A Time of Courage

Book 3: Of Blood & Bone

by John Gwynne

Genres: Action & Adventure; Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

Battle the dark
Reclaim the world

The Demon-King of the Otherworld is finally free. And armed with mighty new starstone weapons, Asroth prepares to lead his demonic war-host south. With the help of his dark bride Fritha, he plans to crush the warrior-angels and their allies.

In the shadows of Forn Forest, Riv and the surviving Ben-Elim hold a war council. After the catastrophic events at Drassil, they are desperate to unite those who would stand against Asroth and his army. So they fly west, to join the Order of the Bright Star. But Drem and the Order are besieged by a demon horde – and their fragile defence may soon shatter.

Across the Banished Lands armies are heading south, to settle ancient grudges and decide the fate of humanity. Drem, Riv and the Bright Star’s warriors will need every ounce of their courage if they are to join the final battle. But will their combined forces be enough to face down their greatest foe?

In A Time of Courage, angels, demons and heroes face the ultimate fight for the Banished Lands. Thousands of years of enmity will be put to the test, in the epic conclusion to John Gwynne's mighty trilogy.

Release date: April 7, 2020

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 720

Sample

Cast of Characters

ARCONA

Cheren Horse Clan

Jin—new leader of the Cheren since the death of her father Uldin at Bleda’s hands. She was originally a ward of the Ben-Elim, raised in Drassil and betrothed to Bleda.

Gerel—Jin’s oathsworn guard.

Tark—scout of the Cheren

Sirak Horse Clan

Bleda—new leader of the Sirak since his mother Erdene was killed by Uldin of the Cheren. He was originally a ward of the Ben-Elim, raised in Drassil and betrothed to Jin.

Ellac—a one-handed warrior of the Sirak. Bleda’s guard.

Ruga—oathsworn guard of Bleda.

Yul—once first-sword of Erdene, now sworn to Bleda.

LAND OF THE FAITHFUL

Alcyon—a giant who resides in Drassil.

Aphra—mother of Riv. A White-Wing of Drassil, captain of five hundred.

Avi—Fia’s son.

Balur One-Eye—father to Ethlinn. Spoken of as the greatest warrior of the Banished Lands.

Ert—veteran sword master of Drassil. Trainer of the White-Wings.

Ethlinn—Queen of the Giants. Daughter of Balur One-Eye.

Fia—a White-Wing of Drassil.

Jost—a White-Wing of Drassil.

Riv—half-breed daughter of Aphra and Kol. Trained as a White-Wing, though she has become disillusioned with the Ben-Elim and White-Wings.

Sorch—a White-Wing of Drassil.

Vald—a White-Wing of Drassil.

ORDER OF THE BRIGHT STAR

Dun Seren and Other Garrisons

Byrne—the High Captain of Dun Seren. A descendant of Cywen and Veradis, Drem’s aunt.

Craf—a talking crow of Dun Seren.

Cullen—a young warrior of Dun Seren. A descendant of Corban and Coralen.

Drem—a trapper of the Desolation. Son of Olin, nephew of Byrne. He has joined the Order of the Bright Star.

Durl—a talking crow of Dun Seren.

Fen—one of Keld’s wolven-hounds.

Friend—a great white bear who has followed the Order of the Bright Star’s warband and saved Drem during the Battle of the Desolation, against Fritha and her warband.

Halden—a warrior of the Bright Star. Leader of the garrison at Brikan.

Hammer—a giant bear.

Kill—title for the captain of Dun Seren’s warrior school.

Keld—a warrior and huntsman of Dun Seren.

Rab—a white talking crow of Dun Seren.

Ralla—one of Keld’s wolven-hounds.

Shar—Jehar warrior.

Tain—the crow master of Dun Seren. Son of Alcyon.

Utul—Jehar warrior.

Reng—a warrior and huntsman of the Order of the Bright Star.

KURGAN GIANT CLAN

Raina—wife of Alcyon.

Ukran—Lord of the Kurgan.

BEN-ELIM

Dumah—captain of the Ben-Elim and White-Wing garrison at Ripa.

