Bloodstone (9 page)

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.

T
HE CROWS AND RAVENS came first, soaring in patient circles over the fields. Women emerged from the forest, 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.

“Thank the gods you’re all right,” Nionik said. “We’re taking the wounded to the longhut. Bring your medicine bag and—”

“Darak? Where’s Darak?”

Before he could answer, Callie screamed, “Fa!”

He tottered toward them, moving like a man in a dream. An arrow protruded from his left arm, but he was alive, Merciful Maker, alive. He fell to his knees, burying his face in Callie’s neck, pulling a sobbing Faelia into the curve of his good arm. Then he looked up at her, his face empty of all expression.

“They took him. They took Keirith.”

The morning passed in a daze of shock and numbed grief. She couldn’t mourn her lost son. She could scarcely spare the time to comfort her remaining children. Too many others needed her.

She sent Faelia and Callie to Sanok’s hut where Alada was caring for some of the little ones. Outside the longhut, women were cutting up nettle-cloth and doeskin to use as bandages and slings.