A Time of Blood, page 33
Riv ran a hand across the wooden weapons in the racks, eventually settling on two short-swords that most resembled her White-Wing blade. She was used to fighting with sword and shield, but she knew she needed to adapt.
She grinned approaching Balur, spinning the blades in lazy circles. Her wings twitched in excited anticipation.
I am sparring with Balur One-Eye. Not all is bad with the world.
And then she was surging at him.
The rest became a blur for Riv, a glorious release of tension as she wove in and out of Balur’s strikes and swings, hammer- head, butt and shaft all used as weapons by the wily giant.
Two thousand years! Two thousand years of weapons skill and learning. It’s no wonder he’s hard to kill.
And he was. As big a target as the giant was, as slow as she thought he would be, Riv struggled to touch her blades to any part of him. And she was not just using her feet, her wings lifted her from the ground over sweeps of his war-hammer, pulsing to give her speed as she drove at his chest, swirling her around and over Balur. Their blades clashed a thousand times, Riv deflecting Balur’s strikes and sweeps, never taking the brunt of his blows, knowing that would shatter her bones, instead nudging, pushing, deflecting his attacks, attempting to push Balur off balance. Try as she might, she could not get close to him. A score of times the tips of her blades grazed his leather and fur jerkin, but no closer.
Her only consolation was that he couldn’t touch his hammer to her, either, and to Riv’s thinking, that was one of her greatest achievements.
They parted, both panting, chests heaving, sweat streaming from them, steaming in the cold air.
Riv became aware of a crowd around them, and the sound of cheering. Amongst those watching was Kol, both his eyes swollen and bruised purple. His Ben-Elim were about him.
Balur smiled at her.
“You’ve learned to use them quickly enough,” the giant said, nodding at her wings.
She beamed in return. It felt good to be treated as normal. As a warrior who just happened to have wings. She was more grateful to Balur for that than he would ever know.
A warrior stepped out of the crowd, the red-haired man she had seen earlier.
“Now you’ve warmed up, One-Eye, are you ready for a lesson or two?”
“Ha, you cheeky pup.” Balur grinned. Sparring obviously lifted his usual dour mood. He hefted his war-hammer.
Riv stepped back out of the ring, allowing the newcomer to face Balur. He had a wooden practice sword in one hand, a wooden knife in the other.
“Go easy on him, Cullen,” a voice called out, Alcyon the giant, Riv realized. “Poor Balur is getting old.”
“Shall I let him win?” Cullen called back, smiling as he advanced.
“Don’t break Cullen’s bones,” someone else called out, the slim-built huntsman from yesterday with the dark hair and a tangle of black beard. Drem was standing with him and the older huntsman, who had fingers missing from one hand.
“Another with two weapons against my one,” Balur commented, before he had finished his sentence moving in a blur, hammer swinging around his head, sweeping low. Cullen leaped over it and darted forwards, sword slashing, but somehow Balur was swaying out of the blade’s reach, pivoting on his foot and bringing his hammer around again, forcing Cullen to jump away. He stumbled, controlled it and dropped into a roll, Balur striding after him.
As Riv watched, her respect for the red-haired warrior grew. At first, she had thought him a braggart who would end up on his arse quickly enough. Riv had seen Balur teach that lesson a hundred times. But this warrior was skilled, there was no doubt about that, balanced and light on his feet, and adder-fast. But so was Balur. The giant was like a wall, his defence almost impenetrable, his war-hammer seeming light as feathers in his fists, Balur using it as much like a staff as a hammer.
In time they separated, both breathing heavily.
“Are you holding back?” Cullen frowned.
Balur just shrugged.
“Because I have been,” Cullen said gleefully, springing back in at Balur.
They set at each other again, becoming a blur, time marked by the clack of their wooden weapons meeting.
Riv looked away, taking in the weapons-field around her.
The thud of shields coming together drew her eyes. It was a shield wall, sure enough, but not what she had expected. Where the White-Wings used rectangular shields, the warriors of the Order had big round shields on their arms.
