The rain had washed away a slough of the hill in the night. Samarie had woken to the bark of orders and the distant sounds of a storm. She rose from her thin mattress sluggishly, trying not to resent the brevity of her rest. The barracks was bustling with activity as men and women shrugged on leathers and oiled cloaks. Despite the early hour, her fellows were alive with banter and cheery chatter, occasionally drowned out by the drums of the thunder maiden. She had barely fastened her cloak about her shoulders when they marched out into the downpour. Privately she wondered what transgression their lord had committed to have earned such a violent rainy season. Samarie had never seen rain this vicious in all her years; it struck the Earth as though it wished to wound it. One of the guards proper, a heavily bearded man by the name of Jules, informed them grimly that the last time they had lost part of the hill, they had been out clearing mud for nearly a week.
When they arrived at the remains of the slope, she understood why. A whole face of the hill had slumped off, exposing the ugly face of the bedrock. A huge lake of mud had flooded some of the tiny homes at the base of the hill, the timber bowing under the weight of the sludge. The thatched roof of one of the homes had caved in. The fields stood nearly an inch taller, drenched in the mess of soil and grass and rock. A barn had collapsed, trapping screaming horses in a mire of shattered timber and mud. Samarie marveled briefly at the sheer amount of mud. She peered up at the tall walls of the Zarnofsky stronghold. She could see the warm flicker of fire in windows, where the family was undoubtedly sleeping, warm in their lush bedding and gloriously dry. She had lived like that once, although the memories felt a thousand lifetimes away here in the rain and muck.
She woke to the splay of sunlight across her face and a voice sing-songing her name. Samarie groaned, turning to drive her face deep into her pillow. The voice trailed off into laughter, and the hands that belonged to it were gripping her shoulders to pull her free of the comfort of her bed. She whined, reaching out to bat the offender away. She’d been having such a wonderful dream—
“Come along sweets,” the voice called with another laugh, before it was right in her ear, “Unless you’d rather I wake you another way?”
Samarie grinned at that, turning her head to catch sight of a dark haired youth sat on her bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. She twisted, shoving her pillow into his chest, putting rather more force into it than was strictly necessary. He winced good-naturedly, more so when she wound her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. He tasted of laughter and steel, sweeter than the finest wine. He shone like the dawn, blurring her vision with his beauty.
“The other way, then,” he murmured. Samarie laughed and dragged him closer.
It was slow, filthy work. They worked in small groups, hefting huge chunks of rock out of the fields and the flooded homes. The surviving horses had been rescued and stabled in the safety of the Zarnofsky’s fortress. The rain was both a blessing and a curse—the mud was prevented from solidifying, but the cold made her fingers stiff and her cloak heavy. The sun rose and revealed how little progress they had made over the past few hours. In the light of day, she could better make out the damage. Several trees had been uprooted by the mudflow; they would have to be removed lest they tumble down the slope into the houses. The farmers had joined them in clearing out the mud by this point, but even with all but the most essential of guards and household staff helping out, the going was slow. Their golden cloaks had all turned the same shade of brown as the mud, their arms and legs covered in a layer of earth.
The rain finally began easing up around high noon, pale tendrils of sunlight piercing the thick veil of cloud cover. Samarie had never quite ached like this before; manual labor required a very different strength from that of combat. She had thought herself strong once, but she had been so foolish then. She had been a child, drilling endlessly for war, pretending at being a warrior, making a game out of battle. They’d had slaves to do their labor and she had drilled against their guards in round after round of combat. A firstborn had nothing else but the clash of steel on steel, and slaving away in the fields was a poor whetstone to sharpen oneself against, she’d been told. She’d been lied to, she decided, as she helped shoulder the trunk of the great oak that had fallen. Labor demanded more of her strength than the swing of a blade. She had considered armor a heavy burden, but it paled to the heft of the oak. Voices cried out cadence as they made their way down the remains of the hill.
“A pity you have to wear all that armor,” he called from her bed, hands tucked behind his skull, green eyes dancing as he studied her. “You look better naked. I’d much rather see you like this out and about. You’d be quite the sight, riding around like that.”
She snorted inelegantly, fingers combing through her blonde waves, pulling the hair back to the base of her skull. She began the familiar work of taming its length into a neat, braided bun, studying her work in a long mirror.
