by John Gwynne
Fifty paces, forty, twenty, the world a thundering storm around him, the very earth seemed to be shaking.
He leaned low in his saddle and chose a giant, a woman, one of their long-bladed spears in her hands. She saw him, her draig shifting to meet him. He nocked and loosed, nocked and loosed, saw his first arrow skitter off the giant’s lamellar coat, the second pierce her thigh, the third punch through her plate coat into her shoulder. Then her spear was swinging at him and he was throwing himself to the side, gripping the saddle pommel with one hand, guiding Dilis wide. The spear hissed through the air above him and he thundered past the giant, dragging himself upright, snatching at arrows and putting all three into the next draig as he sped past it.
Behind him he heard a crunching impact and the screaming of horses. He saw his Sirak were amongst the Shekam, swerving between draigs, arrows hissing through the air like hornets. Giants were falling, draigs screaming, some stumbling and collapsing, their hides pin-cushioned, some with arrows buried deep in their eye-sockets, but Sirak were falling, too, draigs lashing out with claws, lacerating flesh, huge jaws snapping, tearing at horses, snatching riders from their saddles. Bleda snarled and urged his horse back into the blood and death.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
FRITHA
Wrath flew over the plain, Fritha watching the battle unfold. Asroth flew beside her, a hundred Kadoshim surrounding them. On the ground below, Arn led Fritha’s honour guard down the hill, Elise slithering along beside them. Only the five hundred acolytes remained on the hill, Asroth’s honour guard. He had ordered them to hold their position.
Fritha and Asroth passed over Aenor’s acolytes, over a thousand warriors marching in loose order.
The shieldburg was still holding, a tide of Revenants swarming over it like ants. On the flanks a swirling battle raged between Jin’s Cheren, who were slaughtering mounted warriors, and the Shekam upon their draigs carving into the riders who had attacked the Revenants’ flank. She glimpsed other riders, like the Cheren, loosing arrows at draigs, so they had to be the Sirak.
That must be Bleda the Cunning, she thought, remembering how one of Jin’s captains had spoken of Bleda during the feast last night.
And above all of this the Kadoshim and their offspring swirled above the battle, swooping and stabbing. Beyond the shieldburg there was a large block of riders, as yet not committed to the battle. They were moving, now, splitting into two groups. That concerned Fritha, as Asroth had thrown all of their host into this battle, with only the acolytes on the hill in reserve, and they were too far away to achieve anything. There was no time to worry, though, the battle was rushing towards them.
‘Me first,’ Asroth said, as he twisted through the air, speeding towards the shieldburg.
The din of battle eddied up to Fritha on a wind from the south, but over it all she heard Asroth’s voice, deep and sonorous.
‘Talamh, croith, ceangail mo namhaid,’ he cried, descending towards the battlefield.
The shieldburg still stood, shields battered and torn, but solid, and dead Revenants ringed it like sand piled by the sea.
Asroth alighted on the ground, strode on a few steps, his wings folding behind him.
‘Talamh, croith, ceangail mo namhaid,’ he cried out again, raising his palms.
The ground between Asroth and the shieldburg rippled, as if a huge serpent were passing beneath it. There was a tremor in the shields, gaps opening as warriors stumbled and swayed. Asroth’s hundred Kadoshim landed behind him, curled around him, swords and spears raised.
‘TALAMH, CROITH, CEANGAIL MO NAMHAID!’ Asroth bellowed, at the same time shrugging his long axe from his back.
The ground shuddered, soil exploding beneath the shieldburg. Warriors were thrown in all directions, fell stumbling into the open. Asroth strode forwards, his axe swinging in a great looping arc, and shields were splintered, bodies broken.
Part of the shieldburg collapsed, a large area of the ground before Asroth shifting like quicksand, warriors sinking into it, trying to pull free, Asroth’s axe chopping into them, cutting them down like wheat at harvest. Asroth pushed into the shieldburg, the rippling shifting away from him, ground solidifying beneath his feet as he trod upon it.
Orders were bellowed as White-Wings tried to reform into better shape, others running at him, weapons raised. Kadoshim swept in, guarding Asroth’s flanks, stabbing and cutting, warriors falling, some defending against the Kadoshim, fighting back as Asroth carved ever deeper, like a wedge hammered into the crack of a stone.
