A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,175
so much kindling, and behind them the acolytes rolled over the fallen.
Fritha reached the dais, saw White-Wings gathered before her, the last resistance between her and Asroth the Great. She paused a moment, both savouring this moment and allowing acolytes to gather behind her. A new sound in the building caused her to turn and she saw a dark mist pour through the open gates, Revenants surging into the room.
Gulla must be close.
She turned back to the White-Wings, saw a dark-haired woman at their centre staring at her, staring at the red wings upon Fritha’s cuirass.
She recognizes me as one of their own. Good, let them see the hypocrisy of their world that has laid them low.
A winged figure dropped from the sky and hovered above the White-Wing that Fritha was staring at, a Ben-Elim, some kind of shouted exchange between the two of them. Something about the Ben-Elim looked wrong, though.
Fritha frowned.
Then she realized.
Its feathers were a dapple grey, not the bright, pure white of the Ben-Elim.
And it was a woman.
It’s a Ben-Elim half-breed.
The implications of that seeped through Fritha.
Like my baby. She could have been my baby girl.
How has this happened? Have the Ben-Elim changed? Repented of the evil they have done?
She was rocked by that thought, shaken to her core, and for a moment she froze in shock and indecision.
She stared at the half-breed Ben-Elim, strong-limbed and fair-haired, hovering above the White-Wings with broad, dapple-grey wings. The sight of her took Fritha’s breath away.
Would my Anja have looked like her? A smile touched her face as she thought of that, almost lifted out a hand towards the half-breed as if she could stroke her cheek.
All I have done, fighting against this great crime against us, and now it might have been put right. She felt a moment’s relief, even happiness, at the thought that no more Ben-Elim half-breeds were being put to death.
But it is too late for my baby girl. They must still answer for their crimes.
My baby was still murdered by the Ben-Elim, and that crime was condoned by the White-Wings. It was a White-Wing who told me where the cabin was, told me what to do once my Anja was born. To kill her and put her in the ground.
Fritha’s gaze flickered between the half-breed in the air and the White-Wings gathered below her.
Slowly, her shifting emotions turned to anger, building to a hot rage that swept through her veins, bubbling like a cauldron coming to boil.
Why was my baby murdered, and this one allowed to live?
She felt an irrational, all-consuming hatred for this half-breed Ben-Elim and the White-Wings before her.
“Kill them,” Fritha said to Wrath. “Kill them all.”
“Yes,” Wrath replied, always his answer to this most basic of commands.
He exploded forwards, charging straight at the dark-haired White-Wing below the hovering half-breed.
The world seemed to pause for Fritha as she hurtled towards the shield wall of White-Wings. As if in slow motion she saw the dark-haired woman set her feet, knuckles whitening around her sword. A fleeting respect passed through Fritha for this woman, who could see her death charging towards her in the open jaws of the draig, and yet still she stood.
And then hands were grabbing the dark-haired woman and hoisting her upwards, Fritha slashing with her sword at the woman’s feet as she was dragged into the air above her. To either side of Fritha the shield wall was smashed by Wrath’s charge, acolytes surging into the fracture and splitting it wide, and then the wall was broken and White-Wings scattered, some running, some breaking into fragmented melees.
Fritha glowered at the half-breed Ben-Elim and woman in her arms, saw them circle and fly towards the Great Hall’s doors, the half-breed shouting down to White-Wings beneath them, some of them attempting to follow her towards the doors.
Fritha was tempted to follow them and crush them.
But then she looked at the frozen figures upon the dais.
They were so close, now, Fritha just standing and staring in awe.
“Asroth,” she whispered, dismounting from Wrath’s back. He set to ripping chunks of flesh from a dead White-Wing.
Fritha approached the frozen figure of her king and reached out a tentative hand, caressing the stump of his wrist where she had hacked his hand off, which felt so long ago.
A turbulence of wings and she turned to see Gulla alight on the dais. Kadoshim and half-breeds hovered around him, forming a defensive circle as Ben-Elim and White-Wings tried to retake the dais.
