dead Stormrider.
Without thinking, he reached out, clutched the pouch and tore it free. His trembling fingers fumbled at the drawstring. Then the pouch was open and he dug in his fingers and took out a pinch of the tiny black grains. An acrid smell like burning tar stung his nostrils. He hesitated a moment, then slipped the grains onto his tongue. The fever iron tasted like ash and metal and something else, a sour
wrongness
that told him this poison did not belong in his body.
But it was too late.
Before he could tell what the
gaal
was doing to him, a shadow fell over him and a huge hand gripped his shoulder.
It was Grath.
“Still alive,” the mordog said. “Lucky.” Then he spotted the pouch in Finn’s hand and he grinned. “Knew you’d see things our way sooner or later.”
He held out his hand. Finn accepted it and was hauled to his feet by the mordog as if he weighed nothing. As soon as he was standing, he felt something rushing through him, like a cold fire coursing in his veins. The pain in his shoulder hadvanished, as had his fear and weariness. Everything around him and everything inside him was as sharp and brilliant as crystal, as if he had stepped out of a dim room into dazzling winter daylight.
So this was what fever iron did to you. Finn’s hands knotted into fists. He knew he would return to the battle and he would kill and kill. The beasts had to pay. They would pay for what they had done to him.
Then he noticed there was no clash of metal, no harsh cries and screams. The Stormriders were standing at the breach, their weapons ready, but there were no Nightbane at all.
“They’ve fallen back again?” Finn asked. He felt a strange surge of anger at the thought. He was ready
now
to fight and kill. He didn’t want to wait.
“They’ve gone this time for good,” Grath said. “The lookouts confirmed it. The Nightbane are retreating to Adamant. Seems pretty clear it’s not a feint to draw us out.”
Finn glanced at the men on either side of him, their faces grim and set. There were so few left. So few.
“No one is left to be drawn out,” he said bitterly. The enemy was gone, but the rage of battle still blazed in him. He became aware that he was clutching the pouch of
gaal
in his hand. If he dropped it, the grains would spill onto the ground uselessly. Maybe he should, he thought, but he could not open his hand and let it go.
“They mowed into us pretty good, didn’t they?” Grath said, and laughed.
Finn glared at the mordog, startled by the callous tone in his voice. He took in the deep-set eyes on either side of the doglike snout, the lipless gash of the mouth. This was a face that Finn had been taught all his life to hate and fear, the face of the monster in the dark. The beast
out there
.
The mordog laughed again. “You all do that,” he said.
“Do what?” Finn said.
“You
men
. The way you look at us. At my people. Like you’ve found a dead rat in your ale.”
Finn looked away, angry that his thoughts could so easily be read by a creature like Grath.
“My brother ordered you to watch over me in the battle, didn’t he?”
Grath confirmed his guess with a nod.
“You’re welcome,” the mordog said dryly.
“I thank you for …” Finn began. “Thank you. But I don’t need watching over.”
“You’re a good fighter,” Grath said, scraping the gore off his blade against the sharp edge of one of the fallen stones. “You’ve been in a few tight corners like this already, that’s clear. This is your first war, though, isn’t it?”
Finn thought of the boy with the arrow in his throat.
“Is that what this was?” he asked. “Seemed more like slaughter to me.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Most of those we killed were mordog,” Finn said. “Those are your own people lying dead out there.”
To Finn’s surprise Grath growled and spat.
“
Shu koth
,” he snarled. “Puppets. They still dance to the Deliverer’s tune.”
“The
Without thinking, he reached out, clutched the pouch and tore it free. His trembling fingers fumbled at the drawstring. Then the pouch was open and he dug in his fingers and took out a pinch of the tiny black grains. An acrid smell like burning tar stung his nostrils. He hesitated a moment, then slipped the grains onto his tongue. The fever iron tasted like ash and metal and something else, a sour
wrongness
that told him this poison did not belong in his body.
But it was too late.
Before he could tell what the
gaal
was doing to him, a shadow fell over him and a huge hand gripped his shoulder.
It was Grath.
“Still alive,” the mordog said. “Lucky.” Then he spotted the pouch in Finn’s hand and he grinned. “Knew you’d see things our way sooner or later.”
He held out his hand. Finn accepted it and was hauled to his feet by the mordog as if he weighed nothing. As soon as he was standing, he felt something rushing through him, like a cold fire coursing in his veins. The pain in his shoulder hadvanished, as had his fear and weariness. Everything around him and everything inside him was as sharp and brilliant as crystal, as if he had stepped out of a dim room into dazzling winter daylight.
So this was what fever iron did to you. Finn’s hands knotted into fists. He knew he would return to the battle and he would kill and kill. The beasts had to pay. They would pay for what they had done to him.
Then he noticed there was no clash of metal, no harsh cries and screams. The Stormriders were standing at the breach, their weapons ready, but there were no Nightbane at all.
“They’ve fallen back again?” Finn asked. He felt a strange surge of anger at the thought. He was ready
now
to fight and kill. He didn’t want to wait.
“They’ve gone this time for good,” Grath said. “The lookouts confirmed it. The Nightbane are retreating to Adamant. Seems pretty clear it’s not a feint to draw us out.”
Finn glanced at the men on either side of him, their faces grim and set. There were so few left. So few.
“No one is left to be drawn out,” he said bitterly. The enemy was gone, but the rage of battle still blazed in him. He became aware that he was clutching the pouch of
gaal
in his hand. If he dropped it, the grains would spill onto the ground uselessly. Maybe he should, he thought, but he could not open his hand and let it go.
“They mowed into us pretty good, didn’t they?” Grath said, and laughed.
Finn glared at the mordog, startled by the callous tone in his voice. He took in the deep-set eyes on either side of the doglike snout, the lipless gash of the mouth. This was a face that Finn had been taught all his life to hate and fear, the face of the monster in the dark. The beast
out there
.
The mordog laughed again. “You all do that,” he said.
“Do what?” Finn said.
“You
men
. The way you look at us. At my people. Like you’ve found a dead rat in your ale.”
Finn looked away, angry that his thoughts could so easily be read by a creature like Grath.
“My brother ordered you to watch over me in the battle, didn’t he?”
Grath confirmed his guess with a nod.
“You’re welcome,” the mordog said dryly.
“I thank you for …” Finn began. “Thank you. But I don’t need watching over.”
“You’re a good fighter,” Grath said, scraping the gore off his blade against the sharp edge of one of the fallen stones. “You’ve been in a few tight corners like this already, that’s clear. This is your first war, though, isn’t it?”
Finn thought of the boy with the arrow in his throat.
“Is that what this was?” he asked. “Seemed more like slaughter to me.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Most of those we killed were mordog,” Finn said. “Those are your own people lying dead out there.”
To Finn’s surprise Grath growled and spat.
“
Shu koth
,” he snarled. “Puppets. They still dance to the Deliverer’s tune.”
“The
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