Riv beat her wings and flew. She climbed high, brushing the clouds, and then checked her wings, hovering as she watched the sun claw its way over the eastern rim of the world.
A few days had passed since she had arrived at Dun Seren. She’d been desperate to spend time in the weapons-field, to watch and see how her White-Wings surpassed these warriors of the Order of the Bright Star, but Kol had kept her by his side whilst he debated with Byrne about the best way to deal with the threat of Gulla and the Kadoshim. Riv had found it hard to concentrate, her mind dwelling on the first meeting between Kol and Byrne. It was troubling her, and she had decided that taking to the skies was the answer.
So much of what I have been raised to believe, so much of what I’ve considered the truth, is now just quicksand, sinking and shifting beneath my feet. All my life I’ve thought the Ben-Elim to be the heroes who saved us from the Kadoshim, but what Byrne and Ethlinn said… about the Ben-Elim scheming to bring the Kadoshim into this world, about Corban saving mankind from the Kadoshim, not the Ben-Elim. Is that the truth? Or is it as twisted and warped a version as Kol’s?
Horn blasts brought her out of her reverie. Gazing around from her vantage point, she looked for some explanation for the horns blowing. Dun Seren spilt down a gentle hill, buildings lined in tiers within the inner wall. Beyond it were a snarl of wharves, barns, boathouses, piers and the river Vold, wide and languid in its last few leagues to the sea. A forest of masts sat upon the river, bobbing at their docks. A stone-arched bridge crossed the river, beyond it open plains, a road leading north. In the distance a smudge on the land hinted at a town.
There were figures on the bridge, twenty or thirty. Riv saw giants striding amongst them, the flitting movement of wolven-hounds, a mix of riders and wains.
A white crow flew above them.
Riv heard the hissing of air that heralded the beating of wings and looked around to see Kol flying towards her, a handful of Ben-Elim with him.
“Another pleasant meeting with stiff-necked Byrne,” he said with a roll of his eyes as he drew level with her. “She left because of these horns. What’s happening?”
Riv pointed to the group. They had crossed the bridge and were making their way around a fork in the road that wound around Dun Seren’s hill towards the gate tower and keep.
“Let’s go and see what all the fuss is about,” Kol said, and they turned in the air and winged their way to the courtyard before the keep.
Crowds were gathering there, Byrne already waiting on the steps, Ethlinn at her side. Kol flew and landed beside her. Riv alighted further down the steps, and to the side.
The group from the bridge arrived, the white crow circling above them, calling out in a far-too-human voice, proclaiming the return of Dun Seren’s huntsmen. Three men in hunting leathers passed through the gates, three wolven-hounds loping around them. Behind the riders rolled two wains filled with the injured. Men, women, children. An old, grey-haired woman drove the first wain, a dark-haired warrior with a hawk nose and the bright star on his chest the second one. Two riders rode beside him, a young red-haired man and a stern, dour-faced woman. The red-haired man was smiling at everyone in the crowd, especially the women.
Last of all strode two giants, Riv recognizing one of them as Alcyon, who had spent much of his time in the service of Ethlinn at Drassil.
The white crow spiralled down from the sky, wings spreading, and it alighted upon the shoulder of Byrne.
“Rab brought them home,” the white crow squawked, “told Keld and Stepor where to go.”
“Well done, Rab,” Byrne said, scratching the crow’s chest.
“And Rab watch over Drem ben Olin, like Byrne ask. Drem brave, fight twisted men, save Utul.”
Riv saw Kol look at the white crow, eyes narrowing, thoughtful.
The three men leading the party dismounted, stablehands running forwards to take their horses. All were dressed as huntsmen, all bearing various cuts and bruises, evidence of recent action. Two of them were dark-haired, the third one older, with iron in his beard. This one strode forward, up the steps to Byrne.
“My lady,” he said, dipping his head. “We found them, though they were under attack when we reached them.”
“You have saved lives, Keld,” Byrne said, “risked your own.” She nodded at the huntsman. “Now, is there more news from the north? What of Dalga—”
“Drem?” Kol interrupted suddenly. “I know that name. Drem.” He rolled it around his tongue, as if stirring up old memories. “Olin?” Then his head snapped round to Byrne. “Olin, husband of Neve?” Byrne returned his stare, said nothing.
