A Time of Blood, page 8
Not every day I try to outrun a Dun Seren war bear.
But they were gaining; drops of blood fresher, Fritha guessed from wounds sustained during the battle at the mine.
The ground was changing, rockier, less sure underfoot, so the fact that Drem and the other two were mounted was giving their quarry less of an advantage. The rocky terrain was also making it harder to track them, though.
She put two fingers to her lips and whistled, summoning her Ferals back to her. They seemed as fresh as when the day had begun.
The snow was lessening, glimpses of broken cloud and sky were appearing; the sun was sinking towards the horizon. Two paths stood before Fritha. A narrow ravine leading up into the mountains and a wider path that sloped downwards.
Morn alighted upon a boulder.
“Report,” Fritha said.
“They are in the ravine,” Morn said. “It runs for several leagues.” Fritha had sent her ahead to scout the way, a test of Morn’s new-found obedience.
“And this path?” Fritha asked, pointing at the one that sloped downhill. “Can you reach the ravine’s exit by following it?”
“It drops back into woodland, but yes, you can reach the ravine’s exit that way.”
Good. A flush of excitement.
“Take ten of my Ferals.” Fritha called out names, summoning her most obedient children, the ones she knew would follow her orders, even when she was out of sight. “You will have to move fast. Lead them to the ravine’s exit, hold our prey there. We shall be close behind.”
Fritha drew her short-sword, signalling for her followers to fan out behind her as she set off into the narrow ravine. Soon the Ferals with her began to behave oddly. They’d grown excited, started snapping and slavering, but now they were hanging back, following rather than leading.
Drem, where are you?
Granite cliffs reared to either side of her, the ravine narrowed so that only three or four men could walk abreast.
It’s a good spot to make a stand, especially if you’ve a giant bear to fill the hole. They should be here, fighting, making use of this bottleneck. Of course, they are not to know that Morn and my Ferals will be creeping up and stabbing them in the back.
But there was no sign of them. There was little snow here, the arch of rocks keeping the ground clear, and no soil or foliage to search for evidence of their passing. Then she saw movement ahead, figures shifting around a boulder. Something about them looked wrong.
Fritha swore under her breath.
They are my Ferals.
They were gathered around a shape, the distinct sound of flesh tearing echoing up the ravine to Fritha.
The outline of Morn appeared atop the boulder. In her grip she held the bridle of a horse.
Fritha ran forwards, trying to control the anger she felt that Morn and her Ferals had slain Drem and the others. She wanted him as a slave, or at least the pleasure of seeing him die. As she drew closer she saw her Ferals were gathered around two dead horses, their muzzles and claws red as they feasted.
Something’s wrong. There’s no bear, or people.
“Where are they?” Fritha called up to Morn.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” the half-breed called down to her.
“They are not here,” Gunil pointed out.
Fritha cast him a dark look.
“Stake the horse,” she ordered Morn. “It will feed my Ferals later, but now we must continue our hunt.”
“Anseo,” she called, and the Ferals looked up from their feasting, muzzle-red. Some of them loped over to her, others went back to their meal.
“Laithreach,” Fritha growled, and the others pulled themselves from the horses’ carcasses, reluctantly joining Fritha.
They retraced their steps, Fritha’s Ferals given the lead. Soon they came to a spot where the ravine wall was overgrown with scrub and brush, the dark gleam of granite behind. The Ferals started snapping and whining, one scrabbling into the brush. Arn and Elise stepped forwards; Elise used her spear to dig and pull at the undergrowth. It came away, revealing a boulder, barring the path into a new gully.
“The huntsmen of Dun Seren,” Arn said to her, “always with a trick or two when you think they’re finished.”
“It won’t save them,” Fritha said. “Their horses are gone, all of them are mounted upon the bear. How long can it carry them, wounded as it is?”
Arn grunted his agreement.
“Morn,” Fritha called, and the half-breed took to the air, winging over the boulder. In a few heartbeats she was back.
“They went this way,” Morn confirmed. “Moved the boulder to block our path.”
