Page 71 of The Speed of Lightning
The cottage erupted. Týr was on his feet in an instant, boots and armor strapped with practiced speed. He tossed a dirk to Freya. It bounced off the mattress and she snatched it, scrambling for her cloak and shoes.
Mariota, still in her chemise, was frozen with fear, her eyes wide. “What is happening? What is happening?”
A mighty slam reverberated against the door, followed by another. Bog was on the verge of attack, clawing and throwing himself at the door, begging to be loosed upon the intruders.
Týr looked up, horror-stricken, his axes still raised. The sound of spaced thwips struck the roof, followed seconds later by smoke—and then flame.
“The Wolf!” Týr roared across the cottage as gray curls of smoke sank from the ceiling like ink into water. “This is it. Stay together. Stay behind me.”
Mariota stood frozen, staring at the smoke-streaked ceiling as if it were a dream. “My roof. What have they done?”
Freya snatched up her cloak and wrapped it around her, tying it tight. “It’s an attack.”
Mariota’s eyes stayed wide, her face stiff with terror. “Because of the stories?”
Týr kicked Mariota’s shoes toward Freya. Freya shoved them on her, forcing her focus away from those ominous words as the pounding on the door grew louder. Taking Mariota’s hand, Freya raised the dirk before her and moved in behind Týr. “What do you need me to do?”
Another slam rattled the door. Týr planted his hands on either side of the frame. “When it breaks, you run. Take Mariota. Get to the ring fort at Lealt.”
Freya’s heart hammered against her ribs, her eyes stinging from the smoke. Heat from the burning roof pressed down onthem, the air thick and choking as the haze sank lower. Mariota coughed, her gaze darting wildly around the cottage. “My things! Our home!”
Freya dragged her toward the entrance, choking on her own words. “Inverlussa’s ring fort…closer.”
Through the smoke, Týr’s dark outline stepped back from the door, axes raised, braced for the breach. “Lealt’s is stronger. Dinnae look back. Stay together. Run. Run as fast as you?—”
The door shuddered and splintered beneath another blow. Arrows hissed through the smoke; one buried itself in Týr’s shoulder. Mariota screamed. Bog launched himself through the crumbling gap, a snarl tearing from his throat.
The fire above roared into a full inferno. Freya tightened her grip on Mariota’s hand and followed Týr’s charge through the splintered door, blind to what waited outside.
Black-painted caterans swarmed the yard. Fresh air rushed into her lungs, harsh and smoky, as she yanked Mariota forward—only to dodge a warrior barreling at them, sword raised. Bog lunged ahead, teeth sinking into the man’s arm, shaking him like a poppet, and Freya ran, dragging Mariota, refusing to look back.
Mariota wrenched against her hold, shrieking. “Týr! Five of them—Freya, we must go back!”
Freya’s heart slammed as she saw the bay alive with fire, every house burning, warriors cutting down villagers one by one. “Run! He told us to run!”
Mariota twisted in her grip, wild with grief. “I will not live without him!”
Freya seized a fistful of her cloak and yanked her backward, desperate to keep her from danger. “He stands a chance if we do as he says. You cannae?—”
Mariota yanked at the tie of her cloak, wrenching free. The cloak dropped, and Freya fell with it, the dirk skittering acrossthe ground. Mariota bolted toward the burning cottage. She made it only halfway before her body arched back, arms flung wide, an arrow buried in her heart.
Freya scrambled to her knees. “No! Please, no!”
A warrior rushed in, sword leveled at Mariota’s throat. Her scream split the air—then ended in silence.
Sick with horror, Freya clawed at the ground, forcing herself upright. She sprinted toward the trail. Screams of terror, war cries, and death shrieks mingled in the air, a nightmarish chorus driving her legs over the frozen earth. Pain lanced through her muscles, but still she ran, rounding the curve toward the woods and stopped short. At the crest of the trail loomed her father’s longhouse. Dark. Quiet. Untouched by flame.
Too terrified to stop, she veered from the main trail, cutting toward her hidden shortcut through the woods. Foreigners would not know it—surely it would be safer. She crouched low, sliding through briar, thorns clawing at her cloak as she hurried into pitch-black darkness, hands outstretched to feel her way along the familiar path.
The river’s rush reached her ears, a promise that Lealt was close. Branches whipped her face and tangled her hair, but she shoved through, heart hammering as the sounds of battle carried behind her. Her legs screamed with pain, but she forced one last dash through the ash trees toward the glade.
Something slammed into her back. She was airborne, crashing forward, her palms skidding into the frozen ground. Agony jolted up her wrists. Before she could recover, shadows closed in. Men poured from the trees, their bodies painted black, swords gleaming in the dark.
Someone wrenched her over, an arm crushing across her chest. She arched and twisted, trying to buck him off. A fist smashed into her mouth and nose, and for a moment she saw nothing but stars, her body gone limp, unresponsive. Like aghost trapped in her own flesh, she shifted sluggishly, just in time to dodge the next blow. His knuckles struck earth with a sickening thud. He howled, jerking upright—then slammed her back down.
Her vision swam. She could barely focus. A massive hand clamped around her throat.
This was the end.
