A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  ‘I liked it there.’

  ‘Aye, you did. I tried to settle there, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ Drem asked.

  ‘Too many people knew me, remembered. So we moved on, after your grandfather died.’

  I don’t remember him. Or, I do, but only a frozen picture, a sound or two. He felt a flash of anger – at what, he didn’t know, just . . . anger.

  ‘You were six summers old when we turned up on your grandfather’s doorstep. Eight when we left. And before that?’

  Drem rubbed his temples, eyes closed, straining to drag more memories up from the depths of his mind.

  ‘Mam,’ he said. ‘Her smile.’ He shrugged, felt a stinging, burning sensation behind his eyes. He pushed it away, straining to remember. ‘Only broken images, really,’ he said. ‘Mostly of Mam, her eyes, her smile. A tower on a hill. Another woman, blonde-haired and tall, lifting me in her arms.’

  Olin raised an eyebrow at that.

  ‘Nothing else,’ Drem finished.

  ‘All right,’ Olin said. ‘This is all that is left of our past, locked away in this chest.’ He drew in a deep breath, unclipped the chest and opened the lid. Drem leaned to peer in, saw his da pull out a roll of . . .

  What?

  Olin shook it out, held it up for Drem to see. A ringmail shirt, well tended, glistening with oil. His da laid it across his cot, then turned back to the chest. He lifted out a sword, sheathed in a plain-tooled scabbard of black leather, a belt wrapped around it. The hilt was leather-bound, worn and salt-stained from use and sweat, a tear in the leather showing a bone hilt beneath.

  ‘What—’ Drem started, but his da held up a hand, then lifted out a folded cloak of black wool, sitting upon it a large silver brooch, fashioned into the shape of a four-pointed star. It was beautifully wrought, the silver tarnished and in need of a polish, but still catching a ray of daylight from the shutters and throwing it back.

  ‘I know that,’ Drem said, a memory of a banner snapping in a breeze, above a stone keep, above an arched gateway.

  ‘You should,’ Olin said, holding the brooch up, catching more rays of light. ‘It is the sigil of Dun Seren, Drem, where you were born, where you spent the first five years of your life. Because your mam and me, we belonged to the Order of the Bright Star.’

  Drem swayed, felt unsteady for a moment, felt as if the once-solid ground of his life was shifting beneath his feet. He sat on the floor beside his da, blinking.

  ‘Dun Seren. I’ve heard its name, many times,’ Drem said. ‘But never from you. People talk of it . . .’ He searched for the right word. ‘Reverently.’

  ‘Aye,’ Olin nodded, ‘I suppose some do. Dun Seren guards one of the bridges into the Desolation, but is much more than that. It is the centre of a warrior caste, an order dedicated to learning the arts of combat and healing. Dedicated to hunting down and destroying the Kadoshim.’

  Olin fell silent, then, his head drooping.

  ‘That’s how Mam died?’ Drem whispered.

  ‘Aye. Fighting the Kadoshim. We had received word from the Ben-Elim – never our trusted ally, but we shared a common enemy and so on occasion would share information – your mam and I, many others, rode out. We were ambushed . . .’

  ‘Mam?’ Drem asked, though he knew already.

  ‘Aye,’ his da said, a crack in his voice. ‘She fell. Many fell.’ Olin was silent a long time, staring into nowhere. A tear rolled down his cheek, disappeared into his iron-streaked beard. Eventually he sighed and shifted, lifted the sword, turning it to show Drem the hilt.

  ‘I killed the Kadoshim that slew your mam. Took me half a year to hunt it down, but –’ he shrugged – ‘I took its head, brought it back to Dun Seren. I imagine it’s there still. Apart from this piece.’ Olin rubbed a finger along the sword hilt, where Drem thought the leather had frayed, revealing the hilt of bone beneath. He looked closer, saw that was not the case. A tooth was set into the hilt, a long, curved fang, the size of a finger.

  ‘That—’ Drem began.

  ‘It is the fang of the Kadoshim that slew your mam, aye,’ Olin said. ‘Couldn’t exactly be carrying its head all around the Banished Lands wherever we go, could I? A sword, though.’ Olin shrugged. ‘And it’s yours, now.’ He held the sword out for Drem, offering it.

