A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,171

with the white bear, but still full of power. Its wings spread wide, beating, rising into the air, and Fritha was running away from Byrne, leaping, arms wrapping around the draig’s neck, and she was swinging onto its back, the draig climbing higher into the air.

A spear whistled past Fritha, and then another winged figure was flying beside her, the half-breed.

Drem watched in frustration as the two winged shapes climbed higher and higher, soon out of range of any spear or arrow, and then they were dwindling quickly to black specks in the sky.

All about them Fritha’s warband broke and scattered. Ferals lifted their heads to the sky, howling, and then they were scattering into the woodland, loping away.

Drem blew out a sigh.

An arm wrapped around Drem’s shoulder—Cullen, grinning at him through a blood-drenched face.

“Well, that was a fight to write a song about, and no denying,” Cullen said.

Keld snorted a laugh on Drem’s other side.

“She got away,” Drem said.

“Aye, well, we’ve got to leave some fights for the morrow,” Cullen answered, “or else we’d have nothing left to look forward to.”

Drem looked at Cullen and shook his head, while Keld threw his head back and laughed. Byrne joined them, watching Fritha and Morn fading into the distance.

“Where’s Gulla?” Byrne said.

Keld’s laughter turned to a frown.

“Not here,” Drem said.

“Aye.” Byrne nodded. “But if he’s not here, then where, and why?”

Drem didn’t like where that thought led him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

RIV

Riv flew above the trees of Forn Forest. Below her the eastern road cut a line all the way to Drassil, though Riv could see no hint of the ancient fortress and great tree, only a never-ending sea of trees spreading before her.

She grimaced with the pain in her wing, a dull, throbbing ache with every beat of it. The Cheren arrow had caught her high on her wing-arch, the stretch of muscle and tendon that joined her wings to the muscles in her back. She had tried to set out for Drassil the night she had rescued Bleda, but within a score of wingbeats knew that she could not do it. The extra weight of carrying Bleda to safety had been too much for her injured wing. Bleda had tended her wound, cleaned and bound it, and after a night’s rest, it had been better, but she was still not recovered, and although she had set out three days ago, what should have been a short journey was stretching into a nightmare of pain.

I must reach Drassil before Jin. Must warn Aphra and Kol of Gulla’s plan, tell them all that Bleda heard.

Over three days had passed since she had plucked Bleda from certain death. She had taken him to a safe place and waited with him for Ellac and his surviving guard to appear. They had spent a night in each other’s arms before Ellac and Ruga had led a score of battered riders into their glade. Riv had tried to comfort Bleda, who was racked with grief for his mother and fury at Jin.

This world is full of one blood-feud or another, an endless cycle.

Riv knew how that felt.

She flew on.

She missed Bleda, an ache in her chest at the thought of him, but there was no way he could reach Drassil in time. It was too dangerous to use the road—Kadoshim and their half-breeds were patrolling it—and travelling through the snare and tangle of Forn would make it impossible to outpace Jin and her Cheren warriors. The only chance was Riv and her wings.

Something on the road below drew her eye. She swooped lower, saw figures scattered upon the road, dark stains about them.

White-Wings.

Hundreds of them.

Riv landed, scowling at the sight before her.

White-Wings, strewn everywhere. It looked as if they had formed a shield wall, the bulk of the dead gathered in a tight formation. It was clear that many had been torn from the wall and slain.

But not by sharp steel.

They had been torn to pieces, shredded with teeth and claws.

Ferals? Or those other things that I saw in the forest?

She picked her way amongst the dead, saw a few bodies that weren’t White-Wings, dressed in tattered clothes.

Not Ferals, then.

Not one of these creatures’ bodies was in one piece. Decapitated bodies, amputated limbs.

They are hard to kill, then. I had to take the head of the one Bleda had impaled on his sword.

And then Riv saw Lorina, Kol’s high captain.

She was lying beside the headless corpse of one of the creatures, a ragged hole where her throat had