A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,170
victim.
Drem screamed as Ulf’s foul, bloodied breath washed over him and he stabbed frantically into the creature’s belly with his seax, the blade plunging deep into flesh.
Drem felt something in his fist as it was wrapped around the bone hilt of his seax: a hot pulse of heat, and again, and again, like a beating heart.
A blue light burst from the wound.
Ulf screamed, a feral agony, and lashed out, striking Drem across the chest and hurling him through the air, crashing to the ground, rolling through flames. Drem climbed to one knee, still had his seax in his hand, saw that it was pulsing with a fading blue glow, like a fresh-forged blade cooling from the flames. Runes along the blade glowed white-bright, and Drem remembered Keld telling him of Olin’s runes, what they said.
Dilis cosantoir. Faithful Protector.
Keld’s sword is rune-marked, as is Byrne’s, and Ethlinn’s spear must be, too.
Ulf was staring at him in rage and pain, opened his mouth and hissed a shriek at Drem, and then ran at him.
Drem staggered to his feet, hefted his seax, and threw it.
It flew through the air, the heavy blade and handle spinning, glittering in the fire-flames, and punched into Ulf’s chest, hurling the Revenant backwards, against the trunk of an ancient oak, Drem’s blade piercing flesh, bark and wood, sinking deep and pinning Ulf to the tree.
An explosion of blue light and sparks as Ulf thrashed and screamed, gnashing his jaws, shredding his own lips in his agony and fury, Drem’s seax glowing white-hot within Ulf, the hiss of burning flesh wafting.
Drem stumbled forwards, saw Alcyon’s axe lying on the ground, snatched it up and ran at Ulf, swinging the axe over his head, screaming his father’s name.
“OLIN!” And he chopped the axe blade into Ulf’s neck. There was another burst of blue light as the axe severed the Revenant’s head and buried itself in the tree. Drem was hurled away, crashing onto his back.
Ulf’s head spun through the air and hit the ground with a thud, rolling into the flames, where it hissed, flesh melting.
All about the glade and slope beyond, something happened.
Revenants froze in their slaughter and feasting, a jerking paroxysm, and then, with a collective sigh, all around Drem, they collapsed.
Drem stared open-mouthed, saw a Revenant almost at his feet change colour, its skin shifting from grey to normal skin-tones as in death the creature reverted to the person it had been in life.
A wind blew across the slope, the sun blazing bright, and the remaining giants and warriors of the Bright Star roared.
Two figures on the slope, Balur and Gunil, were still exchanging blows, battering at each other with feverish fury.
As Drem looked, Balur ducked under a hammer-swing, stepped in and struck Gunil on the knee with the iron butt of his staff. Gunil tottered, his knee bending, and Balur struck him in the mouth with his hammer-shaft, Gunil tumbling over, crashing to the ground, teeth spraying.
Balur raised his hammer high, Gunil’s hand reaching out, a pleading scream cut short as Balur’s hammer crunched into Gunil’s head, shards of bone and brain-matter exploding.
“WRATH,” a voice screamed behind Drem. He spun on his feet to see Fritha standing on open ground, trading blows with Byrne. Fritha was bleeding from fresh wounds, breathing heavily. She ducked and stepped away, rubbed blood over her lips.
“Sruthán,” Fritha screeched at Byrne, the droplets of blood sizzling in the air as they sped towards Byrne’s face.
“Cumhacht an uisce, an tine seo a dhúnadh,” Byrne said contemptuously, waving her hand and the blood-fire sizzled and hissed into steam, evaporating before it came close to touching her.
Fritha shrieked and swung a wild overhead strike, Byrne parrying, sweeping the blow wide and kicking Fritha in the chest, sending her sprawling on her back. Byrne reached inside her surcoat and pulled out another vial, threw it hard on the ground, smashing it, dark liquid soaking into the earth.
“Fréamhacha an domhain, gabháil agus ceangail,” Byrne called out.
The ground shifted, moving, as if something stirred deep down. Then roots were bursting from the ground, snaking out, seeking Fritha like a blind man’s fingers.
Fritha screamed, crawled away, one of the roots snaring her ankle, wrapping around it while more tendrils sought her other limbs. Frenziedly Fritha hacked and chopped at the root, cutting through it. She rolled away, scrambling to her feet.