Chapter 6 Betty
BETTY
The horn’s blast is a raw, panicked scream of animal terror. It is followed by another, closer. Human screams. The thin, piercing shriek of a woman—Old Lara, from the hovel nearest the palisade. A man’s guttural shout, "To arms! Gods, they're—"
The voice is cut short by a wet, sickening thud.
The sounds of chaos erupt, a tidal wave of noise crashing against my small hovel. Steel clanging, a rhythmic, heavy thump-thump-thump of a ram against the main gate. The splintering crash of the weaker, older section of the palisade giving way.
Threk is on his feet.
He is a giant wall of tensed, gray-green muscle, looming between me and the door. His growl is no longer a rumble. It is a low, continuous earthquake, a tectonic promise of violence that vibrates through the packed-earth floor, up through the soles of my boots, and into my bones.
He is not looking at me. His entire body is coiled, his massive, scarred head lowered, his feral red eyes fixed on the rattling door. His breath is a hot, hissing bellows. He is a living weapon, primed and aimed.
Then it hits me.
The smell.
Thick, acrid, biting. Not the clean, warm scent of my own small hearth. This is pine and dry thatch and old wood, burning too fast. This is the smell of chaos.
Woodsmoke.
My lungs seize. The air is stolen from my body.
I am not here.
I am not in my hovel. The memory washes over me.
The small wooden star drops from my fingers, landing with a soundless puff in the dirt. My hand, the one he just touched, flies to my hair, my fingers tangling, twisting, pulling. My scalp screams, a sharp, distant pain, but it's not enough. It can't anchor me.
The world dissolves.
The air is thick with ash. The air is orange. The screams are not my neighbors. They are my mother's.
“Run, Betty! Run! Take your brother and RUN!”
My father’s voice, raw with terror. He shoves me. Shoves me toward the door, toward the snow, toward life.
“Mama?” My little brother’s voice, thin and confused. “It’s too hot, Mama. I can’t breathe.”
The roar of the flames, a hungry, living beast. The thud as the main roof beam, the one my father and I had placed, cracked and gave way. A shower of sparks. A final, choked-off cry.
I am standing in the snow. I am a child. I am frozen. Useless. I am watching my home, my world, my family, burn.
I ran. I left them. I ran. I ran. I ran.
A new scream, from just outside my hovel rips me back to the present. "Gods, no! My...!"
A wet, heavy sound, followed by a soft, final groan.
My breath is a thin, whistling sound, trapped in my throat. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I am a stone. A ghost. I am dead. Joric was right. I am just a ghost, and I have brought the fire to Oakhaven. Again.
CRASH!
The hovel door does not open. It explodes.
It is torn from its leather hinges, a violent spray of splintered wood and torn hide. The flimsy plank slams against my small pot shelf, shattering my clay bowls. Shards rain down onto the floor.
A man fills the doorway.
He is silhouetted against the orange, flickering hell of the burning village. He is big, wrapped in greasy, mismatched furs, his beard matted with ice and... something dark and wet. He holds a bloody wood-axe, one of our village axes, taken from a body.
His eyes are wide, manic, reflecting the flames. He sniffs, a pig-like, greedy sound. "Look at this. A pretty little thing, all alone, just waiting by the fire."
He steps inside, and the hovel shrinks. His stench rolls over me—unwashed body, stale suru stew, old sweat, and the sharp, overwhelming coppery tang of fresh blood.
My body is ice. I am still by the fire, watching my mother burn. I can’t move. I can’t scream. My hand is a knot in my hair, pulling, pulling, but I feel nothing. I am a hollow, useless thing.
Another shadow fills the doorway behind him. A second man, broader, his movements calmer. He wears a heavy, fur-lined hood that shadows his face, but I can see the glint of a steel helm beneath it. This is the leader.
"Well, well," the leader's voice is a low, satisfied rumble. "Look at that."
The first raider, the one with the axe, stops. His greedy, piggish eyes follow the leader’s gaze. He looks past me, past the fire, into the deep shadows where Threk stands.
The raider’s grin falters. His jaw goes slack. "By the... by the gods... what... what is that?"
Threk is utterly, predatorily still. He has not moved. He is a mountain of nightmare, his muscles coiled so tight his skin shivers. His red eyes, two burning coals in the dark, are locked on the man with the axe.
The leader laughs. A short, harsh, ugly bark. "It's a pet. The information was right. A monster for the monster-keeper."
My blood turns to a frigid tide. Information?
The leader looks back at me, his unseen gaze a physical, slimy touch that crawls over my skin. "Forget the beast for now. It's cornered and injured even if it looks scary and mean. Grab the girl. We'll have our fun with her, and the village can burn."
The first raider’s greedy, broken-toothed smile returns. His eyes drop from my face, roving, lingering. "She'll do for a start. A nice, warm start."
He takes a step toward me. He licks his chapped lips.
He lunges.
Time stops. It stretches, thin and brittle as ice.
He is a blur of greasy fur and glinting steel. I see the cracked, black fingernails on the hand he reaches for me. I see the matted blood in his beard. I see the yellow of his teeth. I smell the blood on his axe, the sour breath of him.
My body is a useless, frozen, hollow thing. I am going to die.
This is it. My penance.
The thought is clear, cold, and a strange, sick relief. It’s over. I am done. I will pay the price. Finally.
I close my eyes.
A sound.
It is not a growl. It is not a roar.
It sounds like the world ending.
Like a mountain screaming.
It is a sound of rage so absolute, so ancient, it becomes a wave of sonic force that hits me in the chest, stealing the last of my breath, making my ears ring.
The hovel shakes. Dust and dried herbs rain from the ceiling.
The raider, his hand outstretched, his fingers inches from the cloth of my tunic, freezes.
His eyes go wide. The greedy light is gone, replaced by a new, sudden, absolute animal terror. He doesn't even have time to scream.
A ten-foot shadow erupts from the corner, moving with a speed that shatters the laws of nature. It doesn't just attack. It uncoils.
It is Threk. And his crimson eyes are burning.