And then Fritha was muttering to Wrath, the draig’s wings shifting, tilting, banking to the left, hurtling straight towards the eastern flank of the shieldburg, where warriors with round shields were reorganizing into a shield wall.
‘Smash them,’ Fritha said to Wrath.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
DREM
Drem’s hand moved absently to the pulse at his throat.
He had never seen such a scene before. The battles in the Desolation and at Dun Seren were as nothing compared to this. To the north there was a mass of acolyte warriors marching at speed towards the battle. In front of him giants upon draigs were thundering across the plain, Drem glimpsing Bleda’s Sirak and warriors of Ardain flitting amongst them, behind them a shield wall made of White-Wings and warriors of the Order. In the skies Kadoshim and their offspring flew, swooping and shrieking. The noise was deafening – shouting, screaming, roaring, the clash of steel – all of it blending into a colossal, vocal pandemonium. He resisted the urge to put his hands over his ears.
Beyond the draigs and riders something was happening to the shield wall. It was rippling and swaying, warriors falling. A figure in dark mail and black wings was wielding a long axe in great, looping circles.
‘Asroth,’ Ethlinn growled.
He was taller than all those around him. White-Wings ran at him and were hacked down with his axe. He seemed unstoppable.
And then Drem saw something in the sky, low, hurtling towards the shield wall.
A draig with wings. And Fritha was upon its back.
She killed my da. And she killed Sig.
The anxiety in his veins shifted, something both hot and cold running through them. His fingers twitched for his seax.
The draig smashed into the shield wall, a concussive explosion.
‘Ach, we’re late,’ Balur One-Eye spat. ‘Best be getting in there before it’s all over. Asroth needs putting down, and his pet draig.’
‘Yes,’ Drem growled, a hot anger melting his fear.
‘We will have to carve a way to him through the Shekam and their draigs,’ Ethlinn said.
‘Aye,’ Ukran grinned, as if he were looking forward to it. He hefted a double-bladed battle-axe.
Drem had thought the Shekam and their draigs would be unstoppable; he remembered full well his encounter with one draig in the Bonefells. Even Hammer, a giant bear, had been hard-pressed. But Bleda had spoken to them all during the night, assured them they could be beaten, with the right tactics: his Sirak archers and a flanking attack from Ethlinn and her bear-riders. The draigs outnumbered them, but the bears were all wearing coats of mail, which helped to balance the odds. Drem had believed Bleda and trusted his plan. Now, though, seeing the draigs and giants . . .
Bleda and his Sirak are slowing them, so perhaps he was right. But he is alone, outnumbered, he needs us, now.
‘This is as far as you go,’ Tain said to Craf, who was perched upon his shoulder. Other crows flew in a slow spiral high above the crow and crow master.
‘Craf brave, Craf fight,’ the crow squawked.
‘I know you’re brave,’ Tain said gently, ‘but we need your eyes and your wits more than your beak and talons. Here,’ Tain said, offering his wrist to Craf. The crow jumped onto it and Tain lifted his arm up into the boughs of a tree that loomed over them.
‘Craf watch, think, help,’ the crow said, and then hopped onto a branch. ‘Tain be careful, or Craf be sad.’
Raina shrugged her round shield from her shoulder and took her single-handed hammer from her belt. Rolled her wrist. All along the line warriors checked weapons, adjusted grips. Drem pulled on the buckle of his iron helm, making sure it was tight. He took his round shield from its saddle hook and checked the grip, then tugged his boiled leather gloves on and drew his sword.
‘On me,’ Ethlinn said, and without another word she was riding out from the trees onto the plain, her long spear in her fist. Balur strode at her side.
Drem looked down at Reng, who led the Order’s huntsmen.
‘I’ll swing wide and hit those big bastards from the other flank,’ Reng said. ‘You’re welcome to join us, but probably best if your white-furred friend charges with the other bears.’
‘Aye.’ Drem nodded.
Reng gave him a grim smile. ‘I’ll meet you in the middle,’ he said, and then he was riding off, the Order’s hunters following him, a pack of wolven-hounds wrapped in mail loping across the plain.
