A Time of Blood, page 43
Balur raised his hammer high, Gunil’s hand reaching out, a pleading scream cut short as Balur’s hammer crunched into Gunil’s head, shards of bone and brain-matter exploding.
“WRATH,” a voice screamed behind Drem. He spun on his feet to see Fritha standing on open ground, trading blows with Byrne. Fritha was bleeding from fresh wounds, breathing heavily. She ducked and stepped away, rubbed blood over her lips.
“Sruthán,” Fritha screeched at Byrne, the droplets of blood sizzling in the air as they sped towards Byrne’s face.
“Cumhacht an uisce, an tine seo a dhúnadh,” Byrne said contemptuously, waving her hand and the blood-fire sizzled and hissed into steam, evaporating before it came close to touching her.
Fritha shrieked and swung a wild overhead strike, Byrne parrying, sweeping the blow wide and kicking Fritha in the chest, sending her sprawling on her back. Byrne reached inside her surcoat and pulled out another vial, threw it hard on the ground, smashing it, dark liquid soaking into the earth.
“Fréamhacha an domhain, gabháil agus ceangail,” Byrne called out.
The ground shifted, moving, as if something stirred deep down. Then roots were bursting from the ground, snaking out, seeking Fritha like a blind man’s fingers.
Fritha screamed, crawled away, one of the roots snaring her ankle, wrapping around it while more tendrils sought her other limbs. Frenziedly Fritha hacked and chopped at the root, cutting through it. She rolled away, scrambling to her feet.
Byrne pursued Fritha, stabbing and sweeping, Fritha stumbling away, eyes wide.
“WRATH,” Fritha screamed again, louder, and the draig sprinted towards her. It was ripped bloody from its fight with the white bear, but still full of power. Its wings spread wide, beating, rising into the air, and Fritha was running away from Byrne, leaping, arms wrapping around the draig’s neck, and she was swinging onto its back, the draig climbing higher into the air.
A spear whistled past Fritha, and then another winged figure was flying beside her, the half-breed.
Drem watched in frustration as the two winged shapes climbed higher and higher, soon out of range of any spear or arrow, and then they were dwindling quickly to black specks in the sky.
All about them Fritha’s warband broke and scattered. Ferals lifted their heads to the sky, howling, and then they were scattering into the woodland, loping away.
Drem blew out a sigh.
An arm wrapped around Drem’s shoulder—Cullen, grinning at him through a blood-drenched face.
“Well, that was a fight to write a song about, and no denying,” Cullen said.
Keld snorted a laugh on Drem’s other side.
“She got away,” Drem said.
“Aye, well, we’ve got to leave some fights for the morrow,” Cullen answered, “or else we’d have nothing left to look forward to.”
Drem looked at Cullen and shook his head, while Keld threw his head back and laughed. Byrne joined them, watching Fritha and Morn fading into the distance.
“Where’s Gulla?” Byrne said.
Keld’s laughter turned to a frown.
“Not here,” Drem said.
“Aye.” Byrne nodded. “But if he’s not here, then where, and why?”
Drem didn’t like where that thought led him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
RIV
Riv flew above the trees of Forn Forest. Below her the eastern road cut a line all the way to Drassil, though Riv could see no hint of the ancient fortress and great tree, only a never-ending sea of trees spreading before her.
She grimaced with the pain in her wing, a dull, throbbing ache with every beat of it. The Cheren arrow had caught her high on her wing-arch, the stretch of muscle and tendon that joined her wings to the muscles in her back. She had tried to set out for Drassil the night she had rescued Bleda, but within a score of wingbeats knew that she could not do it. The extra weight of carrying Bleda to safety had been too much for her injured wing. Bleda had tended her wound, cleaned and bound it, and after a night’s rest, it had been better, but she was still not recovered, and although she had set out three days ago, what should have been a short journey was stretching into a nightmare of pain.
I must reach Drassil before Jin. Must warn Aphra and Kol of Gulla’s plan, tell them all that Bleda heard.
