It came back. How did it flank us so quietly?
His da’s voice was raised in a battle-cry and there was a roaring bellow of pain from the bear. Drem pushed himself up to his knees, grasping for his sword, then something slammed into the back of his head. There was a bright explosion of light behind his eyes, quickly followed by darkness as he crashed to the ground, consciousness fluttering away.
A gasp of air, ragged, pain in his throat, in his head, everywhere, it felt, his whole world a vault of pain. He opened his mouth, tasted snow and dirt, and with a grunt pushed himself over onto his back, then just lay there gasping for a few moments.
Above him the scrape and rasp of leafless branches stirred by the sighing wind, boughs sagging with snow. Snowflakes landed on his face, tingling.
Then he remembered.
The bear.
‘Da,’ he rasped, a whisper, his bruised throat raw and on fire. He rolled, pushed himself to hands and knees, then upright, ignoring the pain, spiked explosions pulsing out from the base of his skull. He stood. Looked frantically about.
There was still a dim light in the twilight world, a faint glow from the snow on the ground. He looked at a hole the size of a barn, a blackness amidst the undergrowth and trees, branches and bushes snapped and torn where the bear had charged them.
‘Da,’ Drem said louder, a stone of dread dropping in his belly; with every heartbeat of silence the dread growing, becoming worse.
‘Drem,’ a whispered breath that made his heart leap, and he saw him, a dark, still figure lying on the ground. Drem stumbled to his da, dropped to his knees, at the same time heard voices in the distance behind him, heard men calling, recognized Ulf’s voice.
His da was pale and blood-drenched, and this time Drem knew it was not the blood of his enemies. He was lying upon his back, one leg twisted at a strange angle, his torso looking like one big wound. Blood pulsed sluggishly from long gashes that started at his shoulder and ended at his hip. Between them the flesh was torn and ragged, flecks of bone amidst the crimson.
‘Oh, Da,’ Drem whispered, the breath hitching in his chest, something cold clenching in his belly, squeezing his heart. He’d seen wounds like this, not in a man, but knew what it meant, something in him refusing to accept it. Couldn’t bear to accept it.
Olin’s eyes were distant but, at Drem’s presence, he blinked and lifted his head.
‘Lie still, Da, Ulf’s coming,’ Drem said desperately, stroking sweat-soaked hair from his da’s forehead. All that he had been consumed with – finding Fritha, killing the white bear – all of it evaporated as his whole world constricted down to this moment. His da, the only person in his life who truly mattered. His blinked tears from his eyes.
Olin shifted, his mouth moving. A trickle of blood dribbled over his lips, a whisper of air.
‘Sword,’ he said.
He wants to hold his sword in his hand. He thinks he’s going to die, going to cross the bridge of swords.
Drem looked about frantically for the black sword, could not see it anywhere, though the ground was churned and covered in bits of tree and bushes. He couldn’t bear to leave his da’s side to search more thoroughly, so Drem drew his own blade and put the hilt in his hand, closing his fingers about it. Olin’s gaze flickered down to it, then pushed the blade away.
‘Starstone,’ Olin wheezed.
‘I can’t see it, Da,’ Drem said, lifting his da’s hand and kissing it, felt his da’s fingers twitch and he put them to his cheek, as his da had done to him so many, many times before.
‘My . . . boy,’ Olin whispered, a bubbling rattle. ‘I was . . . wrong.’ Olin jerked then, his other arm rising, palm upon Drem’s chest, fingers clenching, gripping onto the bear claw about Drem’s neck. One long, slow exhalation that seemed as if it would never end, his eyes fixed onto Drem’s with a burning gaze and then Olin was still, the light in his eyes fading, glazing over.
‘No, Da, no,’ Drem breathed, his vision blurring with tears as Olin’s fingers slipped from the claw about his neck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIG
Sig crested a low rise in the land and, with a word and a touch of her heels, reined Hammer in. Somewhere behind she heard Keld shout a command, the drum of hooves as their loose column drew close. But Sig only had eyes for the view on the horizon before her.
Dun Seren.
It was highsun, a pale sun suspended like a marker in the sky above the fortress of grey stone. It was standing upon a gentle hill, a keep and tower silhouetted on the horizon. Around it dark walls circled the hill, the hint of myriad buildings contained within. Another wall had been raised closer and wider still, upon the flatter meadows that surrounded Dun Seren’s hill. Sig had been there when the decision to build it had been made. The Order had grown beyond its founder’s wildest expectations, the twin arts of weapons-craft and healing drawing so many to their halls. Corban, the creator of the Order, had been grey-haired then, and he had smiled to see how the seed of his dream had flourished into something far greater than he had ever imagined.
Staring at it now, a kaleidoscope of memories flashed through Sig’s mind, more than a hundred years’ worth of remembrance condensed into a handful of heartbeats, of weapons training, pain, sweat, broken bones, battle and loss. But far greater than that were the memories of song and laughter, a bond of friendship forged with men and giants that she had never believed possible. A host of names and faces hovered in her mind’s eye: Corban, Gunil, Varan, Coralen, Veradis, Cywen, Dath, Kulla, Farrell, Storm, so many, many more.
And so many of them gone, now. But their memory lives on.
We shall never forget.
‘We shall never forget,’ Keld murmured beside her, and she looked down at him to see him staring at Dun Seren’s walls with a faraway look in his eyes.
‘Come on,’ Cullen cried out, all excitement and passion. ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go home!’
Home.
‘Home,’ squawked Rab as he alighted on Cullen’s shoulder, the young warrior wincing as crow talons flexed.
And in good time. Still a ten-night to go before Midwinter’s Day.