A Time of Dread

by John Gwynne

  Cullen grinned, pleased with himself.

  Something moved on the table behind him. A figure shifting, a shadow rising.

  Burg.

  But not Burg. He was changed, as Gulla had been, a pulsing, rippling sense of malice and vitality to him, like a black halo.

  And there is something wrong with his mouth. As if it had grown, too big for his face, teeth appearing sharper, needlelike, and far too many of them.

  Cullen sensed something, maybe heard a movement, and spun on his feet to face this new foe. Burg took a few steps, unsteady jerks and twitches, and Cullen danced forwards and buried his sword in his belly.

  Burg curled around the blade, then grinned, standing tall.

  Cullen tried to rip his sword free but Burg grabbed his sword hand, a blur of movement, and Burg was grasping Cullen, lifting him high over his head, Cullen smashing his shield into Burg’s face, with little effect. And then Cullen was flying through the air, crunching to the ground and rolling, coming to a halt a dozen paces from Drem and Sig.

  They fought their way to him, stood either side, and slowly Cullen rose on shaky legs.

  ‘Well, he’s a lot stronger than he looks.’

  Drem gave Cullen his axe and drew his bone-handled seax.

  ‘You’ve got the ambush you hoped for, or a trap, at least,’ Sig growled at Cullen as she shrugged her shield from her back onto her arm. They formed a loose circle, Sig and Cullen with shields raised, acolytes all around them, Ferals prowling at the periphery.

  ‘Aye.’ Cullen grinned. ‘And it’s one that’s busy stabbing them in the arse!’ He lunged forwards adder-fast, axe singing, crunching into the forehead of an acolyte. ‘Or the head,’ he amended. ‘Though for the life of me I do not know how they can stand this,’ Cullen cried, rubbing the bristles of his shaved head. ‘It’s so cold! And it’s sure as eggs not going to help me with the ladies back in Dun Seren!’

  Drem felt a laugh bubbling up within him, even with death a heartbeat away.

  I like my new family.

  He wasn’t too hopeful on how long they’d get to spend in each other’s company, though. They’d managed to stay alive this long because of Sig’s ferocity and perpetual movement, and Cullen’s position upon the huge table, where he’d been able to elude and leap and dance over every lunge and stab at him. Now, however, they were encircled by a crowd of their enemies.

  I think we’re going to die here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  BLEDA

  Bleda stared into what had once been Israfil’s chamber, now more akin to a battlefield. Ben-Elim fought Ben-Elim, White-Wings fought one against the other, and in the midst of it, weaving through them all, he’d watched in horror as Riv had hurled herself at Kol. He’d nocked an arrow and aimed, but bodies were swirling around the chamber like twigs in a hurricane.

  In stupefaction he’d watched as Riv’s mam and sister leaped into the fray, her mam reaching Riv first, stepping in front of Riv to protect her from a furious Kol. As she fell dead beside her daughter Bleda moved, as if released from a spell. He strode towards the maelstrom, but then a hand grabbed his arm.

  ‘Stay,’ Old Ellac said to him, half a dozen more of Bleda’s honour guard were behind the old warrior. Something had alerted Ellac to Bleda’s stealthy exit of their chambers as he’d set out after Riv, and Bleda had not minded their company. Something about this stormy night had felt sinister and laced with malice.

  ‘I owe her a debt,’ Bleda said, the quickest, no, only way for Ellac to understand what he was doing. He pulled his arm free and padded into the melee, an arrow loosely nocked on his bow. Ellac and the others followed as Bleda weaved through the carnage, the stench of blood and faeces thick in the air. For a few moments he lost sight of Riv and Kol, then saw Aphra reach them, the warrior throw herself to the ground beside her sister and mother, then look up at Kol, who was shouting orders to Ben-Elim, orchestrating the madness, though Bleda could tell it was swinging towards Kol and his rebels.

  A coup amongst the Ben-Elim, the puritanical Lore-Givers.

  Never before had he thought of rival factions amongst the Ben-Elim; it was something that he filed away for further consideration at a more opportune time.

  If I come out of this alive.

