“Uzfan—”

“Very well!” he said in annoyance. “On the morrow we will part the veils of seeing together and determine the course of action you should take.” She blinked, surprised by his promise. Since the night she’d summoned the vision of the exiled King Faldain, parting the veils of seeing had been forbidden to her. Uzfan had been very angry with her for a long time. But now, fresh hope came to life inside her. Perhaps at last Uzfan was going to relent and resume her training.

But even the prospect of seeing visions held less appeal right now than did quick action. She still wanted to banish Draysinko tonight.  “Have you grown cruel?” Uzfan asked her softly, as though he could read her thoughts. “Would you turn him out into the darkness, alone, without even the safety of the camp to shelter him through the night hours?” “And what protection do we offer?” she retorted, softened not at all by this appeal. Her anger came rushing back, and she stiffened her spine. “He has endangered us all. I will have to stand sentry duty tonight in his—” “Nay, child. You have worked enough this day.”

She set her jaw stubbornly. “I will do what needs to be done.”

“You are only one person, Alexeika. You cannot do everything for these people.” “Father could make them stick together,” she said, long weeks of frustration welling up past her control. “He could keep them at their duties. He convinced them to cooperate with each other. Why can’t I? They scatter like cats at the first opportunity, and are all too eager to forget half the things that need doing.”

“Alexeika, you must give them time.”

“We’ve had half the summer, and nothing improves. Nothing!” “These women have not had your training, child. They do not understand all that’s at stake.”

Alexeika curbed the temptation to spill out her grievances and complaints. She knew it was her fatigue that had brought her to the verge of tears. This was no time for such softness. “I will stand watch,” she said grimly. “Perhaps my actions will shame the others into—” “The women won’t hunt, so you do it,” Uzfan broke in. “They won’t trap furs, so you do it. You are too impatient. You cannot do everything for them.” “If I don’t, disaster will come to us,” she replied.

“Perhaps it must, to teach them how to be stronger and less dependent.”

She frowned, thinking his reply a strange one. “This is a dark saying indeed.” Uzfan rested his hand kindly on her shoulder for a moment. “Go and get your sleep, child. I will set a protection spell around the camp to guard us tonight.”

The offer pleased her, but at the same time she knew she could not accept it.

“Thank you, but it will be too much strain for you.”

“Nonsense,” he said sharply. “I may be an old man, but there are still plenty of powers in my sleeve. Worry no more about us this night, at least.”

“Uzfan—”

“Go,” he said. “I must be alone for this conjuring.”

Frustrated, she started to protest again, but she had been reared to obey her elders. She surrendered to Uzfan’s wishes, but inside she was still seething.  Most of the time Uzfan seemed spry enough, but he was very old. Conjuring had grown difficult for him, and she knew enough of the secret ways to understand that a protection spell strong enough to surround the camp all night would put a tremendous strain on the old priest. It worried her, and that gave her something else to blame on Draysinko.

Scowling, she trudged reluctantly back to her tent by the light of the dying fire embers. Already she could smell the faint, acrid scents of magic from behind her. A gust of wind blew her hair back from her face, then was gone as suddenly as it came. She could feel the tingle in her skin in its wake.  Something wild and untamed stirred inside her. She wanted to throw back her head and run up into the mountains to the highest peak and balance there with her arms stretched up to the moonlit sky.

Quickly, she ducked inside her tent instead and closed the flap firmly. She was breathing hard, and without hesitation she leaned over the water pail and splashed water on her hot face, again and again, until she grew calmer.  That was why Uzfan did not want her practicing the magic arts, especially not on her own. Whatever gift she possessed was wild and strong, and perhaps untrainable.

The lamp was burning low. She moved about restlessly, then forced herself to prepare for bed.

Outside, the magic swirled through the trees, coiling around the camp protectively. Once the spell was woven about everyone like a chain, she felt more settled and no longer had to force herself to sit still.  She took out her carved wooden comb and worked the snarls from her long dark hair. The lamp’s light continued to burn down, and the camp lay quiet and peaceful.