There are gaps because of those shields, spaces that can be exploited in the curves, especially the lower legs. Not like the White-Wings’ wall of shields, which is all but impenetrable.
She felt a smug sense of pride at that, a mark for the White-Wings in the tally of who were the greater warriors.
Then she heard a shouted command, saw the wall of shields open up into loose order, the second row stepping past the first, and they all had their hands raised over their heads, spinning something.
What is that?
Then they released, a score of nets rising up into the air, peaking and dropping, weighted balls giving them shape.
Nets. They are throwing weighted nets.
Riv knew immediately what it was for.
A winged foe. They are for the Kadoshim. Why have we never trained with these, when our whole purpose is to fight the Kadoshim? A cynical voice whispered in her ear. Because those nets would be just as effective on Ben-Elim as they would Kadoshim.
A mark for the Order in her tally.
Riv remembered her conversation with Bleda on the weapons-field at Drassil.
He is right. We need ranged weapons to fight the Kadoshim, or any winged enemy. I need a Sirak bow.
Elsewhere Riv saw warriors training on horseback, dark-haired men and women with white stars emblazoned upon dark leather cuirasses. She felt her breath catch in her chest as she watched them stabbing and chopping at targets with spear and sword, as well as practising the running mount, which amazed her. Riv trained with horses, considered herself an excellent rider, but the running mount was a specialized manoeuvre that was rarely practised amongst the White-Wings. Here it seemed to be part of their standard training.
Another mark for the Order in my tally.
Further away there was a pack of wolven-hounds chasing a giant wrapped in thick-padded wool and leather. A huntsman was whistling and shouting commands and the wolven-hounds were circling the giant, nipping at him, herding him, another whistle and then they were all leaping, bringing the giant down, the huntsman running forwards, calling them off.
There is much the same here as Drassil, but there are other things, too, more diverse. I think we would win the war of shields, but these other disciplines…
A grunt and a thud, cheers and shouts around Riv drew her back to Balur and Cullen.
The red-haired warrior was on his back, Balur standing over him, the butt of his war-hammer on Cullen’s chest.
Cullen slashed at Balur’s ankles with his sword, just missing.
Balur leaned on his war-hammer, just enough, Cullen wheezing out a flood of air, gasping.
Horns sounded, from the eastern wall. Heads turned to look.
Balur took his war-hammer from Cullen’s chest.
“Ha, you’re lucky the horns saved you, One-Eye,” Cullen said, trying to rise from the ground, grimacing and failing, but Balur was already walking away, following the sound of the horns.
Alcyon the giant stepped close and offered Cullen his hand.
“He tricked me,” Cullen complained of Balur as Alcyon heaved him upright.
“Aye,” Alcyon said with a grin, “and in battle, you would be dead and Balur alive. Tricks are part of fighting, remember?” Alcyon leaned close to Cullen, wagging a thick finger at him. “There’s no complaining when you’re dead.”
“I thought Balur always fought with honour,” Cullen muttered.
“Ach, the young are always too trusting,” Alcyon said. “That’s why you die quicker. Us old men; well, we are old for a reason.”
Beside Riv, Drem nodded, grunting, as if he’d heard those words before.
Riv saw fingers pointing skyward, and a new Ben-Elim was high in the sky above them, spiralling down to the weapons-field. He saw Kol and alighted before him, dropping to one knee.
“Rise,” Kol said, “and tell me your news.”
“There is a warband of Kadoshim on the eastern road, moving towards Drassil,” the Ben-Elim said. “They command men and Feral beasts and other things.”
Mutters rippled through the crowd in the field.
Kol looked at Byrne. “I must leave immediately,” he said. “Delay your march into the Desolation until you hear from me.”
“What measures has Hadran taken?” Kol asked the Ben-Elim messenger.
“He was mustering the White-Wings as I left and was sending out the Sirak. They are mounted and will move faster than the White-Wings.”
Kol nodded.
The Sirak? Has Bleda gone to war? Riv felt a worm of worry uncoil in her belly.