“I cannot imagine riding would be comfortable nude. The saddle would chafe,” she remarked plainly, beginning to secure the mass of hair into place. “My father might also have some objections. I would make a poor protector with all my vital organs ready for skewering.”
“You’re too pretty for skewering,” he informed her, swinging his legs off her bed, swaggering towards her. She looked to his discarded clothing pointedly, which he helpfully ignored. “Everyone would simply be overcome by your beauty and incapable of fighting. It’s a sound strategy. As for your father, well…” He trailed off. “I suppose you have a point.”
She snorted again, placing her final pin into position. Samarie strapped her belt about her waist, adjusting her scabbard habitually. He leaned against her writing desk, studying her as she sheathed her blade. The humor in her eyes dimmed as the blade clicked into place.
“Dress, Nikolas. It will soon be time to break the fast, and my lord father will be displeased if you are not there to liven the mood.”
“You’re so eager to boot me out the door,” he complained, before casting a wary, almost hopeful gaze towards her, “If we simply told him—“
“There’s nothing to tell him, Fool,” Samarie interrupted coolly, sweeping an emerald green cloak about her shoulders, fastening it with an amber clasp. “Dress.”
They’d removed all of the fallen trees and most of the massive debris by nightfall. Mud still stood thick in the fields and the flooded houses, but the affected families had been granted rooms in the Zarnofsky’s home and all immediate threats had been dealt with. The horses had been treated by healers and the trees brought in to dry for firewood. Their supper was especially hearty, and the slip of the boy that was secondborn came to thank them for all their hard work. His face was chubby and the faint wisps of his auburn beard were more comical than manly. He commanded their attention through the merit of his birth, but certainly not the strength of his voice, which trembled and cracked as he spoke. The firstborn watched them suspiciously, an intelligence in his eyes that was wasted as a simple protector.
Samarie kept her head down, studying her plate intently. The pork was over cooked and in desperate need of sauce, but it was fuel. Fuel for ever more work. Tonight she would be back on patrol, weaving through the nearby forests to ensure their borders were secure. It was more important than ever to control the woods and the roads, to ensure their enemies had not wished for this disaster and were not ready to press their advantage. The firstborn needed his eyes and ears out in the wilds. He would have no failures. Samarie wasn’t sure whether she admired or hated him.
“Good morrow, Samarie.”
If Nikolas was the dawn, Gildas was high noon. Few could compare to her younger brother’s brilliance, and all could feel the warmth and power he radiated. The pale haired boy had a way of looking at others that made them feel as if they were the only people in the world who mattered. His charisma was enchanting, purportedly a gift from the nymphs of their woods, a present to ensure the power of the Cathan. Samarie believed it; Gildas was blinding in his charm. He could talk the tide into retreating, if he so desired, and she was convinced the waves would fall back without hesitation, gladly even.
“And to you,” she returned, joining him at the long table, nodding to her mother and father. Her father chuckled as Nikolas resumed telling his story, hands dancing and voice changing to suit every part. Her mother sat primly, working through her breakfast, the faintest flicker of a smile dancing across her face. Samarie allowed a red haired man to present her a plate, barely paying him mind as she broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in a small mound of honey. “Good morrow, Uriah, Pylos,” she bit into her bread, crisp dough and honey melting to her tongue. Uriah nodded around his cider, listening half-heartedly as their Aunt Elora talked his ear off about the price of slaves and honestly, it wouldn’t really be that much of an expense to furnish her with one or two more, her current one needed to go to the chopping block for her inability to keep her chambers clean… Samarie grimaced in sympathy to poor Uriah, who looked ready to sell Elora for the ‘mere price of twenty five gold coins’ herself.
“Good morrow, Samarie,” little Pylos’ voice was no longer quite so little, even though he was still as slender as a sapling. He seemed too big for his skin, awkwardly proportioned and deeply uncomfortable. Undoubtedly, he would have rather been back in the forge, sweltering in the heat of the furnace as he studied and far from the eyes of others. Pylos had taken all of his meals in the forge for nearly a month until their mother put her foot down, demanding that he join them and eat ‘like a civilized person’. Pylos had complied; their mother was not a woman to be crossed. Still, it was evident that he did not enjoy these meals, and he would run off as soon as was acceptable to hide with his teacher.
