A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,42

foaming white, shingle slopes rising on the river’s far side.

Drem exploded from the trees onto a grassy verge, sloping down to the silt and reeds of the riverbank.

The half-breed was rising, swaying erratically in the air, lurching towards the river. Drem skidded to a halt, breathing great blasts of mist into the cold air as he watched the half-breed fly ever higher into the grey sky, hoping that her injured wing would fail her and she would plummet back down to the ground.

She flew beyond the bank, out over the river.

Footsteps drumming behind him and Cullen staggered out from the trees, ran on past Drem, down the slope towards the river. Drem saw Cullen’s hand fumble at his belt, unclipping a folded net, a lead-weighted ball stitched to each corner. The half-breed was at least twenty paces out and up from him as Cullen reached the water’s edge. She saw the warrior, gave him a hate-filled snarl, then saw him raise the net over his head, swinging it in looping circles, the lead balls humming through the air.

The half-breed’s expression changed, a twisted flash of fear and she turned in the air, wings beating harder, a grunt of pain.

Cullen threw the net.

It whistled through the air, rising up, fast and high, reached the apex of its flight and the net opened, lead balls spreading, dragging it down, folding perfectly around the half-breed, the weights spinning around an ankle, a wrist, snaring her wings. She struggled for a weightless moment, then with a despairing cry she tumbled from the air, crashed into the river in an explosion of crystal-cold foam.

The creature disappeared, submerged. Drem, staring, saw her come up twenty or thirty paces downriver, carried by the fast-flowing current. She bobbed on the water, trussed and struggling.

Cullen strode into the water, but almost immediately it rose too deep. Drem ran to his side, splashing into the icy-cold.

The half-breed was carried along, sinking and rising, spluttering and gasping, bound tight in the net’s grip, and then she was gone, the river sweeping her around a bend.

Cullen looked at Drem, blood dripping from his lip; he cuffed away more from a cut above his eye.

“Hope the bitch drowns,” Cullen said, and spat blood into the water.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FRITHA

Fritha looked up through a mesh of branches at the purpling sky, the sun a red line across the western peaks of the Bonefells as day relinquished its grip upon the world.

Where is Morn?

It was the third day since Fritha had fought the draig, since Drem and his companions had escaped her by leaping into a river.

Since Gunil found my egg.

A shiver of excitement at that thought, banishing for a few moments her unease about Morn’s absence and her vexation at Drem’s escape. It was quick to return.

She should be back by now. I warned her only to scout. To find Drem and then return to me, so that she could lead me to them. I thought Morn had learned her lesson, understood that she would not achieve her revenge alone, without my help.

“What should I do?” she whispered to herself. “Stay and wait for Morn?”

But every day here is a day behind Drem, or a day away from the cause. Should I continue my pursuit of Drem?

She swore at the first stars that winked into life, then turned on her heel and marched back to her camp. Her leg ached, a wound across her thigh; ragged rather than a neat cut, it was most likely from the draig’s claws.

Arn had cleaned and stitched it for her. A stab of worry at the thought of him, knowing he was sat at vigil with Elise. Fritha quickened her pace. She felt the presence of a Feral close by, loping in the darkness.

Ah, my babies are protective of me. The thought gave her a warm feeling.

They had buried their dead and then moved a short way from the draig lair, carrying their injured far enough to escape the hideous stench of the draig dung. Fritha walked through the sentry line, glimpsed one of her people standing guard, his shadow merged with a tree. Deeper within the boundary of their camp, Fritha saw the outline of Gunil in the gloom, standing with the shadowed bulk that was Claw. He was tending to the bear’s wounds. Fritha wasn’t sure the animal would survive—some of its injuries were leaking pus and starting to smell bad.

It will be a grievous loss to the cause, if it dies, she thought. She shrugged and moved