The girl pointed to the open back door. “Kris went to find Papa.”
Gods. No. Krisjan, the eldest of the three, wanted nothing more than to be like his father.
I took hold of Roark’s dagger, told the girl to stay put, and rushed outside to confused shouts from the others at my back.
“Krisjan!” I screamed his name, racing down the cobbled streets.
Cries of battle drew too near. My lungs burned, my body ached, and when I rounded a corner near the opened gates, I let out a sob of relief. There, crouched behind a wooden cask, a boy too small for the seax he carried was crouched, watching the destruction near the border walls.
I ducked behind his cask. “Krisjan. You cannot be here.” Big, wet eyes lifted, filled with fright. I wrapped an arm around his small shoulders. “Come. We must go back.”
The boy didn’t protest. He hardly uttered a sound when I pried his little fingers off the hilt and took hold of the seax. I clung to his small hand, pausing to look over my shoulder to the gates, searching, fearing.
Kael was out there. Edvin. I did not find them, but an unseen hook, an undeniable draw, pulled me to Roark at once.
He was impossible to avoid, a predator.
Blood clung to Roark’s cheeks, his lips, the blaze of his eyes spun with a bit of madness. One hand gripped a seax, the other his dark battle-ax. From hilt to point, both blades were soaked in blood.
Ravagers made their attempts to strike at the Sentry. He crouched, then landed the second blade in necks, hearts, bellies.
Roark moved with mesmerizing violence. A bloody dance where one partner was left standing and the other in pieces.
I swallowed down the need to run to him and turned to the boy. “Hurry now. We need to get inside.”
Together, we rushed toward the longhouse, but when we rounded the bend, my heart stopped.
A bulky warrior blocked our path. His skull was misshapen, a look of rounded points like horns. The Stav Guard who’d been there the day I was brought before King Damir. What was he doing?
The guard’s eyes were wild, like a flame caught up by the wind. He rolled a short blade in his hand, teeth bared. There was a hunger in the way he looked at Krisjan, like the boy was nothing more than a beating heart to slash open.
I’d never wondered how bloodlust might appear until now. It was feral and wretched, a wicked trance the Berserkir couldn’t escape.
This was the untamed violence of the berserksgangur poison taking hold.
No mistake, the Berserkir’s mind was overtaken by the ferocity of the many soul bones. Impenetrable, unbreakable. He craved battle, and would not let a moment of shedding blood go to waste.
Only now his desire for slaughter was placed on the head of a child.
The Berserkir roared a cry, one laden in a twisted glee, like death thrilled him to the bone.
I slid in front of Krisjan, my arms encircled around his trembling body, nothing more than a fleshy shield. I clenched my eyes, waiting for the killing blow.
It never came.
With my arms still cradling Krisjan’s head, I glimpsed over my shoulder.
My heart stuttered.
From the shadows of the arcades and crevices, billows of darkness draped over broad shoulders. Skul Drek materialized at the Berserkir’s side. Red, wild eyes met the dull emptiness of the warrior’s.
With a guttural cry, the warrior crashed his blade toward Skul Drek.
The assassin drifted to one side, like stepping from one shadow to another. Ropes of inky darkness wrapped around the Berserkir’s arms, ankles. Skeins rammed through the warrior’s nose, blotting out the whites of his eyes.
The warrior slashed and jabbed, cutting through the murky shadows like slicing through cobwebs on the rafters.
Rage burned through the deadened stare of Damir’s manipulated Stav. Whatever brutality burned through his soul from the bones of his armor now contorted his features into something frightening, like the sneer of evil.