“We have a new shipment coming in today, Uriah, I’ll need you there for inspection,” Gildas’ voice silenced all conversation at the table. Nikolas paused in his story, Elora’s negotiations stilled, and her mother’s quiet discussion with Uncle Jonas halted so they could turn their eyes to Gildas. Seventeen and he already commanded the family with their father’s might. He’d taken command over most of the daily tasks of the manor, and he accepted all but the most expensive of slave shipments. He’d negotiated a far better price for the last lot of savages, half of which had arrived crippled by disease and had earned the respect of the Silesians for his guts. It was clear that Gildas was a better leader than even their father. Samarie felt a rush of affection for him as he turned to her, blue eyes calculating.
“Just you today, Samarie. We don’t want the Silesians thinking we’re scared.”
“As you wish, m’lordship,” she quipped, but there was fondness in her remark.
The roads were still half flooded when Samarie began her patrol. Her boots sank into the mud with every step, the leather doing little to keep her feet dry. The woods loomed ahead of her, all gnarled roots and wild undergrowth. She could barely make out the shapes of the trees for all the shadows. Her hand touched the blade at her hip. Her thumb traced idle circles across the leather of the hilt.
The mud squelched as she stepped out of the road, approaching the forrest’s edge. Droplets from sodden branches rained down upon her face. The air tasted of fresh soil and pine, the wind whispering through the trees. An owl hooted dolefully. Samarie slipped into the woods, her eyes adjusting to the dark. These woods were larger and wilder than the groves she had grown with, but the familiarity of the place her heart drumming against her ribs. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself home again. It would be warmer, and drier, in the Cathan groves. She knew every inch of those woods, had spent hundreds of nights sprinting through the trees, chasing nymphs and deer.
Samarie forced her thoughts to the present. Of all people, Samarie knew better than to let down her guard in the woods. She walked deeper into the night, careful to keep her footsteps light. The forrest hummed around her, paying little mind to her intrusion. There was no colour to the world this late at night. She scanned continuously, ducking beneath branches and over tangles of roots.
The trade went smoothly. Gildas was all easy charm, working the Silesians into fits of laughter. Uriah inspected their haul, parchment and quill taking extensive notes. The sun beat down on her back, sweat dripping down her neck. Samarie sat tall atop her stallion, watching the traders impassively. Silesians were as quick to sell you a knife as to steal it back and slip it between your ribs, but everything had gone well. Her thoughts drifted to yearnings for wine. The ride to their manor would take easily twice as long as the way out with the slaves in tow. She glanced to the lot; glassy eyed with their wills beat out of them, but strong backed and ready to work. They would sell and gift most away to their neighboring families, but some would be familiar faces soon enough. She cast her gaze to Gildas, his arm around the pirate captain’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear. The beast of a man threw his head back in a laugh that nearly shook his caravan. Gildas smiled and slipped away towards her, golden hair shining in the sun.
“We’re just about ready here,” he informed her, dropping a hand to the snout of her mount. The horse nuzzled into his palm. Even animals were powerless before Gildas. “You look weary.”
“You wish,” her mockery brought a twinkle to his eye. Gildas slipped away and Samarie moved to begin preparing the march home.
It was well into the night before Samarie noticed anything strange. At first, she suspected exhaustion to be the culprit, robbing her of her senses. She had stilled, craning to hear anything in the woods. Nothing but the ebb and flow of her breath answered her. The stillness was unnatural. Even the wind had stopped. Everything was as though frozen, trapped in time. The bite of steel answered her palm, a cold comfort in the silence.
Her footsteps echoed like thunder for all the quiet. Samarie slowed her pace to a near crawl, but the silence was overwhelmed by the creak of soil and wood beneath her feet. The air tasted of copper. Hairs rose across the back of her neck. She eased her gaze skyward to see that every star in the sky had been extinguished. The gauntlet creaked as it tightened about the blade.
Somewhere in the silence there were eyes.
They arrived home just before nightfall. The slaves kept a brutal pace without complaint. They were young and in good health—Samarie could hardly believe their good fortune. Their lord father met them in the courtyard, appraising the thirty chained men and women, his eyebrows elevated in approval. Samarie dismounted, pressing the reins of her horse into the hands of a waiting attendant.
Gildas and her father were already walking to the Great Hall. She fell in behind them, relishing the cool breeze. The night would be a welcome respite from the summer sun. Uriah’s footsteps quickened to match pace with her. His red curls lay plastered to his face, mouth drawn.
“You look troubled,” Uriah jumped as Samarie nudged his arm. A weary smile crossed his face. Pale fingers ran through his hair, pulling it back and out of the way.