“Gunil,” Fritha snapped.
The giant dismounted from Claw, gave a command as he put his shoulder to the boulder. His bear moved up alongside him, pushing into the boulder, dipping its neck and putting its weight against the rock.
Giant and bear pushed together.
Nothing happened.
Veins bulged in Gunil’s neck, a fresh bloom of blood appearing in the bandage about his shoulder. The bear shook, straining, its back legs scrabbling for purchase in loose stone.
With a grinding creak the boulder shifted, moved minutely.
Fritha ran to the rock, put her back against it, her acolytes following, Morn, too.
The boulder rolled free, up a gentle incline, then down a short slope, crushing shrubs and trees.
A new path opened before Fritha, this one leading down, twisting out of view in less than a hundred paces.
“On,” she said, breaking into a run.
A sound ahead, Fritha straining to hear over the pounding of blood in her head and the drum of feet around her. The new passage had bent and turned a downward path, opening up as they made their way into a valley between the mountains of the Bonefells. Somewhere ahead Fritha could hear the rush of water, which made other sounds difficult to distinguish, but there was something.
A shadow flitted across the ground: Morn, flying low.
“They are ahead, so close,” the half-breed called down to her, turning a half-loop in the air, “a quarter-league, no more.”
Fritha picked up her pace.
The ground levelled, widening. Pine trees appeared, heavy with snow that gleamed bright in the low, sinking sun.
Not much left of daylight. Must catch them now, I’ll not stumble upon them in the dark and lose the advantage.
Another burst of speed, Ferals about her growling and snarling. Some were hanging back, unease appearing to pass amongst them. Fritha grunted a breathless encouragement to them.
Soon, my children.
Behind her she heard Claw rumble a growling protest, heard the rhythm of his stride falter, Gunil commanding the bear on.
Fatigue is affecting all of us.
The sound of a river grew closer, and then she saw them. A great bear, powering beneath high-boughed trees. It was limping, still moving at a staggering pace, but not the smooth rolling gait of a healthy beast. Figures were sitting upon it, one looked back, pale-faced and dark-haired, and saw her.
Drem, it is so good to see you again. Perhaps I shall turn you into one of my Ferals, or let Gulla make a Revenant of you. If I can stop Morn from ripping your head from your shoulders, that is.
She grinned, her triumph so close she could almost taste it.
Then she frowned and spat.
What is that smell?
CHAPTER NINE
DREM
“I can see them,” Drem cried to Keld and Cullen, both men sitting in front of him upon the saddle on Hammer’s back.
“Come on, Hammer,” Drem breathed. But the bear was flagging beneath them, her strength fading. And there was something else, a hesitancy in her gait; she was casting her head about, taking in deep, snorting breaths.
Drem looked around, saw only open-spread trees, the ground dense with a litter-bed of pine needles. They were deep into the Bonefells, now, but a region that Drem had never trapped in; Olin had always taken him north in the trapping season between spring and winter.
A foul smell hit the back of Drem’s throat.
Hammer skidded to a halt, rearing and lowing. Keld, Cullen and Drem were thrown from the saddle. The soft spring of the needle litter that coated the frozen ground broke Drem’s fall.
He climbed to his feet.
“What in the name of the Otherworld is that stench?” Cullen spat.
Drem looked about. Dimly through the trees behind them he saw the speeding approach of their pursuers, Ferals and men, behind them the silhouetted bulk of a giant bear.
We need to move.
But Hammer was standing, blowing great gouts of steaming breath. Another wave of the smell crawled into Drem’s mouth, acrid and foul. They were in a wide clearing, dotted with a few thin-trunked trees, most of the snowstorm held at bay by the lattice of pine branches above them. The occasional snowflake drifted down. All around them were mounds. They were tall, not quite the height of a man, wide at the base and tapered. Some were gleaming with ice, frozen solid, but a few on the outskirts of the mounds were steaming. Drem walked close to one, saw something protruding from it, angular and sharp-edged. He looked closer, something shifting in his gut as he realized what it was.
