by John Gwynne
Fen looked up at him, a rumbled growl deep in his chest. Then he stood, sniffed once at Keld’s cairn, whined, picked up the leg of lamb and padded after Drem.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
RIV
Riv sat in the dark and chewed on a hard biscuit. She missed Cullen’s pottage stew. In truth, she missed more than that. She missed the Order of the Bright Star. She missed her crew: Keld, Drem and Cullen.
She had been honoured and deeply touched when Keld had invited her into their group, and flying away the next morning had been a difficult thing to do. But she knew information had to be exchanged, the lines of communication opened up between the Ben-Elim and the Order of the Bright Star. And she missed her mother, too, was looking forward to seeing her.
Aphra, I hope that you are safe, and that you have made it to Ripa. I have so much to tell you.
A ten-night of hard flying, close to a hundred leagues travelled, and now Ripa was close. Riv looked up, a sky full of stars shimmering above her. The temperature had risen with every day travelled, although summer was waning. They had made camp tonight in a small dell, a few scattered alders around them. Meical had said no fires, as they had seen distant silhouettes in the sky that day. Kadoshim, circling far to the east.
Riv had been tempted to scout closer, but they only numbered eleven, and they were not looking for a fight.
Not yet.
Meical was sitting opposite her, his head bowed in thought.
He’s not much of a talker, for someone who has been Lord of the Ben-Elim, she thought.
Hadran and five other Ben-Elim sat with them, in a loose circle in the grass, the other three Ben-Elim on their watch shift. The night was warm, cloudless and bright, so Riv wasn’t missing the fire. She was feeling a tremor in her blood, though, but it was nothing to do with the cold. It was the thought of seeing Kol.
My father.
She thought of the last time she had seen him, at their makeshift council of war at the cabin in Forn, and the things that had been said.
‘What did Kol mean,’ Riv asked Meical, ‘about you being in chains, the last time he saw you?’
Meical looked up, eyes unfocused for a moment.
‘I was a prisoner, put in chains and thrown into a cell,’ Meical said.
Riv scowled. ‘Who by?’
Meical was quiet, looked at his hands.
‘By us,’ Hadran said with a frown. ‘By the Ben-Elim.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Riv said. ‘I thought you were High Captain of the Ben-Elim. Why would they throw you in gaol?’
‘I was their high captain,’ Meical said. ‘But it was decided by the Ben-Elim Assembly that I had become too close to humankind; to the people of the Banished Lands I had been living amongst. They thought my judgement was clouded by my emotions.’
‘Your emotions? What do you mean?’
‘My friendship with Corban.’
A long silence, then a twitch of his lips. ‘They were right, but I do not regret it. In truth, I thought that my emotions had finally opened my eyes, not clouded them.’
‘What was wrong with being friends with Corban?’
Meical glanced at Hadran, who sat with his head bowed. The other Ben-Elim were shifting where they sat, wings twitching uncomfortably.
‘You could tell her,’ Meical said to Hadran. ‘I would not speak ill of you.’
Hadran looked up, his dark hair glossy in the starlight. He drew in a deep breath.
‘The Ben-Elim decided that Meical had lost sight of our task, and our plan. We had strategies in place that had taken hundreds of years to come to fruition, and Meical was putting those plans at risk. He was no longer prepared to make the . . . sacrifices, that war sometimes requires.’ Hadran’s voice was stiff, wooden as he spoke.
‘I still don’t understand,’ Riv said. ‘What did you do for the Ben-Elim to imprison you?’
Meical looked at Hadran and the other Ben-Elim. Hadran just nodded.
‘I told Corban the truth.’ Meical shrugged. ‘That he had been lied to. That he and his kin, his family, were pawns in a great game. That they were a strategy in our Long War with the Kadoshim.’
Riv shook her head. ‘Why am I not surprised,’ she said bitterly. ‘The more I learn of the Ben-Elim, the more a fool I feel for blindly following them.’
Hadran stiffened. He opened his mouth, then stopped, his shoulders slumping.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘For my part, I regret much that has been done.’ He looked up at Riv, pain in his eyes.
She looked at him, wondered when exactly this cold, aloof warrior had gone from being her guard to her friend.
