by Box Set
Still in the shadows, the man spoke to the girl drenched in light. “Matka, what are you doing out here?” He had a strong accent, his words flat and blunt instead of the rolling cadence of native Clannish.
Matka didn’t look up at the man, but Otec noticed her shoulders suddenly go stiff. “I can’t—can’t be around them, Jore.” Her accent was milder.
Jore rubbed at his beard, which clung to his face like mold to bread. “You have to. For both our sakes.”
The charcoal shattered under Matka’s grip. She stared at the destruction, surprise plain on her face. “This is wrong, Jore. I can’t be a part of it.”
“It’s too late, and we both know it.” His voice had hardened—he sounded brittle, as if the merest provocation could break him.
She tossed the bits of charcoal and rose to her feet, her gaze defiant. “No. I won’t—”
Jore took a final step from the shadows, his hand flashing out to strike Matka’s cheek so fast Otec almost didn’t believe it had happened. But it had, because she held her hand to her face, glaring fiercely at Jore.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Jore took hold of her arm. “I’m your brother—I’m trying to protect you.”
All at once Otec’s sluggish anger came awake like a bear startled out of a too-long hibernation. He forgot he’d been eavesdropping. Forgot these were foreigners. Forgot everything except that this man had hit her—a woman, his sister.
Otec burst into the brightness. The man saw him first, his eyes widening. Matka was already turning, her hand going to something at her side.
A mere three strides away, Otec called, “How dare—” He came up short. Jore had drawn shining twin blades, and the ease with which he held them made it clear he knew how to use them.
“Who are you, clanman? What business do you have with us?”
“You hit her!” Otec’s voice rumbled from a primal anger deep inside his chest. His hands ached to strike Jore. Ached to wrestle him to the ground. But Otec held no weapon save a weathered shepherd’s crook—he’d left his bow tied to Thistle’s packsaddles when he’d gone in search of the lamb.
Jore surveyed Otec, his gaze pausing on his bare chest. Otec had forgotten he’d thrown his shirt away, too. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.” Jore said.
Otec raised himself to his full height, a good head and a half taller than this foreigner. “I am Otec, son of Hargar, clan chief of the Shyle.”
Jore stepped back into the shadows, his swords lowering to his sides. “You do not know our customs, clanman. I am well within my rights to discipline my younger sister.”
“It is you who do not know our customs,” Otec said, barely restraining himself from charging again.
Jore jutted his chin toward Matka. “Come on. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”
For the first time, Otec met her gaze. He saw no fear, only sorrow and pity. He wondered what reason she would have to pity him.
She turned away and followed after her brother without looking back. Feeling a gaze on him, Otec glanced up to find the strange white owl watching him with eerie yellow eyes. The bird stretched its great white wings and soared off after Matka.
The strange trio was halfway across the meadow when Freckles came panting up to Otec’s side. She plopped on the cool grass, her tongue hanging out. “Didn’t catch that blasted rabbit, eh?” Otec said to her, anger still burning in the muscles of his arms.
It was then that he noticed Matka had forgotten her drawing. He picked it up. He’d never seen anything so fine, since clanmen didn’t waste valuable resources on something as extravagant as art.
Otec traced the lines without actually touching them. With a few strokes of charcoal, Matka had managed to capture his village—to freeze it in time. Simply by looking at her drawing, he felt he knew her. She saw details other people glossed over. She felt emotions deeply. And she saw his village as he saw it.
Otec remembered the lamb with a start and hurried back to the forest. After settling her back over his shoulders, he called out commands to Freckles, who circled the scattered sheep, gathering them together. Otec fetched his donkey, Thistle, from where he’d tied her to the trunk of a dead tree. He led her toward the paddock to the west of the clan house, where he lived with his parents, his five sisters and eight brothers, and three dozen members of their extended family.
