A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,29

experienced, far worse than rotting meat or any tanner’s chemical vat, escaped the mound and assaulted their senses, snaking into his mouth and nose like grasping fingers.

“Dear Elyon, no,” Keld whispered. “We have to get out of here.”

“What is it?” Drem asked.

“Draigs.”

Draigs!

Drem had heard of the great beasts, and every trapper had spoken or dreamed of catching and skinning one, but they were a thing of legend, a mythical beast that only the hardiest of heroes could slay, like Maquin Oathkeeper, hailed as the greatest warrior that fought in the War of Wrath. Drem had never thought there was much truth in the tales, and certainly the last draigs he’d heard of had been hunted and slain a hundred years ago. Serpents on legs, some called them, most vicious and deadly of the Banished Lands predators, and that was quite a crown to hold.

“Come on,” Keld said, dragging at Cullen’s arm.

A shadow flitted across them. Drem, looking up, saw a blur swooping above them, leathery wings spread wide.

“There’s no time,” Drem cried, pointing at the half-breed, then gazing back into the trees.

Ferals were surging towards them, a dozen at least, only a few hundred paces away, and behind them were Kadoshim acolytes, shaven-haired and grim-eyed.

Keld shared a look with Drem and Cullen, gave a short nod.

“This is it, then. Let’s see how many of these bastards we can take across the bridge of swords with us,” he growled. “With me.” He ran to Hammer’s side, unstrapping a long linen bag, pulling a bow of ash from it, reaching inside a pocket for a bowstring. In heartbeats the bow was strung. With a hiss, Cullen’s sword was in his fist and he was taking a round shield from where it was hung upon Hammer’s harness, the white, four-pointed star, sigil of the Order of the Bright Star, painted upon it. He slung it across his back, pulled the leather buckles tight, offered another shield to Drem.

“I’ve never used a shield,” Drem said.

“I’ll teach you when we get back to Dun Seren.”

We both know that’s not going to happen. Drem resisted the urge to say it out loud, knew that it would not be the most encouraging thing right now. Instead he put a hand to his neck, finding the reassuring beat of his pulse.

Keld had laid out a handful of arrows on the ground before him. He crouched down, drew a knife across the palm of his hand and clenched a fist, blood welling between his fingers.

“Cnámha an domhain, tabhair dom do neart,” he intoned, letting his blood drip upon the arrowheads.

The steel seemed to shimmer and ripple, and then Keld was standing, one of the arrows nocked. He drew and loosed, almost straight up. There was a shriek as the half-breed swerved, the arrow grazing her wing. She twisted in the air and rose, disappearing into the treetop canopy.

Keld didn’t wait, had nocked and loosed at the pack of Ferals swarming towards them, only a hundred paces away now. His arrow pierced one’s belly, punching out through the creature’s back and hurtling on, slamming into another Feral’s shoulder, hurling it against a tree, where the arrow sunk deep, almost up to its fletching, pinning the Feral.

That’s impossible, Drem thought.

The first Feral, with a hole in its belly, stood and stared, then slumped to its knees.

Hammer growled beside them, huge claws raking the ground.

“Hold, lass,” Cullen whispered to her.

Fifty paces away.

Drem drew his seax and a hand-axe, thought about using his father’s sword, but his seax felt comfortable in his hand, and the memory of his father’s runes carved upon it helped to steady his beating heart.

I would have liked to learn to use Da’s sword. Maybe I will.

If I live long enough.

Keld drew and loosed, an arrow slamming into a Feral’s shoulder and on out of its back, sending the creature crashing to the ground. It regained its feet and ran at them. Drem saw the one with an arrow-hole in its belly was back on its feet, staggering towards them.

Not a comforting sight. They are hard to kill.

Twenty paces.

Another arrow, this one finding the throat of an acolyte. He fell backwards in a spray of blood.

Keld dropped the bow and drew his sword and axe, rolled his shoulders.

Cullen laughed.

“Stay close to me, lad,” Cullen said to Drem as he set his feet.

I wish he’d stop calling me lad.

“Truth and Courage,” Keld and Cullen bellowed, Hammer roaring, and the two warriors ran at the onrushing enemy. Drem stood a moment,