A voice rang out somewhere above her.
“ASROTH,” and Fritha looked up, many upon the ground pausing, doing the same.
It was Meical, hovering in the sky, brandishing a longsword.
Asroth lifted his axe, an acceptance of Meical’s challenge, and then the Ben-Elim was tucking his wings and diving. Close in the sky Fritha glimpsed Morn, locked in a spinning embrace with the Ben-Elim half-breed.
Meical descended from above like a well-cast spear, his sword pointing straight at Asroth’s heart.
The long axe swung, a huge loop, at the last moment Meical shifting the angle of his approach, sweeping up, the axe skimming his belly. Meical’s sword slashed down, clanged on Asroth’s helm, staggering him, and then Meical was sweeping up into the air.
Asroth bellowed at him, his wings snapping out, beating, and he was rising into the air after Meical, dust swirling in a whirlwind upon the ground. Meical turned and flew at him again.
Asroth gripped his axe two-handed, like a staff, blocked an overhand swing from Meical, steel sparking, turning as Meical swirled around him, blows struck faster than Fritha could see, always answered with the clang of steel, a stuttered staccato of blows that lasted a dozen heartbeats, ending with a crunch and Meical spinning away, dropping from the sky, crashing to the ground before Fritha. He rose unsteadily, blood sheeting from his head.
Asroth descended slowly, landed before Meical, a grin upon his face.
“You’ve had more than two thousand years to prepare for this,” Asroth said. “I thought you’d be better.”
Meical shook himself, a ripple through his wings.
“Cré a bheith ina bholg, coinnigh mo namhaid,” Meical shouted, and ran at Asroth, sword held high, two-handed.
The ground beneath Asroth’s feet shifted, seemed to melt, and Asroth lurched, sinking into the earth. He swayed, straining to heave a leg free, but the ground had become a sinking bog, sucking at Asroth’s legs.
“Lig saor mé,” Asroth snarled, and the ground solidified, seemed to spit him out.
Meical slashed down as Asroth stumbled and raised his axe, steel grating as their weapons caught in a bind. Meical broke away, a flurry of blows at Asroth, head, thigh, shoulder, ribs, all blocked, Asroth standing there like a rock before a storm, Meical swirling, moving faster than Fritha’s eyes could follow.
Meical stepped back, breathing hard.
Asroth put his gauntleted hand to his cheek, wiped away a thin line of blood. Gripped his axe again.
Meical stepped in fast, a straight lunge at Asroth’s chest, dipping under Asroth’s block, sweeping back up and in, stabbing high. Asroth stepped away, Meical’s blade touching him, sparks on mail. A twist of Asroth’s arms and his axe shaft had locked Meical’s blade.
Asroth kicked Meical in the groin, dropping the Ben-Elim.
A beating of wings and more Ben-Elim were swooping down, a score at least. Kadoshim were close behind them, Bune leading Asroth’s honour guard, who had been fighting in a loose circle above Asroth.
Fritha recognized some of these Ben-Elim. Dumah was there, whom she had served under for a time. He flew at Asroth, Ben-Elim either side of him, the three of them breaking through Bune’s guards. Spears stabbed out at Asroth. He stepped back, away from Meical, who was still on his hands and knees, retching onto the grass.
Asroth set his feet and swung his long axe, an explosion of splinters as he sheared through the Ben-Elim’s spear shafts, a backswing and the wicked spike on the reverse of the axe crunched into a Ben-Elim’s skull, the warrior dropping like a stone, crashing to the ground. Asroth tugged the blade free, bits of bone and brain in the air, slammed the butt into the second Ben-Elim’s belly, doubling him over, Asroth’s knee crunching into his face, sending him flying, slamming onto the ground.
Dumah swept past Asroth, turned, dropping his shattered spear shaft, reaching for his sword hilt, and Asroth’s axe sliced into his neck, a spurt of arterial blood and his corpse collapsed to the ground.
A swarm of Ben-Elim were swooping around Asroth now, Kadoshim interweaving amongst them, trying to hold them back.
Fritha urged Wrath towards Asroth, swiping a path through White-Wings in her way.
Meical was back on his feet, his sword in his hand. He charged at Asroth, but Bune slammed into him, knocking him back to the ground. Meical rose, sword swinging in an arc around his head, chopping at Bune’s neck, parried, Bune stumbling away, then coming back at Meical. A furious exchange, steel clanging, grating, Meical eventually stepping out of range. Bune followed, relentless, sword swinging in a horizontal blow with enough force to take Meical’s head.
Meical dropped to one knee, sword stabbing straight out and punching into Bune’s belly. It tore through mail, then leather and flesh. Bune’s sword dropped to the ground and he fell to his knees, staring at Meical. Then toppled backwards.
Asroth was backing towards Fritha, half a dozen Ben-Elim setting upon him in a frenzied attack. His long axe kept them all back. Fritha saw another Ben-Elim land to his right, beyond Asroth’s vision, spear poised, waiting for an opening to stab in.
Fritha felt her heart freeze in her chest.
It was Kol. The father of her child, Anja.
She had loved him once, with a passion that burned as bright as the sun. She hated him now, with a passion just as fervent. He had ordered the murder of her baby.
“KOL!” she screamed, the White-Wing hearing, turning.
“Wrath, crush him,” Fritha snarled, and the draig leaped forwards, head swaying, sending any White-Wings in their way hurtling through the air. Kol saw them charge, turned, wings opening to leap into the sky, but the air was thick above him with fighting Ben-Elim and Kadoshim. He dived to the right, just as Wrath’s head lunged out, jaws wide. The draig’s teeth snapped on air, claws raking the ground, turf spraying as he skidded to a halt, Fritha dragging on her reins, Wrath turning.
Kol was on the ground, rolling. He grabbed a White-Wing shield as Wrath swiped at him with a taloned claw. The shield exploded in a spray of splinters, Kol flying through the air, over the heads of fighting warriors, crashing to the ground thirty or forty paces away, disappearing amongst the turmoil.
Fritha searched for him, screamed.