by John Gwynne
Mail tore, blood spurted.
Friend roared, pain-filled.
Drem hacked desperately at the draig’s head, slicing red strips, but the thick skull turned his blade. Fritha stabbed at him with her spear, Drem swiping the blade wide with his shield, chopped at the shaft, Fritha whipping it back.
A blur of grey fur and iron mail leaped at the draig’s head, Fen snapping and snarling, claws scrabbling for purchase, the wolven-hound’s jaws biting down into the draig’s cheek and eye.
The draig stumbled back, gave a savage shake of his head and Fen flew through the air, disappeared into the crowded battleground. The draig growled, a taloned claw coming up to paw at his eye. It was a lacerated, pulped mess.
Acolytes formed up on either side of Fritha and the draig and marched forwards.
‘SHIELD WALL!’ Drem heard a voice cry out behind him, thought it was Kill’s, then White-Wings were charging in a disciplined line at the acolytes, shields crashing together. Riders poured around the edges of the acolyte shield wall, Drem glimpsing a dark-haired warrior with a black axe chopping down at White-Wings. His axe sheared through shields, iron helms, and left a trail of smoke in the air.
Starstone metal, we need that axe.
The draig hurled itself at Friend again, jaws snapping for purchase. Fritha’s spear stabbed at Drem, and he shifted in the saddle, the spear blade skimming past his waist. He clamped down with his shield arm, trapped the spear, swung with his sword. Fritha released the weapon and threw herself backwards, Drem’s blade-tip raking the mail over her chest, shattering links.
Fritha smiled at him.
‘You’ve learned a few tricks with your Bright Star friends,’ she said, reaching for her sword hilt.
The Starstone Sword. My father’s sword.
Drem pulled his feet up, stood on his saddle, legs bunching, and leaped at her. Her eyes flared in shock, and then he was crashing into her, tearing her from her saddle, the two of them tumbling to the ground.
They rolled, separated, both coming to their feet, Fritha drawing the Starstone Sword. She swung at Drem, a high blow, and he met it with his shield. The sword sheared through wood, cut from shield rim to boss. Fritha ripped her blade free, trying to slice into Drem’s forearm, but he twisted and dropped the shield, hefted his sword, pulled his hand-axe from his belt, set his feet.
Fritha came at him again, another overhead blow. Instinctively he met it with his sword, for a heartbeat wondered if the starstone blade would just carve through his own sword and cut into his skull.
A harsh clang, a ripple of blue flame where the two blades met, and Drem’s runed sword held.
A moment’s shock between them both, then Drem was pushing Fritha’s blade high, shoving her back. She stumbled and he stepped in, chopping with his hand-axe. It crunched into mail, the rings holding, but Drem heard the crack of bone, ribs fracturing. Fritha grimaced, staggered back again.
Drem followed, stabbed with his sword, it was swept wide by the black blade. He chopped again with his axe, Fritha swinging a wild parry, but the blade caught Drem’s axe shaft and cut it in two, the axe-head spinning away.
The drum of hooves and Drem instinctively ducked and moved, heard air hiss over his head, the bulk of a horse stamping past him. He stood, stabbed at the warrior who had tried to take his head, saw it was the dark-haired man with the black axe. Drem struck up with his sword, felt the blade pierce mail and flesh. The warrior screamed, arched his back and fell away as the horse walked on.
‘No,’ Fritha snarled, pain in her eyes. ‘You are killing all I love.’
‘As you have done to me,’ Drem snarled back at her.
Fritha pressed in, a flurry of blows, Drem parrying. The black sword sliced through his mail, links shattering, cut a red line along his forearm, a fist to his nose as Fritha stepped in.
A wild, pain-filled roaring filled Drem’s ears. He glanced and saw Friend crash to the ground, the draig’s jaws clamped around one of the bear’s forelegs. Blood was spraying as Friend rolled onto his side, the draig seeing Friend’s exposed belly, covered only by a latticework of leather buckles.
‘NO!’ Drem screamed, made to run to the bear, but Fritha hacked at him. He stumbled backwards, fell over the coils of Elise’s corpse, lost the grip on his sword.
Fritha stood over him, the screams of Friend ringing out in the background, and raised her sword.