  He was close now, could hear Aphra’s wail of grief as she held her dead mam in her arms, for a terror-filled moment thought that Riv was dead, too, but then he saw her chest rising and falling, though her eyes were closed tight.

  Unconscious, then.

  And he heard Kol shout orders to Adonai, the wingless Ben-Elim who had killed Israfil.

  ‘Take that little bitch prisoner,’ he cried, ‘throw her in a cell until I have time to deal with her.’

  ‘No!’ Aphra yelled.

  ‘She tried to kill me,’ Kol snarled at her, ‘I cannot ignore that. I am the Lord Protector, now.’

  The dark-haired warrior strode to Riv, bent down and grabbed a fistful of her short hair.

  And Bleda loosed, his arrow thumping into Adonai’s chest. As the Ben-Elim reached to pluck at the feathers, another arrow punched into his throat. Four more arrows slammed into his torso in rapid succession from Bleda’s men. Adonai toppled backwards, crashing to the ground.

  ‘You dare!’ Kol roared.

  ‘There’s another one here for you,’ Bleda snarled, nocking a new arrow.

  Kol stepped away, into the madness of the battle.

  ‘Take her,’ Aphra yelled. ‘Get Riv out of here.’

  Bleda looked from Kol to Aphra to Riv.

  ‘Please,’ Aphra cried.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  Two White-Wings converged on them, Bleda shifting his aim, but he recognized them as Riv’s friends, the bull-man, Vald, and the stick, Jost.

  Aphra yelled directions to Bleda, and orders to Vald and Jost. Then she stood and drew her sword, stalking into the mayhem. Vald swept Riv up in his arms and turned to Bleda.

  ‘Lead the way, Dead-Eye.’

  And Bleda did, his honour guard driving a wedge through the chamber, and soon they were spilling out into the corridor beyond Israfil’s chamber.

  The sounds of battle echoed from all directions, the chamber behind them, the street below.

  Ellac stepped close, whispered in his ear.

  ‘We could use this. Strike now . . .’

  Bleda remembered the words of his mother, whispered into his ear on Drassil’s weapons-field. He looked at Ellac and his men, at Jost and Vald, finally at Riv.

  He smiled at Riv, an act of will, intentional, knew Ellac and his men would be shocked.

  ‘I’m taking Riv to safety,’ he said, then turned and led them through the chamber, down a stairwell and out into the din of battle.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  SIG

  Fire was blazing through the clearing, great gusts of wind sending flames flaring. They caught in a timber building, roaring into hungry life, blazing red and orange light onto the clearing, clouds of black smoke rolling across them. Between smoke and flame Sig saw Gulla. He was hunched over another acolyte, drinking blood from her throat, as he had done with Burg. Other acolytes were curled upon the floor, spasming and twitching in some convulsion of rebirth while still others were spread about them in a defensive half-circle.

  Guarding them while they are vulnerable.

  She glimpsed a shadowed figure on the far side of the table, sprinting towards the boulder that had been turned into gaols for those experimented upon but obviously untrusted. The figure’s hood blew back as he ran, another shaved head, but Sig recognized Keld, his beard still wild. He ran to the first gaol, struck at the lock and chain with his axe, a burst of sparks as it shattered, Keld ripping the chain away and hurling the barred door wide. He ran to the next gate and hacked at the lock, this one snapping more quickly, ripped the door open, dashed to the next door as things burst from the open gaols behind him. More cells and chains, more Feral beasts leaping, shambling, snarling from their gaols, throwing themselves int
o the acolytes that encircled Sig, Drem and Cullen.

  ‘NOW,’ Sig yelled at the top of her lungs, her voice ringing out, at the same time the three of them surging through a cloud of smoke towards the enemy before them, smashing them to the ground with their shields, trampling over them, carving them to bloody ruin. In the distance Keld’s voice was crying out ‘Truth and Courage,’ taken up by Sig, Cullen and Drem.

  The clearing burst into chaos anew, a place of fire and smoke, steel and blood, ringing with the screams and snarls and growlings of half-men and the dying, and through it all Sig and her companions cut a bloody path out of the clearing. Abruptly they found themselves with no enemy before them. Keld erupted from a cloud of black smoke, a wild grin on his face, and then Sig was running, down a flame-lit gap between two buildings, the others close behind.