Hadran—loyal to Kol. Riv’s guardian.

Kol—High Captain of the Ben-Elim of Drassil. Father of Riv.

Meical—once High Captain of the Ben-Elim. Recently released from his captivity within starstone metal, where he was sealed for over a hundred years with Asroth in Drassil.

KADOSHIM AND THEIR SERVANTS

Aenor—Lord of the acolytes.

Arn—acolyte of Gulla, from Fritha’s crew. Father of Elise.

Asroth—Lord of the Kadoshim. Recently released from his captivity within starstone metal in the Great Hall of Drassil.

Bune—a captain of the Kadoshim, close to Asroth.

Choron—one of Asroth’s elite guards.

Elise—acolyte of Gulla, daughter of Arn. Healed by Fritha into a creature half-woman, half-wyrm.

Fritha—priestess and captain of the Kadoshim’s covens.

Gulla—High Captain of the Kadoshim.

Morn—a half-breed Kadoshim. Daughter of Gulla.

Rok—Lord of the Shekam giant Clan, allied to the Kadoshim.

Sulak—Kadoshim captain, leader of the southern covens.

Wrath—Fritha’s draig.

The Year 138 of the Age of Lore, Hound’s Moon

Drem threw his grapple-hook high. He felt it reach the apex of its climb and then drop. There was a thunk as it connected with wood. He pulled, felt it catch in timber, gave a tug to check it had caught properly and would hold his weight.

Drem was huddled tight to the wooden wall of a stockade. The only sound he could hear was his heart pounding, echoing in his skull and the rasp of his breath. Just being back here, where it had all started—it set him on edge.

The mine at the edge of the Starstone Lake.

Upon Byrne’s orders, he and a few score huntsmen of the Order of the Bright Star had crept out of the northern woods in the full dark and made their way to the walls. Drem had noted that the hole Hammer had made in the stockade wall had been repaired. Emotion had swept through him as he’d looked at the spot where he had last seen Sig alive, where the giantess had made her last stand.

The mixture of grief and anger set his blood thrumming in his veins, even as he’d crept through the heather and rocks; it had not left him yet. And now he was here, pressed tight against the wall, waiting to go over, just as he had, twice before.

This time, though, I am going over with sixty of the toughest, hardest men and women I’ve ever encountered. Hunters of the Order of the Bright Star. There was a reassurance in that. His hand went to the hilt of his seax and brushed it lightly. There was a reassurance in that, too. He rolled his shoulders, shifting the weight of his mail coat, wincing as it rubbed on raw skin, even with two layers of linen and wool between the mail and his flesh. He’d lived and breathed in it for more than a ten-night, slept in it as well, as they’d made a forced march from the battleground in the heart of the Desolation to here. He’d learned the value of his mail at that battle and, no matter how uncomfortable it got, he was not taking it off any time soon.

The grey dawn was seeping into the land around him. With the dim light he could just make out the deeper shadows of another man and woman either side of him, twenty or thirty paces away. They had cast their grapple-hooks, too, and they were all waiting for the signal.

An owl hooted.

Keld.

Drem sucked in a deep breath and climbed, hauling himself up the rope, feet scraping on timber. He was a big man, heavy, but he was strong, stronger than most, and the climb was little effort to him. In a few heartbeats he was at the top; he rolled over, lowering himself to the walkway, crouching low.

A nod either side to his companions and then he twisted off the walkway, hung suspended, then dropped to the ground. A moment’s pause, holding his breath to listen, and he was slipping his seax and short axe into his hands and moving into the complex.

The mine was a place of shadows and grey light, of muffled sounds: a door creaking on old hinges, the skittering of rats, in the distance the lapping of the lake. Drem made his way slowly from building to building, pushing doors open, checking for any inhabitants, searching the shadows. He saw tracks and crouched to inspect them. They were not a man’s, being too long and distended, the ground scarred by claws, but they were not an animal’s, either. Drem had seen too many tracks like this for his liking, lately.

A Feral’s.

But they were old, the soil hard and dry.

