A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,166
for me.”
“With pleasssure,” Elise hissed, slithering towards Drem.
Suddenly, more figures were bursting out of the woodland, three wolven-hounds, huge beasts, one grey, one black, one red-furred. They crunched into the warriors around Drem, screams and blood spraying, the sounds of flesh tearing.
Two men ran into the glade, one more limping behind them, setting upon Fritha’s warriors. Two Fritha recognized: the young red-haired warrior and the older huntsman from the starstone mine attack. There was another huntsman with them, slim and black-bearded. As Fritha watched, he blocked a sword-blow from one of her warriors, turned the blade and buried his axe in her man’s neck. A burst of blood and her warrior was falling to the ground, clutching at the jet of blood that pulsed between his fingers.
“Wrath,” Fritha snarled. “Kill them.”
“Yes,” Wrath growled and burst forwards, a pulse of his wings adding to his speed.
At the same time a figure dropped from the trees above, Morn, her wings spreading, and she was stabbing with her spear at the red-haired warrior.
He shrugged his shield from his back, blocking her spear-thrust, slashing with his sword, but she flew out of reach.
The black-bearded huntsman saw Wrath hurtling towards him, a moment of fear washing over his face, changing to resolve, and he was setting his feet, sword and knife in his fist. He sidestepped Wrath’s charge, slashed with his sword at the draig’s side, leaving a red line, Fritha feeling a moment of pure rage at her creation’s injury. Wrath roared at the pain, his thick tail lashing as he skidded past the huntsman, crashing into his legs, the man going down hard, trying to roll, but Wrath was turning with startling speed and leaping upon the prone warrior, jaws snapping at his head.
Two wolven-hounds appeared out of nowhere, hurling themselves at Wrath, jaws biting, claws raking as they latched onto the draig.
Wrath just ignored them, even though red wounds were appearing, his jaws clamping around the huntsman’s head. The man stabbed and hacked at Wrath’s belly with his sword and knife. A sickening crunching sound, a savage wrench, and the huntsman’s head was torn from his shoulders, his body collapsing, limbs juddering.
“STEPOR,” the older huntsman cried, hurling his hand-axe at Wrath, the blade sinking deep into the draig’s shoulder. Again, it ignored the blow and set about removing the wolven-hounds from its body, both of them frenziedly ripping and biting into Wrath’s flesh.
Fritha saw the old huntsman slash at his palm, heard him yelling words of power, and he threw a handful of blood, sparks of incandescent fire appearing in the droplets even as they sprayed one of Fritha’s guards and splattered upon Wrath’s muzzle.
A sizzle and the stench of burning flesh, Fritha’s guard collapsing, screaming, hands gouging at his face.
Wrath roared his pain, charred splotches appearing on his muzzle, wisps of smoke curling into the air. The fire-blood seemed to do little more than irk the draig, though. It gave a violent shake of its body, like a terrier with a rat, and one of the wolven-hounds lost its grip and struck the ground, Wrath scuttling forwards and slashing with a long-taloned foot. The wolven-hound howled as Wrath disembowelled it, entrails spilling onto the ground.
Then other figures were around them.
Fritha looked up, saw that they had moved to the very fringe of the woodland, and the battle on the slope was pressing in upon them. Giants and bears were there, riders of the Order as well as Ferals and her own Red Right Hand.
And Revenants.
Fritha had seen them many times at the mine and on the journey here, but they were different creatures now.
They were killing machines. Fritha stared in a moment of abject awe. They were devastatingly fast, and they were merciless, snatching at warriors, leaping up at horses to tear men and women from saddles, swarming over a bear and rending it with tooth and claw.
A bear lumbered past, a male giant with a long black warrior braid upon its back. He was wielding two long-hafted axes like threshing poles, a constant blur of motion. Fritha saw his axe take the head from a Revenant, a burst of blue light exploding from its neck as the creature dropped slowly to the ground, body spasming, though its hands raked and clawed at the ground for far longer than it should have before it stilled in death.
They can die, then, Fritha noted.
“Frithhhha,” a voice called out and Fritha saw that Elise had Drem wrapped in her coils.