At the thought of them all crammed into one house for another never-ending winter filled with wrestling and lessons with axes and shields, Otec had a sudden urge to command his dog to drive the sheep back into the wilderness, to live out the winter in his mountain shack or under the starry sky. But of course that was impossible. The hay would already be laid up for the coming winter. And his mother would never allow it, even if he was nearly twenty-one.
As he unlatched the gate, Otec expected someone from the house to come out and greet him, or at least for his younger cousins and siblings to help bring the sheep in. The boys and girls were always eager for the toys he carved over the summer. But no one came, so he herded the flock into the paddock by himself and tied his donkey in one of the stalls.
He went to the kitchen door, rested one hand on each side of the frame, and called inside. A thin whimpering answered from upstairs, something not unusual in a house bursting with children. Grumbling, Otec tied up his dog outside the door—dogs were strictly forbidden inside, except for after mealtime when the floor needed to be licked of crumbs and spills.
Following the sound, Otec walked through the kitchen and the great hall, then climbed the ladder to the upper level. The sound was growing louder—someone crying. He finally pushed the door open to the room his five sisters shared. Sixteen-year-old Holla was huddled on one of the two beds, her wild blond hair a matted mess. She was his favorite, if for no better reason than because she talked so much he never had to. But also because she was the kindest, most gentle person he’d ever met.
At the sight of Otec, she pushed to her feet and ran to him, then threw herself in his arms. He grunted and stumbled back, for Holla was not a waifish girl. She sobbed into his bare shoulder—luckily the side that hadn’t been covered in diarrhea.
He rubbed her back. “What is it, little Holla?”
“I’m not little!” she said indignantly. Some people found her hard to understand, for she often slurred her words. Before he could apologize, she lifted her tear-stained eyes with the turned-up corners and the white stars near her irises. He always thought she had the prettiest eyes. “I can’t tell.”
Otec guided her onto one of the two beds and held her hand. “Remember what Mama always says—‘Never keep a secret that hurts.’”
Hiccupping, Holla nodded solemnly. “I can tell you. You never talk to anyone.”
He winced. Not seeming to notice, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I was waiting for Matka to come back—she always has pretty drawings. But Jore told me to get away.” Tears spilled from Holla’s eyes again. “I froze and he called me an idiot, and . . .” She paused, her sobs coming back. “He pushed me and I fell.”
The rage roared to life inside Otec. It took everything he had to shove it back into the damp dark where it came from. “Who is he? Where is he?”
Matka wiped her face. “One of the highmen from Svassheim. They’re camping out on the east side of the village.”
In his mind’s eye, Otec saw the dozens of tents in that direction, and he realized they were different from the clan’s tents. “All highmen?” he asked. Holla nodded. “So the clan feast?”
“Cancelled.”
“What are they doing here?”
She shrugged. “Hiding from the Raiders.”
“Raiders! How—” Otec checked himself. Holla wouldn’t know the answers—they would frighten and confuse her too much. And right now, he needed to deal with one problem at a time. “Where is the rest of the family?”
“The highmen offered to feed the villagers the midday meal to repay our kindness.” Holla’s eyes welled w
ith tears again.
With a trembling hand, Otec tried to smooth her wild hair. Sweet, perceptive Holla. “I brought you something.”
She sniffed. “A carving?”
He suppressed a smile that his attempts to distract her had worked so easily. “It’s not quite finished yet. I want it to be perfect.” She nodded as if that made sense. “If you promise to stay here, Holla, I’ll give you the spiral shell I found on the mountainside.”
She gave him a watery grin. “All right.”
“Stay here.” Otec pressed a kiss to her forehead and left the clan house at a trot.
It was ominous to see the village so empty. There were no women perched in front of a washing tub. No men chopping wood or cutting down hay in the fields behind the houses. No children tormenting whatever or whomever they could get their hands on.