“With me,” Kol yelled and leaped into the air, wings beating, lifting him higher. His Ben-Elim followed, Riv lingering a moment, looking around the courtyard. She realized that she liked it here, felt some kind of kinship with those she had met. She looked up, at Kol.
But that is my father up there, no matter what else he may be, and he is flying to war, which is what I’ve been trained for, all my life.
She bent her knees and leaped, her dappled wings snapping open and powering her skywards. Soon she had caught up with Kol and they set their faces to the east, flying to war.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
FRITHA
Fritha stood before the bed where Elise still lay. The linen sheets were sweat-stained, her face pale, the skin pallid and stretched, looking as if it would tear with a touch. Her eyes fluttered open, sensing Fritha’s presence.
Arn stood at Fritha’s shoulder.
“There must be more,” he said. Fritha could hear the heartbreak and desperation in his voice. “Something else you can do.”
“I have done all I know to heal her,” Fritha said. “Her lungs have recovered, but the bones in her back and legs are shattered. She is broken, Arn; she will never walk again.” It hurt Fritha to say it, hurt her more to look at Elise’s fractured, twisted frame. Elise had been a good friend to Fritha. More than a friend, closer than kin, saving Fritha from the dark abyss that she was plunging into when Arn and Elise had found her.
But the truth was the truth.
“Please,” Arn said. He reached out, his fingers brushing his daughter’s cheek.
“There is only one thing left that I can do,” Fritha said into the silence. “I can make her new…”
Arn froze, his fingers still on Elise’s cheek.
“But, she would no longer be Elise,” he said.
“She would, but better, stronger,” Fritha said. “This is not my decision. Or yours. Ask Elise what she would want.”
Arn stared at Fritha, then he leaned close to his daughter and whispered in her ear. It seemed to Fritha that he spoke to Elise for a very long while. Then Arn straightened.
They stood together, watching Elise.
A tear fell from Elise’s eye and rolled down her cheek. Then she nodded, a whisper escaping her lips.
“Death smiles at us all,” Elise breathed.
“All that we can do is smile back,” Fritha and Arn whispered in response.
“Do it,” Elise said, little more than a sigh.
“Gunil,” Fritha called, turning on her heel and striding out into daylight, “carry Elise to my table.”
Fritha sat on the end of her cot, her head in her hands. She blew out a long breath and rubbed her stubbled head.
It is done. All is ready now. All the years of despair, of hatred, planning, preparations, the blood, sweat and tears, all coming down to this. The Great War is upon me. I must rise to the challenge.
She shifted her weight and leaned forwards, reaching underneath her cot and grabbing an iron handle. Her chest slid out, old nails scraping on timber, and for a while she just sat and stared at it. Finally, she unbolted it, paused to look at her hands. She had scrubbed them after Elise’s surgery, scrubbed her friend’s blood from her hands and arms, but there were still dark rims beneath her nails.
Blood always leaves a stain.
A knock on her door, but she didn’t answer, too lost in the tangled weave of memories that her chest evoked. The door creaked open, footsteps, the rustle of leathery wings and Morn was standing before her.
“All is ready,” the half-breed said. She looked from Fritha to the chest. “Are you?”
Am I ready?
Fritha sucked in a deep breath and threw open the lid of the chest. Inside was a short-sword, scabbarded in worn leather. It was wrapped in a weapons-belt. Fritha reached in and lifted the sword out, the grip smooth and cool, familiar as an old friend. She lay the sword to one side and looked at what lay beneath it in the chest.
A battered cuirass, a pair of white wings embossed upon its breast.
Memories flooded through her, a surge like the dam gates opening. Of training in Drassil’s weapons-field, a nostalgic glow to the memories, of feeling accepted, whole, complete. Of passing her warrior trial and swearing the oath; obedience to Elyon and his Lore, obedience to the Ben-Elim, swearing to mete out destruction upon the Kadoshim and all enemies of the Faithful. And all the while she had felt his eyes upon her, his beautiful, beautiful eyes. Soon after, he had come to her, whispered soft, flattering words, a gentle caress, in time leading to a kiss, and then, more. And finally…
Her hand went to her belly as she remembered the fleeting sensation of life growing within her. Her baby. Her beautiful baby. And he had wanted her to kill it.
