A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,76
of power into her, Morn had changed, not softened, exactly, but there was something less aloof and abrasive in Morn’s demeanour towards Fritha.
Perhaps the fact that I saved her life has broken through her shell of pride and rage.
“Good,” Fritha said. “I would not lose you, and those nets they have are deadly.”
“Aye, curse them.” Morn spat. She reached a hand to her belt, where the patched net that had almost killed her was neatly folded.
Behind them, Gunil’s bear let out a rumbling growl and crashed into the trees at the edge of the clearing, disappearing. Gunil gave chase, a handful of Ferals bounding after them.
Fritha and Morn shared a look, and then Gunil was shouting, the snap and snarl of Fritha’s Ferals, the growling of Claw, and Fritha turned and ran. She heard Gunil’s voice, booming through the trees. He was yelling commands.
“Get back! Hold!” he was yelling.
Fritha ran faster, Morn running and leaping into the air, gliding ahead. She sprinted through the clearing, past the dead wyrms where some of her Ferals were feasting, on through a thicket of hawthorn to catch up with some of her warriors, who were doing the same as her, running towards the sounds echoing about her.
And then she saw Gunil and Claw, a handful of Fritha’s Red Right Hand around them, Ferals standing in a half-circle, growling like hounds with hackles raised. Gunil had his war-hammer in his fist and was dragging on the reins of his bear, which was rearing and growling, trying to reach something beyond Gunil. The giant heaved on the reins, forcing Claw down, and gave the bear a mighty cuff with the back of his hand.
“Hold, now,” Gunil yelled at the bear.
“What’s going on?” Fritha shouted as she ran up; with a beating of wings Morn touched down to her right.
“He doesn’t like it, wants to kill it,” Gunil grunted, cuffing his bear again. Claw was more composed now, giving Gunil what Fritha thought was a sulky look.
Fritha pushed through her warriors and Ferals, who were ringed around something, spears and all manner of sharp iron pointing.
Then she saw what the bear wanted to kill.
It was a wyrm, long and sinuous, coiled in the shadows of a boulder. Fritha could not guess at its size, probably the length of one of the pines that towered around them, but its body was thick, as thick as the pine’s trunk, with pale, pearl-like scales coating its wide girth. It was injured, that was plain to see, with open wounds raking its torso. The creature was having trouble even lifting its head, though it managed to bear its fangs and hiss at Gunil’s bear.
More than injured, it looks close to death.
Even as Fritha watched, its head sank to the ground, the effort too much for it, and it gave out a long, rattling hiss.
Fritha just stared at the wyrm, lost for long moments in its magnificence; even on the brink of death its power and deadliness were clear. Fritha respected that.
“Morn, your net,” Fritha said, holding out a hand.
Morn put a hand protectively on the net at her belt.
“I have plans for it,” the half-breed muttered.
“You’ll get it back,” Fritha said, hand still extended.
Morn unclipped it from her belt and gave it to Fritha, who shook it out, spun it around her head and cast it at the wyrm.
The net fell over the wyrm’s head and neck. It hissed and raised its head, a feeble motion, the weight of the lead balls on the net almost too much for it to lift. Fritha stepped forwards and staked one corner of the net into the ground with her spear, then gestured for another spear. Morn saw what Fritha was doing and staked another corner with her own weapon.
Fritha stepped away from the head and prodded the snake’s torso with her toe. It hissed, but nothing more. She kicked it, hard, and its head twitched, more hissing, but it lacked the strength to fight free of the net.
Fritha knelt down beside it, running a hand along its scales. It was cool to the touch, the scales smooth. The sense of muscle and malice that emanated from the creature almost took her breath away. She touched one of the wounds, flesh red and raw, then shuffled closer to the wyrm’s wide head. She stroked it, ran a finger across its jaw line, tracing one long fang. It regarded her with a reptilian eye, a twitch of its mouth, but nothing more.