A Time of Dread

  Sig looked up at the sun, veiled behind fraying louds, saw it was a little past highsun. She grunted an agreement with Drem and barked a command, the four of them riding into the eaves of the wood, Hammer ploughing a way through the snow that as good as made a new track, the others falling in behind. Every now and then Sig saw the grey streak of Fen shadowing them.

  After a while the woodland grew too close and dense and they dismounted, Drem taking the lead, as he told them he knew the ground a little, which was a lot more than them.

  ‘Five years my da has taught me to track, hunt and trap in this northern Wild,’ he said, ‘and for a good while before that further south. If I can’t do a job, or someone can do it better than me, I’ll tell you.’ He looked at Keld. ‘He’s as much a hunter as his wolven-hound, and far better at it than me, but I know this ground. Know where I’m leading you.’

  Sig glanced at Keld, always her first port of call, and he nodded.

  ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ Keld said. ‘I’m happy to follow him.’ He’d told Sig of the number of traps and work he’d found around Drem’s hold, his preparation for the coming of the Kadoshim’s acolytes. Keld had laughed, he’d been so impressed.

  ‘He dug an elk pit. In the heart of winter, and then sank a dozen spears into it. And that wasn’t all. A nail trap, a bear trap, a mini-stampede, and he blew the barn up. On purpose.’

  Sig liked what she saw in Drem. There seemed to be no falsity to him, no bluster or hidden ways. He spoke the truth as he saw it and displayed very little bravado.

  Which is good, as I have enough of that to put up with in Cullen. Though he’s a good lad, too, just trying to live up to his heritage. One day soon he’ll realize it’s more about what he does than what he says. I think he and Drem could work well together.

  Sig was already beginning to form plans on how her small crew would be changing once they got back to Dun Seren.

  Best not get ahead of myself. If Drem’s right, there are Kadoshim and a host of enemies out there. Getting back to Dun Seren alive is going to be task enough.

  There was a flapping above and behind. Rab appeared, blending with the snow-glow.

  ‘Done it,’ he squawked, alighting on Cullen’s shoulder. The young warrior scratched his neck.

  Sig had been loath to walk into such a dangerous situation, knew the perils around them and feared that if things went sour Byrne would never hear of the Kadoshim and their dark goings-on in the north, so she had inked a letter on a scroll of parchment at Drem’s hold. She could not spare Rab to fly the parchment all the way back to Dun Seren, as she needed his eyes here, but Drem had told her of a woman at Kergard whom he trusted, whom he believed would make sure the scroll reached Dun Seren. It was not as reliable an option as Sig would have liked, but assessing the situation, she could think of no other way to get word to Byrne.

  ‘You’re sure you gave the parchment to the right woman?’ Sig asked.

  ‘Hildith, Hildith,’ Rab squawked.

  ‘What did she look like?’ Drem asked.

  ‘Stern. Big men with her. Smelled of mead.’

  ‘That’s her,’ said Drem.

  ‘Good enough.’ Sig nodded. ‘Well done, Rab.’

  Rab bobbed his head and puffed his feathers out.

  Welcome,’ he croaked.

  ‘Now, would you fly ahead and have a look at this mine for us?’ Sig asked.

  ‘Course,’ Rab squawked and then he was flapping away.

  Drem led them on.

  ‘How did my mam die?’ a voice said. Sig looked down to see Drem walking beside her, leading his horse by its reins. Hammer was following at her own pace, treading her own path at the edge of Sig’s vision.

  ‘She was slain by a Kadoshim, at the Battle of Varan’s Fall,’ Sig said, a rush of memory flooding her mind. Of trees and Kadoshim and blood.

  ‘I know that,’ Drem said. ‘I have the Kadoshim’s tooth.’ He drew his sword and showed Sig the hilt of his father’s blade.

  ‘I remember,’ Sig said. ‘I helped your father hunt the beast. Moloch was its name. It was the Kadoshim that struck your mam down. Olin made it scream when finally we brought it to bay. It was not a quick death.’

  Drem nodded, looked as if he was storing that piece of knowledge deep inside.

  ‘Varan’s Fall?’ Drem said. ‘My da said it was an ambush.’