Drem saw the Shekam crashing into the bulk of Queen Nara’s warriors, heard the screams of horses.
‘We’ve come a long way from the snow and ice of the Bonefells,’ Drem said, leaning forwards and patting Friend’s neck. He blew out a long breath and then Friend was lumbering out from the trees, Fen loping at their side, the three of them quickly catching up with Ethlinn and her giants. Friend made for Hammer and pushed in between her and another bear. Her head swung towards Friend and she rumbled a greeting. Alcyon looked over at Drem and gave him a nod.
‘This is it, lad,’ Alcyon said. ‘All the grief they’ve given us and this world. Time to give them some back.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Drem said, his eyes searching for Fritha upon her draig.
And then Ethlinn was charging, all of them following.
Drem shifted in his saddle, felt his blood pounding like a drum in his head, had a flash of his father’s face, blood on his lips, heard his father’s voice in his head.
Sometimes the only answer is blood and steel.
The gap between bears and draigs closed. Sirak warriors were swerving and wheeling around the Shekam like a swarm of angry bees, Shekam giants roaring and swinging their huge, long-bladed spears. Drem saw a Sirak decapitated, a horse’s side opened up from shoulder to flank, another horse hurled from its feet by a draig’s lashing tail. But giants and draigs were falling, too, studded with a multitude of arrows. Some of the Shekam were looking their way now, roaring out warnings to their kin, draigs turning. It was too late, Ethlinn’s line of bears was an unstoppable avalanche of meat and bone, leather and steel. Balur bellowed a battle-cry, Sig’s sword raised high, two-handed over his head.
Sirak riders were bolting away.
Then the bears crashed into the Shekam.
Friend ploughed into the side of a draig, the giant upon its back thrown from his saddle and disappearing in the crush. The impact threw Drem forwards in his saddle. The draig was shoved a score of paces by Friend, claws scrabbling in the dirt for purchase, and then it was coming back at them. Friend lashed out with his claws, opened red lines down the draig’s shoulder and neck. The creature roared, head whipping around, jaws biting into Friend’s shoulder and chest. The mail protected Friend from the worst of it, but the draig’s canines tore through iron links, sinking into the flesh beneath.
Friend’s paw slapped the draig’s head, raking a bloody trail down the beast’s muzzle. Drem leaned and chopped with his father’s sword, saw another deep gash open in the draig’s shoulder. The animal released its grip on Friend and stumbled away.
The draig’s rider appeared, limping, dragging himself back into the saddle. He drew a curved, thick-bladed tulwar that was strapped to the draig’s harness.
‘On,’ Drem urged Friend. Blood pulsed from the puncture wounds in Friend’s torn mail.
The giant and draig rushed at them, the draig’s jaws wide, the giant raising his sword.
They came together in a crash of muscle, fur and scales, teeth clashing as draig and bear tore at each other. The giant swung his curved sword at Drem, who deflected it on his shield, the blow shivering through his arm. Drem steered the blow wide and lunged with his sword. It stabbed into the giant’s belly, scraped along mail plates, slipped between two and sliced through leather. The giant yelled as he swung his sword again, Drem throwing himself backwards as the sword hissed past his face.
Drem and the giant were both shaken in their saddles as bear and draig slammed against each other, biting and tearing.
There was a flash of iron and grey fur and Fen was leaping onto the back of the draig and hurling himself at the giant. Jaws clamped on the giant’s shoulder and neck, a savage shake of Fen’s head and the giant was screaming, blood erupting. Drem stabbed his sword into the giant’s throat and he was toppling from his saddle, Fen falling with him, still snarling and tearing.
Friend’s muzzle and fur were soaked red, claw marks raking the bear’s neck, but the draig was in worse condition. The two beasts were close in size, but Friend’s coat of mail had turned the balance and the draig staggered back, a tremor in its legs, its head and neck lacerated. Friend must have bitten deep, because a gout of arterial blood spurted from the draig. It swayed, then its legs gave out and it crashed to the ground, tail lashing.