Kol turned and marched down the steps, stopped a dozen paces from the two huntsmen. “It cannot be you,” Kol said to one of them, a slim man with a thick black beard. “You are too old.” Kol turned his eyes to the other.
This man was younger, only a stubbled beard on his chin. He was tall and broad at the shoulder, though he had a wiry musculature, not thick, like Vald’s. His dark hair was tied back at the nape, loose strands hanging across his face. A sword and axe hung at his waist, and the biggest knife Riv had ever seen. At first glance she mistook it for one of the White-Wing’s short-swords.
He was covered in a lattice of cuts and bruises, looked as if he’d seen some recent action, wherever he’d come from.
“You are Drem ben Olin, son of Olin and Neve, warriors of the Bright Star?” Kol said.
The man was silent a moment, looking at the ground. Riv saw a hand move to his neck, fingers probing, as if searching for a pulse.
“Course he’s Drem, Olin’s boy,” the old lady driving the wain said. “A fine man, Olin, may his soul rest in peace. What of it?”
Kol stood before Drem, prodded his shoulder with one finger, and Drem met Kol’s eye. They were roughly of a height, which was unusual as Ben-Elim were taller than most men.
“I came here for you over fifteen years ago, because your mother murdered my friend. You are my ward, Drem ben Olin, the blood price for the unlawful slaying of Galzur of the Ben-Elim.” He put a hand on Drem’s shoulder.
“Get away from him,” Byrne said flatly behind Kol. She was striding down the steps.
Ben-Elim were suddenly in the air, those close to Kol stepping up behind their leader, some hovering over the courtyard.
Drem reached up and gripped Kol’s wrist, slowly and forcefully lifting Kol’s hand from his shoulder.
“I am no one’s ward,” Drem said. “I am a free man.”
“You have never been free,” Kol said, “and you are coming with me.”
“You’ll have to fight me first,” a voice cried out, the red-haired warrior urging his horse forwards.
“And me,” Keld the huntsman called, striding back down the stairs.
Kol looked at them all contemptuously.
“I’ll fight you all if you wish. I would have gone to war over this fifteen years ago, and I shall do the same now.”
“You won’t have to fight any of them,” Byrne said, striding down to stand beside Kol. “Stand down,” she ordered her warriors. They met her gaze at first, then slowly stepped away.
She needs the Ben-Elim in the war against Gulla and the Kadoshim, said as much the other night. It is the wise choice, to give up one man.
“The only one you need fight to claim Drem is me,” Byrne said calmly.
A silence settled over the courtyard.
“Don’t be a fool,” Kol said with a snort of derision. “We are allies, you need me in the coming war. Give up the boy.”
“Kol of the Ben-Elim,” Byrne called out loudly, “I challenge you to the Court of Swords.”
“You would ruin everything for him? Risk the coming war?”
Byrne reached over her back, gripped the hilt of her sword and with a hiss drew it. “Accept the challenge or forfeit your claim,” she told him.
Kol stared at Byrne, his wings twitching, then snorted.
“Have it your way.” He drew his sword. “I accept.”
Riv could not believe what she was hearing. People crowded forwards, moving for a better view, but Riv flexed her wings and took to the air, and suddenly she had the best view of all. Other Ben-Elim circled above her, their expressions tense, hands on their weapons, but there was nothing they could do. Kol had flown here with only a score of warriors.
Kol strode forwards, his blade held contemptuously low.
Kol must surely win, Riv thought. I have seen him fight, have fought him myself. He is too fast, too cunning. Would be nice to see him put on his arse, though.
Byrne stood as still as stone, feet set, her sword held high in a two-handed grip.
Kol paced one way and then the other, his sword-tip grating on stone, eyes fixed on Byrne. Then he moved. A sudden lunge, a pulse of his wings adding to his speed.
A clang, echoing off the stone courtyard and statues.
Kol staggered away, off balance.
Byrne looked at him, resumed her stance.
