Page 31 of The Source of Storms

“Go! Go as fast as you can, Halja. Don’t worry about me, child. You must escape. Find Byrgir. Go!”

“But Eilith–”

“No arguing, go!”

I snatched up my bow and quiver as she dragged me down the hallway. She started to push me out the back door, then caught my arm and pulled me to her.

“Halja,” she said. “Give ’em hell.”

She tugged me into a final hug and kissed my forehead, then pushed me gently out into the snow. She eased the door shut quietly behind me as I heard the stamp of hooves at the steading’s entrance.

“Eilith!” A strong male voice carried from the front of the house.

I crept quietly around toward the stable, snow muffling my steps.

“Come out now and make this easy!” the man yelled. “You know why we’re here. Don’t make us do this the hard way.”

The steading was deathly quiet, entirely still. Everything poised in a single breath before action. Then I heard the front door bang open, horses neigh, and men shout.

“Now this doesn’t seem very fair!” Eilith cackled from the front of the house. “All these men against one little old woman? Some true heroes of the Light you are, aah ha ha ha! Let’s see what you can do, eh? What gifts that shiny new god bestows on his chosen!”

There was a loud crash, and I sprinted for the stable, scrambling inside to Anam as thuds, whinnies, and the clashing of blades sounded from the front of the cottage. I threw his saddle on, cinched it, and tied my bags to it. Outside, the men shouted commands to one another, and I heard Rose’s vicious snarl amongst the chaos.

I tugged Anam’s bridle on as I led him out of his stall, launching myself into the saddle as we bolted out the open back door. We ran, hooves pounding, for the woods. I gripped my bow in one hand, knuckles white, glancing over my shoulder toward the house as my heart pounded.

The sight was a strange one, if not entirely unimaginable. Eilith stood in front of her cottage, legs planted wide, long ashen hair flying wild. She commanded a forest of huge, snapping,waving vines, that lashed at the strangers with thorn-studded whips. Rose and two of her enormous pups darted among them, lunging at the men. One vine tripped a man, and Rose was on him before he hit the ground. Her huge jaws clamped around his throat and his horrified scream was cut short. Blood sprayed bright crimson across the pristine white snow.

Three men in the back turned at the sound of my hoofed escape. They were still mounted, and pulled their horses from the fray to follow me. I urged Anam on as I heard them coming, thundering across the field behind us.

I leaned over Anam’s neck and pushed him faster. We skirted the edge of the fence through the field and dashed into the shadowed woods beyond. I could hear them behind us, gaining on us. Too close now. We flew into the clearing of the beehives and I steered Anam straight between two rows, forcing my pursuers to slow into a single file line or go around the hive stands. One opted to go around, while two followed right behind me.

I leaned over in the saddle and reached out my hand.

“Sorry, little ones,” I mumbled to the slumbering bees as I caught the top of a beehive, upending the basket. I did the same with the next. The big baskets toppled into the snow behind us.

The horse immediately behind me dodged the hives with skillful leaps, barely slowing his stride. But the horse behind him was too close to the one ahead, and did not see the baskets beneath the other horse’s feet. It punched through one basket and stumbled into the next, the first hive still stuck on its thrashing hoof. It fell sideways into the snow, throwing its rider.

In a flash I was in the woods on the other side, two riders now remaining behind me. I turned, angling away from the steading to meet up with the road. The trees were too tight to flee fast enough, and gave my pursuers too much cover to get a shot at them. I needed open space.

We charged from the edge of the forest and leaped the shallow ditch onto the road. I tightened my grip on my bow and took a deep breath, trying desperately to steady myself. I had practiced shooting from the saddle so many times over the last year, but never when I had been scared, never when adrenaline electrified my being, made my hands shake.

I wrapped the reins over the pommel of the saddle and drew and nocked an arrow, twisting around to aim at my pursuers. They were closer than I had expected. I tightened my core and pushed down into the stirrups to stand and steady myself. I drew in a breath, held it, and released the arrow.

It caught the lead rider high in the shoulder, throwing him back in the saddle but not off his mount. He grunted, his horse slowing as he involuntarily yanked back on the reins, but he urged it on again. I reached for another arrow. They were gaining on us, and I likely had only one or two more shots. I took another deep, desperate breath, steadying myself for my next attempt.

A dark figure swept past me on my left, hurtling toward my pursuers. The reverberant hiss of a blade pulled from a scabbard rang out, and I saw a silver flash as a big black horse barreled past us. A moment later, the long silver claymore slammed into the first rider, flinging him from his saddle. The second pursuer veered right to avoid his fallen friend. The hooded assailant anticipated the move, and his big war horse slowed and danced sideways with the pursuing rider, shouldering his smaller horse and slamming it to the side. It stumbled and reared, throwing its rider.

The hooded man leaped from his black horse, long blade flashing as he spun it in a graceful, menacing moulinet. The man on the ground scrambled for his own sword and tried to rise. I slowed and turned, unsure if I should continue to flee or help. I opted for the latter and drew an arrow but, before I could shoot,the hooded rider cleared the distance to the man on the ground and dodged his hastily thrown swipe with his sword, parrying it aside easily with a clang. He followed the parry with powerful punch to the man’s face, dropped to one knee in front of him, and knocked the sword from his grip. He grabbed the front of the man’s cloak in one hand and leveled his blade at his throat.

“Who sent you?” he growled, furious and menacing. I knew that voice, knew that black horse. It was Byrgir, his voice cold, calm, and foreboding. I had heard that tone before, when he’d threatened the men harassing me at the market.

The man on the ground coughed and mumbled a reply I couldn’t hear. I dismounted and moved closer.

“I want their names. Who sent you?” The large sword pressed into the man’s throat, and a bead of red bloomed into a line that trickled down his throat.

“I don’t know who made the decision, I just do what I’m told. And I was told to take everyone in that cottage to the Temple. My captain, Andris, gave the order,” the man said.

“Who does Andris report to?”

---