Tears blurred her eyes, then, running down her face to mix with blood that was not her own.
“It is fitting,” Morn said, “that the warrior the Ben-Elim created will help to tear them down. Their hypocrisy and lies will come to an end soon.”
“I hate them,” Fritha breathed.
“They deserve to be hated,” Morn said, “but why do you hate them so?”
A silence, Fritha’s mind filled with images. Blood and tears.
“They told me to kill my baby,” Fritha whispered, “said that I was privileged above all people to taste the love of a Ben-Elim, but that the world could not know. That the evidence must be destroyed, like a page ripped from a book and cast on the fire. I was a young, besotted fool, in love with the image of the Ben-Elim, with what I thought they were, but I found out at their heart they are rotten.”
Morn dropped to a knee, put a hand on Fritha’s.
“The past is gone,” she said, her voice deep, like gravel.
“No, it is never gone. It is always here,” Fritha said, tapping her temple, hard. “And here.” A prod to her chest.
“He told me to kill her,” Fritha said. “Told me to ask the other White-Wings in their cabal what to do. I was instructed to go to a cabin deep in Forn Forest, to give birth to my baby, and then to murder her. To bury her beneath a pile of stones and walk away as if she’d never existed.”
She looked at Morn, felt more tears blur her eyes.
“I was not the first. It never entered my mind, but there were so many graves there, dug by infatuated, enamoured young women. You must understand, in that world, to be raised as a White-Wing, the Ben-Elim were like gods to us. Beautiful and wise, saviour, judge and jury all rolled into one. To be noticed was the greatest of honours.” Her hand brushed her belly. “She would have been like you, a half-breed, but still beautiful. Her life meant something.” She reached out a hand and cupped Morn’s cheek. The half-breed blinked at that, a stiffness in her shoulders, but she did not pull away. Fritha looked at Morn’s wings. “The Kadoshim raise their half-breed children, love them. Why could the Ben-Elim not do the same?”
“Their pride and arrogance,” Morn spat. “They think they are superior to all others, that we are just food for worms, insignificant pawns in their grand plans.”
Fritha nodded, Morn’s words stirring a thousand memories.
“What did you do?” Morn asked her.
“I ran. I told my mam and da, and they helped me. They ran with me, fast and far. Away from Drassil and the Ben-Elim, to start a new life.” She closed her eyes, could not stop the flood of memories, or the tears.
“And then?” Morn prompted her.
“For a while it worked,” Fritha sighed. “A new life, and it was good, a hundred leagues from Drassil on the border of Ardain. I had my baby, my beautiful Anja.” She smiled through her tears. “And then one day I returned home from market to see the flames. I ran, but I already knew, in here—” she jabbed a finger at her gut—“that I was too late.” She chewed her lip, not trusting her voice. A deep, shuddering breath.
“Our home had been razed by the Ben-Elim, gone—just the timber frame smouldering when I arrived. I found my mam’s body was a scorched ruin in the flames. My da I discovered outside, unburned, but a sword had hacked through his ribs and opened a lung. In his arms was Anja, my baby girl, blood on her lips.” She felt her grief like a rock of ice in her belly, turning her veins cold.
“That was where Arn and Elise found me,” she continued. “They were brigands living rough in the Darkwood, victims of Ben-Elim Lore, Arn’s wife hung from a tree for her supposed crimes.” Fritha snorted. “They cared for me, brought me back from the brink, and turned my grief into a cold, relentless hatred.”
“Hatred is not so bad,” Morn said, a twist of her lips. “Hatred keeps you strong.”
“It does,” Fritha agreed.
I hate them, the Ben-Elim. Hate them all, and all those who so blindly follow them. But most of all, I hate him.
She could remember his handsome features, blond hair and a scar through his face that somehow seemed to make him more beautiful, not less.
“Better revenge than grief,” Morn said.
