A Time of Dread (Of Blood and Bone #1) - John Gwynne

CHAPTER ONE

BLEDA

The Year 132 of the Age of Lore, Reaper’s Moon

‘I should be down there,’ Bleda said, knuckles whitening on the grip of his bow. He was crouched upon the steep slope of a hill, looking down upon a scene of wonder.

A war.

Horses and their riders swirled upon the plain in constant motion, from this height seeming like two great flocks of birds looping ever closer, the distant rumble of hooves setting the ground trembling beneath Bleda’s feet. As he stared in envy and fascination, the faint echo of hurled challenges and insults, the harbingers of violence, drifted up to him.

‘No, you should not be down there,’ a voice said behind him, Old Ellac absently rubbing the stump where his right hand used to be. The skin around his eyes creased and cracked like old leather as he squinted at the battle about to begin on the plain below.

‘Of course I should,’ Bleda muttered. ‘My mother is down there, leading our Clan. My brother rides one side of her, my sister the other.’

But not my father.

‘Aye, but they are all more than ten summers old,’ Ellac pointed out.

‘So?’ Bleda snapped. ‘I can fight, am more skilled with a bow than most. Than you.’

‘That’s not hard these days.’ Ellac snorted and cuffed Bleda across the head with his one hand.

Bleda immediately felt shame at his remark, more painful than the slap. He knew that neither of them wanted to be sitting on this hill while their kin fought and bled on the field below.

Your tongue is sharper than your sword, his father used to say to him.

‘Look,’ Ellac said, pointing with his stump. ‘Altan.’

On the plain below a lone rider separated from their Clan, instantly recognizable to Bleda as his older brother, Altan.

Seventeen summers is not so much older than me. Yet he is old enough to fight, and I am not. Bleda scowled at the injustice of it, though none of his ire was directed at Altan. He loved his brother fiercely.

Altan was galloping hard, curling close to the enemy warband. As he did so a rider emerged to meet him, galloping just as fast. Both warriors dipped in their saddles, arms extended as they drew their bows.

Bleda felt a jolt of fierce pride, as well as a cold fist of fear clench around his heart.

Aim true, Altan. I cannot lose you as well.

The world seemed to slow, sound dimming as Bleda stared at the two champions.

And then Altan was wheeling away, the other rider swaying in his saddle, toppling sideways, falling to the ground, dragged along as one foot snagged in a stirrup. Ellac let out a grunt of admiration and Bleda punched the air with his fist, whooping and yelling his pride. He felt Ellac’s disapproval at his burst of emotion, the warriors of his Clan were supposed to wear the cold-face like a shield, but that was Altan down there, and he had just felled a champion of their ancient rivals.

A swell of cheering rose up to them, changing into battle-cries as the two warbands came together with a concussive crash. Bleda gulped, a squirm of anxiety uncoiling in his belly. He had seen death before, held his da’s cold, wax-smooth hand, heard the tales of warriors back from their raids, even helped stitch their wounds – but this …

The death screams of men and horses echoed up to them, within moments the plain becoming a choking, seething mass of bodies, the splash of blood, the harsh clang of steel.

‘What’s that?’ Ellac said behind him, pointing to the skies. ‘Your eyes are better than mine.’

‘Vultures and crows,’ Bleda said as he squinted into the searing blue and glimpsed the silhouettes of wings.

‘Too big,’ Ellac muttered.

Bleda tore his eyes away from the battle and stared. More and more winged shapes were appearing in the sky, speeding towards the battlefield, growing in size with their approach. Great white wings beating through the air, then Bleda saw the glint of sunlight on steel.

‘The Ben-Elim,’ he whispered.

Winged warriors wrapped in gleaming mail swooped down to the battle-plain, skimming above men’s heads, stabbing indiscriminately with spear and sword, lifting men into the air, rising up steeply and dropping them, screaming, limbs flailing.

‘No!’ Bleda hissed, hand reaching for arrows in his belted quiver as he stood, about to launch into a scrambling run down the hillside. Ellac grabbed his wrist.

‘We must help,’ Bleda shouted. ‘This is not the Ben-Elim’s fight; they should stay out of it.’

‘They said they would come, would not allow the

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