A Time of Dread (Of Blood and Bone #1) - John Gwynne Page 0,30

with mortal, and you are the result.’ Israfil’s face twisted in disgust.

A movement drew Riv’s eyes away from Israfil to the Ben-Elim seated behind him, to Kol. A flash of anger flickered across his face, making his scar twitch, then it was gone.

‘Who is your sire?’ Israfil repeated.

‘Why would I tell you?’ the half-breed said. He spat at Israfil’s feet.

A cascade of blows fell upon the half-breed, head, shoulders, back. He fell forwards, onto his hands.

‘Hold,’ Israfil snapped.

‘Who is your sire?’

‘We know of you, Israfil, petty pawn of the Tyrant,’ the half-breed said. He smiled through bloodied lips. ‘Your days are numbered.’

‘No, half-breed scum,’ Israfil said. ‘It is you who will soon be taking your last breath. But not before you are put to the question. It will not be quick – there are Ben-Elim who have mastered the art of keeping a body alive indefinitely, on the knife-edge of death. By the end we will know everything that you know. It is surprising how long even a piece of corrupted filth like you can live.’ A look of contempt and loathing. ‘It is not a task I take pleasure in, but my holy charge is to protect Elyon’s creation, and you and your ilk are a corruption that must be eradicated.’ Israfil raised a hand, signalling for the beating to continue.

‘Drekar is my father,’ the half-breed blurted. ‘And I am Salk.’

‘You have no name, should not exist. You are a pestilence,’ Israfil said. ‘Where is Drekar, now?’

‘You will see him, when he chooses,’ Salk said. ‘But for now he sends you a message.’ With a burst of unbelievable speed and strength, Salk surged to his feet, leathery wings beating as he threw himself to the side, crashing into one of his White-Wing guards, wrapping the chain that hung from his manacled wrists about the warrior’s neck. Other White-Wings stabbed with their blades, but the half-breed was faster, leaping from the ground in a burst of powerful legs and wings, other warriors rushing forwards.

There was a collective gasp throughout the chamber, Riv jumping to her feet and vaulting through the tiered crowd, though she knew she was too far, too late.

The half-breed lurched into the air, hovered above his captors, the White-Wing in his grasp fighting and twisting, but Salk gave a last savage wrench of the chains and there was an audible crack, the White-Wing’s limbs suddenly dangling, head hanging slack. Salk hurled the body at the warriors below him, snatching a short-sword from the dead man’s scabbard, tucking his wings and hurtling towards Israfil. He bellowed a wordless cry.

Israfil drew his own sword, other Ben-Elim behind him taking to the air.

Salk’s lips drew back in a primal snarl as he levelled his sword at Israfil.

Ethlinn stabbed her spear into the half-breed’s shoulder, bursting out of his back in a spray of blood. She kept hold of it, swinging and slamming Salk to the stone floor, where he twisted and writhed on her spear like a stuck salmon.

Israfil and a score of others rushed to him, but before they could reach him Salk had the short-sword at his own throat.

‘Father says he will send you back to the Otherworld,’ the half-breed said, and then he was dragging the sword across his neck, a jet of arterial blood.

‘No,’ Israfil yelled, Ethlinn kicking the sword from the half-breed’s hand, but it was too late: a pool of blood was widening about him. In moments he was gone.

Israfil stood over the corpse, shaking his head. ‘We could have learned much from him.’

‘When he was captured we searched him, found this,’ Garidas said, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a tattered scrap of parchment.

‘What does it say?’ Kol asked, standing at Israfil’s shoulder.

Garidas looked to Israfil, waiting for his permission. ‘Perhaps you should see this in private,’ the White-Wing captain said. The Lord Protector nodded.

Ethlinn spoke out anyway, her voice echoing through the chamber.

‘It says Go luath. Soon.’

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CHAPTER NINE

DREM

Drem limped along beside his da and their string of packhorses, not for the first time wishing he was sitting upon the back of one of those horses, rather than struggling along beside it with his ankle throbbing. The fact was, though, that they had too many furs and skins to carry, and when faced with the prospect of leaving those skins behind or walking …

Olin had been happy to leave a bundle or two behind, but Drem knew how long and hard they’d worked for those skins, risking life and limb, and they