Drem sat in a glade in the moonlight. He glanced up, looking at the moon, saw it was close to midnight.
A rasp as Drem drew his seax, stroked the steel with gentle fingertips. Then he loosened the leather ties of a vambrace and slipped it off his forearm, exposing grimy, sweat-soaked skin. He drew his seax across it and watched blood run down his arm, across his palm, dripping from fingertips to the grass.
“Now we wait,” he said to Fen. The wolven-hound was curled at his side, back to a boulder. Its coat of mail shimmered in the half-light.
Time passed, Drem murmuring to Fen, absently tugging on one of the wolven’s ears.
Abruptly Fen shifted, climbed to his feet, ears pricked forwards. He growled, almost inaudibly, more of a vibration deep within the wolven-hound’s broad chest.
Drem’s hand moved to his neck and silently started counting the beats of his pulse.
A sound in the forest, deep within the darkness. The rustle of foliage, the snap of a twig.
Drem slipped his vambrace back on and stood, tightened the leather cords with his teeth, then slipped his hand-axe from its belt hoop. He set his feet, seax and hand-axe ready, eyes flitting across the glade.
Sounds from all around now, moving closer. Padded foot-falls, the whispered crackle of forest litter, bodies pushing through foliage.
Then a growl from something that prowled on the edge of darkness.
A silence, a held breath.
Figures burst from the forest, part man, part beast, creatures of tooth and claw, hunched and muscled, limbs elongated, patched with fur and bare skin.
Ferals.
Ten, twelve, more leaping from the darkness, a whole pack of the creatures.
Fen jumped, colliding with one of the Ferals in mid-air, a bone-crunching collision, a deep-throated snarling, snapping.
A hissing sound filled the glade, arrows raining down from above, punching into Ferals. Faelan and others of his kin swooped down from boughs, bows thrumming. Some of the Ferals dropped instantly, pierced many times. Some evaded the iron-tipped death, launched themselves at Drem.
Another explosion from the trees, this one as big as a boulder, a wall of white fur and a gaping maw, and Friend flew into the creatures hurling themselves at Drem. The bear’s jaws clamped on one, a paw swiping another, shredding ribs and an arm, the other collided with Friend’s chest and was sent hurtling through the air, crashing into a tree.
One evaded the white bear and came straight at Drem. He ducked and spun on one heel, slashed with his seax as the Feral flew past him. It turned, came at him again, ploughing into him. They fell together, rolling in the grass, a tangle of limbs. Drem tried to strike at the creature, found one of his blades was trapped in the Feral’s flesh, the other weapon gone from his grip.
The Feral’s jaws were close to Drem’s face, snapping, teeth clicking, a finger’s breadth from his ear.
Another snarling sound, and then jaws were clamping around the Feral’s neck and shoulder, the sound of flesh tearing, blood spurting in Drem’s face. The Feral howled and whined in pain as Fen tore chunks of flesh. Its claws raked on riveted mail and Fen did not let go, continued to shake the Feral like a rat. Then Friend was there, a paw crashing onto the Feral’s back, pinning it.
An arrow punched into the Feral’s head.
Drem looked up from the ground, chest heaving as he gasped for breath, saw Faelan hovering over him.
“Trust me, you said,” Drem breathed.
Faelan alighted beside him, offered him his arm.
“You’re alive.” Faelan shrugged.
“How many?” Drem asked as he climbed to his feet. His body ached like he’d been hit with a tree.
“Twenty-six of them,” Faelan said. His kin were circling the glade, loosing arrows into any Feral that still moved. “Is that all of them?”
“I don’t know,” Drem said. “But we can do no more.” He patted Fen’s neck, the wolven-hound pressing close to him. “My thanks, Fen,” he said, then turned to the white bear.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, the bear dipping his head and rubbing his muzzle against Drem’s chest.
Cullen rode into the glade, moonlight casting him in silver and shadow.
