A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,12
her head, terror and pain, of shouting and cries for help. A tumbling cascade of memories racked her and she screwed her eyes shut, but still saw her newborn daughter’s face looking up at her, pale and blood-spattered, eyes glazing. Fritha groaned and hunched over, rocking, clasping the sword in her lap as if it were the fragile, lifeless bundle she had cradled on that dread day.
The day her life had changed.
“No,” she snarled, and forced herself to sit straight and still. With a grimace, she pushed the memory back into the dark places of her mind. She ran a hand across her head, the stubble-growth of her shaved hair rough on her palm. With the edge of her snow-damp cloak, she scrubbed frenetically at the blood on the blade of the sword upon her lap, as if she were attempting to scour and erase that unspeakable moment from her memory.
It didn’t work. Nothing ever worked.
Heavy footsteps on the wooden quay sent tremors through Fritha’s body. They grew louder and stopped behind her.
“Gulla calls for you,” a voice said, deep and rumbling.
Fritha ceased her scrubbing, and with a deep, shuddering breath she sheathed the sword, then stood slowly and turned to face the giant, Gunil.
He towered over her, head and shoulders larger than the tallest man, a mass of leather and fur, a war-hammer slung across one shoulder. He bore the scars of last night’s battle: a long, scabbing cut across his angular forehead and numerous rents in his leather armour. One shoulder was bandaged, his left arm slumped, fresh blood still seeping into the linen. It was a grievous wound, Fritha knew, for she had tended it, cleaned and packed it with honey and yarrow, then seared it with a white-hot knife. Sig the giantess, warrior and champion of the Order of the Bright Star, had given Gunil the wound, a spear cast that would have killed him had it been half a handspan lower.
“How is it?” Fritha asked.
“A wound,” Gunil grated, as if it were only a scratch, not a hole almost the size of Fritha’s fist. “I live.” The giant shrugged, a ripple of muscle. For a heartbeat his eyes flared, a hint of pain-tinged madness glimmering deep within, suggesting at a wildness that scared even Fritha, but then it was gone.
“Gulla,” Gunil repeated to her.
Fritha nodded, pulled her bearskin cloak tighter about her shoulders and strode past him, boots crunching on the shingle beach as she made her way towards the mining complex built on the lake’s shore.
Dawn was recently come, a pale gleam behind thick cloud that blanketed the sky. The ground was muffled in snow, to Fritha’s right a row of open-fronted, barn-like buildings ranged in a line. The sound of hammering and sawing echoed. To her left a great pyre of heaped driftwood. A body lay upon the pile, a figure stood beside it, broad and squat, leathery wings furled tight across a muscled back. It was Morn, half-breed daughter of Gulla, new Lord of the Kadoshim.
Fritha’s eyes lingered on the creature of two worlds: part human, part Kadoshim. Her dark hair was shaved short to her scalp, just as Fritha’s and the secret many that followed the Kadoshim. Morn’s head was bowed, but Fritha could see the streaks that tears had channelled through the blood and grime thick upon her face. Her brother, Ulfang, lay upon the piled wood, his wings wrapped around him, a sword resting upon his chest. He had been slain during the fighting last night, by Drem. Many died last night, including Sig. Fritha felt a twist in her belly at the thought of the giant, a measure of pride that her hand had dealt Sig her death blow.
Sig, vaunted champion of the Bright Star, just food for crows now, because of me.
Fritha had stared into Sig’s eyes as she’d slowly thrust her blade deep, seen the pain, the flutter of life as it had left the giant. But the death had not satisfied Fritha as she had hoped it would; it had done little to fill the gaping hole inside her that screamed to be slaked with death and torment. Perhaps it was the way the giant had died that had marred Fritha’s pleasure—not begging or screaming. Sig’s last words had been a defiance, even if they were little more than a whispered breath upon her lips.
“Truth and courage,” Fritha repeated to herself, then spat on the snow as if the very words tasted foul.