A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,44

grunted.

“Their crow, it was not with them,” Arn said.

“I know,” Fritha snapped. “Which means they’ve most likely sent it ahead of them, to warn that bitch, Byrne.”

“We should go back to Gulla, then,” Arn said.

Not a pleasant prospect. He doesn’t react well to failure. I do have the draig egg, though…

“There are reasons to continue our pursuit,” Fritha said quietly. “Drem shouted a name during the fight, before the draig appeared.”

“I heard,” Arn said. “Cullen.”

“Aye. Who would have thought that cocky child was Corban’s descendant? A prize indeed, if we took him prisoner.”

Arn shrugged. “If we can find them again, if we can catch up with them, if we can take him alive. A lot of ifs.”

Yes, but the glory and honour of returning with Corban’s descendant. It would be worth the risk.

“And the huntsman,” Fritha continued. “Did you hear him speaking the Old Tongue, using the earth power? He turned his blood to fire.”

An indrawn breath from Arn.

“I would like very much to take him alive and put him to the question,” Fritha said. “We both know how few of the Order are taught the old ways of blood and bone.” She looked at Elise, glanced quickly at Arn. “He could be skilled at healing. The Order value that.”

She could almost hear Arn’s mind focusing on that word, healing, and clinging to that shred of hope.

“Perhaps we should continue our pursuit, then,” Arn said. “But what of Morn? We need her. And she is Gulla’s daughter.”

He left the rest unsaid. Fritha knew if Morn was lost, Gulla’s wrath would be great indeed. She breathed deep, straightening her shoulders. She knew what she had to do, just did not want to admit it.

“I hope that Morn returns to us. But if she is not here by the time we have broken our fast on the morrow, then we must move on. I will need to speak with Gulla.”

“He will not be happy,” Arn said.

“I am not happy,” Fritha snapped. She calmed herself. “Death smiles at us all,” she said.

“All that we can do is smile back,” Arn replied, repeating their mantra, something they had said a thousand times to each other since the day they had first met. The day the Ben-Elim had come.

Fritha nodded, her thoughts already elsewhere. She squeezed Elise’s hand and made her way to the back of the tent, lifted up a fur hide to reveal what lay beneath.

The draig egg.

Fritha crouched beside it, stroked it gently with her palm.

I can feel you stirring, my baby, she thought.

Soon.

She rose and left.

Fritha shared a bowl of broth with her warriors around the fire. A pile of bones, teeth and claws were heaped close to the fire, and the draig’s skin was staked out where it had been scraped of flesh and fat.

It will make a score of cloaks and boots.

Then Fritha stood and paced into the shadows, finding a handful of her Ferals gathered together in a huddle, a weave of limbs and fur, the glint of teeth in the dappled starlight. The others had been sent out as guardians, their noses, ears and eyes making them far better than any human sentry. Some were sleeping, but they stirred and looked up at Fritha as she approached.

“Don’t get up, my children,” she crooned as she reached them, crouching and stroking the jutting brow of one. He looked at her and whined.

“We’ll find them soon,” Fritha said, knowing that the Ferals did not really care; they were guided by much baser instincts: hunger, thirst, a pack mentality. But they were faithful and true to her; if she wanted something done, so did they.

Fritha lay down with them, felt them shift to curl around her, their warmth seeping into her, a barrier that sent the winter’s chill fleeing. The smell wasn’t too good, Fritha had to admit, musty, damp fur and sweat, but it was a fair bargain for being warm and feeling safe, protected. Even loved, and that was a feeling that Fritha hadn’t known for a very long time.

She closed her eyes.

Fritha raised her hand, calling a halt.

She was standing on the slope of a hill, looking east onto the great plain of the Desolation that opened up before her, jagged and scarred. Snow had softened the fissured landscape, giving it an endless, undulating appearance. It was late in the day, Fritha having set her pace by the injured bear and those carrying the wounded on stretchers.

Here and there on the plain she saw pinpricks of light