Otec stared him down, and Ymir motioned to the hundred Reisen behind him. “Back into position. This fool Shyle—”
His rant was interrupted by Destin shouting, “Raiders!”
Otec shoved his axe back in place and climbed back on the tallest boulder, then took hold of his bow and started firing at the men rushing out of the field in such numbers they shook the remaining seeds from the stalks. He didn’t even need to aim for the sheer number of them; he simply fired three arrows at once into the front line, then took hold of three more and fired again.
Two hundred men firing arrows on two sides left a line of dead the Raiders had to clamber over. And still they kept coming.
“They’re attacking the Reisen at the base of the hill!” cried one of Otec’s men.
Otec swung his bow around, taking out men as they cleared the trees. If they could punch behind the Reisens’ lines, they would have the hill surrounded. “We have to hold this hill!” Otec yelled as Raiders fell with the blighted leaves.
For a while, his men held the Raiders back, killing them faster than they could climb. But they just kept coming—hundreds upon hundreds of them. And Otec’s men were running out of arrows. The men moved seamlessly to slings, flinging stones nearly as quickly as the arrows had flown. Otec joined them, taking stones from a stack someone had already set up on top of the boulder. Soon the stacks of stones had dwindled down to bare rock. Men scrambled along the ground, slinging anything they could find.
The Raiders crested their wave of dead and began advancing up the hill.
“We have to retreat,” Dobber called out from Otec’s right.
“If we lose this hill, we lose the only advantage the north flank has,” Otec replied. He found the twins and motioned them toward the main camp. “We need arrows. And order any men in the camp up here now!”
The boys took off at a dead run. Otec turned back to the battle just as the first Raider crested the hill, his swords thrusting forward. Destin chopped down on the folded steel, shoved the man back with his shield, and swung his axe down.
This was repeated across the lines by the handful. But without enough men keeping the Raiders at bay with their slings, another dozen snuck in. And another. Dobber was in trouble, two men fighting him at once.
Otec hooked his sling on his belt and took his shield in hand. He dropped down from his boulder, axe swinging. The Raider was dead before he fell. Otec swung at the Raider fighting Dobber, cutting into his legs. Dobber finished him with a strong swing.
Otec whirled around. He blocked and chopped, his arms past feeling. Swords sliced past his shield. Dozens of cuts crisscrossed his skin. Yet his men held.
Destin appeared on his right. “They just keep coming.”
“Gen has to see our need,” Otec panted, his axe seeming heavier and heavier. “He has to send reinforcements.” But the men came only from the direction of the encampment. And they were going to be too late.
Sweat ran down Dobber’s face. “Otec,” he gasped, “if we don’t retreat now, we’re all going to die.”
“If we retreat” —Otec used the backswing of his axe to bash in a Raider who’d tried to sneak up behind him— “the Raiders will overrun us all.”
A cry came from his right and he turned to see Dobber staggering back, blood gushing from his leg. Otec took a step to help him, but Destin was suddenly there, driving the edge of his shield into the man’s back and saving Dobber’s life.
But the move left Destin open to the man he’d been fighting, and the Raider took advantage, shoving his sword into Destin’s back. The Raider leapt over Destin’s falling body and rushed at Dobber.
Otec rammed the Raider with the lips of his shield, swept his legs out from under him, and killed him with one downward swing. He whipped around to find Destin in his death throes. Dobber gaped at the dying man and began backing away, his head shaking vehemently. “No, no, no, no, no!”
“Dobber—” Otec sidestepped a thrust, sweeping the Raider’s swords to the side with his shield, and following it up with a quick chop. He looked over his shoulder to see Dobber running, leaving Otec’s right flank open. “Dobber!” he shouted as two men at once descended on him.
Gritting his teeth, Otec gave ground. “Tighten up!” A Raider’s sword slipped through his shield, piercing his already wounded arm.
Another sword pierced his leg. He was losing too much blood. And his reactions were growing slower. Otec backed up, knowing he needed help. A swing came, and he knew he would be too slow to block.
The Raider froze mid-swing, eyes bulging. By the hundreds, arrows rained down on the Raiders swarming the hill. But the arrows came from behind the Raiders.
Otec staggered back and his clanmen stepped forward, blocking him from the Raiders. He let his arms fall, his axe and shield too heavy to hold up anymore. He traced the path of the arrows back to the hill on the other side of the rye field. He lifted his telescope and stared through it at a company of Argons. “Where did they . . .” and then he saw Seneth shouting out orders to what had to be two hundred and fifty men. “By the Balance, he’s got at least a hundred boys with him.”
Otec heard a thunk and turned to see his axe had slipped from his hands. He stared at it, wondering how it had gotten on the ground. And then he saw the blood running like a river down his arm. He staggered back and realized his boots were full of blood. He fell to his knees and turned to see men from the encampment cresting the hill on the south side, Matka leading them.
He reached for her, but the movement threw him off balance. He tipped over, landing hard on the rocks. Otec stared at the sky, wondering if this was how the leaves felt as they died, their colors bleeding out.
And then Matka blocked his view. She didn’t say a word, just opened a bag and tied a ripped rag tight on his upper arm.