Alexeika combed her long tresses until they were smooth and shining, then she put out her lamp and lay there on the blankets Draysinko had touched.  Despite Uzfan’s advice, she chafed at having to wait. It seemed to her that leaving Draysinko unpunished would only encourage him to commit worse deeds.  Well, tomorrow would decide the matter, when she joined Uzfan in determining what the future held for the despicable weaver. After that, no matter what the seeing showed them, she would make Draysinko go.  The wild scree and wail of pipes came through Alexeika’s dream and awakened her.  She opened her eyes, hearing the harsh, bizarre sounds without comprehension. It was a dreadful noise, barbarous and unnatural. She had never heard anything so awful in her life. Then someone screamed, and shouts rose above the thunder of hoofbeats.

Alexeika sat bolt upright in the gray dawn. Thunder swept past her tent, causing it to shake and sway. She heard a sharp rip, and saw the tip of a sword zigzagging its way through the cloth side of her tent.

“Thod’s mercy!” she shouted, and jumped off her cot. Her clothes were always ready. She yanked them on, reached for her pearl-handled daggers, and slung the belt of Severgard over her shoulder. With two deft twists, she looped her long hair in a knot to keep it out of her way.

Her worst fears had been realized: They were under attack by Grethori raiders.  Tleska, their lone sentry, had failed to warn the camp. Uzfan’s protection spell had obviously failed as well. Alexeika swore long and hard, telling herself she should have insisted on proper sentries, should have stood guard herself, should have lined up everyone in the camp last night and chastised them all for their laziness.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d surrendered to her own fatigue. She’d listened to Uzfan’s advice. She’d tried to be gentle and accommodating to the others, despite her own instincts. What a fool she’d been.

But there was no time for thinking about what she should have done. She had to take action now.

“Papa, keep my arms strong and my courage high. May the gods themselves protect me,” she prayed, then launched herself outside.

As soon as she went through the tent flap, she heard a whistling sound overhead.

She ducked instinctively, and a curved scimitar missed beheading her by inches.  Crying out in fear, Alexeika dropped to the ground and rolled away from the trampling hooves of the Grethori war pony. Its rider, a terrifying figure with shoulder-length braids, a long mustache woven with rows of fingerbones, and a sleeveless fur jerkin, shouted at her in his clacking heathen language and kicked his horse toward her.

She scrambled desperately, unable to get to her feet, unable to draw Severgard or her daggers. Before she realized it, she was trying to burrow beneath the bottom of the tent, as though that flimsy structure offered any safety.  Laughing and screaming words she did not understand, the rider plunged his mount straight into the side of her tent, knocking it awry. Alexeika heard a snapping twang of the ropes. The cloth billowed and folded down around her while she tried to roll in the opposite direction. She heard a thud and the crunch of broken furniture. The Grethori’s horse neighed and kicked wildly while its rider tried to spin it around.

Certain she was going to be trampled to death, Alexeika fought her way clear and scrambled to her feet. The rider shouted at her, and without looking back, Alexeika ran.

But there was nowhere to go. The raiders were everywhere, galloping back and forth as they ripped open tents with their scimitars and forced out the screaming inhabitants. One of the tents was now on fire, and the blaze shot up toward the trees with a whoosh of sparks. The air smelled of smoke and cold dew and death.

Beyond the trees, she could see a melon-gold slice of sun rimming the horizon.  The fjord’s calm surface reflected the sunrise, looking like a sheet of hammered copper at the snow-dusted feet of the mountains. The air held a sharp bite that surprised her after last night’s sultriness. She had misjudged the change of season this far north. In her greed to get as many pelts as possible, she’d lingered too long. The Grethori bands moved about in autumn. She should have broken camp more than a week ago.

More “should haves,” Alexeika realized. A waste of time now, when everything was happening too fast and more and more bodies were sprawled on the ground. She wanted to see if Uzfan was among them, for she hadn’t spied the old priest anywhere, but there was no chance.

