A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  ‘Da,’ Drem said louder, a stone of dread dropping in his belly; with every heartbeat of silence the dread growing, becoming worse.

  ‘Drem,’ a whispered breath that made his heart leap, and he saw him, a dark, still figure lying on the ground. Drem stumbled to his da, dropped to his knees, at the same time heard voices in the distance behind him, heard men calling, recognized Ulf’s voice.

  His da was pale and blood-drenched, and this time Drem knew it was not the blood of his enemies. He was lying upon his back, one leg twisted at a strange angle, his torso looking like one big wound. Blood pulsed sluggishly from long gashes that started at his shoulder and ended at his hip. Between them the flesh was torn and ragged, flecks of bone amidst the crimson.

  ‘Oh, Da,’ Drem whispered, the breath hitching in his chest, something cold clenching in his belly, squeezing his heart. He’d seen wounds like this, not in a man, but knew what it meant, something in him refusing to accept it. Couldn’t bear to accept it.

  Olin’s eyes were distant but, at Drem’s presence, he blinked and lifted his head.

  ‘Lie still, Da, Ulf’s coming,’ Drem said desperately, stroking sweat-soaked hair from his da’s forehead. All that he had been consumed with – finding Fritha, killing the white bear – all of it evaporated as his whole world constricted down to this moment. His da, the only person in his life who truly mattered. His blinked tears from his eyes.

  Olin shifted, his mouth moving. A trickle of blood dribbled over his lips, a whisper of air.

  ‘Sword,’ he said.

  He wants to hold his sword in his hand. He thinks he’s going to die, going to cross the bridge of swords.

  Drem looked about frantically for the black sword, could not see it anywhere, though the ground was churned and covered in bits of tree and bushes. He couldn’t bear to leave his da’s side to search more thoroughly, so Drem drew his own blade and put the hilt in his hand, closing his fingers about it. Olin’s gaze flickered down to it, then pushed the blade away.

  ‘Starstone,’ Olin wheezed.

  ‘I can’t see it, Da,’ Drem said, lifting his da’s hand and kissing it, felt his da’s fingers twitch and he put them to his cheek, as his da had done to him so many, many times before.

  ‘My . . . boy,’ Olin whispered, a bubbling rattle. ‘I was . . . wrong.’ Olin jerked then, his other arm rising, palm upon Drem’s chest, fingers clenching, gripping onto the bear claw about Drem’s neck. One long, slow exhalation that seemed as if it would never end, his eyes fixed onto Drem’s with a burning gaze and then Olin was still, the light in his eyes fading, glazing over.

  ‘No, Da, no,’ Drem breathed, his vision blurring with tears as Olin’s fingers slipped from the claw about his neck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SIG

  Sig crested a low rise in the land and, with a word and a touch of her heels, reined Hammer in. Somewhere behind she heard Keld shout a command, the drum of hooves as their loose column drew close. But Sig only had eyes for the view on the horizon before her.

  Dun Seren.

  It was highsun, a pale sun suspended like a marker in the sky above the fortress of grey stone. It was standing upon a gentle hill, a keep and tower silhouetted on the horizon. Around it dark walls circled the hill, the hint of myriad buildings contained within. Another wall had been raised closer and wider still, upon the flatter meadows that surrounded Dun Seren’s hill. Sig had been there when the decision to build it had been made. The Order had grown beyond its founder’s wildest expectations, the twin arts of weapons-craft and healing drawing so many to their halls. Corban, the creator of the Order, had been grey-haired then, and he had smiled to see how the seed of his dream had flourished into something far greater than he had ever imagined.

  Staring at it now, a kaleidoscope of memories flashed through Sig’s mind, more than a hundred years’ worth of remembrance condensed into a handful of heartbeats, of weapons training, pain, sweat, broken bones, battle and loss. But far greater than that were the memories of song and laughter, a bond of friendship forged with men and giants that she had never believed possible. A host of names and faces hovered in her mind’s eye: Corban, Gunil, Varan, Coralen, Veradis, Cywen, Dath, Kulla, Farrell, Storm, so many, many more.

  And so many of them gone, now. But their memory lives on.

  We shall never forget.

  ‘We shall never forget,’ Keld murmured beside her, and she looked down at him to see him staring at Dun Seren’s walls with a faraway look in his eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ Cullen cried out, all excitement and passion. ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go home!’

