According to what I saw in the water and given the time it takes to ride from village to village, I expect the Witch Collector to arrive within the hour. Imustget that knife.
I head in Finn’s direction, but in a single breath, everything changes. Over the drumbeats and howling guffaws, a strange sound shatters the night.
I stop. Listen. The sound mingles with the revelry and chanting but soon builds into a clamor that brings everyone—even the musicians and dancing folk—to a standstill.
Heart hammering, I shove my hair away from my sweat-dampened face and turn my gaze to the night sky to the west. My hands grow clammy with a cold fear that clings to my skin like the mist rolling in around our feet. I know that sound and those voices.
The children from earlier—the ones playing war.
They’re wailing.
Little screaming figures burst from the darkness at the edge of the village, red faces tear-stained and carved with panic, hands waving as if to swat us away.
Every person on the green stumbles around, stunned and confused, whether by ale and wine or from calling down the moon. Several parents gather their wherewithal and rush toward their crying children.
Everyone is focused on the little ones, on their nonsensical words,but I glance back to the darkness. This time, I pay attention to that familiar scent saturating the air.
It’s death.
Something moves in the shadows just outside the village. Beyond, along the horizon, shines what looks like a swarm of fireflies floating in the deep bend of the valley.
Mother stands on the other side of the fire pit. She bristles with energy, her skin glistening in the moonlight. I force every ounce of emotion I can onto my face and point west.
“Elders! Wardens!” Mother screams, reading my expression easily. The tendons in her throat strain with effort, but the people tasked with guarding our village sit at a table wearing lost expressions.
“Look! There!” A little girl points past the farrier’s cottage.
A horse, dark as night, charges into the light, hooves pounding the ground so hard that clumps of grass and earth fly up behind him. Villagers scramble out of the way. It’s as if the horse means to storm right through the green.
But the horse has a rider—a rider who jerks the reins and brings the looming animal to an earth-trembling halt.
A rider hidden beneath a black cloak.
The Witch Collector whips the massive beast around. “Get your frail and young to the orchard!” His voice is so deep and commanding that every drunken villager sobers, including me. “Wardens, gather your horses and weapons and all the weapons you can find! Witch Walkers, prepare your magick! Fill every bucket and pitcher with water from the troughs! Douse the thatch!” From his side, he frees a sword that carries the stain of blood and aims the blade toward the fiery amber orbs growing to the west. “Eastlanders are coming! And they’re going to set this village alight! Hurry!”
Parents scoop up their babes, and wardens finally run to find their blades and beasts. Elders and Witch Walkers chant the opening refrains of protective songs, all while rushing to the troughs to fill buckets. Families scatter into the night, heading for the orchard and vineyards, while others stumble around bewildered.
Mother rushes toward me and takes me by the arms. “We should goto the orchard,” she says, her eyes and face twisted with fear. “We don’t need to be here, Raina.”
I frown and shake my head, disbelieving that she would run away from this.
She grabs my hand, and we start across the green, but I look over my shoulder. Panic crawls down my throat and grips my heart as I scan the sea of faces for Finn, but I don’t see him. I need that damned knife. I also needhim. I need to know he’s safe, but there’s such disorder, such confusion.
Gods, I should’ve watched the waters! I should’ve stayed true! I could’ve seen what was coming and stopped this.
I can’t go to the orchard. I must stand and fight.
When I jerk my mother to a halt, she gives me a bewildered look. “Raina, what are you doing? Wemustleave! You don’t understand!”
I glance around, searching not for an escape route or even a bucket to carry to the well. I’m searching for a weapon. There’s nothing save for musical instruments, drinking vessels, and too many dishes of food. I know where to find what I need, though.
Something sharp. Something deadly.
With that thought, I grab my mother’s hand, too scared to let her far from my sight, and run barefoot toward our cottage.
Istorm through the cottage’s back door and rush across the garth to the small outbuilding where we keep our harvest tools. Heart thundering wild, I snatch my scythe from its mount.
Not my farming scythe—my fighting scythe. The one Hel and I modified in her father’s forge one night in secret, so that the blade was sharp on both sides. An unusual preference, but still my weapon of choice when a sword isn’t an option.