Kol said something low, for only Byrne to hear as he strode to one side of her, then the other, his sword higher now, and he lunged again. Byrne sidestepped easily, chopping down as Kol stepped out of his lunge, cutting at her ribs. There was a crack of steel as their blades met and then both of them were fluid movement. Kol a swirling whirlwind, using his wings for speed, to check and turn, to leap and fly over Byrne, striking down at her, seemingly faster than human eyes could process; even Riv with her enhanced sight was finding it difficult to follow.
It must be impossible for these others to see what is happening.
Byrne parried and countered, all of her moves small, economical, always judging Kol’s attacks perfectly, most of them hissing past her by little more than the width of a finger. And then Riv noticed something.
Byrne was smiling.
Not contemptuously, as Riv had seen Kol smile at her during sparring, not to elicit a response, as some kind of tactic. Byrne was smiling because she was in her element and loving it.
The battle joy.
Riv had felt it course through her before, and perhaps that was why she recognized it now in Byrne.
Another storm of blows, Byrne stepping and moving, never wasting her energy, parrying Kol’s blurred attacks with impossible precision, almost as if she knew where the Ben-Elim’s blade was going to be before he moved. A blistering combination from Kol as he swept in again, Byrne obscured from Riv’s view for a dozen heartbeats.
Kol stepped away, his blade red.
Blood dripped from Byrne’s cheek.
Gasps and mutters around the courtyard.
Kol smiled coldly.
Byrne’s eyes flickered to the statues in the courtyard, of Corban and Storm. Riv saw her lips move.
And then Kol was moving again, leaping over her, twisting in the air, his sword a glittering arc, Byrne ducking, bunching her legs and leaping, stabbing at him.
There was a yell, blood and feathers sprinkling the ground and Kol was suddenly crashing to the stones. He slammed to the ground, a red wound across his shoulder, rolled on the cobbles as Byrne dropped, too, found her balance and came at him. His wings beat hard, powering him upright, but Byrne was already there, a flurry of chops, Kol parrying wildly, still off balance. His wings beat frantically, lifting his feet from the ground.
Byrne ducked a wild swing, crashed into him, grabbed onto Kol’s leather jerkin and they were both rising into the air. Byrne headbutted Kol, once, twice and he was reeling in the air, falling back to the ground.
Byrne still held onto Kol as they hit the stones, then her pommel was crunching into Kol’s head. His legs buckled and he was on his back, Byrne standing over him, one boot on his chest, her sword at his throat.
Riv stared, open-mouthed, part of her tempted to whoop in triumph.
A silence stretched, only Kol’s ragged breaths heard.
“Do you yield?” Byrne asked.
Kol glared up at her. His hand searched for his sword hilt.
Byrne flicked her wrist and blood was leaking down Kol’s neck.
“Do you yield?” Byrne snarled. “I will not ask you a third time.”
“I yield,” Kol grunted.
Byrne stood there a long, lingering moment, still in the grip of the battle joy.
She’s going to kill him!
Byrne blew out a deep breath, something shifting in the set of her shoulders.
“Then the matter is settled. Let us put it behind us,” Byrne said, taking her sword-tip from Kol’s throat. She offered him her hand instead.
Kol looked up at her, then took her grip and climbed to his feet.
The crowd erupted in cheering.
Riv swept down out of a dive and landed in an open space before the weapons-field. A large stone dominated the clearing, twice as tall as Riv, and as wide as her with her wings spread.
It was the day after Kol and Byrne’s duel, soon after dawn. A constant stream of people were walking past her, making their way into the weapons-field.
Finally, I will get to see Dun Seren’s weapons-field and judge how they would fare against Drassil’s White-Wings. I hope they don’t all fight like Byrne.
Though I like her style.
Riv had risen early after a restless night. She’d thought after Kol’s public defeat that he would have left Dun Seren immediately, but to his credit he had stayed. He told Riv later that night that he and Byrne had to agree on their tactics for the attack on Gulla, that there was nothing more important than that, even his pride. She had felt a brief moment of respect for him then.
A solitary figure was standing before the stone, staring at it. She knew him immediately. Drem, the man the duel had been over. His hand was reaching out, fingertips brushing the rock. Riv stepped closer, wondering what he was staring at. He started a little when he realized she was there, one hand going to his eye, rubbing it.
