A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,28

pushed together.

Nothing happened.

Veins bulged in Gunil’s neck, a fresh bloom of blood appearing in the bandage about his shoulder. The bear shook, straining, its back legs scrabbling for purchase in loose stone.

With a grinding creak the boulder shifted, moved minutely.

Fritha ran to the rock, put her back against it, her acolytes following, Morn, too.

The boulder rolled free, up a gentle incline, then down a short slope, crushing shrubs and trees.

A new path opened before Fritha, this one leading down, twisting out of view in less than a hundred paces.

“On,” she said, breaking into a run.

A sound ahead, Fritha straining to hear over the pounding of blood in her head and the drum of feet around her. The new passage had bent and turned a downward path, opening up as they made their way into a valley between the mountains of the Bonefells. Somewhere ahead Fritha could hear the rush of water, which made other sounds difficult to distinguish, but there was something.

A shadow flitted across the ground: Morn, flying low.

“They are ahead, so close,” the half-breed called down to her, turning a half-loop in the air, “a quarter-league, no more.”

Fritha picked up her pace.

The ground levelled, widening. Pine trees appeared, heavy with snow that gleamed bright in the low, sinking sun.

Not much left of daylight. Must catch them now, I’ll not stumble upon them in the dark and lose the advantage.

Another burst of speed, Ferals about her growling and snarling. Some were hanging back, unease appearing to pass amongst them. Fritha grunted a breathless encouragement to them.

Soon, my children.

Behind her she heard Claw rumble a growling protest, heard the rhythm of his stride falter, Gunil commanding the bear on.

Fatigue is affecting all of us.

The sound of a river grew closer, and then she saw them. A great bear, powering beneath high-boughed trees. It was limping, still moving at a staggering pace, but not the smooth rolling gait of a healthy beast. Figures were sitting upon it, one looked back, pale-faced and dark-haired, and saw her.

Drem, it is so good to see you again. Perhaps I shall turn you into one of my Ferals, or let Gulla make a Revenant of you. If I can stop Morn from ripping your head from your shoulders, that is.

She grinned, her triumph so close she could almost taste it.

Then she frowned and spat.

What is that smell?

CHAPTER NINE

DREM

“I can see them,” Drem cried to Keld and Cullen, both men sitting in front of him upon the saddle on Hammer’s back.

“Come on, Hammer,” Drem breathed. But the bear was flagging beneath them, her strength fading. And there was something else, a hesitancy in her gait; she was casting her head about, taking in deep, snorting breaths.

Drem looked around, saw only open-spread trees, the ground dense with a litter-bed of pine needles. They were deep into the Bonefells, now, but a region that Drem had never trapped in; Olin had always taken him north in the trapping season between spring and winter.

A foul smell hit the back of Drem’s throat.

Hammer skidded to a halt, rearing and lowing. Keld, Cullen and Drem were thrown from the saddle. The soft spring of the needle litter that coated the frozen ground broke Drem’s fall.

He climbed to his feet.

“What in the name of the Otherworld is that stench?” Cullen spat.

Drem looked about. Dimly through the trees behind them he saw the speeding approach of their pursuers, Ferals and men, behind them the silhouetted bulk of a giant bear.

We need to move.

But Hammer was standing, blowing great gouts of steaming breath. Another wave of the smell crawled into Drem’s mouth, acrid and foul. They were in a wide clearing, dotted with a few thin-trunked trees, most of the snowstorm held at bay by the lattice of pine branches above them. The occasional snowflake drifted down. All around them were mounds. They were tall, not quite the height of a man, wide at the base and tapered. Some were gleaming with ice, frozen solid, but a few on the outskirts of the mounds were steaming. Drem walked close to one, saw something protruding from it, angular and sharp-edged. He looked closer, something shifting in his gut as he realized what it was.

A bone. A big one, that looks as if it belonged to an elk. This is the dunghill of a predator.

Cullen came and stood beside him, wrinkling his nose and prodding at the mound.

I wouldn’t do that, Drem thought.

Cullen’s finger cracked the ice and a smell fouler than anything Drem had ever