“What are you doing here?” Drem asked. “Is the whole warband coming this way? And you shouldn’t be riding in the dark.”
“If he’s allowed to disobey orders,” Cullen said, pointing at the white bear, “then so am I.”
Drem shook his head.
The trap had been his idea. Craf’s crows had spied the Ferals in the forest, better scouts and guardians for Asroth’s warband than any warrior. It would have been impossible to slip past them unobserved. So Drem had come up with this plan. He’d insisted on standing alone, because the Ferals would have smelled the white bear, or hidden warriors upon the ground, and been put off their attack. Only Faelan and his kin had a chance of going undetected.
“Have I missed all the fun?” Cullen asked.
“Aye,” Drem said, rolling his shoulder, which throbbed as if it had been dislocated.
“I’ll be your guide back to camp, then,” Cullen said. “Shouldn’t take us long. Friend’s made a road as wide as a barn.”
Drem’s eyes snapped open.
He was lying on the forest floor beside a tree, head on his kit-bag, his cloak pulled tight around him. Cullen was snoring close by. Or it might have been Fen.
Booted feet were in line with Drem’s eyes and he pushed himself upright, the weight of his mail coat feeling heavier than normal. Exhaustion was becoming a well-known companion. Byrne was approaching him, threading through sleeping warriors. Beyond her he heard the constant murmur of the river they were following through the forest. Drem sat up, rubbed his eyes, looked up through the trees. It was full dark, long before dawn. He hadn’t been asleep long.
Byrne reached him and crouched down.
“You did well,” she said, her voice hushed.
Drem grunted.
“Cullen,” Byrne said.
The warrior continued to snore.
Drem poked him with his boot.
“What?” Cullen muttered, opening his eyes and, seeing Byrne, sat up.
“Good morning, Aunt,” he said.
“It’s a long way from morning.” Drem sighed.
“Aye, it is,” Byrne said. “But when morning comes it will bring battle with it. We are close to the forest’s border, and Ripa. Less than half a day’s march.”
Drem nodded.
“I wanted to see you both, before it begins,” she said. Shrugged. “You are my kin.”
Drem looked at her, a strong woman, muscles honed, a sharp intelligence and wisdom in her eyes. She always appeared so strong. Led with strength, but with a streak of kindness also.
“I’m proud to call you my kin,” Drem said, speaking his thoughts, as he often did.
Byrne smiled. “And here it was me coming to tell you both that same thing.” She looked away, her eyes shining. “Whatever happens on the morrow, know this. I love you both. This war feels as if it has been my whole life, and sometimes it can become hard to remember why I am fighting it. There has been so much death and tragedy.” She blew out a long breath, rubbed her eyes. “When it comes down to it, though, when I strip all the politics and strategies away, it is quite simple: I am fighting this war for you. For my kin, the people I love.” She smiled at them. “You are worth fighting for.” She reached out and squeezed Drem’s wrist.
“I’ll fight for you until my last breath,” Cullen breathed. “Follow you into the Otherworld, if I have to.”
Byrne stood, looking down at them. “I know you would.” She turned away, paused. “Oh,” she said. “Here’s something for you, Cullen.” She held out something long, wrapped in wool.
Cullen stood up and took it, unwrapped it. Gasped.
“But…”
Cullen held up a sword, drew it slowly from its worn leather scabbard. It was Corban’s sword. Sounds came from Cullen’s throat, but no words, his eyes bright with tears. The sword glinted in the moonlight.
“But…” he said again.
“It’s mine to give,” Byrne said, “and I know, here, that it is you who should wield it.” She touched a hand to her heart. Then smiled. “Just don’t lose it.”
Cullen grinned. “That I won’t,” he said, “not while there’s life in my bones.”
“Sleep while you can,” Byrne said, turning away.
A flapping of wings and loud squawking, they all heard it together, and a white bird came flying above the river.
“RIPA IS FALLEN,” Rab squawked.