A bone. A big one, that looks as if it belonged to an elk. This is the dunghill of a predator.
Cullen came and stood beside him, wrinkling his nose and prodding at the mound.
I wouldn’t do that, Drem thought.
Cullen’s finger cracked the ice and a smell fouler than anything Drem had ever experienced, far worse than rotting meat or any tanner’s chemical vat, escaped the mound and assaulted their senses, snaking into his mouth and nose like grasping fingers.
“Dear Elyon, no,” Keld whispered. “We have to get out of here.”
“What is it?” Drem asked.
“Draigs.”
Draigs!
Drem had heard of the great beasts, and every trapper had spoken or dreamed of catching and skinning one, but they were a thing of legend, a mythical beast that only the hardiest of heroes could slay, like Maquin Oathkeeper, hailed as the greatest warrior that fought in the War of Wrath. Drem had never thought there was much truth in the tales, and certainly the last draigs he’d heard of had been hunted and slain a hundred years ago. Serpents on legs, some called them, most vicious and deadly of the Banished Lands predators, and that was quite a crown to hold.
“Come on,” Keld said, dragging at Cullen’s arm.
A shadow flitted across them. Drem, looking up, saw a blur swooping above them, leathery wings spread wide.
“There’s no time,” Drem cried, pointing at the half-breed, then gazing back into the trees.
Ferals were surging towards them, a dozen at least, only a few hundred paces away, and behind them were Kadoshim acolytes, shaven-haired and grim-eyed.
Keld shared a look with Drem and Cullen, gave a short nod.
“This is it, then. Let’s see how many of these bastards we can take across the bridge of swords with us,” he growled. “With me.” He ran to Hammer’s side, unstrapping a long linen bag, pulling a bow of ash from it, reaching inside a pocket for a bowstring. In heartbeats the bow was strung. With a hiss, Cullen’s sword was in his fist and he was taking a round shield from where it was hung upon Hammer’s harness, the white, four-pointed star, sigil of the Order of the Bright Star, painted upon it. He slung it across his back, pulled the leather buckles tight, offered another shield to Drem.
“I’ve never used a shield,” Drem said.
“I’ll teach you when we get back to Dun Seren.”
We both know that’s not going to happen. Drem resisted the urge to say it out loud, knew that it would not be the most encouraging thing right now. Instead he put a hand to his neck, finding the reassuring beat of his pulse.
Keld had laid out a handful of arrows on the ground before him. He crouched down, drew a knife across the palm of his hand and clenched a fist, blood welling between his fingers.
“Cnámha an domhain, tabhair dom do neart,” he intoned, letting his blood drip upon the arrowheads.
The steel seemed to shimmer and ripple, and then Keld was standing, one of the arrows nocked. He drew and loosed, almost straight up. There was a shriek as the half-breed swerved, the arrow grazing her wing. She twisted in the air and rose, disappearing into the treetop canopy.
Keld didn’t wait, had nocked and loosed at the pack of Ferals swarming towards them, only a hundred paces away now. His arrow pierced one’s belly, punching out through the creature’s back and hurtling on, slamming into another Feral’s shoulder, hurling it against a tree, where the arrow sunk deep, almost up to its fletching, pinning the Feral.
That’s impossible, Drem thought.
The first Feral, with a hole in its belly, stood and stared, then slumped to its knees.
Hammer growled beside them, huge claws raking the ground.
“Hold, lass,” Cullen whispered to her.
Fifty paces away.
Drem drew his seax and a hand-axe, thought about using his father’s sword, but his seax felt comfortable in his hand, and the memory of his father’s runes carved upon it helped to steady his beating heart.
I would have liked to learn to use Da’s sword. Maybe I will.
If I live long enough.
Keld drew and loosed, an arrow slamming into a Feral’s shoulder and on out of its back, sending the creature crashing to the ground. It regained its feet and ran at them. Drem saw the one with an arrow-hole in its belly was back on its feet, staggering towards them.
Not a comforting sight. They are hard to kill.
Twenty paces.
