Battleaxe

  Faraday realised that the pain was indeed seeping away, and she nodded and stood up. “What did you do?”

  “I gave you the power that My Daughter will need. It is power, unusual power, power to love and comfort, to nurture and enhance, to protect and endure. It is My special gift to you. You will learn how to use it. Follow your heart.” She paused. “Hark!” The Mother’s head tilted to one side for a moment. “Your husband’s patrol returns. No…don’t fret, shush and listen to me. I have more to say and not much time to say it. Faraday, dear Daughter, it will be some time before you come back to Me, but come back you will, never fear. Now, listen to My words.” She caught Faraday’s head between Her hands again and Her eyes burned, searing Her words into Faraday’s memory. Her eternal happiness would depend on it.

  “Remember, I will always be here for you. Daughter, listen to me! When your life drains away from you with your heart’s blood, call My name and I will come. When pain tears at your mind until you are no longer sane, call My name and I will come. You are My Daughter.”

  She paused and Her voice became softer as She started to intone a short verse.

  When all seems lost and dead and dark,

  Of this I can assure you—

  A Mother’s arms will fold you tight,

  And let you roam unfettered.

  “Repeat it,” She hissed fiercely, and Faraday mumbled the verse through again. “Never forget it, Daughter, never, never forget it! Remember to call my name…remember!” The Mother’s eyes filled with tears and She leaned forward and kissed Faraday hard on the mouth. “Remember!”

  Then everything faded.

  Yr’s arms folded about her fiercely, hugging her tight. “Thank the Prophecy, Faraday! I thought I had lost you forever.”

  Faraday opened her eyes and blinked. She was back in her chamber in Gorkenfort, the bowl held in outstretched hands before her, the emerald light fading as she watched. She still wore the gown the Mother had given her.

  “Quick!”Yr hissed, “Borneheld has ridden into the courtyard and even now calls your name. Off with this gown—where did you get it?—and into this robe. Here, let me take the bowl, where’s that pitcher? Good girl. The robe, the robe! Good. Ah, I can feel him striding down the corridor. Quick, there is no time, on the bed, I’ve rumpled it for you. Do your best to look sleepy…well, all right, a muddled look will do as well. Now, let me fold this gown about the bowl and, ah!”

  The door opened and Borneheld strode into the room, his face lit with a strange light. Faraday sat on the bed, just risen from her nap, rubbing puzzlement and sleep out of her eyes. That maid, always too damn close, was folding some old clothes into the chest at the side of the bed.

  “Out!” Borneheld shouted at Yr.

  48

  YULETIDE MORNING

  It was early in the morning of the seventh day of the third week of Snow-month, and if the defenders of Gorkenfort and the town that lay beneath it had still followed the same yearly calendar of festivals as the Avar and Icarii, they would have known it was the morning of Yuletide, the night of the winter solstice. The winter solstice was the most critical night of the year for the Icarii and the Avar; if their rites did not help the sun survive the solstice and rise again the next morning then winter could well last forever.

  For the past two days blizzards had pushed down through Gorken Pass, so bad that none could venture past the walls of either town or fort. Water froze in barrels. Men had to take to meat with axes. Tent flaps not tied down were frozen into whatever weird shapes the wind blew them. Not even Brother Francis could remember the fort and town being struck by such a severe storm. Yet the coal for fires had to be rationed. With almost fourteen thousand men crowded into the fort and town, fuel was in short supply. Life was appalling, and Borneheld feared fighting would be nigh impossible if the Skraelings attacked during the height of the blizzard. Tension kept men awake at night, expecting attack any moment.

  The defence of Gorkentown was going to be a nightmare. It was critical for the town walls to hold against any attack, because the entire army could never fit inside the walls of the fort. If the town fell, then almost eight thousand men would perish; Gorkenfort might well hold, its walls and defences were three times as strong as the town defences, but at a dreadful cost to those trapped outside. As commanded by Borneheld, Axis had assumed responsibility for the town walls. Although he did not fear the responsibility, Axis feared the eventual attack. The Skraeling attacks on patrols would be nothing to what Gorgrael would unleash on town and fort.

