A Time of Dread (Of Blood and Bone #1) - John Gwynne Page 0,90

Olin, though he did hear a man scream, which was encouraging – meant that fighting was still going on, just as long as the one screaming wasn’t his da.

Drem twisted his blade inside the man’s leg, heard a corresponding scream, rising in pitch and felt the grip on his axe disappear. He wrenched his seax free of the man’s thigh, a gush of hot blood over his hand, and he tried to stagger to his feet. More blows, hands grabbing him, dragging him in all directions, and he was lurching forwards, then his feet were leaving the ground and he was being carried, passed down the steps of the cabin and into a courtyard. The noose of a rope was slipped around his neck, yanked tight; it was Drem’s turn to scream, fear erupting in his belly, gave his limbs strength and he kicked and stabbed and hacked. There was a sharp pain in his left arm and his axe was gone, hands holding his other arm, pinning him, twisting and then his seax was gone, too.

‘DREM.’ He heard his da roar, ‘DREM.’

‘Da,’ he tried to yell back, but the noose around his neck was too tight to flex his vocal cords fully. He saw branches overhead, a rope hurled across them, hands grabbing it, and the pressure about his neck was growing and he was being hoisted upright, his feet dangling and men were shouting and jeering and he couldn’t breathe, his hands grasping at the rope around his throat.

It’s too thick, too tight, and a blind terror gripped him, his lungs burning, screaming for a breath, everything about him fading as the instinct to live, to breathe, consumed him. Black spots blurred his vision, joining like spilt ink, blotting out the world.

Another sound, merging with the frantic drumbeat of his heart, drowned out the roar of the baying mob about him, a rhythmic thunder. Voices, shouting, louder, and then he was spinning, someone grabbing him, lifting his legs and abruptly he could breathe, only a trickle as if through a reed, a gasping burn but nevertheless sweet, glorious relief. A jerk on the rope, realized someone had cut it. A voice close by and his vision was returning, blurred, focusing slowly.

‘What’s that Olin feeding you?’ the voice said and he saw Hildith, owner of the mead-hall, sitting upon a horse. One of her burly guards had hold of Drem. Another guard cut the rope above him and he was dumped unceremoniously onto the ground.

‘My thanks,’ Drem managed to rasp and Hildith nodded to him.

‘Gather them up,’ Hildith shouted, more of her guardsmen appearing and rounding up the men who had tried to lynch Drem. Ulf appeared in the courtyard, riding at the head of a dozen men. He looked around wildly and then saw Drem, dismounted and hurried over.

‘Da,’ Drem croaked.

‘Your da’s fine,’ Ulf said. ‘Least, I don’t think any of the blood he’s covered in belongs to him.’

Ulf began to laugh, a baritone chuckle that soon turned into something that resembled the braying of a donkey. Then Drem’s vision blurred again, the darkness swooping in from the edge of his vision. His last sensation was that of weightlessness, of falling.

Drem jerked upright, coughing and spluttering. His throat felt as if it was on fire, and that air was trickling through a hole the size of a needle.

They’re killing me, hanging me.

‘Easy, son,’ a voice said close by, his da, instantly soothing him, and he calmed.

‘Keep breathing, nice and slow. You’re fine.’

Drem did and, opening his eyes, saw his da leaning over him, that anxious look on his face.

‘Ah, my boy, I thought I’d lost you, for a few moments back there,’ Olin said. He cupped Drem’s cheek. ‘My wonderful, wonderful boy,’ he whispered, a smile softening his eyes. Blood-spatter freckled his face and his clothes.

All of him, Drem realized as he sat up, taking his time, his da offering him a ladle of water.

The first sip felt like knives slipping down his throat, but after that he started breathing more easily, drinking more normally.

‘What happened?’ Drem croaked, his voice grating like rusty hinges.

‘Hildith and Ulf arrived, with half of Kergard, it looks like.’

Drem looked about, saw he’d been carried back to the porch and was sitting up now on a bench under a window. His back was wet from snow-melt.

‘What’re they doing here?’

‘They’re leading a bear-hunt; thought we might like to join them. Arrived just in time.’

‘I’m in definite agreement there,’ Drem said, touching his throat. The