Chapter 5
The Witch Walkers guarding Frostwater Wood allow me passage, reconstructing the break in the boundary the moment Mannus has all four hooves on the valley side of the forest. I considered obeying Colden’s wishes about riding straight to Silver Hollow.
If I ride fast enough, no stopping, I can probably avoid being caught in the valley come nightfall.
But I can’t, even with Colden’s worries niggling the back of my mind. I’m late, and I owe the villagers the relief of knowing that—for this Collecting Day at least—they’re safe from me.
When I arrive at Hampstead Loch, people scurry around the busy green where preparations for the evening supper are underway. I lower my hood, hold up my hand, and ride through the masses.
“It’s all right,” I shout over their murmured voices. “I’m only here to tell you I’ll take no one from your village this year.”
What must be four hundred folk stand frozen, though they thaw once my intent registers. Others pop their heads out of doors, the disbelief on their faces turning to elation.
An elder approaches, pressing his heavily marked hands together in thanks. “My lord.” Momentarily, he bows his gray head. “Join us for the harvest celebration. Let us feed you. Give you a place to rest.”
The offer is tempting. He cannot know how much so. I’m tired from a sennight on Mannus’s back and unsettled thanks to Colden’s visit. One glance around the village has me considering taking him up on his offer, but I decline.
“Much thanks,” I tell him. “But I cannot stay.”
A little light-haired boy appears at my feet—a halfling child who’s likely been taught to fear me, yet is too young to understand why.
Smile bright and green eyes shining, he tugs on my boot, uprooting rare and precious memories that take over my rational thought.
Before I can decide better of it, I dismount, grab the little one, and whirl him in the air as though I’m a father and he’s my son.
It’s a foolish action. The most foolish.
The boy squeals with delight, and it brings me such immense joy to hear that sound, but as I slow to a stop, my smile fades.
A woman stands at my side, face pale as snow and eyes round with alarm, her small hands outstretched and trembling.
The boy’s mother, I assume, and my presence is not a welcome sight.
With an apologetic smile, I carefully hand over the child.
The villagers gawk as confusion twists their expressions, but their glimpse of the real me quickly dissolves from their minds. Thunder rolls in the distance near the loch, followed by the sudden cacophony of horses screaming.
The entire village looks westward.
At first, there’s nothing but that terrible sound and an odd heartbeat in the air. But soon, smoke rises from the stables, the earth begins to tremble underfoot, and fire-tipped arrows fall out of nowhere, cascading in burning arcs across the bruised sky.
This can’t be real. There’s no denying it, though. Not when people begin wailing, thatch starts burning, and wardens run to save the beasts in the fired stables.
I mount Mannus and yell at the remaining elders and wardens, but they can’t hear me over the frantic voices of four hundred villagers trying to discern what’s happening. I turn to the woman with the little boy. Their eyes are wide and terrified.
“Run!” I shout. “Get to safety!”
As the woman bolts away, I ride west, determined to meet whatever fate awaits—until a wall of Eastland warriors on horseback comes into view at the southwestern edge of the glade. They’re garbed in dark bronze leathers from head to foot.
A flock of cawing crows accompanies them, a shrieking cloud blotting out the sky over the loch. Some Eastlanders carry pine-knot torches while a few dozen wave crimson flags—golden wings and an ever-watchful evil eye embroidered in the silk.
The symbol of the old king blended with that of the new prince.
Most Eastlanders carry swords, hatchets, or bows, aiming their blades and arrows with deadly precision. Leading the charge are three men and a woman whose faces I can’t make out, but they ride hard and swift ahead of the small army.
I yank Mannus around and head back toward the village. The promising rumble of hooves strikes the earth, and the eerie echo of a thousand wings beats at my back.
The reins bite into my palms as I draw back hard, pausing, uncertain. Hampstead Loch is a lone flower in a field surrounded by a swarm of bees. There’s no time. No way to run or call anything to order before the warriors and their summoned predators are upon us.
And just like that, they are.
A screaming shadow of crows swoops low over the village, beaks tearing at flesh and plucking at hair and eyes. Behind them ride hundreds of horsemen, spreading through the village like a plague.
For a moment, I see nothing but the flash of blades, hear nothing but screams and swords meeting flesh, remembering too well the melody of battle, the tune of war.
