She nodded, her eyes huge in her narrow face. For a heartbeat, they stood there: his wife, his children. Then they fled.
“A spear.”
He heard Urkiat’s words, but all he could do was stare after his family.
“A spear, Darak. Arrows will be useless up close. And their swords are twice the length of our daggers.”
Keirith handed the hunting spear to Urkiat and grabbed the smaller two-pronged one the boys used for fishing. Darak hefted the ax. “Tie it to my wrist, Keirith. Use Callie’s belt.”
Keirith bound the ax handle to Darak’s wrist with the narrow strip of braided leather. Such beautiful hands, despite the scraped knuckles—the fingers clever and quick like Griane’s, long and slender like Tinnean’s. Nothing of him in those hands, except maybe the dirt under the fingernails.
“Can you see them, Urkiat?”
“Not yet.” He left off peering out the doorway to glance back at them. “Hurry up.”
“I’m trying,” Keirith muttered.
“You’re doing fine, son.”
Keirith’s eyes met his, then returned to his task. Darak tested the bindings and nodded. He’d have less freedom of movement, but at least it diminished the risk that the first blow would send the ax flying out of his hand.
He paused long enough to gaze around his home for what might be the last time, then ducked outside. Griane and the children had already vanished into the mist. Ghostly figures of women raced past, children clinging to their hands, screaming babes clutched to their breasts, all racing for the fields and the safety of the forest beyond. Boys lingered to help the old folks who followed slowly, so slowly in their wake. Men poured out of the nearest huts, some in breeches, others wearing nothing but their belts and daggers. Somewhere in the mist, he heard Nionik frantically shouting for the men to cover the women’s retreat, but those he could see were already running toward the lake, clutching whatever weapons came to hand: spears, axes, hoes, peat cutters.
Sanok stumbled out of the next hut, looking dazed. Alada flung a mantle around her father’s shoulders. When Darak sprinted toward them, Sanok peered up at him as if he were a stranger.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice querulous with shock. “I thought they only came in the autumn.”
Darak seized his arm. Together, he and Alada half-dragged the old man through the village. They had just made it to the edge of the circled huts when they heard a deep-throated roar, like the howl of a giant beast. It crescendoed to an unnatural ululating shriek that sent shivers crawling down Darak’s spine. The sudden silence that followed was even worse.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop, frozen in anticipation and terror. Then the beast roared again, and this time it was everywhere.
Griane and the children stumbled through the furrows in the newly plowed earth. When they heard that awful roar, Callie whimpered once. She hissed at him, and he choked back a sob. After that, he didn’t make a sound; even when he fell and she and Faelia yanked him to his feet, her brave little boy gave only the smallest gasp, quickly stifled. But when she heard the women’s screams, even Griane moaned.
She veered north—what she thought must be north; the familiar landmarks were lost in the mist. The raiders might have spread out from the lakeshore, but surely they couldn’t have encircled the village already.
She tripped over a rock and went down hard, dragging Callie with her. She gave him a quick kiss as she pulled him to his feet. Pain lanced through her right knee at every step, but fear drove her on. If they could make the higher ground north of the village, they would find plenty of hiding places among the trees and scrub. The raiders would never search so far afield.
As the ground rose, the pain in her knee slowed her to a lurching trot. She stumbled and careened into a boulder. Stunned, she clung to it until Faelia’s urgent tug forced her to move again.
The mist thinned as they climbed. If it was easier to pick their way through the clumps of gorse, it also made them clear targets. Clinging to rocks and scraggly bushes, they clawed their way up the slope.
Behind them, Griane heard a terrified shriek. Callie screamed and Faelia immediately clapped her hand over his mouth. Griane whirled around to see a woman sliding to the ground as slow and loose-limbed as if she were dancing. Her gray hair swirled around her, obscuring her face, but it could not hide the blood pouring down the back of her tunic.
She dragged her gaze from the woman’s body to find the raider watching them.
“Run.” Although she screamed the word in her mind, only a hoarse whisper emerged.
