleda was not sure that Ruga was happy with that. On the far side of the circle, a White-Wing stood behind those seated. He was broad and muscular; a fair-haired child sat upon his shoulders. Bleda recognized the warrior. Sorch, a trainee White-Wing who had attacked him in the weapons-field, and later had spat at Riv, calling her a half-breed, as if that were a curse.
Bleda felt anger coil in his belly at the sight of him, but he mastered it.
Of all those to survive, I would not have chosen him. But if he fights the Kadoshim and Cheren, that is enough for me. For now.
Sitting in front of Sorch was Jost, tall and thin as a stick, his short hair spiked with sweat and grime. He looked as if he could be blown over with a breath, but Bleda had seen him fight, had stood beside him and knew his worth. Jost looked more than exhausted, he looked devastated, broken, his eyes flat.
Then Bleda realized there was someone missing.
‘Where is Vald?’ Bleda asked Riv.
Her face darkened.
‘He fell,’ she said, a twist of her lips. ‘He saved me, in the weapons-field, and then he was go
ne.’
Bleda felt a stab of grief at that news. Vald had been a friend to Bleda, and he had experienced few enough of those. He shook his head and squeezed Riv’s wrist.
‘He will be avenged,’ Bleda said.
‘He will,’ Riv answered, her eyes boring into the ground.
Aphra stood up, a bowl of stew in her hands.
‘It is good to be here, amongst friends,’ she said. She spooned some into her mouth, swallowed and smiled. ‘You Sirak make good stew.’
A ripple of laughter at that, other voices amongst the White-Wings calling out their agreement.
She looked about them, then, her smile fading. ‘I am guessing that word has spread amongst you, but let me make it plain for all. Asroth is risen from his gaol, Drassil fallen, the Ben-Elim routed.’
Meical grunted and shifted, a ripple through his wings, but he said nothing.
‘And the question stands: what are we to do, now?’
A silence, all eyes on Aphra.
‘But before that, I would ask: what are you going to do?’
Bleda blinked at that, felt Ellac shift beside him.
‘You are Sirak,’ Aphra said, ‘in a strange land, your home a hundred leagues from here. We were allies of a sort.’ She glanced at Bleda. ‘But I am no fool. I know that there were tensions between your people and the Ben-Elim. And yet, you are here.’ She turned a circle, looking at them all, coming to a rest with her eyes upon Bleda.
Slowly, Bleda stood. He felt the weight of this moment, knew the fate of his Clan hung on his words.
‘You speak the truth,’ Bleda said. ‘There has long been a tension between the Ben-Elim and us Sirak. I was taken from my Clan at the point of a blade, saw my brother and sister’s heads cast before me.’ A surge of emotion swept through Bleda, as if saying the words out loud opened a floodgate. The heartbreak, anger and fear that he had felt as he had been carried away from his home was abruptly as vivid as the day it had happened. ‘Allies?’ He shrugged. ‘That is not the word I would have used. The Ben-Elim ruled us with a rod of iron, kept me as a leash to tether my mother, and now, in a blink, the Ben-Elim have no power over us, no leverage over me or my people. So, yes, we could go. Given the way we have been treated by the Ben-Elim, we should go.’ He took a moment to steady himself, his emotions a constant swell that threatened his composure and clarity. ‘And yet, as you say, we are here.’ He blew out a long breath, feeling good to be speaking truths that had so long been bottled within him.
‘The reason why I am here is not so hard to understand.’ He looked at Riv, stroked her face and her smile lit up the world.
‘But for my Clan, we would be fools to walk away. We have seen our enemy. Kadoshim and their half-breeds. Feral beast-men, and worse –’ he suppressed a shudder – ‘the mist-walkers.’ He rubbed his head, feeling stubble scratch his palm. ‘Where would we go that is far enough away from those creatures? Arcona? I do not think that is far enough. They are not just your enemies, they are enemies of all who tread these Banished Lands, and I suspect that nowhere is safe.’
‘Asroth dreams of tearing this world to bloody strips,’ Meical said.
Bleda nodded. ‘We have fought the Kadoshim, they are an evil that cannot be bargained with, or escaped. We must continue to fight them. And then there are the Cheren.’
Behind him Yul growled and spat on the floor.
Bleda saw a few surprised expressions amongst White-Wings at that: it was an emotional display for a Sirak warrior.
‘You may think of us as cold, aloof,’ Bleda said, ‘because we wear a face of stone, but that is our shield, for our enemies. Inside we are fierce and proud, passionate.’ He punched his chest. ‘Our love is a fire, our loyalty a rock, our enmity a curse.’
A shifting amongst the Sirak, standing taller, rumbled agreements. A fire in their eyes. Bleda saw Ellac sit straighter and realized the old man was looking at him with pride in his face.
‘The Cheren are our ancient enemy, and they slew our Queen. My mother.’ Bleda paused, controlling the emotion that constricted his throat. ‘They are allied to the Kadoshim. So, I say we are allies, now, because we face the same enemy. We will stand with you, bleed with you, win or die alongside you.’
He sat down again.
A silence settled, then Aphra smiled at him.
‘That is good to know,’ she said, and Bleda could see the weight of worry drain a little from her eyes.
‘So, the next question is: how do we kill our enemies?’
‘That is a question I like,’ Meical said.