  ‘Aye. In the north of Forn Forest. We were after the Kadoshim’s captain, second only to Asroth. His name is Gulla. But we were over-confident, did not scout ahead properly. Dead Kadoshim were heaped around your mam in piles that day. She and your da fought back to back, but were cut off from the rest of us for a while. Many of our sword-kin fell that day. Gunil,’ she whispered, then fell silent, remembering the others who had been cut off and slain. Brave, noble Varan. And his brother . . .

  Gunil. How I miss you. A memory of his smile filled her mind, the way it would start in his eyes.

  ‘Gunil?’ Drem said.

  His ears are good.

  ‘A giant,’ Sig said. ‘A friend.’

  More than a friend.

  ‘You were close?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sig sighed.

  I have never spoken of Gunil to anyone before. There is something about this lad, a goodness in him.

  ‘Death and heartache are all about,’ Drem said quietly. He looked up at Sig. ‘So, Gulla was responsible for my mam’s death, then. He did not strike the blow, but he led the attack.’

  ‘Aye, you could say that.’ Sig nodded.

  ‘And responsible for your Gunil’s death, too.’

  Sig regarded him a long moment.

  ‘Aye,’ she growled.

  Rab flapped and threaded through a gap in the canopy above.

  ‘It’s close,’ the crow squawked. ‘Buildings, torches burning.’

  ‘There it is,’ Drem said, though the place hardly needed pointing out.

  They were standing to the north of the mine, behind a cluster of boulders and hawthorn, Drem having led them in a wide circle around the encampment, all of them of the opinion that any watch would be focused more to the west and the road to Kergard. It was sunset, the sky above a dull orange, shifting towards pinks and purples.

  ‘Looks quiet,’ Cullen observed.

  ‘Aye, it does,’ Keld agreed. ‘Could be an ambush.’

  ‘I hope it’s an ambush,’ Cullen said, his fingertips brushing his sword hilt.

  Sig sighed.

  ‘Is he always like this?’ Drem asked.

  ‘Like what?’ Cullen frowned.

  ‘So keen for bloodshed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sig and Keld said together.

  Rab flapped down and landed on a hawthorn branch.

  ‘Only a few on walls. Something happening inside. A meeting. Bad smell.’

  ‘What’s the plan, chief?’ Keld asked her.

  Are we to storm a fortified position with unknown numbers of our enemy inside, with just the four of us, and a bear, a hound and a crow?

  Keld is right, we need solid information to take back to Byrne.

  But townsfolk from Kergard are in there, Drem’s friend amongst them. More innocents likely to be slaughtered by the Kadoshim scum.

  She thought of the Order’s oath, to protect the weak, to fight for them. Looked at her palm, the scar a silver line where she had sealed it with her own blood.

  She knew they should already be on their way back to Dun Seren.

  But if I leave now, innocents will die. And what of this Starstone Sword? Can I just walk away and leave it in the hands of the Kadoshim, to do Elyon knows what kind of evil. If we can get that, I’m guessing we’ll stop a world of hurt from happening.

  Sig looked at the sky.

  ‘We’ll wait for twilight,’ she said, feeling her blood stir, a snarl twitching her lips at the thought of Kadoshim so close. ‘And I’m thinking Hammer should be dressed for the occasion.’ Then she drew a knife from her belt and tested its edge with her thumb.

  Just enough time for
a shave. She smiled at Cullen.

  ‘What?’ Cullen said suspiciously.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ Sig hissed, leaning over the wall and reaching down to Drem. He jumped and caught her wrist, and then Sig was hauling him up and over the palisaded wall of the mine, both of them ducking low.

  It was as good as full dark; Sig’s preparations had taken a little longer than she’d expected. The wall was poorly manned and only sporadically lit, so it took just a few heartbeats to check they hadn’t been seen, and then Drem was padding down a stairwell, Sig jumping from the walkway into snow. They crossed an open space and hugged a wall, Drem slipping ahead, Sig confident to follow his lead. A hundred heartbeats and they were deep in the camp, an acid stench burning its way into the back of Sig’s throat. Drem turned and signalled, pointing up at the roof of a building, single-storey with a sod roof. Sig was on it in moments, then giving Drem a helping hand. They crawled across the sod, Sig careful to spread her weight. Grass tickled her face. And then they were peering down upon a scene that set even Sig’s skin to gooseflesh.

