I stand on solid ground, men spinning and shifting around me in waves through blood-choked air. The world tilts dizzily. Right in front of me, a blade crashes into a man, half severing his head from his neck. The axe … the axe is in my hand.
Not mine. Reyker’s.
I’m inside his memories, inside him, and he’s there as well—not just past Reyker, but present Reyker, his consciousness sitting alongside my own, forcing me to watch as he—as we—run a sword through a man’s belly. Beside us are other warriors, fair-haired, their right eyes adorned with black-inked scales. They scream with raw exhilaration, silver flashing as their weapons slice their opponents’ flesh.
“Let me out!” I push against him from within, like banging on the bars of a cage. He shouldn’t be able to do this—drag me inside him, lock me up, show me what he wants me to see rather than what I seek.
I’m in his soul. There’s no need for spoken language. His every thought comes through, clear as water. “You must see, Lira. You must understand.”
Now it’s a spear we thrust into a man’s guts. The venue changes, from mountain to field to beach, every landscape cluttered with dead and dying warriors.
“This is what awaits your people. This is what the armies of Iseneld do.”
The scene changes again, and I see women weeping and struggling as Westlanders surround them, grab at them, drag them away. I don’t want to think about the awful things the Westlanders will likely do to them.
“If you don’t run, your village will fall. This will happen to you.”
“Stop!” I cry. “No more!”
With a desperate heave, I ripped myself free, slamming back into my own body.
I commanded my shaking limbs to move, scrambling to the other side of the hovel, unsheathing my knife. Any trust we’d built was destroyed in an instant. How had I been so foolish, thinking him no different than my brothers?
“It’s true. You’re beasts.” I had to warn Father that the Westlanders didn’t mean to settle but to destroy. The Sons of Stone needed to know about the foe they faced.
I had to turn Reyker over to them.
He looked at me, as if reading my mind, and held up his hands. “Lira, stonva—”
I rushed for the door, throwing it open. Reyker was right behind me, and I slammed the door into him, knocking him off balance. As I ran, I heard him cough and wheeze. I raced ahead, gaining ground.
My eyes were slow adjusting to the darkness, my thoughts muddled from being inside Reyker’s soul. It took me a moment to notice the hunched shapes creeping ahead of me.
Two dozen shadowy figures, out in the forest in the heart of night’s hour.
One of the shapes drifted in front of me. I bumped into it and bounced off. It spun impossibly fast, bright hair whipping around a pale face, with eyes as blue and cold as ice. A hand closed around my neck, lifting me so my feet dangled.
Had Reyker not just shown me his people’s depravity, burning it into my mind, I might have gaped in awe at the huge warrior until I suffocated. Instead, I used Garreth’s training, burying my knife to the hilt in the frost giant’s throat.
His fingers released me, and we both fell to the ground. I sucked in air as he gurgled and sputtered, a fountain of blood soaking the blond braids of his beard.
I shouldn’t have done what I did next.
As if in a trance, I slipped my hand beneath the warrior’s tunic, opening my mind.
His soul was cool, smooth, and dim, like a sea cave. I saw images of his lovers, his enemies. His sins washed over me in a flood. Dying, he revealed all—every childhood lie, every theft, every slain foe.
Then, it changed. A darkening. An emptying. The cloth of his soul tore free, one fiber at a time, alighting on unseen winds and crumbling like dead leaves in winter. They slipped away, piece by piece, into the ether. As his body died, his soul was sundered. When the last fiber evanesced, it left only a shell. The desolation penetrated deep into my being.
A voice echoed through the carapace. “Come out, Lira. We must go.”
I hesitated, afraid to stay, afraid to leave.
The voice persisted. “Please. Trust me. Come out.”
I relinquished my hold. When I opened my eyes, one of my palms still rested on the dead man. The other was pressed to Reyker’s chest. He knelt beside me, eyes closed, hands folded over my own. Blood clung to my fingers, sticky and warm.
I wrenched my hands closer, holding them in front of my face. I had done this. Deserving or not, I had killed this man and destroyed his soul.
