Bleda was up first, discarding his shield this time, the other lad hobbling to his feet a little more slowly. Bleda flew at him, a flurry of punches and kicks sending the lad reeling backwards.
Others in the group leaped forwards, grabbing Bleda. Five of them, seven, more of them. Riv saw punches flying, and then she was running, the injustice of it sending her blood boiling. She was upon them quickly, though not fast enough to prevent dozens of blows landing upon Bleda. She grabbed one of the fledglings from behind, pulled and threw him, leaving him rolling across the grass. The next one wouldn’t come free so easily, so she kicked the back of his leg at his knee joint, sending him crashing to the ground, grabbed his flailing wrist and twisted, heard him scream. The next one saw her, turned and threw a punch at her. She swayed, his knuckles only grazing her cheek, and she punched a fist into his throat, saw him stumble back. Then someone was clutching her leather jerkin and a head was crunching into her nose. She saw an explosion of stars, felt her legs tremble for a moment but, instead of weakness and collapse, the red mist was suddenly there, no creeping growth, just fully formed and filling her; a thunder in her head, her veins, a hot rage pumping strength into her limbs.
‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ she snarled through bloody teeth at the young warrior that had headbutted her.
‘Now you’ve made me angry.’
‘Riv,’ a voice in the darkness. It changed to a red veil, thick and churning, a sea-mist in her head.
‘Riv!’ Louder, insistent, the voice a pinpoint in the murk, a flaming torch burning away the fog. She blinked. Figures in front of her, someone close.
Jost.
She was standing, but couldn’t move. Couldn’t quite understand why.
‘Aye,’ she said, a metallic taste in her mouth. She hawked and spat. Saw blood on the grass. Hers or someone else’s, she didn’t know – or care.
There were bodies. People. Some sitting, holding bloody heads or mouths. Two unconscious. Others behind Jost standing in a group, the trainee White-Wings, glaring darkly at her.
Bleda was sitting to one side, a giant with him, helping him. There was a lot of blood on his face. His lip split. One eye swollen shut.
‘You all right?’ Jost said, a strange expression on his face.
‘Yes,’ she said, the faint anger within her still present enough to make her feel annoyed with him. ‘Why?’
‘Ha,’ a voice barked behind her, deep and grating. Then she realized why she couldn’t move.
Someone was holding her.
Thick arms, knotted as rope, hard as iron.
‘You can let go, now,’ Riv said.
‘Your word: no more violence.’
‘My word,’ Riv said.
Balur One-Eye let her go. ‘You are a lot stronger than you look, little girl,’ he said, regarding her with his one eye. ‘Why did you do it?’ he rumbled.
What have I done? At this rate Israfil isn’t going to let me take my warrior trial until I’m a hundred and two!
Riv blinked and looked around again, her head clear now, feeling only a residue of shock at the carnage she’d wrought. She could not remember all of it. Only Bleda pushed over, many figures. Someone headbutting her. A berserker rage. Red, red, rage.
‘They all attacked him. Ten, twelve of them. More. It wasn’t . . . fair.’
‘A keen sense of justice, then,’ Balur said.
‘Maybe a little too keen,’ Jost muttered.
Balur looked up, pale blue sky leaking through leafless branches. Riv did too, saw the silhouette of wings spiralling down to them.
Oh no, I will be humiliated and shamed again. A stone in her belly, shame and fear.
‘Best if you go,’ Balur said to her.
Thank you, Balur. Riv grinned at the giant. She didn’t need to be told twice, turning and marching away, feeling a little unbalanced, swaying and light on her feet, as if taking too big a step would result in her floating away.
Thirty, forty strides, and there were footsteps behind her, a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, ready to fight again.
It was Bleda.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘They are your people.’ He looked genuinely confused, honestly wanting to understand.
‘Because –’ Riv shrugged – ‘it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right. Wasn’t honourable.’
He stared at her, head cocked to one side, his face battered and bruised, cut and swollen, but still blank, an unreadable mask.
‘My thanks,’ he said.
They stared at each other and, then and there, Riv made a decision.
‘Tonight, in the forest beyond the field of cairns,’ Riv said. ‘After the eighth horn.’
Before he had a chance to respond, Riv turned and walked away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DREM
‘Where are we going?’ Drem asked his da.
‘You’ll see,’ Olin called over his shoulder as he cantered ahead.
Never a straight answer from that man. Drem bit back his frustration and an angry retort.
He glanced at the sky, the clouds low and heavy, a nimbus glow threatening more snow to come. What was left of the day’s veiled winter sun was a faded gleam on the edge of the world. He muttered under his breath and gave his pony some heel, urging it to catch up with his da as he rode out of their courtyard.
Drem had been seeing to their new livestock, chaining the goats in the barn and chasing the chickens in, making sure he did a head count and didn’t leave any out by mistake. A night locked out of the barn or stables at this time of year would most likely be a death sentence for any of their animals. This was the Desolation, after all, and there were worse things than foxes that came south from the Bonefells when winter fell like a hammer-blow upon the north.
Hard-frozen snow snapped and crackled under their ponies’ hooves as they rode past Fritha’s hold, warm firelight flickering through the slats of shuttered windows, looking all the more inviting from this side of the cold. Drem’s nose was already tingling, his breath a great mist with every exhalation. Fritha’s dog barked as they passed by, tied to a rope and iron ring close to their door.
I told her to bring the hound in at night. Drem frowned. At the thought of Fritha he felt a strange sensation, as if a fluttering moth was trapped in the pit of his belly.
Twilight was as thick as smoke about them when they reached Kergard. Drem was surprised that the gates were still open. A solitary guard was standing beside the gate, cloak hood pulled up over his head, blowing on his hands. Olin reined his horse in and leaned down, taking something from the guard, the rattle of metal. Drem blinked as he caught a glimpse of the face inside the hood. It was Calder the smith.
Without a word, the big man pushed the gates closed and slotted a bar of oak into place, then walked away and faded into the shadows.
‘Come on,’ Drem’s da muttered and clicked his pony on.