A Time of Courage

by John Gwynne

  ‘Aye,’ Fritha said. She shrugged. ‘There will come a time when I can’t, but the war should be won by then.’

  ‘Good,’ Asroth grunted. He stretched in the bath, his foot rising beside Fritha’s shoulder, black-nailed toes wriggling. ‘I am eager for battle now,’ he said, a smile creasing his face. ‘How long until we reach Ripa?’

  They had left the trees of Forn Forest behind them a ten-night ago, travelled through the passes of the Bairg Mountains and were now marching across leagues of gently rolling meadows and dells. Their pace had picked up each day, with Aenor finally teaching his acolytes the rudiments of marching.

  ‘A moon and a half, perhaps two moons.’ Fritha shook her head. ‘You were in no rush to begin this march, and yet now you wish it were over?’

  Asroth looked at Fritha a long while, under heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘I find your company refreshing,’ he said. ‘And I am inclined to tell you a truth. Can I trust you?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Fritha said. ‘I would rather cut my unborn child from my belly than betray you.’ Though even as she said the words, she knew she did not mean them. Her child was everything to her.

  ‘I will hold you to that,’ Asroth said.

  Fritha looked at him. ‘A truth,’ she prompted.

  ‘I wanted to leave Drassil much sooner, but I . . . feared.’

  ‘Feared what?’ she asked with a frown.

  ‘Losing.’ He looked to the entrance of their tent where a curtain hung, saw the shadow of a Kadoshim guard outside.

  ‘Gulla,’ he breathed. ‘He is much changed. More powerful now. And he has the Seven about him, and his host of Revenants. He is my captain, has always been loyal, but since I have returned, there is a change in him. He has tasted his newfound power, and liked it.’

  Fritha nodded. There was always a knot of worry in her belly about Gulla, and what he was capable of.

  ‘You made him this powerful,’ Asroth said. ‘But at Drassil I knew I had the starstone metal, and that the forge was somewhere within the fortress. I needed those weapons.’ He looked over at the long axe leaning against his coat of mail that was hung on a cross-frame. His battle-helm and whip hung over one arm, his weapons-belt with his black-bladed knife over the other.

  ‘When I awoke, I felt weak. And discovering I was missing a hand did not help that.’ He lifted his arm out of the water and looked at his new right hand, made a fist. Fritha could see the scar-line and stitch marks a little way above his wrist, and to her eye the flesh of his hand looked slightly paler than the rest of his arm, but to most it would look almost normal.

  ‘I am stronger, now, and the starstone strengthens me more. It was created in a place between this world of flesh and the Otherworld, and took power from both. I can feel its strength when I wear it. I am not so worried about Gulla now.’

  Fritha stroked the swell of her belly beneath the water.

  ‘I have a truth to share with you, too,’ she said. ‘You know that Gulla and his Revenants do not feel pain like us. They can take a wound that would slay or disable any one of us.’

  ‘Aye.’ Asroth nodded.

  ‘In the Desolation, Ulf, one of the Seven, was with me. He was slain with a rune-marked blade.’ She paused. ‘I worked such runes into your long axe and knife. And my short-sword.’

  Asroth stared at her a long while, then chuckled.

  ‘No wonder Gulla fears you,’ he said.

  ‘Fears me?’ Fritha said. ‘Hates me, more like.’

  ‘You need not worry about him, my bride,’ Asroth said.

  ‘I am worried where he is,’ Fritha said.

  ‘He has been gone too long,’ Asroth agreed.

  Over a moon ago Gulla had left them, taking Rald, one of his Seven, a Revenant horde and a guard of Kadoshim and half-breeds. Their destination was Brikan, with orders to destroy whatever skeleton guard remained. It should have been a simple task and they should have been back by now. Fritha was most worried because Morn had gone with Gulla.

  ‘And I worry about other things,’ Fritha said. ‘Where are Jin and her three thousand Clansmen? We are a moon from Ripa. She should be with us by now.’

  Asroth waved a hand. ‘With or without her the Ben-Elim will fall.’

  Fritha was not so sure.

  Drassil was a well-timed ambush. We took them by surprise. Ripa will not be like that. I do not trust Gulla and his Revenants, and without them we have four thousand acolytes, plus the Kadoshim and their half-breeds. I have seen what a White-Wing shield wall is capable of and the Ben-Elim are more than a match for the Kadoshim.

  ‘We have other allies, remember,’ Asroth said, sipping his wine.

