CHAPTER ONE

Bleda

The Year 132 of the Age of Lore, Reaper’s Moon

“I should be down there,” Bleda said, knuckles whitening on the grip of his bow. He was crouched upon the steep slope of a hill, looking down upon a scene of wonder.

A war.

Horses and their riders swirled upon the plain in constant motion, from this height seeming like two great flocks of birds looping ever closer, the distant rumble of hooves setting the ground trembling beneath Bleda’s feet. As he stared in envy and fascination, the faint echo of hurled challenges and insults, the harbingers of violence, drifted up to him.

“No, you should not be down there,” a voice said behind him, Old Ellac absently rubbing the stump where his right hand used to be. The skin around his eyes creased and cracked like old leather as he squinted at the battle about to begin on the plain below.

“Of course I should,” Bleda muttered. “My mother is down there, leading our Clan. My brother rides one side of her, my sister the other.”

But not my father.

“Aye, but they are all more than ten summers old,” Ellac pointed out.

“So?” Bleda snapped. “I can fight, am more skilled with a bow than most. Than you.”

“That’s not hard these days.” Ellac snorted and cuffed Bleda across the head with his one hand.

Bleda immediately felt shame at his remark, more painful than the slap. He knew that neither of them wanted to be sitting on this hill while their kin fought and bled on the field below.

Your tongue is sharper than your sword, his father used to say to him.

“Look,” Ellac said, pointing with his stump. “Altan.”

On the plain below a lone rider separated from their Clan, instantly recognizable to Bleda as his older brother, Altan.

Seventeen summers is not so much older than me. Yet he is old enough to fight, and I am not. Bleda scowled at the injustice of it, though none of his ire was directed at Altan. He loved his brother fiercely.

Altan was galloping hard, curling close to the enemy warband. As he did so a rider emerged to meet him, galloping just as fast. Both warriors dipped in their saddles, arms extended as they drew their bows.

Bleda felt a jolt of fierce pride, as well as a cold fist of fear clench around his heart.

Aim true, Altan. I cannot lose you as well.

The world seemed to slow, sound dimming as Bleda stared at the two champions.

And then Altan was wheeling away, the other rider swaying in his saddle, toppling sideways, falling to the ground, dragged along as one foot snagged in a stirrup. Ellac let out a grunt of admiration and Bleda punched the air with his fist, whooping and yelling his pride. He felt Ellac’s disapproval at his burst of emotion, the warriors of his Clan were supposed to wear the cold-face like a shield, but that was Altan down there, and he had just felled a champion of their ancient rivals.

A swell of cheering rose up to them, changing into battle- cries as the two warbands came together with a concussive crash. Bleda gulped, a squirm of anxiety uncoiling in his belly. He had seen death before, held his da’s cold, wax-smooth hand, heard the tales of warriors back from their raids, even helped stitch their wounds—but this …

The death screams of men and horses echoed up to them, within moments the plain becoming a choking, seething mass of bodies, the splash of blood, the harsh clang of steel.

“What’s that?” Ellac said behind him, pointing to the skies. “Your eyes are better than mine.”

“Vultures and crows,” Bleda said as he squinted into the searing blue and glimpsed the silhouettes of wings.

“Too big,” Ellac muttered.

Bleda tore his eyes away from the battle and stared. More and more winged shapes were appearing in the sky, speeding towards the battlefield, growing in size with their approach. Great white wings beating through the air, then Bleda saw the glint of sunlight on steel.

“The Ben-Elim,” he whispered.

Winged warriors wrapped in gleaming mail swooped down to the battle-plain, skimming above men’s heads, stabbing indiscriminately with spear and sword, lifting men into the air, rising up steeply and dropping them, screaming, limbs flailing.

“No!” Bleda hissed, hand reaching for arrows in his belted quiver as he stood, about to launch into a scrambling run down the hillside. Ellac grabbed his wrist.

“We must help,” Bleda shouted. “This is not the Ben-Elim’s fight; they should stay out of it.”

“They said they would come, would not allow the Clans to go to war,” Ellac said. “And whether it’s their fight or not, they are here now. Look.”

To the west of the battle the realm of Arcona stretched into the horizon, a never-ending sea of grass, the vast plains punctuated here and there by clusters of low-lying hills. From around the closest range Bleda saw a wall of dust rising up, knew such a cloud could only be stirred by the tramp of many feet. A great host was coming.

