Descent of Angels by Mitchel Scanlon Page B

recognise his cousin from the callow youth he had stood next to in his dream.
    ‘Nemiel?’ he said with a sleep drowsy voice.
    ‘Who else would it be?’
    ‘What are you doing? What time is it?’
    ‘It’s early,’ said Nemiel. ‘Get up, quickly now!’
    ‘Why?’ protested Zahariel. ‘What’s going on?’
    Nemiel sighed and Zahariel looked around their austere barracks as supplicants dressed hurriedly, with grins of excitement and not a little fear upon their faces.
    ‘What’s going on?’ parroted Nemiel. ‘We’re going on a hunt is what’s going on!’
    ‘A hunt?’
    ‘Aye!’ cried Nemiel. ‘Brother Amadis is leading our phratry on a hunt!’
    Z AHARIEL FELT THE familiar mix of excitement and fear as he rode the black steed between the trees in the shadowy depths of the forest. He shivered as fragments of his dream returned to him, and he strained to hear any hint of the screaming or whispering that had dogged his latest episode of dreaming.
    There was nothing, but then the excited jabbering of his comrades would have blotted out all but the most strident calls from the forest. Zahariel rode alongside Nemiel, his cousin’s open face and dark hair partially concealed by his helmet, but his excitement infectious.
    Zahariel had been selected to lead this group, and nine supplicants rode behind him, each one also mounted on one of the black horses of Caliban. The root strands of any other colour of riding beast had long since died out, and only horses of a dark hue could be bred by the Order’s horse masters.
    Like their riders, each horse was young and had much to learn, on their way to becoming the famed mounts of the Ravenwing cavalry. The knights of the Ravenwing rode like daring heroes of old, leading exponents of lightning warfare and hit and run charges, they were masters of the wilderness.
    They could survive for months alone in the deadly forests of Caliban, heroic figures in matt black armour and winged helms that concealed the identity of each warrior.
    To be one of the Ravenwing was to live a lonely life, but one of heart-stopping adventure and glory.
    Five other groups of ten riders made up the hunt, spread throughout the forest in a staggered V formation, with Brother Amadis roaming between them as an observer and mentor. They were many kilometres from the Order’s fortress monastery, and the thrill of riding through the forest so far from home almost outweighed the cold lump of dread that had settled in Zahariel’s stomach.
    ‘You think we’ll actually find a beast?’ asked Attias from Zahariel’s right. ‘I mean, this part of the forest is supposed to be clear isn’t it?’
    ‘We won’t find anything with you prattling on!’ snapped Nemiel. ‘I swear they can hear you back at Aldurukh.’
    Attias flinched at Nemiel’s harsh tone, and Zahariel shot his cousin a curt glance. Nemiel shrugged, unapologetic, and rode onwards.
    ‘Pay no attention to him, Attias,’ said Zahariel. ‘He’s missing his bed, that’s all.’
    Attias nodded and smiled, his natural optimism glossing over the incident with good grace. The boy was younger than Zahariel, and he had known him ever since Attias was seven and had joined the Order.
    Zahariel wasn’t sure why he had taken the younger boy under his wing, but he had helped Attias adapt to the disciplined and demanding life of a supplicant, perhaps because he had seen something of himself in the boy.
    His early years with the Order had been hard and if it hadn’t been for Zahariel’s guidance, Attias would undoubtedly have failed in his first weeks and been sent home in ignominy. As it was, the boy had persevered and become a more than creditable supplicant.
    Nemiel had never warmed to the boy and made him the frequent subject of his often cruel jibes and scornful ridicule. It had become an unspoken source of antagonism between the cousins, for Nemiel had held that each supplicant should stand or fall by his own merits, not by who helped him;