A Time of Blood, page 9
Keld stood there, enemies writhing in agony about his feet, and then to Drem’s horror he saw a Feral leap upon Keld from behind, both of them going down, the Feral’s claws slashing, arcs of blood in the air. They rolled. As they stopped, the Feral was on top, rearing back with its misshapen jaws wide, claws rising. Keld lay still upon the ground.
“Keld!” Drem yelled, trying to carve a way to the huntsman, but there were too many between them.
“CULLEN!” Drem bellowed. “Keld is down.”
Cullen was close, beset by five or six attackers, using his knife like a shield, his sword leaving bloody arcs. His eyes flickered to Drem, but then he was staggering, defending against a barrage of blows.
A slate-grey blur caught Drem’s eye, speeding through the melee: Fen the wolven-hound hurling himself at the Feral upon Keld, its claws held high, blood upon them. With a snarling howl, Fen slammed into the Feral, both of them rolling away, the wolven-hound on top, pinning the thrashing creature down, jaws finding the throat. A savage wrench and blood jetted, the Feral’s feet drumming on the ground. Fen leaped back to the prone form of Keld, stood over him protectively, crouched, teeth bared in a bloody snarl.
The giant and his bear approached Hammer. She was trying to regain her feet, but the bear pounded her with a paw, Hammer’s leg giving way again, sending her tumbling back to the ground. The bear stood over her, the giant upon its back hefting his war-hammer.
Drem swept a sword away with his seax, chopped hard into the head of his attacker, denting the iron cap upon the acolyte’s head, who collapsed bonelessly, then Drem charged, barrelled into a knot of acolytes pressing about Cullen, sending a handful of them flying, and saw open space between him and Hammer.
The giant upon his bear’s back was raising his war-hammer.
A hot pain across Drem’s back and he was thrown forwards, onto his knees. He twisted, saw a Feral standing over him with blood dripping from its claws.
Without thinking, Drem twisted, kicking at the creature’s ankles, saw it stumble, at the same time he was rising, stabbing with his seax, piercing the Feral’s eye, its momentum as it fell driving the long knife deep until Drem felt the tip grate on the back of the beast’s skull.
He shoved the twitching creature away, swivelled on his feet and threw his axe.
It struck the giant bear in the chest, sinking deep, the blade disappearing. The bear reared onto its back legs, roaring, the giant on its back thrown from his saddle, vanishing from sight. The bear crashed back to all fours, bellowed a challenge at Drem.
I’m coming, Hammer.
There was a blow across Drem’s back, a flare of pain lancing through the wound the Feral had just given him, a face full of pine needles as he stumbled and fell. Something was gripping his cloak, pulling him, lifting him.
His feet left the ground and he was rising, above the battle, an aerial view showing the carnage painted in blood and gore.
“This is for my brother,” a voice grated in his ear.
Drem took a moment to register the strength that had lifted him high into the air. He squirmed, his cloak knotting in the half-breed’s fist. Red-hot pain seared along his waist as a knife-thrust that had been intended for his kidneys scored a red line. Another twist and he was facing the half-breed, his face so close to hers he could smell her stale breath. Her eyes blazed their hatred at him and her fist drew back for another stab of her knife.
Drem jerked with his seax, blocking the blade, and headbutted the half-breed across the bridge of her flat nose. Blood and cartilage burst, spattering his face, and the half-breed reeled back, wings sagging.
He headbutted her again, harder, saw her eyes roll back into her head, her wings folding, her grip upon his cloak going slack and he fell away from her, saw her begin a slow plummet back to the ground.
Then he realized he was falling, too.
A moment of weightlessness and panic as he spun his arms, saw the ground rushing up to him. He landed on Hammer, fur and flesh breaking his fall. She was trying to rise again, the other bear advancing on her, the giant nowhere to be seen.
Drem rolled off Hammer, still gripping his seax. He shifted it to his left hand and, drawing his father’s sword, set his feet between Hammer and the other bear.
Blood sluiced down its chest, soaking its fur from Hammer’s claw-gouges and Drem’s axe, though the wounds had not gone deep enough, not reached any vital organ. It opened its jaws and roared at him, spittle flying, the power of it sending him staggering back a pace.
