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

There was a slap of wind in his face and he instinctively ducked, a Kadoshim’s sword from above just missing where his head had been. He fell, rolling, dropping arrows, desperately clutching his bow. Gasping, he regained his feet and leaped away, running a dozen paces down the tiered steps as the Kadoshim came after him. He tugged an arrow from his belt-quiver, loosing wildly, the Kadoshim veering away, the arrow piercing its leathery wing. Bleda was dimly aware of the surviving Dark-Cloaks and their companions still charging at him. Much closer now. Grabbing at the remaining arrows in his quiver, only a few left, he backed away, pausing to nock and aim, loosing, one shot slamming into a Dark-Cloak’s chest, hurling him to the ground.

Two figures were still running at him, only twenty paces away, the shambling, loping things the Kadoshim had flown across Drassil’s walls. Bleda starred into the face of the wild-eyed man, if you could call him that. There was a feral, soulless cast to him, teeth bared in a snarl, canines worryingly sharp, nails grown long and black, thicker than they should be, limbs having a stretched appearance, running in a loping, shambling gait, as if its bones had grown overnight.

Bleda readied himself, nocked and aimed, put an arrow into the man’s chest, at less than twenty paces, the force of it hurling him backwards, head over feet, down the wide steps. Bleda had another arrow nocked and was aiming at the last Feral when he saw the first one rise, stagger to his feet, shake himself like a wounded hound, and then the eyes were fixing onto him. It sent a jolt of fear lancing through Bleda.

That should have killed him. What are they?

He adjusted his aim, away from the closer attacker, back to this difficult-to-kill creature, loosed, his arrow leaping from the bow. Bleda knew it was good without needing to see it land, shuffling back to make time for the last Feral.

His arrow punched into the first creature’s eye, sending it tumbling, limbs boneless. This time, to his relief, it didn’t get back up.

He nocked another arrow quickly, shifting to aim at the last Feral, but too late. It was upon him, a crunching impact, launching him through the air with a moment’s weightlessness, then a bone-jarring impact as his shoulder slammed into stone. Breathless, he lost his grip on the bow, then the man-beast was on top of him, claws reaching for his throat, scouring his chest, pain erupting like lines of fire; hot, fetid breath in his face as far-too-long teeth snapped a handspan from his jaw. He kicked and punched, pain lancing up his shoulder, writhed and bucked in the thing’s grip, felt those long claws seeking out his throat, moving inexorably closer.

I will not die like this!

His grasping hands made contact with a loose arrow on the floor and he grabbed for it desperately, punched it into the side of the creature’s head, into its cheek, ripped it out, stabbed again, saw teeth through the gash. The creature barely seemed to notice. He stabbed again and again before it howled, jaws open wide, its red maw of a mouth all jagged teeth, and bit into his shoulder.

The pain was shocking, a burning, tearing agony . . .

Then large hands were around his attacker’s neck, hauling it off, the creature tearing chunks of flesh from his shoulder, as Alcyon held the spitting, snarling thing in the air then hurled it away. It hit stone, rolled, scrambled to its feet far too agilely and then it was running at them. Alcyon stepped in front of Bleda with a roar, his twin axes windmilling, hacking into the creature’s shoulder and waist. It collapsed, howling, Alcyon putting a boot onto its head to wrench his blades free. The thing on the ground twisted, tried to bite into his foot, somehow still refusing to die.

Another axe blow and it spasmed, one foot drumming, then was finally still.

Behind Alcyon Ben-Elim were sweeping through the wide-open doors, White-Wings beneath them in a shield wall, marching out of the darkness of the courtyard, down the stone steps into the blue-flicker madness of the Great Hall.

‘Here, lad,’ Alcyon said, offering the blood-soaked shaft of one of his axes for Bleda to pull himself upright. His shoulder was screaming its pain at him, nausea lurching in his belly, but all he could think of was his bow. He’d dropped it, had glimpsed it skittering across stone.

There.

He stumbled down a dozen steps, over halfway to the chamber floor now, and swept it up.

Someone grabbed his arm, spun him around.

‘You could have died!’ Jin said to him furiously, looking as if she wanted to slap him.

‘Still could,’ he muttered, pulling his arm free, the battle din echoing loud and furious.

The new wave of White-Wings, giants and Ben-Elim had hit the battle on the chamber floor, and though the fighting was fierce, it did not look as if it would last long, the Dark-Cloaks and their Feral companions outnumbered and flanked now. Although, even as Bleda stared, he saw the shrinking line of giant guards around the statue of Asroth and Meical fracture and break apart into islands of melee-like combat.

One figure drew his eye. A tall Dark-Cloak, hood falling back as he leaped onto the dais. Slim and athletic, fair hair shaved to stubble on his head. He drew a sword from a scabbard; something about it was strange, the metal a dull, sheen-less black. The warrior strode to the figure of Asroth and lifted the blade. His lips moved, the clamour in the chamber was too great to hear anything, but again, there was something wrong about it.

No!

Bleda reached inside his quiver, only one arrow left, and nocked it. Drew it, an explosion of pain in his shoulder where the Feral had bitten him.

Black smoke hissed from the sword.

Bleda gritted his teeth, drew and loosed, hoped his aim was good.

A moment as he held his breath.

The arrow struck the man in his shoulder, staggering him, dropping the sword.

Bleda grinned.

A Kadoshim alighted beside the shaven-haired man, this one standing out from the others, bigger, a greater sense of menace and power about it. It hauled the warrior Bleda had shot back to his feet, and together they gripped the black sword’s hilt and touched its blade against the starstone metal that encased Asroth and Meical. Then they began to chant.

‘Cumhacht cloch star, a rugadh ar an domhan eile, a leagtar aingeal dorcha saor in aisce.’ Though Bleda did not understand their words they chilled his blood. The chanting continued, rising in volume over the din of battle, the same phrase, again and again.

And then the black sword began to glow, tendrils of red veins spiralling through it, up, seeping into the starstone metal that encased Asroth and Meical.

‘AINGEAL DUBH,’ a voice bellowed, Ethlinn striding into the chamber, spear in her hand. ‘Ar ais go dtí an dorchadas, cumhacht réalta cloiche,’ the Queen of the Giants cried, and Bleda swore that for a heartbeat her eyes glowed, a bright flash.

The Kadoshim and the shaven-haired acolyte swayed, the red seams in Asroth’s tomb retreating, shrinking back into the black sword.

They redoubled their chanting, the red veins grew again.

Israfil flew into the chamber, alighting beside Ethlinn, taking up her chant, power emanating from them like a heat haze. The red threads dwindled.

The Kadoshim snarled, releasing the sword, turning and hurling a spear at Israfil. Ethlinn deflected it with her own spear, sent it skittering across stone.

The acolyte with the black sword glanced around, saw their war party dwindling, Ethlinn and Israfil marching towards them.

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