Is he crying?
Then she realized what Drem was looking at.
Names were carved into the stone, lit like gold as the rising sun bathed them in rosy light. Hundreds of names. A thousand. Maybe more.
This is the Stone of Heroes that Byrne spoke of.
She read the first names carved into the stone, high and faded by time and weather, but still clear.
“Garisan ben Tukul,” she whispered. “Brina ap Fyrn.”
“Gar and Brina,” Drem said.
“What?” She frowned.
“They are Gar and Brina. Corban’s two greatest friends, the people he dedicated Dun Seren and the Order of the Bright Star to. Brina was a healer, Gar a warrior.”
“Ah,” Riv said, though she had never heard the two names before. “I thought I had learned all that needed to be known of our history,” she muttered, “but it seems I was mistaken.”
Drem snorted a laugh. “I can relate to that,” he said. He was serious-faced, almost a childlike innocence to the set of his features.
“Come on, Drem,” a voice called out, and they both turned to see a red-haired man, a broad grin on his face. It was one of the warriors who had tried to fight for Drem yesterday. “Let’s see how many new bruises we can earn today.”
Drem looked at Riv and touched his temple.
“I love Cullen like a brother,” he said. “But he’s totally mad. He doesn’t just like fighting, which is bad enough—he likes getting hit.” He shook his head and walked off, following the red-haired warrior into the weapons-field.
Riv turned back to the stone, marvelling at the names. She looked where Drem had been standing and saw where he had reached out to, where he had touched the stone.
Two new names, freshly carved, dust still remaining from the stone mason’s chiselling.
“Sig ap Tyr,” she whispered. “Olin ben Adros.”
Stone crunched behind Riv, a tremor in the ground, and she turned to see Balur One-Eye striding past her, other giants with him. Alcyon was there, his hair shaven to stubble, apart from a thick wedge down the middle of his head, bound into a warrior braid that hung down his back. There were other giants about them that she didn’t recognize, including the one who had been in the first meeting with Byrne. Craf was not upon his shoulder now.
“Come, lassie, and raise a sweat with us on this cold morning,” Balur said, blowing on his big slabs of hands. He didn’t have to ask Riv twice. She followed them into the field.
Balur and a handful of giants stomped to a rack, full of all manner of weapons, some giant-size, some human. Riv saw that some of the other giants, Alcyon included, were joining most of the people in the field and gathering into a central square, forming loose columns. She saw Byrne standing at its head, the cut on her cheek from her duel a thin scabbed line. A dark-skinned woman stood beside her. As Riv watched, Byrne and the other woman drew their swords, Byrne holding hers two-handed over her head, just as she had begun the duel yesterday.
“Stooping falcon,” Byrne cried, and like a wave breaking, those gathered before her drew their blades and raised them in a mirror image of Byrne. Something about the sight of it stirred Riv’s blood.
“What are they doing?” Riv asked.
“The sword dance,” Balur said, hefting a wooden war-hammer.
Byrne called out something else, and over a thousand blades flashed in the morning sun.
“I like it,” Riv said, feeling a grin split her face.
“It’s a Jehar tradition,” Balur said. “Gar taught it to Corban, so it’s fitting that it starts each day at Dun Seren.”
“Does it work?” Riv asked, wondering if it would aid her swordcraft, or whether it just appeared to be impressive. She recognized variations of movements she’d learned during her training, but they had never been linked like this, forms and positions held until muscles burned. She could see sweat steaming as it dripped from noses, muscles quivering.
“Gar was one of the few that gave me more bruises than I gave him,” Balur said. “Though I only knew him a few years.” He paused, his craggy face softening a moment, lost in some distant memory. “Yes, lass, I’d wager the sword dance works.”
“Why aren’t you doing it, then?” she asked him.
“Because I’m an old man set in my ways. I was two thousand years old when I first saw the sword dance. And, besides, this is my weapon.” He hefted his wooden war-hammer. “It’s not made for their forms, but it still gets the job done. Speaking of which,” he said, “choose your weapon.” He walked out into the sparring ground, turned and waited for her, tapping the shaft of his hammer in his fist.
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.