She smiled at him. ‘The past is done. Now, the next day. That is what is important. What truly matters.’
Hadran nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
‘Riv is right,’ Meical said. ‘The past is done. Over. My only regret is that it took me away from the fight, from Corban and the others.’
‘You were there at the end, though, at the battle. At the Day of Wrath.’
‘I was,’ Meical said. ‘But only because Corban ventured into the Otherworld and set me free. His friendship taught me much.’ He looked at Hadran and the other Ben-Elim. ‘For my part, I forgive the mistakes of the past. As long as lessons have been learned, and the same mistakes are not repeated, over and over.’
‘What lessons are those?’ Riv asked him.
‘That what we fight for is love and friendship. Not schemes and strategies, but people. Our kin, our friends. Our loved ones.’ He sighed. ‘That is what Corban taught me. The mistake is to forget that.’
‘That mistake will not be made by me,’ Hadran said. ‘Never again.’
Meical offered Hadran his arm. There was a moment as Hadran looked into Meical’s face, and then he took it in the warrior grip.
‘What of Kol, though?’ Riv said.
Meical sighed. ‘I cannot speak for him. But I will not stand by and watch him do wrong. If I can stop that, I will.’
‘So will I,’ Riv snarled.
Meical smiled.
‘I have no doubt of that, warrior of the Bright Star.’
The ground below Riv changed from the undulating green of Sarva’s trees to open meadows, a wide river flowing from the forest towards the sea. Ripa appeared, a fortress and town nestled in a bay of glistening blue, the river’s estuary curling around the town’s western border. A tower of white stone stood like a spike upon a hill, sharp cliffs on its south side dropping down to the bay. It was surrounded by a stout wooden fortress, buildings of wood and thatch spilling in tiers down the hill and rolling up to the bay, where scores of piers and jetties jutted into the sea. Masts were thick on the water, gulls crying above them.
Riv and her companions had been seen, other Ben-Elim spotting them a dozen leagues further inland, scouts guarding the approaches to Ripa.
And that is wise, from what we have seen.
Now an escort of white-winged Ben-Elim were leading them into Ripa, flying lower, swooping over sun-baked meadows that surrounded the fortress. Riv saw a hive of activity on the plains. A tall, long, palisaded wall ringed a half-circle about Ripa, roughly a league out from the fortress. Closer to the fortress there was a well-organized camp: rowed tents, hundreds of them, if not thousands, which was reassuring. Paddocks, fire-pits, cook-houses, grain stores. Riv could make out figures as small as ants sparring, others on marching drill. Her eyes lingered on the paddocks, hoping to see Sirak horses, smaller and hardier than the mounts the White-Wings used, but from this height she could not tell.
Erem, one of the Ben-Elim leading them in, shouted and gestured and they tucked their wings, diving out of the bright blue towards the tower on the hill. Horns were blowing, now, announcing their arrival, figures becoming clearer, warriors pointing up at them.
Riv and the group of Ben-Elim circled the tower and swept in close. At the tower’s peak Riv saw huge windows facing north, south, east and west. Erem checked his wings, slowed, and f
lew through one of those windows, disappearing into the tower.
They followed.
Riv beat her wings, slowing and hovering, then alighted upon a stone floor. The room was the interior of the tower, at its centre a huge table, a map of the Banished Lands carved into its top. Around it were a dozen Ben-Elim, elegant and beautiful, and standing about them were a handful of White-Wings, men and women with short-cropped hair, gleaming mail and polished cuirasses, the white wings of their order emblazoned upon their chests.
Kol stood at the centre of it all, leaning upon the huge table, staring at it. The last time Riv had seen him he had been pale-faced and battered, his mail torn, bandages seeping blood. Now, he was dressed and glowing like a god. His golden hair was tied back, bound in a thick warrior braid, a coat of mail trimmed at neck and sleeves with gold. A sword and knife hung at his belt, both scabbarded in soft leather bound with gold wire. He looked up as Riv flew in, his eyes flickering over her, settling upon Meical and Hadran.
‘Well, I was wondering where you were,’ Kol said. He looked Hadran and the other Ben-Elim up and down. ‘Fetch them food and drink,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘There were more of you when you left.’