He shook his head and set his feet again.
“Come on, then, death,” he snarled at the bear, “but I’ll give you a scar or two to remember me by.”
Two figures stepped around the bear: the giant, raising a hand and giving a command to the bear, and beside him, Fritha.
Something in Drem stirred at the sight of her, fair-haired, a scattering of freckles beneath the blue eyes that stared only at him. A memory of how she’d made him feel, before. A bearskin cloak was thrown back across her shoulders, dark-boiled leather armour covering her torso. She held a short-sword in her hand, dripping red.
Whose blood is that? Which of my friends?
He saw the Starstone Sword scabbarded at her waist, had a vivid memory of how she had taken it, of kneeling beside his father in the snow, holding his da’s hand as he coughed blood.
He took an involuntary step towards her, checked himself.
Fritha looked at his stance, sword held high, seax low.
“Scorpion’s tail and iron gate combined,” Fritha said with amusement. “Your new friend’s teaching you the sword dance?” Drem said nothing. “Come with me, I can teach you more than those blind idiots at the Order.”
“Step a little closer,” Drem said, “and I’ll show you what they’ve taught me.”
“I offered,” Fritha said. “Either way you’re coming back with me; of your own will or in chains.”
“There’s a third option,” Drem said and lunged with his sword.
CHAPTER TEN
FRITHA
Fritha swept Drem’s lunge away, the calculating part of her mind noting how he overextended as he lunged, but at the same time she saw him check and adjust his balance, a natural shifting of his feet and legs that showed him to be a natural fighter, and she knew that in time he would make a skilled swordsman.
If he were given the chance to learn.
She was annoyed with herself. Why had she just offered him the chance of joining her, when he had already spurned her once? She’d had every intention of crushing him and dragging him back to Gulla as a prize. But there had been something in his eyes as she’d approached him, just for a moment. It had reminded her of the way he had looked at her once, all innocence and trust, that she had found so endearing and fascinating. For a heartbeat it had taken her back to another time, the time before, when life was not all about the dark beating heart of revenge. That look in Drem’s eyes had faded in a flash, though—if it had ever been there at all—replaced by something all too well known to her.
Blame and hatred.
Who is he to judge me?
She strode at him, swayed as he chopped down at her with his sword, parried the stab of his seax and stepped in close, within his guard, elbowing him in the mouth and sending him reeling.
She paused a moment, pointed her short-sword at Drem’s heart, then followed after him, saw the flicker of his eyes that betrayed his next move, caught his sword-strike on her blade, sparks grating as she rotated her wrist, cutting his forearm, and he cried out, dropping the sword. He swung at her with his seax, but she caught the blow easily, deflected it wide and countered, cutting a red line across Drem’s chest. He stumbled backwards, tripped and fell. She kicked him in the gut, put a boot on his chest and levelled her sword at his throat.
“Chains it is, then,” she said.
A deafening roar filled the woodland.
Fritha paused, looked up. She’d heard a lot of roaring this past day, mostly from giant bears, and that was loud enough to rattle her brain in her skull. But this sound was different. Not a bear. For one thing, it was louder, which didn’t give her much comfort. There was also an edge to it that set the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
She looked about the clearing. Everyone who was still standing within it was frozen, like her, searching for the origin of such a terrible sound.
Then she saw it. A monstrous shape emerging from the shadows. It was huge, not quite as tall as Claw, but wider and longer. It was serpentine, reminiscent of the lizards Fritha had seen sunning themselves in the south, but a thousand times bigger, with green-brown mottled skin, like a snake’s. Its belly was low to the ground, set upon four immensely powerful bowed legs, splayed feet with claws like the curved swords the Horse Clans of Arcona wielded. A long, wide tail swayed behind its bulk, but Fritha’s eyes were drawn to its head. A broad, flat skull, its muzzle long with a square-tipped jaw full of razored teeth that dripped with thick saliva or ichor. Its eyes were small and black, gleaming with a primal fury.
Is that a draig?
Spiders crawled down her spine.
