The roar of the flames, a hungry, living beast. The thud as the main roof beam, the one my father and I had placed, cracked and gave way. A shower of sparks. A final, choked-off cry.
I am standing in the snow. I am a child. I am frozen. Useless. I am watching my home, my world, my family, burn.
I ran. I left them. I ran. I ran. I ran.
A new scream, from just outside my hovel rips me back to the present. "Gods, no! My...!"
A wet, heavy sound, followed by a soft, final groan.
My breath is a thin, whistling sound, trapped in my throat. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I am a stone. A ghost. I am dead.Joric was right. I am just a ghost, and I have brought the fire to Oakhaven. Again.
CRASH!
The hovel door does not open. It explodes.
It is torn from its leather hinges, a violent spray of splintered wood and torn hide. The flimsy plank slams against my small pot shelf, shattering my clay bowls. Shards rain down onto the floor.
A man fills the doorway.
He is silhouetted against the orange, flickering hell of the burning village. He is big, wrapped in greasy, mismatched furs, his beard matted with ice and... something dark and wet. He holds a bloody wood-axe, one of our village axes, taken from a body.
His eyes are wide, manic, reflecting the flames. He sniffs, a pig-like, greedy sound. "Look at this. A pretty little thing, all alone, just waiting by the fire."
He steps inside, and the hovel shrinks. His stench rolls over me—unwashed body, stale suru stew, old sweat, and the sharp, overwhelming coppery tang of fresh blood.
My body is ice. I am still by the fire, watching my mother burn. I can’t move. I can’t scream. My hand is a knot in my hair, pulling, pulling, but I feel nothing. I am a hollow, useless thing.
Another shadow fills the doorway behind him. A second man, broader, his movements calmer. He wears a heavy, fur-lined hood that shadows his face, but I can see the glint of a steel helm beneath it. This is the leader.
"Well, well," the leader's voice is a low, satisfied rumble. "Look at that."
The first raider, the one with the axe, stops. His greedy, piggish eyes follow the leader’s gaze. He looks past me, past the fire, into the deep shadows where Threk stands.
The raider’s grin falters. His jaw goes slack. "By the... by the gods... what... what is that?"
Threk is utterly, predatorily still. He has not moved. He is a mountain of nightmare, his muscles coiled so tight his skin shivers. His red eyes, two burning coals in the dark, are locked on the man with the axe.
The leader laughs. A short, harsh, ugly bark. "It's a pet. The information was right. A monster for the monster-keeper."
My blood turns to a frigid tide. Information?
The leader looks back at me, his unseen gaze a physical, slimy touch that crawls over my skin. "Forget the beast for now. It's cornered and injured even if it looks scary and mean. Grab the girl. We'll have our fun with her, and the village can burn."
The first raider’s greedy, broken-toothed smile returns. His eyes drop from my face, roving, lingering. "She'll do for a start. A nice, warm start."
He takes a step toward me. He licks his chapped lips.
He lunges.
Time stops. It stretches, thin and brittle as ice.
He is a blur of greasy fur and glinting steel. I see the cracked, black fingernails on the hand he reaches for me. I see the matted blood in his beard. I see the yellow of his teeth. I smell the blood on his axe, the sour breath of him.
My body is a useless, frozen, hollow thing. I am going to die.
This is it. My penance.
The thought is clear, cold, and a strange, sick relief. It’s over. I am done. I will pay the price. Finally.