Fritha and Gulla stood there like the calm amidst the storm.
“I am here,” Fritha said, a world of meaning in those three words. She held her hand out.
Gulla stared at her, the Starstone Sword in his fist, dripping with blood and wreathed in a black smoke. Fritha could see the hesitation in him.
“I was chosen,” she said, “by the Kadoshim Covens and the Acolyte Assembly.” A silent moment between them. Gulla, looking around, saw Kadoshim, half-breeds and acolytes all about him.
He gave her the Starstone Sword.
Fritha turned towards the statue of Asroth.
She touched the black blade against the starstone metal that encased Asroth, then looked back at Gulla.
“Together,” she said to him, and he placed his long-taloned hand over hers, and then they began to chant.
“Cumhacht cloch star, a rugadh ar an domhan eile, a leagtar aingeal dorcha soar in aisce.”
Black smoke curled around the Starstone Sword, red veins cobwebbing across the blade.
“Cumhacht cloch star, a rugadh ar an domhan eile, a leagtar aingeal dorcha soar in aisce,” they intoned again, and the red veins leached from the blade into the metal that coated Asroth and Meical, spreading like filigree across their bodies.
“Cumhacht cloch star, a rugadh ar an domhan eile, a leagtar aingeal dorcha soar in aisce,” Fritha and Gulla chanted again, their voices twining, growing in volume, drowning out the din of battle around them.
The two statues began to pulse, black iron and red glow rippling, as if muscles were shifting beneath them.
And then in one fluid motion Fritha drew the sword away and swung it, crashing into the starstone casing.
There was one long, extended moment where every sound seemed to be sucked into the statues and sword, an utter silence descending upon the hall, and then an explosion, iron-black fragments bursting outwards, a great blast of air hurling Fritha and Gulla from their feet, rolling across the chamber’s floor, scattering all before it.
Fritha grunted, a ringing in her ears, dust settling around her, Gulla shifting behind her. She stood on unsteady legs and saw a vision.
Asroth and Meical, ancient enemies, both curled upon the ground, breathing as if they slept.
Meical stirred first, a shifting of his white wings. He was dark-haired, a long scar across his forehead and cheek. He opened his eyes and looked up at Fritha, confusion writ across his handsome features.
Dimly Fritha became aware of sounds around her, a stirring in the hall as all began to climb to their feet and gaze upon the miracle before them.
“Kill him,” snarled Gulla, reaching for a weapon. Fritha looked at the Starstone Sword in her fist and Gulla snatched it from her, raised it high.
An arrow slammed into Gulla’s back, sending him stumbling forwards, dropping the Starstone Sword, and then a figure was swooping down, the dapple-feathered half-breed, a curved bow in her fist. She lashed out at Gulla with a boot, kicking him in the face and sending him staggering again, and then she was reaching a hand down to Meical, who was on his knees now.
He looked up at the half-breed.
“Move and live, stay and die,” she snarled at Meical, wings beating, hovering as she grasped for his hand.
Meical reached out and gripped her wrist, and then in a flurry of wings he was rising into the sky, half-dragged, half-flying.
Gulla rose to his feet, screaming orders, his wings beating, taking to the air in pursuit of Meical and his half-breed rescuer, but Fritha was not paying attention. All she could do was stare.
At Asroth, Lord of the Kadoshim. He was on his knees, but as Fritha approached him he stood, slowly uncoiling, stretching as if he had woken from a deep sleep.
He wore a coat of mail, black and oily. Dark veins mapped his alabaster flesh, his face pale as milk, all sharp bones and chiselled angles, coldly handsome. His silver hair was pulled back and tied in a warrior braid that curled across one shoulder, but it was his eyes that drew and held Fritha. Black as a forest pool at midnight, no iris, no pupil, just a pulsing intelligence. Something lurked beneath those eyes, something wild and feral, a barely concealed rage.
Fritha strode up to him fearlessly.
“Welcome to your kingdom of flesh, my beloved,” she said. “I am Fritha ap Talgos, and I am your betrothed.” She dropped to one knee and kissed his hand.