A Time of Dread (Of Blood and Bone #1) - John Gwynne Page 0,92

it, before it attacks again. So, we’ll get that job done first, eh?’

‘Agreed,’ Hildith grunted.

Ulf winked at Drem and then he was turning, shouting commands, and men were climbing into saddles. Drem was running to the paddocks, his da fetching saddles and tack. It wasn’t long before they were all riding along the track that led from Drem and Olin’s hold, back towards the spot where they’d followed Fritha’s tracks. The plan was to return to the location that Calder’s body had been discovered and begin their search from there.

Drem and his da were riding at the head of the column, their numbers more like a small warband.

Calder was well liked by all in Kergard. If we find that bear, it won’t be walking away from this lot.

Drem glanced towards Fritha’s hold as they reached the spot where they’d seen her tracks that morning. He frowned and reined his horse in. Stared.

‘Oh no.’

‘What?’ Olin grunted beside him, followed his look.

Drem spurred his mount on, tugging on the reins, reached a gallop in a score of heartbeats. He heard hooves behind him, voices shouting, but he didn’t stop or even slow, dug his heels in his pony’s ribs as they approached the fence and his mount was leaping, flying through air, the fence passing beneath them, hooves thudding, snow exploding, galloping on. Drem reined in as they drew near to the timber cabin, a spray of snow, and he was leaping from his mount’s back, drawing his sword this time, and running up timber steps to the door.

It had been smashed in, the frame and wall around it a splintered wreck, wide enough for two horses abreast to ride through. Blood was smeared on the floorboards.

‘Drem, wait,’ he heard his da shouting behind him, but he ignored it and stepped inside the cabin.

He had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust, no fire or torches burning, just shadow, pierced by beams of daylight that flooded through a huge hole in the side of the cabin. Then Drem saw a shape, gouts of dark blood pooled on the floor about it, and he rushed forwards.

It was Surl, the hound, its belly and flank opened by raking claws. Drem put fingers in the blood. There was an echo of warmth, faint as dawn’s first kiss. There was blood on the hound’s teeth, too, some flesh and fur, what looked like a shred of leather.

Brave hound, gave some back before the end, then, Drem thought, patting the animal’s head.

Fritha, where are you? Please, be alive.

He stood, continued searching as his da’s silhouette was framed in the smashed doorway.

A denser shadow in the darkness, a body. Drem felt his heart lurch as he approached it, slowly this time, trying to prepare himself to see Fritha’s blonde hair, the pale, fine-freckled beauty of her face. He stood over the body. It was turned away from him, half-buried beneath the shattered door. He crouched down, put a hand on its shoulder and turned it towards him.

It was Hask, Fritha’s grandfather. Eyes and mouth wide open, shock and horror mingled, a huge, ragged wound across his chest, flecks of bone in the torn flesh. Drem heard his da going through the debris, searching meticulously, the consummate tracker.

Drem strode to the hole in the wall, saw a bloody bear-print, the timber floor claw-gouged. More blood.

But no Fritha.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

RIV

Riv sat in her barrack’s feast-hall, picking at a plate of boar ribs and sweet parsnips. Jost and Vald were with her, sitting beside each other. At any other time the sight of them would have made her chuckle, Jost slim and tall as a sapling, looking as if he was all sinew and bone, and Vald, so muscled that his linen shirt and leather vest were straining to contain him, making him appear squat, which he wasn’t, being taller than Riv.

No, not taller than me now. I must have grown, and quickly. Is that normal?

It was quiet in the feast-hall. Aphra and her captains had been summoned to a meeting with Israfil and the Lord Protector’s council.

That’s not the only reason it’s quiet in here, though.

The mood amongst Aphra’s hundred had been subdued and sombre ever since the afternoon’s judgement in Drassil’s Great Hall had taken place.

Poor Estel, having your wings torn from you – something you have worked and trained your whole life to achieve – and then exiled. No kin, no friends, having to start all over again. And where would she go? Ardain, Tarbesh, Arcona, the