  ‘Allies we have never seen or spoken with,’ Fritha said.

  ‘Gulla has spoken with them, and Sulak is in the sky, watching them,’ Asroth said. ‘You worry too much.’

  And you worry too little. Have these pleasures of the flesh overwhelmed you? We need strategy, not brute force. We must not underestimate the Ben-Elim and their forces.

  It was the next morning that Gulla swept into Asroth’s tent, Morn a few steps behind him. Kadoshim guards were stationed inside the tent now, Fritha seated at a table with Asroth. Aenor was there, too. Elise was lurking in the shadows. Wrath lay outside the tent’s entrance – he was too big to fit through the opening.

  ‘More wine,’ Asroth said, holding his cup out, an acolyte servant hurrying forwards with a jug to fill it. Wine was offered to Fritha, too, but she held a hand over her cup.

  A clear mind, whenever Gulla is around. It seems that Asroth enjoys his wine too much to care.

  Gulla was walking with a limp, a bandage around his thigh, and another wrapped around his chest and back, threaded between his wings. His brows were knotted in a glower over his one red eye. Behind him Morn looked worse. Her face was a lattice of red-scabbed wounds, a bandage wrapped high around her chest, a spot of blood on the linen, and one of her wings was frayed and tattered.

  ‘What happened?’ Asroth asked, looking Gulla up and down.

  ‘There were more of the Order at Brikan than expected,’ Gulla said. ‘And Byrne’s vanguard arrived before we had finished them.’

  ‘Vanguard?’ Asroth said.

  ‘They were half-breed Ben-Elim,’ Morn said. ‘Skilled with bow and spear.’

  Fritha sucked in a breath, felt as if she had just been punched.

  Half-breed Ben-Elim, like my daughter.

  My daughter, who the Ben-Elim murdered.

  Fritha had seen one of these half-breeds in Drassil, at the battle within the Great Hall when Asroth had been freed. A fair-haired warrior with dapple-grey wings. She had dragged Meical to safety. Fritha felt an unnatural hatred for her, that she was alive where her own daughter was dead.

  ‘We slew many of them,’ Gulla said, ‘but the battle was hard fought, and we were forced to retreat before more of Byrne’s advance arrived.’

  Asroth’s lip curled. He gestured for Gulla to sit and offered him a cup of wine.

  ‘I do not drink that anymore,’ Gulla said. ‘I have other tastes.’

  ‘Of course,’ Asroth said. ‘I keep forgetting. You are wounded,’ he added. ‘I did not think you could be wounded now, or that you did not feel the pain from it.’ He waved his hand.

  Gulla reached inside his cloak and drew out a hand-axe. He threw it onto the table with a clatter.

  ‘There is worse news,’ he said. ‘The Order of the Bright Star have forged weapons that can hurt us. Slay us. Me, my Revenants.’

  ‘Like Ulf in the Desolation,’ Fritha said. Gulla shot her a glowering look from his red eye.

  ‘Rald is dead,’ Gulla said, bowing his head. ‘Thousands of my Revenant horde fallen with one blow.’

  ‘That is a blow,’ Fritha murmured. She reached forwards and took the axe, lifted it and turned it. It was well balanced, a single, slightly hooked blade, weighted for throwing. She ran her thumb along its edge, saw pearls of blood bead on her thumb. She smeared the blood o
ver the blade.

  ‘Nochtann,’ she whispered.

  The blade seemed to shimmer a moment, her blood bubbling, and then runes appeared, carved into the iron of the axe-head. Fritha bent closer, studying the runes.

  ‘Misneach,’ she murmured, looked up at Gulla and the others. ‘Courage.’

  Morn made a disgusted sound in her throat.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ Fritha asked.

  ‘Morn pulled it from out of my back,’ Gulla snarled. He rolled his shoulders, grimaced.

  ‘Drem threw it,’ Morn said, staring straight at Fritha.

  ‘Drem?’

  ‘Aye, the man who slew my brother.’

  ‘I know who he is,’ Fritha said.

  The man she had chased from one end of the Desolation to the other. Who she had offered a place at her side.

  And he spurned me.

  I did kill his father.

  ‘I tried to kill him,’ Morn said, ‘came so close.’

  ‘It looks as if he came closer to killing you,’ Asroth said drily, looking at Morn’s wounds.