Reyker gripped my arms. When I met his eyes, I saw more in them than I’d expected. Empathy. Regret. Reassurance that I’d chosen the best path among the damnable options set before me. I could imagine Father giving Garreth a similar look after his first kill. It was strangely intimate, and despite everything, I was grateful for his rough grasp and piercing gaze, holding me together. He took my hands, wiping the blood off on his trousers.
Why was he helping me? I’d killed one of his kind. And how had he reached me when I was lost inside the soulless vessel of a dead man?
I started to ask as a sound whispered across the earth. Reyker’s head snapped up. He clapped a hand over my mouth, scanning the space around us.
My dazed mind snapped back to awareness. All those shapes I’d seen—they were Westlanders. They weren’t attacking from the harbor, where the sentries kept close watch. They must have moored their ships farther north and scaled the cliffs. Now they crept through the forest to surround Stony Harbor. The villagers would be caught unaware, cut off from escape.
Reyker hauled me to my feet, swaying unsteadily, his face pallid and damp with sweat. His hand locked around my wrist, but I jerked out of his grip.
I had to look away as I ripped my knife from the dead Westlander’s neck. His axe lay where he’d dropped it, and I picked it up. It was too heavy for me to wield, but I couldn’t leave my only battle-worthy weapon behind. I took a step toward the village, dragging the axe. Reyker grabbed me again.
“Let go.” I held my knife to his throat.
“Nai.” Reyker leaned into the blade. “Thu vil doyja.” He pointed at the dead man.
“These are my people. My family. I won’t abandon them. If I die beside them, so be it.”
“Nai, Lira.” He wrapped both hands around my arm, daring me to sink the knife deeper.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t end the life I’d fought to save. I hated the thought of his blood spilling across my hands, his soul dissolving.
Lowering the knife, I summoned my strength and clenched the axe handle. With a swift thrust, I jammed the flat of the axe into Reyker’s stomach. The blow knocked the breath from him in a violent rush and he fell to his knees.
I turned, running after the Westlanders.
“Ambush!” I shouted.
It didn’t matter. I was too late.
As I reached the edge of the forest, the warning bell came to life—a clear, frantic sound.
Screams of terror and fury accompanied it—the cries of my people. Fire devoured several cottages, illuminating the night. Women raced past with their children, desperate to escape the blaze and the warrior-beasts. Clusters of men battled, in pairs and groups. Bodies fell beneath deft blades. Blood pooled like lengthening shadows.
Westlanders fanned out, howling, weapons raised. They were easy to spot—taller than our warriors, fair-haired, dressed in fur-lined clothing. Their swords were huge spires of steel, worn across their backs instead of at their hips. They fought with brazen disregard for their safety, as if unafraid of death. A few avoided the battle, dashing from one cottage to the next, kicking doors down, like they were searching for something.
I hid behind a tree, knife in one hand, an axe I could hardly lift in the other.
A Westlander near me crouched down, using flint to set fire
to a cloth-wrapped arrow before loosing it. It lodged in the rooftop of a cottage, and the thatching began to burn. He removed another arrow from his quiver.
Securing the knife between my teeth, I hefted the axe, sneaking up behind the man. I pivoted, gathering strength from my feet to my shoulders, swinging the axe into his legs. He stumbled to his knees, and as he tried to rise, to aim his next arrow at me, I swung again, striking his skull. The Westlander toppled sideways, unconscious, but alive.
With a few quick, bludgeoning strikes, I wielded the axe like a hammer and broke several fingers on each of his hands so he couldn’t grip his weapons. I didn’t lie to myself. This man would die; left defenseless, someone would slay him. But it wouldn’t be me.
I took the warrior’s dagger, a blade better fit for my skills. Gathering my bearings, I devised a plan. Father and Garreth would be in the thick of the melee; I couldn’t get to them. But Rhys would be guarding villagers seeking shelter in the great hall. If I could reach him, I could help.
I crept between buildings, staying low to the ground. I’d made it halfway to the hall when I heard screams coming from Ishleen’s cottage.