More tents were burning. The camp’s few precious pack animals had been set free and were dashing back and forth in panic. A woman ran by, screaming. It was Larisa, Willem’s mother, and she was trying to save Katrina from the barbarian who was chasing the little girl.

Alexeika couldn’t help them. Running and dodging her own pursuer among the trees, she tried to look for the boys, but didn’t see them.  “Willem!” she shouted. “Kexis! Vlad! To arms!”

No one answered. She doubted she could be heard over the din and chaos. Out in the woods, she saw an outlandish figure clad in furs, busy puffing into an unwieldy contraption of pipes that wailed loud and eerie. The noise grated on her nerves, and she had to force herself not to be distracted by it.  She also saw Draysinko, a furtive shadow slipping away with a fur-laden donkey in tow, but there was no time to go after him.

Alexeika leaped into a thicket of undergrowth, scratching her face and hands in the process. But her pursuer was too close behind for her to hide. His mount plunged right into the bushes after her, the same way it had knocked down her tent. Alexeika realized she couldn’t defend herself hemmed in against the brush like this.

Again she broke away and ran. Another horse and rider brushed past her from the opposite direction, almost knocking her down. She dodged away, stumbling, and heard harsh laughter.

That angered her, and some of her fear faded. She realized she was reacting in panic. Her father had often told her that in battle the panicky fools who lost their heads were the first to die.

A shrill scream caught her attention, and she looked around in time to see an old woman with long gray braids falling in a flurry of long skirts. The rider who’d knocked the woman down with his sword then rode over her at full gallop, charging toward his next victim.

There was no time to see if it was Lady Natelitya or someone else, no time to react. Alexeika drew Severgard and swung around just as her own pursuer reached her. She kept her shoulders level and her feet braced, exactly as her father had taught her. In that moment, as time slowed down, she seemed to hear the general’s calm voice coaching her through the moves.  “Be one with the sword, Alexeika. The sword is a part of you. Let it live in your hands.”

She felt strangely calm as she faced the oncoming rider. His teeth flashed as he laughed at her, and his scimitar flashed up in an arc that caught the copper light of the newly risen sun. She gauged his swing, ducked it, and lifted her own weapon.

Severgard sliced off the man’s leg below his knee.

Blood gushed in a mighty spurt. The Grethori screamed, a high, piercing sound of agony. Sawing at his horse and swinging it around so that Alexeika was nearly knocked off her feet by the animal, the raider reeled in his saddle and fell off. His severed foot remained in the stirrup on the side next to Alexeika. It flipped upside down and dangled like that as the horse shied away.  Meanwhile, the man was writhing on the ground, screaming curses at her. He still held his sword, and beckoned to her with scorn and fury.  “Woman!” he said in a guttural voice. His face was nearly purple above its beard. “Fight!”

Alexeika knew she had to finish him. She didn’t let herself look at the blood still gushing from his stump, didn’t let herself hesitate.  Gripping Severgard more tightly, she ran toward him as he brandished his scimitar in defiance. Alexeika stamped her foot down hard on his stump and swung Severgard with all her might.

The Grethori screamed, arching back helplessly. His bearded face turned gray, and Alexeika knocked his scimitar spinning from his hand. He choked out a curse, floundering in a futile effort to reach his sword. She plunged her weapon tip through his throat.

It took her a moment to realize it was over. The Grethori lay there, no longer a terrifying barbarian with long braids and fingerbones, but just a body covered with blood. It was her first kill. Drawing Severgard free, Alexeika felt suddenly weak, as though her knees could not support her. Breathing hard and shaking, she stumbled back.

A child’s scream roused her, and she knew she must help the others.  Swiftly she grabbed the dangling reins of the Grethori’s war pony and knocked the man’s severed leg from the stirrup. She did not know if the animal would let her ride it, but she had to try. On foot, she stood little chance of survival.  The horse snapped at her, but she struck its muzzle with her hand before it could bite. Alexeika pulled herself into the saddle, smelling the rancid stink of beyar grease used to oil it. A braided rope of skulls was tied to the pommel, clacking with every step of the nervous pony. She cut off the rope and saw the skulls go bouncing on the ground behind her.