  Within heartbeats they were at the palisaded wall, Cullen racing up a stairwell, but a burst of wind and Sig’s warning shout made him pause – a spear hurled from the sky above thrumming into the stairs just before him. She raised her shield and caught another spear aimed straight at Drem’s heart. Sig hacked the shaft away, but the blade still embedded in her shield dragged her arm down. She dropped it on the ground. Gulla’s half-breed daughter alighted on the palisade walkway.

  ‘Not so easily,’ she hissed, voice as twisted as her body.

  Feet thudded behind them, Sig turning to see acolytes and Feral men swarming after them. They stopped a dozen paces from Sig and her companions and a figure stepped to their fore, the shaven-haired woman, Fritha, the Starstone Sword in her hand. Wings beat and a Kadoshim landed beside her: Gulla, a spear in his fist, veins in his body dark and bloated, even his wings seeming to be heavy, weighted with the blood he had consumed. Crimson lines trailed down his pale chin.

  ‘You cannot leave us,’ Gulla said. ‘I have someone to introduce you to.’

  Behind the swarming acolytes a dark shadow loomed, wider and taller than Sig. A great bear appeared, muzzle and head emerging from the darkness, a hint of madness in its eyes. And upon its back sat a giant, broad, wrapped in leather and fur, still masked by the shadows. A war-hammer was slung across its back.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Sig snarled, ‘if it’s time for introductions, let me introduce you to Hammer.’

  Sig put two fingers to her lips and whistled, and to her right the palisaded wall burst asunder, timber exploding in a spray of splinters, and Hammer’s two front paws crashed into the compound. Her dark fur was covered by a coat of chainmail, harnessed and buckled with leather, gleaming and sparkling in the starlight like a coat of diamonds. She roared a challenge, spraying spittle. Acolytes scattered like flotsam before a tidal wave. With a swipe of her paw she eviscerated one that moved too slowly, her head lunging forwards, jaws grabbing another, the sound of bones cracking, a scream cut short.

  The half-breed on the palisade took to the air as it collapsed beneath her feet and swooped on Hammer, hurling a spear, but it was stopped by her coat of mail, skittering harmlessly away.

  The other bear roared a challenge of its own, the giant upon its back shouting a command, and it lumbered forwards, charging at Hammer, who was in no mind to stand around waiting for it. She leaped into a charge of her own, acolytes diving in all directions to escape being trampled and broken. Sig ran too, a few long steps, but then Gulla was flying at her, acolytes swarming behind him, and she was ducking swords and spears, sweeping blades aside with her own, barrelling her shoulder into one acolyte, throwing him into the side of a building, where he slid to the ground, twitching.

  The two bears came together with bone-crunching force, teeth snapping, claws raking, bellowing. Sig saw Hammer draw first blood, her claws gouging red gullies through the flesh of the other bear’s shoulder.

  All around Sig battle exploded, Cullen, Keld and Drem drawing tight together, defending against Kadoshim from above and acolytes that had managed to find a way around the two bears as they were busy turning the encampment into splintered ruin. A building disintegrated as the two animals crashed into it, a fountain of shattered timber raining down upon them all.

  Sig took the head from a Feral as it leaped at her, body and head spinning in different directions, and strode after Hammer, but something slammed into her side, sending her tumbling to the ground, the half-breed, wings flexing. She had a flat, broad face, hair shaved and growing out in dark clumps, her body heavily muscled. She snapped her teeth at Sig, more animal than human.

  A hand rested on her shoulder, dragging her back, throwing her into the darkness, and Gulla stepped in front of her.

  ‘She is mine,’ the Kadoshim growled.

  Sig made to rise and he kicked her in the head, sending her rolling, grabbed her by her mail shirt and dragged her to her feet, stronger than she would ever have imagined, even for a Kadoshim.

  ‘I have the blood and bone of Asroth flowing through my body now,’ he snarled, his jaws opening wide, teeth gleaming.