  Slowly, hesitantly, Drem reached out and took it, brushed his fingertips across the leather hilt and long tooth, felt a shiver run down his spine at the history within it, the tale it could tell. The pommel was round, engraved with a four-pointed star. He wrapped one fist around the hilt, the other gripping the scabbard, pulled it free. A rasping hiss of steel and leather. It was a long blade, a weight to it, though well balanced, the steel bright and gleaming, signs of notches in the blade worked on with a whetstone.

  ‘About time you had your own blade,’ his da said. ‘You’re making fine progress with the sword dance.’

  ‘Am I?’ Drem asked. It hadn’t been that long since his da had introduced him to their new morning routine of sword dance and sparring, but Drem felt it was going well. It felt like putting on an old cloak, a bit stiff from lack of use, but fitting well and moulding to him in no time. It felt like coming home.

  ‘Aye,’ Olin said. ‘But that’s no surprise. You were holding a blade at Dun Seren from the age of two, and Sig had to pick you up and sit you on a wall to keep you off the weapons court when we were sparring.’

  ‘Sig?’

  ‘Aye. And you remember her, too, I think. You have just spoken of her. A blonde woman, tall. You’re right there, she’s a giant.’ Olin snorted a laugh, his smile a rare sight. ‘She used to pick you up and perch you on a wall while we were doing the sword dance, else you’d run around with your own wooden sword, practising on our shins.’

  Drem smiled at that. ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye. Sig was my weapons-master. A great warrior.’ He was silent a few moments. ‘And an even better friend.’

  Drem raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Why have you never told me of this before. Any of it?’

  So many emotions were coursing through Drem, competing to be heard. He felt hurt, deceived, deemed untrustworthy. And the one constant in his life, the solid rock that he had clung to for every remembered moment, his da, was not the man he had thought he was. He sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘To protect you,’ Olin said. ‘To keep you safe. And, if the truth be known, because remembering . . . hurts.’

  ‘But, to protect me from what?’ As far back as he could remember Drem’s memories were of an isolated, solitary existence of travelling, moving, only his da for a companion, working many trades as they travelled, on a farm, elsewhere for a blacksmith, hunting and trapping.

  ‘What exactly were we running from?’

  ‘From the Kadoshim, from war and death,’ Olin said. Something about his da’s voice was hollow, though. Like when they had been out in the Bonefells being tracked by wolven, and Olin told Drem to go to sleep, that all was well, but really Drem knew it wasn’t. He’d awoken to his da stitching a series of wounds on his shoulder and chest, a dead wolven beside him.

  ‘There’s more you’re not telling. If I lived at Dun Seren, the home of the Order of the Bright Star, home to the greatest warriors that have ever lived if half of what the tales tell is true, why was I not safe there? Surely leaving Dun Seren put me in greater danger.’

  Olin looked away, could not meet his eyes.

  ‘Please, Da, tell me. I cannot stand the secrets any longer, the not knowing.’ He felt a wash of anger. ‘I’m a man, fully grown. Stop treating me like a bairn!’

  Olin met his gaze, a sadness in his eyes. ‘But you’re my bairn,’ he said. ‘And you always will be.’

  ‘It’s not fair. I deserve to know,’ Drem said. He held his da’s gaze until finally Olin sighed.

  ‘I took you from Dun Seren to stop a war.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘Let me tell it,’ Olin interrupted, ‘and then ask me your questions.’

  D
rem nodded, gritting his teeth. He felt angry with his da, a rage simmering in his gut.

  ‘Before your mam died, when the Order marched out to battle the Kadoshim, she . . .’ Olin paused, eyes distant. He drew in a deep breath. ‘She slew a Ben-Elim. It was in Forn Forest. This Ben-Elim was a captain, Galzur was his name. He insulted the Order. When I responded with anger he insulted me and challenged me to a duel. I . . . declined. He struck me.’ Olin stopped, his hand caressing his jaw, as if remembering the blow. ‘And your mother slew him.’

  He stopped there, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. ‘What I’d give to go back to that moment and accept Galzur’s challenge. So much would have been different.’

  ‘What happened? I still don’t understand?’ Drem said.