  If this was a normal siege the triangular battlements jutting out from the walls could be used to direct flights of arrows, even pour fiery oil, onto the besieging forces as they beat against the town walls. But no-one knew what sort of attack they would have to prepare for against Gorgrael’s forces. Atop one of the battlements, Axis, Magariz and Jorge huddled deep in their cloaks, their backs to the wind, trying to peer into the snowstorm. They had stood there ten minutes, their beards and eyebrows already frosted with ice below their tightly drawn hoods. Magariz tugged at Axis’ cloak and tipped his head toward the trapdoor leading down into the battlement tower. Axis nodded, and the three men moved as quickly as they could on the icy footing through the trapdoor and down the ladder into the room beneath where the war council awaited them.

  All breathed easier once they were out of the immediate wind, and aides helped the three men out of their ice-stiffened cloaks. A small fire blazed in a grate and they stood about it, not talking as they tried to warm their bodies before the inadequate flames, rubbing the ice away from their brows and beards with fingers so cold that the fire hurt where it warmed them. The room was bare of all furniture save the racks of lances and bows and quivers of arrows lining the walls. A single narrow window looked out over the territory beyond the town, but in this storm it was tightly barred shut.

  “Well?” Borneheld demanded. “What do you think?”

  Magariz glanced at Axis, then turned to face his WarLord. All the men were dressed for battle, mail shirts over thick felt and leather tunics and trousers, light metal plate protecting arms, thighs and shins. In this weather men had learned not to touch their armour with bare fingers; all had lost patches of skin on their finger tips to the frozen metal. Borneheld and Roland were joined by several of the commanders’ lieutenants, including Belial and Gautier.

  “The blizzard is as fierce as it has been for the past two days, WarLord,” Magariz said for the three of them. “It is a cursed storm, driven by the Destroyer himself. Its cold eats at men’s joints and flesh, its evil eats at their souls and their courage.” All present knew what he meant. A great part of the storm’s deadly ferocity lay in its malevolence; it was as if the storm was alive and hungered for the death of all it encountered.

  “We cannot attack through such weather,” Borneheld muttered, stamping his freezing feet. “If we send men outside in this they will die in five minutes, frozen to their horses.”

  “I doubt Gorgrael can attack through this blizzard either,” Axis said quietly, his back to the fire. “Have not the wraiths always attacked in relatively calm weather?”

  Borneheld glared at him, but both Magariz and Jorge nodded. “We have had patrols outside in fierce weather, although never as bad as this, and they have not once been attacked.” Magariz said. “You may be right, Axis, the attack may not happen until the storm abates.”

  “Then why the storm?” Roland asked. His bulky clothes and armour made him look even more massive than usual. “If Gorgrael has caused the storm, why do so if he cannot send his minions against us while it rages?”

  “To sap our strength and courage,” Jorge said softly. “Or simply to show us his power. To let us know what we face.”

  “Perhaps he simply enjoys its fury, revels in its hate,” Axis muttered to himself by the fire.

  Borneheld cursed. “It will not matter when he attacks if all he has to counter is a mound of frozen corpses. Gautier, when the stocks of coal run out tell
the unit commanders they can tear down the doors and shutters of unoccupied houses and use them as fuel for fires. And let us hope that this storm doesn’t keep up for too much longer.”

  If he had reluctantly admitted that it was Gorgrael they faced, then Borneheld had been furious to learn that word of the Prophecy had spread like wildfire among his own troops and now all were talking about it. He demanded that they direct their attentions to the forthcoming battle rather than trying to decipher the useless riddles of an Artor-cursed Prophecy. But his demands had little effect. Men still talked. Heated discussions were held about fires at night, or under blankets when coal was not available for fire. Who was this StarMan? Would he help Achar free itself of the threat from the north, or should they trust to Borneheld? Men muttered about the Forbidden, uneasy that the Prophecy declared in unambiguous terms that the Acharites would have to unite with them to defeat Gorgrael. Opinion was sharply divided about whether it would be wise to admit the Forbidden back into Achar. In many minds, old prejudices refused to die. In others, new possibilities suggested themselves. The Axe-Wielders were silent as the arguments were tossed back and forth. When asked by regular soldiers for their thoughts, the Axemen said simply that they trusted their BattleAxe. He had saved them from Gorgrael before and would again. They would follow where he asked.

