‘What’s the plan, chief?’ Keld asked her.
Are we to storm a fortified position with unknown numbers of our enemy inside, with just the four of us, and a bear, a hound and a crow?
Keld is right, we need solid information to take back to Byrne.
But townsfolk from Kergard are in there, Drem’s friend amongst them. More innocents likely to be slaughtered by the Kadoshim scum.
She thought of the Order’s oath, to protect the weak, to fight for them. Looked at her palm, the scar a silver line where she had sealed it with her own blood.
She knew they should already be on their way back to Dun Seren.
But if I leave now, innocents will die. And what of this Starstone Sword? Can I just walk away and leave it in the hands of the Kadoshim, to do Elyon knows what kind of evil. If we can get that, I’m guessing we’ll stop a world of hurt from happening.
Sig looked at the sky.
‘We’ll wait for twilight,’ she said, feeling her blood stir, a snarl twitching her lips at the thought of Kadoshim so close. ‘And I’m thinking Hammer should be dressed for the occasion.’ Then she drew a knife from her belt and tested its edge with her thumb.
Just enough time for a shave. She smiled at Cullen.
‘What?’ Cullen said suspiciously.
‘Give me your hand,’ Sig hissed, leaning over the wall and reaching down to Drem. He jumped and caught her wrist, and then Sig was hauling him up and over the palisaded wall of the mine, both of them ducking low.
It was as good as full dark; Sig’s preparations had taken a little longer than she’d expected. The wall was poorly manned and only sporadically lit, so it took just a few heartbeats to check they hadn’t been seen, and then Drem was padding down a stairwell, Sig jumping from the walkway into snow. They crossed an open space and hugged a wall, Drem slipping ahead, Sig confident to follow his lead. A hundred heartbeats and they were deep in the camp, an acid stench burning its way into the back of Sig’s throat. Drem turned and signalled, pointing up at the roof of a building, single-storey with a sod roof. Sig was on it in moments, then giving Drem a helping hand. They crawled across the sod, Sig careful to spread her weight. Grass tickled her face. And then they were peering down upon a scene that set even Sig’s skin to gooseflesh.
It was an open space, illuminated by many torches, their flames whipped and swirled by the wind. A boulder as big as a keep sat at one end of the clearing, the dull gleam of iron bars highlighted by the flames showing the countless gaols Drem had told them of. Veiled shapes prowled their shadows. The foul stench was emanating from those recesses in palpable waves. In the centre of the clearing stood a table, various butcher’s tools spread across it, as well as a profusion of body parts. In places the timber was stained black.
On the far side of the clearing more buildings sprawled. Sig could hear the occasional snuffling and lowing of a bear coming from their direction, though she could not be sure of the exact building.
And in the clearing a crowd of acolytes stood, forty of them, maybe fifty. Other forms moved amongst them, prowling, their movements unnatural, backs heaped and bowed with too much muscle, arms and legs too long for their bodies, mouths and hands razored with tooth and claw that did not belong upon men. More shapes moved in the shadows beyond the torchlight.
Drem did not exaggerate.
‘Can you see your friend, Ulf?’ Sig whispered to Drem.
He shook his head.
A hush fell and figures emerged from the darkness, a procession, a Kadoshim at its head. He was tall, dark hair swept back and tied in a knot at the nape, the sharp lines of his face and set of his eyes giving him a reptilian appearance. His nose was a thin line.
A chanting broke out amongst the gathered acolytes as he entered the clearing.
‘Gulla, Gulla, Gulla.’
Sig slid a hand to Drem and gripped his wrist.
‘Gulla, High Captain of the Kadoshim,’ she hissed. ‘Second only to Asroth.’
The Captain of the Kadoshim walked through the crowd and it parted for him, his procession following behind: twelve, fourteen figures, Sig counted, all cloaked and hooded. They stopped in the space between the table and boulder, forming a half-circle behind Gulla. Two of them came to stand at his shoulder, casting their hoods back. Like Gulla they were pale-skinned and dark-veined, wings furled, clothed in rusted, iron-grey ringmail and tattered cloaks. But they were different, their heads shaved like the acolytes, and they were shorter and stockier.
What are they? Kadoshim? But they look like no Kadoshim that I have ever seen.
‘The tide of the great war turns this night,’ Gulla cried out, voice sinuous and alien. Cheers and growls and hissing approval rang out.
‘My children,’ Gulla called, and the two at his shoulder stepped forwards, striding towards the great boulder.
Gulla’s children! What foul deed have these Kadoshim committed? The darkness they have brought upon mankind. A fresh anger bubbled in Sig’s gut, a desire to rid the world of the Kadoshim’s corruption.
The two half-breeds reached a gate in the rock, the clank of chains and creak of iron hinges, then an animal screech. They reappeared with a giant bat held between them, the huge creature writhing and bucking in their grip, its head twisting and snapping at them, but it could not reach them.
Gulla’s children slammed the bat down onto the table, held it pinned and stretched out by its great wings.
Gulla walked to the table, as he did so chanting rose up from the crowd in a tongue few would understand, but Sig knew it all too well.
A hush fell over the crowd.
‘Fuil agus cnámh, uirlisí an cruthaitheoir,’ Gulla cried out.
‘Blood and bone, tools of the creator,’ Sig whispered. Drem was as tense as a drawn bow beside her.
With a long black nail, Gulla slit the bat’s throat, its terrified screeching descending into a frothed rattle, the creature’s life-blood pouring onto the table, pooling and bubbling as the creature convulsed.
‘Step forward,’ Gulla said to one of the hooded figures that had followed him through the crowd, tall and slim. The figure threw back its hood, head shaved to fair stubble that glistened in the firelight.
A woman? Sig thought, though she was not wholly sure; there was something androgynous about this person. Male or female, it drew a sword from its cloak. A black sword.
The Starstone Sword!
Beside her Drem hissed, his body jerking and he almost leaped from the roof, only Sig’s hand darting out holding him down. He took a deep breath, one hand reaching for his neck, fingers probing.
Is he taking his pulse?
Drem looked at Sig then, and tears were in his eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
RIV