A Time Of Dread (Of Blood and Bone #1)

He’s a glutton for punishment, Sig thought, stepping back and leaning against a weapons rack, folding her arms.

Byrne dipped her head, raised her sword, not taking her eyes off Cullen, and that was a good job, for he darted in, sword a blur, stabbing straight at Byrne’s heart. The crack of wood, Cullen’s blade was slapped away and he was spinning, a horizontal chop at Byrne’s waist was again blocked, almost casually, as Byrne shifted her feet, not wasting her energy on a counterstrike as Cullen was already out of range, dancing away and back in again, a combination of blows this time, chops, stabs and lunges, all met by Byrne’s blade, a discordant rhythm cracking out the timing of their battle as Byrne became the calm centre of Cullen’s storm.

Sore back, my arse, Sig thought.

‘Is his tactic to wear her out?’ a voice said beside Sig. Keld was there, silent as only a master huntsman could be. His dark mood had lifted a little in the last few weeks, Dun Seren a tonic to him as it was to Sig.

Sig shrugged. ‘If it is, he should be the one standing still, not dancing around Byrne like he’s had a barrel of mead on Midwinter’s Eve.’

‘I was thinking the very same thing,’ Keld said. ‘Mind you, he’s wearing me out just watching him. Maybe that’s his thinking.’

Sig snorted.

Despite their gentle mocking, Sig knew that Cullen was good. More than that, he was exceptional. But he was not the only exceptional warrior at Dun Seren. It took a large dose of exceptional to become high captain of the Order, as well as a significant portion of wisdom.

And it might be the wisdom that Cullen’s lacking at the moment, while the stuff fair leaks from Byrne.

And, as if to prove Sig’s point, Cullen was abruptly flat on his back, rolling to avoid Byrne’s economical chops, spraying turf where his body had been a heartbeat before. Somehow Cullen managed to make it back to his feet, circling Byrne as she resumed stooping falcon, sword high above her head, and waited for him to launch himself at her again.

‘Now, I’ve given you a chance,’ Cullen said breathlessly, ‘but I’m getting hungry now so it’s time to end this.’ He lunged in again, laughter rippling around the spectators.

‘Do you think he’s got a chance of even touching her with his blade?’ Keld asked.

Sig had drawn breath for seven hundred years and was considered past her prime and slipping into old age by giant reckoning, and in that time she had fought all manner of foes. Only three people had ever defeated her in combat: Corban, his wife Coralen, and a man named Veradis, who had been one of the masters at Dun Seren, teaching the shield wall. He too had been exceptional with a blade, preferring the short-sword used by warriors of the wall. And he was Byrne’s great-grandfather, for he had wed Cywen, Corban’s sister. As Sig watched Byrne spar now she saw Veradis in her, not her physical appearance, which was all Cywen, but in her demeanour, the economy of movement and tactical brain, the way she would calmly weather any storm of blades and wait for her moment. And when she saw it, she would not hesitate.

As if that was her cue, Byrne began to move, not a whirling storm like Cullen, but a steady progress forwards, pushing Cullen back, containing him, restricting him. Her blade hit his arm, then stabbed his thigh, came around high and chopped into his shoulder, making Cullen yelp and Keld laugh, and then Cullen had his back to the weapons rack and Byrne’s sword against his throat.

He stood there, breathing heavily.

A horn blast called time to move to a new weapon in the field.

‘All right, then, we can stop now if you like,’ Cullen said. ‘Call it a draw, and count yourself lucky.’

Byrne just stared at him. Sig thought that he’d finally gone too far and that Byrne would give him a week of kitchen duty, but instead a smile split her face.

‘Get on with you,’ she said.

‘He’s not right in the head, that one,’ Keld said to Sig.

‘I know, it’s part of what will make him great. If he lives long enough, that is.’

‘Got to love him for it, though I often want to strangle him for it, too.’

Sig noticed a man approach Byrne. It was Odras, a fine healer, and warrior besides. He was the chief quartermaster of the keep, with a talent for keeping supplies flowing and the barns and grain stores full. He spoke in Byrne’s ear, and she turned, beckoning Sig over to her.

‘A visitor to see us,’ Byrne said with a frown.

‘Who?’

‘A merchant from the north, Odras says. And they have asked to see you. I think I’ll come along, though. I’m curious as to who would visit the ill-tempered Sig!’

They left the weapons-field together, leaving a few hundred warriors-in-training behind them. As they stepped from the field onto a wide street, Sig paused beside a great slab of rock that rose from the ground, taller and wider than she was. The Stone of Heroes, it was called, a host of names carved into it. Sig ran her fingertips over some of them.

Gar and Brina were the first names, carved large at the top of the stone, and beneath them many hundreds more. Sig whispered some of them to the sky.

‘Dath, Akar, Kulla, Farrell, Veradis, Corban, Coralen,’ she breathed. As she said their names their faces formed in her mind’s eye, so many, many more, the names of those who had given their lives to the Order, whether they’d fallen in battle or to time and age, if they had served the Order, their names were honoured.

Her eyes came to rest upon one last name, her fingertips tracing the rune-work carved into the stone.

‘Gunil,’ she whispered, just the sound of his name bringing back so many emotions, a gossamer web spiralling through her veins, about her heart.

Sig shook her head.

A hand touching her – Byrne, a small comfort.

‘We will never forget,’ Byrne murmured beside her, then turned and walked away.

No, Gunil, I will never forget you. With a sigh Sig followed after Byrne.

The merchant was waiting in a chamber of the keep, sitting at a table with a platter of food and a cup of wine poured for him. A barrel-chested man with thick-muscled arms, more hair on them than there was on his head. He stood as Byrne and Sig entered the room, a mouth full of crumbling cheese, his eyes widening as they took in Sig’s size and musculature, hovering on the sword hilt that jutted over her shoulder.

‘When he said warrior, what he meant was monstrous killing machine,’ the man muttered.

Sig frowned. Is he touched in the head?

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