The raider stood there, the bloodstained dagger—longer than her forearm—resting against his thigh. And then he smiled.
Rage churned in her belly, overriding the terror, fury that this man could enjoy their fear and savor the anticipation of killing them.
Just like Morgath in the clearing that morning.
Still smiling, the raider started up the slope.
“Your sling. Faelia, your sling.”
Her daughter just stood there, watching the raider stalk toward them. Griane spun Faelia around, fingers fumbling with the leather straps looped through her daughter’s belt. Only when she ripped it free did Faelia come out of her daze.
“Take Callie and run,” Griane told her.
Instead, Faelia dropped to her knees, scrabbling in the loose earth. Before Griane could shout at her to get her brother to safety, Faelia rose, a stone clenched in her fist.
It had been fifteen years since Griane had used a sling. Faelia brought down game nearly every day. She passed the sling to her daughter and unsheathed her dagger.
As Faelia slipped the stone into the leather pouch, the raider’s pace quickened. One shot—that’s all she would have time for. If she missed, Griane would have to attack him with her dagger and hope that she could steal enough time for the children to escape.
Faelia planted her bare feet and swung the sling in a slow circle over her head. The raider’s smile vanished and he broke into a trot. The sling whirled faster, Faelia’s slender body swaying with the rhythm.
Maker, guide her arm.
A dozen steps and he’d be on them. She could see the sweat gleaming on his forehead, the bloodstains spattering his cheeks.
Kill him. Kill him now!
Out of the corner of her eye, Griane saw Faelia’s body flow forward in the smooth, powerful release Darak had taught her. She could barely follow the stone’s flight. She only heard the hollow crack as it struck the raider’s forehead, saw his brief look of shock as he staggered backward. He tumbled down the slope, rolling over and over before he slid into a boulder.
For a long moment, they stared at his motionless body, one arm outflung as if reaching for them.
“Is he dead?” Callie whispered.
“I think so,” Griane replied. “But he might only be stunned.”
“I hope he’s dead.”
“So do I.”
Griane stole a look at Faelia. Her daughter was as motionless as the raider, her eyes huge and glittering in her white face.
“Mam?” Callie said in the same whisper.
“What?”
“I think I pissed myself.”
For the first time, she noticed the stain on his tunic.
Faelia giggled.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“It doesn’t matter, love.”
Faelia’s giggle became a shriek. Her face crumpled, wild laughter changing to hysterical sobs. Griane pulled her daughter into her arms. She couldn’t remember the last time Faelia had permitted such an embrace, but now her daughter clung to her, her body shaking.
Eleven years old. Eleven years old and she’s killed a man.
Darak barely had time to shove Sanok and Alada inside the hut before the raiders came screaming out of the mist. Two went down, clutching the shafts of the arrows embedded in their chests. The others never slowed.
An arrow hissed past, bouncing harmlessly off the stone wall of the hu
t. Keirith and Urkiat took down two more and then the raiders were on them. Darak sidestepped the first thrust, twisting to hack at his attacker’s arm with his ax. Screaming, the raider lurched sideways, blood spurting from his severed wrist.
A sword slashed downward. Darak ducked under it and drove the head of his ax into the man’s belly. The raider doubled over, his face so close that Darak felt the spray of his spit. As he raised the ax for another blow, the raider seized the haft. Darak stared up into eyes as dark as a winter night. Yellow teeth flashed. Trapped, Darak rammed his forehead into his attacker’s, stunning them both. The raider stumbled back, knocking over a comrade who was swinging a net. They fell, tangled together, but another dodged their struggling bodies and veered toward Darak.
The shock of Keirith’s attack, the fruitless search, the gut-churning fear for his wife and children . . . all coalesced into the bloodlust that flooded his legs and burned up through his belly and chest to pour out of his mouth in a full-throated bellow of defiance.