  Home.

  ‘Home,’ squawked Rab as he alighted on Cullen’s shoulder, the young warrior wincing as crow talons flexed.

  And in good time. Still a ten-night to go before Midwinter’s Day.

  She glanced behind her, saw expressions of wonder and awe spread upon the faces of the young recruits from Ardain, and then Sig was spurring Hammer on, the bear roaring as it ran lumbering down the rise, Keld, Cullen and their recruits from Ardain cantering behind, Fen the wolven-hound a grey blur ahead of them.

  The scrape of Hammer’s claws and the clatter of hooves echoed as they passed through the arched gate of Dun Seren’s inner wall and into the courtyard before the grey keep. Above the gatehouse a banner of a bright star upon a black field snapped and rippled in the cold wind that was blowing hard from the north. Sig tasted a hint of snow upon it. Warriors lined the walls, horns ringing out and voices cheering Sig’s return, sword-brothers and sisters, a smattering of giants as well, and Sig smiled to see them, raising her hand in greeting. Cullen grinned and waved as if he was a returning hero, though Keld was more contained beside him, still raw with the loss of his wolven-hound, Hella.

  A statue loomed before them, dominating the centre of the courtyard, twice the height of Sig upon her bear’s back. Two figures carved from dark stone, pale veins running through it. One a man, handsome and serious, broad-chested and thick-armed, his hair tied into a thick warrior braid that coiled across one shoulder. He was dressed as a warrior, wearing a shirt of mail and leather surcoat, breeches and boots, a round shield slung across his back. A torc sat about his neck, snarling wolven heads at either end, with an arm ring spiralling about one bicep, two more wolven heads at beginning and end. One hand held a naked sword, the tip resting upon the ground, its pommel another wolven head, this one raised with jaws open, howling.

  The warrior’s other hand rested upon the neck of a wolven, broad and muscular, standing almost as tall as the warrior’s chest. Its teeth were bared in a snarl, long canines curved, scars latticing its body.

  ‘Behold Corban, the Bright Star, founder of this Order,’ Sig bellowed. ‘And Storm, his faithful companion.’

  ‘Told you he had a pet wolven,’ someone said.

  ‘Storm was no pet,’ Sig growled at them.

  A figure stepped out from the fire glow of the keep behind the statue, the jut of a curved sword sheathed across its back. Byrne, the high captain of their Order. A giant walked beside her, the outline of a crow upon the giant’s shoulder. Sig raised her hand to them, saw Byrne raise hers in return, then turn and walk back into the keep.

  Sig led their party through the courtyard towards the main stable block, a word to Hammer and the bear was slowing to a halt as stablehands swarmed to meet them.

  ‘Back to your tower and report to the crow master,’ Sig said to Rab, who was still clinging determinedly to Cullen’s shoulder. The white crow looked up at her from its human perch, appeared to sigh – a rise and slump of its wings, if that was possible for a crow – and then winged into the air, spiralling slowly upwards, circling the tower that loomed behind the keep. Other dark-winged shapes appeared from the tower, a raucous cawing drifting down from them.

  ‘Hope they’re nice to him,’ Cullen muttered beside Sig.

  Sig just shook her head.

  ‘See to your mount, greet your kin, and then meet me in the H
igh Captain’s chamber,’ Sig said to Cullen and Keld, ‘I’ll see that our new recruits are looked after.’ They nodded to her and dismounted, leading their horses to the stables.

  Sig turned to look at the two score young warriors behind her.

  ‘Welcome to Dun Seren,’ she said.

  ‘Welcome home,’ Byrne said with a warm smile as Sig stepped into the High Captain’s chambers, Cullen and Keld either side of her. Fen the wolven-hound was with them, slinking towards a fire that blazed in a hearth almost the size of one wall. He flopped down in front of it with a satisfied sigh.

  I’m glad Dun Seren was built by giants, Sig thought. At least I don’t have to lower my head entering every chamber, or risk smashing any chair I sit in.

  Byrne looked older. Sig had been gone from Dun Seren less than six moons, but the lines in Byrne’s face were deeper, and there was more silver creeping through her once-black hair.

  ‘Did you miss me, cousin?’ Cullen said, all smiles and swagger, the returning hero, his sleeves rolled up to show his new-earned scar, a white slash through the centre of his left bicep.