Drem cuffed sweat from his eyes, his left arm throbbing from the giant’s sword-blows upon his shield. Amidst the ever-moving chaos and madness he glimpsed Balur One-Eye, covered in blood, swinging Sig’s longsword around his head, chopping into a draig’s neck, half-severing it. Ethlinn was upon her bear, swirling her spear two-handed, a clatter of wood and steel as she duelled with a Shekam giant upon a draig. Sirak riders were swerving and loosing arrows. Raina was battered to her knees, holding her shield up as a giant chopped at her, Alcyon bellowing and hacking with his twin axes, trying to reach her. Reng’s charge of horse crashed into the Shekam’s flank, sixty wolven-hounds running before them, leaping up at draigs and giants in a snarling, snapping wave. Close by, Tain was trading blows with a Shekam giant, Tain stumbling backwards. A squawking, deafening noise above – Drem glanced up to see a murder of huge black crows spinning downwards, swirling about the giant attacking Tain, pecking, raking him with their talons. The giant bellowed, rivulets of blood running down his face. He slashed with his long spear, birds squawking, an explosion of black feathers, a handful of crows falling dead, others continuing their barrage upon him.
He saw Queen Nara, yelling, wielding her sword, rallying her battered warriors. A Shekam giant rode at her, swung his spear, Nara swaying, parrying, but the spear’s angle changed, the blade skimming over her sword, chopping into Nara’s neck. There was a fountain of blood as she toppled from her saddle. Beside her Madoc, Nara’s first-sword, screamed, his horse pressed tight in a melee. In one fluid movement he lifted his feet from his stirrups and stood upon his saddle, dropped his shield and drew a knife from his belt, then leaped at the giant who had slain Nara. He crashed into the Shekam, sword and knife swinging and stabbing, the giant crying out. They tumbled to the ground together.
Drem hefted his shield, gritted his teeth and looked for a way through to Fritha and her draig. He couldn’t see her through the tumult of battle, his vision filled with giants and draigs.
I’ll have to carve a way to her, he thought, and looked about for someone else to kill. Friend charged at another draig.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
RIV
Riv hovered over the shieldburg, watching warriors hurled through the air by the winged draig. She looked at Byrne, who sat upon a horse with a thousand warriors of the Bright Star mounted behind her.
‘Now.’ Byrne nodded, raised her fist. A horn blew.
Ben-Elim lifted into the air, wings beating, a few hundred of them rising from behind Byrne’s riders.
Riv’s wings beat, taking her higher.
‘Riv,’ a voice called up to her. Meical, sitting upon a white stallion beside Byrne, one of his wing-arches tightly
bandaged. Cullen was upon a horse next to him, the young warrior looking as if he was going to explode with frustration.
‘Wait for us. We kill Asroth together,’ Meical said to her.
She looked at him but said nothing, just drew her short-sword and black dagger, a trail of smoke curling around its blade. She flew higher, joining the flight of Ben-Elim, and saw Kol, still bandaged, his face a lattice of scabbed cuts. He held a spear in his fist, a score of his loyal supporters about him. All Riv could think about was her mother, and her killer, Asroth, down in the shield wall with a winged draig beside him. Behind her she heard horns blowing, Byrne’s riders moving.
The shield wall was splintering. Asroth was carving a wedge deep into it, his Kadoshim protecting his flanks. Orders and horns were ringing out, the front rows that had already been split apart were trying to form new, smaller shield walls.
They need to do it quickly, Riv thought, seeing a wall of acolytes moving rapidly across the field towards them.
The din of battle rolled across the field in waves. Bears and draigs were fighting in a frenzied maul, Sirak riders swirling through the combat like mist. Riv’s eyes searched for Bleda, but there was no chance of recognizing him, the fight too fluid and fast. There was no telling who was winning.
And then she had no more time to think, the Kadoshim suddenly thick in the air about her. She swayed out of the way of a spear-thrust, the blade stabbing past her face; she beat her wings to sweep inside its range, and pushed both of her blades into the Kadoshim’s body. It plummeted to the ground. Riv flew on, weaving amongst the Kadoshim and their offspring. A half-breed slammed into her, the two of them locked, spinning, the half-breed headbutting Riv in the face. She heard her nose crunch, breaking for the second time in two days, tasted blood in her throat, shook her head and headbutted the half-breed back. They separated, a clash of steel as Riv parried a sword-blow, slashed with her knife, leaving a red line along the half-breed’s forearm.