“It’s nothing, I’m sure.”
Samarie smelled the blood long before she found the body. It hung thick in the air, like fat rain clouds. It drowned out the scent of the forrest. The deer had been split from groin to throat, spilling out its insides along the undergrowth. Its neck twisted the wrong direction, sightless eyes pointed skyward. Samarie carefully circled the stag, uncertain.
The cut was clean, decisive, but Samarie could not fathom why anyone would gut a deer in the woods. There was no sense to the act. Her lips twisted into a frown as she crouched, studying the splay of organs. Her gaze darkened—something had gone to all the trouble of ripping out its heart. Her hand tightened on the grip of her blade.
Hearts were powerful things.
Samarie woke to a scream. At first she had thought herself dreaming, and tried to push herself back under the fog of dreams. And then another voice cried out, and another. She shot upright, heart slamming against her chest. In the window, she could see the orange flicker of flames. Her body moved on instinct, grabbing the sword balanced against the wall, feet carrying her to the window to make sense of the world. Only, no matter how hard she looked, nothing made sense. Everything was chaos, silhouettes of figures swinging chains and swords, flickering in the inferno.
She moved, dressing herself without thoughts, strapping into armor and fumbling on every gods damned buckle. Samarie found herself running through the manor, blade drawn, following the sounds of screams. She turned a corner, slammed through the door to Pylos’ room, and nearly screamed herself. His little, broken body slumped before her, his head placed neatly beside his ribcage.
His gaze followed her as she turned and ran. Thoughts of Gildas swam in her heard, of golden hair and a winning smile, whispers of a mad joke, a dream. His room was empty.
The Great Hall was not. Swords and chains and flesh met in slaughter, their guards overwhelmed by men and women in chains with glassy eyes. They barely seemed to react to the steel carving through them. One wrapped its chained arms around a pale throat, a sword run through its belly. It tightened and Samarie watched as Elora choked for air.
She raised her blade and charged.
The blood was everywhere, and it took Samarie several minutes to find the trail. Whatever had butchered the stag had left crumpled leaves and thick drops of gore as it left. It was almost impossible to keep the trail in the dead of night. She ungloved her hand, following touches of red with pale fingertips. It tasted of sulfur and rot—but the deer had only been dead a few hours, by her estimate. Samarie’s pulse quickened in her skin.
The clearing appeared suddenly, and the trail went cold. Even with the touch of moonlight, there was no blood to follow. The stillness had lifted. The stars shone once more. The wind whispered through the trees. Samarie swore beneath her breath. Nothing here.
When they arrived at the remains of the slope, she understood why. A whole face of the hill had slumped off, exposing the ugly face of the bedrock. A huge lake of mud had flooded some of the tiny homes at the base of the hill, the timber bowing under the weight of the sludge. The thatched roof of one of the homes had caved in. The fields stood nearly an inch taller, drenched in the mess of soil and grass and rock. A barn had collapsed, trapping screaming horses in a mire of shattered timber and mud. Samarie marveled briefly at the sheer amount of mud. She peered up at the tall walls of the Zarnofsky stronghold. She could see the warm flicker of fire in windows, where the family was undoubtedly sleeping, warm in their lush bedding and gloriously dry. She had lived like that once, although the memories felt a thousand lifetimes away here in the rain and muck.
She woke to the splay of sunlight across her face and a voice sing-songing her name. Samarie groaned, turning to drive her face deep into her pillow. The voice trailed off into laughter, and the hands that belonged to it were gripping her shoulders to pull her free of the comfort of her bed. She whined, reaching out to bat the offender away. She’d been having such a wonderful dream—
“Come along sweets,” the voice called with another laugh, before it was right in her ear, “Unless you’d rather I wake you another way?”
Samarie grinned at that, turning her head to catch sight of a dark haired youth sat on her bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. She twisted, shoving her pillow into his chest, putting rather more force into it than was strictly necessary. He winced good-naturedly, more so when she wound her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. He tasted of laughter and steel, sweeter than the finest wine. He shone like the dawn, blurring her vision with his beauty.
“The other way, then,” he murmured. Samarie laughed and dragged him closer.