  All agreed on one thing. At the moment Borneheld’s army was all that stood between Gorgrael and Ichtar. Even if they would help, no-one knew where the Forbidden were. This battle they would have to get through on their own. And if they could not venture past the fort or town walls, then all present knew that it would turn into a siege rather than a decisive battle. Gorgrael would have to break Gorkenfort if he wanted uninterrupted access to Achar. He would not be able to afford having a well-garrisoned fort behind his own army.

  GoldFeather shivered and wrapped a soft goat hair shawl about her. “It does not usually get so cold in the Avarinheim, Azhure. Even so far north. At Yuletide, we could normally still go about without extra wraps. But this,” she shivered and looked about the small grove near where the GhostTree Clan were camped, “is unusual.”

  Azhure nodded indifferently. GoldFeather had tried her best to cheer Azhure since the decision at the Sacred Tree Grove, but she remained impervious, the spark gone from her eyes.

  Now, as she paused to adjust a bootstrap, GoldFeather let her mind drift back, as it often did these days, to her son and to the imminent arrival of her husband and daughter. About a third of the Icarii nation should arrive to celebrate Yuletide with the Avar—more always flew down for Beltide—and GoldFeather could barely wait to see StarDrifter and EvenSong again.

  But the Icarii were late, and GoldFeather was not the only one fretting about it. All the Avar whispered among themselves. Here it was Yuletide Eve, only eight or nine hours away from the time when the rites would have to begin, and there was no sign of them. The rites would be a disaster without the Icarii, and particularly without their Enchanters. What was happening in Talon Spike to so delay her people?

  GoldFeather and Azhure continued wandering through the groves, both preoccupied, their eyes occasionally checking the skies. It was always better if Yuletide could be conducted under a clear sky. Azhure dropped her eyes from another brief scan of the sky, and stopped, puzzled. A strange noise filled the air, getting louder every minute. It was almost identical to the sound the River Nordra made when it cascaded through the chasm of the Forbidden Valley. Azhure turned to GoldFeather, but was stopped from saying anything by GoldFeather’s face. Normally a reserved woman, GoldFeather had an expression of intense excitement on her face. Her eyes shone and she laughed in both joy and relief, clapping her hands like a small child. “The Icarii!” she cried, grabbing Azhure’s arm and forcing her to run towards the inner groves, “they’ve come!” Her hand twisted in Azhure’s sleeve, dragging the surprised woman along the grass towards the entrance to the next grove. “StarDrifter!” she yelled. “Where are you?”

  “Behind you,” an amused and deeply musical voice said, and Azhure was almost knocked to the ground as GoldFeather whipped around to stare behind her. Settling down on the ground was the most amazing creature Azhure could ever imagine existing, while above them the air was filled with the sight and sound of beating wings so profuse they almost blotted out the sky. GoldFeather gave a wordless cry, picked up her skirts and dashed madly across the distance between herself and the birdman, throwing herself so violently into his arms that he almost fell over, laughing. “GoldFeather,” he said softly, and wrapped both arms and wings about her as he bent his head to kiss her mouth.

  Azhure took a deep breath and stared. StarDrifter. There was no-one else that GoldFeather would cling to so desperately. Azhure knew she was staring and knew that it was probably considered very impolite, but she could not tear her eyes away from the pair in front of her. Besides, they were so completely enveloped in each other she doubted they were aware of anyone else. Around her other Icarii drifted out of the skies and even more were pouring over the top of the cliff face of the Icescarp mountain and drifting down into the groves.

  Azhure was utterly captivated by StarDrifter. He was tall and of a lean and muscular build, and while his torso was bare he was clad from the waist down in a pair of tight golden breeches and boots. His head was covered in shimmering golden hair which curled down from the back of his head, lightening into pale gold and then into silver as it gave way to feathers and then to the luminous white wings that sprouted from his back at the level of his shoulder blades. Although his wings were now wrapped about GoldFeather, Azhure had caught a glimpse of them as he’d landed. Fully extended they were wider than three men laid out head to foot. Azhure blinked and looked about. The groves were now full of excited Avar and Icarii, wings beating and then folding as Icarii after Icarii landed, loose downy feathers drifting through air filled with the sound of shouted greetings.

