A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  Safe, and loved, that’s how I feel when I think of her.

  ‘I hate the Kadoshim,’ Drem growled.

  Olin just stared into the flames, his eyes glistening with reflected firelight.

  ‘Why did she have to die? Why did the Kadoshim kill her?’ Drem said, more to himself than to his da, but Olin looked at him.

  ‘Because this world is a hard and cruel place,’ Olin breathed. ‘That white bear, nothing else you have ever faced matches the malice that the Kadoshim bear towards us, towards mankind. They are wickedness made flesh.’

  Drem thought about that awhile; the silence grew between them.

  Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, ancient enemies waging their eternal war against each other.

  An ember crackled and popped on the fire.

  ‘If it was the Kadoshim that murdered my mam,’ he eventually said, ‘why is it that you hate the Ben-Elim so much, when they hunt the Kadoshim?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose it would not make sense to you.’ He scowled into the darkness. ‘I do not like to talk of these things, have tried for years now to leave them behind, to carve a life for us free of their stain and influence. Talking about it only digs up the hurt that I’ve spent a long time burying.’ Olin sighed. ‘But, always the questions.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘So. An answer for you, and then maybe you’ll give me some peace. The Ben-Elim do hunt the Kadoshim, are their ancient enemies. But it was the Ben-Elim who plotted and schemed for the Kadoshim to enter these Banished Lands in the first place. The Ben-Elim used the Kadoshim to open a portal between the Otherworld and the world of flesh, and then the Ben-Elim followed them through, their spirit-bodies becoming flesh in the process, just like the Kadoshim.’

  Drem frowned at that. ‘Why? Why did the Ben-Elim do that?’

  ‘They had their reasons,’ his da said, ‘the telling of which I do not have the time or the inclination for. Just trust me on this. The Ben-Elim are not our friends or allies because they hunt the Kadoshim. The Kadoshim would not be here in the first place if not for the Ben-Elim.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Ach.’ His da spat. ‘Answer this, then. The bear and the wolven, they both hunt the elk, do they not?’

  ‘Aye, they do.’

  ‘Are bear and wolven friends, then? Would they share a meal one with the other?’

  ‘They’d most likely fight,’ Drem answered. ‘Or maybe one would walk away, depending on how hungry they were, how big the bear was, and how many wolven in the pack.’

  ‘Aye, you have the right of it, lad. Things are rarely clean cut, black and white, right or wrong. Life’s more complicated than that. And so it is between the Ben-Elim and human-kind. Or so it should be . . .’ Olin’s hand dropped to the knife at his belt, fingertips brushing the worn leather hilt. ‘Besides, the Ben-Elim are not the only ones who hunt the Kadoshim.’

  ‘Who else does, then?’ Drem asked, leaning forwards.

  ‘Is there no end to your questions?’ his da muttered. ‘You’ll get no more out of me tonight. We’ve an early start and a long walk on the morrow. I’d recommend getting some sleep.’ And with that he rolled over.

  What’s wrong with questions? Drem thought, feeling frustrated. They are all I have. Absently he lifted two fingers to his throat, searching for his pulse. Something about its steady rhythm soothed and calmed him when he felt anxious or troubled. He counted the beats, a whisper of breath.

  ‘Drem,’ his da said. ‘Stop taking your pulse, or at least, count in your head.’

  ‘Aye, Da.’

  ‘There it is,’ Drem said, pointing as the elk pit became visible on the path ahead of them. It was closer to sunset than highsun, both of them slowed by their injuries from the day before. They separated, slipping into the cool shadows of pine trees either side of the track, moving forwards slowly and searching for any signs of the white bear. There was none and they met beside the elk pit.

  The elk was gone, snagged fur and dried blood staining the bottom of the pit, the earth churned and scattered, great gouges from the bear’s claws and ruts in the soil from the elk’s death-throes.

  ‘Taken it back to its den – some cave or safe place,’ Olin said. ‘Where it can eat in peace.’

  Must be a cave the size of a mead-hall, Drem thought, looking at an imprint of one of the bear’s paws.

  ‘Well, as long as it’s far from us, I’m not caring,’ his da said. He sniffed and looked around; the hillside was quiet and still.

