the only face I see is Riv’s?
Bleda searched the courtyard and the skies above, and although there were many Ben-Elim in the skies overhead, he could not see her distinctive wings and silhouette anywhere.
Aphra and her White-Wings marched into the courtyard, not her full hundred, but enough to form an imposing shield wall, even if their shields were slung across their backs, with other units of White-Wings hastily gathering behind them. More Ben-Elim arrived, wheeling in the sky above, some flying on out beyond Drassil’s walls.
And then more horns were blowing and riders were thundering through the gate tunnel and pouring into the courtyard. Bleda’s heart soared to see his kin, a wave of mounted men and women in their deels of grey, heads shaved and long warrior braids flowing. Each rider carried short curved swords strapped across their backs, recurved bows in leather cases and quivers of arrows buckled to their saddles, and at their head rode Erdene, Bleda’s mother, Queen of the Sirak.
She rode straight-backed and proud into the courtyard, a long surcoat of lamellar armour over a grey deel tunic, a fox-fur cloak slung across her shoulder, and her boots trimmed with ermine. A silver ring was wrapped around her arm, two horse-heads facing each other. She reined in a score of paces from Bleda, a whispered word and her horse was rearing, hooves punching the air.
Bleda fought to hold back the grin of joy that threatened to spill all over his face.
Hundreds of Sirak slipped into neat lines behind her, the thunder of hooves abruptly silent. Erdene’s horse, a magnificent piebald, shook its head, its mane rippling, and whickered.
Bleda clicked his horse on and walked out into the open space between them. A double-click of his tongue and pressure from one knee, and his horse stretched one foreleg forwards, bent the other, for all the world seeming as if it were bowing to Erdene.
She looked at Bleda, then gave him a curt nod for his display of horsemanship, and another for his mark of respect to her.
And then there was a maelstrom of wings descending upon them, Ben-Elim falling from the sky. Kol alighted in the space between Bleda and Erdene, bright and gleaming in a shirt and breeches of white wool and polished leather tunic, studded with iron. A few score Ben-Elim stood behind him, forming a line between Bleda and his kin, and many others circled low over the courtyard, the cold sun gleaming off their spear-points.
Other Ben-Elim spiralled in from a different direction, a mass of them in the air like a flock of white eagles. Bleda saw Sariel touching down on his right flank. Kol saw him, too, and with a gesture of his hand many of his Ben-Elim landed before Sariel, swelling Kol’s ranks and blocking Sariel’s approach to Erdene. At the same time Aphra’s White-Wings were moving, filling the empty spaces of the courtyard around Sariel’s Ben-Elim. There were no angry words, no weapons drawn, but tension filled the area. Sariel was glaring at Kol, then casting his dark look upon the Ben-Elim and White-Wings blocking his way.
Bleda could tell he was caught in that moment of indecision, whether to act or hold, and he saw his mother’s eyes taking it all in.
“Welcome to Drassil, Queen Erdene of the Sirak,” Kol said loudly and formally as he took a step towards Erdene.
Bleda saw Sariel say something to his Ben-Elim behind him, then take a step back, folding his arms and staring coldly at Kol and Erdene.
“An unexpected pleasure,” Kol said to Erdene. Kol’s voice was polite, but Bleda could see a tension in the Ben-Elim, though well hidden, a stiffness across his shoulders, a clenching in his jaw. Being a student of the cold-face, Bleda was a master of analysing all of the tell-tale signs a body could give away.
He did not know that my mother was coming, and he is ready for violence.
The sound of many footsteps behind him, a glance showing more White-Wings entering the courtyard—Lorina leading over a hundred warriors. They slipped silently into a loose shield wall formation behind Aphra and her group.
“I bring you what you asked for,” Erdene said, and with a flick of her reins her horse was sidestepping, the rows of Sirak behind her parting, their mounts moving to the flanks of the courtyard to reveal yet more riders. But these were not warriors, they were children, their heads as yet unshaved. Boys and girls, lots of children, a hundred, perhaps more.
“I