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At my feet a Stav held up his hands, begging for his life. I stepped on his chest, leaned forward just enough for him to meet the cursed shade of my gaze, then rammed my ax into his skull.

I straightened, blood dripping off my chin.

At my next step, a deep, hot spark of pain exploded across my ribs. I stumbled, glancing down where a bolt had rammed into my side. Blood coursed down my tunic. My hand went to the wound, my eyes scanning the field.

Damn.

I wrenched the bolt from my side, ignoring the sharp jab.

Virki was a coward. He stood behind his wolves. “It was never meant to be this way, nephew. If only my brother would have seen reason.”

I rolled my ax in my grip.

Virki frowned. “You and I will reconcile in Salur. You will understand when you see what we will become.”

My uncle let out a sharp whistle. His wolves lunged. Black and gray met them. Kyrre and Òlmr leapt around me, teeth and claws gnashing at Virki’s beasts. Brynn shoved past me, with Darkwin nearby, slashing at another Berserkir. Bloodlust against bloodlust, it seemed an impossible fight.

More fara keepers followed Brynn. The wolves battled, but the keepers reached for their souls. Craft from a fara wolf keeper was soothing and firm, and the beasts found security in the particular touch of a keeper’s call.

Virki was a keeper. One of the strongest. But his constant shouts and commands were intercepted again and again by Brynn and the others. Kyrre’s jaw latched onto the haunch of one of Virki’s wolves and forced my uncle’s beast to turn off course.

My uncle roared his frustration and aimed his sword at Brynn.

I didn’t have time to think before I raised my ax and blocked a swift strike from Virki’s sword. He cut a dagger across my middle.

From the upper knoll where Hundur and Ingir watched, a Shield Rider beside the Myrdan king blew a ram’s horn and pointed at me. A line of Myrdan warriors stepped forward, round shields in hand. They came at me without end.

Seasons of being the Death Bringer served me well.

I crouched and moved with careful footing. Exact. Strategic. This many against one took sure strikes and steady motions.

One warrior lowered his shield, bellowed a shout, and lunged. Another came from the other side. I ducked between them. My ax cut at the ankle of one warrior. I straightened and had time to turn and stab the other in the back with my seax.

A third Myrdan cut at the gash across my ribs. A hiss slid through my teeth. The warrior went to strike at my chest. I swung the curved head of my ax, catching him beneath his chin. Virki hid behind his wall of warriors, a vicious grin on his face.

When I was surrounded, my uncle fled.

Comfortable as I was with the blade, too many kept closing in, tighter and tighter.

Somewhere behind me, I heard my mother shouting for Dark Watchers to come to my aid. Battles were slow-moving at times, always caught in another fight, another blade to block. Claws under my skin, hate in my heart, I drew in heavy breaths. Gods, how I wanted them to bleed slowly. How I craved to split in two, to devour their souls.

How I craved their screams, their pain.

My head was falling into the haze of the trapped darkness. I blinked, grasping for the blood craft in the talisman. I fought to see their faces, to see her, to stay lucid. Silver scars. Golden threads. A bright soul.

Blood dripped over my lashes. I rolled my ax in hand and pointed the blade of my sword down in the other. I was resigned to end this here. If I fell, then I fell to thoughts of her.

But I didn’t get the chance to strike.

Warriors dropped their blades. Some scraped at their faces, as though trying to dig out something festering in their skin. Others cried out in pain when someone danced around them, touching their shoulders, their arms. Bones cracked and bent. Necks snapped.

More warriors screamed, clawing at their arms and legs.

Darkwin, blood on his lips, kept brushing past the warriors. Before he was forced to be Berserkir, Kael Darkwin was a bone crafter. Under his touch, bones shifted, snapping, twisting, breaking.

He winced. To harm them would harm him; it was the consequence of bone craft. But Kael only grinned a little wider, a little more maniacally, as though the brutality made the bloodlust of the Berserkir rage more.

A Shield Rider stumbled, screaming about knives behind his eyes. An illusion. Blood craft.