  ‘Let’s go see what’s left of our camp.’

  Their path wound into the pine trees close to the river, and Drem saw the spot where he’d fallen, where his da had stood over him. For a moment he felt his blood run chill at the memory of it . . .

  I wish I had Da’s courage.

  A patch of blood and Drem’s axe lay amongst the forest litter close to where he’d fallen, beside it a claw, long and curled, a tuft of fur and flesh still attached to it where the axe had severed it from the bear’s paw.

  ‘There’s a keepsake for you,’ Olin said as he crouched and passed the claw to Drem, who whistled while turning it in his hand, the claw measuring from the tip of his finger to his wrist.

  ‘Not that you’ll need reminding of that beast,’ his da said.

  ‘Not likely,’ Drem muttered, the claw bringing back a kaleidoscope of memories of him lying on his back staring at the onrushing bear.

  They found his da’s axe close by, its blade blood-crusted black.

  ‘Good axe, that,’ his da said with a smile, ‘Glad not to have seen the last of it.’

  Their camp was mostly untouched, the piles of furs where they’d left them. One of their packhorses had slipped its rope but they found it only a few hundred paces away, contentedly eating grass. Something had been through the leftovers of their supper and ripped open a bag of cheese but, judging by the teeth marks, it was more the size of a weasel or stoat than a giant bear. It did not take long for them to break camp and soon they were winding their way back down the hillslope, leading three ponies, all piled high with bundled furs and kit. It was close to sunset but they’d agreed to get as far away from this spot as possible before darkness forced them to stop. Drem felt much better for a thick cloak about his shoulders, the spear he held in his hand and the axe hanging at his belt, not that weapons had done him or his da much good yesterday.

  When they reached the elk pit Drem marvelled again at the carnage caused by one beast. Looking into it, something else caught his eye. Not a gleam, more the opposite: a matt darkness. Something black and solid.

  Drem scrambled into the pit, careful not to take any weight on his injured ankle as he dropped the last few handspans, then crouched in the soil.

  ‘What is it?’ his da called from at the pit’s rim.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Drem answered as he scraped and dug at his feet. Then he sat back, frowning.

  It looked like a slab of rock, black and pitted. It was roughly the length of his forearm, loosely shaped like a teardrop, cold to the touch. As Drem tried to pull it free of the soil around it, he realized it was heavy, much heavier than he would have expected of a slab of granite, or iron ore of a similar size.

  Feet thumped to the ground beside him as Olin joined him.

  ‘What is it?’ his da asked again.

  ‘You remember I hit something hard when I was digging the pit – you called it the mountain’s roots,’ Drem said.

  ‘Aye. It was a joke,’ Olin muttered.

  ‘I think this is what I hit. The bear’s claws have raked around it, dug it free.’ Drem shuffled aside to show his da, who crouched down and reached out to touch the rock. He pulled his hand away, hissing as if he’d been burned or bitten.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Drem asked.

  Olin looked pale. ‘Get me my shovel,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SIG

  Sig sat in her saddle, hunched over from the rain, and stared into the darkness. Beneath her, Hammer shifted her huge paws and gave a low, grumbling growl, m
ore a vibration in the great bear’s belly that shivered up through Sig’s bones than an audible sound. Horses whinnied and stamped, no doubt unsettled by the great mass of muscle and teeth that they were standing with, too close for their liking.

  It is not so easy for a giant such as I to stay hidden, but silence is at the heart of it, and I am making a better job of it than they are!

  Sig frowned admonishingly down at the men gathered about her, even if the closest rider to her was Elgin, Battlechief of Ardain. He looked old to her in the darkness, deep lines in his face, though his straight back and the strength of his grip when she had arrived had told her all she needed to know.

  It is not the first time we have hunted and fought together. Not many that I’d trust at my side beyond my sword-kin, but he is one of them.

  Once this would have been unthinkable to her: a giant of the Jotun Clan, standing amongst the race of men in companionable silence. But now the giant Clans were reunited, and peace had been made with mankind.

  Although the Banished Lands are not yet at peace.

  ‘How much longer,’ Sig heard someone whisper, a bodiless voice in the gloom.

  ‘Whisht,’ Elgin silenced the voice.

