A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,147

more bat wings than feathered in the skies around her.

How can there be this many Kadoshim?

Death screams from below drew her eye and Riv saw Bleda and his hundred upon the left flank of the battle, holding against a tide of enemy that swept out of the forest. Even as she looked, she saw the enemy break and run, saw Bleda rein his horse in, looking back towards the far flank and Uldin. The same was happening there, the enemy fleeing back into the trees. And Uldin followed, disappearing from view, his hundreds of Cheren sweeping after him.

“Idiot,” Riv breathed. Then, to her horror, she saw Bleda doing the same. She shouted out to him, but of course he did not hear her, her voice lost in the din of battle. She tucked her wings to go after him, and then something slammed into her side, and she was spinning through the air.

Steel glinted as a knife stabbed at Riv’s throat. She twisted, felt a hot line graze her neck, grabbed the wrist with one hand, saw a male, flat-boned, snarling face, a shaven-haired skull and bat-like wings.

But that’s not a Kadoshim.

One of their half-breeds.

The half-breed punched Riv in the face, pulped a lip, the taste of blood in her mouth.

She spat, gave a savage grin and headbutted the half-breed, once, twice across the bridge of his nose, blood and cartilage spraying.

A twist of her arm on the half-breed’s wrist and he was spinning through the air. He swung a thick-muscled arm, fist connecting with Riv’s jaw, stars exploding, and her grip loosened, the half-breed ripping his wrist free.

Then her assailant was stabbing at her again, Riv shaking her head clear, wings beating, reversing her away from the half-breed’s rush, her short-sword swinging in a looping block, steel grating as the knife stabbed wide, a rotation of her shoulder and twist of her wrist and her sword opened a gash across the half-breed’s throat. Arterial blood sprayed, a look of surprise on his face as he dropped like a stone to the ground.

Riv hovered a moment, her wings beating to keep her semi-stationary. She shook her head again to try and clear the fog as the half-breed’s corpse hit the ground below.

That is why our numbers are so even. The Kadoshim have been breeding an army to swell their numbers.

While the Ben-Elim have been murdering their offspring, the Kadoshim have been cultivating and training theirs for war.

On the ground Erdene was still retreating in her ever-looping hail of arrows. The twisted bodies of Ferals littered the ground between the two huge cages and Erdene’s Sirak, but it looked as if hundreds of the mutated beasts were still powering after Erdene, merely a score of paces separating them now. It was only a short matter of time before the Ferals caught up to Erdene’s troops and all became chaos.

Even as Riv looked, she saw Erdene’s mouth open wide, yelling orders to a rider beside her, a horn blast and the row of Sirak closest to the Ferals pulled up, twenty or thirty riders, a heartbeat to sheathe their bows and draw the curved swords upon their backs, and then their mounts were leaping forwards, a short charge into the Ferals, hooves rearing, lashing out, swords slicing and chopping.

They are buying Erdene time.

And Erdene used the time her riders were buying her, her warriors reforming and galloping back down the road, opening a gap between them and the Ferals.

Riv felt a wave of respect for those who had charged into the tide of Ferals, knew there was only one fate for them. They were falling already, claws and fangs ripping into horseflesh, dragging the mounts to the ground, other Ferals leaping, slamming into riders and tearing them from their saddles.

A fresh wave of rage swept Riv for those brave men and women. She sheathed her short-sword and lifted her bow from its case, flicked the leather clasp on her quiver and snatched out a handful of arrows, as Bleda had showed her.

He said aim at a big target.

She loosed her handful of arrows into the swarm of Ferals, recognizing the power in the draw of this bow, the smooth snap and twang of the string as she loosed. She grabbed another handful of arrows and loosed them, too, saw one arrow punch into a skull, the Feral collapsing without a sound. Even so, a dozen heartbeats later and the last of the Sirak riders was being dragged from her mount, still chopping