Fritha stared at the sky. It was empty of wings now, of Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, though crows were starting to replace them.
They will come for me soon, Fritha thought. I hope I am dead when they do. I have seen what they eat first. Eyes, and lips. The softest parts.
“Fola, croí, a bheith mall, beo, beagán níos faide,” she whispered, the same words she had been breathing since Drem had ripped his seax from her and she had collapsed to the ground. She knew the words of power she was uttering would not save her, would only keep her alive a little longer.
In truth, she was not sure why she was clinging on to life so desperately.
For my baby. Because she knew, when she died, so would the child growing inside her. But it was inevitable—there was no coming back from Drem’s blow.
The blood pulsing from the wound in her belly was leaking sluggishly. She felt her heartbeat beginning to fade, becoming weaker, the gaps between each beat longer, the same with her breaths. Her baby kicked within her, an act of panic. That upset her. She did not want her child to feel fear.
She turned her head, saw the place where Asroth had fallen. She’d watched his fall, was still surprised by it, by Drem and the rest. Asroth’s body was gone now, carried away by Balur and his giants. The battleground was empty, still and silent, apart from the squawking of crows, the wet slap of beaks tearing flesh. Nearby she heard the snort of a horse, heard it chewing at a clump of untrampled grass.
A memory of Asroth flashed through her mind, in Drassil’s Great Hall, of her dressing him in his war gear. He had seemed invincible, like a god to her.
I thought you would have saved me. Saved your unborn child.
She had said that to him, when he had landed beside her. He had bent down to her, and she had asked him to save her, and her baby.
He had shrugged. “There are more bellies in this world that I can plant my seed in,” he had said, then stood and strode away.
She had wept then, knowing that her baby would die.
A sound, a scratching on the ground. She tried to move, but she had no strength, her limbs numb, her body an immovable weight. She twisted her head, saw something crawling towards her.
Arn. Blood pulsed from the stump of his wrist. He was dragging himself through the dirt with his remaining hand, looking at her.
She smiled at him.
He reached her, lay his head upon her.
“Forgive me,” he said to her.
“For what? You gave all. Everything,” she breathed.
“I swore to protect your child.”
A silence, thoughts taking too long to wind their way through the fog growing in Fritha’s mind.
“You still can,” she said.
“How?” Arn asked. He pushed himself upright, looked at her. She could see some of his strength returning.
“Take my sword, cut my baby free and save her. Take her somewhere far away and raise her.”
Arn pulled away.
“I cannot do that,” he said.
“You swore,” she said, a flash of fierce passion in her voice. “I am done, my body broken, my life-blood soaking the earth. But she still lives within me. I can feel her.” She looked into Arn’s eyes, saw his tears, felt tears of her own.
“Please,” she whispered.
He stared at her, emotions rippling across his face. Then he stroked her forehead, kissed her cheek and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the short-sword at her belt, its blade black as night.