A Time of Dread

  This is my end, she thought, knowing the numbers were too great, even for her and her crew, and she’d given her orders to Cullen and Keld to remain separate, to get Drem out and back to Dun Seren, unless she gave the order, the signal for them to fight. And she hadn’t. The numbers were too great alone, without feral man-beasts and whatever in the Otherworld it was that Gulla had become, and was infecting others with.

  I hope they got Drem out, she thought as she tried to push herself back to her knees.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  RIV

  Riv paused before the doors of Israfil’s tower, leaning upon a wall for a moment. Lights flickered through shuttered windows, high above. A deep breath and shake of her head and she was running on, shouldering the doors open and stumbling through.

  Where is everybody? His guards? Ben-Elim, White-Wings?

  She hurried up an empty flight of stairs, dragging herself on, ever higher, until she saw a gleam of light outlining the chamber doors. Israfil’s chambers, unguarded. Riv heard voices, dulled by the oak doors.

  A hand clamped upon Riv’s shoulder, turning her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Aphra and her mam hissed at her.

  ‘It has to end,’ Riv said. ‘Kol. He is a poison.’

  Her sister stared at her, face twitching with so many emotions.

  ‘Israfil must know,’ Riv said.

  ‘No!’ her mother growled. ‘You are sick, your mind clouded. You do not know what you are saying.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ Riv said. ‘I know right from wrong,’ and she made to go on.

  Her mam grabbed her.

  ‘You are not going in there,’ she said, her eyes blazing.

  ‘I am,’ Riv grunted, pulling away, but her mother’s grip was strong.

  An arrow slammed into the wall between them, thrumming.

  Bleda stood a score of paces down the stairway, a handful of his honour guard about him, including the old one who was missing a hand.

  ‘Let go of her,’ Bleda said.

  Dalmae’s grip tightened on Riv’s arm, her other hand inching to her short-sword.

  ‘Come away with me,’ Dalmae said. ‘It is for your own good.’

  ‘I cannot,’ Riv said.

  ‘The next arrow will pierce your thigh. I will not hit the bone, so you may walk again, if I miss the artery. But you will always limp.’

  ‘Mam,’ Riv said, quietly. ‘Please. Kol is a poison.’

  ‘But I am so scared for you and Aphra,’ her mam said, a quiver touching her voice, so strong and determined until now.

  ‘Look what he is making us all do. You killed Garidas.’

  Shame filled her mam’s eyes then, and with a sigh she dropped her head and let go of Riv’s wrist.

  ‘Thank you,’ Riv said and ran on. She reached the doors to Israfil’s chamber, glimpsed a hooded figure standing close by in the shadows of an alcove, but raised voices within the chamber drew her on. She rushed through Israfil’s doors, the voices became louder, clearer. She staggered through the waiting room and burst into his chamber, the doors swinging wide, crashing into the walls, everyone within turning startled heads to stare at her.

  ‘It’s Kol,’ Riv yelled, ‘Kol is the one.’

  She stumbled to a stop.

  Israfil was standing before the dark frame of his open window, his hands clasped behind his back, face a mixture of rage and disgust. At his side stood another Ben-Elim, Kushiel, Riv recognized – one of Israfil’s high council. Other Ben-Elim were spread around the room in a loose circle, and in the centre of the room stood Kol, a Ben-Elim either side of him, each gripping one of Kol’s arms. White-Wings flanked them, a dozen, Garidas’ men, Riv presumed.

  ‘It’s Kol,’ Riv whispered.

  Israfil regarded her a long moment, his face full of judgement and grief.

  ‘I know it is Kol,’ Israfil said to Riv. His expression softened for a moment as he looked at her.

  ‘Sit, Riv. You look as if you are about to drop.’

  ‘But there’s more,’ Riv said.

  ‘Yes, there is, far more than I ever would have thought possible. Kol has just confessed all.’

  Riv swayed on her feet, wanted to tell Israfil all she knew, anyway, in case Kol had kept anything back. But a wave of vertigo swept over her, the room tilting and spinning. She reached out a hand, found a chair and slumped into it.

  ‘So, Kol of the Ben-Elim,’ Israfil said, eyes fixing upon the scar-faced Ben-Elim, any vestige of compassion or kindness swept away by the disgust that filled him now. ‘You confess to improper relations with mortals, more than one, over many years.’

  ‘I do,’ Kol said.

  ‘You know the punishment for this crime?’ Israfil said.