‘We have seen battle,’ Hadran said. ‘A Revenant horde.’
‘Aye. Well, report,’ Kol said.
Hadran looked at Meical, who gave a slight nod. Kol saw it, his mouth thinning to a tight line.
‘The Order of the Bright Star are marching here, willing to unite with our forces,’ Hadran said. He paused. ‘The plan is proceeding as Meical proposed.’
‘It was my plan,’ Kol said defensively.
Hadran gaped at Kol, opened his mouth.
‘It does not matter who suggested the plan of uniting here against Asroth,’ Meical interrupted. ‘So long as that is what we do. Unite with our allies.’
Kol shot Meical a hard look.
‘I do not think you should be here. You were removed from your position of authority, deemed unfit and imprisoned. You have no right to be party to our council of war.’
Hadran gazed at Kol in shock.
‘This is wrong,’ he said. ‘Meical has fought with us, fought Asroth, he has every—’
‘Be silent, Hadran. You were in the Assembly that voted him removed from power; you were in the Assembly that voted me Lord Protector of the Banished Lands. My plan is going well. We have close to six thousand White-Wings here, another thousand marching from Haldis due any day, and a thousand Ben-Elim, those stationed on the southern coasts, or survivors of Drassil. We hardly need the Order of the Bright Star.’
‘You know that’s not true,’ Meical said calmly. ‘We all saw Asroth’s host at Drassil. And it is stronger now.’
‘Well, be that as it may,’ Kol said, ‘we certainly don’t need an outcast Ben-Elim’s help.’ He glared at Meical. ‘You disregarded the Ben-Elim Lore. Made a mockery of our traditions. Perhaps you should go back to a cell.’
I’ve had enough of this.
Riv strode forwards, Ben-Elim around Kol staring at her, standing in her way. She did not change her pace or direction, just walked through them, shoving them out of her way.
‘Talking of disobeying the Lore,’ she said, looking into Kol’s eyes fiercely. ‘Well met, Father. Have you missed me?’
A silence settled over the room, all staring at Kol and Riv. Slowly Riv saw understanding dawn in Ben-Elim eyes.
Dumah, a Ben-Elim that Riv remembered from the Assembly, stepped forwards.
‘You told us no one knew who her father was. You swore it, in front of the Assembly.’
‘I . . .’ Kol said, eyeing Riv with disgust. ‘She’s lying.’
‘No, she’s not,’ a voice spoke from the back of the room.
Riv turned, saw her mother, Aphra, standing there. Like Kol, she was gleaming in mail and leather. She looked strong, and back in the best of health. She strode through the room, Ben-Elim and White-Wings parting for her.
‘I am Riv’s mother, and Kol is her father,’ Aphra said to the room. She looked at Dumah and the other Ben-Elim and drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m sick of living this lie, it has been a poison in my life. Do to us what you will.’
Dumah looked between Kol, Riv and Aphra. Kol was pale, a tremor in his cheek.
Fear, or rage? Riv wondered. Probably a bit of both.
For herself, Riv felt no fear. Just a soaring elation, and a swell of love and pride for her mother. She reached out and took Aphra’s hand in hers.
Dumah turned to Kol, holding his gaze. Kol tried to return the look, but his eyes faltered and he dropped his head.
‘I may be an outcast Ben-Elim,’ Meical said quietly, ‘but I say Aphra and Riv are innocent in this. You,’ he said to Aphra, ‘were manipulated and seduced by someone you believed to be almost a god.’ He looked at Kol. ‘If anyone should answer for this, it is you.’ Murmurs of agreement rippled around the room. ‘But,’ Meical continued, ‘my advice is that any judgement should wait. There is a war out there. Asroth marches here, we have seen his war-host, and there is no room for discord amongst us. Not now. All who are the enemies of Asroth should put aside our differences and fight.’ He snarled the last word, wiped a hand over his face. ‘Because, let me tell you; divided we will fall.’
Dumah, Hadran and the other Ben-Elim all stared at Meical, as did the White-Wing captains.
