by John Gwynne
As Drem watched, the man walked a dozen paces, turned to face the wall, his back to Drem, and urinated up the rock face. Drem hurried across the open space, long legs speeding him, the man hearing him at the last moment, turning, urine steaming in the icy cold, but not quick enough to avoid Drem’s spear-butt in the head. He dropped with a grunt, cloak hood falling away. Another shaven-haired man.
Drem hit him again, just to be sure.
A sound in the cell closest to him and he approached it, saw only darkness inside, a form moving, deep at the back. A warning growl.
Drem bumped into the table, turned and looked at it.
Tools were scattered across its surface, saws and knives, a butcher’s cleaver chopped into the wood. Thick iron rings were set deep into the timber, chains hanging from them. Then Drem realized what the lumps he’d seen spread upon the table were.
Body parts.
Some animal, some human. Arms, legs, torsos. A wolven head, a furry shoulder and leg, its paw as big as a plate. A bat like the one that he’d seen feasting on Fritha’s hound was pinned to the table with a spike through its chest, wings spread wide, pierced with iron nails. It tried to flap its wings, a feeble movement, head swivelling to regard him with its red eyes. On the table beside it was a human hand, an iron rod jammed into the gaping wound of its wrist, tendons somehow attached. Other things, unrecognizable. A wooden frame, some kind of fabric stretched across it. Drem peered closer.
Skin! It’s flayed skin!
‘Help . . . me,’ a voice whispered, Drem leaping around, spear pointing. A shape moved in one of the cells, a dark shadow shifting.
‘Please,’ the voice whispered, slurring, as if drunken or broken-jawed.
There were rush torches set in holders about the table, some blackened, burned-out stumps, others still fresh. Drem took his fire iron from his belt pouch and struck sparks, a torch flaring to life. He knew how dangerous it was, here in the middle of this place, enemies all around – but that voice. He recognized it.
‘Sten?’ he said, holding the torch up, approaching the boulder. Darkness retreated, orange glow washing the rock face, shadows flickering and dancing, the cells looking like myriad dark eyes staring back at him, silent as secrets. ‘Sten?’ Drem said again.
Sten was one of the trappers from Kergard who had not returned from the Bonefells, along with his partner, Vidar. Drem remembered Ulf telling him and his da over a skin of mead and a warm fire. That seemed like so long ago.
Light from Drem’s torch pushed back the darkness in the cell, a figure slowly emerging, a man, stooped and hunched, shambling forwards, dragging one foot that was twisted at an odd angle.
‘Stennnn,’ the figure whispered, finally looking up at Drem.
He almost dropped the torch.
It was Sten, but not as Drem remembered him. His lower jaw was distended, looking too big for his head and hanging open, sharp teeth rowed within red, swollen gums, and his eyes were yellow. His hands were curled, as if sore and swollen, nails grown long and black.
‘Sten, what have they done to you?’ Drem whispered.
‘Killll me,’ the thing that had been Sten breathed.
‘Vidar; where’s Vidar?’ Drem asked, stepping close to the iron bars. Sten twisted his head, bones clicking. Muscles bunched in his shoulders and back, unnaturally large between shoulder and neck, taut as knotted rope.
‘Vidarrrrrr gone,’ Sten groaned, eyes flitting to the table behind Drem. He slumped, like a sail with no wind, then suddenly grew, swelling, and hurled himself at the iron bars of his cage, clawed hands clutching at Drem, snagging in his torch, his cloak. Drem leaped backwards, stumbling and falling into the snow. Sten pounded and snarled and smashed at the iron bars, a feral fury sending an explosion of dust and fragments of stone from where they were buried into the rock face.
All along the boulder things swarmed to their cell bars, crouched things, things on all fours, looking like huge, mutated wolven, bears, badgers, other creatures of the Wild. And then there were things that stood like men, or half-men, bodies unnaturally muscled, furred in parts, bones elongated. At one cage a bairn stumbled forwards, feet stretched and clawed. It wrapped its too-long jaws around an iron bar and shook it, saliva and blood dripping down the iron in long streaks.
Drem staggered to his feet, backing away, spear levelled at the cages as his torch sputtered and went out. His hands shook. Horror and fear swept through him, threatened to overwhelm him.