It was slow, filthy work. They worked in small groups, hefting huge chunks of rock out of the fields and the flooded homes. The surviving horses had been rescued and stabled in the safety of the Zarnofsky’s fortress. The rain was both a blessing and a curse—the mud was prevented from solidifying, but the cold made her fingers stiff and her cloak heavy. The sun rose and revealed how little progress they had made over the past few hours. In the light of day, she could better make out the damage. Several trees had been uprooted by the mudflow; they would have to be removed lest they tumble down the slope into the houses. The farmers had joined them in clearing out the mud by this point, but even with all but the most essential of guards and household staff helping out, the going was slow. Their golden cloaks had all turned the same shade of brown as the mud, their arms and legs covered in a layer of earth.
The rain finally began easing up around high noon, pale tendrils of sunlight piercing the thick veil of cloud cover. Samarie had never quite ached like this before; manual labor required a very different strength from that of combat. She had thought herself strong once, but she had been so foolish then. She had been a child, drilling endlessly for war, pretending at being a warrior, making a game out of battle. They’d had slaves to do their labor and she had drilled against their guards in round after round of combat. A firstborn had nothing else but the clash of steel on steel, and slaving away in the fields was a poor whetstone to sharpen oneself against, she’d been told. She’d been lied to, she decided, as she helped shoulder the trunk of the great oak that had fallen. Labor demanded more of her strength than the swing of a blade. She had considered armor a heavy burden, but it paled to the heft of the oak. Voices cried out cadence as they made their way down the remains of the hill.
“A pity you have to wear all that armor,” he called from her bed, hands tucked behind his skull, green eyes dancing as he studied her. “You look better naked. I’d much rather see you like this out and about. You’d be quite the sight, riding around like that.”
She snorted inelegantly, fingers combing through her blonde waves, pulling the hair back to the base of her skull. She began the familiar work of taming its length into a neat, braided bun, studying her work in a long mirror.
“I cannot imagine riding would be comfortable nude. The saddle would chafe,” she remarked plainly, beginning to secure the mass of hair into place. “My father might also have some objections. I would make a poor protector with all my vital organs ready for skewering.”
“You’re too pretty for skewering,” he informed her, swinging his legs off her bed, swaggering towards her. She looked to his discarded clothing pointedly, which he helpfully ignored. “Everyone would simply be overcome by your beauty and incapable of fighting. It’s a sound strategy. As for your father, well…” He trailed off. “I suppose you have a point.”
She snorted again, placing her final pin into position. Samarie strapped her belt about her waist, adjusting her scabbard habitually. He leaned against her writing desk, studying her as she sheathed her blade. The humor in her eyes dimmed as the blade clicked into place.
“Dress, Nikolas. It will soon be time to break the fast, and my lord father will be displeased if you are not there to liven the mood.”
“You’re so eager to boot me out the door,” he complained, before casting a wary, almost hopeful gaze towards her, “If we simply told him—“
“There’s nothing to tell him, Fool,” Samarie interrupted coolly, sweeping an emerald green cloak about her shoulders, fastening it with an amber clasp. “Dress.”
They’d removed all of the fallen trees and most of the massive debris by nightfall. Mud still stood thick in the fields and the flooded houses, but the affected families had been granted rooms in the Zarnofsky’s home and all immediate threats had been dealt with. The horses had been treated by healers and the trees brought in to dry for firewood. Their supper was especially hearty, and the slip of the boy that was secondborn came to thank them for all their hard work. His face was chubby and the faint wisps of his auburn beard were more comical than manly. He commanded their attention through the merit of his birth, but certainly not the strength of his voice, which trembled and cracked as he spoke. The firstborn watched them suspiciously, an intelligence in his eyes that was wasted as a simple protector.
Samarie kept her head down, studying her plate intently. The pork was over cooked and in desperate need of sauce, but it was fuel. Fuel for ever more work. Tonight she would be back on patrol, weaving through the nearby forests to ensure their borders were secure. It was more important than ever to control the woods and the roads, to ensure their enemies had not wished for this disaster and were not ready to press their advantage. The firstborn needed his eyes and ears out in the wilds. He would have no failures. Samarie wasn’t sure whether she admired or hated him.
“Good morrow, Samarie.”
If Nikolas was the dawn, Gildas was high noon. Few could compare to her younger brother’s brilliance, and all could feel the warmth and power he radiated. The pale haired boy had a way of looking at others that made them feel as if they were the only people in the world who mattered. His charisma was enchanting, purportedly a gift from the nymphs of their woods, a present to ensure the power of the Cathan. Samarie believed it; Gildas was blinding in his charm. He could talk the tide into retreating, if he so desired, and she was convinced the waves would fall back without hesitation, gladly even.
