I have to keep her alive.
Chapter 7
Finally, we reach the mountain pass where our cabin and several storage buildings are hidden. Father built them along the side of the mountain closest to our right. Although there’s a clearing around them, they sit behind a thick camouflage of bordering trees. In fact, if I didn’t know the buildings were there, I would easily overshoot them.
The cabin itself is a rectangular building, not large, but it resembles the longhouses of Father’s clan with modifications to camouflage its shape against the mountain.
Its door is on the far side, where the mountain curves a little. It means we have to walk along its long side to reach the entrance. Father designed it that way to make it harder for an attacker to gain immediate access to the inside while allowing for turrets along the roof from which we can defend ourselves.
On that side, there’s also a smokehouse for curing meat and a small forge for working metals. We keep all of our extra weapons and belongings within the cabin itself.
Each of the buildings is vented so that any smoke from the fires within them flows across the face of the mountain and disperses well before it becomes visible in the sky. The last thingwe want is a white plume funneling upward like a beacon leading to our home.
As we approach the windowless and doorless side of the cabin, Father hoists the sack of game into a wooden structure filled with snow that sits at this end. It will keep the meat fresh until we can cure it. Once the butterflies are cleaned, they make a good stew. They’re our main source of meat during winter and keep us from starving.
He quickly gestures us inside the cabin. “Thoren, get up to the eastern turret in the roof and watch for intruders. Erik, bring the woman to the hearth.”
While Skirra follows me inside, Kori and the other wolves remain outside, all of them seemingly on edge as they stay on their feet, sniffing the air and gathering around the long side of the cabin.
As soon as we enter the building, Thoren reaches for a fresh quiver of arrows from the stash of weapons hanging on the wall inside the door. He also snatches up a cloth, wiping at the goop on his face while he hurries across the interior, past the hearth in the middle of the floor, and up the steps on the opposite side to the loft that runs around all four sides.
There are two more smaller set of stairs—barely more than ladders—positioned at equal distances along the right-hand loft. Those ladders lead up into the shallow turrets built within the roof cavity. Each turret has a long but narrow opening that will allow him to scan the forest from side to side and fire arrows in any direction.
It’s still warm inside the building. The hearth is built up around the sides as high as my knees, so the fire within it stays safely contained and we can leave it glowing while we’re absent.
Father is a few steps ahead of me, his daggers remaining sheathed at his waist as he drops to his knees on the fur beside the hearth and begins stoking the fire.
We were moving fast to get here and my breathing remains labored as I hurry after him and lower myself to my knees on the same large fur he’s resting on.
Because we sleep around the hearth, there are already multiple furs rolled up nearby. There’s also a metal bucket filled with cooled boiled water, and a basket containing clean cloths. We prepare the water and cloths in advance in case we come back injured.
“Let me see her.” Father turns from the fire and reaches for the edge of my coat where it covers the woman’s face.
The tension in his jaw increases. “She can’t be older than you, Erik. Barely more than a girl.” His brow furrows more deeply. “It concerns me that someone this young would have angered her leader so much that he’d cast her out. Whatever she did, it must have been grievous in his eyes.”
The Blacksmith who rules the city is named Malak Ironmeld. Stories about him reached Father’s clan all the way in the north, none of them good.
Apparently, there was a time when Blacksmiths would travel beyond their city, forging alliances with other peoples. They were peaceful then. So peaceful that they considered the Einherjar way of life to be brutal and abhorrent.
Malak changed all that. Now, according to my father, the Blacksmiths have surpassed even his people’s proclivity for brutality.
If Malak hates this woman, then Father could very well be right—he’ll check on her body.
Strange, though. If he really wanted her dead, why didn’t he place guards around the pit to ensure she perished?
My more immediate concern is the fact that she still hasn’t stirred. “She should have woken up by now, shouldn’t she?”
Father’s brow creases. “The blow to her head may have caused more damage than we can see. Or the object thatstruck her could have been magical. It may have had an unnatural effect on her. I don’t know enough about the more complex impacts of Blacksmith power—other than the obvious consequence of striking metal against flesh and bone.”
I already know the answer to my next question, but I ask it all the same. “Could I use my deep light to help her?”
Father’s expression softens. “Son, you know you can’t. Our light can’t be transferred to another being, no matter how much we may want to give it to them. We can only use it within our own bodies.”
He clears his throat before he continues. “Other than the head wound and the marks around her wrists, is she hurt anywhere else?”
“Those were the only wounds I saw.”
He presses his lips together. “What you saw might not be all.”