  ‘The Ben-Elim were outraged, called your mam a murderer and demanded her death. Of course the Order did not see it that way. A decision was made that a trial would be held once the battle with the Kadoshim was resolved. Well, soon after that we fought the Kadoshim. We were ambushed, the Order took great losses – that was where your mam fell – and the Ben-Elim arrived late,’ his da hissed the last word, a barely contained hatred in his voice. ‘After the battle, when we had returned to Dun Seren, the Ben-Elim sent an envoy. Kol, a captain amongst them, bearing a demand from their high captain, Israfil. Lord Protector, they call him.’ Olin’s lips twisted in a sneer. ‘They demanded recompense for the death of Galzur, still claiming that it was murder, and that a blood debt was owed.’

  ‘What recompense?’ Drem asked.

  Olin looked into his eyes. ‘You, Drem. They wanted you, as their ward. They wanted to take you from me and raise you at Drassil. You see, you are more than just mine and your mother’s son. Your mam’s sister was captain of the Order, still is, as far as I know. Byrne. A good woman. A fine leader. So you would have made a fine hostage, used to manipulate and control the Order of the Bright Star, which has from its beginning answered to no other authority. I was not about to give you up, and neither was Byrne or the Order. We had many friends . . .’

  He shook his head. There was a pain in his da’s eyes that Drem had never seen before.

  ‘Byrne and the Order said no, and the Ben-Elim said that they would return and take you by force if they had to. Tensions were high. So, in the dead of night I rose, packed our bags and took you from Dun Seren. I have no love for the Ben-Elim, but to see the Order go to war with them, for us – I could almost hear the Kadoshim laughing. It would have been disastrous for the Banished Lands. Whoever the victor would have been, they would have been greatly weakened, ripe for finishing off by the Kadoshim. So . . .’ He smiled grimly. ‘Here we are.’

  Drem looked at his da; Olin’s face was lined with age and worry, with the weight of his burden. Drem knew his da loved him.

  But the choices he made . . .

  And all of a sudden the anger and hurt was gone, melting away, replaced with a wave of sorrow, for his da, for himself, for his mam, for the life they might have had together. His da moved, arms opening; Drem was confused, and then Olin was embracing him, pulling him into a hug that threatened to crack his bones.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Olin whispered, and then Drem was wrapping his own arms around his da, clinging onto him like a drowning man, both of them silent, but a thousand words spoken in their embrace.

  Eventually Olin stepped away, tears staining his cheeks.

  Drem felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, as he finally understood. But this new knowledge birthed so many more questions. He blew out a long breath and gave a hesitant smile.

  I have so many new questions to ask! But first, I need some answers to the original ones.

  Drem focused, trying to rein in his whirling mind.

  ‘Spells,’ he said, remembering the forge and his da’s voice, the strange language, the hiss of blood sizzling in the dark and fire glow.

  ‘You learn more than swordcraft at Dun Seren,’ Olin said. ‘If you’re there long enough, and deemed to be trusted. The Order was founded by Corban, a great warrior and leader. You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Aye, of course. Though not from you,’ Drem said grudgingly.

  ‘Well, I’ve avoided the subject. What do you know of Corban?’

  ‘That he founded the Order at Dun Seren,’ Drem said, sifting through the myriad legends and fireside tales he’d heard through the years. ‘That he had a tame wolven.’

  ‘She wasn’t tame,’ Olin murmured. ‘Go on.’

  Drem shrugged. ‘That he was involved in the war against the Kadoshim, that he was at the Battle of Drassil, helped the Ben-Elim to defeat the Kadoshim. And that the Order of the Bright Star trains the most feared, skilful warriors who walk the land.’

  He looked at his da, the weight of that sinking in.

  You are one of those warriors.

  ‘Corban didn’t just fight against the Kadoshim,’ Olin said, unaware of Drem’s gaze upon him. ‘He united the Kadoshim’s enemies – men and women of all nations, giants, Jehar warriors, all rallied to him, fought for him. They loved him.’ Olin shrugged. ‘He was beneath a cairn before I joined the Order, but I spoke to some who knew him. A simple man, they said. Humble, quiet. Fiercely loyal to his kin and loved ones. And not bad with a blade in his hand, I’m told. In large part Corban was the reason the Kadoshim were defeated on that Midwinter’s Day at Drassil, regardless of what the Ben-Elim will tell you. But he didn’t just build a warrior school. It was in memory of two people, two of his most beloved friends who fell in the great battle. A warrior and a healer. Gar and Brina were their names. And Brina was more than a healer. At Dun Seren we are taught that spells are no more evil than a blade is. It is the wielder who makes that choice.’

