Their shoulders were too thick, too bulky. Some had jaws so square it appeared they had an extra set of teeth.
Berserkirs. These men—no less than a hundred—had been melded over and over, crafting soul bones to their bodies like bulky armor beneath the skin.
Their eyes were soulless, blackened. Tassels of colorful leather pinned to their tunics were symbols of their brutality, of how many lives they’d sent to Salur. They were far enough away I could not make out the numbers in full, but many of the Berserkir Stav wore their kill marks like a cloak across their shoulders.
Their heavy steps trampled across the bridges and cobbled roads until they reached the gates. I sprinted to the end of one bridge, leaning over the edge.
Along the outer gates, lines and lines of warriors—Myrdan and Jorvan alike—crashed swords and daggers against the bronze edges of a sea of invaders.
Ravagers. The crimson paint across their faces looked like they’d bathed in blood. Fara wolves howled and snapped at the ankles of the Stav, their tapered ears flicking to the whistles and commands from their masters.
A gate near the southern wall hung crooked on the hinges. Wood beams were tossed aside. Four Stav Guard were sprawled across the grass near the opening, dead.
That was their entry point.
From this vantage, I could make out the vibrant tunics and cloaks of Myrdan fighters tangled with Stav Guard. My head felt like it spun in delirium. So many angles, so much blood that the air was hot with the tang of it. I wanted to be everywhere, yet I could not move my feet.
“Lyra, what in the gods’ names are you doing here?” Kael’s sharp tone broke my stupor.
His hair was pasted to his brow from sweat and mud, and all along the edge of his Stav blade were bits of cloth and thick blood. He wasn’t alone. Mikkal Jakobson stood at his side, breathless and dirty much the same.
“Get back in the palace.” Kael gripped my arm. “Did Ashwood let you out?”
I shook him off. “I made my own choice. I could not sit there and do nothing. I helped in the battle of the wall.”
Kael looked ready to argue, then his gaze widened. “The hidden archers?”
“Thane will tell you.”
“Gods.” Kael looked over his shoulder at Mikkal. His younger half brother let his sword sink to his side for a moment. “We don’t know how the ravagers breached the walls, but they despise you most of all. Skilled as you are, you bring more risk to us here than in the palace.”
It was a blow to the chest, but not a lie. Should any of the ravagers catch sight of the silver scars, they would force the Stav to move and drift from positions to keep me safe.
“I can’t sit and do nothing.” I held Kael’s stare. “Skul Drek faced me. He knows of me and Roark…he went after him.”
Kael cupped the back of my head. “And do you thinkAshwood can focus on surviving if he sees you rushing into blades with a single dagger, Lyra? Think. Do not risk your life or his tonight. The palace—”
“Is warded,” Mikkal interrupted, using the pommel on his sword to gesture at the clank of the portcullises falling into place on every gate.
“Dammit.” Kael looked about, puzzling through a next move, then spun on me. “Listen to me, Ly. The ravagers will be hunting you out there, but you can protect lives here in the township. Mikkal is wounded. Edvin’s new house is near the satin shop. Go there. Most of the inner homes are guarded well enough, but with their children, I doubt Freydis and Edvin will refuse a few extra blades. They can tend to his wound before the fool gets infected or worse—wakes in Salur.”
Kael glared at the brother he was not given a chance to know. Mikkal Jakobson had been schooled by Henrik to be the future jarl after Kael was disowned, but he was not a hateful soul. Part of me believed he still viewed Kael as his elder brother, a leader.
“Go.” Kael shoved me into Mikkal’s chest.
“Kael Darkwin.” I fought the tremble to my chin. Kael paused long enough to look back at us. “Don’t you dare die.”
One corner of his weary face curved. “Same, Ly.”
Roads were clear through the market. Doors were sealed. Lights were doused.
By the time we reached the new household of the Skalfirth crafters, Mikkal stumbled a bit, his breath more like a ragged wheeze.
“Sit there.” I urged him to take a place on the stoop, his back to the cool clay-and-wood wall.
“Súlka Bien,” Mikkal said, voice rough. “If I meet Salur—”
“Hush, Mikkal.”
