A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,164

Feral, saw it stiffen and roll away limp, and Fen had the other one by the throat, a savage shake and it was over.

“No time to rest,” Cullen cried as he urged his horse into the rear of the Feral pack.

“Told you we’d have to watch Cullen’s back,” Keld said and shook his reins, his mount breaking into a canter after Cullen. Drem felt a wild grin split his face, laying about him either side with his hand-axe, his horse biting at any enemy flesh it could reach.

Time condensed and blurred for Drem, as he hacked and chopped his way through a sea of fur, snarling jaws and slashing claws. A wild energy raced through him, putting strength and fire into his limbs, and he screamed his hatred and fury at these creatures that were made for one reason only, to kill and rend for Gulla and the Kadoshim.

The battle surged along the fringe of the slope, back in amongst knots of beech and oak, then back out onto the plain.

For a moment Drem found himself free of the battle, and he sat on his horse, blood-drenched, his nostrils flaring, and took a moment to look about.

He had moved further up the slope, closer to the line of pits, but far to the left, almost beneath the eaves of the woodland that fringed the slope.

Keld and Cullen were close by, working together with Fen to pick off Ferals from the pack that still beset the Order. They had come across Stepor and he had joined them in their systematic destruction, his wolven-hounds Grack and Ralla working with them like a pack. Although it seethed and swayed back and forth, it appeared to Drem that the battle was turning in the Order’s favour. The Ferals were being held and pressed back into the woodland and, further up the slope, Drem could see Balur One-Eye laying about him with his war-hammer, other giants and warriors of the Order around him, including Alcyon upon Hammer. They had formed a knot and were pushing higher up the slope. Drem glimpsed Gunil upon his bear, but then he was gone. On the far right, giants and riders of the Bright Star were sweeping around the pits and charging into the flank of Fritha’s acolytes.

We are going to win.

And then something seemed to change upon the battlefield. For a moment Drem wasn’t sure what it was, but then his eyes were drawn to the edge of the slope, beyond those giants and riders who were sweeping around the pits.

A thick mist was creeping onto the slope behind them, boiling out of one of the many ravines that ran through the Desolation.

It did not look natural.

It was dark, almost black, like thunderclouds, and it seemed to bubble and boil, as if there was something inside it, straining to get out.

It crept towards the rear of the giants and warriors of the Bright Star.

And then the screaming began.

Others on the slope paused, some sense of change sweeping over the field, and Drem saw figures in the mist, what looked like a horde of them, some exploding from the darkness to slam into men or giants, other hands snaking out of the mist, grabbing and dragging people back into its dark embrace.

Drem felt afraid, his strength draining.

The mist rolled ever wider, enveloping the slope, moving closer.

No, it cannot end like this, Drem growled to himself.

A voice rose over the din of battle, high and keening, and Drem saw Ethlinn sitting astride a huge black bear, her arms stretched wide, a spear in one fist. She was facing the oncoming mist, even her great bulk looking small before the wave of churning darkness. Drem did not know how he could hear her, but her voice carried across the field, high and otherworldly.

“Cumhacht an aeir, scrios an dorchadas seo ón talamh,” Ethlinn chanted, sweeping her spear before her. “Cumhacht an aeir, scrios an dorchadas seo ón talamh,” she cried out, again and again.

At first nothing happened, the black mist boiling towards her, but then Drem felt it. A breeze caressed his face, growing swiftly stronger, lifting his hair and swirling it about his face, and then stronger still, a gale that rocked him in his saddle. It swept over the slope, a howling wind that slammed into the mist.

For long moments the darkness resisted, a pressure building in the air, like an imminent thunder storm, and then the mist began to fracture at its edges, wisps and tendrils fragmenting, and then