A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,161

towards Fritha.

“That went well,” the giant observed as he reached her. “Still more to kill, though. Too many.”

“Thank you for your astute observation, Gunil,” Fritha muttered.

Behind him on the slope a hand appeared on the edge of one of the pits, a giant dragging himself up, clawing and crawling onto the ground. He climbed to one knee, then onto his feet, white-haired, with a latticed hole where one eye had been.

“Balur One-Eye,” Fritha whispered.

He was battered and bleeding, blood sluicing from a cut to his scalp, more blood drenching one tattooed arm, but he looked furious more than weakened. He shrugged a war-hammer from his back and hefted it.

“GUNIL,” he roared.

Gunil stared at Balur. Then he slipped his war-hammer into his hands.

More hands appeared on the edges of the pits: giants beginning to climb up from the darkness, dragging themselves onto the turf.

“Wait,” Fritha said to Gunil.

She raised an arm, her Red Right Hand watching her.

“KILL THEM,” she yelled, and with a roar her Red Right Hand hurtled down the slope, five hundred spears, swords and axes glinting in the sunlight.

From down the slope horns sounded, a great roar from the warband of the Bright Star.

Fritha heard their battle-cry echo out, “TRUTH AND COURAGE,” and the warband surged forwards, giants on the left sweeping wide to circle around the line of pits, some heading for the gaps of turf between the pits that acted as bridges or paths to Balur’s side, joined by many riders of the Order, while others veered right, towards the woodland and Fritha, attempting to swing around the right flank of the pit line.

Fritha saw the first of her Red Right Hand reach Balur, his hammer swinging, sending two men hurtling through the air, bones smashed to kindling. Warriors behind began to stab at Balur; Fritha saw blood bloom from wounds.

“Now,” Fritha said to Gunil. “Go, and make sure Balur One-Eye dies. It will rip the heart from his giants.”

“Consider him dead,” Gunil growled, that manic look back in his eyes, and he urged Claw onto the field.

Fritha drew a knife from her belt and sliced a red line across her palm. She let the blood well, and then put her hand to her mouth, smeared the blood across her lips, upon her tongue.

“LIOM,” she cried out, her blood spraying with her spittle, and she felt her summons spread out, like a far-flung net across the land, and in her blood and veins she felt the trembling response. Distantly she heard the sound of howling.

“Ulf,” Fritha said, looking behind her into the woods. A figure emerged, cloaked in shadow.

“Are your disciples ready?” she asked him.

“They are,” Ulf said. “They hunger.”

“Good. Soon they will feast.”

“Wrath hungry,” Wrath grumbled beside Fritha. “Wrath want to feast.”

“You are always hungry,” Fritha smiled, scratching Wrath’s thick-muscled neck. It was level with her head now.

“Yes,” the draig agreed.

“I hunger, too,” Ulf said.

“You must stay with me,” she commanded. “You cannot be risked.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “You will feast after. You will glut yourself on their blood.”

That seemed to appease the Revenant, a little.

“Shall I call them now?” Ulf asked her.

“Soon,” Fritha said, holding a placating hand out. She looked at Ulf, saw his dark, predatory eye observing the battle, watching death and bloodshed.

“Do you remember who you were?” she asked him.

He tore his one eye from the carnage and regarded Fritha a long moment.

“Yes,” he said, “I was Ulf the tanner. It is vague, like a dream.”

Fritha nodded. She wondered if her Ferals remembered, too.

“Do you miss your old life?”

“No,” he said, instantly. “It was… torpid. Life now is… rich. Red.” His lips twitched, the hint of teeth beneath.

Screams drew Fritha’s attention back to the battle.

Gunil had reached the combat. She saw him lean in his saddle and swing his hammer, crunching into a raised shield from a warrior of the Order. The blow tore the warrior from his saddle and sent him crashing into one of the open pits.

Her Red Right Hand looked hard-pressed though.

“Soon, Ulf,” she whispered. “Be ready.”

And then there were figures in the woods before her, a hundred paces away, wolven-hounds loping up through the trees, huntsmen of the Order behind them, and following them a tide of riders, picking their way through the trees.

“Be ready,” Fritha breathed, and she pressed the palm of her bloodied hand to the red wings upon her cuirass, leaving a new bloodstain there. She pulled her spear from where she had stabbed it into the ground, hefted it, bending