  It was an open space, illuminated by many torches, their flames whipped and swirled by the wind. A boulder as big as a keep sat at one end of the clearing, the dull gleam of iron bars highlighted by the flames showing the countless gaols Drem had told them of. Veiled shapes prowled their shadows. The foul stench was emanating from those recesses in palpable waves. In the centre of the clearing stood a table, various butcher’s tools spread across it, as well as a profusion of body parts. In places the timber was stained black.

  On the far side of the clearing more buildings sprawled. Sig could hear the occasional snuffling and lowing of a bear coming from their direction, though she could not be sure of the exact building.

  And in the clearing a crowd of acolytes stood, forty of them, maybe fifty. Other forms moved amongst them, prowling, their movements unnatural, backs heaped and bowed with too much muscle, arms and legs too long for their bodies, mouths and hands razored with tooth and claw that did not belong upon men. More shapes moved in the shadows beyond the torchlight.

  Drem did not exaggerate.

  ‘Can you see your friend, Ulf?’ Sig whispered to Drem.

  He shook his head.

  A hush fell and figures emerged from the darkness, a procession, a Kadoshim at its head. He was tall, dark hair swept back and tied in a knot at the nape, the sharp lines of his face and set of his eyes giving him a reptilian appearance. His nose was a thin line.

  A chanting broke out amongst the gathered acolytes as he entered the clearing.

  ‘Gulla, Gulla, Gulla.’

  Sig slid a hand to Drem and gripped his wrist.

  ‘Gulla, High Captain of the Kadoshim,’ she hissed. ‘Second only to Asroth.’

  The Captain of the Kadoshim walked through the crowd and it parted for him, his procession following behind: twelve, fourteen figures, Sig counted, all cloaked and hooded. They stopped in the space between the table and boulder, forming a half-circle behind Gulla. Two of them came to stand at his shoulder, casting their hoods back. Like Gulla they were pale-skinned and dark-veined, wings furled, clothed in rusted, iron-grey ringmail and tattered cloaks. But they were different, their heads shaved like the acolytes, and they were shorter and stockier.

  What are they? Kadoshim? But they look like no Kadoshim that I have ever seen.

  ‘The tide of the great war turns this night,’ Gulla cried out, voice sinuous and alien. Cheers and growls and hissing approval rang out.

  ‘My children,’ Gulla called, and the two at his shoulder stepped forwards, striding towards the great boulder.

  Gulla’s children! What foul deed have these Kadoshim committed? The darkness they have brought upon mankind. A fresh anger bubbled in Sig’s gut, a desire to rid the world of the Kadoshim’s corruption.

  The two half-breeds reached a gate in the rock, the clank of chains and creak of iron hinges, then an animal screech. They reappeared with a giant bat held between them, the huge creature writhing and bucking in their grip, its head twisting and snapping at them, but it could not reach them.

  Gulla’s children slammed the bat down onto the table, held it pinned and stretched out by its great wings.

  Gulla walked to the table, as he did so chanting rose up from the crowd in a tongue few would understand, but Sig knew it all too well.

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  ‘Fuil agus cnámh, uirlisí an cruthaitheoir,’ Gulla cried out.

  ‘Blood and bone, tools of the creator,’ Sig whispered. Drem was as tense as a drawn bow beside her.

  With a long black nail, Gulla slit the bat’s throat, its terrified screeching descending into a frothed rattle, the creature’s life-blood pouring onto the table, pooling and bubbling as the creature convulsed.

  ‘Step forward,’ Gulla said to one of the hooded figures that had followed him through the crowd, tall and slim. The figure threw back its hood, head shaved to fair stubble that glistened in the firelight.

  A woman? Sig thought, though she was not wholly sure; there was something androgynous about this person. Male or female, it drew a sword from its cloak. A black sword.

  The Starstone Sword!

  Beside her Drem hissed, his body jerking and he almost leaped from the roof, only Sig’s hand darting out holding him down. He took a deep breath, one hand reaching for his neck, fingers probing.

  Is he taking his pulse?

  Drem looked at Sig then, and tears were in his eyes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  RIV

  Riv staggered from her bed, the effort almost defeating her, feeling weak as a newborn kitten, but the sight of Garidas dead upon the flagstoned floor, his blood pooling dark and her mam standing over the corpse with her sword in her hand gave Riv the jolt of energy she had been lacking.