Eyes turned towards the Ben-Elim.
‘This is Meical, High Captain of the Ben-Elim,’ Aphra said. ‘He is Asroth’s ancient foe. No one knows Asroth and the Kadoshim better, so we should listen to him. It is wisdom to know your enemy.’
‘That is a truth,’ Yul breathed.
‘I am not High Captain of the Ben-Elim,’ Meical corrected Aphra. ‘But I am Asroth’s foe, and friend to any who would fight him. And yes, I know him as well as any, though that does not mean I know him well.’ He shrugged, his wings undulated. ‘My guess is Asroth will want to consolidate his forces. He is newly awoken, like me, and it has taken me some time to come to terms with all that has changed. Asroth will need that, too, a time of adjustment. He will want to fight, to be involved, to rend and tear and destroy. For two thousand years this is what he planned and schemed for, and he would not rush it, nor would he miss it.’
‘What if you are wrong?’ Yul asked.
‘Then Asroth and his forces will hunt us sooner.’ Meical shrugged. ‘Either way, he will hunt us.’
Footsteps ran on the stockade’s palisade.
‘WARE THE SKY!’ a voice cried out, and then all were on their feet, weapons in fists, Bleda sweeping his bow from its case at his hip. He snatched at arrows, nocked and drew, searching.
Deep shadows moved in the canopy above, silhouettes of winged figures. An arrow whistled from a Sirak bow.
‘PEACE!’ a voice bellowed from above, and then Bleda saw the flash of white wings, Ben-Elim materializing from the murk. Bleda recognized one, blond-haired, a scar through his cheek and lip.
Kol. Riv’s father.
His coat of mail was torn, a glimpse of bloodstained bandages below his chest.
Bleda aimed at the Ben-Elim’s heart. It was Kol who had slain his brother and sister, cast their heads at his feet.
I hate him.
Something stopped him from releasing the arrow. Moments passed, his arm starting to quiver with the strain. Then he dropped the arrow.
He is Riv’s father. I cannot kill him like this.
He blew out a long breath.
And then the Ben-Elim were landing amongst them, three, four, five score, many of them injured, all of them bearing the signs of hard-fought battle.
Kol landed in their circle, Hadran beside him, reaching out a steadying hand that Kol shrugged off.
‘We thought you had fallen,’ Aphra said, striding over to Kol.
‘Not yet,’ Kol said, a grimace twisting his bitter smile. ‘Though they tried their hardest.’ He raised a hand to the wound on his torso. Close up, Bleda could see that Kol was pale, his face worn with fatigue and pain.
‘What happened?’ Riv asked matter-of-factly as she joined Aphra and Kol, who gave her a curt nod. It was hardly the loving reunion of a father and daughter, but then Riv disliked him almost as much as Bleda did.
‘We lost,’ Kol said.
‘We fled Drassil after your warning,’ Hadran said. ‘Tried to make it here, but there were too many wounded.’ His eyes flickered to Kol. ‘We had to stop, to stitch wounds, set bones. We flew on as soon as we could.’
‘What is happening here?’ Kol said, eyeing the circle suspiciously.
‘A council of war,’ Aphra said.
Kol looked from Bleda and the Sirak to the bedraggled White-Wings. He curled a lip.
‘Then it is a good thing I have arrived just in time.’
‘What do
you mean by that?’ Bleda said. He could feel his hatred fluttering in his veins.
‘I mean that I am High Captain of the Ben-Elim, Lord Protector of the Land of the Faithful. The White-Wings serve me. You are my ward, and the Sirak my ally.’ He stared at Bleda, a cold arrogance in his eyes, even with his coat of mail torn and blood seeping from a wound in his torso. ‘I mean that I command here.’
‘Things have changed,’ Bleda told him. ‘I am your ward no longer. You do not command me, or my people. I saw you fly away and leave my mother to die.’ A ripple of anger then that he could not contain. He felt a presence at his shoulder: Ellac, Ruga, Yul, all close behind him.
The Ben-Elim around him tensed, as did the Sirak warriors about the encampment. Hands went to hilts and bows creaked as they were drawn.
‘Peace,’ a voice said. Meical stepped between them. ‘This is not the time for blows. As you said so eloquently, Bleda, we are all enemies of Asroth. All other grievances should be put aside, for now.’ He stared at Bleda.
‘I will not fight him,’ Bleda said slowly. ‘But I will not serve him, either.’
Meical nodded. ‘Agreed,’ he said, that slight twist of his lips that passed for a smile.
‘And who made you lord and king?’ Kol spat, staring at Meical. ‘You lead no one, have no authority here. The last I saw you, you were in chains, and that’s where you should still be.’
Meical turned to face Kol.
‘I would like to see you try,’ Meical said with a small smile, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.
‘We have our own grievances, Kol, and I have not forgotten them,’ Meical continued. ‘But Asroth is loose, Drassil fallen, the Ben-Elim routed. This is not the time for the enemies of Asroth to fight amongst themselves.’
‘Meical is right,’ Aphra said. ‘This is a council of war amongst equals. Allies united against a common enemy.’
Kol looked at them all, then at his battered followers. Slowly he nodded, then waved his hand. ‘So, what has been decided?’
‘Decided? Nothing,’ Aphra said.
‘Meical was speaking to us,’ Bleda said. ‘Telling us of Asroth.’