Behind him the bear roared in its pen, the door rattling, a loud crack as it swiped a paw at the lock. Voices shouted. The guard groaned in the snow.
A horn blew, further away, faint and distant. Beyond the enclosure, from the direction of the lake.
Drem ran, blindly, no destination in mind, just away from these creatures of nightmare. He kicked the rousing guard in the head as he raced past, then rushed into the darkness. In moments he was at the encampment wall, felt a wild moment of panic, feeling trapped, knew that if he was found he’d be thrown to those things in the cells, or worse, turned into one of them. He saw a set of stairs that climbed the palisade and sprinted up them, slipped on half-frozen snow, righted himself and reached the top.
He turned and stared back into the compound, saw figures holding torches running to the boulder, one thrusting his burning torch into a cell, a high-pitched scream rang out. Something else moved close to the bear pen, a tall figure, wreathed in shadow.
Too tall, can’t be a man.
He felt sick, his stomach threatening to empty itself, cold wind snatching at him. He put a hand to his neck, found that his cloak and undergarments were torn, right down to his bare skin.
Sten’s claws.
He shivered.
Movement elsewhere caught Drem’s eye, the horn he’d heard still ringing out, and he saw activity towards the southern end of the encampment: figures hurrying onto the pier. Further out, shapes emerged from the darkness, two boats, bristling with oars, rowing steadily for the dock. And in the dark skies above them a shape flew, two more appearing, dark shadows skimming the water, a shimmer in the starlight.
Too big for birds, Drem frowned. Then he saw one alight on the pier, a winged man in chainmail shirt. Shaven-haired warriors fell to their knees, bowing.
A rush of ice swept through his veins, a new level of fear.
It cannot be! Kadoshim.
He felt his legs turn to water, had to hold on to the timber struts of the wall to keep himself upright.
But of course it can be. Look at what I’ve just seen in those cages, twisted by Elyon knows what foul magic and dark practices. Oh, Da, you were right. There’s nowhere left to run from this.
Drem leaped over the wall, weightless for a moment before he fell crunching into a bank of snow and scrambled to his feet. Then he was running for the trees.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BLEDA
Bleda stood in Drassil’s courtyard, stamping his feet against the cold.
‘Why are we here?’ he said to Jin, who was standing beside him, somehow managing to look far less cold than he felt.
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Kol asked me to be here by highsun, and he asked that I bring you.’
‘Kol. You friendly with Ben-Elim, all of a sudden?’ Bleda asked her.
‘Not as friendly as you are with the Lord Protector,’ she shot back at him. It was said harmlessly enough, but Bleda knew there was an edge to Jin’s words. A confusion, and a suspicion.
I understand that, because I am confused about it myself.
It had been two days since he had been summoned to Israfil’s room, since he had been commended for making a stand, for fighting the Kadoshim. He could not lie, it had felt good to be praised like that. And there was much truth in it. He had chosen to fight the Kadoshim, rather than watch them and the Ben-Elim kill one another.
And I am still not completely sure why.
A good part of it had been seeing the Kadoshim. Never had he imagined such malice made flesh.
Politics, border disputes, even blood feuds he understood. But at the sight of the Kadoshim all of that had faded.
It was evil. I saw evil, poured into a form of blood and bone. That’s why I fought.
But was that the only reason?
And being commended by Israfil had felt wrong, not just because he had come to see Israfil as the personification of all that he stood against, the empire that would subjugate his people, had subjugated his people.
And now he is proclaiming me as a hero of the Faithful.
‘I’m not friendly with Israfil,’ he muttered.
‘Then tell me what he said to you,’ Jin said.
Bleda just looked at her, could see in her eyes the desire to understand him, wanting him to allay her suspicions.
‘He thanked me for what I did in the attack.’ Bleda shrugged, looking away.
Jin nodded, but her eyes still watched him closely.
‘Your hair is longer,’ she said, brushing a strand from his face.
‘It is,’ he agreed. He’d been growing it since the day his mother had visited, when he’d felt shame at what she must think of his appearance. It had grown to the point that he needed to tie it back, now, into a knot, but it was not long enough that all of his hair was cooperative enough to stay where he put it. It was annoying.
