‘You will not be given a second chance. You will be executed at highsun, your head taken from your shoulders before all who dwell within these walls.’
‘I wasn’t talking about one more chance for me,’ Kol said, no hint of a smile on his face now. ‘I was talking about you.’
One of the Ben-Elim guards holding Kol released him, a glint of something in his fist, a stride to the other guard, a thrust, and the guard was collapsing, blood spurting from his throat, the first guard standing with a crimson blade in his fist. He threw the knife into the air and drew his sword, Kol grabbing the knife from the air and leaping with a burst of his wings at Kushiel.
For a moment Israfil was frozen with shock, then he was reaching for his own blade, as in the ring all about him Ben-Elim hurled themselves at their brothers, stabbing, killing.
Riv sat in her chair, stunned by what she was seeing, blood everywhere, Ben-Elim snarling, screaming, the White-Wings in the centre of the room forming a loose square, not knowing what to do, who to attack or defend. One of them gathered his wits and shouted a command, and then they were making for Israfil, the Lord Protector.
No, this is wrong, the whole world is going insane.
Shapes surged through the open window, more Ben-Elim, ones that Riv recognized from the circle that had formed around her as she’d sparred with Kol, just before she’d collapsed.
Kol was struggling with Kushiel, the two of them spiralling in the air, wings beating furiously, Kushiel gripping Kol’s wrist with the knife, pummelling at Kol’s face with his other fist. Ben-Elim that had swept in through the window grabbed Kushiel, one hacking at his wing with a sword. A scream, a burst of feathers and Kushiel was falling, Kol ripping his knife free, stabbing it into Kushiel’s torso as they fell together, again and again and again.
A hand on Riv’s arm: Aphra, with Dalmae behind her, then Bleda and his men. All of them were staring dumbfounded, their cold-faces forgotten. Other figures swept into the room, Ben-Elim, Lorina’s White-Wings, some of Aphra’s hundred too, all with weapons drawn, joining the fray. Riv glimpsed someone in cloak and cowl.
‘Come, Riv,’ Aphra said. ‘While we can.’
‘No,’ Riv snarled, ‘we have to help Israfil.’ She surged to her feet, too quickly, her head spun; she swayed, stumbled forwards, pulling out of Aphra’s grip, threading her way through the bloodshed and chaos.
Israfil was trading blows with two Ben-Elim, stabbed one through the shoulder as he rose higher, the other swinging and catching his ankle.
Riv skirted the White-Wings trying to reach Israfil, who was beset by Ben-Elim from above. She crashed into two Ben-Elim, sent them both tumbling to the ground and she reeled away, saw Kol fly at Israfil, slamming into the Lord Protector from behind, slicing at a wing, Israfil crying out and falling, crashing to the ground. Kol landed behind him, Israfil trying to rise, one wing twisted and limp, a spray of blood splattering his white feathers. Kol stamped on Israfil’s sword hand, the crack of a wrist breaking, and grabbed Israfil’s hair, yanking his head high, resting his knife blade against the Lord Protector’s throat.
Riv yelled and ran at them, snatching up a short-sword from a dead White-Wing as she ran, raising her blade for a swing that would split Kol’s head. Kol heard her scream and stared at her, part-screamed, part-laughed a feral challenge back at her.
Something crashed into Riv, sent her sprawling to the ground. She rolled, tried to stand, but only made it to all fours, the world a whirling piece of flotsam in a chaotic sea. She blinked, desperate for the spinning to stop, searching for who or what had slammed into her.
It was the cowled figure she’d glimpsed as she entered the chamber, striding now to Israfil and Kol. It stopped before them both, threw off its cowl and cloak, revealing a man with two huge wounds upon his back, scabbed, weeping blood and pus.
A Ben-Elim with his wings taken.
Adonai.
He just stared at Israfil, spoke no words. And then he was drawing a sword and plunging it into the Lord Protector’s chest.
Riv screamed.
This cannot be happening!
Somehow she was on her feet, eyes fixed upon Kol, all else a peripheral blur, anger, no, a white-hot rage at Israfil’s murder the only thing keeping her upright and conscious. She swung her blade at Kol. He saw, a flicker of surprise as he twisted, blocked with his knife, sending her blow wide.
‘Stop,’ he said to her. ‘It is over, Israfil is dead, there is no more to fear.’
‘Murderer, Lore-breaker,’ she yelled, stabbing her short-sword at Kol’s throat. He swayed, sidestepping her.
‘Don’t do this, Riv,’ he said. ‘You are distraught, fevered, you do not mean this, and I do not wish to kill you. Great things are ahead, and you can be part of them.’
She snarled and chopped at his ribs; this time he was too slow, her blade slicing through feathers, its tip grazing a red line across Kol’s shoulder as he leaped away.
He looked at the blood leaking from his wound, glared at her.
‘I’m warning you, girl, you can be as dead as Israfil if you wish.’
He has changed everything, changed our world, broken every codex of the Lore, for his own selfish desire and to save his skin.
She lunged at him, a short, powerful stab straight at Kol’s heart.
He deflected her blade with his knife, sent it swinging wide, and backhanded her with a fist, lifting her from the ground, sending her spinning, weightless for a few heartbeats, then slamming back down to earth again. She rolled onto her back, felt her consciousness flutter away on black wings, tried desperately to cling to it, saw Kol stride after her, knife in his hand.
‘So be it,’ Kol snarled at her. ‘There are plenty more where you came from.’
Through speckled vision Riv saw someone else step between them, attacking Kol, a White-Wing with a short-sword, a flurry of blows, for a dozen heartbeats Kol struggling to defend himself, a red line opening across his cheek, down his arm, white feathers slashed and falling about Riv. He retreated a few steps, beat his wings, rocking his opponent back towards Riv, ducked an off-balance slash and stepped in closer, punching his knife into his attacker’s armpit, twisting deeper. A spray of blood as he ripped his blade free, a sigh, and his attacker collapsed, head rolling to stare at Riv with lifeless eyes.
It was her mam.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
DREM
Drem stared in horror as he saw Sig fall to the ground, one hand grasping blindly for her sword.
No, she cannot fall. We have only just found each other.
It was strange, little more than a day shared between them, but Drem felt as if he’d known Sig all of his life, felt she was kin to him, and the pain he experienced at seeing her fall was all the greater because of that.
He raised his sword over his head and bellowed.
‘TRUTH AND COURAGE,’ his da’s battle-cry.