  ‘Crimes,’ Kol corrected. ‘More than once, with more than one mortal. Many more. And yes, I know the punishment, though I think we should talk about one more chance.’

  Israfil barked a shocked laugh.

  ‘You will not be given a second chance. You will be executed at highsun, your head taken from your shoulders before all who dwell within these walls.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about one more chance for me,’ Kol said, no hint of a smile on his face now. ‘I was talking about you.’

  One of the Ben-Elim guards holding Kol released him, a glint of something in his fist, a stride to the other guard, a thrust, and the guard was collapsing, blood spurting from his throat, the first guard standing with a crimson blade in his fist. He threw the knife into the air and drew his sword, Kol grabbing the knife from the air and leaping with a burst of his wings at Kushiel.

  For a moment Israfil was frozen with shock, then he was reaching for his own blade, as in the ring all about him Ben-Elim hurled themselves at their brothers, stabbing, killing.

  Riv sat in her chair, stunned by what she was seeing, blood everywhere, Ben-Elim snarling, screaming, the White-Wings in the centre of the room forming a loose square, not knowing what to do, who to attack or defend. One of them gathered his wits and shouted a command, and then they were making for Israfil, the Lord Protector.

  No, this is wrong, the whole world is going insane.

  Shapes surged through the open window, more Ben-Elim, ones that Riv recognized from the circle that had formed around her as she’d sparred with Kol, just before she’d collapsed.

  Kol was struggling with Kushiel, the two of them spiralling in the air, wings beating furiously, Kushiel gripping Kol’s wrist with the knife, pummelling at Kol’s face with his other fist. Ben-Elim that had swept in through the window grabbed Kushiel, one hacking at his wing with a sword. A scream, a burst of feathers and Kushiel was falling, Kol ripping his knife free, stabbing it into Kushiel’s torso as they fell together, again and again and again.

  A hand on Riv’s arm: Aphra, with Dalmae behind her, then Bleda and his men. All of them were staring dumbfounded, their cold-faces forgotten. Other figures swept into the room, Ben-Elim, Lorina’s White-Wings, some of Aphra’s hundred too, all with weapons drawn, joining the fray. Riv glimpsed someone in cloak and cowl.

  ‘Come, Riv,’ Aphra said. ‘While we can.’

  ‘No,’ Riv snarled, ‘we have to help Israfil.’ She surged to her feet, too quickly, her head spun; she swayed, stumbled forwards, pulling out of Aphra’s grip, threading her way through the bloodshed and chaos.

  Israfil was trading blows with two Ben-Elim, stabbed one through the shoulder as he rose higher, the other swinging and catching his ankle.

  Riv skirted the White-Wings trying to reach Israfil, who was beset by Ben-Elim from above. She crashed into two Ben-Elim, sent them both tumbling to the ground and she reeled away, saw Kol fly at Israfil, slamming into the Lord Protector from behind, slicing at a wing, Israfil crying out and falling, crashing to the ground. Kol landed behind him, Israfil trying to rise, one wing twisted and limp, a spray of blood splattering his white feathers. Kol stamped on Israfil’s sword hand, the crack of a wrist breaking, and grabbed Israfil’s hair, yanking his
head high, resting his knife blade against the Lord Protector’s throat.

  Riv yelled and ran at them, snatching up a short-sword from a dead White-Wing as she ran, raising her blade for a swing that would split Kol’s head. Kol heard her scream and stared at her, part-screamed, part-laughed a feral challenge back at her.

  Something crashed into Riv, sent her sprawling to the ground. She rolled, tried to stand, but only made it to all fours, the world a whirling piece of flotsam in a chaotic sea. She blinked, desperate for the spinning to stop, searching for who or what had slammed into her.

  It was the cowled figure she’d glimpsed as she entered the chamber, striding now to Israfil and Kol. It stopped before them both, threw off its cowl and cloak, revealing a man with two huge wounds upon his back, scabbed, weeping blood and pus.

  A Ben-Elim with his wings taken.

  Adonai.

  He just stared at Israfil, spoke no words. And then he was drawing a sword and plunging it into the Lord Protector’s chest.

  Riv screamed.

  This cannot be happening!

  Somehow she was on her feet, eyes fixed upon Kol, all else a peripheral blur, anger, no, a white-hot rage at Israfil’s murder the only thing keeping her upright and conscious. She swung her blade at Kol. He saw, a flicker of surprise as he twisted, blocked with his knife, sending her blow wide.