The main room was in disarray, tables and chairs overturned. A Westlander had Ishleen trapped in a corner, his back to me. I lunged forward, dagger raised, but he heard me coming and dodged my blade. His elbow slammed into my chin, tumbling me to the floor. The dagger fell from my hand.
As I picked myself up, he backhanded Ishleen, knocking her into the wall. Then he came for me. The warrior was stocky, his yellow hair streaked with gray. He snarled at me in his language, the words harsh and garbled.
I scrambled for the dagger, but his axe slammed down between it and my reaching hand. Scooting backward, I ducked behind an upended table. The axe sheared it in half, spraying me with splinters, and the Westlander kicked the table out of the way and raised his axe again, daring me to move.
“Gwylor keep me,” I prayed.
A thrumming sliced the air. The Westlander staggered, an arrow jutting from his armpit.
Rhys stood in the cottage’s doorway, bow in hand.
I grabbed a broken table leg and slammed it into the Westlander’s knees as Rhys shot a second arrow into him. The Westlander sprawled to the floor, and Rhys unsheathed his sword to finish him off.
Ishleen limped over to us, her face bruised and swollen. “Give me your sword.” She held her hand out to Rhys.
“Give it to her,” I said when he hesitated.
Rhys relinquished the sword.
Ishleen looked at the Westlander. “I pray you find no peace in the hereafter.” She drove the sword into the Westlander’s chest.
His mouth dropped open in surprise. He cried out once, then fell still.
Cold numbness wound through my veins.
Ishleen’s face was shuttered, her eyes distant. She fainted, and Rhys caught her, gently hoisting her over his shoulder. “Lir? Are you all right?”
My bones moved on their own: feet shuffling forward, fingers retrieving the dagger. “I killed a man. I felt his soul die.”
My brother gave me the same look Reyker had when he’d wiped the blood from my hands. “They’re beasts, not men. Death is all they deserve.”
If only I believed that.
“How fare the Sons of Stone?” I asked.
“Our men are driving the beasts toward the cliffs, led by Father. Garreth is with him. Father ordered me to evacuate the villagers to the great hall.” There was a question in his voice. “You were missing when the invasion began. I searched for you. I feared the worst.”
Guilt twisted in my gut. I’d been offering undeserved kindness to our enemy. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re alive. Nothing else matters.” Rhys peeked around the doorway, ensuring the path was clear. “Let’s go.”
We crossed the village, darting between cottages. Ishleen awoke and Rhys set her down, supporting her with an arm around her waist. Our progress was slow, the sounds of battle growing louder.
I saw a river of crashing warriors not far from us. The air hung heavy with the clangs of striking metal. Men danced around each other, axes and swords bashing against shields, slicing through skin, lodging into bone. Shouts and commands resonated as the Sons of Stone faced the beasts of the Frozen Sun.
Bodies littered the ground. It was hard to make out the faces of the dead. I tried not to think of Garreth and Father lying among them.
The great hall was within sight when we heard the pounding hooves. Horses galloped from the stables, Westlanders swinging their weapons from atop their mounts. These were our horses, stolen and used against us.
The three of us stood between the riders and the battle.
“Run, Lir!” Rhys broke into an encumbered sprint, dragging Ishleen with him toward the safety of the great hall and the warriors defending it. I was right behind him.
Something made me stop.
There, sitting atop my father’s black warhorse, was a Westlander unlike any other. Long ashen hair trailed behind him. He was bare chested, as if he didn’t fear the threat of blades on his skin, and he radiated a sleek, savage sort of beauty.
His gaze locked on me.
Beautiful. Savage.
The Savage prodded his mount. Leaning to one side, he brought his axe crashing down into the Sons of Stone who ran at him, wielding his weapon like an extension of himself. My clan’s warriors fell. Blood splashed in waves across his skin.
His eyes never left mine. My limbs were heavy as boulders, stiff as plaster.
A voice called my name. Rhys rushed toward me, sword in hand. His eyes darted from me to the Savage, trying to reach me first.
The horse was coming. My legs wouldn’t move.