The creature paused, surveying them all, petty intruders within its realm. It opened its vast jaws and roared again, trees and branches shaking, setting the ground to trembling, vibrations passing into Fritha’s boots, up her legs.
Then it charged.
For something so vast and squat it was incredibly fast, surging forwards on its muscular legs, scythe-like claws sending great gouts of snow and earth arcing into the air.
For a timeless moment Fritha was frozen, fear and awe immobilizing her.
Drem shifted beneath her, his arm knocking her boot off his chest, sending her stumbling away. He leaped to his feet, pushed her hard in the chest and she crashed to the ground, rolling in the pine needles.
And then the draig was between them, a surging leviathan of muscle. It barrelled into a knot of Fritha’s acolytes, sent them careening through the air, powerful jaws clamping upon one, a ripple of its sinuous neck muscles and her acolyte was severed in two, only his legs and hips remaining.
“TO ME!” Fritha yelled, staggering to her feet, unsure if anyone had heard her, her natural instinct to order the shield wall, but she’d commanded that all shields be left behind on this hunt through the wild, thought it was unnecessary weight that would have slowed them down.
Arn and Elise ran to her; a handful more joined them.
The draig’s head snapped around, eyes fixing upon something. Fritha saw it was the wolven-hound that stood over the form of Drem’s companion.
The huntsman of the group, that is how the Order of the Bright Star work: always a captain, a huntsman with wolven-hounds, and a few fresh warriors.
The huntsman was moving sluggishly, the wolven-hound crouched over him, snarling and snapping at the draig.
The draig clearly didn’t like that challenge to its supremacy. It broke into its scuttling run, Fritha’s acolytes frantically leaping aside as it charged. Fritha felt a jolt of shock when she saw that the wolven-hound did not bolt and flee like everything else in the draig’s path. Instead it gathered its legs beneath it and burst into a run at the draig, not away. Bounding and leaping, the wolven-hound twisted in the air, avoiding the gaping mouth with snapping jaws by a hair’s breadth, skidding along the draig’s head, its claws raking from muzzle to skull, finding purchase, the wolven-hound’s fangs sinking deep into the draig’s neck. It hung there, back legs scrabbling, ripping bloody rents in the draig’s scaly skin.
The draig bellowed, head whipping round, jaws snapping, trying to reach its assailant, tail lashing in its pain and rage, crushing the ribs of an acolyte unfortunate enough to be in its trajectory.
A savage shake of the draig’s body, and with a tearing and rending of flesh, the wolven-hound’s fang’s tore free from the draig’s neck, the creature swiping a claw at the hound as it fell through the air, punching it flying, crunching into a tree. The crackle of breaking bones. The wolven-hound whined, fell to the ground and did not move.
The draig cast its head about for its next victim.
An ear-splitting roar and Claw was lumbering to attack. The two beasts came together like a thunderclap, the force of it knocking men and women from their feet. Bear and draig slashed, raked and bit at one another, their vast bulks heaving, straining, claws gouging bloody streaks through fur and scale and flesh, jaws seeking purchase, snapping, biting. Claw cried in pain, staggering back, blood leaking from a myriad of wounds, the draig mercilessly ploughing forwards, a strike of its claws across the bear’s head sending it crashing to the ground.
Gunil bellowed a challenge and charged, his war-hammer swinging in a loop, crunching into the draig’s ribs, the sound of splintering bone, a scream from the draig, its tail whipping at Gunil, sending him reeling, clutching his side.
“TO ME, TO ME!” Fritha screamed over and over as she lurched into motion, knew that one by one the draig would defeat them all.
As she broke into a run her Ferals gathered about her, only a handful of them still living. Arn, Elise and a few others were already with her. Others, hearing her call, came stumbling and staggering as they approached the draig.
Claw was back on his feet, growling, a heavy paw-strike lashing the draig’s head. Gunil staggered back into the fray, swung his hammer, howling with the pain it caused him, and crunched it into one of the draig’s clawed feet, pulping flesh.
