by Box Set
When they reached the place just beyond the canyon summit, Seneth called out to the men around them, “The Raiders think to strike us just before dawn. They believe us trapped, that outnumbering us two to one ensures their victory, but they forget that we know our lands. We could hold their five hundred in those mountains with a mere hundred men. But lucky for us, we have over two hundred.”
The clanmen all hit the flat of their axes against their shields.
Hargar stepped forward and spoke without any trace of the devastation Otec had witnessed earlier. “We will secrete ourselves in the forests at the narrowest part of the pass while the boys ambush them from above. Then we will hold our ground until every last one of them is dead.”
Over two hundred men cheered—angry, bloodthirsty cheers. Otec stayed silent, the weight of his father’s expectations oppressively heavy.
Chapter 12
The clanmen chose a narrow place in the mountain pass where the fire had been blocked from the forest by the river on one side and a cliff on the other. Sometime in the night, the weather had changed, shifting from the spice of autumn to the chill of winter as dark clouds billowed across the turbulent sky.
Concealed behind a bare outcropping of rock, Otec felt the outline of the broken little mouse in his pocket as he lay waiting, shivering, with the boys of the Tyron and Argon clans in the hours before dawn. All were silent and still, anticipating the signal from Otec’s father, who hid with the men behind a rise in the road. They would prevent the Raiders from entering Argon, while the boys fired from above.
Otec just hoped he didn’t get any of the boys killed. A clanman learned the art of the bow from the time he could walk, but these boys had never fought in a real battle before, and he’d never been a leader.
He heard a scuffle behind him and turned to reprimand the boys, since the Raiders would come into view any second. The twins had pinned another boy down. It was Ivar, his eyes wide, like those of a spooked cart horse that is determined to run, no matter who or what it plows over. “I can’t do this again,” he cried loudly. “I can’t kill another man, even a Raider!”
One of the twins clapped a hand over Ivar’s mouth. “You fool! You’ll get us all killed.”
Every man had to face his fear. For the twins, the fear had come first. For Ivar, it was coming now. Seeing the panic in the child’s face, something within Otec hardened. “I have killed Raiders,” he said. “They die just as easily as a deer or a lamb, and they are more a beast than both.” The boys all looked at him, and he so desperately wanted to say something to rally them—something like Seneth and his father had said earlier. For some reason, Otec thought of Matka on that cliff, terrified and alone.
“Though you are still boys,” he began, “you are more man than any Raider, for you fight to save your sisters and mothers. And save them we will. When you are old, you will tell your grandchildren of this day.”
Ivar stopped fighting, and the boys holding him slowly eased back. There was a dark stain on his trousers—he’d lost control of his bladder. Ivar saw Otec notice. Knowing such a thing could haunt the boy for the rest of his life, Otec said, “Fear touches all men. It’s what you do with that fear that counts.” He said it loud enough and with enough conviction for all the boys to hear. Hands shaking, Ivar took up his bow and settled back into position.
Moments later, Otec heard the sound of marching. He peered over the trees stripped of their leaves, to the canyon floor, stained black and choked with still-smoking debris. Orange flames glowed here and there whenever the wind picked up.
The Raiders came into the open as they rounded the tip of the mountain row by row. The cadence of their marching feet reminded Otec of the sound of drums in the distance.
When the last of the Raiders were directly in front of Otec and his company of boys, Hargar strode to the top of the blackened rise, his feet kicking up clouds of ash. A chill wind tugged at his cloak. He appeared a lone man facing five hundred Raiders. “I mark you for the dead. By my axe, I swear you shall never see your home shores again. I will throw your broken bones into the rivers, and they will be food for the fishes.”
There was a murmur of derision among the Raiders, and some of the soldiers in front drew their twin blades.
Hargar simply waited, his axe and shield by his sides. One of the Raider commanders gave an order. A note rang out on an instrument that was part flute, part whistle, and the soldiers formed into a phalanx. Another note and they charged the hill. Hargar waited until they were halfway up, and then he gave a great shout.
