A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,48

A silence. The red eyes shifted and flickered. “We will have to speed up the plan. There is nothing else we can do. I shall send forth the Seven.”

“You are able to do that?”

“Aye. We have turned half a thousand already, from Kergard and the surrounding holds. I wanted more before I sent out my Seven, but…” The face twitched, a movement like wind blowing across a sail.

“I will send them into the Land of the Faithful,” he said. A fierce shifting of his mouth, a ghastly parody of a smile.

“What of our allies in the south?” Fritha asked.

“I will send word to the Shekam also, but this may be too soon for them.” A snarl rippled across the skinned face. “A hundred years in the planning, and now there is no time. Because of a talking crow.”

Plans are wonderful things until they go wrong, Fritha thought. Which they always do. She held her tongue, though, and remained silent as the parody of Gulla’s features twisted in rage.

“Your numbers,” Gulla eventually said, “and, where are you?”

“Thirty of us,” Fritha said. “We are at a hold at the southern tip of the Bonefells; likely thirty leagues from Dun Seren.”

Another silence, the jaws of the animated skin opening and closing, as if Gulla were gnashing his teeth.

“You must return to me. You carry the Starstone Sword and you’re too close to Dun Seren. We cannot risk it falling into the hands of the Order of the Bright Star.”

Fritha hated to fail at a task, and she longed to take Drem and his companions prisoner, just so that she could drag them back to Gulla and cast them at his feet.

She muttered a curse to herself.

“What?” Gulla’s voice said.

“There are reasons to continue the pursuit,” Fritha said. “One of them, the huntsman, knows the earth power. He spoke the old words, melted the faces from a handful of my people. And the young one, he is Cullen, descendant of Corban.”

The skinned face creased as Gulla frowned. “Two valuable prizes.” The lips moved, a sibilant hiss. “One with the closely guarded secrets of the Order, the other a trophy to crush their spirit and raise our own. I remember that Corban.” Gulla spat the words like a poison. “The worm that dared stand against our king.”

“He slew Calidus, Asroth’s chosen commander, the legends tell,” Fritha said, intrigued to hear a Kadoshim speak of those days.

“Aye,” Gulla grunted, “through trickery. Calidus was a fool.”

“To capture his grandchild would be a great triumph, my Lord. One that you could proclaim to your kin. Something to set against the blow of being forced to move sooner than planned.”

Gulla’s face twitched and snarled.

“Hunt them a little longer,” he breathed.

“As you command, my Lord,” Fritha said.

“Good. Do not fail me.” With a long, exhaled sigh like the rattle before death, the skinned face deflated, sagging in its framework.

Fritha set to taking it apart, packing it away into a small wooden chest she’d found in the hall. She folded the skinned face and wrapped it in a piece of linen, putting it into the chest on top of the frame and iron bowl.

A fist pounded on the door and Fritha turned, swept up her spear.

Gunil strode to the doors and lifted off the bar he’d set across it. Arn was there, his arm around a figure half-slumped against him.

It was Morn.

She was wet and bedraggled, ice glistening in the hair on her stubbled head, and one of her wings drooped at an odd angle. Something was draped about her, a tattered net snared in one wing and arm, wrapped around her leg.

Arn half led her, half dragged her into the hall, Gunil taking the half-breed in his thick arms.

Morn lifted her head and looked at Fritha.

“I’ve found them,” the half-breed said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DREM

“Some help here,” Cullen said, pointing to a pot hanging over a small fire. They were sitting within their rough-made tent, a screen of hide blankets and cloaks stitched together and tied to coppiced branches, a fire-pit scraped into the hard earth.

Drem stood, wincing as the knife-cut along his waistline rubbed, scabs cracking, and the stitches in his back and arm pulled.

I hope she drowned, Drem thought, echoing Cullen’s words at the riverside. Three days had passed since the half-breed had fallen into the river, and there had been no sight or sound of her or Fritha’s acolytes. So the likelihood was she had drowned.

And good riddance.

The knowledge that they needed to move seeped through Drem, making him anxious