Over three days had passed since she had plucked Bleda from certain death. She had taken him to a safe place and waited with him for Ellac and his surviving guard to appear. They had spent a night in each other’s arms before Ellac and Ruga had led a score of battered riders into their glade. Riv had tried to comfort Bleda, who was racked with grief for his mother and fury at Jin.
This world is full of one blood-feud or another, an endless cycle.
Riv knew how that felt.
She flew on.
She missed Bleda, an ache in her chest at the thought of him, but there was no way he could reach Drassil in time. It was too dangerous to use the road—Kadoshim and their half-breeds were patrolling it—and travelling through the snare and tangle of Forn would make it impossible to outpace Jin and her Cheren warriors. The only chance was Riv and her wings.
Something on the road below drew her eye. She swooped lower, saw figures scattered upon the road, dark stains about them.
White-Wings.
Hundreds of them.
Riv landed, scowling at the sight before her.
White-Wings, strewn everywhere. It looked as if they had formed a shield wall, the bulk of the dead gathered in a tight formation. It was clear that many had been torn from the wall and slain.
But not by sharp steel.
They had been torn to pieces, shredded with teeth and claws.
Ferals? Or those other things that I saw in the forest?
She picked her way amongst the dead, saw a few bodies that weren’t White-Wings, dressed in tattered clothes.
Not Ferals, then.
Not one of these creatures’ bodies was in one piece. Decapitated bodies, amputated limbs.
They are hard to kill, then. I had to take the head of the one Bleda had impaled on his sword.
And then Riv saw Lorina, Kol’s high captain.
She was lying beside the headless corpse of one of the creatures, a ragged hole where her throat had been.
Riv had not cared much for Lorina, always thought of her as ambitious and untrustworthy, but she was still a White-Wing, still a comrade-in-arms to Riv. And Riv had respected her prowess on the weapons-field.
She felt she should try and raise a cairn over her fallen brothers and sisters but knew there was no time.
I must fly on, or else all those in Drassil will be needing their own cairns.
Riv leaped into the air, wings beating, a sharp pain in her back. She cursed her injury, and the Cheren archer who had given it to her, and flew on.
In the distance the great tree of Drassil loomed before Riv, branches spread wide, and beneath it the towers and walls of Drassil reared.
One last spurt. She willed her wings to work harder.
She was flying high, just below heavy cloud, moisture like mist dampening her wings. Figures appeared on the road ahead, specks from Riv’s great height. With a shift of her back muscles she angled downwards, lower and lower until she was skimming the treetops.
More bodies were strewn on the road, a handful of Ben-Elim, white-feathered wings splayed and twisted. Further on Riv saw what looked like a warband gathered on the fringes of the road, spilling from the eaves of Forn Forest. They were the shaven-haired acolytes of the Kadoshim.
Deeper within the forest to Riv’s right, boughs were shifting, a rippling motion that wasn’t the wind, hinting of something moving beneath the branches. Wisps of dark mist curled up from gaps in the trees.
Riv frowned at that, remembering the dark thundercloud she’d seen, apparently full of the creatures that had slain Lorina’s warband.
Riv flew over it, closer to those gathered on the road.
They were shaven-haired men and women mounted upon horses. Hundreds of them were appearing, too many to count. And ahead of them were Cheren riders, distinctive with their long warrior braids. Riv was careful not to fly too low, wary of their bows. They were still well ahead, and Riv saw them break into a canter on the road as they approached the point where the road spilt onto the vast plain around Drassil.
Faster, Riv thought. One more burst of speed and I can still reach Drassil before them.
And then shapes were rising from the forest beneath her, winged, but not like her, great leathery wings beating hard to intercept her. Three, four of them, making towards Riv.
Kadoshim.
Riv veered across the treetop canopy, glimpsed more Kadoshim gathered beneath the lattice of boughs, half-breeds as well, waiting. A host of them.
Some burst from the canopy and came after her.
Riv reached for her Sirak bow, grabbed a fistful of arrows as Bleda had taught her, in one movement nocked, drew and loosed into the knot of Kadoshim rising towards her.
Her arrow punched into one, a shriek of pain and it was falling away.