Figures marched into the courtyard, giants riding upon bears. Bleda was glad of the distraction. Ethlinn was at their head, a cloak of white fur draped about her shoulders, dark warrior braid coiled about one shoulder. A spear was couched in a saddle holster, resting loosely in the crook of her arm. Balur One-Eye strode at her side, white hair spilling over a black cloak, the opposite of his daughter and queen. A war-hammer was slung across his shoulder, body wrapped in leather, a breastplate and shoulder-guard of steel. Other giants followed, a score, two score, three score, all mounted. Bleda saw Alcyon amongst their ranks; the giant saw him and nodded a greeting, a broad grin splitting his face.
That giant is uncommonly good-humoured, Bleda thought, dipping his head in answer. Alcyon had saved his life, after all, and Bleda was keenly aware of that debt.
Ethlinn led them out through the gates of Drassil, the column turning north and disappearing from view.
There was a beating of wings and Bleda looked up to see a Ben-Elim alighting beside them: Kol with his golden hair and his easy smile.
‘We have come as you asked,’ Jin said to him.
‘My thanks,’ Kol said, stepping close to her and resting a hand upon her shoulder. Bleda was surprised that she did not pull away.
‘Though if it was to watch giants riding off into the distance,’ Bleda said, eyes still fixed on Kol’s hand upon Jin’s shoulder, ‘I’d rather have heard about it while sat beside a fire-pit.’
‘Them? No, I did not ask you here to watch Ethlinn ride out,’ Kol said, finally stepping away from Jin. ‘Better to watch tar dry, I think.’ He grinned, and Jin half laughed.
‘Where are they going, though?’ Bleda said. ‘That must be every last giant in Drassil.’
‘Do not fear for your safety, you are well guarded by my Ben-Elim and White-Wings,’ Kol said, his tone and smile softening the insult in his words, but Bleda still bridled.
‘I am not afraid,’ he managed to say through the thin line of his lips.
‘Of course you aren’t,’ Kol said. ‘A poor jest, I apologize. To answer your question, they are going to Dun Seren. These are dark times, and the enemies of the Kadoshim must unite against them. Ethlinn and Balur have a better relationship with the Order of the Bright Star than we Ben-Elim do, and so they are better placed to speak with them, to share information and come away with an agreed plan of attack against the Kadoshim.’
‘We will attack the Kadoshim, then?’ Bleda asked. A shiver of fear ran through him at that prospect, but a fresh understanding of its importance, as well.
‘Oh, aye, if we can find them,’ Kol said, no smile now, just a cold hatred radiating from his eyes. ‘When we find them.’
The sound of a horn echoed down from the battlements over the gates.
‘Ah, here they are,’ Kol said, smiling again, emotions shifting like the breeze.
‘Here who are?’ Bleda asked.
A rumble, low and distant, quickly growing. Jin heard it, too, cocking her head.
‘Hooves. Many riders,’ Bleda said.
‘Aye,’ Kol agreed easily. ‘About two hundred, I think.’
The rumble grew to a roar and then riders were pouring through Drassil’s gates, and Bleda’s heart was soaring, because he saw the banner of a white horse upon a green field above them, Sirak warriors in their deels of grey pouring through the gates, heads shaved, warrior braids tugged by the wind, and behind them more riders, a blue banner with a stooping hawk upon it.
‘Our honour guard,’ Jin breathed, a grin slipping through her control, a hand reaching out to squeeze Bleda’s.
The Sirak and Cheren riders swept into the courtyard of Drassil, two hundred of them, the riders merging, grey of Sirak and blue of Cheren a blurred whirlwind galloping around the courtyard’s edge. Then they were separating, regrouping, Bleda and Jin staring in unadulterated joy, cold-faces forgotten for a few glorious heartbeats, and then the riders were slowing, forming up before Bleda and Jin.
Bleda forced his cold-face back into place, even though his heart was pounding with the joy of seeing his kin, a fierce pride at the mounted skill of Sirak warriors. One of them drew up before him, face a map of deep lines, and Bleda breathed deep to hold back the smile that wanted to spill onto his own face. Old Ellac upon a black horse, the rest of Bleda’s honour guard falling into place behind the old warrior.