A moon at least, maybe longer.

And the fact that they had not been scuffed away by new tracks was a confirmation of what he’d suspected. The mine had long been abandoned.

Drem moved on, continuing his methodical search, opening every door, scrutinizing every track. His path led him ever inwards until, abruptly, a space opened up: a square bordered on three sides by an assortment of buildings. To the north a slab of rock rose to the sky, like a cliff face. Deeper patches of shadow scattered across its darkness hinted at caves. Drem knew what they were, had seen them before.

Cages for Fritha’s experiments.

In the centre of the clearing was a table.

Drem shivered as memories crawled out of the dark corners of his mind.

Memories of blood and fire. Of Fritha, Gulla the Kadoshim and of words of power. He had seen Fritha cut Gulla’s throat and cast him upon that table, along with the body of one of the Desolation’s giant bats and the hand cut from Asroth’s body. He remembered the sensation of bile rising in his throat as he had watched that dark magic at work, the bloodied, frothing steam, the writhing and melding of the forms on the table, and finally of Gulla rising, born anew, born as something different.

The first Revenant, he called himself.

Drem shook his head and took a step into the open courtyard. Other forms separated from the shadows: more hunters of the Order who had made their search of the mine, all of them moving like a tightening noose towards this place, the heart of the complex. They stood in silence. Dawn was claiming the land, banishing the murk, and Drem saw more evidence that the place had long been deserted. The buildings were cold and empty, fire-pits stripped of ash by rain and wind, the only signs of life the occasional scuttle of rats or scratching of birds in eaves. The hard-packed earth was rutted with tracks. Drem imagined a gathering of many here, a mixture of animal and human, but the tracks were all hard and dry.

A final gathering before Fritha’s warband left, marching out to meet the Order?

The sun was rising higher now; the morning light washed over the huge table in the centre of the courtyard, where it squatted like some sleeping, malignant beast. Chains and manacles of iron were set deep into the timber, darker stains scattered in pools on the grain.

Blood always leaves a stain.

In the pale-streaked skies above, Drem made out the circling of crows. Others were scattered elsewhere above the mine, landing on rooftops, winging through unshuttered windows. One of the crows above Drem spiralled down to the courtyard, a pale bird, white-feathered where the others were all dark. It cawed and beat its wings, alighting on Drem’s shoulder. He felt Rab’s claws flex and dig into him, and was glad again for his coat of mail.

“Gulla gone,” Rab squawked.

“Aye, looks that way,” Drem said.

“And no Twisted Men?” Rab croaked.

“None that I can find,” Drem told him, knowing that Rab was referring to Fritha’s Ferals.

“Good,” Rab muttered, shaking and puffing his feathers out.

A figure strode from a street to the west. An older man, dark hair turning to grey, an elegance and intensity to his movement. An assortment of knives and short axes bristled from his belts. Keld, huntsman of the Order and Drem’s friend. Two huge wolven-hounds were loping at his flanks, one slate grey, the other red. In one hand Keld had something long wrapped in a cloak.

A spear?

Keld strode to the centre of the clearing and paused beside the table, looking at it with a glower. Then he lifted his gaze and stared around the circle, meeting the eyes of each and every hunter. Drem shook his head when Keld’s eyes locked with his.

No sign of the living.

With a nod, Keld put a horn to his lips and blew upon it.

An answering horn echoed in the distance. Soon Drem felt a tremor in the ground.

It is hard for the warband of the Order to move stealthily, especially when there are over a hundred giant bears amongst their ranks.

Shapes filled a wide street to the west, which cut through the mine from its main gate and led here. Mounted figures spilt into the clearing. At their head was Byrne, the High Captain of the Order of the Bright Star, and Drem’s aunt. She was a stern-faced woman, dark hair drawn back tightly to her nape, her mail coat and leather surcoat thick with dust from their ride here. A curved sword arched across her back. Drem considered how unassuming she looked, no ostentatious embellishments, no gold or silver, just plain, though expertly made equipment. To see her, no one would guess just how deadly Byrne truly was. Drem thought back to the recent battle: Byrne trading blows with Fritha, using both blade and the earth magic. Fritha had clearly been outclassed. Drem felt a rush of pride and affection for Byrne. She had saved his life in that battle. She was his kin and, with both mother and father dead, the only kin he had—that meant a lot to Drem. More than that, she had shown him love and kindness, and that counted for far more in these bleak and desolate times.