The Savage veered at the last second, passing between Rhys and me, so close his calf brushed my arm, and I shivered. He circled his horse back in our direction, and Rhys grabbed me, yanking me forward. The warhorse’s hooves pounded, nearly on top of us. We only made it a few steps before Rhys stumbled and choked, eyes widening. His hand slipped from my arm. His sword fell into the grass.
A battle-axe was buried between his shoulders.
My scream was the raw, wrenching keen of an animal. I caught Rhys as he collapsed, lowering him to the ground. I looked around wildly, calling for Father and Garreth.
The Savage leaped off his horse.
“Stay away!” I let go of Rhys and picked up his sword.
With a swift kick, the Savage knocked the weapon from my grip. I drew the dagger, and he slapped it away too. He pulled me to him, smelling my hair, running his fingers through it. I hammered my fists against him, but it did nothing. This close, I saw every detail of his face, his body. I absorbed them through a haze of shock.
Older than Garreth, younger than Father. Tall, muscled, with thick hair hanging down his back in braided ropes of silvery white. Eyes a shade of greenish-gold, like a cat’s. Black ink crawling across one entire side of his body: up his stomach, chest, and neck, then back down the length of his arm to his fingertips, coiling along one jaw and cheek, to his forehead, disappearing into his scalp. Knotted patterns, with intricately etched claws and tails and reptilian heads interwoven between the twisted links.
If the other Westlanders were frost giants, he was a leviathan; if they were beasts, he was their king.
I struggled feebly, my palms smacking his chest. Anguish had torn my mind wide open, left my abilities untethered; my consciousness plunged into the depths of his soul. Except what I dove into was nothing. Colorless, shapeless, void of sensation. The space was starkly, infinitely empty. A barren abyss.
The Savage had no soul.
I pulled my hands free, snapping back into my body as the Savage grasped my chin. “What you see, soul-reader?” The words sounded cumbersome to his mouth. He took hold of my wrist, bending it to expose the scar of flame Reyker had marked m
e with, laughing like my scar was a joke meant to offend him. “He is here.”
The Savage thrust one of his hands into my hair, holding my head still, and the other tightened around my waist, crushing me against him. He pulled a delicate knife from his belt, pushing my hair back and sliding the stiletto behind my ear. The blade bit into my flesh in short, deep cuts. He was carving me. Marking me, just as Reyker had, only this felt far more violent. I whimpered as blood dripped down my neck. “Mine,” he said.
A threat and a promise.
His lips pressed against the wound he’d made behind my ear, and his mouth was freezing, burning like ice against the cuts he’d made.
I felt him enter my mind then, slipping inside like a skilled thief. Tendrils curled around my thoughts, coaxing away my fear and outrage. His voice slithered through my head, an uninvited caress. When I call, you will let me in. You will obey me. You will worship me. I am your savior. I am your god.
“Yes,” I said, dimly aware that the Savage had stolen my will, yet unable to resist.
Just as I was drifting away, losing myself to him, the scar on my wrist grew warm, tingling like a feather fluttering beneath my flesh.
It was enough to loosen the Savage’s grip. Enough for a thought to creep through. “Rhys,” I gasped, latching on to this vicious truth: my brother lay dead at my feet, by his hand. I fought, straining to reclaim my mind. I scratched at the Savage’s face, stomped his foot, pulled his hair. Snarling. Screaming. Until suddenly, my thoughts were my own again.
All around us the night screeched, alive with battle.
The Savage drew back. “Little warrior.” When he smiled, my blood coated his lips. He eyed me shrewdly. “I come back for you both.”
He let go, and my legs gave out. I kneeled in the dirt as the Savage propped a foot on Rhys’s ribs, grasped the handle of his axe, and tore it from my brother’s back.
I dove for Rhys’s sword, but the Savage was already on Father’s horse, riding away.
I didn’t see the battle ebb or hear the victorious shouts from the Sons of Stone. I didn’t know when our men forced the Westlanders against the cliffs and they retreated—some swimming into the harbor where their ships awaited, others fleeing into the forest.
Beasts of the Frozen Sun Page 6