  ‘This was not him,’ Morn said. ‘The huntsman’s wolven-hounds tried to eat me. I put a knife in one of them. Father tore the huntsman’s throat out,’ she said, with a smile at Fritha.

  ‘He slew Rald,’ Gulla growled.

  ‘The huntsman who led the escape through the Desolation,’ Morn said to Fritha.

  ‘Good,’ Fritha said, remembering him. A man she guessed was high in the Order of the Bright Star.

  ‘The Ben-Elim half-breeds put an arrow in me,’ Morn continued, touching the bandage across her chest, ‘that Father cut out.’ She clicked her neck. ‘And that white bear did this to my wing.’ She extended one wing, showing Fritha where claws had raked it.

  ‘The white bear?’ Fritha asked. She had come across a white bear before, and was not fond of it.

  ‘Yes, the white bear,’ Morn said. ‘And I will kill it.’

  A rattle sounded from the shadows of the tent, Elise emerging. ‘I hate that white bear,’ she hissed. During the battle in the Desolation the white bear had nearly crushed Elise.

  ‘So does Wrath, don’t you, my darling?’ Fritha called out.

  A deep rumbling growl echoed in from beyond the tent’s entrance, the wind of Wrath’s breath stirring the curtain.

  ‘You fought that white bear, didn’t you?’ Fritha called out to her draig.

  ‘Wrath smaller then. Wrath big now. Wrath eat white bear if see it again.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Asroth said, laughing. He looked at them all. ‘So, my grudge with Meical is not the only one that will be settled before the walls of Ripa, then.’

  ‘No,’ Fritha answered, thinking of Drem. ‘Not if the Order of the Bright Star are marching to Ripa.’

  ‘I hope they are,’ Asroth said. ‘All our enemies in one place. I am growing tired of this constant marching. Better to fight them all and be done with it.’

  Although if they unite that would make our enemies stronger. Better to fight them separately, divided and weaker.

  ‘They are marching south,’ Gulla said. ‘Whether they are marching to Ripa to unite with our allies, or just pursuing us, I do not know.’ He lifted his palms. ‘Either way, we shall face them on the battlefield soon.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried about that prospect,’ Asroth said.

  ‘I have just lost thousands of warriors.’ Gulla tried to keep the anger Fritha could see clear upon his face from spilling out in his voice.

  ‘They were only Revenants, though. Surely you can just make more,’ Asroth said, waving airily, and smiled. ‘After all, there are plenty of blood-filled humans between here and Ripa in the south.’

  Gulla nodded thoughtfully at that. A slow smile crept across his face.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  RIV

  ‘Has there been any sign of Bleda?’ Riv asked Aphra, who was striding in front of her through the warren of the White-Wings’ camp beyond the walls of Ripa.

  ‘No,’ Aphra said, looking over her shoulder. She saw the look that settled over Riv’s face.

  ‘Should be any day now,’ she added reassuringly.

  Riv just grunted, chewing her lip.

  She followed Aphra through the camp, the rising sun already hot, casting the world in red and gold. Tents were set in orderly rows, thousands of them. Despite dawn only just breaking, everywhere was motion, the camp waking into life like a living, breathing machine. Fire-pits burned, meat turning on spits, pots boiling, porridge bubbling, people sitting on benches, eating and drinking. In another section White-Wing warriors sparred, drilled the shield wall, voices and the clack-clack of practice blades.

  ‘Here we are,’ Aphra said, as they passed through a long row of tents and stepped into another open space of cook-fires and sparring ground.

  Conversation stopped, those sparring stuttering to a halt, as all paused in whatever they were doing to look at Riv.

  So many faces.

  Familiar faces: Aphra’s garrison of White-Wings, the survivors from Drassil. Riv saw Ert, the old sword master, and Fia scooping water from a barrel with a ladle and washing her baby. Avi, how he had grown, a shock of dark hair on him. Bull-muscled Sorch was there, on his knees with a practice sword in his hand, a young boy attacking him.

  Tam.

  There was a silence and then a cheer rose up amongst them.

  ‘Why are they cheering me?’ Riv said.

  ‘Because none of us would be here if not for you, Riv,’ Aphra said. ‘You saved us.’

  ‘Meical helped,’ Riv said, uncomfortable.

  ‘Aye, he did,’ Aphra said. ‘But without you, we would have been food for crows that day, and they all know it.’

  People came forward, slapping Riv on the shoulder, offering their arm in the warrior grip, hugging her, welcoming her back. Aphra ushered her through the crowd, Riv nodding and smiling, and then she was being sat upon a bench and given a pot of porridge and a board of sliced meat, fried onions and bread.