  Fool boy. There’ll come a time when he wishes for fewer scars, and the ache they give him.

  ‘Whisht,’ Sig said to him with a scowl.

  Byrne raised an eyebrow at him.

  Cullen’s smile shrivelled.

  Byrne raised her other eyebrow, continued to scold him with her gaze.

  ‘Sorry, High Captain,’ he mumbled.

  Ach, but she looks like her great-grandmother when she pulls that face.

  Byrne was descended from Cywen, the sister of Corban, who had founded the healers’ element of Dun Seren, teaching and pioneering new methods of the healing art, of herbs and remedies and medical procedures. All who came to Dun Seren, who dreamed of becoming warriors of the Bright Star, were educated in the art of healing as much as developing skill at arms. It was the same in reverse: any who came with a passion for healing would be taught with just as much rigour how to fight, how to kill. And Byrne had excelled at both, from a bairn Sig had noticed the talent in her. It had fairly glowed.

  Sig had once seen Byrne drill a small hole through a fallen comrade’s skull to relieve swelling and pressure upon the man’s brain, the result of a heavy blow from a sword-pommel. A difficult procedure at the best of times, but this had been knee-deep in an ambush, Kadoshim and their servants all about. Sig had stood over her, trying to guard her back while she did it.

  It’s no wonder she rose to the position of high captain of the Order.

  And she’s a good friend.

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ Sig said. She threw a leather bag onto a wide desk, where it landed with a heavy thud, its contents spilling out, rolling a half-circle. It was the severed head of the Kadoshim from Ardain, flesh rotting and peeling, stinking, the long fangs in its mouth accentuated by the decomposing lips, pulled tight and slimy with putrefaction.

  ‘Do you know its name?’

  ‘Rimmon,’ Sig said.

  Byrne nodded, her lips a tight line. She opened a large leather-bound book upon her desk, dipped a quill in ink and wrote upon a page. Sig leaned over, saw Byrne write Rimmon at the bottom of a list, pages long. Above it were the names Charun, Malek, Balam, Dramal, many, many more.

  I know. It’s always good to see a dead Kadoshim, a new name on the list. But it would be better if it was Gulla, the self-called New Lord of the Kadoshim.

  ‘The rumours were true, then,’ Byrne said, bending closer to study the Kadoshim’s features, her expression clinical and detached as only a healer could be.

  There was a knock at the chamber door, Cullen rising from the seat he was lounging in to go and open it. Byrne did not have servants.

  A giant walked in, taller than Sig, though not as broad, dark-haired as she was fair, his hair wild, poking in all directions, apart from the warrior braid that coiled across one shoulder.

  ‘Well met, Tain,’ Sig said to him, and he beamed to see her, a broad smile that seemed to take over most of his face. It was unusual to see a giant smile, never mind a smile so huge or teeth so bright they could dazzle a charging warband.

  ‘I am glad you are returned to us safely,’ Tain said, looking from Sig to her companions. He was the crow master of Dun Seren, overseeing the care of the birds like Rab that nested in Crow Tower, a few score rare and gifted crows that had mastered the art of speech. They were born and bred from Crow Tower, their talent passed on to them by their sire, who at this moment was sitting upon Tain’s other shoulder.

  Half of the crow’s feathers were missing, patches of pink skin flaking, his beak long and curved, old beyond years. The crow regarded Sig and her companions with bright, intelligent eyes, though, undimmed by his age. Those eyes swivelled to the Kadoshim’s head upon Byrne’s desk, and he squawked and bobbed, excited.

  No. Pleased with himself.

  ‘Well met, Craf,’ Sig said, keeping the fondness she felt for the old crow from her voice. It did not do any good to show the crow that kind of kindness, he was notorious for exploiting it, as Tain, the giant he was perched upon, would readily testify.

  ‘Craf right then,’ the bird squawked, ‘Kadoshim in Ardan.’

  ‘It’s called Ardain, now, but yes, Craf,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Ardain, Ardan,’ Craf grumbled.

  The world has changed much since you were hatched, old crow, Sig thought. Realms come and gone. Ardan, Domhain, Narvon and Cambren in the west becoming one realm, Ardain. And the Land of the Faithful, ruled by the Ben-Elim. Once the realms of Tenebral, Helveth, Carnutan, Tarbesh and Isiltir. And still the Ben-Elim spread their influence ever wider.

