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When the howling began, Rostfar’s heart stopped in her chest and the waterskin she had been filling fell from her numbed fingers. The howls rose and fell in waves, a swift current of alarm that washed over the entire forest. More and more wolves joined in until the ground itself felt alive with their cry.
“What is that?” Isha, still half-undressed, stumbled out of Rostfar’s den. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t . . .” But before the words had even left her mouth, she saw it: threads of anger and vengeance-hunger and determination rippling through the wyrdness like tendrils of mould.
Rostfar didn’t wait to explain. She discarded her breakfast preparations and ran. Low branches smacked her face and the wind bit into the flesh of her uncovered arms, but she didn’t stop until she arrived at Deothwicc’s boundary slope.
Her feet and the wyrdness had taken her exactly where she needed to be. Myr stood there already, staring at the trail of human figures that were climbing out of a steep-sided ravine. His hackles were up and his teeth were bared, but he made no sound. There were other wolves, too, pacing along the boundary on either side. Waiting. Watching. Dreading.
The pounding of human hearts, quick with anger and fear, made the wyrdness thrum like a strung bow. Rostfar’s own heartbeat hastened in answer. Her blood was boiling, and it was hard to think straight. Her brain kicked into a gallop, trying to piece everything together. They must have cut through the Wyccmarshes, as she had done, and followed the dried-up riverbed, staying downwind and out of sight. The realisation that Faren had probably forced a march through dangerous territory in pursuit of his own goals made Rostfar sick with anger.
And yet . . . they still looked so small, down there in the swathe of flat plain before Deothwicc’s edge. Better than ever, she could understand the derision with which the wolves had first regarded her. What were humans to them? Dull, stick-limbed creatures who had to make metal claws and steal other animal’s furs because they had none of their own.
But no. Even as the thoughts took shape, they fell apart. Such a mistake had been lethal for Other when it underestimated her.
“What is it? What’s happening?” Kristan came crashing out of the undergrowth and stumbled to a stop, grabbing Rostfar’s arm for balance.
Rostfar opened her mouth to answer, but she didn’t get a chance. Kristan’s arrival had broken the dam, and now the rest of the Erdansten refugees were stumbling out of the forest in varying stages of wakefulness.
“What do you want to do?” Myr asked Rostfar. Her surprise at being asked was brief: she had run with the pack, hunted for them, died among them. She had as much right to defend Deothwicc as the rest.
Before Rostfar could answer, Myr uttered a short yelp and flinched as if struck. Pain, white and metallic, whistled through the wyrdness like an arrow. It filled her thoughts with a wild, heartbroken scream that made the wyrdness quake.
There was something familiar about that cry, like the broken edges of a shattered vase. But the pieces were wrong. Rostfar couldn’t put them together.
She turned to Myr. “What was that?” The sensation was still there – fainter now, but insidiously persistent. Impossible to ignore.
Myr shook himself off, his confusion and distress plain on his face. Looking back to the advancing army for answers instead, she saw that they had disappeared behind a line of rocky hillocks. All but one.
A solitary figure emerged over the crest of the hillock bearing a rolled-up banner. Rostfar couldn’t see the details of his face, but she knew it was Faren. Her flesh crawled as two more figures came behind him, pulling what looked like a lump of furs on a large board. They tipped the lump off its board and let it tumble down the slope, finally coming to a limp halt on the dark ground.
Faren unfurled the banner. It was dyed a deep rust-red and painted with the motif of two hands breaking a piece of bread.
“What does that mean?” Myr asked warily.
“That’s the tradesmoot banner,” Rostfar said slowly. “He – he’s asking for trade? He must think he has something we want, but I . . . I just don’t know what he wants.”
Isha cleared his throat, startling her. She had almost forgotten he was there.
“Me,” he said. “He wants me.”
⁂
The silence grew and grew until Aethren thought its weight would crush them. Rostfar was staring at Isha as if he had wounded her, fear and pain written all over her face. He stared back at her with damp eyes, trembling slightly.
