Bitter Winter Page 4

  Bolstered by this purpose, he pushed forward with an attack of his own. His blade glanced harmlessly off his grandfather’s gold-trimmed black pauldron. The armor would make him harder to defeat, yet it would also encumber him. Marcus’s only defense was his blade, but he had youth and ease of motion on his side.

  He blocked the General’s next series of attacks. An opponent like this would require patience and caution to defeat. One slight mistake would give a seasoned warrior the perfect opportunity to strike. At first, Marcus only defended, giving ground strategically under the General’s powerful attacks. They couldn’t continue indefinitely. The General was not invincible and, strong as he might seem, he was not young either. He would tire. Any soldier would. And so, Marcus waited, conserving his own strength for when it would serve him best.

  Though brutal, Marcus came to realize that none of the General’s attacks were aimed at any vital part of his body. Could it be that his grandfather didn’t want to kill him?

  Minutes into the fight, sweat soaked through the under layer of Marcus’s clothes, despite the cold air. His hands buzzed with the repeated shock of blocking, but finally, he sensed the General growing fatigued. Though his expression remained fierce, his attacks lost power and his heavy breaths left clouds of white in the air.

  After one ill-timed attack, the General stumbled over a rut in the snow. This was Marcus’s chance. He pressed forward, crashing his blade against the General’s. In the beginning, his attacks had been like hitting a wall. This time, his grandfather gave way, taking a step back under the blow.

  Now that he’d gained ground, Marcus didn’t let up. Though the General stubbornly met each attack with his own, Marcus no longer felt as though he battled a superior opponent. His patience had worn his grandfather down. After an uncharacteristically weak attempt by the General to take out one of his legs, Marcus jabbed his sword toward his grandfather’s arm. The blade sliced into the unprotected area just under the pauldron. The General growled in pain. He came at Marcus in a fury now, though his attacks still lacked strength. Marcus blocked each with relative ease and got in a few attacks of his own, including a ringing blow to his grandfather’s breastplate. Though it did no noticeable damage, experience told Marcus the impact still hurt.

  Blood slicked the side of the General’s breastplate and left spatters of it in the snow whenever he raised his sword. His breaths came even harder now. He stumbled again under one of Marcus’s attacks. It was over. Marcus knew it was. The General surely did too, though he continued to fight. More blood dripped from the General’s wound, and he struggled to raise that arm.

  Marcus shook his head. “Give it up. You know you can’t keep fighting.”

  His grandfather just glared at him. Marcus knew him better than just about anyone. He would never surrender. Marcus would have to take him down. Grim regret settled inside him. He raised his sword and pressed forward. It was time to end this.

  The General met his attack, surely going on sheer stubborn willpower alone. He held against Marcus for a minute or two, but then one of his hands slipped from his sword as Marcus batted it off to the side. Before he could regain control, Marcus slashed at the General’s leg just above his greaves. The General’s knee buckled. He fought to push back up, but Marcus slammed his fist into the man’s jaw. The sword dropped from his hand as he reached out to stop himself from falling completely. Marcus grabbed it and took a step back, gasping in the frozen air.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then his grandfather spit red into the snow and glanced up at him. Blood oozed from his lip. Marcus stared down at him. Once he’d idolized his grandfather. Growing up, and even just a couple of short years ago, he’d seemed invincible. Now he knelt in the snow—wounded, defeated—and Marcus had brought that defeat. Instead of satisfaction, it left him sick inside to have had to fight and conquer his own grandfather, one of Arcacia’s most renowned soldiers.

  * * *

  Jace ducked under a high blow and almost slipped on a patch of ice but scrambled to regain his footing. His opponent didn’t pursue him immediately. In this moment, Jace glanced around camp. Relief swept through him, boosting his energy. They had pushed the soldiers back. The militia was holding. As long as they didn’t let up now and Kaden’s riders defeated the firedrakes, they could win this fight. He set his gaze back on the soldier, who prepared for another attack.

