Winter Queen

  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,” Ivar 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.

  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 father’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.”

  The winter wind whipped along Otec’s body, but his shiver came from a sense of foreboding. “Undon, we need you.”

  The man shook his head. “You’ll have to do without.” He motioned to his men and they separated themselves and began moving away.

  Otec watched them go, their passing kicking up the white snow to reveal black ash beneath.

  “We’ll wait for tomorrow,” Destin said as his pale-blue eyes looked for support from the group of Argons and Shyle. “Then perhaps the Tyrons will be ready to go with us.”

  Otec looked at his fellow clanmen, who were already starting to back away. “Sometimes you don’t have time to make plans and rest. You just have to move.” But they weren’t listening.

  Seneth clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I agree,” he said loudly. “And the Argons will fight beside you.”

  Otec closed his eyes in relief, feeling the snow melting against his cheeks, washing away the ash that coated his skin. He gave Seneth a subtle nod of gratitude.

  Seneth motioned to his men. “Round up the horses. Let’s go.”

  Otec glanced down to find Destin glaring at him. “Shyle, move out.” Otec pushed through the crowd, not checking to see if they would follow, but hoping against hope that they would.

  He heard footsteps following him, but didn’t dare look back until he reached the horses hidden in a box canyon. All the men were there. Even Destin, who paused beside him. “This doesn’t have to be a fight. Step down and let someone with more experience take over.”

  Otec tightened the cinch on his horse’s saddle a bit more forcefully than necessary. “Someone like you?”

  Destin shrugged his wiry shoulders. “I fought beside your brothers. Fought under your father. That’s more than you can say.” He turned away to find his own horse.

  Otec watched him go as the wind picked up, blowing with sharpness through the spaces of his coat. He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the saddle, and took in the familiar smells of horse and leather.

  “Otec?” He looked up to see Seneth already mounted, looking down at him.

  He took a deep breath of the biting wind and swung up into the saddle. They rode through the dark night, sticking to the road so the horses didn’t trip over their own feet in the rising snow.

  In the gray light of morning, Otec ordered his men to surround their own village. Pushing through snow that reached the middle of his shins, he took in his home. He couldn’t help but think of Matka’s drawing of a cozy village brimming with life and comfort. Now many of the homes were burned-out ruins. The air still carried the acrid smell of burning, and tendrils of smoke rose from deep within the partially collapsed walls.

  Otec moved into position, catching glimpses inside old lady Bothilda’s house, of her spinning wheel, still set up with wool from the spring shearing. As he passed the open door at the back of the house, a raven started and took flight. Otec glanced inside and realized the bird had been eating the old woman’s cat. One side of the cat was blackened to a crisp, the other side untouched. The cat’s eyes were missing.

  A minute later, Otec took up position behind his clan house. Part of the roof had burned, but most of the building was still intact. The owl appeared again, hooting and flying out of sight behind the barn. For now, Otec didn’t follow it. He had to get inside the clan house, search for his family first.

  When the signal came that the last man was in place, the clanmen darted out of hiding, silent as they slipped inside the houses to kill the Raiders sleeping in their stolen beds.

  Readjusting his sweaty grip on his axe, Otec pushed open the clan-house door. The place smelled of days-old ashes. He wandered from one room to another, a breathless hope that he would find all of them inside. A burning dread that they would be dead. But in the end, all he was left with was hollow confusion. The house was empty.

  Otec stumbled back into the early morning light and saw his men wandering around, clearly as bewildered as he was. Some were running, calling their loved ones’ names. There was no one. Even Otec’s dog was gone.

  Seneth came jogging up to him. “The village has been abandoned. There are no Raiders or Shyle anywhere.”

  “Where could they have gone?” Otec turned in a circle, hoping to see even one of the women. “They have to be here somewhere. Search every building. Send men out to the summer homes. Surely some of them escaped there.”

  Otec looked around for the owl, but it was nowhere in sight. The snow came harder now. He hiked his coat up higher on his shoulders, his body shivering with exhaustion, cold, and hunger. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could force himself to go before he collapsed. He only knew that moment was not yet upon him.

  Steeling himself, he checked the barn. Thistle and all the horses were gone. Otec exited at the back of the barn and squinted into the distance. To the west of the village, dark figures moved through the snowy fields. Judging by their size, they had to be women.

  He started toward them, passing the old meat shed. But his foot slipped on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. He could have sworn it wasn’t there when he’d placed his foot. He lay still for a few moment, trying to dredge up the energy to force his body up.

  The owl was sitting on the meat shed, staring at him. His backside aching, Otec rolled to the side and pushed himself up when he noticed the shed door had been opened since the snow had begun to fall.

  His eyes lifted to the owl even as he strode forward and yanked on the door. But it was locked. With one swing of his axe, Otec broke through the old wood. Inside the barn, Matka hung by her hands from a rusted meat hook. Her clothes were torn and bloody, her exposed skin bruised and mottled with cold. Her head hung down, her normally dark skin as gray as ash-covered snow.

  Otec rushed over and lifted her, but he couldn’t untie the knot around the meat hook. “I need
help! I need help in here!”

  There were running footsteps, and then the Argons came. Otec held Matka as they cut through the ropes. She collapsed into his arms, her body lifeless. He hauled her outside and gently set her down in the clean snow.

  She looked dead. Her eyes were sunken into her skull, her bones sticking out. They must not have fed her at all in the days since he’d seen her last.

  Otec held her face close to his. “Matka? Can you hear me?” No response.

  Sharina, one of his mother’s assistant healers and friends, bustled over, her eyes wide.

  “Where did you come from?” Otec asked in surprise, his voice breathless with hope.

  Sharina knelt and pressed her ear to Matka’s mouth. “When they attacked the village, some of us escaped into the forest. The Raiders left yesterday morning through Shyle Pass. They took hundreds of villagers with them.”

  That would have been right after Otec’s men had ambushed the Raiders. “Were any of my family with you?” he asked.

  Sharina shook her head. “The Raiders took them out first.”

  Otec had to fight to keep his dark emotions locked tight away. He stared toward the mountains he could barely see through the blinding snow. “We have to go after them.”

  Seneth followed his gaze. “We push the men any harder, and they’ll start dying. Let them have one night of warmth, rest, and food. Then we’ll go after them together.”

  “Who is she?” Seneth asked as he gestured toward Matka.

  Sharina’s gaze locked with Otec’s, silent communication passing between them. “She’s a highwoman,” Otec said without hesitation. “The Idarans took her as a slave. But she managed to escape, only to find herself their captive again. And all to save a handful of clanmen.”

  Sharina rested her palm on the girl’s chest. “She’s breathing. Her heart beats, but weakly. You must get her warm. It’s all any of us can do for her.” She pushed to her feet. “And now I’m going to go see if I can help anyone else.”