“No,” Rostfar said at last. “No, I – I’ll go. Alone.”
“Rost, you can’t,” Nat said, a warning in her voice, “they’ll not hesitate before ramming a spear in you.”
“Rost doesn’t need your permission, Mam,” Kristan snapped. He and Natta had been talking a lot – low, earnest conversations held in secluded corners and quiet clearings. Aethren had a feeling that the topic of those talks was on Natta and Kristan’s minds as they shared a hard, meaningful look.
“No,” Natta agreed at length. She gave Rostfar a tremulous smile. “You don’t need my permission, of course. I just – don’t want to see you hurt.” Or worse remained unspoken, but Natta didn’t need to say what everyone else was thinking.
Rostfar made a small, frustrated noise. “Look, I know these people,” she said. “They’re still the people I was raised with and by. Surely, they’ll listen before doing me harm.”
Aethren flinched. Rostfar’s words cut too close for comfort.
“That’s what I thought, too.” Their voice was bitter and bleak. “If you’re going, I’m going with you.”
“And me.” Yrsa was quick to add.
“Me too,” Kristan said.
“No.” Rostfar looked close to tears. “I can’t ask anyone else to come. It’s too dangerous.”
“You didn’t ask,” Aethren cut in, “and neither did I.”
“I don’t want anyone else to—”
“Stop!” Everyone turned to look at Isha. The dusky skin of his cheeks had a darker, reddish tint, and his fists were clenched and trembling at his sides. As all eyes turned on him, he drew himself up to his – rather small – full height and lifted his chin. “He’s my brother, and I’m responsible for him.”
“You’re not responsible for him being an arsehole,” Aethren couldn’t resist pointing out.
“I know that.” Isha cast them a look that could almost have been a glare, but he couldn’t hold it. He cleared his throat and turned back to Rostfar. “I know that this isn’t all my fault, but I was an arsehole, too. I need to do this.”
Rostfar still looked like she was going to cry, but she took a deep breath and nodded. Reluctantly, Aethren thought.
“Yes. Good.” Rostfar nodded unhappily. “Alright, so just me ‘n Isha. Nobody else needs to go.”
Aethren scowled and pointedly cleared their throat.
“And Aethren,” Rostfar added. Aethren flashed their teeth in a vicious smile, satisfied with that. They quite liked the idea of getting to hit Faren if he tried for violence.
But their satisfaction evaporated when they turned and saw Marken’s face. He was looking at them in the same way Rostfar had looked at Isha – except he was trying to hide it, which was somehow even worse. The two of them had barely spoken since arriving in Deothwicc, and then Aethren hadn’t let any conversations go on for more than a few words. Now though, everything seemed to come rushing to the surface like blood to a bruise.
“Pa, I’m—”
“It’s alright,” Marken said softly, putting a hand on Aethren’s uninjured shoulder. “I know you’ve got to do this, and I’m proud of you.”
“But?” Aethren pressed.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared.” His voice was soft. Everyone else seemed to fade into the background.
“Scared,” Aethren repeated. “Was that why you never spoke up for Rostfar, or for Natta? Why you let the council fall apart?”
Marken frowned. “Someone had to stay on it who wasn’t utterly blinded, Ren. What do you think would’ve happened if I’d spoken up in Natta or Rostfar’s defence?”
Aethren clenched their teeth. They’d guessed already that was why he’d remained silent, but they still wanted to be angry at him. There was so much unspoken – so many secrets – and the answers they’d found in Hrafnholm had only made things worse.
“I’m angry at you,” Aethren said in a thick voice. “But I love you.”
“I know.” Marken sighed and pulled them into a hug. “We can talk it all over soon, I promise.”
When Aethren drew back, they became sharply aware that everyone else was waiting. Their cheeks heated.
“Are you ready?” Rostfar asked – gently, without reproach. Aethren nodded. “Then let’s go.”