Otec rounded the Bend house—second largest home after the clan house. Another enormous owl, just like the one from earlier, was perched on the roof. Otec wouldn’t have paid it any mind at all, except he was surprised to see two such birds in the same day, and away from the shadows they normally dwelled in. He would have studied the bird a bit longer, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.
On the other side of the home, a crowd had gathered. Hundreds of mostly clanwomen and children intermixed with hundreds of highmen and an equal number of highwomen—all of them under thirty years old.
For once, the familiar, sick feeling he had whenever he was confronted with a crowd failed to turn his stomach. Instead, anger simmered just beneath his skin.
Chapter 2
Otec pushed through the crowd, searching the faces for Jore. He was about six people in when he caught sight of Dobber, his left cheek bruised and swollen. Something in Otec tightened. Dobber’s father was a mean drunk, and Otec had hoped the man would be exiled by now.
Dobber gave him a pained smile. “You’re back.”
“Have you seen the highman Jore?” Otec said more tersely than he should have. After all, it wasn’t Dobber’s fault his father was still around.
Dobber’s blond hair was the color that made it look dirty even when it wasn’t. “Who?”
“He has a sister named Matka.”
Dobber shrugged his thin shoulders. Gritting his teeth, Otec continued plowing through the crowd. Dobber followed.
“What’s going on?” Otec asked. “Holla said something about Raiders. And where did all these highmen come from?”
“There are Raiders off the coast—they haven’t attacked yet, but all the men have gone to defend our lands. As for the highmen, they’ve been spread throughout the clans for months, working on trade agreements. They couldn’t leave by ship with the Raiders out there, so High Chief Burdin sent them here for the time being.”
“There’s a war brewing, and no one bothered to come get me?” Otec asked through clenched teeth. “And why didn’t you go with them?”
Halting, Dobber stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers, which were even more ratty and threadbare than Otec’s. “I can handle him. My little brothers can’t.”
Otec had tried to make this right before he’d left five months ago. Clearly he’d failed. And now he’d insulted Dobber, but before he could think of what to say, Otec caught sight of Jore.
The rage roared from the darkness. Otec found himself running, then slamming Jore into the dirt. He threw a hard punch into the man’s face and cocked back his arm to hit him again, but Jore twisted and wrapped his legs around Otec.
Otec powered out of the hold. The two men ended up rolling, and rocks and hay stubble tore into Otec’s bare torso. He threw another punch into Jore’s stomach and head-butted his face.
Then strong arms locked around Otec’s middle and wrenched him back. “Stop it! What are you doing?” It was Dobber.
A highman stepped in front of Jore and reached out a hand. “You’re done.”
Unable to break free, Otec swore at Jore, calling him the vilest name he could think of.
“No need for such language.” The voice rang with anger. Otec’s mother, Alfhild, pushed through the crowd, her gaze furious. She stopped short at the sight of him. “By the Balance, what’s going on?”
Otec tasted something metallic in his mouth and realized his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. He spit blood into the dirt. “Jore slapped his sister. Drew his swords on me. And then he called Holla an idiot and shoved her to the ground.”
Alfhild’s face went white. “Jore?”
He looked at her with the one eye that hadn’t already swelled shut. “I am well within my rights to discipline my younger sibling. As for the idiot . . .”
Otec’s vision narrowed until he could only see Jore. With a roar, Otec broke free of Dobber. He slammed into Jore and managed to get in a couple more punches before Dobber hauled him back again, this time with help from a couple of highmen. Two more restrained Jore.
Otec struggled, angry that Dobber wouldn’t let him go. Matka stepped between him and Jore. She had both hands on Jore’s chest as she shouted, “Stop it!”
He jerked his head in Otec’s direction. “He attacked me!”
“After you insulted and threatened his sister,” she shot back.
Jore’s glare moved to Matka, and he muttered something about killing idiots as babies. Otec struggled to break free again.
Matka opened her mouth as if to say something, but another man had appeared. This one was slightly older, easily the oldest highman there. “Jore, by your oaths, you will stand down.”
