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.