‘This could have been so different,’ Fritha said. ‘You were a fool not to join me.’
‘Go to hell,’ Drem snarled at her. Glimpsed a black-bladed spear.
Fritha’s sword sliced down.
Drem rolled, grabbed the spear and swung wildly at Fritha, black sword and black spear blade colliding. A concussive explosion, hurling Fritha away, sending Drem skidding and scrabbling across the ground. He stabbed the spear into earth and came to a halt, levered himself upright and saw the draig standing upon Friend, pinning the bear with his bulk. The draig’s jaws were slick with blood, Friend bellowing with pain. As Drem watched, the draig reared up, jaws opening wide, rushing down to fasten upon the exposed flesh of Friend’s belly.
Drem found his balance, drew his arm back and hurled the starstone spear.
It flew straight as a loosed arrow, trailing black smoke through the air and punched into the draig’s chest. Deep it sank, halfway up the shaft, dark blood pulsing from the wound.
The draig roared, an ear-splitting sound, a shiver rippling through its body, and it crashed to the ground, rolled onto its side, wings and tail thrashing, jaws snapping, frothing blood. A juddering tremor ran through it and then its head slumped, its powerful neck flopping. A groaning rattle issued from its throat, and it was still.
‘WRATH!’ Fritha screamed, staggering to her feet, her black sword still in her fist.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN
FRITHA
Fritha could not see for her tears. She swiped at them, staring at Wrath. Her beautiful, powerful, destructive creation. His flesh was torn, bleeding from a hundred wounds. And he was so very still. She wiped her eyes, drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
Drem has done this.
He is worse than the Ben-Elim, killing my babies.
She looked at Drem. ‘I’m going to kill you, now.’
He swept up his sword and drew his seax, rolled it in his fist.
‘Sometimes the only answer is blood and steel,’ he breathed, and launched himself at her.
The movement was so swift and unexpected that Fritha struggled to get her guard up, blue flame crackling as her black sword clanged against Drem’s rune-marked blades. He stabbed with his seax, Fritha shuffling her feet, sidestepping, at the same time throwing his sword wide.
She stepped away as Drem came at her, parrying his attacks, waiting for an opening. He followed with small steps, maintaining his balance, short bursts of blows, always a combination with sword and seax. Fritha felt a white-hot line across her forearm, another across her thigh, mail links on her coat shatter as his seax slashed her belly, all the while her ribs sending pain screeching up her side.
This is not supposed to be happening. He is not this good. She felt her frustration growing, her grief for Wrath and Elise a red rage, but it was tinged with something else, now.
Fear.
She darted away and lifted her black sword, gripped the sharp blade with her fist, squeezed it until she felt her palm slick with blood. Then she smeared her lips with the blood, cupped her fist as more blood pooled.
She saw realization dawn in Drem’s eyes.
‘Fuil, sruthán mo namhaid,’ Fritha breathed, her blood spraying, and she flung her blood at Drem. It hissed as it flew through the air, spattered Drem’s face and neck, sizzling. She smelled burning flesh.
Drem fell away, screaming, and Fritha followed. He dropped to the ground, rolling, and she stabbed down at him, missed, skewered turf. She raised her sword again.
She heard a snarling, saw movement from the corner of her eye, and then something cra
shed into her, sent her flying through the air. She landed with a jolt, rolled, stopped. Climbed to her feet.
A slate-grey wolven-hound stood before her. It turned away, loped back to Drem, who was on one knee, patches of his face blistering and smoking. The wolven-hound nuzzled Drem, licked his face, and then turned to face Fritha.
She walked towards it, sword-tip rising.
The wolven-hound growled at her, lips pulled back in a snarl, its hackles rising.
Fritha started to whisper under her breath.
‘No,’ Drem said, rising.
‘You need to stay down,’ Fritha snarled, still walking towards him.
‘No,’ Drem repeated, swaying as he stood. ‘You can burn me, cut me, blind me, I will never stop coming at you. Only death will stop me.’ His face twisted in pain. ‘I loved you, and you killed my da.’
‘I could have killed you, too,’ Fritha said. ‘I stood over you, could have killed you so easily.’