Her mount was iron-mouthed and mountain-bred, as savage as its dead owner. It shook its head, resisting her, but Alexeika shouted at it and struck it on the rump with the flat of her sword.

Snorting, the pony bucked and plunged toward the center of the camp, where the confusion was the worst. Smoke stung her eyes from the burning tents, but she could see that a few women and children were being rounded up and herded together. A handful of people had reached the safety of the fjord and were swimming in the cold waters where the superstitious Grethori would not follow.  They should have all headed for the fjord, Alexeika thought grimly. At the first inkling of trouble, they were supposed to flee to the water. The plan had been discussed often during council meetings. Why had they not remembered it?  The fighting still going on was sporadic and pitiful. Of the handful of elderly men, she saw only Ulinvo and Tomk trying to fight. Vlad was nowhere in sight, but she saw young Willem—his head bleeding from a wound—staggering about pathetically as he tried to wield a sword too big for him. His opponent was circling him on horseback, laughing and toying with him cruelly. Kexis—red-faced and determined—faced a pair of raiders with a spear in his hand. Both of the barbarians were advancing on him with great gusts of scornful laughter.  Alexeika headed in his direction, but just then the boy’s nerve failed him.

Throwing down his spear, he turned and ran for the woods.  A chase seemed to be what the raiders wanted. With whoops of excitement, they loped after him.

Swearing under her breath, Alexeika kicked her horse forward to rescue Willem.  He was crying, but despite the tears and blood running down his face, he tried to stand as she had taught him. His small fists gripped the long hilt of the broadsword, and with all his might he swung it up to meet the blade of his opponent.

The gleaming curved scimitar crashed down against Willem’s weak parry, and knocked the sword from his hands. Defenseless, the boy staggered back and lifted his palms in an involuntary entreaty for mercy.

Horror filled her. “Willem!” she shouted.

The boy didn’t hear her, and she was still too far away to help. She kicked her pony harder, but it bucked and fought her.

Then another rider crossed her path and blocked it.

Alexeika drew rein so hard the pony reared with her.

“Demon!” shouted the man in front of her. “Woman-man demon you are.” Alexeika gulped in air, but before she could do anything, the Grethori charged her, his horse plunging and darting from side to side. He held two scimitars, one in each hand. His mustache was so long it flowed back over his shoulders, and instead of bones woven through its length, tiny skulls bobbed on the ends.  His long, multiple-braided hair was burnished dark red, his skin weather-beaten bronze. He rode a black pony with white spots, and a large disk of hammered gold adorned the breastplate of his mount.

She supposed this was the chieftain. That meant he would be the best fighter, for the Grethori leaders ruled by ability, not inheritance. The air left her lungs. She had beaten one fighter by luck, but she could not depend on luck this time. Already Severgard’s weight was making her arms weary. She was not strong enough to wield it much longer.

The chieftain yelled at the top of his lungs, a queer rising sound that made goose bumps break out on her skin. Alexeika mastered her fear and screamed out a war cry of her own.

“Ilymir Volvn!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. It was her father’s name, proud and illustrious, a name which had once led men into battle.  From the corner of her eye, she saw old Boral suddenly pop into sight from hiding. “Ilymir Volvn!” he shouted, his voice quavering.  From among the prisoners, a woman’s voice took up the cry. “Ilymir Volvn!”

Alexeika took heart. There was still courage here. They weren’t defeated yet.  The chieftain stopped grinning, but he didn’t slow his charge. He came at her, brandishing his scimitars so that their blades flashed gold and copper in the sun.

Holding her heavy black sword, Alexeika shortened the reins in her other hand and forced her restless mount to stand where it was. She let the chieftain come to her.

“Woman-man demon!” he shouted with contempt when she did nothing. “Fight me!” She knew she would lose this battle. If she lifted Severgard against him, she would be lost.