The Ben-Elim’s Holy Army. Giants upon their great bears, and their wall of shields.

Then Ellac was dragging him back up the hill, towards their tethered horses.

“What are you doing? We must help my mother,” Bleda yelled, but Ellac ignored him, hoisted him into his saddle, and then, mounting agilely for a man with one hand, grabbed Bleda’s reins. With a click of his tongue and touch of his heels against his horse’s side they were cantering up the hill.

“Please,” Bleda cried. As a prince of the Sirak it was a word that rarely touched his lips.

Ellac looked between Bleda and the battle.

“I cannot let you go down there,” the old warrior said. “Your mother would have my other hand, and my eyes as well.” He spurred his horse on, up the hill and away from the battle. Bleda looked back as they reached the crest and his heart lurched in his chest. On the field below all was chaos and blood, winged warriors diving and swooping, slaying any who came within reach. Then the battlefield was gone and they were riding hard for their camp.

Bleda stared at the horizon as he paced a track in the grass before their camp, still clutching his double-curved bow in his hand. His brother Altan had made it for him, taking moons for it to be finished, Bleda watching and learning with fascination.

It is too big for you, Altan had said to him, tousling his black hair. It is a man’s bow, the draw too great for you, but how else will you become strong, eh?

That had been over a year ago, and now Bleda could loose his third arrow before the first had struck its target.

Tension was thick in the air as everyone waited, behind him a crowd amassed of the young, the old and the infirm; all else who could sit on a horse and draw a bow had gone to fight. Gers and wagons stood empty and unattended, dogs barking, goats bleating.

“There,” a voice said behind Bleda, and all looked to the skies. Winged shapes were appearing. And on the ground beneath them a dark smudge, riders approaching.

“Mother,” Bleda whispered, recognizing her before all others.

Erdene, Queen of the Sirak, rode into their war-camp. Her helm was gone, head bowed, a long cut upon her shaved scalp. The thick warrior braid that had been neatly bound and coiled about her shoulder like a sleeping serpent was now torn and frayed, matted with blood. That morning her shirt of scale- armour had glistened in the sunlight, but now it was dulled and dented. What was left of her honour guard rode about her, silent and battered, and curled behind and around them was a sight that took Bleda’s breath away.

Huge bears, great shambling beasts of tooth and claw, and sitting upon them were giants: men and women wrapped in leather, steel and fur, axes and war-hammers slung across their backs. Swirling tattoos of vine and thorn coiled up their arms.

Erdene reined her horse in and her warriors stuttered to a halt.

Where is Altan? Where is Hexa? Bleda thought, his eyes searching the riders for his brother and sister, and then his feet were moving as he ran to his mother, Ellac stumbling behind him, trying and failing to catch him.

Erdene saw him and shook her head, but it was too late, and in heartbeats Bleda was at her side, staring up at his mother, bears and giants towering about him.

“Altan and Hexa?” Bleda called up to his mother as he grabbed her boot.

Erdene looked down at him with an expression Bleda had never seen before.

Shame.

She blinked, as if not recognizing Bleda for a moment, then Erdene’s eyes snapped into focus.

“Run,” his mother said to him.

Bleda didn’t know what to do; his mind and heart were filled with the Sirak iron code, which told him to wear his courage like a cloak, to live free and fight to the last breath for his Clan. To show no sign of weakness or fear, and to never, ever, surrender. But his mother had spoken. She was also his queen, and she had told him to run.

He turned, looked around wildly, saw the camp in chaos, giants and bears everywhere. Others were arriving, columns of normal-sized warriors on foot, clad in black leather, with huge, rectangular shields upon their arms, silver wings embossed upon them. They spread in tight-packed lines about the camp, surrounding everyone within it, and their shields came together with a resonating snap. Bleda glimpsed shadowed faces in silver helms, smaller figures appearing amongst them: children, he realized, offering water skins after a hard march. As he stared, he saw a figure staring back at him, pale and fair-haired, a girl, holding a water skin up to a warrior, even as she stared straight at him.