At the signal, all the boys on the mountain stood. Working tirelessly over the last few days, the Tyron and Argon women had increased their arrows by double, though some of them didn’t fly true. Thirty arrows for each boy. “Make sure each one counts!” Otec called out.
He took three arrows in his hand at once, aiming and firing as quickly as he could. As the arrows struck true, the Raiders milled in confusion. When the flute blew out another melody, two companies split off. The men in the center put away their swords, pulled out recurve bows, and aimed for Otec and his boys.
“Take cover!” Otec cried.
The boys ducked behind rocks or simply lay flat. But they had the high ground, leaving the Raiders a very small angle to hit any of them.
When the first volley flagged, Otec grabbed three arrows and loosed them one right after another, then crouched down, grabbed three more, and shot those. It wasn’t long before all of the boys were doing the same.
Otec spared a glance at the clashing armies. His father, too, had the high ground. And swords weren’t much good at blocking the heft of an axe swing.
The flute-like instrument called out again. Another company of Raiders split off, charging up the mountain toward Otec’s group. They splashed through the crystal-clear waters of the Shyle River and penetrated the bare-branched forest.
Otec peered down at them, his cold fingers gripping the gritty outcropping of rock. They would kill his boys—the boys he’d sworn to keep safe. But he could not order them to run, for if he did, the Raiders would surely overwhelm his father and the other clanmen.
Otec’s gaze swept up the mountain, pausing on both sides of the shelf where his boys stood. The Raiders would have to climb a narrow, steep path to reach them. And they would have to go through him to touch any of them.
He pushed his arrows into another of the boy’s hands—one of the twins. Suddenly he knew which one. “Ake, if I fall, you order the boys to climb the mountain and disappear.”
The boy nodded wordlessly. Otec gave his hand a squeeze of solidarity and luck, then picked up his borrowed axe and shield. This time, the weight felt right in his hands. He positioned himself at the best place in the path, where it was so narrow only one man at a time could approach. He thought of all the times he’d defended his flock from a bear or wolves. This was no different.
The first man burst through, his face flushed with cold and blackened with soot. Otec blocked the Raider’s thrust with his shield and chopped with the axe. The man fell, and within seconds his life’s blood ran down the channels carved into the mountains by decades of rainwater.
Another man charged, but Otec blocked him effortlessly. As the Raider twisted his blades and danced his fancy footwork, Otec blocked again and chopped. Blocked and chopped until the Raider fell.
Two men charged Otec next. He blocked one, but the other arced his sword down, slicing into Otec’s arm. He felt no pain. He bashed one of the men with the rim of his shield, shoving him back. The Raider stumbled, then toppled end over end out of sight. Suddenly, another man appeared and swung at Otec, but this Raider also stumbled back, an arrow sticking from his throat, blood gurgling from his mouth. Otec glanced up to see Ivar watching him. They shared a nod.
The boys ran out of arrows and stood at the edge of the shelf, using stones and slings to decimate the company charged with murdering them. Otec fought on until the seemingly never-ending stream of Raiders dried up. He glanced up at
the rock shelf—at the boys cheering, their bows raised above their heads.
Otec studied the battlefield below but couldn’t tell which army was winning. Although the clanmen held the high ground and fought ferociously, they were still greatly outnumbered. He looked up at the boys, pride swelling within him.
“When you woke this morning, you were all boys,” Otec called out. “When you lie down tonight, you will lie down as men. But I will ask one thing more of you. If we hit the Raider’s flank, we can turn the tide of this battle. We can ensure victory for our fathers and brothers.”
He waited as the boys looked at each other. “If you will lead us, Otec,” Ivan said. “We will go.”
“Then take your axes and shields, my men, and we will end this battle.”
Otec took his group of men and slipped silently down the mountain. They gathered in a line, the fear in their eyes eclipsed by a quiet confidence. Otec gave the signal and they rushed forward, ramming into the enemy’s flank. The Raiders barely had time to shift their focus before Otec and his men fell on them.