Mannus rears on his hind legs. Coming to my senses, I cling to the reins with one hand and unsheathe one of my swords with the other.
The second my horse’s hooves touch the ground again, an Eastlander rips past, vermilion war paint coating his braided gray hair.
The blade of his curved knife catches my right arm and cuts through my traveling cloak.
The pain is searing and shocking, but no more than the scene unfolding around me.
There’s blood. Death. Fire. So much fire. Racing from rooftop to rooftop.
The Eastlander doubles back. His leathery, tanned face is twisted into a sneer, his silver eyes focused.
He’s important—one of the four leaders. Modest armor covers his shoulders and chest, and his horse is barded, the red and gold flag of his land hanging from beneath his saddle.
I shake off my daze and charge him, cutting down any enemy I can manage along the way.
He exchanges his short blade for a sword and, when we meet, slashes it in my direction. I block his attack, but the hilt of my blade turns in my hand. Still, I land a hard blow with the flat of my sword to the back of his head.
He jerks forward, blood spraying into the air around him, and tumbles from his horse onto the ground. I should dismount and kill him, but there isn’t time, and he’ll be trampled soon enough.
I spin Mannus around, only to come face to face with another Eastlander—a fair-skinned, red-haired beast of a man who stares at me so pointedly that I almost feel a hint of familiarity. His sword is raised, but the blade bears no blood. Yet.
My pulse pumps in my veins. I’m certain we’re about to clash, that I’ll be his first attack, yet the warrior does something most unexpected. He turns and rides away.
I start to drive my heels into Mannus’s sides so I can take the man from behind, but the people’s cries for help swallow my attention. We’re so outnumbered. Villagers of all kinds fight, and Witch Walkers sing, but I fear it’s too late to turn the situation in our favor.
In the chaos, the woman from earlier tries to enter the shelter of a small cottage. She shields her little boy all the while, but two Eastlanders trap them. I point Mannus in that direction.
We race through the crowds, and I slash my sword across the first warrior’s neck. Blood splatters, and his head topples, kicked away by a fleeing elder. The second Eastlander falls just as quickly, only because the elder finds his bravery and runs the enemy through with a blade.
Fearful that she won’t accept, I reach for the woman.
She hesitates for a single second, but then, clinging to her child, grabs hold of my forearm.
I don’t know what I mean to do with them, but I lift her and the boy onto my horse and nestle them in front of me. I cannot leave them in this disaster.
The elder seizes my wrist and points to the east. “My lord! You must warn the other villages. You must!”
“I’m not leaving you! It would be better to die here than to abandon the innocent!”
“You are abandoning thousands more if you do not go!” the elder cries.
I don’t even know if these Eastlanders intend to travel further east. They could’ve come to Hampstead Loch first because they plan to access Winter Road, the easiest path to Colden—if they can break through Frostwater’s protective veil, which I don’t believe they can.
But then three riders take off eastward, riding hard, and my heart sinks. If these warriors slaughter enough of our Witch Walkers, the veil will fall, and I’m certain they know that.
But what are they looking for here in the valley? Why not ride straight to Winterhold?
The elder grabs a bow and quiver from a nearby villager and hands them to me. “Go, my lord! Stop them!”
I sheathe my sword and accept the offering, shrugging the quiver onto my back. I glance east, wondering if I can hit my targets from this distance.
Before I realize what’s happening, the elder chants magick into Mannus’s ear and smacks the animal’s hindquarters. My horse flees the village at a rapid pace, ignoring my commands to turn back.
The elder controls Mannus now.
I slip the bow over my head as wind rips angry tears from my eyes, devastation crashing through me.
Once such a comfort to me, Hampstead Loch is being razed to ash—its people with it—while I head toward Penrith, on the heels of three Eastlanders no less, carrying a weeping mother and child in my arms.
Have I saved them? Or only extended their execution?
As Mannus storms across the vale, I grow cold with knowing. This is the rumored attack. This is why Colden couldn’t look away from the fire.
I’m living his nightmare.
The Eastlanders did come, and I fear they will not stop until they reach Winterhold.
And so I bear down and ride hard. If they want a fight, I will deliver.
Starting with these three riders.