Dalli laughed, leapt at the door and stabbed through it into the gloom. Rillirin clapped a hand over her mouth and lurched to her feet. The movement alerted Dalli, who dropped into a crouch and spun, spear suddenly pointed at Rillirin’s chest. Rillirin flattened herself against the woodpile, a branch digging hard into her kidney, and put both arms over her face.
‘Hush, girl, I’m not going to hurt you,’ Dalli said, and Rillirin chanced a look. Her heart was thudding high in her throat. Dalli had straightened and was cradling the spear in the crook of her arm, its butt resting on the top of her boot.
‘Maybe I’ll teach you one day,’ she said and Rillirin’s mouth formed an O of surprise. How does she know? ‘Every woman should be able to protect herself,’ Dalli added and Rillirin’s face twisted with shame. The woman was mocking her weakness. She lowered her arms and stared at the snow, feeling her face heat up.
Dalli pursed her lips and then stepped forward and proferred the spear. ‘I didn’t mean anything by that,’ she said quietly. ‘Here, do you want to hold it?’ she asked and from the corner of her eye Rillirin saw Dom appear in the doorway, knife in one hand.
It’s a trap. They’ll kill me if I take the spear. They can say I attacked them. But Rillirin looked at it, at the warm rich wood, the curves of the grain and the faint sheen of beeswax. She could just make out the hatchings carved into its middle for grip. It was beautiful.
Dalli ran her free hand through her short spiky hair. ‘Go on if you want,’ she said. ‘It’s up to you.’
Rillirin licked her lips, fingers twitching; then she shook her head and looked away, shoulders creeping up around her ears. I remember this game. Drink the wine, wench, you’ve earned it, then a punch in the face if I did. Punch in the face if I didn’t, sometimes.
Dalli tucked the spear back under her arm. ‘Another time maybe,’ she said easily, with a smile Rillirin didn’t – couldn’t – trust. ‘You just let me know and I’ll be pleased to teach you. We all would, whatever weapon you fancy.’
Rillirin didn’t reply. She slid down the wall on to the ground, arms around her knees. Still.
Eleventh moon, year 994 since the Exile of the Red Gods
Watcher village, Wolf Lands, Rilporian border
When Edwin had limped back into the longhouse and announced the slave had been taken by Wolves and his war band were all dead, Corvus had almost gutted the man there and then. One slave, one snivelling little bitch had managed to outsmart him and lead him into an ambush? And not only that, but she’d know all the secrets of the village, their weaknesses. If she talked, she’d give the Wolves all the information they could need to attack Eagle Height itself.
Corvus gathered all the available warriors in Eagle Height and set out without delay. They found tracks at the Final Falls fresh and only hours old, so Corvus led his men on as fast as they could go. If they could catch the Wolves in the open, he could slaughter them all, take back the wench and find out who’d killed Liris. Could be one of the men with him now, waiting for an opportunity to make a bid for the throne in much the same way he had.
Freezing sleet fell, marring the trail, and Corvus grimaced and sped up even more. Lanta, in a knee-length gown and black leggings, ran easily at his side, as she had done for the last day and a half. He still didn’t know why she’d insisted on coming, but despite his misgivings she hadn’t held them up. She was faster than some of his men.
The sleet had plastered her hair to her skull, dulling its vibrant blonde to sand. He couldn’t help but smile at her discomfort, though she hid it well. As war chief of Crow Crag, he’d run and fought through every kind of weather the mountains could throw at him. He was made for this. Sacrifice and communion no doubt had its strains, but she was in his world for a change and he intended to ensure she knew it.
Firelight. Corvus skidded to a halt and flung out an arm to stop Lanta running past. His warriors spread out in a skirmish line and hunkered down, and Corvus quartered the trees ahead. Campfires, more than one, and the smell of cooking.
‘Gosfath’s balls,’ he muttered, ‘we’ve found their fucking village.’ He had a few hundred men, but there was no way of telling how many Wolves there were. Could be a hundred, could be a thousand. The Lady’s will. My feet are on the Path.
‘We’re looking for the slave, remember. She’s not a warrior, so capture any woman who can’t fight. Kill everyone else.’ He got the nod from Fost to his right, Valan to his left, and drew his sword. He heard the creak of bows being bent and strung. He gestured and they started the advance, a silent line in the wet, melding with the dark beneath the trees. ‘Blessed One, stay here,’ he said, not waiting for a response.
Pitch torches hissed and sputtered at intervals in the village, doing nothing to light the darkness. He signalled again and men began peeling off in pairs into the houses, pulling daggers as they slid through the doors. They’d entered all of three buildings before yelling put an end to their stealth.
Shouts of alarm went up and Corvus waved his men on. Wolves poured from the houses and arrows flickered in both directions; the clash of steel started up, shivering loud on his left flank. The empty village was suddenly full of Wolves, armed and armoured as if they’d known he was coming. About a hundred, maybe more; it was hard to tell in the sleet and flickering of torches. Fewer than he had, anyway.
An arrow stuck into the meat of his forearm and Corvus yelped, looked for the archer, saw him and charged. Bow and hand came up to block and Corvus’s sword thunked home; the archer squealed and kicked, falling to his knees, the bow cracked, fingers pattering into the mud. Corvus stepped forward and mashed the severed digits beneath his boot. The archer’s other hand came around in a blurred arc and a knife stabbed into his ankle. Corvus roared in pain and stumbled back, and then another Wolf leapt over his companion, hair flying, howling a wordless challenge as he swung his sword.
Corvus brought his blade up and they clattered together, screeching. The man was shorter, lighter than him, and Corvus bared his teeth and bore down, forcing the Wolf back, herding him into the archer so he’d trip. But somehow the archer wasn’t there, and the Wolf managed to lash a boot into Corvus’s knee, buckling it. He went down hard, twisting to the side, and felt a sword tip rake the bearskin on his back. Motherfucker.
And then Valan was there, hammering into his attacker, driving him back. Corvus swatted the arrow out of his arm and lurched to his feet, gasping, his attention snagged by one of his men clubbing a short Wolf in the face. He wrenched the spear from her hands and dumped her belly down across a wall. He kicked her legs apart and was fumbling with her trousers when a man glided out of the darkness and slipped a sickle-shaped blade around the Mireces’ neck, jerked it in and across. Blood erupted across the woman’s back and she lunged upright, turned and drove her elbow into his temple. She picked up her spear and lunged back into the fight, shrieking defiance. Fuck, these women are tough. Pity they’re faithless whores or I’d have one as queen.
Still, the man was a fucking idiot, going for a rape when the battle’s not won. If they hadn’t killed him, Corvus would’ve taken great pleasure in doing it himself.
Flames were licking up from inside a few of the houses now, the smoke adding further to the chaos, and Corvus took the moments Valan had won him to turn in a circle and search. He stilled. There.
A tall warrior stood in a doorway, sword unsheathed. He made no move to engage any of the Mireces running rampant through his village, holding his position in front of a door. Corvus sucked blood out of the arrow hole in his arm and material of his sleeve and spat it on to the ground as an offering, then ran for him, stabbing a Wolf on his way past and leaving him to fall. The tall Wolf saw him coming and braced himself. Their swords met with