When Ghost walked out of the darkness, squinting against the late-afternoon light, the others were waiting for her. She stepped forward and clutched Elayne and Juliah’s hands, knowing her next words would not be welcome.
“I’m not going with you,” she said, her voice firm, her heart pleading.
Bashti hissed and Juliah gaped, but Liis nodded slowly and Elayne squeezed her hand as though she’d expected as much.
“But . . . you cannot stay here,” Dalys cried. “You are in more danger than all of us.”
“No. I can’t stay here,” she agreed.
“You are going with Alba,” Elayne murmured, and Ghost nodded, emphatic.
“She is my daughter, and she is alone,” Ghost said, looking at each woman in turn.
“We have each other,” Liis said, fierce. “Alba has no one, and today she sacrificed herself for us. We can do this for her.”
“I want to fight,” Juliah insisted suddenly, her impatience whipping around her. “I am staying here.”
“No, Juliah. You are not,” Ghost shot back. “You will fight for them!” She pointed at the women waiting on the hillside. “You will fight for each other. And you will live.” Ghost balled her hands against the desire to pull them all close, to keep them with her. “Now go.”
Juliah nodded, fighting back tears as the others broke down around her.
“Don’t cry,” Ghost begged, her voice shaking. “Please. We must all be strong. If the gods will it, we will see each other again.”
She embraced them fiercely, kissing their cheeks and professing her love before she directed them toward the Temple Wood, willing them to hurry.
When they made it to the forest and disappeared into the trees, she set off, cutting across the hillside toward the northern entrance to the mount, the drab brown of her old shepherd’s cloak covering her hair and shielding her face. She would wait for the bridal party at the base of the hill where the road that cut through the village became the way to Berne. She needn’t rush, but she didn’t want to be too far behind. The Northmen were on horseback and she was on foot. She didn’t want to reach Berne after the longboats had sailed. She had her gold, and if she had to, she would purchase a horse in a village along the way.
The trumpets wailed, the sound sitting on the breeze, and Ghost quickened her pace. Minutes later, another sound rose in the wind, a sound Ghost could not immediately identify. It was a collective bellow bristling with shrieks and cries, like the sound of gulls caught in a gale or a frenzied crowd at a tournament. She couldn’t see the front of the mount or the northernmost edge of the village, but the sound curled the hair on her nape and curdled the contents of her stomach.
She stopped to listen, eyes turned up to the temple walls, but nothing looked amiss. The sound swelled. Mayhaps it was only a game, another competition among the clans at the close of the king’s tournament.
Then, from inside the walls, people began to scream.
It took Ghost several minutes to reach the north side of the mount and cross the sloped meadow to the road that rose from the village to the gates. Something terrible was happening—she could hear it, feel it—and her legs shook with exertion as she closed the final distance. She was not prepared for the sight before her, and she cried out in horror.
The wide entrance was littered with bodies. The Chieftain of Berne, his cloak made from the fur of a bear, was missing the top half of his head. An old woman who’d been Alba’s maid in waiting for a dozen years lay staring at the purple sky, her eyes fixed and her chest gaping. Ghost scrambled from one body to the next, her hand clutched to her mouth, searching for Alba. There were Northmen among the dead, their matted hair and bone-studded clothing setting them apart from the clansmen crumpled around them, but Alba was not among them. Nor was the North King.
Someone had attempted to lower the portcullis, but there were bodies in the way, and it rested on the backs of two temple guards who’d been hewn down, one on top of the other. From inside the walls, screams and cries for mercy were interspersed with the clashing of shields and the grunts of men.
She had to go inside.
She took the blade still strapped to the Chieftain of Berne and walked to the gates, her stomach roiling. Stooping, she rolled beneath the dangling portcullis and rose to her feet in a brand-new hell.
The huge courtyard between the temple and the palace was a slaughterhouse, the slain so thick she had to bound between them, hopping from cobble to cobble as though she crossed an endless stream. In the center of the courtyard, stretching from the palace steps to the first arch of the temple, the battle raged, Northmen and clansmen locked in life and death, the tight braids of the clansmen the only distinguishing feature.
One man stood alone and entirely encircled, though he seemed to be holding his own against the warriors surrounding him. He was awash in blood and gore and armed with an axe in each hand. His hair was short and unadorned—no braid or bones—and for a moment, Ghost did not recognize him. Then he bellowed, bringing his axes together and felling three Northmen simultaneously, and Ghost realized it was Bayr. Her heart seized, and she bit back a cry of hope and horror.
A smattering of his clansmen fought nearby—Dred, Dakin, and Dystel—their braids swinging, their shields bearing the mark of the wolf. All were sorely outnumbered. Aidan of Adyar fought with the same madness that seemed to beset them all, back to back with a son of Lothgar, hacking and skewering, trying to withstand the assault of too many Northmen. Clusters of clansmen dotted the grounds, treading on their own dead as they battled to beat back the Northmen. A few archers were perched on the ramparts, seeking to even the numbers and turn the tide, but Saylok had suffered an overwhelming assault, and no one had anticipated it. No one but the keepers.
Ghost ran toward the temple, tripping over the dead and making note of the living, promising them she would return. She had to find Alba first. She wanted to scream her name but feared doing so would present a deadly distraction to the warrior who loved her.
She saw Keeper Amos fall, his skills no match for a powerful Northman. Bjorn was brought down beside him moments later. The exterior of the temple was lined with bodies in purple robes.
“Dagmar,” Ghost moaned, eyes skittering frantically from one keeper to the next, searching for him, even as she resisted what she was seeing. And then she spotted Alba, bound to a temple pillar like a witch at the stake. Her hair was falling around her shoulders and her gown was torn from neck to navel, but she was standing, fighting against her bonds.
The North King had taken his axe to the temple door behind her, shredding the carved sections and obliterating the rune that had been painted in blood upon its surface. Ghost watched as the door split in two, the unhinged side falling outward with a mighty crash. Gudrun stepped inside, leaving Alba and the battle to carry on without him. A dozen of his men flooded the temple behind him, their minds on plunder, their victory assured.
Ghost fell only to rise again, stumbling toward the pillars where Alba was tied, terrified the North King would return before she could cut her free. She dropped her blade once and scooped it up with shaking hands, her palms slick and her heart pounding. And then she was at her daughter’s side, sawing through the ropes as the ground began to rumble beneath her feet.
“Dagmar’s going to bring down the temple,” Alba panted, pointing toward the final two pillars where Dagmar stood, his hands braced between them, eyes clinging to Ghost, black robes billowing.