A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,122

turned to face her followers.

“Two days and we march. This is the beginning of the end for the Ben-Elim,” she called out. A rippling cheer.

“The beginning of our vengeance, when we shall make the world ours, and take what we are owed. Freedom and glory, vengeance and gold,” she cried, louder, which received a louder cheer.

Of those, vengeance and gold are the sharpest spurs.

“Two days,” she repeated. “Until then, train hard, fight easy,” she said, dismissing them.

Fritha turned to look at the table.

The white wyrm sat coiled in its cage, watching her with a malignant eye. On the other side of the table her draig’s cage had been placed, wooden bars exchanged for iron, and far bigger than the one Gunil had originally made, as the beast continued to grow in shocking spurts. It was already the size of a small pony.

Fritha dug a bucket into a barrel of fish guts, meat and offal and poured it into the cage. The draig began to eat with an abundance of repulsive slapping, tearing and slurping noises.

“Are you hungry, Flick?” Fritha said, waving the bucket close to the crow’s cage, digging her hand in and showing him a pile of fish guts.

Flick glared up at her. He was hunched at the bottom of his cage, one wing hanging limp, feathers torn and bloody. Fritha felt a brief wave of sympathy for the creature, and a flicker of respect for how long the crow had held out against their questions.

This is war, and he has served my enemy, she reminded herself.

Flick looked at the pile of guts in Fritha’s palm, but he said nothing.

“You’re a brave bird,” Fritha said and dropped the contents into his cage.

A last supper for you, she thought.

“Arn, do it now,” Fritha called, and the warrior strode to the cages set in the cliff face, accompanied by four others. They entered a cage and emerged with one of the Bonefells’ great bats, a chain about one of its claws. It was a bull-sire, its wingspan far wider than Morn’s. They dragged the beast from the cage by a chain, hanging on as it lifted into the air and tried to fly for freedom, then jabbing with spears to keep it from attacking them.

They laboured across the clearing to the table. Arn swung the chain, dragging the bat down, his two comrades grabbing at its wings, and then they were slamming it onto the table, pulling its wings wide, hammering iron nails into it, pinning it to the timber. The bat screeched and hissed, head twisting frantically, jaws snapping in a frenzy.

Fritha nodded to herself.

“Gunil,” she commanded, and the giant slid the bolts on the draig’s cage. The draig’s muzzle came up, red tongue flickering, and then it was scuttling out of the cage, a shocking display of speed for so much bulk. It stood in the open ground, head swaying from side to side. Fritha stepped in front of it, still holding her bucket.

“Come to me, Wrath,” she said gently.

The draig’s eyes fixed on her and it became perfectly still, then burst into motion, talons on its bowed legs raking the ground as it exploded towards her. It skidded to a halt, circling her and rubbing itself against her legs like an excited puppy. She reached out and patted its head, as high as her waist, now, and scratched its scaly neck.

Leaning down, she rested her head against its muzzle, felt its teeth pressing into her cheek.

“I will make you magnificent,” she whispered to the draig, “your name and renown will live on forever.” Then she drew a razored knife from her belt and plunged it into the draig’s neck.

A jet of dark arterial blood, the draig shuddering, as Fritha threw herself out of the reach of its snapping jaws.

“Gunil, now,” Fritha cried, and the giant stepped forwards, squatting and putting his arms beneath the belly of the draig as it began to slump, its strength failing as it bled out. Gunil heaved, veins bulging, legs straining, wobbling as he tried to stand with the draig.

“Help him,” Fritha shouted, a handful of her Red Right Hand running to Gunil’s aid, taking the weight of the draig’s tail, lifting, and with a great heave the dying beast was placed next to the pinned bat.

Fritha sped to the table, excitement jolting through her, and she reached for her tools, picking up a serrated-edged knife and a hammer.

“Morn, bring me the crow,” she said, and Morn opened Flick’s cage, reaching in. Flick