The Blood List Read Online Free Page A

pissed his breeches. It was an alaunt. Most likely from the baron’s own dog pack. Only last year one of these vicious hunting dogs had got loose and torn apart a shepherd as
he tried to protect his flock. The man’s family had received generous compensation but the baron refused to have the dog destroyed, despite the fact that it now had a taste for human
flesh.
    As the dog snorted and grunted its way through the coney’s innards Barnaby did not dare move a muscle. In the height of summer his hair merged with the golden corn, but it was late spring
and the corn was still green. Any movement would make him stand out against it as clearly as the rabbit. The dog threw its head back to swallow a chunk of meat and then, to Barnaby’s
shrinking horror, its black eyes fell upon him.
    For what must only have been a few seconds they stared at one other, then Barnaby risked moving his eyes to see if the tree was climbable. The first decent branch was over six feet up. The beast
would be on him before he could even hook a leg over. He wouldn’t even have the chance to pick up the bow. He flicked his eyes back to the dog.
    It was still looking at him.
    A breeze stirred the leaves above him and whispered in the leaves of corn. It was an eerie sound and the dog’s ears twitched nervously. The seed balls of the plane tree danced in
Barnaby’s line of vision. If he snatched one down and threw it the dog might take fright; only for a second, but perhaps long enough for him to snatch up the bow. Slowly he reached up and
plucked one of them. But it was too ripe. It crumbled in his hand, the seeds drifting off on their parachutes of fluff. One sailed gently towards the alaunt, and to Barnaby’s surprise the dog
skittered back.
    The wind blew stronger, and the seed pods danced more frantically.
    He plucked another and crumbled it in his hand, then let the wind take it. This time the wisps of fluff flew quickly, forming themselves into a single waving line, like a trail of smoke or a
marching army.
    The dog lowered itself onto its front legs and barked.
    He picked another seed head and crumbled it. But he needn’t have bothered. As soon as the first seed struck the dog’s head, it let out a sharp whine, turned, and bolted. A moment
later it was just a dark speck racing through the pastureland in the direction of the manor house.
    Barnaby exhaled in a sob. His tunic was wet with sweat and his legs were too wobbly to support him. He slid down the tree trunk and sank his head between his knees.
    Eventually, after a drink from his waterskin and the hunk of pie Juliet had packed for him, his strength returned. He went over to the trail of grain, but all that was left of the coney were a
few scraps of bloody fur and the stink of fresh meat.
    He stank too and the sun was giving him a headache.
    In the distance the silver disc of the lake was too bright to look at. But however scorching the day its waters were always deliciously cool. He set off towards it.
    The fields of rye and buckwheat he passed through would soon be ready for harvesting. His heart sank. Harvest time was always the most tedious part of the year.
    The sun was low in the sky and he squinted into its red glare. Darting lights appeared at the edge of his field of vision and he paused to try and focus on them. As a child, before he realised
it was just light distortion, he’d imagined these were his fairy guardians. Very occasionally he dreamed he was being watched over by other presences and, despite what he had been told about
the spiteful and covetous nature of fairies, those in his dreams were warm and comforting.
    In reality they could not have been, of course, because according to his father he had been so traumatised by his time in Fairyland that he was inconsolable for months afterwards. Those
difficult first few days of his life were rarely spoken of, and though he suspected his father was secretly proud to have outwitted the Little People, his mother