Riv grinned and nocked another arrow.
The Kadoshim spread wider, Riv’s next arrow hissing harmlessly past them.
She swore, put her bow back into its case and pumped her wings, angling high.
Horn blasts rang out, the high-screeching sound of the Cheren.
On the ground Jin’s riders had reached the plain of Drassil and were galloping hard, blowing their horns, not riding in their usual disciplined ranks, but acting as if they were injured and hard-pressed.
The Kadoshim speeding towards Riv broke away, curling back down towards the forest.
Why are they doing that?
The other riders reached Drassil’s plain, the shaven-haired acolytes appearing as if they were pursuing the Cheren, both groups thundering across the open space towards Drassil’s gates.
Horns sounded from Drassil’s walls, answering the Cheren, and to Riv’s horror she saw the gates of Drassil creak open. Ben-Elim rose into the air above Drassil’s walls and began to fly out to meet the Cheren.
They think Jin and the Cheren are their allies, can see they are hard-pressed and fleeing. This is Gulla’s plan, to use the Cheren to open Drassil’s gates.
Riv worked her wings harder, felt her wound complaining, muscles failing. Ignored it, thinking of Aphra lying on flagstones with her throat torn open.
On the ground the Cheren were well ahead of their pretend pursuers, a wide gap between the two groups.
Wide enough for the defenders of Drassil to think they can keep the gates open for the Cheren, and have time to close them before this enemy in pursuit reaches the gates.
Riv saw Ben-Elim reach the Cheren riders, swooping low, heard them calling encouragements to the Cheren, urging them to ride faster.
No, Riv screamed internally.
She swept over the acolytes, outpacing them, narrowing the gap between her and the Cheren, but they were so near to the gates now. Riv saw Jin at their head, bent low over her horse, a bow clutched in one hand.
Ben-Elim were close now, Riv saw one was dark-haired Hadran, and she flew to him. He saw her and smiled, beating his wings to hover in the sky.
“I’m glad you still live,” he called out to her. “We have had no word since Kol returned. Scouts have been sent out but none have returned.”
“IT’S A TRICK,” Riv screamed, pointing at the Cheren.
“What?” Hadran said, frowning. “They are our allies, pursued by the enemy. We must help them.”
“The Cheren are allied to the Kadoshim,” she yelled, closer, flying in a tight circle about him. “Look,” and she pointed back, to the forest, where Kadoshim and their half-breeds were beginning to burst from the tree canopy. Below them, on the ground, a black mist flowed from the trees onto the open plain, spreading rapidly across the ground like spilt ink on parchment.
“Jin and the Cheren are fooling you, seeking to open Drassil’s gates for the Kadoshim.”
“No,” Hadran whispered.
They both turned and flew for the gates, yelling a warning, other Ben-Elim in the air now seeing the Kadoshim and the black mist.
Horns blared, voices shouting, sounds echoing out of Drassil. Riv saw Ben-Elim launching from a thousand windows into the sky, the battlements of the fortress thick with warriors.
“CLOSE THE GATES,” Riv and Hadran screamed to-gether, but it was too late; in a thunder of hooves Jin led her warband through the open gates and into the gate tunnel, clattering into the courtyard beyond. Riv reached the gate tower and heard the first screams as Cheren warriors loosed arrows at the warriors hurrying to meet them, a widening arc of the Cheren pouring through the gates, keeping them open, slaying the gate guards.
Riv looked back over her shoulder and saw the air filled with the black silhouettes of Kadoshim and their half-breeds, speeding towards her and Drassil’s walls. On the ground below, the warband of acolytes were at the gates, and close behind them the black mist spread across the plain, seething and bulging with the creatures within it.
Archers on Drassil’s walls loosed volleys down into the oncoming acolytes, screams echoing on the field of cairns, but the gates were open and already many were riding through them. Kadoshim were close to Riv and Hadran now, the air filled with battle-cries and the beating of many wings. More volleys were loosed into the sky, some Kadoshim screeching and spiralling to the ground. With a snarl, Hadran hurled his spear, skewered a half-breed, then drew his sword and launched himself at a Kadoshim. They crashed together, spinning, snarling, spitting.
