A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,123
flapped away to the rear of the cage, fear giving him strength, but he could not evade Morn’s grasping hand and it closed about the big bird, dragging him out.
“Bad people, bad people,” Flick squawked as he pecked at Morn’s hand.
“No, not bad people,” Fritha said, “but sometimes dark deeds must be done to accomplish great ends. I am sorry, Flick, you are brave and wise, but you have something I need.” She held up her knife and the bird squawked in fear.
“Your bloodline.”
Fritha drew the knife blade across her forearm, flesh parting and blood welling, though it was hard to differentiate her blood from the gore that coated her. But she knew her blood was joining that on the table, pooling and seeping into the concoction of her new creation.
“Reiptílí, bás sciatháin, guth éan, ar cheann,” Fritha chanted, her arms drenched in blood to her elbows. “Reiptílí, bás sciatháin, guth éan, ar cheann,” she breathed again, and again as she hunched over the mound of flesh spread upon her table.
Then she stepped back.
Body parts were scattered on the ground, parts of bat, crow and draig intermingled. Fritha’s off-cuts.
Upon the table lay a huge mound of flesh and bone, still as death.
Fritha sucked in a deep shuddering breath.
She raised her arms.
“Anáil agus beo,” she yelled with all the strength of her lungs and stepped forwards, slamming her clenched fists onto the lifeless form on the table, her blow rippling through it.
A silence settled on the clearing as she and those around her watched.
A gasping tremor shifted through the thing before her, its chest rising and falling.
A thrill of excitement, the greatest, most wonderful feeling Fritha had ever known swept through her. The creature on the table raised its head.
Her draig, transformed.
Made new.
It rolled, flopped to the ground, and slowly took its weight upon its bowed legs.
“Wrath,” Fritha said, hoping.
Will he still love me, or will he remember our last moment, my knife across his throat? My blood is mixed with his now—that should bind him to me deeper than all things, should override any resentment of that one, fleeting moment of pain.
Its head weaved, side to side, then its small dark eyes filled with a new intelligence. They fixed upon her, and Fritha smiled.
The draig spread its wings wide, a ripple of muscle, testing its new limbs. A hesitant beat of air, then harder, and the draig’s bulk shifted, its chest and forelegs lifting a handspan from the ground.
With a scraping growl its head swivelled, regarding its wings.
“Wrath,” Fritha said, taking a step towards the creature.
It regarded her for a long, timeless moment, then took an unsteady step towards her. It opened its jaws wide, saliva dripping.
“Wrath hungry,” the draig croaked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
BLEDA
Bleda passed sharkskin over the bow, sanding off the rough edges of glue and sinew. It was the full dark before dawn beyond the forge’s doors, but Bleda knew that time was precious, and he could not leave this unfinished.
He put the sharkskin down, then ran his hand across the bow, slowly, feeling all the layers of maple, horn and sinew that had gone into fashioning it. In the centre of the bow’s grip he felt the sliver of stallion bone he had placed there, to give a stallion’s speed and strength to every arrow loosed.
“It will be a thing of beauty,” Mirim whispered, her eyes gleaming.
He looked at his guards and allowed himself a smile, both as a symbol of his trust in them, and because he wanted to smile. It was how he felt, an enormous sense of satisfaction welling inside him.
Tuld, Mirim and Ruga all smiled back at him, their joy at seeing and playing a part in the making of a Sirak bow shining in their eyes.
“The box,” Bleda said, and Tuld lifted a box made of oak and lined with felt. Bleda lifted his bow, tied and knotted still in extreme reflex, and he placed it in the box. They all stood and looked at it, then Tuld placed the lid on and buckled tight the leather straps.
“Good.” Bleda nodded.
“Now, let us make ready for war.”
They returned to Bleda’s chambers, the first grey of dawn creeping into the air around them, and Bleda found Erdene and Ellac waiting for him. Ellac held a chest in his arms.
“Where have you been?” his mother asked him.
“Something I had to do,” Bleda said. She looked at him but did not ask more.
“We are riding to war,” Erdene said without any preamble, “so you should look like a