At Byrne’s shoulder a huge bear lumbered, upon it a dark-haired and pale-skinned giantess, Queen Ethlinn, a spear in her fist with its butt resting in a saddle-cup. Ethlinn’s eyes scanned the clearing, focusing on the table.

To the other side of Byrne, another giant strode, his white hair braided, a creased lattice of scar tissue where one eye had once been. His coat of mail and leather jerkin did little to hide the slabs of muscle that padded his frame. He gripped a war-hammer in his huge hands. Balur One-Eye, father of Ethlinn, most famed warrior of the Banished Lands.

Behind these three rode the warband of the Order: an assortment of giants upon bears with mounted warriors, more riders coming out into the clearing from smaller streets. Drem saw red-haired Cullen riding close behind Byrne. The young warrior’s eyes sought out Drem and he gave him a wry grin. Keld had spoken for Drem and his skills as a huntsman and tracker, and had easily accepted him into the hunter’s order. Cullen had wanted to accompany Drem into the mine with the other scouts, but Byrne had forbidden it. Cullen was not a hunter, with neither the patience nor aptitude for stealth. He was skilled with a blade, more than most—far more than Drem—but he was hot-headed and acted before thinking, so Byrne had ordered the young warrior to stay with her. Cullen had been none too pleased about that.

Byrne rode up to the table and reined in, the others rippling to a halt behind her. With practised ease, Byrne slipped from her saddle. She approached the table, stopped before it and stared at it with a scowl. Ethlinn followed, holding a hand out over the table, her lips moving, and then she winced, as if seeing the terrible acts that had occurred upon it. Balur lifted one of the chains and curled a lip, let it drop.

“Keld?” Byrne looked to her huntsman.

“Place is empty.” Keld grunted. “Been that way a while, by the looks of it.”

Byrne nodded, her eyes returning to the table.

“But I did find this.” Keld held out the object he had bundled in his cloak.

Byrne reached out and unwrapped the object; a series of emotions flittered across her face as she recognized it. Sorrow, anger. There was a slight tremor in Byrne’s hands as she revealed it.

A sword.

Drem knew it immediately, even if it was still in its scabbard with a long belt wrapped around it. Its size and length made it obvious that this was no ordinary sword, that it had belonged to a giant or giantess.

Sig’s sword.

Drem felt a fist clench in his gut at the sight of it. He had known Sig for such a short time, but she had left an irremovable mark upon his heart. An example of true friendship, of loyalty. Of love.

Of truth and courage.

A tear ran down his cheek.

Byrne nodded, holding the sword up high for all to see.

“You should take this,” Byrne said, turning and offering it to Balur One-Eye.

The old giant blinked. He slung his war-hammer over his shoulder, reached out a tentative hand, then drew it back.

“No,” the giant said. “It should go to someone in your Order. Sig was a warrior of the Bright Star, through and through.”

Byrne lowered the blade, resting its scabbarded tip upon the ground. “So are you, in here,” Byrne said, touching a hand to her heart with one hand.

“Huh,” grunted Balur, not a denial, Drem noted. “But I have not taken your oath.”

“You knew Corban, knew what he fought for. You were his friend,” Byrne said.

“I was,” Balur breathed, “but I never took his oath. Only one oath guides me. To guard my daughter’s life with my own.” He reached out a calloused hand and touched Ethlinn’s cheek.

Ethlinn wrapped his hand in her own and smiled. “That oath would never conflict with the oath of the Order,” she said. “Sig was dear to you. You should take the sword.”

Balur stared at it and nodded.

“Aye, all right then.” He reached out a hand and took the blade from Byrne, drew it from its scabbard and held it high. It glinted in the summer sun, though dark patches stained it.