Shadows flitted across the ground and the sound of wings filled Bleda’s ears as the Ben-Elim swooped low. One flew lower than the rest, great wings beating as he hovered above Erdene and Bleda a long moment, grass and dust swirling, then he alighted gently upon the ground. He was tall, taller than any man Bleda had seen, his hair raven-black, wearing a coat of bright mail and gripping a spear in his fist. Blood crusted the spear’s blade.

“Is this him?” the Ben-Elim asked, eyes lingering on Bleda a moment, then rising to Erdene.

Erdene was silent for so long that Bleda thought she would not answer.

“You must be strong,” Erdene said to Bleda.

Fear trickled through Bleda, then, at something in his mother’s voice, and in the way the winged warrior had looked at him.

He tried to master his fear, to control the prickling in his eyes that threatened tears.

No. I am Sirak. I am son to Erdene, Lord-of-all-she-sees.

“Good.” The Ben-Elim stooped down and grabbed Bleda by the collar of his tunic, hoisting him into the air. Bleda instinctively snatched for an arrow from his quiver, nocking it to his bow, but with a flick of his wrist the Ben-Elim slapped it from Bleda’s grip, sending his bow falling to the ground. Bleda glared at the Ben-Elim, expecting his mother to intervene, to protect him, as she always had done, but she just sat upon her horse, looking at him with her grey eyes.

“I am Israfil, Lord Protector of the Land of the Faithful, and you are coming with me,” the Ben-Elim said. “A surety that your mother will keep the peace once we are gone.”

“What? Where?” Bleda said, the Ben-Elim’s words seeping through to him slowly, as if through water.

“You are my ward, Bleda, and Drassil will be your new home,” the Ben-Elim said.

Ward. Drassil.

The words set Bleda reeling as if they were blows. Drassil was the Ben-Elim’s fortress, far to the west.

I am to be their ward. A prisoner, he means.

“No,” Bleda whispered. “Mother?”

A long silence, a look between Erdene and Israfil that spoke of pride and shame, of the victor and the defeated. The fear returned then, a chill in Bleda’s heart, seeping into his veins, carrying a tremor to his lips.

The cold-face. Do not shame Mother. Do not shame my people.

“It is agreed,” Erdene said, her face a mask, only her eyes speaking her message.

You must be strong.

“It is the price that must be paid,” the Ben-Elim intoned. “There will be peace in the Land of the Faithful. There is only one enemy, only one foe who shall be fought: the Kadoshim and their followers.”

“No,” Bleda said, both denial and refusal. He felt hot tears bloom in his eyes, snatched at them, knowing the shame they brought.

“Altan and Hexa will not allow you to do this,” Bleda said, anger and fear twisting his voice, then there was a rushing of air and a beating of wings as more Ben-Elim sped from the sky, alighting around Israfil. The first was fair-haired, a long scar running from forehead to chin. He threw something at Israfil’s feet. They dropped with a thud, rolled in the grass and fell still.

Two heads, eyes bulging, blood still dripping.

Altan and Hexa.

The world went silent. Bleda’s vision was reduced to the severed heads of his brother and sister. He heard something, distantly, realized that it was him, that he was screaming, twisting and bucking in Israfil’s grip, hands reaching to gouge the Ben-Elim’s eyes, but Israfil held him at arm’s length until slowly Bleda’s strength drained away, like wine from a pierced skin. Israfil regarded Bleda with dark, emotionless eyes, then finally shifted his gaze to the fair-haired Ben-Elim who had cast the heads at Israfil’s feet. Although Israfil asked no questions, did not even utter a word, the blond Ben-Elim spoke as if answering a reprimand, his eyes dropping.

“They would not surrender,” he said, his feet shuffling in the dirt. “They slew Remiel.” His eyes came up, fierce and defiant, and met Israfil’s. “They slew a Ben-Elim, gave me no choice.” Israfil held his gaze a long moment, then gave a curt nod. With a flick of his wrist he threw Bleda into the air, a giant catching him and placing him on the saddle in front of him. Bleda found new strength, fighting and squirming, tears blurring his vision, but the giant held him tight.

Israfil waved his hand and then the giant was tugging on his reins shouting a command, and the huge mountain of fur and muscle beneath Bleda was turning, lumbering away from the Ben-Elim and Bleda’s mother, from his kin and people, away from everything he knew, away from Bleda’s whole world.

Towards his new home.

Towards Drassil.