Fritha barked a command and her Ferals swept forwards, some leaping onto the draig’s flanks, clawing and biting, others slinking under the vast bulk of its belly, raking, teeth sinking into meat. Her acolytes spread wide, some with spears stabbing, drawing blood, others darting in with swords, slashing, stabbing, leaping away. Fritha sheathed her short-sword, drew the Starstone Sword and slashed with it, leaving a black, smoking line of charred flesh across the draig’s flank.
The draig roared its frustration as Fritha and her crew worried at it like a wolven pack bringing down an elk. But it was not dead yet. A swipe of claws disembowelled a Feral. An adder-like dart of its head, and the draig snatched up an acolyte who had lingered too long to attack, eviscerating her with a shake of its powerful neck. Elise and Arn stabbed with spears, and it spun to face them, Arn leaping away from a swipe of its scythe-like claws, Elise stumbling, trying to protect herself with her spear, the draig smashing it to kindling, hurling Elise like a straw doll through the air.
And then a winged shape swooped from above: Morn, sword in her fist, alighting upon the draig’s back, between its shoulder blades. She set her feet, raised her sword high and stabbed down, the blade sinking deep.
The draig bellowed in agony, reared up, Morn’s wings beating, somehow managing to keep her balanced atop the writhing draig, and she twisted her sword ever deeper. Acolytes and Ferals rushed in at the creature’s exposed belly, stabbing, slashing, Gunil and Claw pounding at the draig with powerful blows.
With one last roar, the draig toppled onto its side, claws lashing out, taking the head from another acolyte. Morn appeared upon it, wrenched her sword free, stabbed in a frenzy, arcs of blood. Fritha stepped in, set her feet and swung her sword, opening up a huge wound upon its belly, blood and intestines spilling out, a stench erupting, sending Fritha reeling.
One last shudder, a strangled growl, and the draig died.
A sudden silence followed, punctuated by Fritha’s ragged breaths, the groans of the injured, then Claw roared his victory.
“Fritha.” A choking breath.
She cast about, saw Arn kneeling beside Elise, cradling her. Fritha ran to them, knelt beside her friends, saw tears in Arn’s eyes.
Elise was deathly white, one arm shattered, her leg twisted in an unnatural angle, and bone protruding from her side, her ribs smashed. The acolyte coughed, speckles of blood stark and vivid on her too-pale chin.
“Help her,” Arn said.
Fritha checked Elise over, knew what Arn was asking of her.
The earth magic. Words of power.
Fritha looked into Arn’s eyes. “You know I am no adept, my knowledge is limited—”
He grabbed her wrist. “It’s Elise. Just try. Help her, please.”
A long breath sucked in.
Then another thought broke through her worry for Elise.
Where’s Drem?
“Staunch the bleeding and clean her wounds,” Fritha said, standing. “I will be back soon, will do what I can.”
She looked about wildly, couldn’t see him, saw that the Order’s huntsman was no longer sprawled upon the ground.
Where’s the bear?
“FIND THEM!” she screamed, searching the glade, saw the dead scattered everywhere, the tall dunghill mounds, but no Drem, no bear, no warriors of the Order. Her Ferals loped away, but there were so many overpowering scents that they seemed confused, bounding off in different directions.
“This way,” a voice cried from above. Morn was swooping through branches, heading away from the battleground, west.
Fritha followed, found that she was limping, a pain in her leg, and saw a gash through her leather breeks, blood leaking. She ignored it.
The roar of a river growing louder. A shape moving in the distance.
Sig’s bear.
She used her last strength to reach the riverbank, a handful of acolytes running past her, flitting through the trees ahead.
An explosion of water, falling upon her acolytes like a wave, scattered them like leaves.
Fifty paces and Fritha was with them, staring past them.
A wide river roared and foamed, turbulent with snow and spinning broken sheets of ice, floating like icy rafts upon the waters. She saw the bear in the water, two people clinging to it, another lying sprawled upon one of the ice-sheets. Within heartbeats the river had sped them all around a bend, out of view.
Her eyes searched for paths, saw that in a few hundred paces the shallow bank she was stood upon gave way to rearing granite cliffs. The only way to follow them was to leap into the river.