  Jace sidestepped, avoiding the ice this time, and swung his sword out. The blade caught the soldier in the side, and the man buckled. With a quick glance around, Jace’s gaze caught on a brutal one-on-one battle. His heart missed a beat as Rayad barely dodged a heavy-handed blow by a dark-haired soldier in black armor. Deep crimson stained the side of Rayad’s coat, and spots of blood dotted the snow around his feet. Jace’s breath grew shallow as the soldier pursued Rayad with murderous intent. There was something about him, something malicious in the way he fought.

  Jace dashed toward them. In the same moment, the soldier slashed at Rayad’s chest. Though Rayad blocked the blade, he must have slipped. Jace sucked in his breath as Rayad fell at the soldier’s feet. Heat surged through Jace’s limbs, and he charged forward. The soldier raised his sword to finish Rayad off. No! Jace wasn’t close enough. He pushed his legs hard and shouted as the sword descended, swinging his own blade with frantic effort.

  The soldier turned just as Jace’s blade glanced off his armored shoulder. Jace’s desperate attempt left him open. He twisted as the soldier jabbed his sword toward his chest. Pain like a hot skewer pierced his upper arm but faded in a moment. Jerking back, he held his sword defensively and faced the soldier head on. They locked gazes. He was a tall man with a thin, sharp-angled face and black hair streaked with gray. Though Jace had never met him before, instinct told him immediately who this man was—Captain Dagren. That explained his determination to see Rayad dead.

  Jace looked into his cold eyes, his mind flashing back two and a half years ago to two bodies lying in the farmyard and the first home he’d ever known being devoured by flames. This man was responsible for Kalli and Aldor’s deaths—for destroying the life Jace had so come to love.

  A fresh wave of fury and heat roared through him, the strength of which he hadn’t experienced in a long time. This fury demanded vengeance for Kalli and Aldor… and for himself. It frightened him, and he fought to rein it in before it led to an action he would regret. In that brief moment he struggled within himself, Dagren launched his attack.

  Instinct and reflex took over, fueled by the burning inside of Jace. He smashed his sword into Dagren’s, driving it to the side. The captain swiftly raised his blade in defense as Jace brought his own down in a hacking blow. Dagren took a step back under the force of it, and Jace pushed forward, any weariness from his previous fights forgotten. Like the days he’d fought in the arenas, the surroundings faded away. It was only him and Dagren. The memory of Kalli and Aldor’s lifeless faces still pulsed at the very center of his mind, though he struggled not to let it consume him.

  Attack after attack, Jace forced Dagren back until, at last, the man staggered. Before he could regain his balance, Jace kicked one of his legs out from under him. The man crashed to his side. He scrambled to his hands and knees, about to raise his sword, but Jace stepped on the blade and placed the point of his own sword under Dagren’s chin. The sharp tip pierced skin, and a thin rivulet of blood rolled down the captain’s neck. The man looked up at him, directly in the eyes. Jace breathed hard, ragged breaths, fighting not to let his sword tremble. With a quick slash, he could end Dagren’s life and repay him for what had happened. He had wanted it on that horrible day and at other times since. The man had caused so much pain, and not only to Jace but to others he cared about as well. They deserved justice.

  “What are you waiting for, boy?” Dagren growled. “Get it over with.”

  The overwhelming clamor of past hurts and cries for justice quieted. Jace shook his head and lowered his sword, releasing a long breath. No, he wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t his place to exact vengeance.

  The fire died inside him and heaviness took over his body. Footsteps crunched in the snow. He looked up as Holden hurried toward him. The fighting had ceased. All the soldiers had either retreated into the forest or been apprehended by the militia. However, scattered around the perimeter of camp and even among the cabins, bodies and blood littered the snowy ground—both camp members and soldiers. The sight was like a blow to the chest. Their home had become a war zone.

  Jace shook himself. Now was not the time to deal with that reality.

