Nothing and no one hiding close by.

‘Surl,’ Fritha said, both command and question.

The hound wined, lifting its head from the trunk, seeming as if even that movement took the greatest effort.

Drem stared at the hound’s torso, trying to work out what was wrong. He could see the shape of its shoulder, the line of its back, but the colour was wrong, and it looked as if it had been draped with a cloak. A dark and red-veined cloak, the colour of burned charcoal from the forge. Then its body shifted, a ripple from neck to tail and the coal-black shape detached itself from the hound, rising, coalescing into a creature with red eyes set in a bloated, flat-muzzled head and long, needlelike fangs that dripped blood. A tremor pulsed through its body, vellum-like wings undulating, stretching out, twice as wide as the hound, now, snapping taut, a leathery rustle as the creature moved.

‘BAT!’ Olin yelled, throwing himself to the ground as the bat launched itself at him. It was bigger than a war shield, a high-pitched screeching like grating bones issuing from its mouth, talons raking at Olin’s back, his horse behind rearing and screaming, lashing out with hooves. The bat veered away, a shadow in flight, bearing back down upon Olin, who was turning, hampered by the deep snow. The bat landed on his chest, hurling him flat on his back, those long fangs darting down, towards Olin’s neck.

Drem flung himself at the creature, a blind rage filling him at the thought of it hurting his da and part-bellow, part-shriek burst from his throat as he slammed into the giant bat, hurling it from Olin, Drem rolling with it in a fountain of snow, wings tangling with his arms, a foul stench of rot and decay mingled with the sickly-sweet tang of fresh blood. Drem came to a halt on his back, grabbed at the bat’s wings as fangs snapped a handspan from his face, a wave of putrescence washing over him, making him gag. He tried to grab the beast by the throat, but its wings were beating a whirlwind in his face. A sharp claw on the spine of a wing slashed his arm, cutting through hide and thick wool to open the flesh beneath, a burning pain and blood-splatter across his face.

Seax on my belt. But he couldn’t spare a hand to reach it, tried to roll the creature into the snow but the weight of its body, the jerk and thrust of its muscular neck made it impossible to do anything but hold it, and he wasn’t doing that very well.

Fritha appeared above him, swinging a branch at the bat, crunching into its body. With a crack the branch splintered and Fritha grabbed a wing, heaving on it, but the blood-frenzied bat ignored her, jaws snapping closer and closer to Drem’s throat.