‘You should have,’ Drem said.
Then Fritha saw he had a new weapon in his hand, not his seax. A black-bladed axe. He drew his arm back and threw it.
Fritha saw the axe coming at her, shifted her weight, raised her sword, trying to both leap out of its way and cut it from the air.
Neither worked, the axe skimming past her sword and punching into her shoulder. Its blade cut through mail links and chopped deep into muscle, spinning her round. She stumbled away, her arm numb, hanging limp, and tried to turn, raising her sword.
Drem was right before her, a handspan between them.
‘For my father, and for Sig,’ he whispered, and stabbed his seax into her. It punched into her mail, piercing and splitting through it, on through leather and linen and into flesh. A terrible pain in her stomach, Drem wrapping one arm around her back, like a lover, and pulled her tighter onto his seax, pushing it deeper, until it was buried to the hilt in her.
Fritha stared into his eyes. They were so close, lips almost touching.
She sucked in a deep breath and screamed.
‘ASROTH!’
Then she fell.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN
RIV
Riv twisted away from Morn, pain shooting up her back, Morn’s spear blade sliced across her cheek. She beat her wings and swept away, her body a competing map of pain.
Ignore it. Pain is better than death.
She rolled in the air, spun back towards Morn, slashing with her short-sword, chopping another chunk off the splintered end of the spear shaft. Morn threw it away and drew a knife from her belt, flew at Riv.
They slammed together, Riv feeling the knife blade scraping across her helm, seeking a path inside. They struggled, wrestling, punching, butting heads, snarling and spitting at each other, not knowing which way was up. A glimpse of the ground, rushing towards them, a bone-jarring collision and they hit the floor.
‘ASROTH!’ a voice screamed, ringing out across the field as they climbed to their feet, stumbling away from each other.
Riv saw Drem and Fritha, in what looked like a close embrace.
Fritha dropped to her knees, toppled to the ground.
Morn cried out, an inarticulate, feral sound.
Riv heard a growling snarl and saw a wolven-hound running towards them. Fen, his mail coat a shimmer, surging across the ground, and then he was leaping, crashing into Morn. They fell, tumbling, Fen’s jaws clamping around Morn’s face. Riv saw Morn’s knife move and Riv beat her wings, speeding to the wolven-hound and half-breed. She landed and stamped her foot upon Morn’s wrist, the knife-blade a handspan from Fen’s belly.
A frozen moment, Fen pinning Morn, jaws wrapped around her face. Morn looked up at Riv.
‘You slew Keld,’ Riv said. ‘Fen has something to say about that.’
Fen shook his neck, and blood sprayed. Morn screamed; another savage wrench of Fen’s neck and the scream faded to a gurgle. Her feet drummed and then she was still.
Hooves on the turf, Cullen riding up. He saw Fen tearing at Morn’s corpse.
‘Ach, she was mine to kill,’ Cullen said.
Fen looked up at Cullen, his muzzle soaked red, and growled at the red-haired warrior.
‘You had a claim, too, I suppose,’ Cullen said. He pointed a finger at Fen. ‘But Gulla is mine.’
‘I put an arrow in Gulla,’ Riv said breathlessly, wiping blood from her face. ‘Saw him flee to Balara.’
Cullen looked at the fortress on the hill.
Something around them changed, like a silence amidst the storm. Riv looked around, saw a black shape in the air, winging towards them with slow, powerful beats of his wings.
‘Asroth is coming,’ she said.
Kadoshim followed him, and Revenants upon the ground.
‘Good,’ Cullen snarled.
‘ASROTH COMES!’ Riv yelled the warning. She leaped into the sky. The whole battleground had disintegrated into a large-scale melee, a hundred different hard-fought battles raging across the field. Close by she saw Kill and Ert with two or three score White-Wings and warriors of the Order rallied around them, holding against twice that number of acolytes. As Riv watched, riders of the Order appeared, Byrne at their head, Meical riding close to her. They charged the flank of the acolytes attacking Kill and Ert, chopping down with swords, and in a few heartbeats the acolytes were collapsing.
Above her Ben-Elim fought in the sky. Riv glimpsed Faelan swirling amongst them, his quiver empty now. He fought with sword and long knife. He and his kin seemed to have done a good job of balancing the numbers.