  “Watch him,” he told Holden tersely, gesturing to Dagren as he turned around.

  Rayed knelt in the snow nearby, holding his side, but at least he wasn’t lying there dead. Jace rushed over to him. “Are you all right?”

  Rayad nodded, wincing just slightly. “I’ll be fine. It’s not too deep.”

  Jace blew out another gusting breath. He offered Rayad his hand and helped him to his feet. They needed to get him looked at by their physician Josef or Leetra. He opened his mouth to speak, but a shout cut him off. Kyrin’s voice echoed through camp, turning his blood to ice.

  Chapter Four

  “Michael!”

  Jace spun around. Several yards from the Altairs’ cabin, Kyrin threw herself to her knees in the snow with her mother and Lenae. Elanor stood with Ronny and Meredith, staring down at the body lying in the midst of them. No. Jace’s legs moved before the thought had fully formed. He ran toward them, disjointed but desperate prayers rushing to his mind.

  First, he saw the blood—glaring red and searing into his mind. Too much blood. In the snow. On Michael’s clothes. His gaze found Michael’s face. The boy struggled for breath, his skin nearly as pale as the snow. Blood stained his lips in vivid contrast. All th
e air left Jace’s lungs, and he couldn’t draw it back in.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael choked, staring up at his mother, who clutched his hand. Lenae knelt on the other side of him, both hands pressed to his chest, but it did little to staunch the blood from the wound beneath them. “I had… I had to… protect you.”

  Tears flowed down Lydia’s face, and she nodded her head. “I know.” She brushed her free hand across his forehead, her lips trembling. “I know.”

  Michael gasped for another breath that wouldn’t seem to come and, for a moment, fear registered in his expression, but then he stilled. His eyes closed, and the hand his mother held went limp. A sob broke from her chest.

  “Michael?” Kyrin murmured, timid at first, but then her voice grew more frantic. “Michael! No, please! Please!”

  Her brother’s eyes remained closed.

  Numbness overtook Jace. This couldn’t be happening. This family couldn’t suffer such loss again. He stepped toward Kyrin, his knees shaking, and dropped down beside her. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her close. Her body shook with sobs that mingled with her mother’s and Ronny’s. Jace looked around at them, taking in the sight of their grief. How had this happened? Why was Michael even out here?

  His attention shifted to the sword that lay at Michael’s side, blood glistening along the edges. Why had he been fighting? Guilt sprang up inside Jace. He should have stayed nearby. He should never have let the cabin out of his sight!

  Footsteps rushed toward them. Kaden and Liam reached the group first, with Talas right behind. They stopped short, staring wide-eyed.

  “What… happened?” Kaden rasped.

  Jace just shook his head. Did any of them really know?

  They stood stunned for a moment before Liam, tears about to overflow his eyes, stepped forward and knelt next to his mother, pulling her into his arms. Kaden crossed to Ronny and Meredith, putting an arm around each of them, though his eyes remained on Michael. Tear tracks wet his cheeks. Jace’s own face felt warm, though he was still too numb to even realize tears had formed. How could such a thing happen?

  The sounds of grief surrounded him, not only from the Altairs, but all around camp as women and children cried around other fallen men. They were supposed to be safe here!

  Others approached, but Jace didn’t look up to see who it was. He couldn’t take his eyes from Michael’s face. He’d been like a little brother to Jace. He would have been Jace’s brother. Maybe, if Jace had spent more time sparring with him… done more to train him… maybe he would have stood a better chance. Jace squeezed his eyes shut against a fresh flooding of tears, and he gritted his teeth. Don’t do this! He couldn’t let himself sink into blaming himself. It was a far too slippery path. Guilt didn’t bring people back.

  Someone gasped Michael’s name. Jace raised his head. Marcus stood there now, the horror sinking in for him as it had for everyone else. And just behind him, guarded by two of the militia, stood the General. His face, usually so hard and grim, slackened, his lips parting as he looked down at his slain grandson. No words came. He just stood, like a frozen statue. Were those tears in his eyes?