  She tugged on breeches and boots, a linen shirt, which caught on her back, grating rough as sandpaper, but she managed to get it on.

  Aphra ran to Garidas, knelt beside him. She closed his dead, staring eyes. Accusing. Aphra took his hand, smeared with blood, and stared up at her mam.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Dalmae whispered. Then, louder. ‘Forgive me. I had no choice. I would murder the world to protect you and Riv.’

  Aphra was silent, her shoulders shaking, and Riv realized her sister was weeping.

  ‘Mam, why? What is happening?’ Riv slurred. ‘I don’t understand.’ She was washed with emotions, shock, horror, confusion. Garidas had said so many things, of Kol and Israfil and improper relations.

  Aphra and Kol, involved, Garidas said. This is Kol’s doing. He has broken the Way of Elyon, broken the Lore. And Mam has murdered Garidas! A good, kind man; he was offering to help Aphra somehow.

  Her mam did not look at her, would not look at her, only continued to wipe blood from her hands on her cloak.

  ‘Aphra?’ Riv said, but her sister just stared back at her. The stink of blood filled the room, cloying. The weight of it all, murder, Aphra, Kol, right and wrong; her entire life she had been raised to obey the Lore, wanting to do nothing more than obey it.

  Purity is removing the ego, Israfil said. What is purity here? What is the right thing to do? She felt breathless, her stomach lurching.

  I feel sick. Have to get out of here. And suddenly she knew, she had to see Israfil, to speak to him, to explain Aphra’s innocence before this got any worse.

  ‘Get Mam out of here,’ she blurted to Aphra as she stumbled past them, out of the door and onto a spiral staircase. Her mam and Aphra called out behind her but she did not stop, staggering down the twisting stairs, bumping and banging into the wall on her way down.

  Shouts echoed up to her, the scrape of swords being drawn. She ran on, behind and above her the slap of boots on stone. Riv almost fell through the door that led into her barracks’ feast-hall, saw a sight that made her feel physically sick.

  White-Wings, close to blows.

  Garidas’ men, a score or two. They had heard his cry, tried to get to him, an
d been barred by Aphra’s hundred. Some were shouting, pushing, others with drawn blades, ready, threatening, but holding back from that dread step of slaying their own.

  Riv staggered a dozen paces, fell against a high-backed chair, her balance feeling all wrong, as if she were trying to navigate the deck of a storm-racked ship. Faces loomed in and out of focus, thought she saw Jost and Vald but was not sure, blinking, shaking her head.

  Aphra and Dalmae appeared from the door of the stairwell. They paused, taking in the scene before them.

  ‘Traitors,’ Dalmae yelled at the top of her voice, ‘Garidas is in league with the Kadoshim.’ There was a moment’s silence, even the few shouting at one another paused, and then chaos exploded. The sound of steel clashing, screams, blood on the barrack’s stone floor.

  Riv pushed herself away from the chair and ran through the hall, weaving through a chaotic melee of battle, tripping over fallen bodies, on towards the doorway to the street.

  The doors burst open before she reached them, more of Garidas’ men were rushing on, drawing blades. A gust of cold air hit Riv like a slap in the face, rain hitting her as if flung by an angry hand, stinging and refreshing. It helped her to focus for a moment and she ran out into the storm-drenched night, gasping in deep lungfuls of air, feeling as if she were suffocating.

  A harnessed wain and half a dozen horses were tethered in the street.

  The ones Garidas brought here to help Aphra escape. He was a good man, well intentioned, and Mam just murdered him!

  She turned and ran through the empty street, rain sheeting down, the stone dark and slippery. Her back itched and burned, like a scab ready to peel, the sensation of new muscle rippling and bunching disturbing her, and the fog in her mind ebbed and flowed, like the tide rising and falling.

  What is wrong with me?

  Time enough for that later. First, I must do what is right.

  As she turned a corner she heard the sounds of battle spill out from her barrack into the open behind her. Turning down another street, she saw figures, more White-Wings. They were setting oak bars across another barrack’s door. Riv recognized Lorina, captain of the other hundred that had marched to Oriens. More of her White-Wings were standing in the shadows, waiting. As Riv ran past, muffled voices cried out, thuds hammering on the far side of the barrack doors.