No, Riv thought, let Kol be tried and cast out now. She felt her rage bubbling, the thought of Kol finally receiving some small measure of justice intoxicating to her.
‘Meical speaks wisdom,’ Hadran said. ‘Asroth is our enemy.’
Dumah frowned. ‘Lies and deceit within our midst, though,’ he muttered.
‘Deal with it after the war, if any of us still live,’ Meical said. ‘A Ben-Elim Assembly. I would demand it, anyway. I have my own grievances to air.’ He held Dumah’s gaze.
Riv breathed in, deep and slow. She had come to trust Meical, knew that what he said had logic in it, though every fibre of her being wanted to see Kol humbled and laid low.
‘I would be in agreement with that,’ Dumah said, ‘if the other captains amongst us agree.’
‘Most of them are here,’ Meical said. ‘What say you?’ he asked, looking around the room.
There were nods, mutters of agreement.
‘That is settled, then,’ Dumah said. ‘An Assembly when Asroth is defeated. Though until then Kol forfeits his title of lord protector. Decisions will be made by the Assembly.’
‘In consultation with our allies,’ Meical added.
Dumah looked at him, then nodded.
‘Good,’ Meical said.
‘Good,’ Kol echoed, as if this had been his plan all along.
Riv stared at Kol, stunned by his audacity.
‘Well met, daughter,’ he said, the twist of his crooked smile through his scar. ‘You are a great deal of trouble, you know. And a disobedient soldier. A White-Wing should do as they are ordered.’
‘I’m not a White-Wing,’ Riv said, tapping her cloak brooch with a cold smile of her own.
Kol looked at it, frowned.
‘What have you done now?’
‘Made the right choice,’ she said. ‘Truth and Courage.’
Kol rolled his eyes. ‘Dear Elyon above,’ he said.
Aphra put a hand on Riv’s shoulder.
‘I have been so worried for you, missed you so much,’ she said, and smiled at Riv, tears in her eyes.
In front of them all Riv wrapped her arms around Aphra and kissed her cheek.
‘I have missed you, too, Mother.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
FRITHA
Fritha poured a bucket of hot water over Asroth’s back; steam rose from the bath and she passed him a cup of wine.
‘Ah, by the Otherworld, but that feels so good.’ Asroth groaned. ‘The pleasures of this world of flesh are never-ending.’ He twisted in the bath to look back at her, water spilling.
She was refilling the bucket from a barrel in the corner of
their huge tent and hanging the bucket to warm over a fire-pit.
‘Let someone else do that. Join me,’ Asroth said.
It was not a suggestion.
Fritha unbuckled her weapons-belt, lay it over a chair, then jumped and wriggled out of her coat of mail. Then her boots and breeches came off and finally her tunic. Quickly she lifted a leg over the bathtub rim and gasped as she eased herself into the hot water, sat facing Asroth, steam rising in curls between them.
He took a sip from his cup of wine, a red stain on his lips.
‘You are beautiful,’ Fritha said to him, taking in the sharp lines of his cheeks, the black wells that were his eyes, muscle of shoulders and chest thick and striated.
He just smiled at her.
‘You cannot hide it from me,’ Asroth said casually.
Fritha raised an eyebrow.
He leaned forwards, his hand moving beneath the water. Fingertips brushed her stomach, making her shiver.
‘Your belly. My child,’ he said.
They had not spoken of it up until now. Fritha had guessed that Asroth knew, but she did not want to risk being banned from battle, so hadn’t mentioned it.
She smiled at Asroth. ‘I am honoured that your seed grows within me,’ she said.
‘As you should be,’ he replied, brushing away a strand of silver hair that had fallen across his face. ‘Your name will live on in history, long after your bones have crumbled to dust.’
That was not a particularly warming thought for Fritha. She did not care much for glory, or for what may come to be after she was dead and gone. She wanted things now. Revenge. Success. A child. A family to belong to, to look after.
‘A child. My child,’ Asroth murmured. ‘It is a strange thought, but not unpleasant. I think I will enjoy being a father.’
‘You will be a good father,’ she said.
‘Maybe.’ He sipped more wine. ‘Can you fight, with our child in your belly?’ He sounded genuinely interested.