“I’ll avenge you with this sword, brave Sig,” Balur shouted, his voice echoing from the buildings and down empty streets. A cheer rang out from the warriors around him. Drem’s voice was one of the loudest.

You have already fulfilled part of that promise, Drem thought, remembering Balur fighting the giant, Gunil, Sig’s killer and a traitor to the giants. Balur had crushed his skull with a blow from his war-hammer.

Drem had felt a huge sense of satisfaction at seeing Gunil slain, not only as revenge for Sig’s death, but Gunil had also been one of those responsible for the murder of Drem’s father, Olin.

Just Fritha left to face justice for that, now, Drem thought, his hands involuntarily clenching into fists at the thought of the woman who had slain his father.

“And it is rune-marked,” Byrne said quietly to Balur, with a small smile as the cheering died down, and Balur slipped the sword back into its scabbard. “That may come in very handy in the coming days.”

“Aye.” Balur nodded.

During the battle against Fritha they had been attacked by a swarming host of Revenants, twisted offspring created by the bite of Gulla and his chosen. They were human in shape, but fought with an utter disregard for their own safety and were near-impossible to kill. Drem had seen decapitation put one down, but other than that they just kept coming at you. Unless they were stabbed with a rune-marked blade. When struck with a blade that had been inscribed with runes of earth power the Revenant would fall, every time. Drem had stabbed the host’s captain, Ulf, with his own seax, rune-marked by Drem’s father, Olin. Ulf had died and, with his death, the whole of his Revenant host had collapsed and died as well.

Every single one of us should have a rune-marked blade.

But they were rare, only belonging to those whom Byrne had deemed trustworthy enough to teach the earth power to. She said it was a great responsibility, learning the earth power, and so only a small portion of the Order of the Bright Star wielded such weapons. Sig had been one of them.

Now, though, after the battle with Fritha, there was a need for all to carry a rune-marked weapon, whether they knew the earth power or not. Otherwise there would be no standing against these Revenants.

Balur shrugged his war-hammer off his back and slid the sword over his shoulder, fumbling at the belt straps. Byrne helped him cinch them tight. The giant rolled his shoulders.

“I’ll have to learn how to use this thing,” he muttered.

“I’ll teach you, One-Eye,” Cullen called out. A few chuckles echoed around the clearing.

“I’ll hold you to that, you young pup,” Balur growled. He bent and picked up his war-hammer. “But for now, I’ll stick to this.” He hefted his war-hammer and smiled at its familiar weight.

Byrne looked back to Keld. “Will Balur get to wield his new blade here?”

“Not likely,” Keld said. “We’ve scouted the place—not a living soul ’cept rats and the like. Only place we haven’t looked is in there.” The huntsman nodded towards the cliff face. “I wasn’t going to send a handful of my crew in there until there were more swords at my back.” The rock was pocked with scores of small caves, all of them set with iron-barred gates. Now open. Drem remembered all too well the inhabitants of those cells: Ferals, mutations of men, women and children, somehow warped into a malformed half-life, created by Fritha’s twisted mind and her dark blood magic.

Set amongst the cells was a deeper blackness: a massive cave entrance which looked as if it ran deep into the rock face. Drem had a recollection of howls echoing out from that dark hole during the battle here on that nightmare-filled night.

Byrne lifted her eyes and stared at the black hole in the granite wall.

“Spread out, search every last handspan of this place,” she called out. “I need to know where Gulla is.”

The warband spread out into the surrounding buildings. Ethlinn and Balur remained, alongside a score of warriors, Byrne’s honour guard with Cullen and Utul, Byrne’s captain from the south. He was dark-skinned with a hooked nose, streaks of grey in his otherwise jet hair, and deep lines about his eyes—evidence of his near-constant smile. A curved sword hilt arched over his shoulder, similar to Byrne’s, but with a longer grip. He was one of the deadliest swordsmen Drem had ever seen, and he’d had the privilege of seeing a few, lately.