Another woman knelt beside her. Otec recognized her—Ressa, Gen’s wife. “This is Otec? Should we move him?”
“No!” Matka said breathlessly. “If I don’t get his bleeding stopped, he’ll be dead before we get anywhere.”
Ressa glanced around. “But we’re at the front lines.”
Matka leaned over Otec, looking into his eyes. “I’ve been on the front lines all my life.” Her words whispered against his lips. “Stay with me, Otec, and I’ll give you anything you want.”
He looked into her dark eyes, determination rising like a wave within him. “Stay.”
Tears pooling in her eyes, she nodded. “All right. I’ll stay if you will.”
He smiled then, for he knew he’d won.
It took two months and a harsh winter to finally drive the Raiders from the clan lands’ shores. Braving the freezing wind off the ocean, Otec found Matka standing well back from the edge of the cliffs, watching the departing Raider ships.
His gaze dropped to the item she was rubbing her thumb across. She held the elice blossom he had carved for her. The stem had long ago broken off, and he noticed the wood was shiny from the oils of her hands.
So she had held the carving and rubbed it often. The thought made Otec bold. Fighting the dizziness that plagued him whenever he moved, he stood beside her, looking out over the water.
“They’ll be back,” Matka said without looking at him. “Defeating them though they outnumbered you two to one . . . King Kutik’s humiliation will turn to hatred. And they will be back.”
“Then we’ll defeat them again.” Otec stared at the ships, wondering if his sisters and younger brothers were aboard any of them, or already on their way to Idara.
With enormous effort, he pushed the thought out of his mind and said, “I’ve spoken with Seneth—he’s agreed to marry us.”
Matka turned to look at Otec. “I didn’t promise to marry you.”
He realized he should have been more specific, but then he had been dying at the time. “I know you love me.”
She wet her lips. “You know I can’t.”
He touched her face—he’d been longing to touch her like this ever sinc
e the waterfall. “I won’t live my life in fear of curses. I see what I want. And I’m going to take it.”
“I can’t do that to our daughter.”
Otec stepped closer to her, unable to stand the distance between them. “Who says we’ll even have a daughter? All our children could be boys. Or we could die tomorrow and have no children at all. All I know is that we have to seize what happiness we can while we can.”
Matka closed her eyes as if the thought were physically painful. “Otec . . .”
Her hair had grown nearly to her chin. She was kind and good and strong. Most importantly, she held Otec’s heart, and he held hers. “No,” he said. Her head came up as he stepped closer again. “You are my light,” he continued. “Without you, the darkness would swallow me whole. I will not give you up. I will not allow anything else to be taken from me.”
She stared into his gaze with watering eyes. “But the fairies are tricksy and cruel.”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. “And we are strong and brave.”
Matka gave a sad smile. “I wish you could be that innocent man again. That the darkness had let you be.”
Otec took her face in his hands. “But then I would never have appreciated the light. Marry me?”
She tipped her head back, the sunlight touching her cheeks. A smile spread across her mouth. “I will.”
Otec kissed her warm lips—lips that tasted of sunshine.
With the cool spring breeze blowing across his back, Otec finished hammering the last shingle on the clan house’s new roof. He took a moment to look around his village. Most of the homes that could be saved were nearly finished. The rest were being knocked down, the salvageable stones to be reused in building new houses. Still, the village was only about half the size it had been, and the number of burial mounds behind the clan house had nearly doubled.
The dirt was still fresh, the mounds an open wound on the face of the land. None of the graves held Otec’s loved ones; the right of burying them had been stolen from him too. Over time, grass and flowers would grow over them. The dirt would compact. But the graves would never completely fade.
As his eyes strayed to Shyle Pass, he thought of his sisters. Storm’s baby would be crawling by now. He wondered if it was a boy or a girl. If his sisters had survived. If Holla’s spirit had been broken. How he could possibly be happy when they were slaves.
Otec tried to push such dark thoughts away, but it was not easy. So he did what he always did when the darkness threatened to cripple him—he went looking for Matka.
He found her in the barn, covered in hay and blood. She was smiling as she cleared the birth sack from the lamb’s face. “She came out backwards, but I managed to save her.”
Through the darkness that haunted him, Matka had become his light. When the night came and neither of them could sleep, they held each other, the child growing in her belly a wonderful, terrifying lump between them.
She went to the bucket of rainwater and washed her arms, chatting about the ewes and the new lambs—gifts from the other clans. She sobered when she told Otec that Dobber was so deep in the drink he had accidentally gone to the Bends’ home last night instead of his own. They couldn’t wake him to get him out, so he’d ended up sleeping on their floor.
As Matka chattered on, Otec felt a swelling within him, a lightness that threatened to burst. And then she suddenly went silent, her hands going to her enormous belly. He stepped toward her, arms out to catch her if she fell. “Matka?”
She grimaced and tried to cover it up with a smile. But her face was dark red, and she was holding her breath. She gripped his hand and hunched over.
“Has your time come?” When she still didn’t answer, he wrapped an arm around her and helped her to the clan house. “How long have the pains been coming?” Otec knew more than most men about birth—after all, his mother and sisters had brought most of the Shyle’s babies into the world.
