A Time Of Dread (Of Blood and Bone #1)

Even Byrne pulled a disgusted face.

‘We must talk more on this,’ she said, turning her back on Craf, though that didn’t blot out the wet, disgusting sounds of his feast. She spoke louder. ‘The Captains of Kill and Cure must be told. We’ll hold a meeting on the morrow, with all the captains and masters of Dun Seren. And Tain, word must be sent to our outposts at Brikan and Balara.’ She pursed her lips, thinking. ‘And we should tell the Ben-Elim. This is bigger than our . . . differences. Choose a bird and send word to your father at Drassil.’

Tain nodded.

‘I urge you all,’ Byrne said, worry creasing her eyes. ‘Think hard on this. I have a feeling in my gut; the Kadoshim are coming out from the shadows, attacking for the first time in a quarter of a century. The question is: why? To what end? we must solve this riddle, before it is too late.’

‘What feeling?’ Cullen asked. ‘In your gut, I mean.’

‘Dread,’ Byrne said, and Sig nodded her agreement, for she felt it, too.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX





DREM


Drem sat in the darkness of his cabin, staring at nothing. Two fingers were pressed to the pulse in his neck as he rocked gently back and forth, counting.

It was the third day since his da had died. Or at least, that was what he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. It had taken a day to get back home, after Ulf and Hildith had gathered their scattered hunting party back to them, he was sure of that. He strained to remember, a wave of fresh pain crashing over him with the coming of memories, making him wince and groan. They’d camped in the forest that night, lit blazing fires, and wrapped the dead in cloaks. It was not only his da who had fallen to the white bear. The next day had been a sombre procession back through the forest, carrying litters fashioned from spears and cloaks, Drem carrying his da. He’d been aware of men around him, Ulf offering his sympathy, others like Wispy Beard and Burg saying nothing to him, and for the most part Drem had been unaware of anyone else’s existence. All he could think of was his da, the fact that he was gone now feeling like when the giant bat had sunk its fangs into his shoulder. Sharp, excruciating pain, followed by a numbness to all else, then a memory surfacing through the fog that would drag him back to the pain, followed by the numbing sensation again, over and over.

They had reached his hold on the evening of the first day, bringing his da’s body into the cabin. On the second day Ulf and Hildith had returned with half a dozen men and they had carried Olin’s body into the paddocks and there helped Drem to raise a cairn. Words had been spoken, by Ulf, and Drem remembered even saying something himself, though he could not remember what he’d said. More vivid was the pain in his knees where he had dropped to the ground in his grief. His breeches still bore the snow-salt and grass stains as a reminder.

And now it was the third day since his da had died.

I think.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it, the thought of putting food in his mouth making him feel sick.

Or is it the fourth day? How long have I been sitting here?

He didn’t know.

A shiver rippled through him, his body telling him he was cold, but he didn’t care. He was close to the hearth, though no fire burned in it; only cold ash and black embers filled it. Blinking, he looked at the shuttered windows, realized that it was getting lighter outside, faint beams of light stretching through the slats.

The fourth day, then.

What does it matter?

Da’s gone.

I’m alone.

No one and nothing to live for.

He felt so alone, a depth to the feeling that the word couldn’t hope to contain, and he felt lost, like a broken compass with the needle spinning wildly. His da had been his compass, his lodestone, his north star, and now he was gone.

He realized he had something in his hands, looked down as the daylight washed over it, a gleam of silver.

Da’s silver cloak-brooch.

Sunlight reflected from the four points of the star on it.

The Order of the Bright Star. My da was a warrior, fought for a cause.

But he walked away from it, turned his back on it.

Aye, for me. To protect me, and to avert a war.

That’s what he was doing, even to the end. Telling me to run, standing before me, protecting me. He was only there, in that forest, for me. Because I wanted to find Fritha. And she’s gone too.

Tears came then, not the first time he’d shed them since his da had fallen, but this time they came as great, racking sobs, heaving out of him, his whole body convulsing, his voice and throat a raw, wounded howl. At the end of it he sat there, rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his knees. The brooch glinted on the floor where he’d dropped it, and, not knowing why, he bent and picked it back up, wiping tears and snot from his face.

He was a warrior, and even though he walked away from the Order he never turned his back on me.

One of the few things that Drem did remember clearly from those tangled moments when the bear attacked was the sight of his da setting his feet and raising his sword, and the battle-cry that had issued from his lips.

Truth and Courage.

Why that?

Hooves drummed in the courtyard, one horse, no more, the sound of someone dismounting, feet thudding up the steps. A knock at the door.

‘Drem?’

The handle turned, the door opening slowly, a creak of hinges, light flooding in. A silhouetted figure stepped in, opening the door wider.

‘There you are, lad,’ the figure said, turning now so the daylight washed his face. It was Asger, the market-stall holder. He had been on the hunt, Drem remembered, and been one of those who had helped raise a cairn over his da.

Asger looked at Drem, then about the room, finally at the hearth, and went to work. He threw the shutters open, letting in a blast of cold air and daylight, the sky a pale blue beyond the window frame. He scraped the hearth clean of ash and cinder, found a pile of split logs, a basket of kindling, and started a fire, then went to searching in the kitchen. It wasn’t long before an iron pot was hanging over a fire crackling in the hearth, the smell of porridge wafting about the room as Asger stirred it with a wooden spoon. To Drem’s surprise, when his stomach rumbled this time he didn’t feel immediately sick, as he had the last time.

‘It’s a hard thing, what’s happened to you,’ Asger said to Drem as he passed him a bowl of porridge and scooped one for himself. He pulled up a stool and sat with Drem.

‘No words that’ll make it go away, no deed, either.’ Asger looked hard at Drem, who had been staring into his porridge bowl. Drem stirred it with his spoon, then took a mouthful.

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