A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,60
the sound of snapping branches, a thud, followed by a scream.
Fritha put her fingers to her lips and whistled, heard an answering howl behind her and then she was rushing forwards, past Morn, her spear levelled, eyes searching everywhere. Screams echoed through the trees.
One of the two scouts was standing before a hole in the ground. Fritha reached him and looked down, saw a pit filled with stakes, the other scout skewered through the belly, shoulder and thigh, eyes glazing—then still.
This is Drem’s work.
Fritha turned in a slow circle, scanning the area, trees spread wide, though the canopy was dense above. The Ferals appeared out of the gloom, the bulk of Gunil and his bear not far behind them.
“Cuardaigh,” Fritha ordered, and the Ferals dropped to all fours, began sniffing and snuffling through the area.
The ground vibrated as Gunil joined her, his bear a score of paces behind. He stared around the empty space, saw the marks in the ground where a tent had stood.
“They’re gone,” the giant said, then he looked down into the stake pit. “He’s dead.”
Fritha gave Gunil a dark look.
“Search the area, with care,” she called out.
“Their tent was here,” Morn said, pointing at the ground just beyond the pit. She stretched, arching her back and extending her wings, a tentative flexing.
“It feels good,” Morn said, rolling one shoulder.
“Be carefu—” But Morn was already jumping into the air and beating her wings. They took her weight, and she hovered there a few moments, then rose slowly in a wide spiral.
“I will see things differently from up here,” she called down.
One of Fritha’s Ferals was snorting at the base of a huge boulder. Then it stood on two legs, sniffed the air and trotted off, away from the sound of the river.
Fritha followed.
It led her along a wide path that sloped gently upwards. Abruptly the Feral stopped, looking down at its foot. A length of twine had snagged around it.
“NO,” Fritha shouted as the Feral gave a tug, snapping the twine.
A whistling sound, a thud, something cutting through air and then the Feral was battered from his feet and hurled a dozen paces, slamming into a tree. It slid to the ground, blood leaking from nose and mouth, bones protruding from its smashed ribcage.
A felled tree trunk hung suspended across the path, creaking as it swung back and forth.
Fritha ran to her fallen Feral, saw it was already too late. She crouched beside it, stroked its misshapen jaws, then she raised her head to the trees and screeched her fury.
She blinked away tears and saw Morn standing over her.
“Come, my spear-sister,” Morn said, holding out a hand to Fritha. “We will hunt them together.”
Fritha looked at Morn’s proffered hand a few moments, then reached out and took it, rising to her feet.
“We have found their tracks,” Morn said. “That way.” She pointed south-east, into dense woodland.
Fritha nodded, and without a word she was moving, along the path Morn had pointed to.
A beating of wings and Morn was in the air, while the Ferals and Red Right Hand fell into place around Fritha. It made her feel strong.
Drem, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth, and make you pay for what you have done.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DREM
Fen stopped in front of Drem, the wolven-hound’s ears pricked forwards, a low snarl and his hackles raised in a ridge between his shoulders. Drem pulled to a sudden halt, swaying with the weight of the packs upon his back.
They were standing close to the ridge of a long, shallow incline that they’d been steadily climbing the whole day, pine still thick about them, for which Drem was grateful. He had a compulsion to check the skies continually for leathery wings. Without thinking, he found himself looking skywards again, although most of it was obscured by layered boughs of pine. Here and there a gleam of light broke through, a few snowflakes drifting down like white leaves.
Does it snow eternally in the Bonefells?
“What is it?” Keld said, joining Drem. The huntsman was sweating and pale but had managed to keep walking from sunset to sundown for the last four days. Keld ate like a starving man each evening and morning, and slept like the dead each night. Drem thought he saw a slight improvement in the huntsman each day.
Drem pointed to Fen, who was alert, totally focused on something he could sense or hear.
Drem couldn’t hear anything.
“What’s the hold up?” Cullen breathed, striding up from behind Hammer.