  ‘Riv,’ a voice called, a figure shoving through the crowd around her.

  ‘Jost!’ Riv said, putting her food to one side and standing, embracing her friend. They held each other tight, silent for long moments.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said when they parted. ‘It’s been too quiet. No brawling fights, no having to guard your back. I haven’t had a black eye in at least three moons.’

  ‘I’m sure I can fix that for you,’ Riv said, and they both grinned.

  ‘Sit, eat with us,’ Aphra said, and Riv did, Jost hurrying off to fetch a jug of water and a handful of cups. Fia joined them, carrying Avi under one arm.

  ‘Wings,’ the boy said, pointing at Riv.

  ‘Aye, aren’t they fine?’ Fia said. ‘One day you’ll have your own wings, just like that.’ She held her hand out and squeezed Riv’s shoulder.

  ‘So, what’s the news?’ Jost asked, as he sat down beside Riv.

  ‘There was a battle at Dun Seren, a host of Revenants chasing the survivors of Ardain.’

  ‘Revenants?’ Aphra asked.

  ‘Mist-walkers,’ Riv said. ‘They were created by Fritha, High Priestess of the Kadoshim. She changed Gulla using dark magic and Asroth’s right hand, made him into something new. The first Revenant.’

  ‘Fritha,’ Aphra said.

  ‘Aye. It was her at Drassil, who rode upon the winged draig.’

  ‘I know her,’ Aphra said, going pale. ‘Or of her. She was a White-Wing. Just . . . disappeared. I suspected that Kol or one of his inner circle were the reason.’ She looked at Fia, who nodded.

  ‘Well, she hates us and the Ben-Elim, sure enough,’ Jost said. ‘I saw her at Drassil.’

  ‘If she was anything to do with Kol, then she has good reason,’ Riv muttered.

  ‘Careful,’ Aphra said, looking about. ‘You are amongst friends now, but Kol is powerful here, and he has many eyes and ears in this camp.’

  ‘What happened, in this battle?’ Jost asked Riv.r />
  So Riv told them of the battle upon the meadows where Nara and her people were saved, and then of the assault upon Dun Seren, about the effects of being bitten, about the Revenants’ towers of bodies and limbs, how flame deterred them, about the Order’s rune-marked blades. About the rush for the tunnels beneath the fortress and of Arvid’s fall, though she did not say that it was her who had killed Arvid.

  And then she told them of Faelan and the half-breed Ben-Elim.

  ‘Elyon above,’ Aphra breathed. ‘So many years, so many lives damaged by Kol and his hubris.’

  ‘Aye,’ Riv grunted. ‘They will be here soon, with the Order of the Bright Star.’ She looked at Fia and Avi. ‘Your son will not be as alone as you feared. The Order protected them, kept them secret and safe for over sixty years.’

  ‘Sounds as if you like this Order of the Bright Star,’ Jost said. ‘I thought they were supposed to be a poor image of us. Weaker, less skilled.’

  ‘The truth is something altogether different from that,’ Riv said. ‘I like them a great deal. I took their oath. I am one of them.’ She showed them her cloak brooch, the bright star gleaming, freshly polished.

  ‘But you are a White-Wing,’ Jost breathed, ‘one of us.’

  ‘No, I failed my warrior trial, remember? I was never deemed good enough by the Ben-Elim. And now, even if I wanted to be a White-Wing, I do not think I would fit so well into a shield wall.’ She gave her wings a ripple. ‘That is where you White-Wings are more skilled than the Order of the Bright Star, the shield wall,’ she said.

  Jost sat a little straighter at that.

  ‘In all else martial, the Order of the Bright Star excel. But that is not why I took their oath.’

  ‘Why did you swear their oath?’ Aphra asked.

  Riv had thought on this long and hard in the days since she had alighted on the weapons-field at Dun Seren.

  ‘Because of what they stand for,’ Riv said. ‘Even their battle-cry is Truth and Courage. Truth. Not the lie I have lived at Drassil. That we have all lived. Just speaking to Meical on the journey here has revealed so much more of the Ben-Elim’s deception.’ She shook her head. ‘And Courage. That is something that we all value and believe in. I am a fighter.’ She shrugged. ‘Born and trained to kill. But when I fight with the Order of the Bright Star, I know it is for the right reasons.’