“And to you,” she returned, joining him at the long table, nodding to her mother and father. Her father chuckled as Nikolas resumed telling his story, hands dancing and voice changing to suit every part. Her mother sat primly, working through her breakfast, the faintest flicker of a smile dancing across her face. Samarie allowed a red haired man to present her a plate, barely paying him mind as she broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in a small mound of honey. “Good morrow, Uriah, Pylos,” she bit into her bread, crisp dough and honey melting to her tongue. Uriah nodded around his cider, listening half-heartedly as their Aunt Elora talked his ear off about the price of slaves and honestly, it wouldn’t really be that much of an expense to furnish her with one or two more, her current one needed to go to the chopping block for her inability to keep her chambers clean… Samarie grimaced in sympathy to poor Uriah, who looked ready to sell Elora for the ‘mere price of twenty five gold coins’ herself.
“Good morrow, Samarie,” little Pylos’ voice was no longer quite so little, even though he was still as slender as a sapling. He seemed too big for his skin, awkwardly proportioned and deeply uncomfortable. Undoubtedly, he would have rather been back in the forge, sweltering in the heat of the furnace as he studied and far from the eyes of others. Pylos had taken all of his meals in the forge for nearly a month until their mother put her foot down, demanding that he join them and eat ‘like a civilized person’. Pylos had complied; their mother was not a woman to be crossed. Still, it was evident that he did not enjoy these meals, and he would run off as soon as was acceptable to hide with his teacher.
“We have a new shipment coming in today, Uriah, I’ll need you there for inspection,” Gildas’ voice silenced all conversation at the table. Nikolas paused in his story, Elora’s negotiations stilled, and her mother’s quiet discussion with Uncle Jonas halted so they could turn their eyes to Gildas. Seventeen and he already commanded the family with their father’s might. He’d taken command over most of the daily tasks of the manor, and he accepted all but the most expensive of slave shipments. He’d negotiated a far better price for the last lot of savages, half of which had arrived crippled by disease and had earned the respect of the Silesians for his guts. It was clear that Gildas was a better leader than even their father. Samarie felt a rush of affection for him as he turned to her, blue eyes calculating.
“Just you today, Samarie. We don’t want the Silesians thinking we’re scared.”
“As you wish, m’lordship,” she quipped, but there was fondness in her remark.
The roads were still half flooded when Samarie began her patrol. Her boots sank into the mud with every step, the leather doing little to keep her feet dry. The woods loomed ahead of her, all gnarled roots and wild undergrowth. She could barely make out the shapes of the trees for all the shadows. Her hand touched the blade at her hip. Her thumb traced idle circles across the leather of the hilt.
The mud squelched as she stepped out of the road, approaching the forrest’s edge. Droplets from sodden branches rained down upon her face. The air tasted of fresh soil and pine, the wind whispering through the trees. An owl hooted dolefully. Samarie slipped into the woods, her eyes adjusting to the dark. These woods were larger and wilder than the groves she had grown with, but the familiarity of the place her heart drumming against her ribs. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself home again. It would be warmer, and drier, in the Cathan groves. She knew every inch of those woods, had spent hundreds of nights sprinting through the trees, chasing nymphs and deer.
Samarie forced her thoughts to the present. Of all people, Samarie knew better than to let down her guard in the woods. She walked deeper into the night, careful to keep her footsteps light. The forrest hummed around her, paying little mind to her intrusion. There was no colour to the world this late at night. She scanned continuously, ducking beneath branches and over tangles of roots.
The trade went smoothly. Gildas was all easy charm, working the Silesians into fits of laughter. Uriah inspected their haul, parchment and quill taking extensive notes. The sun beat down on her back, sweat dripping down her neck. Samarie sat tall atop her stallion, watching the traders impassively. Silesians were as quick to sell you a knife as to steal it back and slip it between your ribs, but everything had gone well. Her thoughts drifted to yearnings for wine. The ride to their manor would take easily twice as long as the way out with the slaves in tow. She glanced to the lot; glassy eyed with their wills beat out of them, but strong backed and ready to work. They would sell and gift most away to their neighboring families, but some would be familiar faces soon enough. She cast her gaze to Gildas, his arm around the pirate captain’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear. The beast of a man threw his head back in a laugh that nearly shook his caravan. Gildas smiled and slipped away towards her, golden hair shining in the sun.