  ‘Though, to be fair, we all thought it so, and sent Sig based on that decision,’ Byrne pointed out to Craf.

  ‘Craf’s fledgling bairns first to tell,’ Craf said, flapping his wings in annoyance, a black feather drifting to the ground. Craf watched it fall with a beady eye.

  Now look what made Craf do,’ he muttered. ‘Cold enough, now one less feather.’

  ‘I’ll fetch a blanket for you after,’ Tain said quietly.

  ‘Kind Tain,’ Craf crooned.

  Crow master we named him, but it’s more like crow servant, Sig thought, keeping the smile from touching her lips.

  ‘So there’s one fewer Kadoshim in Ardain,’ Byrne said, bringing their attention back to the severed head upon her desk.

  ‘Aye,’ Sig said, ‘though there was more to it than we would ever have expected. There is much to tell you, of acolytes, of sacrifice and incantations. Of a new strategy amongst the Kadoshim. The slumbering beast stirs,’ Sig said ominously. ‘Something dread is afoot.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Byrne said.

  So they did.

  Sig told most of it, how they had hunted the Kadoshim to its lair, enlisted the aid of Elgin, Battlechief of Ardain, and then attacked the Kadoshim’s den. Of the numbers of acolytes, the human sacrifice and spells, the escaped messenger. Keld hung his head – in shame or grief, Sig did not know – when she told of his capture and the death of his wolven-hound, Hella. At the mention of her name Fen lifted his head from the fire and whined. Craf cawed softly, the sound somehow full of melancholy.

  And Sig told of Rab’s arrival at Uthandun, the white crow’s help in Keld’s rescue. Craf bobbed his head at that, clacking his beak loudly. Sig ignored him and carried on, telling them of the lit beacon in the rain-soaked hills of Ardain, the other beacons lit in response. Of the note that simply said: Now. And finally of the recruits Queen Nara had sent north with them, and of the Ben-Elim, Kushiel’s visit to Uthandun as Sig was preparing to leave.

  All of it Sig told in a flat, inexpressive voice, as if she were recounting a morning’s sparring on the weapons court, giving an analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of a student of the Order. Apart from when she spoke of Keld and Cullen, of Rab and Fen and Hammer. Those she praised.

  Cullen beamed as if it was his name-day. Keld sat there grim and dour, a scowl looking to have been etched throu
gh his face with a plough.

  When Sig finished, a silence settled upon them all, only the fire crackling in its great hearth, the snoring of Fen as he slept in front of it.

  ‘There is more news from the Nest,’ Tain said, meaning Crow Tower, ‘that makes more sense, now we have heard Sig’s tale.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ Byrne prompted.

  ‘Frick has returned from Jerolin,’ Tain said. ‘The poor lad; it’s a long way to fly, he’s fair shattered, he is—’

  ‘Tell them, tell them,’ Craf squawked impatiently in Tain’s ear, making him jump.

  ‘Beacons, springing up all across what once was Tenebral, now the southern reaches of the Land of the Faithful. And attacks. Much the same as you have described in Ardain. Holds burned, merchants and travellers attacked upon the road. Some villages. No organized assault on what you would call a military strength, though. Or at least, that’s what Frick has heard.’

  ‘Thank you, Tain,’ Byrne said with a dip of her head.

  ‘There was no way of bringing this Kadoshim back alive, head still attached to its body?’ Byrne said, her dark eyes fixing Sig. Even though Byrne was little more than half Sig’s height she still managed to hold her with that gaze. ‘It would have been helpful if we could have asked a question or two. And, as I remember, that was your task. To find it, and bring it here.’

  ‘Aye, well, the Kadoshim was not for cooperating,’ Sig said. ‘I tried, had it in my net, even. And to be fair, it wasn’t me that killed the beast.’

  Sig felt disloyal, informing on Hammer, but Byrne somehow had that effect on people. She could suck the truth from a stone and Sig had long come to the conclusion that there was no point fighting it.

  ‘Hammer killed it.’

  She’s a bear, she’s got broad shoulders.

  A raised eyebrow from Byrne. Surprisingly effective at eliciting an urge in Sig to provide further information.

  ‘The Kadoshim stabbed her in the paw.’