“Drem, you’re with us,” Byrne said to him. Rab gave a croak, spread his wings and flapped into the air.

“You know this place better than any of us,” Byrne said. “I want to take a look in there.” She nodded towards the cave entrance and started walking, Ethlinn, Balur and the others following. Keld was already at the opening, striking sparks from flint and stone into a torch he’d taken from a sconce set just inside the cave entrance. Flames sparked and flared, sending shadows dancing. In the new light Drem saw the cave ran deep into the rock, sloping downwards.

Keld strode into the cave, holding the torch high. His two wolven-hounds, Fen and Ralla, followed him, though Drem could see their hackles were up, their noses twitching. Byrne ordered half her honour guard to remain at the cave entrance, the other ten following her as she marched after Keld. Ethlinn, Balur, Cullen and Utul accompanied her.

Drem drew in a deep breath and hurried after them.

Jin nocked an arrow, drew and loosed, repeating the action twice more before her first arrow thumped into the linden wood of a White-Wing’s shield. Her second arrow tinged off an iron helm, the third punching into the warrior’s eye. He fell back, causing a ripple in the shield wall as another stepped over his corpse to fill the gap.

A sharp scream somewhere above, a looming shadow, and a Kadoshim crashed to the ground, wings and arms splayed, blood pumping from a tear in its ringmail. Jin’s horse danced sideways, treading on bodies, searching for even ground. Smoke billowed across the courtyard in great clouds, the reek of blood and death, the screams of battle and the dying everywhere.

Jin was holding the gates of Drassil, her oathsworn guards about her, others of her Clan dismounted now and in the gate tower. Arrows whistling down from above told her they had taken the towers and were on the wall. She gave a snarled grin at her success and snatched a moment to look and assess the battle.

She and her Cheren Clan had wreaked havoc with their initial assault, the gate guards thinking she was their ally and opening the gates for her and her warriors. She had swept them away in a tide of blood. But Drassil’s White-Wings were regrouping now: a shield wall formed in the centre of the courtyard, pushing towards her. Fritha’s acolytes were pouring through the open gates, a wave of shaven-haired warriors, grim-faced and resolute. They were men and women who had rebelled against the rule of the Ben-Elim and allied themselves to the Kadoshim, some of them having lived from hand to mouth in the wild for many years, outlawed for their audacity in spurning the Ben-Elim’s iron Lore. Now was time for their revenge.

It had been a long time coming.

I want so much revenge. Against the Ben-Elim and their White-Wing puppets who have kept me a captive in this disgusting, barbaric hole when I could have been riding free upon the Sea of Grass with my kin about me.

With my father.

She still felt his death as if it was a physical blow. His murder was imprinted upon her mind, like when she looked at the fire too long, nothing else to see except the flames. Bleda’s blade stabbing into her father’s throat, sawing through it, a gush of blood.

I will kill you for that, Bleda, if it is the last thing I do.

Even killing Bleda’s mother a few moments later had not softened her need for vengeance. It burned inside her.

He made a fool of me. My betrothed, meeting in secret with that half-breed winged bitch! To think I pleaded with my father to let him live, to allow us to wed. Her shame twisted her mouth into a snarl, too much for her to control.

The acolytes slammed into the shield wall, horses rearing, neighing. Screams rang as short-swords stabbed out from the shields, the White-Wings killing efficiently. But there were so many acolytes, more of them riding into the courtyard with every heartbeat, and behind them Jin glimpsed a rolling tide of mist. She knew what was hidden within that.

Time to move.

Gulla had assured her that his creatures in the mist would not harm her or her Cheren warriors, but she had seen what they had done to the Sirak. It was a risk she’d rather not take.

“With me!” she cried, a squeeze of her knees, and her mount responded, carrying her away from the gateway. A clatter of hooves and hundreds of her warriors followed her, in deels of blue and coats of mail, recurved bows in their fists, hawk banners snapping in the wind. First amongst them was faithful Gerel, close by her shoulder as always, her oathsworn man and guardian.

