Blood Storm: The Second Book of Lharmell by Rhiannon Hart Page B

hand and squeezed it. ‘Go to sleep.’
    I wrapped my cloak around my body and lay down, my head pillowed against my bags. I felt for Rodden’s mind-thread, his sweet familiarity. I couldn’t get the harming out of my head. The way his presence had held me down, and the desolate sense of being disconnected from everyone and everything as he had plundered my mind.
    For once, Rodden let me keep the thread in my grasp and I fell asleep holding on for dear life.

    It was late morning when I woke. I wouldn’t say I was refreshed, but I was no longer one of the walking dead. Rodden was sitting up and staring out over the scrubby plain, loaded crossbow in his hands. It was notched with a yelbar tip: he’d been on the lookout for harmings, not rabbits. His eyes were tired, but stubbornly vigilant.
    ‘Your turn,’ I muttered, sitting up and reaching for the water skin.
    He shook his head. ‘I’m fine. Let’s get moving.’
    I protested, saying he needed to rest, but he ignored me. Once we were on horseback I strung my bow and took out a few regular arrows, fletched with Griffin’s moulted feathers. My crossbow was perched in front of me, yelbar bolts at the ready. But we needed blood and I still didn’t trust my aim with that contraption. Rodden was slumped in his saddle and barely in a fit state to ride, let alone to hunt. I aimed my bow into the scrub on my left.
    And waited.
    My arms grew tired, but I kept the bow up. After ten minutes Griffin came swooping back with a swamp rat for us, and I told her to give it to Rodden. She dropped it in his lap, and, bleary-eyed, he cut its neck and began drinking the meagre blood.
    Afterwards he perked up, and together we brought down a rabbit and then a seagull. My heart gladdened at the sight of the bird. We were nearing the coast.
    After our meal, with my crossbow in one hand and reins in the other, I urged my horse into a canter. I heard Rodden follow and, side by side, we ate up the lonely road to Jefsgord, alternately cantering and trotting for several hours. Every time we slowed to give the horses a rest I felt those black tentacles jabbing atmy mind. I knew it was just my imagination but I couldn’t keep myself from peering over my shoulder.
    In the evening we roasted the rabbit carcass. Rodden fell asleep while he was eating, something that I’d thought was impossible to do. I tucked his cloak about him and reluctantly put the fire out. A harming would spot it from miles off.
    I settled myself against a tree to keep watch. The sky darkened into full night and a half-moon rose. I kept myself occupied by making up names for the constellations, as I didn’t know the real ones. I had just finished naming the Hunting Eagle and the Rude Bar-keep when I saw a bat pass over us.
    No, not a bat. A brant.
    I clamped down on my mind and was just about to kick Rodden awake when I saw the giant bird fly away. I watched closely, wondering if the rider had detected us and was winging its way back to its friends. By the way the brant was circling over the countryside it still seemed to be looking for something, so it probably hadn’t spotted us.
    I gave up naming constellations after that. Around two hours after midnight I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer and shook Rodden awake. ‘Just two hours,’ I whispered to him, ‘and then I’ll take watch again.’
    But when I awoke it was morning. Rodden was attempting to shave with his knife, a bit of soap, and no mirror. I scowled at him. ‘You were supposed to wake me up hours ago.’
    The soap slipped from his fingers into his lap. ‘Oh, damn. Hmm? What’s wrong?’ He began scraping at his cheek with the knife.
    ‘Did you see any brants?’
    He shook his head and then hissed in pain. Blood welled from a tiny cut on his jaw.
    ‘Give me that,’ I said, holding out my hand for the knife. ‘You’re making a mess.’
    I knelt in front of him and took the knife. The blood was beading up like rubies and I dabbed at it with my