A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,49

and fidgety. But he also knew they could not leave. Keld was in the grip of a fever, and Hammer was slumped outside, unable or refusing to walk.

Our only option is to leave them, which I won’t do. I hope that Rab has reached Dun Seren.

Cullen passed a branch through the handle of the pot and they both lifted it, carrying it away from the fire. Dappled starlight lit their way as they walked a dozen paces beneath the shelter of pine trees towards the prostrate form of Hammer. The bear lifted her heavy head from her paws and looked at them, a morose growl rumbling in her belly.

“Here you go, girl,” Cullen said as they placed the pot in front of the bear. She sniffed it and looked away.

“That won’t do,” Cullen said, squatting before her and using a ladle as a spoon, scooping a thick, porridge-like substance from the pot and lifting it to the bear’s lips.

“She usually loves brot,” Cullen whispered over his shoulder to Drem, his voice heavy with worry. “Can’t get enough of the stuff.”

Drem checked the numerous bandages about the bear, applied more honey and compresses to the bear’s many injuries, a multitude of claw marks and puncture wounds. None smelled bad or leaked pus, which was something, though Drem feared that the bear would never walk properly again. He’d checked the bones in her shoulder where he’d seen the giant strike her with his great war-hammer, and from what he could tell nothing seemed broken, but since Hammer had pulled and clawed her way out of the river and onto this riverbank, she had taken her weight for only a few score seconds or so. Rising briefly to stagger across the shingle bank, up higher onto a grassy slope and into the cover of these towering pine trees, and then a little further to collapse against a granite boulder. She had not stood since then, even during the half-breed’s attack, despite every effort to encourage her from Cullen and Drem.

Cullen managed to spoon a few ladles of brot into Hammer’s mouth, and Drem stroked her neck, felt her swallow once. They persevered, tried to give her more, but Hammer just lay her head down on her paws and gave out what sounded like a long, rumbling groan, almost like a sigh.

Has she given up? Pining for Sig, and now her injuries and exhaustion on top of that grief.

“That’ll have to do for now,” Cullen said dejectedly. He rubbed Hammer’s furry cheek and stood. They made their way back to their shelter and hung the pot back over the fire, Cullen stirring its contents. When it started to bubble again he filled two bowls and passed one to Drem.

“Eat it while it’s still warm,” Cullen said. “And trust me when I say it doesn’t get to taste any better when it’s cold.”

Drem sniffed it.

The brot was as thick as porridge, though it tasted more of earth and bark than hot oats. After his first taste Drem had declined, but Cullen had insisted, claiming it was made by giants and would fill and sustain him far longer than any other meal.

Starving hunger had eventually convinced Drem to eat it. Cullen had been right: Drem had felt strengthened and fortified, the effects lasting far longer than he would have expected, though he’d been tempted to add some of their small supply of honey to help it go down better, but they were saving that for the treatment of the many wounds they seemed to be collecting.

Keld lay within their shelter, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in what looked like sleep. He was thick with sweat, his skin mottled and patchy, a lump the size of an egg on the back of his head, his chest criss-crossed with claw marks from the Feral that had felled him. Drem and Cullen had cleaned the wounds, but on the second day they had turned angry and inflamed, by the third day had started weeping thick yellow pus. On the fourth day Drem had thought Keld was going to die, but then something had turned in him, and by the fifth day the fluid leaking from Keld’s wounds was clear. His fever had lessened, though it was not beaten yet. Keld’s head cast about and he murmured something, a word breathed from cracked lips.

“Fen.”

Drem felt a deep guilt at leaving the wolven-hound behind. Cullen had slung the unconscious form of Keld over his shoulder and run for the