“We’re just about ready here,” he informed her, dropping a hand to the snout of her mount. The horse nuzzled into his palm. Even animals were powerless before Gildas. “You look weary.”
“You wish,” her mockery brought a twinkle to his eye. Gildas slipped away and Samarie moved to begin preparing the march home.
It was well into the night before Samarie noticed anything strange. At first, she suspected exhaustion to be the culprit, robbing her of her senses. She had stilled, craning to hear anything in the woods. Nothing but the ebb and flow of her breath answered her. The stillness was unnatural. Even the wind had stopped. Everything was as though frozen, trapped in time. The bite of steel answered her palm, a cold comfort in the silence.
Her footsteps echoed like thunder for all the quiet. Samarie slowed her pace to a near crawl, but the silence was overwhelmed by the creak of soil and wood beneath her feet. The air tasted of copper. Hairs rose across the back of her neck. She eased her gaze skyward to see that every star in the sky had been extinguished. The gauntlet creaked as it tightened about the blade.
Somewhere in the silence there were eyes.
They arrived home just before nightfall. The slaves kept a brutal pace without complaint. They were young and in good health—Samarie could hardly believe their good fortune. Their lord father met them in the courtyard, appraising the thirty chained men and women, his eyebrows elevated in approval. Samarie dismounted, pressing the reins of her horse into the hands of a waiting attendant.
Gildas and her father were already walking to the Great Hall. She fell in behind them, relishing the cool breeze. The night would be a welcome respite from the summer sun. Uriah’s footsteps quickened to match pace with her. His red curls lay plastered to his face, mouth drawn.
“You look troubled,” Uriah jumped as Samarie nudged his arm. A weary smile crossed his face. Pale fingers ran through his hair, pulling it back and out of the way.
“It’s nothing, I’m sure.”
Samarie smelled the blood long before she found the body. It hung thick in the air, like fat rain clouds. It drowned out the scent of the forrest. The deer had been split from groin to throat, spilling out its insides along the undergrowth. Its neck twisted the wrong direction, sightless eyes pointed skyward. Samarie carefully circled the stag, uncertain.
The cut was clean, decisive, but Samarie could not fathom why anyone would gut a deer in the woods. There was no sense to the act. Her lips twisted into a frown as she crouched, studying the splay of organs. Her gaze darkened—something had gone to all the trouble of ripping out its heart. Her hand tightened on the grip of her blade.
Hearts were powerful things.
Samarie woke to a scream. At first she had thought herself dreaming, and tried to push herself back under the fog of dreams. And then another voice cried out, and another. She shot upright, heart slamming against her chest. In the window, she could see the orange flicker of flames. Her body moved on instinct, grabbing the sword balanced against the wall, feet carrying her to the window to make sense of the world. Only, no matter how hard she looked, nothing made sense. Everything was chaos, silhouettes of figures swinging chains and swords, flickering in the inferno.
She moved, dressing herself without thoughts, strapping into armor and fumbling on every gods damned buckle. Samarie found herself running through the manor, blade drawn, following the sounds of screams. She turned a corner, slammed through the door to Pylos’ room, and nearly screamed herself. His little, broken body slumped before her, his head placed neatly beside his ribcage.
His gaze followed her as she turned and ran. Thoughts of Gildas swam in her heard, of golden hair and a winning smile, whispers of a mad joke, a dream. His room was empty.
The Great Hall was not. Swords and chains and flesh met in slaughter, their guards overwhelmed by men and women in chains with glassy eyes. They barely seemed to react to the steel carving through them. One wrapped its chained arms around a pale throat, a sword run through its belly. It tightened and Samarie watched as Elora choked for air.
She raised her blade and charged.
The blood was everywhere, and it took Samarie several minutes to find the trail. Whatever had butchered the stag had left crumpled leaves and thick drops of gore as it left. It was almost impossible to keep the trail in the dead of night. She ungloved her hand, following touches of red with pale fingertips. It tasted of sulfur and rot—but the deer had only been dead a few hours, by her estimate. Samarie’s pulse quickened in her skin.
The clearing appeared suddenly, and the trail went cold. Even with the touch of moonlight, there was no blood to follow. The stillness had lifted. The stars shone once more. The wind whispered through the trees. Samarie swore beneath her breath. Nothing here.