  GoldFeather tilted her head back and stared into the face of her beloved StarDrifter. Relaxed with love and joy she looked younger, as beautiful as the young girl the Enchanter had fallen in love with so many years ago. StarDrifter laughed and raised a gentle hand to her face, his wings holding her so tight that both were cocooned in their soft strength and warmth.

  “I have missed you, woman of my roost. My heart and my bed have been cold these past few months.” StarDrifter’s face was extraordinarily beautiful, fine pale skin stretched tightly over high narrow cheekbones and a thin, jutting nose. Tilting and utterly compelling pale blue eyes gazed lovingly at GoldFeather from under flaxen brows and a high forehead that sloped gently back into his golden curls. The entire shape of his face and head was narrow and very slightly elongated, but the alien aspects of the bone structure of his skull and face gave him an air of mystery, perhaps even of arrogance, rather than of unnaturalness.

  GoldFeather found his physical attraction irresistible. The first time she had seen StarDrifter he had but to hold out his hand and smile, speaking not a single word, and she had gone to his arms then as she did now.

  GoldFeather glanced over StarDrifter’s shoulder. “EvenSong?” she asked, her voice breathless with excitement and love.

  “Following later, my love,” StarDrifter smiled. “She preferred to fly with FreeFall.”

  GoldFeather rested her hands against StarDrifter’s chest and stared into his eyes. “StarDrifter,” she whispered,” I have something that I…”

  “Not yet, my love, not yet,” StarDrifter whispered and stopped her words with his mouth. Azhure finally turned away and left them alone, wandering away to the side of the grove and sitting beneath a tree. She felt unutterably lonely, the alien outcast among the two races of the Forbidden. The joy of the reunion between the Avar and the Icarii, and between StarDrifter and GoldFeather, drove home as nothing else could the truth that she had no-one to worry over her and hold her tight when she returned home.

  GoldFeather finally managed to tear her mouth away from StarDrifter’s. “StarDrifter,” she said, her voice
tight with urgency, “I have to talk to you. Our son did not die! I was tricked by Jayme, may his soul drift for eternity! Our son lives!”

  StarDrifter’s grip loosened slightly around GoldFeather and he leaned back to study her face. So long had it been since the loss of their first child that for a moment StarDrifter could make no sense of her words. After a while he shook his head in bewilderment, almost denial. “No, no…what do you mean? Our son? He died…you saw him…our son died…” His voice trailed off into silence.

  GoldFeather’s chest heaved with great sobs. “Jayme stole him and raised him and our son is now BattleAxe of the Seneschal!”

  StarDrifter let GoldFeather go completely and stepped back. “No, no, it cannot be. Our son? The BattleAxe?”

  Raum, who had been watching carefully from some distance away, now hobbled forward. He hadn’t been sure how StarDrifter would react to the news and he was not entirely surprised at the look of horrified denial across the Enchanter’s face.

  “Enchanter, it is true.” He said quietly, and StarDrifter spun his head towards Raum. Raum raised his hand. “Peace, Enchanter! Listen to me. I have met the BattleAxe. He names himself Axis Rivkahson, and…”

  “Imposter!” StarDrifter hissed, black anger now spreading across his face. This must be a foul trick of the Seneschal, designed to trick and then trap the Icarii Enchanter!

  Raum stood his ground. “No, Enchanter. Not that. He has your eyes, and the cast of your features. No! Wait! There is more. Beneath the black of the BattleAxe dwells the soul of an Icarii Enchanter, StarDrifter SunSoar.” Raum stepped up to the Icarii and grabbed his arm. It was rigid with tension. Raum forced himself to stare unwavering into StarDrifter’s furious eyes. “Before me your son sang the Song of Recreation. He recreated the Avar child I had with me, StarDrifter, when she was all but dead. Do not tell me the Seneschal can create an imposter with such powers!”