Jin reined in, seeing her new location opened up angles and gaps for her arrows to penetrate the wall of enemy shields. She reached for her quiver and nocked an arrow, cursing as the muscle twinged in her shoulder, not yet fully healed from an arrow wound taken during Bleda’s escape.

That winged bitch put an arrow in me. If her aim was any better…

The White-Wings were still standing, holding the tide of acolytes, no matter that they were overwhelmingly outnumbered. They looked like a boulder in a river of shaven-haired warriors. Many acolytes were sweeping around the shield wall’s flanks, ignoring them entirely and rushing towards the goal. Asroth, their frozen king. Jin ignored the protest from the frayed tendons of her shoulder and loosed, once, twice, three times, her Clansmen doing the same, a hail of arrows raining into the shield wall. The clatter-thump of arrows in shields, screams as some found the gaps and sank into flesh.

Mist moved in Jin’s peripheral vision, a cloud of it boiling through the gateway’s tunnel, into the courtyard, and Jin glimpsed figures in the mist, long-limbed arms and taloned hands, heard the slavering snarls and sibilant hissing as her new allies swept into Drassil and over the shield wall, sweeping around it.

A few moments silence and then the screaming began.

The crack of shields breaking, torn from arms, swords stabbing. Jin knew the sound of steel punching into meat, and of blows, the tearing and rending of flesh. Screams rose in pitch, fear-laced, and the shield wall was rippling, fracturing into a hundred pieces.

There is no holding back those… things.

The mist swept on, fragmenting, roiling into the street that led to Drassil’s Great Hall.

“This is done: the courtyard is ours,” Jin muttered to Gerel. He nodded, eyes fixed on the mist-shrouded carnage, streaks of blood punctuating the air.

Jin clicked and her horse moved on.

“Where are you going?” Gerel called after her.

“Looking for more White-Wings to kill,” Jin said.

“Gulla said to take the gate and hold it,” Gerel reminded her.

“I am not his whipped hound,” she snapped back. “He is my ally, not my master. Besides, the gate is taken, there will be no coming back from this. And I have not killed nearly enough of my enemies.”

Gerel nodded at that and urged his horse after her. Cheren warriors followed, their hooves mixing with the sound of battle.

Jin reined in, staring.

Wide streets led away from the courtyard to all parts of Drassil’s fortress. The heaviest fighting was filling the street that led to Drassil’s Great Hall, where Asroth was held in his iron prison. But Jin had seen something in one of the other streets, one that headed eastwards. A group of White-Wings, running across, away from the Great Hall, away from the battle. Some were limping.

One of them had stopped, was staring aghast into the courtyard. She had dark hair, cropped short like all of the White-Wings, but Jin recognized her, had watched her training in the weapons-field for so many years. There was a confidence and fluid economy in her movements that only the finest warriors possessed.

“Aphra,” Jin whispered.

The figure turned and ran on with her companions, disappearing from view.

“If I cannot kill the half-breed bitch right now, then I will make do with killing her sister,” Jin said, with a savage grin.

She touched her heels to her mount.

Riv swayed in the sky as her wings powered her, one hand carrying a dazed warrior through the air. All about her Ben-Elim and Kadoshim were locked in battle, a savage aerial conflict that filled the sky with blood and feathers.

She swung her short-sword at a Kadoshim who flew too close as he stabbed and slashed at a Ben-Elim. Her blade sliced through the meat of his wing and sent the demon tumbling towards the ground.

The Ben-Elim she had saved gave her a curt nod, then his eyes widened at what she was grasping in her left hand.

Not what, but who.

Another Ben-Elim, long black hair tied at the nape, a series of scars running across his forehead and down one cheek.

Meical, once High Captain of the Ben-Elim, though for more than a hundred years he had been locked within a cage of starstone metal, none knowing if he were alive or dead.

Riv had rescued him from Drassil’s Great Hall, where Gulla and his Kadoshim had been moving to slay the newly awakened Ben-Elim, and now they were in the air above the courtyard beyond the hall. Bodies littered the ground, combat swirling in knots below them.

Meical had been dazed when she grabbed him and carried him fr