The clanmen saw their boys and gave a great shout, exploding through the line. The tide of the battle shifted, the clanmen now holding the edge. A few minutes later, Otec took a swing, finishing the Raider before him. And then he saw Jore. If Jore was alive, what had happened to Matka? Then Otec realized Jore was fighting Hargar, his father. For the first time, fear penetrated the haze of battle that had taken hold of Otec. He had seen Jore fight, noticed the skill and experience with which this Raider wielded his blades.
Otec was running toward Jore almost before he’d even thought to do it. His axe arced hard and fast. But then Jore dropped to his knees, his swords crossing under Hargar’s shield and slashing across his midsection.
Matka had called Otec innocent. That innocence burnt away in a moment, leaving righteous fury. He arced his axe down with all his strength. Jore barely had time to dive to the side. Otec was already shifting his momentum, his shield slamming into the Raider and sending him flying.
Jore hadn’t even landed before Otec was on him, swinging his axe hard. But the other man’s experience served him well. Lightning fast, his foot flicked up, kicking Otec’s leg. His leg cramped up and his attack faltered, giving enough time for Jore to gain his feet and launch his own attack.
Ducking behind his shield, Otec sured up his shield with his axe head. He peered out from behind the shield and used it to deflect one of Jore’s swords, then slammed his axe into the man’s knee, buckling it. Otec pulled his axe free of Jore’s bones and swung again. The axe blade bit deep into the Raider’s side, and he fell, his eyes wide.
Staggering with exhaustion, Otec glanced around to make sure no one was coming after him, but most of the Idarans were already dead. A flake of snow landed on his cheek and immediately melted, running down like a tear. He absently wiped it away as he turned to search for his father.
He found him, amid the dead and injured. Hargar lay quietly on his back, his feet propped up on the back of a dead Immortal. Otec rushed to his side and took one of his hands. Hargar was soaked in blood from his stomach down. He looked into Otec’s eyes, profound sadness making his gaze heavy. “Your mother is here.”
Otec whipped his head around, but she was nowhere to be seen. His father must be hallucinating.
Hargar groaned and shifted, his expression pained. “She’s come to take me with her to the dead. And I will gladly go.”
A wave of horror washed through Otec at the realization that his mother was dead. “No, Father. Please. I can’t face this by myself.”
With great effort, Hargar rested his hand on Otec’s shoulder. “You are the clan chief now. You have responsibilities, and you will not shirk them. You will grow into the man the Shyle needs you to be. You will lead them away from these dark times and into the light.”
Tears poured down Otec’s face. “What if there isn’t a clan left?”
Hargar’s mouth tightened and he winced. “Our people are strong. Strong as stone and supple as a sapling. They will not break. Not ever.”
Otec slowly nodded. Hargar took hold of his axe, passing it to Otec’s hands. “Take my axe and shield and use them to defend our people.”
He took them, feeling the smooth polished wood, noting the notches in the shield. “I will, Father.”
Hargar closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He did not draw another.
Otec reached into his pocket and drew out the little mouse with the broken ear and too-big eyes. With one small chop of his axe, it was only a broken, insignificant piece of wood. Otec staggered away from the crushed carving. Away from the father he feared he would never be good enough for.
“She’s still alive,” a raspy voice called. Startled, Otec looked down the hill to see Jore watching him. “One does not simply kill a priestess,” the mortally injured Raider continued, “not if you don’t want to incur the wrath of the Goddess. If you hurry, you could save her.”
The day they’d left the Shyle, Jore had told Otec to remember, because the Raider had known his village was about to be attacked. Otec stumbled toward the Raider, barely restraining himself from finishing Jore off. “Where is she?”
Jore expression began to relax. “All I know is they left her behind in the village. They couldn’t kill her, but the elements could.”