  Sig sniffed the air and looked up at the sky, though there was naught to see except darkness and the sensation of rainpatter upon her face.

  It is always darkest before the dawn.

  She shrugged, loosening stiff muscles, a ripple of her broad shoulders that set water cascading as if shaken from a tree, shifting the weight of her shield and the sheathed longsword across her back. The moon slid out from behind rag-torn clouds, silvering the woodland they were standing within, softening the solid dark of the hill before them, a glimpsed snarl of twisted hawthorn and wind-beaten rock. Sig looked to her right, saw Cullen sitting straight-backed in his saddle, ringmail glistening black with rain, a spear in his white-knuckled fist. His red hair was bound tight at the nape, a round shield like hers slung across his back with a white, four-pointed star painted upon it.

  The bright star, sigil of our Order.

  ‘Now?’ Cullen mouthed up to Sig. She gave him a scowl in return.

  Anticipation and energy exuded from the young warrior and, not for the first time, Sig wondered at the wisdom of bringing him fresh from his Long Night into such a trial as this.

  That decision’s long-made, now. No going back on it. Besides, he was the best of his year, which was no surprise with the blood that runs in his veins.

  Sig twisted the other way in her saddle, a creak of leather and ringmail, and glimpsed faces about her, men cold, wet and tired from their night-long journey and vigil, but their faces were stern and set in hard lines. She liked what she saw.

  I asked for hard men. They’ll need to be.

  Grey trickled into the world, dawn making shadows shift and form where there had been only the crow-black of night. A whisper of wings overhead, the hint of something much bigger than owl or hawk as a darker shadow flitted above the trees, speeding towards the hill. Sig strained eyes and ears, but there was nothing more.

  A hundred heartbeats later, a new sound. The pad of footfalls, then a flicker of movement. Shapes appeared: one man, two hounds slipping through the grey. Great beasts, chests broad and solid with muscle, muzzles flat and wide, bristling with the threat of sharp teeth. One was brindle-dark, the other grey as mountain slate. Sig felt men tense at the sight of them, quickly followed by whispers and pats to calm horses, but Sig grinned to see the wolven-hounds, so named because of the mixed blood that flowed through their veins. For a moment Sig was a hundred leagues away, and over a hundred years, seeing in her mind the original parents of this line: the great wolven, Storm, and her mate the brindle hound, Buddai, fighting and rending Kadoshim on that Day of Days. She felt a flush of pride, muted by sadness at glories and friends long past and faded.

  The man with them was clothed in leather, fur and soft skins, his eyes dark shadows above a tangle of beard. He too wore a round shield slung across his back, as all in the Order did. A single-bladed axe hung from a loop at his belt, kept company by a brace of knives. He held an unstrung bow in one hand. Keld, her huntsman. Sig only needed one look from him to know it was time. A jolt of excitement rippled through her, which surprised her.

  But then, it is not every day that you track a Kadoshim to its lair.

  ‘Guards?’ Sig said, her voice grating like an old iron hinge.

  ‘Aye, there were, but the bairns saw to that,’ Keld said, patting the big head of one of the hounds.

  ‘All right then,’ Sig grunted, feeling the imminence of violence begin to course through her, a tremor in her bones, a wildness fluttering in her blood, and she looked at Elgin.

  He pulled himself straighter in his saddle and nodded to her.

  ‘Aghaidh,’ Sig whispered and Hammer lumbered into motion, out of the trees and across a windswept open space towards the hill in front of them. The rising sun washed the land in pale light, making deep valleys of shadow amongst the boulders. Elgin and his three score swords followed, all proven men, handpicked from Queen Nara’s honour guard. They spread into a wide line behind Sig, Cullen and Keld.

  Elgin raised his arm and signalled his warriors; a number of them peeled away to circle the hill, spread to watch for any hidden boltholes.

  The ground began to slope upwards, Sig’s eyes fixed on the darker shadow ahead of her, not much more than a crease in an exposed section of the rock of the hillside.

  A cave. A lair.

  Keld hooked his unstrung bow onto Sig’s saddle and gave the rain-ragged clouds above a dark look – too wet to bother stringing his bow. The huntsman gave a low whistle and his hounds padded left and right, merging with the shadows.