Another corner of her mind was screaming at her to move, to brace her feet in the stirrups, to raise the sword. But she curbed her instincts and stayed motionless and watchful. Her heart started to beat very fast, and she felt breathless, but she waited, refusing to move.

When he was close enough, when she could see his dark eyes narrow as he leaned forward in the saddle, she dropped the reins on her mount’s shaggy neck, pulled a dagger from its sheath, and threw it with a deft, economical snap of her wrist.

He dodged by twisting his upper body. The blade missed his throat and sank instead into his shoulder.

Alexeika barely bothered to see if it hit its mark. Already she was moving to attack, taking advantage of this one tiny moment that was hers. Kicking her startled pony forward, she swung Severgard, hoping to cut the raider in twain at the waist. Despite the dagger in his shoulder, he parried with a scimitar. Their swords struck with a resounding clash.

The impact jolted into her wrists, and as strong as she was for a maid, she nearly dropped Severgard. Gritting her teeth, she disengaged and swung it again.  Too slow, she was thinking.

The chieftain’s blade was quicker. He parried with her again while his face twisted with strain and anger, growing pale about the cruel mouth. Shifting her next swing, she stabbed Severgard deep into the neck of his horse.  The animal reared, screaming and flailing with its front hooves. She swung again at its rider. This time her blade touched him. It was a weak blow, badly delivered, and it cut him only a little.

He snarled something at her she did not understand, and she laughed back in reckless scorn. Her blood was up, and she knew no fear now. She would fight him to the death, her own if need be, but she would never give up.  At that moment, however, two other riders swooped at her from either side.  Surrounded and cut off, she was driven back from the chieftain. Severgard was pinned against the top of her horse’s neck by one man’s scimitar, and the other man gripped her by her hair, yanking her halfway out of the saddle.  Tears of pain filled her eyes. She twisted and fought, but they were too much for her. It was the chieftain himself, bleeding from his wounds, who leaned over to wrest Severgard from her hands.

“No!” she screamed, hanging on to the hilt with all her strength. “No!” But he was stronger, and he pulled it away. Lifting the sword so that the sunlight caught the large sapphire in the pommel and made it flash, the chieftain examined her sword with admiration and ran his fingertips along the runes carved on the blade.

Fury consumed Alexeika. She couldn’t bear for her father’s sword to fall into the hands of this barbarian. For generation after generation it had passed down through her family. Revered for what it was and stood for, it had been carried always with honor. She herself had saved it from the Gantese looters after the battle in which her father had died. It was hers now, and one day it would belong to her son. This Grethori dog could not have it.  “That is not for you!” she shouted, glaring at him. Her voice was steel, and from inside her came a great force of anger so hot and terrible it was like a blazing ball of fire. Heat and fire! she thought, and her anger seemed to explode from her.

There was a flash of light, momentarily blinding her and making her mount rear in fright. The chieftain swore and dropped the sword. It landed on the ground with a thud, and lay there glowing faintly.

Dazed and half-blinded by the power which had escaped her, Alexeika belatedly realized that her hair was no longer being pulled. She twisted free, barely aware of the men’s stunned faces and the white-eyed panic of their horses. She dismounted, ran to the sword, and picked it up.

The hilt felt hot enough to burn her, but she didn’t care. She held it up in a mocking salute, and said, “Get gone from here.”

The chieftain’s expression grew stony. Without a word, he pulled her dagger from his shoulder and held up the bloody weapon in a silent salute of his own.  She relaxed slightly, thinking she’d won. “Leave our camp,” she ordered them, her voice gruff and powerful. “Get out!”

The chieftain threw her dagger. It came at her so fast it was a blur. She couldn’t duck in time. Her fear rushed back, filling her with such intensity she thought she would be sick. This, she realized, was death. She was not ready for it. Her whole life still stretched before her. She had dreams and ambitions and plans that should not be cut down by this dirty savage in his furs and braids.  She realized she must lay her heart before the gods, but there wasn’t time even for that.

No! she thought.

Pain exploded in her temple, and she knew nothing else.