Jore tightened his jaw and stopped trying to fight his way free of the men holding him. “Yes, Tyleze,” he ground out.
Otec’s vision slowly widened until he realized the clanwomen were shooing children away and backing toward the village, their gazes steely. And then Otec heard a sound he was very familiar with—the sound of Holla crying. He turned to find his sister sobbing quietly in the arms of Aunt Enrid, who lived with them in the clan house. A herd of women surrounded his sister, shushing her and patting her back. Holla loved everyone, equally and without restraint, so the clan loved her back. By the look of horror on his sister’s face, she’d seen the violence Otec had caused.
All at once, the fight drained out of him. He realized Dobber was holding him tight enough to leave bruises. Scraping up his self-control, Otec nodded for Dobber to release him, which he did—slowly.
Otec gestured for Holla to come to him. But she shook her head and buried her face into Enrid’s chest.
Alfhild’s eyes locked on Jore, and Otec actually felt sorry for the foreigner for the briefest moment. “Is this how highmen act when visiting lands not their own?” she asked. She stepped up right in front of Jore, her wild blond hair only partially tamed by a braid. “She is my daughter, highman. How dare you speak to her thus. How dare you lay a hand on her.”
He bowed. “I am truly sorry, Clan Mistress.”
Alfhild slowly shook her head. “Not to me. To her.” She stepped aside, motioning to Holla, who still clung to Enrid, her body trembling.
Jore hesitated before inclining his head a fraction. “I am sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry. Or not nearly sorry enough. As far as Otec was concerned, Jore should be on his knees begging. But Holla nodded. She was much more forgiving than Otec would ever be.
Mother’s glare transferred to Tyleze. “Are all your grown men as impulsive as little children? Because I discipline little children.” The threat was obvious. If Tyleze didn’t punish Jore, Alfhild would.
Tyleze nodded toward Jore. “Go to your tent. I’ll deal with you later.” Jore worked his jaw before turning on his heel and storming out of sight.
“I assume we won’t be seeing more of him?” Alfhild said it like a question, but it wasn’t. Before Tyleze could reply, Alfhild motioned to the people around her. “The food is ready, so eat it. And then go home.”
As she turned toward Holla, her expression softened. “My girl . . .”
But Holla shook her head, backing
away from all of them before whirling around and then stumbling towards the clan house. Otec nearly went after her, but his mother grasped his arm and warned, “Not yet.”
He shot a glare at Jore’s retreating back, but instead his gaze snagged on Matka, who watched him with a calculating expression.
Otec’s mother turned her attention to him. “What happened to your shirt?”
“A lamb was sick all over me.”
“Well, that explains the smell. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She took hold of his elbow and started hauling him toward the clan house. “Have you grown some more?” she asked loudly as she squeezed the muscles in his arm. “You’re nearly twenty-one! You can’t still be growing. The clothes I’ve sewn for you will never fit.”
People were watching them. Otec waited for the familiar sickness in his stomach, but he was too tired and too worried about Holla. In fact, he hadn’t felt nervous at all when he’d charged into the crowd earlier. “Mother, why didn’t anyone come fetch me to fight with the men?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ve already sent my three older sons off to war.”
And obviously, Otec had nothing vital to offer, or his father would have insisted.
“They’ve made no move to invade,” his mother answered with a reassuring pat on his arm—she must have mistaken his irritated silence for worry. “And if they do, the clanmen will deal with them in short order.”
Word of Otec’s arrival must have spread, for as they approached the clan house, his younger siblings and cousins started coming at him from all sides, surrounding him like a pack of eager puppies, and more were coming. Unlike their adult counterparts, the children never brought about the sick feeling in his stomach.
His two youngest brothers, Wesson and Aldi, latched onto his legs and sat on his feet. One of the boys was far heavier than the other, so Otec ended up dragging his left leg behind him like a cripple. “Did you make us anything, Otec? Did you?”