  ‘Stop,’ he said to her. ‘It is over, Israfil is dead, there is no more to fear.’

  ‘Murderer, Lore-breaker,’ she yelled, stabbing her short-sword at Kol’s throat. He swayed, sidestepping her.

  ‘Don’t do this, Riv,’ he said. ‘You are distraught, fevered, you do not mean this, and I do not wish to kill you. Great things are ahead, and you can be part of them.’

  She snarled and chopped at his ribs; this time he was too slow, her blade slicing through feathers, its tip grazing a red line across Kol’s shoulder as he leaped away.

  He looked at the blood leaking from his wound, glared at her.

  ‘I’m warning you, girl, you can be as dead as Israfil if you wish.’

  He has changed everything, changed our world, broken every codex of the Lore, for his own selfish desire and to save his skin.

  She lunged at him, a short, powerful stab straight at Kol’s heart.

  He deflected her blade with his knife, sent it swinging wide, and backhanded her with a fist, lifting her from the ground, sending her spinning, weightless for a few heartbeats, then slamming back down to earth again. She rolled onto her back, felt her consciousness flutter away on black wings, tried desperately to cling to it, saw Kol stride after her, knife in his hand.

  ‘So be it,’ Kol snarled at her. ‘There are plenty more where you came from.’

  Through speckled vision Riv saw someone else step between them, attacking Kol, a White-Wing with a short-sword, a flurry of blows, for a dozen heartbeats Kol struggling to defend himself, a red line opening across his cheek, down his arm, white feathers slashed and falling about Riv. He retreated a few steps, beat his wings, rocking his opponent back towards Riv, ducked an off-balance slash and stepped in closer, punching his knife into his attacker’s armpit, twisting deeper. A spray of blood as he ripped his blade free, a sigh, and his attacker collapsed, head rolling to stare at Riv with lifeless eyes.

  It was her mam.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  DREM

  Drem stared in horror as he saw Sig fall to the ground, one hand grasping blindly for her sword.

  No, she cannot fall. We have only just found each other.

  It was strange, little more than a day shared between them, but Drem felt as if he’d known Sig all of his life, felt she was kin to him, and the pain he experienced at seeing her fall was all the greater because of that.

  He raised his sword over his head and bellowed.

  ‘TRUTH AND COURAGE,’ his da’s battle-cry.

  Mine, now, he thought, if what Sig and the others said is true.

  He was standing over the body of some half-man beast whose corpse he’d hacked into bloody ruin, the only way to get it to stop trying to bite, claw and chew him. He’d slipped into a frenzy as he had struck it down, fuelled by horror and fear at what was attacking him, felt as if he was walking through some living, waking nightmare.

  He ran towards Sig, or where he thought she was, too many of the enemy swirling around for him to see her in the mad dancing shadows made by the torches and wind and starlight.

  And he heard his battle-cry echoed back at him.

  ‘Truth and Courage,’ a voice cried, a figure leaping onto the table of horrors, an acolyte pushing back a hood to reveal a freshly shaven head, sword and shield in his hand.

  Cullen!

  Even as Drem saw him, the young warrior was swinging his sword, dancing along the table, avoiding sword and spear thrusts, grasping hands, snapping jaws and slashing claws, chopping and stabbing as he went, acolytes and Ferals falling, more trying to scramble up with him, Cullen’s boot, sword and shield boss slamming into them, denying them. Where Sig slew like a force of nature, a strength and inevitability built into her every move, Cullen fought with a blend of skill and joy, smiling, laughing as he drew blood-soaked lines, a precision and mastery to his every move so that it was almost like watching art. A deadly art.

  Drem reached the acolytes swarming around Sig’s prone form, arms rising and falling. He swung his sword and short axe, screams and grunts, blood spraying as he cut and carved his way through them. Then the ones in front of him leaped into the air.

  No, not leaping, thrown.

  And Sig rose from amongst them, blood sheeting her face, a flap of skin hanging from her cheek, one eye swollen closed, the rest of her body a similar miscellany of wounds, shield upon her back dented and splintered, but she grinned to see him, blood on her teeth, her sword in her fist.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she growled.

  ‘Friends are a rare thing,’ he said to her.

  They fought back to back, then, turning, stabbing, cutting, Drem’s limbs growing leaden, his very bones aching as blows shivered up his arm, breath a hot rasp in his throat.

