A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,169

a blur, sweeping Drem’s axe wide, his seax low, knocking him off balance, and then she was closer still, inside his guard, headbutting him across the nose, sending him reeling, staggering backwards, slamming into a tree, dropping to one knee.

“You are mine, Drem ben Olin,” Fritha said as she loomed over him, her sword raised.

A horse crashed into Fritha, sending her lurching away, spinning.

Horse and rider reined in between Drem and Fritha, and Drem looked up to see Byrne in the saddle. She was gore-spattered, a thing out of a nightmare, teeth bared in a rictus snarl, her curved sword blooded to the hilt.

“Get away from my sister’s son, you bitch,” Byrne spat at Fritha.

Something crossed Fritha’s face: worry, fear.

“I was hoping I’d bump into you,” Fritha said. She drew her sword across her palm, a red line, smeared the blood across her lips.

“IONSAI,” Fritha yelled, her blood spraying from her lips, “IAD A MHARU,” and all around the glade Ferals stopped their frenzied fighting and threw themselves at Byrne.

Her mount screamed as Ferals’ claws raked it in their frenzied rush to reach Byrne, the animal rearing, Byrne leaping to the ground, rolling. She regained her feet, snatched a hand inside her jerkin and pulled out a fistful of what looked like vials, threw them at a knot of Ferals that were swarming towards her, the vials smashing, some kind of liquid bursting across the creatures, soaking into their fur.

“Fuil agus tine, salann agus lathair,” Drem heard Byrne hiss, and then blue fire was rippling to life across the Ferals’ fur, spreading, engulfing them in flames. The Ferals howled and screamed, limbs windmilling, slapping and clawing at their bodies as they were ravaged by the flames. The acrid stench of seared flesh filled the glade.

Fritha looked at her Ferals, screamed and ran at Byrne. Their swords clashed, the two of them moving through the glade. A Revenant leaped at Byrne and she sidestepped Fritha, slashed at the Revenant with her sword. A wound opened across its chest, a blue light throbbing, and the Revenant screamed, falling away.

Burning Ferals crashed between Drem and the two women, flames sparking on the woodland litter, leaping into hungry, crackling life. Drem scrambled away, into the trees.

All about him the Revenant horde was swarming, ripping and tearing flesh.

We cannot win against them, too many, Drem thought. It’s just a matter of time. Something nagged at Drem’s mind. I have seen them stabbed scores of times and not fall, and yet Ethlinn and Keld killed them with a blow or two, Byrne’s sword hurt it…

Bodies crashed and fell about him, scattering his thoughts.

If I can help Byrne, and kill Fritha…

He rose to his feet, looking for a way around the flames to Fritha and Byrne, but the woodland was becoming a fiery maelstrom. He cast about wildly and saw something behind him, in the shadows. A figure, a Revenant, hunched over a woman, a warrior of the Bright Star. Drem took a step towards them and the Revenant looked up, blood slick on its mouth and jaws.

Drem faltered. Even though transformed, only one eye left in its gaunt, too-pale face, Drem still recognized this creature.

It was Ulf.

Drem remembered watching from a rooftop of the mine as Ulf had offered himself to Gulla, giving himself over to Gulla’s fangs, remembered Ulf collapsing, twitching, convulsing as he had been changed, turned into… this.

Ulf had been a friend to him and his father, or so Drem had thought. But all along Ulf had been a servant of Gulla, spying, scheming. He had betrayed Olin and Drem.

Drem hefted his seax and axe, strode towards Ulf.

The Revenant rose to his feet, a gliding, elegant motion. He cocked his head to one side, regarding Drem with the dark well of his one eye.

“Drem,” he hissed.

“Remember me, do you?” Drem snarled. “Well, remember this as I send you to the Otherworld.” He struck at Ulf, seax and axe swinging and stabbing, Ulf swaying away, parrying with long-taloned hands that seemed as hard as iron, Drem’s blows glancing away. Then Ulf was twisting, suddenly lunging forwards.

Drem’s axe chopped into Ulf’s neck, a diagonal cut, into the clavicle. He heard the distinctive sound of the bone cracking, but it did not seem to faze Ulf, who shrugged off the blow and reached out grasping hands to grab Drem, claws raking his face, closing tight, raking his cheeks and pulling him close, towards Ulf’s distended-wide jaws, razored teeth still dripping with the blood of Ulf’s last