By Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell
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Additional info for The Bone Trail (The Wyrmeweald Trilogy)
However the kingirl was once not listening. as an alternative, �kinlance in hand, she brushed earlier Cara and trigger throughout the lengthy grass in the direction of the ridge state. She didn't glance again. Forty-Nine Nathaniel Lint the more youthful leaned on his jogging employees, a crooked rough-hewn size of dogwood, and �permitted himself a grin, regretful and self-mocking. He was once slightly recognizable because the pampered younger service provider who had left the hot stockade with the wyrmetrain all these weeks in the past. He used to be gaunt now, hollow-cheeked. Dirt-filled strains scored his brow. His high quality outfits, with their fur-trim and fussy lace adornments, had lengthy considering the fact that been lowered to rags; his pricey tooled leather-based boots had fallen to bits and the trendy broadbrim hat he wore used to be now battered and shapeless, stained white on the crown with sweat. What a sight he needs to glance, Nathaniel discovered, with the flapping soles of his boots tied into position with strips of sun-cured wyrmehide and the ragged pelt of a greywyrme draped round his shoulders. He’d adapted it himself, spending part an afternoon hacking it off a carcass together with his knife. His loved knife. With its curved blade and bone deal with. It had intended the adaptation among existence and loss of life at the path. He’d fought off carrionwyrmes with it, killed and gutted flitterwyrmes and plump �squabwyrmes, and used it to model either the strolling employees and the rudimentary cloak that secure him from the solar throughout the searing days and saved him hot at evening. Nathaniel had left the wyrmetrain with gourds of salt-spoiled water and a pack of ruined wyrmemeat that he’d deserted at the first evening. Now, the following he was once, 3 weeks later, taking a look around the sun-parched badlands on the lookout tower and bunkhouses of the hot stockade, that shimmered within the warmth haze. He had develop into a hardened weald traveler, or at the least, along with his calloused palms and brown weathered dermis and the large keen-edged knife for killing whatever he wanted, he certain gave the look of one. and the way shocked Solomon Tallow will be while he came across that the younger service provider had survived . . . Nathaniel smiled to himself. whilst the gangmaster arrived again on the new stockade, he will be prepared and watching for him. He took a swig from the lighter of the 2 watergourds, fresh-filled 3 days previous, and was once approximately to trigger back whilst a shadow fell throughout him. Nathaniel regarded up, defensive his eyes from the solar, to determine a whitewyrme flying low overhead. He threw himself down within the dirt instinctively, and his hand reached for his knife. He heard regular rhythmic wingbeats and seemed as much as see the nice whitewyrme fly on in the direction of the hot stockade. Its eyes glowed a deep blood pink, and its lengthy serpentine neck craned ahead, a black zigzag scar stark opposed to the white scales. It didn't appear to see him. As he watched, the creature tilted its wings and arced down over the corrals and courtyard of the stockade which, Nathaniel now observed, was once crowded with the wagons and tents of recent settlers from the plains. With single-minded ferocity, the whitewyrme demolished the lookout tower with a blow from its tail, then set a hay barn ablaze with a jet of flame from its gaping jaws.