‘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 lowlying 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.