  Sig rode past a knot of hawthorn, saw boots poking from it, the stain of blood dark and slick on the grass where the guard had been dragged by Keld into cover. Hammer gave the corpse a cursory glance and sniff as she padded past it.

  Only fifty paces from the crease in the rock face, then figures detached from the cave’s entrance: two, three, four of them emerging as if from the very rock itself. Their bowed heads were hooded, cloaked for the rain, one holding a spear, the others with sword hilts poking from their cloaks.

  ‘Cullen,’ Sig said as she drove Hammer on, the bear jerking into a lumbering run. Behind her the red-haired warrior stood in his stirrups and hurled his spear as the first figure looked up and saw them. His mouth opened wide as he sucked in a gasp of air but the spear punched into his chest before any warning cry could be uttered. The force of the blow threw him back into his comrades in a dark splatter of blood, taking one man to the ground with him in a tangle of limbs. The other two reached for blades as Keld’s hounds leaped in from either side, a blur of motion, a crunch of flesh and bone, a succession of snarling and wet tearing sounds, a gurgled rattle of a cry.

  Hammer reached them as the last survivor climbed from the ground, gasping out a warning cry, a glint of steel as he dragged his blade free of its scabbard. Hammer swiped a paw at him, claws as long and sharp as daggers raking across his face and chest and he dropped faster than he’d risen in a spume of blood-mist and gore.

  And then there was silence, just the wind and rain, the creak and jangle of harness, one of the wolven-hounds lapping at pooling blood. Keld tutted and the hound stopped. Sig sat high in her saddle, one hand on the hilt of her longsword still sheathed across her back, the other resting upon the weighted net that hung at her belt. These were the precarious moments, when the entrance was still open and unguarded. When escape was still possible for their enemy.

  They waited, frozen, all seeming to hold their breath, even the wind dying down for a few heartbeats.

  No new enemy emerged from the shadows, and Sig slid from her saddle and approached the entrance. There was a long rasp as her longsword slipped from its scabbard. Cullen tugged his spear from the dead man and joined her in the approach to the Kadoshim’s lair. Keld was at his shoulder, his short-handled axe in one fis
t, knife in the other. Behind them Elgin and his warriors dismounted and followed.

  A dozen paces into the tunnel a torch-sconce was hammered into the stone wall. It flared and sputtered, below it the remains of a burned-out fire. A spit rested above the fire and a pot sat beside it, a few cups of wood and leather about it. No one was there. Keld crouched to touch the ash and embers and his hounds padded past him. Together they stopped, sniffing the air and their hackles rose. As one they growled, a low, savage snarling. Keld looked back at Sig.

  ‘It’s here,’ he breathed.

  A thrill of excitement threaded through Sig, everything around her becoming a little sharper.

  Six years gone since the kin last hunted a Kadoshim to bay and killed it.

  Cullen swept past her – an unblooded hound eager for the kill.

  Sig grabbed his shoulder with her iron grip and scowled a warning at him.

  She strode past him and Keld, following the tunnel as it twisted deeper into the hillside, sloping gently upwards. Torches flickered periodically, light then darkness. As she climbed higher the air seemed to thicken, a smell of things long dead, a corruption in the air.

  The tunnel opened ahead and Sig came into a small chamber. A single shadowed exit on its far side. A fire-pit sat in the middle of this chamber, embers still glowing, and around the edges furs and blankets were splayed, a rack of weapons, spears and rusted swords leaned against one wall, though there was no sign of the living. Cracks in the wall oozed damp earth, worms as thick as rope were wriggling within it.

  ‘Fifty-two,’ Cullen said, counting the furs spread about the chamber’s edges. He shared a look with Sig and Keld.

  Never this many. So, the rumours are true.

  ‘A better fight, if they’re all here,’ Cullen declared, not able to keep the grin from his face.

  Sig gave him a flat stare.

  The hounds growled, paws splayed as they half-crouched, hackles a ridge upon their backs, lips curled to reveal sharp teeth. Keld hissed a command. Then a tendril of sound drifted down to them, emerging from the darkness of the exit on the far wall: voices, joined together, chanting, a cadence to it rising and falling. They set a chill trickling down Sig’s spine, and behind her she heard muttering amongst Elgin’s men.