The raider’s steps faltered. Darak bent to rip the sword free from the severed hand at his feet. Ferocious joy filled him. These hands could wield any weapon. These hands could cut down a charging boar. These were hunter’s hands, sure and strong and whole again.
The ax caught his prey where the neck joined the shoulder. He wrenched it free, laughing as the blood sprayed him, laughing as his sword slashed open another’s belly, laughing, breathless, panting, as his prey dropped his weapon, fingers scrabbling to hold in the guts spilling onto the ground. Red mist filled his eyes. The thrum of his blood filled his ears, pounding in rhythm to his heartbeat, louder than a drum, louder than the screams of the dying, louder than his own wild howling.
The raiders scattered before him. Like a wolf eager for the kill, he raced after the slowest. The earth rose beneath his feet, as if Halam herself carried him over the rutted field, sending him flying swift and sure as an arrow. His prey glanced back once and stumbled, his shriek mingling with Darak’s triumphant shout.
On hands and knees, the man crawled through the furrows. Darak fell into an easy trot as he pursued him. He could already feel the shock of flint on bone radiating through his arms, the warmth of spurting blood bathing his body. He could taste the kill. He wanted it.
A dirty face glanced up at him, eyes white-rimmed with terror. The raider rolled over, slashing wildly with a dagger, but when Darak advanced, he dropped it and raised both hands.
Darak let the sword fall to the ground. The raider babbled something, a plea perhaps, or a curse. Gripping his ax with both hands, Darak raised it over his head. His prey screamed once before Darak buried the blade in his upturned face.
He planted his bare foot on the man’s neck, slipping twice in the blood before he managed to pry the ax free. His legs trembled, every muscle burning from the chase. Panting, he retrieved the sword. As the thrumming of his blood faded, he could hear again, but the screams and shouts seemed muffled as if they came from a great distance.
The deep blast of a horn shattered the illusion. He looked up, surprised to find himself in the middle of the fields. A few raiders stood frozen, as if uncertain whether to obey the summons. Others were already racing toward the lake.
He glanced back at the village. Through the shreds of mist still floating across the fields, he saw Urkiat and Keirith, their backs to the hut, fighting off three raiders. Even before he started running, Urkiat went down.
Keirith planted himself in front of Urkiat, slashing at the raiders with his fishing spear. Always, they remained just out of reach.
Urkiat lay tangled in the net. Blood oozed from a cut on his head. The screams of the dead and dying filled the air, echoing with nauseating intensity in his spirit. Shaking with frustration and fear, Keirith lunged at the greasy-haired man on his right who sidestepped, deflecting the blow with the flat of his sword.
“What do you want?” he screamed at them. “Why don’t you kill me?”
The big one in the middle muttered something. The other two nodded and stepped away from him. Keirith’s gaze darted from one to the other. Even if he managed to wound the big man, the other two would sweep forward from either side and overpower him.
They wanted him alive. That was his only advantage.
Urkiat couldn’t help him. He didn’t know where his father was or if he was even alive. He’d caught only a glimpse of him racing after his attackers, screaming like a demon escaped from Chaos.
That awful bellow sounded again from the beach. The raiders exchanged glances. Alone, he could never fend them all off. They were older, stronger, more battle-wise. But he had a strength none of them possessed.
Frantically, Keirith summoned energy from the blood-soaked earth beneath him and the misty air above. He sought power from the newly risen sun and the sweat rolling down his face. He pulled the energy of all the elements into his body, fueling the power he summoned from his spirit. And he sent them all hurtling toward the big one.
The raider reeled backward, clutching his head. Before the others could react, Keirith lunged at the gap-toothed one, but the release of magic had drained him. The spear wobbled in his hands, the points merely grazing the man’s side. Numbness crept up his arms and legs. The spear slipped through his fingers. He fell to his knees, groping for it.
An agonizing shaft of pain ripped through his head. Something scraped his cheek as he hit the ground. A leather shoe appeared, then another, the toes spattered with blood. Hands gripped both arms. His belly heaved as the ground swung away. A hot stream of vomit poured out of him, burning his throat. Black dots swirled before his eyes, crowding his vision, shrinking the world to a jolting circle of earth that grew smaller and smaller until finally, there was only darkness.