Riv hovered, hesitating, unsure what to do. Then, to the south, she saw another black cloud roll out from the forest, surging towards Drassil’s gates. And from the west, the trees shook and yet another mist boiled out from the treeline.
They have used the depths of the forest to travel unseen.
A dread settled in her belly, seeing the gates of Drassil already taken and these overwhelming numbers surging towards them.
I must find Aphra.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
FRITHA
Fritha shivered and clenched her jaws to stop her teeth chattering.
She was sitting upon Wrath’s back, or more accurately, laying prone upon his back, her arms and legs wrapped tight around him, clinging on for dear life.
Morn flew beside her, in sweeping loops, laughing at the draig’s slow speed and lack of manoeuvrability.
“He is like a stone with wings,” Morn called down to her from above.
Any faster or higher and I would die.
Fritha’s muscles ached from hanging on so hard, almost three solid days of constant flying from the battleground in the Desolation. Just the thought of that soured Fritha’s blood.
We were so close. Victory in the palm of my hand. I told Ulf he had to stay safe. She spent a while cursing and swearing to the clouds above her. There were no birds in the sky, she guessed it was because Wrath’s presence scared them away.
And then she saw Drassil in the distance.
She felt a rush of terror at what Gulla would say to her when he heard of her defeat.
I will not tell him yet, not until I have done the deed, and then it will be too late.
She felt a tremor of fear at the risk she was taking, but what else could she do? Flee and live her life in hiding?
Never. I have a destiny to fulfil, a great deed to do, and at the least, my vengeance must be appeased. Kol is at Drassil. She felt a thrill of excitement at that thought, after so many years of planning and scheming, of fighting and dreaming of this moment, and now it had actually arrived. A clouded haze swirled around the towers and walls of Drassil, looking from this distance like flocks of birds wheeling and swooping, but Fritha knew what it was.
Ben-Elim and Kadoshim, locked in their eternal battle. Will this really be its end?
It could be.
The fortress rushed towards them, growing, and below her Fritha saw trees swaying and moving as some great host moved within it. Tendrils of black mist curled from the branches. To the south she saw evidence of another black cloud host surging towards the fortress.
Gulla’s Seven with their broods, all converging on Drassil. They have moved at night by cover of darkness, slipped into the deepest, darkest recesses of Forn to avoid prying eyes and crept their way here. But now their terrible beauty can be revealed for all to see. Let the world tremble.
And then Wrath was leaving the forest behind, flying over a plain before Drassil’s great walls. Kadoshim and Ben-Elim flew in the air, sweeping and looping as they stabbed and slashed at one another, screaming their aeons-old hatred.
Wrath snapped at a Ben-Elim that swept past them, trading blows with a Kadoshim. The draig snagged a wing, shook it and the Ben-Elim fell spiralling to the ground, its wing ruined.
Wrath spat out feathers.
“Taste bad,” he grumbled.
“Soon you’ll feast on the finest flesh,” Fritha crooned.
“Happy,” Wrath answered.
They winged over the high walls, the clash of arms drifting up to them, Fritha looking down to see the walls manned with White-Wings, but their enemy were already inside the fortress. There were running battles taking place in the streets, mounted warriors with bows in their hands, swirling hordes of Revenants overrunning all before them, and knots of White-Wings gathered in their shield walls, like rocks in a swirling river. Fritha felt a rush of nostalgia at seeing her old home and the White-Wings she had been raised to be part of.
I was brainwashed, part of the great lie.
She searched the sky, looking for Kol, but the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim were all a too-fast blur.
“There.” Fritha pointed at the Great Hall, a huge domed structure that was built around the trunk of Drassil’s great tree. She guided Wrath towards it.
A massive shield wall of White-Wings stood before the hall’s gates, four or five hundred strong. Riders were pouring arrows into it, but the shields were soaking them up. Fritha saw a charge of shaven-haired acolytes rush the wall, crashing into it, hoping to break through by sheer press of numbers, but the wall held and the acolytes died, short-swords stabbing.
