A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,111
She could hear it snoring as the cart rolled to a halt before her.
All he does is sleep and eat, thought Fritha affectionately.
Another wain rumbled along behind Arn’s, this one full with people they had taken on their journey back to the mine. Some were from the hold Fritha had taken to contact Gulla, the rest from holds they’d encountered during their return journey.
Another gift for Gulla, to appease him for my failure.
Behind this vehicle the last of her Red Right Hand rode. The stolen mounts and wains had speeded their journey back to the mine considerably. That and the fact that they could cut straight across the Desolation, instead of following the protracted route through the Bonefells that they had taken in pursuit of Drem and his companions.
Fritha approached the cage harnessed to Gunil’s bear. She undid the knots that tied the hide covering to the cage’s bars, then grabbed a fistful of the hide and pulled it free.
The white wyrm reared on its coils, head weaving. It was still not healed, some of its wounds leaking a stinking pus, but it had returned from the shade of death. A rattling hiss emanated from its throat as it bared long fangs at Fritha.
“A wyrm, survivor of the breed created by the giants in their War of Treasures,” Fritha said. “We thought them long dead, but I bring you one, my Lord.” She bowed.
“Impressive,” Gulla said, leaning close to the bars.
The wyrm’s head darted forward, as big as a shield, then froze, its tongue darting out, tasting the air. A ripple as it slithered away, pressed its bulk against the bars at the back of the cage, away from Gulla.
“It fears you, my Lord,” Fritha said. “As is only right.”
Gulla smiled.
“And I bring you this,” Fritha said, walking away from the wyrm’s cage, towards Arn’s wain. The draig was awake in its cage now, grown already, roughly the size of a war-hound, though lower to the ground, but broader across the chest and shoulders. It scuttled over to Fritha as she approached the bars, mouth open, and she reached into a bucket and pulled out a still-dripping liver, cut from an elk that her Ferals had tracked and brought down that morning. She threw it into the cage and the draig set to ripping it apart, swallowing great chunks of it.
Gulla drew near and it stopped its feasting, one taloned foot on its food, and growled at Gulla. A deep rumbling in its belly, like gravel sliding down a slope.
“It has more courage than your wyrm,” Gulla observed. “Or less intelligence.”
He stepped closer to Fritha and the draig threw itself at the bars, crunching into them, wood bending, cracking, jaws and claws reaching for Gulla, but the cage held.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Gunil observed from the back of his bear.
Fritha shot Gunil a dark look.
“The draig has bonded to me, my Lord. He has an acute sense of loyalty.”
“Not a fault,” Gulla said. “I like it. Use it well.”
“And my last gift to you, my Lord,” Fritha said, gesturing to the crow in its cage beside Arn.
Gulla looked at Fritha, an eyebrow raised.
“A crow?” he said.
“Look closer,” Fritha said.
Gulla leaned in, peering at the crow, which shuffled on its perch, ruffling its feathers.
“Kadoshim, bad man,” the crow muttered.
Gulla smiled.
“This is Flick, a crow of Dun Seren,” Fritha said.
“I think you must have much to tell me, Flick of Dun Seren,” Gulla said.
Flick hopped on his perch.
“Tell bad man nothing,” Flick croaked.
“We shall see.” Gulla smiled, then looked to Fritha. “You have done well, Priestess. Maybe not redeemed yourself, quite. But well enough.” His look darkened. “Dun Seren will know of us by now. They will march on us.”
“They will, my Lord.”
“We must be ready,” Gulla growled. “A hundred and thirty years of war in these Banished Lands, coming down to these few last moons.” He looked at Fritha, long and appraising. Then at the wains and beasts in their cages.
“And these?” he said, waving his hand at the score of prisoners.
“Recruits.” Fritha shrugged. “Acolytes, or perhaps to feed your new thirst. Or that of the Seven.”
“The Seven I have sent out,” Gulla said. “All but Ulf, who has a purpose here.”
Fritha looked beyond Gulla to Ulf, standing perfectly still, like a carven statue behind her table.
“I thank you for these gifts you bring to me, and yet I see the light in your eyes, Priestess,” Gulla said. “I see your greed.”