  That made a lot of sense to Drem and he nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘And Asroth’s head? I thought you had a fever, or were going mad.’

  ‘Maybe I am,’ Olin said, ‘but I mean to end this, now. Asroth is encased within a layer of starstone rock, in the Great Hall of Drassil. Alive or dead, frozen or slain, no one knows, though many suspect he still lives. And that is why they are all here: Kadoshim, Ben-Elim. The Kadoshim have been seeking a way to free Asroth since the day of his entombment; he is their only hope of victory against the Ben-Elim, the only one strong enough to stand against them. And the Ben-Elim, they remain to guard him, to ensure that he never walks the earth again.’

  ‘Why haven’t they just killed him, then?’

  ‘Because Asroth is encased in starstone rock, and not just a small lump of it like we have discovered. It is the sum total of the Seven Treasures, all of them destroyed and melted to molten slag. Many words of power were worked into them, and they hold a residue of that power still.’

  ‘So how can you hope to kill him, then?’

  ‘Because this is starstone metal,’ Olin said, lifting the new blade. ‘The only thing on this earth that has the power to pierce Asroth’s tomb.’

  Olin held Drem’s gaze, watched him as the implications of that settled in his mind.

  ‘With Asroth slain, the Kadoshim are finished, defeated for all time,’ Olin continued. ‘And the Ben-Elim, they would have no cause left to fight for. No reason to scour the land in search of Kadoshim, no reason to control and enslave the people of the Banished Lands. Their great lie would be cast into the light, revealed for what it is.’

  ‘And what is it?’ Drem asked.

  ‘An excuse, a ruse fashioned to take and maintain power. Nothing more.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Drem asked, frowning.

  ‘With all that I am I believe it to be the truth,’ Olin answered.

  Drem thought about that a while, following the implications and likely consequences of all his da was telling him. It felt like a great responsibility settling upon them, like the branches in the forest, bowed beneath the weight of snow.

  ‘There’s a lot to do, then,’ he said, as much to himself as to his da.

  Olin laughed at that. ‘And you say I under
state things.’

  ‘You’ll need a scabbard for that,’ Drem said, nodding at the starstone blade.

  ‘Aye. It’s next on my to-do list. You can help me.’ Olin stood, gripping Drem’s wrist and pulling him to his feet. ‘You should try it on,’ he said, pointing at Drem’s new sword.

  ‘Are you sure, Da? It doesn’t feel right. It’s yours.’

  ‘No. It’s yours. A gift from father to son. And besides, I’ve got myself a new sword now.’

  ‘Twenty-one summers, and I have a sword,’ Drem mused as he buckled the scabbard-belt about his waist. It fitted well, though the weight of the sword against his hip felt strange.

  ‘I wanted you never to need one,’ his da said. ‘But I have a bad feeling of late.’

  ‘Maybe I should have a ringmail shirt, as well, then.’

  ‘You probably should,’ Olin smiled, ‘but that one’s likely a little small for you. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to have one of your own, though. Saved my life a hundred times, that shirt.’

  ‘We’ll have to go see—’

  Drem stopped. He’d been about to say Calder the smith. But Calder wouldn’t be making anyone a ringmail shirt. Or anything else, ever again.

  There was the sound of hooves outside, growing louder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  RIV

  Riv concentrated, her entire being focused on drawing her bowstring perfectly. She felt the feather tickle her cheek.

  Done it.

  ‘No. You’re doing it all wrong,’ Bleda said in her ear.

  ‘How?’ Riv grunted, trying to keep any hint of the snarl she was feeling out of her voice.

  ‘Start with your bow hand, not the draw hand.’ Bleda walked around into her field of vision.

  ‘Firstly. Your knuckles are white. No, no, no. Don’t grip the bow in a fist. Now, when you release the shaft and string your fist will twist the bow a fraction, and your aim’s thrown. Let the bow rest in your hand, then the string-draw applies the pressure. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Riv grunted, feeling a tremor beginning deep in the shoulder muscle of her right arm. Her whole body was aching, the pain worse in her joints. She suspected there was more to it than the drawing of a yew bow, though her wrists and elbows were screaming under the increased pressure.