Another arrow, this one finding the throat of an acolyte. He fell backwards in a spray of blood.
Keld dropped the bow and drew his sword and axe, rolled his shoulders.
Cullen laughed.
“Stay close to me, lad,” Cullen said to Drem as he set his feet.
I wish he’d stop calling me lad.
“Truth and Courage,” Keld and Cullen bellowed, Hammer roaring, and the two warriors ran at the onrushing enemy. Drem stood a moment, hesitating, fear squirming in his belly. Drem was no coward but he knew this was likely to be the time and place of his death.
I don’t want to die.
Then he saw Fritha, deep amidst her acolytes, and behind her the looming shape of a bear, a giant upon its back.
My father’s murderers. Sig’s killers.
Fear shifted to anger.
Bellowing a wordless cry, he ran after his comrades.
Keld and Cullen crashed into the Ferals, a sword-swing from Cullen sending a head twirling through the air, blood jetting from the severed stump. Keld was slicing and stabbing, ducking and spinning, constant motion, and then Drem was amidst it all. A Feral came at him, all red jaws and yellow fangs, and without thinking he knocked raking claws away with his axe and stabbed his seax into the man-beast’s mouth, the point bursting out through the back of its neck, severing its spine. Blood erupted as Drem ripped his blade free, the Feral collapsing, twitching.
A blow to his side, sending him reeling, a moment to register it was an acolyte that had fallen into him, a woman with hair shaved to her scalp, a deep wound in her thigh, from Keld or Cullen, he did not know. Drem hesitated, weapons raised, and she stabbed at him with a spear. He jumped back and she followed, favouring her wounded leg, short stabs at his chest and belly sending him reeling, one slicing along his side, cutting through fur and leather, grazing his ribs. He swung his axe wildly, connected with the shaft, hacking the spear-point off. The acolyte snarled and swung the spear like a staff, Drem ducking, chopping into her knee with his axe, stabbing up with his seax as she dropped, the blade punching into her belly, blood hot and sticky, gushing over his gloved fist, leaking under the sleeve of his wool tunic. He shoved the dying woman away, stood over her corpse, gasping deep breaths, looked for Fritha.
Hammer roared, joining the fray, a sweep of her paw sending men and Ferals flying, one Feral impaled upon a tree branch. Another claw-swing sliced through an acolyte’s belly, a slither of intestines falling about his feet. Screaming. Then the other bear was there, the giant upon its back, acolytes and Ferals leaping aside to allow it to get to Hammer.
The two bears met with a resounding thud, the ground shaking, teeth clashing, claws lacerating. Hammer crouched under a blow from the bear, swiping one paw up like a pugilist’s upper-cut, claws raking across the other bear’s neck, her jaws lunging, sinking into her adversary’s head. A roar of pain from the creature.
Hammer’s as fierce and battle-skilled as Sig.
But Sig wasn’t upon Hammer’s back.
The giant swung his war-hammer. With a sickening crunch it smashed into Hammer’s shoulder and she released the bear’s head to bellow her pain. She snapped at the giant, but he was swaying back out of reach, bringing his hammer high for another blow. His bear swiped at Hammer, sending her stumbling backwards, her leg giving way where the giant had struck her. She collapsed to the ground, crushing an acolyte in her fall, a great explosion of pine needles and forest litter.
Drem tried to get to Hammer, slashed at an acolyte in his way, sliced a Feral across its hamstring, but there were too many between him and Sig’s bear. He cast about wildly, hoping that Cullen or Keld would reach her, protect her.
He caught a glimpse of Keld, the huntsman beset by a handful of Ferals and acolytes. Even as Drem watched, he saw Keld draw his blade across his palm, hurling a fistful of his own blood at the swarming enemy before him.
What is he doing?
“Fola de mo chorp, a bheith tine, sruthán mo naimhde,” Keld bellowed, and as his blood splattered across faces and torsos it hissed and burst into tiny sparks of flame. Ferals and acolytes fell away screaming, the stench of scorched flesh filling the glade.