  Gulla’s daughter descended upon them, swooping, stabbing, wheeling away. Sig snatched a weighted net from her belt, swinging it around her head like a lasso and releasing. It wrapped around the half-breed, wings and all, the lead weights’ momentum swinging them in snaring loops, and the creature crashed to the ground.

  A space cleared around them, hooded, shaven-haired warriors pausing, panting, bleeding. Sig spat a glob of blood. Drem saw a figure on the edge of the clearing, hooded in acolyte’s robes, emerging from the shadows and stabbing another acolyte, then slipping back into the darkness.

  What?

  A figure stepped into the space around Sig and Drem, slender and tall, fair hair shaved from her head.

  Fritha, the Starstone Sword in her hand.

  She stopped before Drem, out of reach of his blade, held a hand up to the acolytes behind her, a command. For a long moment she regarded Drem with her sheer blue eyes, which he had once thought bright and beautiful. Now he just thought they were cold. A bandage was wrapped diagonally around her shoulder and back.

  ‘Put your weapons down,’ she said to him. ‘You cannot win. Put them down, and live.’

  ‘What, to become one of those half-men?’ He shuddered. ‘Or like that?’ He nodded to Burg’s form on the table, still lying there, curled up like a bairn, twitching and jerking. Cullen fought nearby; silhouetted figures were climbing onto the table, pushing Cullen away from Burg.

  ‘That would be too great an honour. But no, not a Feral. My shieldman, maybe.’ She smiled at him, then, and it did not have the effect upon him that it used to.

  ‘You lied to me,’ Drem said, thinking of all the deceptions, the smiles and lies behind those eyes.

  ‘I saved your life,’ she said. ‘I could have killed you, let them slay you in the forest. I forbade them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know who you
are, Drem. Son of Olin and Neve, nephew to Byrne, High Captain of the Order of the Bright Star. You would be a valued prize, especially if you stood at my side.’

  ‘That’ll never happen,’ Drem grunted.

  ‘All you have to do is open your eyes and see the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ Drem spat.

  ‘Aye, that all is not as the Ben-Elim tell you. That they are the great evil, not the Kadoshim.’

  ‘I know the truth well enough when I see it,’ Drem snarled. ‘Only lies and murder from you, truth and friendship from my friends.’

  ‘Ha, you see,’ Fritha said, ‘I told you. There is something about you, Drem ben Olin. Something innocent, and loyal. Like a faithful hound. Once you give yourself, your loyalty, it would be unswerving, I think. I would like that. I am destined for great things, you know.’ She smiled again, a hint of the future in it, a promise of glory and greatness.

  Drem ben Olin. That is who I am. My father’s son.

  He thought of how he had stayed to find her, that day in the forest, instead of leaving with his da. His da had been alive, then, and was dead, now. Because of that decision. Because of her.

  ‘You are a murderer, Fritha, and I am going to kill you for it. Now, or another time.’ He shrugged. ‘Justice, for my da.’

  ‘A pity,’ she said.

  ‘And I am going to take that black sword from your dead fingers and use it to carve Asroth’s head from his shoulders.’

  ‘Blasphemy,’ she hissed at him, a crouched snarl, the first real emotion he’d seen from her, and with a wave of her hand the acolytes surged forwards.

  Drem stabbed and swung his sword, used his axe more defensively, or to chop at fingers, wrists or arms that came too close in the crush. He was no mighty warrior like Sig or Cullen, but he had spent many years learning how to wield an axe and knife from his da, and the rage he felt for his da’s murderer gave him new strength and speed. And these acolytes, while many of them clearly had some blade-craft, they were no weapons-masters like Sig and Cullen. Now that the frenzied blood-rush of battle’s first moments had passed, Drem saw that some of them were hesitating, holding back, a glimmer of fear in their eyes. He lunged, stabbed a man through the throat and kicked the body away. It fell back into those behind, a momentary lull, giving Drem a few moments to fill his lungs. A crash drew his eyes to Cullen, still on the table-top, though a Feral man was upon it too. Cullen had kicked one of the torches into the crowd, flames catching in a cloak, spreading, men screaming, and he’d swept up another torch in his shield-hand as the Feral surged at him, all strength and snarl and saliva. Cullen slipped to the side, and as the creature barrelled past him, shoved his burning torch into its torso, flames catching in the tattered rags that passed for clothing, and he pushed it hard with his shield, sending the creature careening from the table into a knot of acolytes. Flames and snarls exploded, acolytes screaming.