And then the courtyard was still, dust settling, a horse whickering.
Ellac dismounted, behind him a hundred others did the same, and those gathered before Jin followed suit. And then they were all dropping to their knees, heads bowing to touch the cold stone of the courtyard.
Bleda just stood and stared at them, not knowing what to say, a storm of emotions swirling through him.
‘Welcome to Drassil,’ Kol shouted, spreading arms and wings wide in greeting.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Drem
Drem stumbled into his yard, feet and hands half-numb, still clutching his spear with frozen fingers, his vision blurred, body drenched with sweat, yet it was cold enough that he felt ice crackling in his hair.
A day and a half he’d run, expecting at any moment to hear the roar of a giant bear behind him, or the whisper of wings above, or the eerie howling of twisted, mutated things. His blind terror had lasted a good while but, by the coming of the first dawn, exhaustion had finally driven it off, and even as he forced his legs to keep moving, trudging through snow and ice, he had started to think. First and foremost, how to survive, how to get home, and he had used every trick and tactic his da had taught him in their years in the Wild to hide his tracks from an unwanted follower. He’d splashed up streams and down streams, entering at one point and exiting half a league north or south, doing the same at half a dozen streams that fed into Starstone Lake from the Bonefells. He’d climbed trees that grew tight and close, shuffling along branches onto a neighbouring tree, then onto the next, and the next, and the next, eventually climbing down and running on. He’d come across a fox’s den and taken his hatchet to a pile of frozen dung, smearing the softer faeces inside all over himself, to cover his scent from anything that might track him with its nose. He’d sought out higher ground forested by pine, where the snow-cover was thin upon the ground, the forest litter thick with spongy pine needles that sprang back and hid his tracks far better than ankle-deep snow.
And now, against all expectations, he was home.
He didn’t bother entering his cabin, just staggered into his barn, was greeted by goats and chickens that he’d locked up and left with enough food to feed them for a whole moon. He broke the ice in the water barrel and drank deep, found some eggs, cracked them and swallowed them raw, then locked the b
arn back up and set about saddling a horse in the stables.
‘Get on, girl,’ he said and touched his heels to his mare’s ribs, and then she was cantering from the yard onto the track that led to Kergard.
On the meadow before Kergard a great space had been cleared, tents and a roped ring set up, and beyond them the bars of what appeared to be an iron cage rearing high. Drem barely glanced at any of it, his eyes fixed on his path.
‘Ulf?’ he asked the gate guards.
‘An Assembly meeting, at his yard,’ one said, looking him up and down and wrinkling his nose.
Drem rode on, through Kergard’s streets, people staring strangely at him as he passed, until he was clattering into Ulf’s tanning yard, the caustic smells of lime water and animal fat hardly affecting him at all. A handful of men were there: Hildith’s guards and others. They stared at him as he slid from his mount and staggered through Ulf’s doorway. He stumbled on, almost falling through another set of doors into a large room, half a dozen people sitting round a table. Ulf was there, and Hildith, some others Drem recognized, and some he didn’t.
Ulf was speaking when Drem burst in, but paused when he saw Drem, frowning as if at a stranger. Recognition dawned.
‘Good grief, lad, what’s happened to you? We’re but soon back from a seven-day bear-hunt and by the looks of it we feel a damn sight better than you!’
Drem swayed and Ulf jumped from his chair, catching Drem.
‘Sound the alarm, the call to arms,’ Drem said, his voice cracked and trembling from lack of use.
‘Fetch the lad a drink, and something to eat,’ Ulf yelled out, easing Drem into a seat close to a crackling hearth. He sniffed. ‘By Asroth’s stones, but you don’t smell so good, lad. Now, what are you saying? Call to arms? No need, we’ve caught your white bear. Don’t need to worry, it’s caged up on the meadows.’ He frowned, put a hand to Drem’s forehead. ‘Have you got a fever, lad? Having fever dreams?’
‘No,’ Drem said, leaning away from Ulf. ‘I’m not talking about the white bear. There’s worse things out there than that bear.’