Page 33 of A Constant Blaze

At least she had her bow and arrows and gave herself the minor satisfaction of picking off several of the king’s men before she understood it would never be enough to make a difference. Their best chance was to lure the king’s men into the boggier ground on the river banks. Since the enemy was more heavily armored, itmightgive Torcul some slight advantage.

“Fall back, Torcul!” she screamed. “To the river!”

Only, when she really looked at the river, it seemed to be alive, shimmering and wriggling like some monster sweeping toward her. Legends she hadn’t thought she believed in swept through her mind, along with doubts of her own sanity, before she realized that the river had not become some wild, undulating monster. It merely carried boats full of soldiers, furiously rowing, while others ran along the river bank at their side.

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

There was no hope now. Astrid, Torcul, all the men would die. The king’s men had no reason to grant mercy in this fight. And if she died, the child she might be carrying would die, too.

She crossed her arm over her belly in a uselessly protective gesture.Forgive me…

In the leading boat, someone stood up, shouting orders. Halla, unable to make out the words, saw that Torcul and his men were at least falling back, but toward her rather than the river, where he must have seen the boats landing. He must have seen, as she did, the man who leapt ashore first. Ironically, heartbreakingly, he looked very like Malcolm himself.

With sword and axe in either hand and his mouth open in a roar, this man fell on the king’s troops like some kind of vengeful god, his followers streaming in behind him and spreading out, pushing the king’s men back and into Torcul’s arms.

Halla’s mind, apparently as paralyzed as her body, took several stunned moments to realize that the boatmen were neither enemies nor gods, but Malcolm’s fighters, that their leader didn’t just look like her husband, hewasher husband. And the king’s men, trapped between Torcul and Malcolm, were cut down like grain in the fields.

She had never seen him in battle before. Even with her heart in her mouth, she couldn’t look away. The grace and quickness of his swordplay was still there, somewhere, but there was no showing off here. Grace took very much a third place to grim brutality and a terrifying economy of movement, balancing maximum carnage with the preservation of energy.

Beside her, Astrid was laughing and clutching Halla’s arm. “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

And Halla, tears of joy and horror streaming down her face, could think only,I caused this. I caused this.

When a horn sounded the retreat and the king’s men extricated themselves to fight another day, only a portion of Malcolm’s men pursued them. Malcolm himself, covered in blood, his eyes red and almost alien with battle lust, had pushed his way through to her. She hadn’t even known he’d seen her until then, but it seemed he’d always known exactly where to find her.

The men fell back, allowing him access. Her heart jumped into her throat as he strode toward her, his gory sword and axe still gripped in either hand, and came to a halt a foot from her.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “I thought you were dead. Forgive me?”

His fingers opened, and the weapons fell to the ground. A strange noise issued from his throat. Then he lunged forward and seized her by both shoulders in a bruising grip. “White Christ, Halla, are you trying toscareme to death?”

Emotion surged out of her, and suddenly, she could still play.

“Scareyou?” she retorted. “You’re the one who pretended to be dead.”

“I did,” he admitted. The frightening violence was dying from his eyes, but only slowly. “I burned the hall myself to draw the king’s men into this valley. It was meant to be a trap. The brooch was to convince them of my death so that they’d lower their guard and be slaughtered more easily.”

“Well, it looked fairly easy to me,” she said, lying through her teeth. But it was too much, and she clutched his tunic in a genuine agony of remorse. “I’m so sorry, Malcolm. I didn’t mean to spoil your plan, to cause—”

“Carnage?” he suggested. He grinned suddenly, dragging her against his chest, his bloody cheek pressed to hers. “Cheer up, you didn’t actually spoil anything, just brought it forward a little. They still came, and we still defeated them, and you even brought us a few extra men. Only next time, don’t terrify me by standing within yards of the battle.”

He turned his head, kissing her roughly so that it was some time before she could say excitedly, “Next time? Then you don’t mind? I may stay with you?”

“You’d better,” he said, swinging around with one arm holding her hard to his side. “I need to know where you are and keep a husbandly eye on you!”

*

And so, shehad stayed. She’d crept through forests and glens, hidden in caves and huts with him. She’d discussed plans with him and then kept out of the way while he fought, so that his mind would not be distracted by fear for her. She stayed with him while they ejected several royal forces from Ross and raided into Moray and Angus, only to double back and defend Ross again. She would spend some nights in the luxury of friendly halls, others under the stars, wrapped with him in one blanket while they made love under clear skies or rain. When times were good, and in winter, and when it was time for her to give birth, they retreated to Brecka.

Even after Donald’s birth, she’d traveled with him, taking the baby with her. Once she had Adam, too, less than a year later, it became more difficult, and she stayed more at home, but the reunions, whether there or elsewhere in Ross, had been frequent and passionate.

These had been years of excitement and danger, companionship and camaraderie, and sheer, joyfulfun. When they’d been young and imagined they had forever to live and love and change the world to the way they wanted it.

Now, Halla wondered if she’d always known they were doomed, if she’d always realized it was a war Malcolm could never win. The king’s forces were greater. It had only ever been a matter of organizing enough of them to find and trap Malcolm, and eventually, inevitably, they had.

Left alone with two children and another in her belly, Halla had known real anger for the first time, anger with the king, with Malcolm, with herself. It had taken time to understand the waste of such energies, and to channel them instead into caring for her people and raising her children to be strong and loyal and good, and to believe in their father.

If the old gods still existed anywhere, they must have been laughing their heads off.

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