Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) by Elspeth Cooper Page B
Authors: Elspeth Cooper
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send my Hounds to guide you, but the rest is up to you .
Raising Her hand, She put it to Her lips and blew a piercing whistle. It shrieked along Teia’s nerves, making her sob aloud and clamp her hands even more tightly over her ears. Deep in the furthest recesses of her mind, she sensed a place of uttermost blackness suddenly stir with hot breath and rank fur.
Your power is fading, little women , Maegern told them scornfully. You are weak .
Hectic colour burning in her cheeks, Ytha met the goddess’s eye. ‘We are strong enough to find Your key, great one. I swear it.’
Maegern’s lip curled. We shall see .
With a sweep of Her arm, She clapped Her helm back onto Her head and turned away. At once She dissolved into the flaming cloud. The brazier died and Teia’s thoughts were extinguished with it.
8
CAT’S PAW
Two hundred-odd Nordmen feasting was a cacophonous affair. Ale-horns banged on tables and hugely bearded men in furs roared at each other, arguing or telling jokes – in their guttural language it was hard to know which was which. Fires blazed in each of the three great pits at intervals down the hall to add to the stench and the heat, and through it all came battalions of servants with platters of burned-bloody meat that they slammed onto the tables without a care for what they spilled, splashed or spoiled in the process.
It was all giving Savin a headache.
He brushed at a gravy-spot on his garnet silk sleeve and frowned. To think he’d given up the sophistication of a desert court for this .
‘You’re not drinking,’ boomed Renngald from the high seat, a skalding-infested oak monstrosity that barely contained the man’s fur-trimmed corpulence.
‘I’m not thirsty,’ Savin said, picking at some bread. He’d eaten his fill an hour ago, but the Nords’ appetites in food and drink, as in all things, appeared to be insatiable.
His host frowned and pushed his iron crown back up his forehead from where it had come to rest on his shaggy eyebrows. ‘’S a feast. Should be drinking, man. Ale!’ he yelled, thrusting his horn cup aloft. ‘Ale for our guest!’
As if it had been a call for a toast, several dozen other men on the lower tables hoisted their cups into the smoky air and voices roared fit to lift the rafters. Most likely they didn’t know or were too drunk to care what they were shouting for.
In his time amongst them he’d concluded that the Nords made up for their dark and cheerless island existence by seizing on the least excuse for feasting. A good harvest meant a feast. Renngald’s prize sow farrowing – a feast. The sun coming out after rain – yes, another feast. He avoided as many as he could, but for as long as he was enjoying the castle’s hospitality it was politic to endure one now and then.
These prodigiously bearded bears of men lolling around the hall were Renngald’s thanes. Good warriors all, according to their lord, and they certainly carried well-worn axes and scarred shields, but as far as Savin could see they were all sots – and lechers to a man. Any serving maid who strayed too close was apt to be dragged onto a rampant cock in full view of the hall, while the other men shouted encouragement or beat time on the table with their fists.
And they were fecund, too: the castle was full of their brats, squalling, fighting, sobbing and hurtling around in packs. After a while their relentless shrilling set Savin’s teeth on edge. Then he would retreat to his tower room, which Renngald had thankfully decreed out of bounds to all but servants, and ward the walls for silence. He was not averse to the pleasures of the flesh – far from it; something else a warded room was useful for – but at least he had the good manners to take his relief in private.
A servant plonked a foaming jug of ale down in front of him and disappeared. The sharp, hoppy scent made him feel slightly nauseous. The noise was now so loud, such a tangled mess of sound, that he could hardly
Raising Her hand, She put it to Her lips and blew a piercing whistle. It shrieked along Teia’s nerves, making her sob aloud and clamp her hands even more tightly over her ears. Deep in the furthest recesses of her mind, she sensed a place of uttermost blackness suddenly stir with hot breath and rank fur.
Your power is fading, little women , Maegern told them scornfully. You are weak .
Hectic colour burning in her cheeks, Ytha met the goddess’s eye. ‘We are strong enough to find Your key, great one. I swear it.’
Maegern’s lip curled. We shall see .
With a sweep of Her arm, She clapped Her helm back onto Her head and turned away. At once She dissolved into the flaming cloud. The brazier died and Teia’s thoughts were extinguished with it.
8
CAT’S PAW
Two hundred-odd Nordmen feasting was a cacophonous affair. Ale-horns banged on tables and hugely bearded men in furs roared at each other, arguing or telling jokes – in their guttural language it was hard to know which was which. Fires blazed in each of the three great pits at intervals down the hall to add to the stench and the heat, and through it all came battalions of servants with platters of burned-bloody meat that they slammed onto the tables without a care for what they spilled, splashed or spoiled in the process.
It was all giving Savin a headache.
He brushed at a gravy-spot on his garnet silk sleeve and frowned. To think he’d given up the sophistication of a desert court for this .
‘You’re not drinking,’ boomed Renngald from the high seat, a skalding-infested oak monstrosity that barely contained the man’s fur-trimmed corpulence.
‘I’m not thirsty,’ Savin said, picking at some bread. He’d eaten his fill an hour ago, but the Nords’ appetites in food and drink, as in all things, appeared to be insatiable.
His host frowned and pushed his iron crown back up his forehead from where it had come to rest on his shaggy eyebrows. ‘’S a feast. Should be drinking, man. Ale!’ he yelled, thrusting his horn cup aloft. ‘Ale for our guest!’
As if it had been a call for a toast, several dozen other men on the lower tables hoisted their cups into the smoky air and voices roared fit to lift the rafters. Most likely they didn’t know or were too drunk to care what they were shouting for.
In his time amongst them he’d concluded that the Nords made up for their dark and cheerless island existence by seizing on the least excuse for feasting. A good harvest meant a feast. Renngald’s prize sow farrowing – a feast. The sun coming out after rain – yes, another feast. He avoided as many as he could, but for as long as he was enjoying the castle’s hospitality it was politic to endure one now and then.
These prodigiously bearded bears of men lolling around the hall were Renngald’s thanes. Good warriors all, according to their lord, and they certainly carried well-worn axes and scarred shields, but as far as Savin could see they were all sots – and lechers to a man. Any serving maid who strayed too close was apt to be dragged onto a rampant cock in full view of the hall, while the other men shouted encouragement or beat time on the table with their fists.
And they were fecund, too: the castle was full of their brats, squalling, fighting, sobbing and hurtling around in packs. After a while their relentless shrilling set Savin’s teeth on edge. Then he would retreat to his tower room, which Renngald had thankfully decreed out of bounds to all but servants, and ward the walls for silence. He was not averse to the pleasures of the flesh – far from it; something else a warded room was useful for – but at least he had the good manners to take his relief in private.
A servant plonked a foaming jug of ale down in front of him and disappeared. The sharp, hoppy scent made him feel slightly nauseous. The noise was now so loud, such a tangled mess of sound, that he could hardly
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