To the west Riv saw Ethlinn’s giants fighting the Shekam draig-riders; Sirak and warriors of the Order were riding amongst them. It looked as if the draig-riders were slowly being overwhelmed. She glimpsed Balur One-Eye trading blows with a huge giant upon a draig’s back.
Where is Bleda? Riv thought, searching the swirling combat, but she was too far away and the Sirak riders were a blur as they weaved amongst the draigs.
She saw Asroth again, closer now, bearing down upon her and her friends. Kadoshim flew around him, and the last of the Revenants swarmed upon the ground, following him. In his wake Asroth left a trail of the dead.
A sound filtered through to Riv and she turned, glancing north, towards Balara.
A winged figure was flying towards the battlefield, low to the ground, wings beating slowly.
Gulla.
He flew above hundreds of acolytes; they were marching hard.
Riv looked down, searching for Byrne. Old Ert was trading blows with a broad, squat acolyte, chopping at each other’s shields, stabbing over the rims. It was clear he knew his swordcraft. Riv drew her wings in and flew down, intent on putting her sword through the acolyte’s heart.
He was on the ground before Riv landed, blood leaking from a sword-thrust beneath his ribs. Ert was leaning on one knee, breathing hard, speaking to the fallen acolyte.
‘You betrayed us, Aenor, and chose the wrong side; and now you’re dying for them.’
‘I’d rather die a free man than the Ben-Elim’s puppet,’ Aenor gasped, blood on his lips, then the light in his eyes faded.
Byrne cantered up to them, Meical beside her. She was bloodstained, a long cut on her calf dripping blood, but there was a fire in her eyes. Her riders gathered behind her, the rest either dead or scattered around the field.
‘Asroth is coming,’ Riv said, ‘a hundred Kadoshim with him, four, five hundred Revenants following him on the ground. And Gulla returns from Balara, leading fresh acolytes.’
Byrne looked at Ert. ‘Can you keep the Revenants and acolytes off us?’
A curt nod. ‘Or die in the trying. SHIELD WALL!’ Ert bellowed, hefting his battered shield and runed short-sword. Warriors on foot ran to him.
Cullen cantered over, Drem following on foot, Fen and Friend limping along either side of him.
‘This is the time of reckoning,’ Byrne said to them all. ‘Asroth comes, with his Kadoshim.’ She looked at them.
‘Truth and Cou
rage.’
‘TRUTH AND COURAGE!’ they cried back at her, Riv whispering those words.
And then the beating of wings grew louder, Asroth’s shadow loomed over them.
‘WITH ME!’ Ert cried, leading the warriors he had gathered towards the onrushing Revenants.
Byrne walked her horse forwards, the warriors of the Order spreading in a line either side of her. Cullen lingered, looked down at Riv and Drem.
‘We are all here, then,’ Cullen said.
‘Aye,’ Drem said. ‘I’m glad we’re together, now. For the end.’
‘For his end,’ Cullen snarled, looking at Asroth as he grew larger in the sky. He looked at Drem’s fists. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
Drem lifted up his hands. In one he had a sword, in the other, a single-bladed axe. They were both forged of black steel, and tendrils of dark smoke curled around them.
‘This is the Starstone Sword my da forged,’ Drem said. ‘I swore I’d take it back from Fritha, and kill Asroth with it. This,’ he said, looking at the axe, ‘I’m thinking it’s a starstone axe.’
‘Well, now,’ Cullen said, whistling. He looked at Riv, who had her black knife in her hand. He frowned. ‘This isn’t fair.’
‘You have a fine sword,’ Riv pointed out, and Cullen grinned, holding up his ancestor’s sword. The hilt was a hand and a half, the blade longer and broader than Cullen was used to.
‘Aye, it is a fine sword, and I’m honoured to wield it, but it’s not going to be cutting through a coat of starstone mail like those two, is it.’
‘I’d let you have this sword, but I swore an oath on it,’ Drem said. ‘You can have the axe, though, if you like.’ He held it out to Cullen. ‘Or there’s a black-bladed spear in that draig over there, if you can pull it out. It looks deep, to me.’