  Fear hit Sig then, a jolt like jumping into ice-cold water as she knew what Gulla was about to do to her. She struggled but his grip held her, those teeth moving inexorably towards her throat.

  And then a squawking streak of feathers, beak and talon was hurtling into Gulla’s face, Rab scratching, pecking, gouging with beak and claw.

  Gulla dropped Sig and reeled away, Rab furiously battering at the Kadoshim, raining insults upon him as well as pain. Gulla’s hands grabbed at the white crow, but Rab flapped away, something slimy hanging from its beak, Gulla screaming, a hand over one eye, blood leaking through his fingers and he stumbled into the shadows. An acolyte moved on Sig as she swept her sword from the ground, a spear stabbing at her heart, but a mass of fur and muscle slammed into the acolyte – Fen, taking advantage of the hole Hammer had smashed through the wall. The hound’s jaws clamped around the acolyte’s throat as they both tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. As they rolled to a stop, Fen stood upon the corpse of her victim, raised his head and howled.

  Sig heard Hammer cry out in pain. She stumbled after the sound, through a tableau of destruction, buildings flattened, half-torn down, beams and detritus everywhere.

  The two bears were tearing at each other with tooth and claw, Hammer looking much better on that account because of her chainmail coat, though it was torn to strips in places. The other bear was dragging one front leg, its head hanging, spittle and blood dripping, though its spirit was strong and it lifted its head to bite at Hammer’s neck. What had caused Hammer’s cry of pain was the giant upon the other bear’s back as it leaned in its saddle and swung its war-hammer at Hammer’s head. She shifted her weight, seeing the blow coming, so that it skimmed her shoulder instead, but there was still power in the blow, and Hammer was battered and bruised, weakening. Slow.

  The giant raised its war-hammer high, over its head.

  Sig swept up a splintered shard of wood, long as a spear and drew her arm back to throw. Aimed, her arm snapping forwards.

  The giant’s bear moved, shifting him from the shadows into red-flame light.

  It was Gunil.

  It cannot be!

  But it was, unmistakably. His dark hair, opposite to Varan, his brother, his flat nose from the pugil ring.

  The splintered wood left her hand, flying unerringly towards the giant. Towards Gunil, her friend and lover, whom she had thought dead for sixteen years. The makeshift spear hit him high, in the chest or shoulder, Sig could not tell, only knew that he was hurled from his saddle in a spray of blood, disappearing behind the bear into billowing clouds of smoke.

  Sig took a step towards him.

  ‘SIG!’ Keld, screaming for her to come. He was gesturing wildly at her, standing outside the encampment, just beyond the hole in the wall Hammer had made. Cullen and Drem were with him, darkness and freedom beyond, waiting for her. For a few moments they had a chance to escape, acolytes scattered by Hammer, Fen and the others, Gulla and his spawn nowhere to be seen.

  Sig looked back to where Gunil had disappeared, no sign of him
amongst the smoke and flame, saw his bear stumble and fall before Hammer’s clawed blows.

  ‘HAMMER,’ Sig yelled, ‘TO ME,’ and she began to run, back towards Keld and the others, to freedom. The bear took one last contemptuous look at its cowed foe, then turned and ran after Sig, outpacing her, converging on the hole in the wall.

  A figure stepped out in front of Sig, wreathed in smoke and flame, a black sword in her hand.

  Fritha, Drem called you.

  Sig ran at her, raised her sword, not breaking her stride. Swung.

  Fritha moved faster than Sig would have thought possible, twisting away, ducking down, beneath Sig’s sword-swing, pivoting around Sig as she hurtled past.

  Ah, well, it’s time to go. We’ll be back with Byrne and a thousand Bright Stars for that sword.

  Something slammed into the back of her leg, high, felt like a punch.

  She ran on.

  In front of her Keld’s mouth opened, his face twisting. Cullen shouted something. Sig couldn’t quite tell what, as her ears were ringing. She felt weak, suddenly, so very tired. Stumbled, used her sword to stay upright, ran on, or tried, her right leg feeling heavy, not doing what she was telling it. She looked down as she stumbled on, saw her leg was drenched with dark blood.