After making sure no weapons were within arm’s reach, Otec crouched near Jore and asked, “Why didn’t you stop them?”
“If I had tried, they would have killed me.”
“What about my family?”
“There are a hundred guards.”
Otec turned to move away, but Jore’s hand flashed out, grabbing his arm. “Tell her . . . tell her I’m sorry.”
This was the man who had killed Otec’s father and abandoned his own sister. “You followed the darkness,” Otec said. “There is no excuse for that.”
Stillness began to steal over Jore’s face. His breaths grew deeper. Otec turned and walked away. Some people deserved to die alone, with no one to mourn them.
Chapter 13
Otec stood at the top of the rise, numb beyond seeing blood and death. Beyond seeing anything but the blinding whiteness. He wondered if this was what Matka meant when she said he was innocent. “Ignorant” was perhaps a better word, since he had certainly been ignorant to suffering and pain. But he was not anymore.
He held his father’s axe and shield in his hand, felt the comforting weight of them grounding his entire body. His feet ached as he stood in a hand span of snow. He turned to look out over the men wandering among the dead and injured. There were women too, by the hundreds. They loaded up the injured to take them back to the villages to be cared for. And they wept over their dead.
Seneth came to stand beside him. “You must take your father’s place.”
Otec breathed in, the cold air knifing through his lungs. “How? They are my father’s men. My brother’s men.”
“Then you must make them yours.”
Otec scoffed. “I don’t have the experience or knowledge to lead them.”
“What I heard from Ivar was a far different story.” Seneth took hold of Otec’s arm. “You’re bleeding.” He motioned to someone.
“It’s not deep,” Otec protested.
“Still, it is best to care for it before it becomes infected,” Narium said as she eased up beside him. She washed the wound with something that smelled of garlic, then wrapped it with boiled rags, her hands warm against his chilled skin.
“Anything else?” she asked gently.
He started to shake his head, but Seneth said, “He’s limping. Right leg.”
“It’s just bruised,” Otec said.
Narium bent down, her pregnant belly nearly making her lose her balance. Otec steadied her. “Go look after someone who really needs it. I’ll be fine.”
Her eyes filled with compassion and she opened her mouth.
“I can’t talk about it,” Otec cut her off before she could say anything about his f
ather’s death. Such kindness might crack the thin ice shielding him from the black river of emotions churning within him.
Narium gave him a small smile, then waddled away. Otec turned to find Seneth staring at the sky. “That is a strange bird.”
Otec followed his friend’s gaze. The white owl circled above their heads. It hovered before Otec, hooting with some kind of urgency, before turning and flying back the way it had come. “It isn’t a bird,” he said firmly. He needed to hurry if he was going to save Matka.
Undon hiked toward them, his red beard a strange contrast to his blond hair. “We’ve made the final count—only four hundred or so Raiders are accounted for.”
“Then the rest are still in the Shyle,” Otec said.
“How do you know?” Seneth asked.
“Raiders take slaves.” Otec called Ivar over and said, “Gather up anyone strong enough to fight. If we hurry, we can reach the village before morning.” The boy took off at a run.
Undon looked toward Shyleholm and back at him again. “My men have marched hard for three days and battled today. They need rest.”
“We can still fight.” Otec turned to find the clanmen gathering behind him, their breaths leaving their bodies in clouds of white that seemed to ring them on all sides. The blood on their clothing had frozen stiff.
“I’m with Undon,” said a Shyle clanman named Destin. He was about thirty years old, with pox scars on both cheeks. “We can’t run blind into another battle. We need to scout out Shyleholm. Attack when we’re fresh.”
Otec gritted his teeth. “What do you think the Raiders will do when they find out we’ve defeated the rest of them? We cannot take that risk with our families—we cannot abandon them for even a day.”
The wind tugged on Undon’s thinning blond hair. “I will not risk my men. They’re too exhausted to fight. Besides, I have a few prisoners to interrogate. I’m hoping to have some new information to pass on to High Chief Burdin.”