Matka let out a long breath. “All morning. I thought they might go away like the others.”
He set her down in the kitchen and hurried up the ladder to fetch blankets and pillows. “I’m getting Enrid.”
“No, I—” Matka’s voice cut off. She pinched her eyes shut and nodded.
Otec sprinted through the village and shoved open the door to Enrid’s house. She took one look at him and simply grabbed her bag.
Not waiting for her, he ran back to the clan house. Matka had squatted in front of the empty hearth, both hands resting on the rock fireplace. He crouched beside her. “What do you want me to do?”
Enrid stepped through the doorway. “Get outside with you. This is woman’s work.” Otec looked at Matka, his eyes begging her to let him stay. Enrid rolled her eyes. “You won’t want him here, Matka.”
Matka nodded for him to go.
Jaw clenched, he paced outside the kitchen door, wearing a pathway through the weeds. When his wife let out her first moan, he stopped and dropped down by the door. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to carve something, take all his nervous energy and create something beautiful with it.
While Matka moaned and panted, Otec went in search of a piece of wood. His knife sawed through the rough exterior, cutting away until he reached bright, virgin wood. He sliced away one layer at a time, leaving beautiful whorls that piled up around him. Once he had the basic shape, he added details—the legs, the ears, the tail—until he had a magnificent stallion, ears perked, face proud. He wished he had the paint to make it black, with a star on his forehead, for that’s what he envisioned.
A wail rose up from inside the house—an infant’s cry. Otec’s eyes welled with tears at such a familiar sound, one that had been severely lacking from a home that used to echo with the cries of children.
He stepped inside to see Matka holding their child and staring at a scrunched-up red face below a tuft of wild blond hair. Tears streamed down Matka’s cheeks as she smiled brightly up at Otec.
Enrid stepped past him. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Barely hearing her depart, he dropped to his knees and unwrapped the blanket a little. A grin broke across his face. He wrapped the child again and touched his forehead to Matka’s. “You see. I told you they could not control us.”
She chuckled, opening her mouth to respond, when a flurry of wings made Otec’s head jerk up. The owl fairy flew into the room in her human-like form, gazing at his child. Otec put himself between them—he didn’t even want the creature to look upon his baby.
“I see you have your son,” the fairy said smoothly.
He took his carving knife in hand, wishing it was his axe. “Yes, a son. Not a daughter.”
She tipped her head. “Foolish human. I do not set the board, only the players. Your son is important to the game—just not as important as his sister will be.”
Otec launched the knife, but the fairy spun, wings whirling. She landed in a crouch on the kitchen table, her eyes glittering with rage.
He pointed to the door. “Get out and never come back. Or I will kill him myself and destroy your games once and for all.”
She bared her teeth at him. “Liar.”
Otec turned and took hold of his son. Matka held on, her expression fierce. He met her gaze, his eyes asking her to trust him.
She reluctantly released their baby. Otec took his son, love swelling within him as the boy blinked up at him. Otec held him over a bowl of water, hoping his face didn’t betray the lie. “I’ll drown him.”
The fairy stepped back, her talons scraping against the table. “Enjoy your happiness, little human. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
She flared her wings, shot through the open door, and disappeared from view. Otec sagged, holding his son to his chest. Matka sobbed behind him.
He crouched next to her and deposited his son in his wife’s arms. “Only an infant, and he freed us from her presence.”
“But what she said . . .”
Otec kissed her forehead. “She said we would have a daught
er, and we had a son. She can’t know the future—no one can.”
Enrid barreled into the room. “Was that an owl?”
Otec ignored the midwife. “What will we call him?”
“Bratton,” Matka said at once.
Otec pushed back her shoulder-length hair. “Why Bratton?”
She shrugged. “Because I like the way it sounds.”
Otec had wanted to name him Hargar, after his father. But Matka’s eyes were haunted, the bright joy of before overcome with shadows. He could give her this. “I like it,” he said.
She took his hand. “Do you really think we can beat them?”
He rested his hand on his son’s forehead. “We already have.”
For Gordon and Gayle Stuart and
George Wesley and Theda Weston
For coming before and showing us the way
Ilyenna’s horse danced nervously beneath her, the animal’s hooves clicking against the snow-covered stones that coated the land like dragon eggs. Reaching down, she patted her mare’s golden neck. “Easy, Myst. What’s the matter, girl?”
“There.” Her father pointed at the base of a forested hillock not fifty paces beyond the road. Ilyenna saw the shadowed form of a large animal.
Bratton soundlessly pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. “Bear?” He directed the question at their father.
The word stirred currents of tension in Ilyenna’s body. The cold stung her cheeks and formed a vapor no matter how shallowly she breathed. As she glanced up and down the road, her hand gripped the knife belted around her bulky wool coat.
“I think it’s a horse,” Bratton finally said.
Ilyenna eased her mare forward for a better look. It was a horse—a bay. “Then where is his rider—” The words died in her throat when she spotted a motionless gray lump at the horse’s feet. Without thought, she rammed her heels into her mare’s ribs.
“Stop!” her father cried at the same time Bratton called, “Ilyenna!”