Fritha crept through the trees, Morn walking beside her, a dozen of her Red Right Hand spread either side of them both, Gunil and her Ferals further back. Gunil was walking alongside Claw, who had made a sudden recovery from her wounds, the inflammation and infections peaking and then fading. The forest was still and quiet, only the sound of the wind soughing in the trees, the dripping of snow as it melted from boughs. Another sound filtered into her senses, soft as a sigh at first, growing as she stole through the trees. Constant.
The river. I can hear the river. We must be close.
Morn stopped and held up a hand, palm splayed, facing down. She pointed through the trees.
Fritha stared, could only see trees, what looked like a granite boulder in the distance.
Morn walked on, but Fritha put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her, at the same time signalling for two of her followers to go on ahead.
Morn scowled at Fritha, but she obeyed.
How long will that last, I wonder? Until her wing heals?
Morn had all but collapsed when Arn had carried her into the hold’s feast-hall. Fritha had tended to her, spoken words of power over the wound in Morn’s wing, a deep cut where the muscle and cartilage that supported her wing-arch met the muscle and tendons in her back. It was healing, but not fully recovered yet.
Fritha had left Arn with Elise and five of her Red Right Hand to act as guards for the prisoners at the hold. It left Fritha with ten of her acolytes, plus thirteen of her surviving Ferals. Not the greatest warband in the world, but Morn had told Fritha that she had only fought against two men, Drem and the younger warrior, the red-haired fire-cracker, Cullen. Though she had seen a figure inside their tent, which must have been the huntsman, the fact he had not joined the fight against Morn suggested he was wounded.
Wounded, I hope. Dead he’s no use to me.
Twenty-six of us. We are enough to take two healthy men and one wounded. Gulla will be pleased when I return with Drem and two warriors of the Order; success will erase my failure to stop word of us reaching Dun Seren.
They were close to the boulder now, her two men scouting ahead, flitting shadows between the trees.
Morn stopped again, frowning.
“What is it?” Fritha whispered.
“Their tent is gone,” the half-breed whispered.
There was 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.