A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,16

heart.

Then in a blur of feathers and mail the Ben-Elim was gone, Bleda was lying on his back, gasping like a landed fish. Feathers drifted down around him, some gleaming white, others a soft dapple grey.

Dragging himself upright, Bleda watched Riv rolling with the Ben-Elim, an incomprehensible whirlwind of limbs and wings. They separated, the Ben-Elim stepping away, making room to swing his spear, a flash of horror and disgust as his eyes took in Riv and her wings. Riv snarled and leaped, bursting through the guard of the Ben-Elim’s whirling spear, and her muscled arms grabbed at him, pulling the Ben-Elim close as she headbutted him; a breath later, her knee was crunching into his groin. The Ben-Elim sagged, dropped to his knees and Riv grabbed his head in both hands, with a savage twist snapping his neck.

For a moment Riv held the limp corpse in her grip, veins bulging in her neck, nostrils flaring, then she let it fall to the ground. A scream from the glade, another voice—Vald?—bellowing for help, and Riv was snatching up the dead Ben-Elim’s spear and bursting into motion, half running, half flying as she sped back into the fight.

Bleda ran for his bow, snatched it up, saw Vald was standing over Jost, furiously trading blows with three Ben-Elim. Bleda knew he only had moments: Vald’s sole weapon was his short-sword, standard issue of the White-Wings. It was deadly in a shield wall with no space to swing or manoeuvre, but the Ben-Elim bearing down on Vald were armed with spear, shield and sword, and Vald would not retreat from his fallen friend.

In an explosion of blood, a spear-point burst through the chest of one Ben-Elim, Riv standing behind him, lifting him from the floor and casting him away like a skewered rat. The other two halted their attack on Vald, frozen for a moment at the sight of Riv, gore splattered, wings spread. Then Fia rushed from the cabin, sprinting across the glade, White-Wing shield on one arm, another slung across her back, short-sword in her hand. She thrust a shield at Vald, shrugged the other from her back and with a crack of timber their shields locked, both of them standing over Jost.

One of the Ben-Elim turned on Riv, but he fell with Bleda’s arrow sprouting from his neck, the other Ben-Elim beating his wings, jabbing a spear at Vald and Fia and retreating out of range.

A quick glance showed Bleda that some of his guard still stood, though he spied at least four dead or dying on the ground. Silhouettes of Ben-Elim still choked the sky, swirling down upon them.

“With me!” Bleda cried, running to Riv and the others, Ellac and his surviving guards following. Jost was groaning upon the ground, a wound on his head had blood sheeting across his face. Bleda and his guards formed a half-circle about the fallen warrior, guarding the backs of Fia and Vald, their bows aiming upwards.

Can we survive this?

Bleda saw the Ben-Elim were carrying large war-shields, making arrow-work harder still, even without the snarl of branches that helped to deflect the flight of arrows.

The Ben-Elim have learned from their last encounter with us Sirak. I have never seen them bearing shields before.

“Come, winged ones,” Bleda hissed, “and we’ll make a song from your dead that will make even my mother Erdene proud.” Beside him Ellac barked a laugh, the tide of battle and blood sweeping away his cold-face. The old warrior snatched up a shield from a fallen Ben-Elim and gave some cover to Bleda and the other guards, brandishing his sword at any who flew close, and Bleda and his men let loose volley after volley into the sky above them.

A handful of Ben-Elim tumbled from the sky, splintering branches in their fall, but more continued to spiral down through the trees to join the attack.

Spears rained down upon them, the warrior to Bleda’s left was pierced through the chest, transfixed as the spear-point punched deep into the ground. Bleda loosed, his arrow deflected by a branch and skittering away. Drew and loosed again, this time a Ben-Elim crashing to the ground, an arrow piercing his eye.

Then a noise filtered through the din of battle, through the snap and whir of arrows, through the screams and clang of iron and steel, the beating of wings.

A steady, rhythmic drumming.

Shapes formed amongst the trees before Bleda: warriors emerging, men and women, all with close-cropped hair, clad in mail and boiled leather, white wings