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“Revni.” Hyld forced the ring onto Revni’s index finger—that was the wrong finger, Mama always wore it on her fourth. Metal bit her knuckle. “You are Hyldyttr. It will prove your place. Take it to a Council, and you will have a home. You will claim our land.”

The blood was the same color as the stone. A shiny jewel on her mother’s lip bubbled.

“My beautiful baby.” Mama’s eyes ran over hers, drinking her in, and Revni wanted to say something but Mama was squeezing her hand, so tightly Revni’s fingers were going to break. Everything was breaking. “Two Councils,” Hyld pressed. The world was cracking in two. Everything in twos. In the near distance, metal clashed on metal and shouts and howls suggested the battle was still going, but it was another time, another place, years away.

Hyld gasped, a wincing rattle, her eyes suddenly wide in panic. Her free hand scrabbled at the dirt. Oh gods, her sword, her sword. Revni crawled over the body, snatching the weapon up, but Mama was so warm and soft and solid all at once beneath her that Revni crumpled. It should be Revni clutched to Mama’s chest with both hands. Not a sword. Not cold steel. But at Mama’s labored breath, Revni pressed the weapon into her grip.

Hyld’s tension released. Her eyes once more traveled over Revni. “My baby,” she whispered again, and Revni should have said something, should have taken one last chance to tell her mother that she loved her, that she was a loyal daughter, that she would do as she’d been told, anything, anything her Mama wanted. But Mama’s eyes were frozen open and a voice was screaming in Revni’s head.

Gone. Mama didn’t look different. Should something look different? Gone!

A man’s shout fractured the air, a strike of lightning in the storm whirling around her. Revni’s eyes shot toward it.

An armored man, raising his arm. She scrambled, a flash of metal breezing past her ear. Something slid beside her to a sighing stop.

FOUR

“Helen of Cyper,” Eavus cursed. Missed. The pings and thumps of his brothers finishing off the rest of the barbarians sounded behind him, but it was over. The ones who could had run. Eavus looked around. A lot of dead, including Albin. Too bad, that. Maener was stabbing a body on the ground in the throat, but Sev and Costae were taking a breather.

“Cost, lend me your sword.”

Costae leaned away casually, as if Eavus might snatch it from him. “What for?”

“For the girl.” Eavus pointed. The woman at the top of the hill wasn’t moving, but the girl was alive. “Come on, quick. I need to get my javelin back.”

“Fre, why’d you throw it anyway? You could have just caught up with her.” But Costae handed it over without more complaint.

“Don’t kill her,” Sev advised. “Commander’ll want a hostage to question.”

“Go ahead and kill her!” Costae shouted at his back, as Eavus took off at a jog. “She ruined a very nice morning!”

The armored man was charging up the hill. A distant voice screamed in Revni’s head. She could barely hold her thoughts together. The ring on her finger—wrong, out of place—bit when she made a fist. Shields! she commanded herself, like Ragn on the boat, swinging it up just in time. Her bones hummed when the sword crashed into it. Revni scuttled back. Her ax. She’d lost her ax. Revni flailed, reaching for anything, anything. Her scrabbling fingers landed on something smooth. The wind knocked out of her as she blocked another swing, the tip of the sword kissing her brow. But the man’s weapon stuck in the rim of the shield and that brief pause, the spear in her hand, was a blessing from the gods. She rammed the weapon she’d found into his shoulder, rage and grief ripping out of her throat. She jerked down, hard, hearing the shaft snap.

The man howled. Revni tore into the safety of the trees. A thump made her dare a glance behind, but it was only his helmet. He’d thrown it down to better see his wound. In horror, she watched him yank the broken spear out as if it was nothing, and then her stomach lurched as she lost her balance, tripping over a tree root. She righted herself. Stupid, Revni. Stupid to pause! Move, move kept pounding in her ears.

The man grunted behind her, catching up, but he was holding the sword wrong, too gingerly. Good. Her hand flew to her belt—she’d almost forgotten about her knife. He swung and she ducked and rose, her shield smacking the sword out of his hand, her knife driving forward—only he dodged and sprang at her, chopping at her wrist, so quickly she only felt the ringing of a bell. Her hand went numb, then prickling, and before she even realized her hand was empty, her throat exploded in pain. His face filled her vision, his hot, rough hands squeezing. She choked, desperate for air. The stench of his sweat cut through everything.

Shields! Revni forced all her strength into her swing. A whomp as the leather-coated wood met his head, blissful air as his grip released. Move, Revni. But it was a shamble at best. Her throat was on fire. Her vision had gone spotty. Everything hurt. The shield was too heavy, a burden, its wooden handle slick in her sweaty palm, her muscles aching.

She sensed more than heard him and whipped around—but he did that same move as before, that quick step in, both hands seizing her shoulders this time and pulling her towards him, like a lover, only violently, shaking her vision out of her. He shouted at her in a language she’d never heard. A drop of spittle hit the divot above her lip. He tore the shield from her hand. Everything was blur and noise. Another language—Again, babbling. Then:

“Why are the Isfolj so far south?”

Gerstunt. She knew those words. The language of the Northern Continent.

“What?” Revni sputtered. The man shook her, rattling her teeth.

“The Isfolj stay above the Jerad Waters. What are you doing this far south?”

“Ragn—It was an accident,” she amended. The truth might get her killed. “The tide carried us. We were lost.”

“You’re not from the north?”

“I’m from Isfjold. We came to join the settlement. Who are you?”

“What?” He looked at her like she was insane. “I’m…Aleteria.”

He had stilled his shaking but her mind still reeled. She felt like she’d been through a hurricane. Her jaw hurt. He smelled so terrible. The man furrowed his brow, but he kept his tight grip.