Darak was still racing toward the village when the raiders trotted away, dragging his son’s body between them. That meant Keirith had to be alive. He glanced briefly at Urkiat who was struggling to throw off the net. Alada emerged from the hut as he ran past. He saw no other signs of life in the village at all, although bodies lay everywhere.
The horn boomed a third time. Desperate, he charged down the slope. Slipping on the dew-slick grass, he barely caught himself before he stumbled over the bodies: Meniad, his arms outflung as if beseeching the raiders to stop, and Onnig, his head nearly sheared off, sprawled atop him.
Shouts from the beach drove him past other bodies, raider and kin alike. Elathar lay crumpled beneath an alder, still clutching his fishing spear. Red Dugan slumped against him, his lips twisted in a snarl of defiance.
When he finally skidded to a halt, the two boats were already pulling away from shore. A few stragglers splashed through the shallows. Nionik led a group of men in pursuit, but deadly flights of arrows drove them back.
He searched the chaotic scene for Keirith. When he spied a limp body being hauled over the side of a boat, he charged into the water, knowing he was already too late, knowing he could never reach him in time, knowing that his son was lost because he had allowed himself to be seduced by bloodlust and the thrill of being a hunter once more. But still he ran, plowing through the knee-deep water, heedless of the arrows hissing past, screaming his son’s name until his throat was raw.
He stumbled and fell, choking as water splashed into his mouth. He tried to push himself to his feet, but the head of the ax kept slipping on the pebbles and his left arm was oddly weak. Looking down, he found an arrow embedded in his bicep. He felt no pain, only a numbing cold that spread up his arm to envelop his entire body.
Darak sat in the shallows, watching the rise and fall of the giant paddles, watching the windcloths crawl up the spars and grow big-bellied. Even when Nionik knelt beside him and repeated his name, he sat there, watching the boat that carried his son grow smaller and smaller until it entered the channel and disappeared from view.
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Chapter 6
THE CROWS AND RAVENS came first, soaring in patient circles over the fields. Women emerged from the fore
st, wary as deer, but when they saw the bodies, they started running. Some fell to their knees beside a loved one, their high-pitched keening shattering the stillness that had fallen when the raiders left. Others walked dazedly toward the village, children clinging to their legs.
Skirting the raider’s body, Griane led the children home. She paused beside Jurl’s mother long enough to offer a prayer that Erca would continue to share gossip and advice with the other old ones whose spirits had flown to the Forever Isles. And there were many. Frustrated by the flight of the younger women, the raiders had vented their fury on the old folk, hacking the bodies so many times that they were barely recognizable. Callie buried his face in her tunic, but Faelia paused as if to burn the image of each mutilated body into her memory.
Sanok sat outside his hut, clinging to Alada’s hand. Men staggered past carrying bodies; already, more than a dozen lay side by side in the center of the village. Gortin crawled from one to the next, his body shaking in silent sobs as he pressed the back of his left hand to a forehead, blessing each with the tattoo of the acorn. Griane scanned each face, relief mingling with guilt when she failed to find Darak or Keirith among the dead.
When she saw Ennit walking toward her, she froze in horror. Then she realized he cradled Trian in his arms, poor Trian who would never again daydream among the flocks.
As he passed her, she caught his sleeve. “Is Lisula safe?” Ennit just stared at her. “Ennit, what’s happened to Lisula? And the children?”
“Conn took the girls. I stayed with Lisula and the babe.” His face crumpled as he stared into his brother’s face. “They cut him to pieces. He couldn’t even bring himself to castrate a lamb, and they cut him to pieces.”
“Griane!”
She tore her attention from Ennit to discover Nionik staggering toward her, carrying his son. Nemek’s moan assured her he was alive, but the wounds to his shoulder and leg bled profusely.
Bloodstone Page 6
