Drem stabbed and swung his sword, used his axe more defensively, or to chop at fingers, wrists or arms that came too close in the crush. He was no mighty warrior like Sig or Cullen, but he had spent many years learning how to wield an axe and knife from his da, and the rage he felt for his da’s murderer gave him new strength and speed. And these acolytes, while many of them clearly had some blade-craft, they were no weapons-masters like Sig and Cullen. Now that the frenzied blood-rush of battle’s first moments had passed, Drem saw that some of them were hesitating, holding back, a glimmer of fear in their eyes. He lunged, stabbed a man through the throat and kicked the body away. It fell back into those behind, a momentary lull, giving Drem a few moments to fill his lungs. A crash drew his eyes to Cullen, still on the table-top, though a Feral man was upon it too. Cullen had kicked one of the torches into the crowd, flames catching in a cloak, spreading, men screaming, and he’d swept up another torch in his shield-hand as the Feral surged at him, all strength and snarl and saliva. Cullen slipped to the side, and as the creature barrelled past him, shoved his burning torch into its torso, flames catching in the tattered rags that passed for clothing, and he pushed it hard with his shield, sending the creature careening from the table into a knot of acolytes. Flames and snarls exploded, acolytes screaming.
Cullen grinned, pleased with himself.
Something moved on the table behind him. A figure shifting, a shadow rising.
Burg.
But not Burg. He was changed, as Gulla had been, a pulsing, rippling sense of malice and vitality to him, like a black halo.
And there is something wrong with his mouth. As if it had grown, too big for his face, teeth appearing sharper, needlelike, and far too many of them.
Cullen sensed something, maybe heard a movement, and spun on his feet to face this new foe. Burg took a few steps, unsteady jerks and twitches, and Cullen danced forwards and buried his sword in his belly.
Burg curled around the blade, then grinned, standing tall.
Cullen tried to rip his sword free but Burg grabbed his sword hand, a blur of movement, and Burg was grasping Cullen, lifting him high over his head, Cullen smashing his shield into Burg’s face, with little effect. And then Cullen was flying through the air, crunching to the ground and rolling, coming to a halt a dozen paces from Drem and Sig.
They fought their way to him, stood either side, and slowly Cullen rose on shaky legs.
‘Well, he’s a lot stronger than he looks.’
Drem gave Cullen his axe and drew his bone-handled seax.
‘You’ve got the ambush you hoped for, or a trap, at least,’ Sig growled at Cullen as she shrugged her shield from her back onto her arm. They formed a loose circle, Sig and Cullen with shields raised, acolytes all around them, Ferals prowling at the periphery.
‘Aye.’ Cullen grinned. ‘And it’s one that’s busy stabbing them in the arse!’ He lunged forwards adder-fast, axe singing, crunching into the forehead of an acolyte. ‘Or the head,’ he amended. ‘Though for the life of me I do not know how they can stand this,’ Cullen cried, rubbing the bristles of his shaved head. ‘It’s so cold! And it’s sure as eggs not going to help me with the ladies back in Dun Seren!’
Drem felt a laugh bubbling up within him, even with death a heartbeat away.
I like my new family.
He wasn’t too hopeful on how long they’d get to spend in each other’s company, though. They’d managed to stay alive this long because of Sig’s ferocity and perpetual movement, and Cullen’s position upon the huge table, where he’d been able to elude and leap and dance over every lunge and stab at him. Now, however, they were encircled by a crowd of their enemies.
I think we’re going to die here.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
BLEDA
Bleda stared into what had once been Israfil’s chamber, now more akin to a battlefield. Ben-Elim fought Ben-Elim, White-Wings fought one against the other, and in the midst of it, weaving through them all, he’d watched in horror as Riv had hurled herself at Kol. He’d nocked an arrow and aimed, but bodies were swirling around the chamber like twigs in a hurricane.
In stupefaction he’d watched as Riv’s mam and sister leaped into the fray, her mam reaching Riv first, stepping in front of Riv to protect her from a furious Kol. As she fell dead beside her daughter Bleda moved, as if released from a spell. He strode towards the maelstrom, but then a hand grabbed his arm.
‘Stay,’ Old Ellac said to him, half a dozen more of Bleda’s honour guard were behind the old warrior. Something had alerted Ellac to Bleda’s stealthy exit of their chambers as he’d set out after Riv, and Bleda had not minded their company. Something about this stormy night had felt sinister and laced with malice.
‘I owe her a debt,’ Bleda said, the quickest, no, only way for Ellac to understand what he was doing. He pulled his arm free and padded into the melee, an arrow loosely nocked on his bow. Ellac and the others followed as Bleda weaved through the carnage, the stench of blood and faeces thick in the air. For a few moments he lost sight of Riv and Kol, then saw Aphra reach them, the warrior throw herself to the ground beside her sister and mother, then look up at Kol, who was shouting orders to Ben-Elim, orchestrating the madness, though Bleda could tell it was swinging towards Kol and his rebels.
A coup amongst the Ben-Elim, the puritanical Lore-Givers.
Never before had he thought of rival factions amongst the Ben-Elim; it was something that he filed away for further consideration at a more opportune time.
If I come out of this alive.
He was close now, could hear Aphra’s wail of grief as she held her dead mam in her arms, for a terror-filled moment thought that Riv was dead, too, but then he saw her chest rising and falling, though her eyes were closed tight.
Unconscious, then.
And he heard Kol shout orders to Adonai, the wingless Ben-Elim who had killed Israfil.
‘Take that little bitch prisoner,’ he cried, ‘throw her in a cell until I have time to deal with her.’
‘No!’ Aphra yelled.
‘She tried to kill me,’ Kol snarled at her, ‘I cannot ignore that. I am the Lord Protector, now.’
The dark-haired warrior strode to Riv, bent down and grabbed a fistful of her short hair.
And Bleda loosed, his arrow thumping into Adonai’s chest. As the Ben-Elim reached to pluck at the feathers, another arrow punched into his throat. Four more arrows slammed into his torso in rapid succession from Bleda’s men. Adonai toppled backwards, crashing to the ground.
‘You dare!’ Kol roared.
‘There’s another one here for you,’ Bleda snarled, nocking a new arrow.
Kol stepped away, into the madness of the battle.
‘Take her,’ Aphra yelled. ‘Get Riv out of here.’
Bleda looked from Kol to Aphra to Riv.
‘Please,’ Aphra cried.
‘Where?’ he said.
Two White-Wings converged on them, Bleda shifting his aim, but he recognized them as Riv’s friends, the bull-man, Vald, and the stick, Jost.
Aphra yelled directions to Bleda, and orders to Vald and Jost. Then she stood and drew her sword, stalking into the mayhem. Vald swept Riv up in his arms and turned to Bleda.
‘Lead the way, Dead-Eye.’
And Bleda did, his honour guard driving a wedge through the chamber, and soon they were spilling out into the corridor beyond Israfil’s chamber.
The sounds of battle echoed from all directions, the chamber behind them, the street below.
Ellac stepped close, whispered in his ear.
‘We could use this. Strike now . . .’
Bleda remembered the words of his mother, whispered into his ear on Drassil’s weapons-field. He looked at Ellac and his men, at Jost and Vald, finally at Riv.
He smiled at Riv, an act of will, intentional, knew Ellac and his men would be shocked.
‘I’m taking Riv to safety,’ he said, then turned and led them through the chamber, down a stairwell and out into the din of battle.
CHAPTER FIFTY
SIG