  Kyrin went rigid in Jace’s arms and pulled away from him, shoving to her feet. She stepped toward her grandfather, her voice strangled. “You did this!”

  Jace jumped up and grabbed her around the waist. She tugged against him, still crying.

  “You brought them here! You killed him!”

  She almost collapsed then, but Jace held her up, and she turned in his arms, burying her face in his chest as she sobbed. Jace held her tightly and looked over at Kaden. With Kyrin’s outburst, would he stand down? His tear-filled eyes smoldered as he glared at their grandfather. However, he held himself back, remaining with Ronny and Meredith, the greatest act of restraint Jace had ever witnessed.

  The next few minutes went by in a daze. The militiamen led the General away, while other members of camp helped Kyrin’s family wrap Michael in a blanket and carry him into the cabin. Jace led Kyrin along with him. Neither she nor the others wore coats. At the cabin, Jace immediately noticed the broken window and cracks in the door. Things fell into place. Soldiers had tried to break in. That’s why Michael was out fighting. He was protecting them… just as he’d said. The throbbing inside Jace’s chest ached more deeply. Michael had died defending his family.

  * * *

  Daniel still gripped the sword someone had handed him in the chaos. He didn’t even remember who. Aric, probably. He only remembered heading toward Trask and Anne’s cabin to have lunch with Elanor when he’d heard the roar. He’d never heard anything like it before—a thundering explosion of heart-stopping terror that seemed nearly capable of shattering the frozen landscape around them.

  He looked around camp, his eyes drawn from one still body to another. He’d seen death and carnage in the arena, but here was different. This was an attack on a place so many considered home. Unexpected and devastating.

  Now his gaze dropped to his blade, stained red. Today marked the first day he had ever fought in battle. The first day he’d ever killed someone. His heart still raced with adrenaline, each breath still heavy with exertion. All those hours spent training and sparring at Auréa—they had done nothing to prepare him for the true reality of fighting for his life and those in this camp.

  He blinked, snapping himself from a shock-induced haze. The fight was over. They had won. But at what cost? A fresh surge of adrenaline flushed through him, though a kind that fed panic more than fighting. He kept it in check, but questions pounded the inside of his skull. Where was Elanor?

  He hurried forward, picking up speed toward the heart of camp. He paused along the way to help with their wounded soldiers. Some were able to move under their own power while others bore grisly wounds and wouldn’t likely survive the night. He helped wherever he could but always searched for Elanor’s face amongst the crowds gathering outside. Had the soldiers broken into any of the cabins? Had any of the women and children been caught outside?

  “Daniel!”

  His heart reacted to the feminine voice, and he spun around. Elanor rushed toward him. She threw her arms unashamedly around his neck when she reached him, and he wrapped his free arm around her, still holding his sword in the other. He let out a huge breath.

  She released him just as quickly and looked him over. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded.

  The concern in her expression deepened. “You’re bleeding.”

  What? He looked down at himself. Blood covered his sword hand. He thought at first it was someone else’s, but then realized he had a long gash along the back of his hand and wrist. He hadn’t even noticed it. With the realization came the pain, but it was the least of his concern. Elanor’s eyes were red, her cheeks pink and damp. Was she afraid or was she hurt?

  “I’m fine.” He put his injured hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, all at once pain crumpling her face. “Michael is dead.”

  A boulder slammed his chest. “What?”

  Tears poured from her eyes. “Soldiers were trying to break in. He went out to stop them.”

  Daniel could only stare at her for a moment as the adrenaline finally died and his body grew cold. Another Altair dead. Michael was just a boy. Heat flared in his blood. This was all because of his sister. Because of her unsatiated hatred for all of them. He knew beyond all doubt she had ordered this attack. Right in the dead of winter when they would least expect it. No one fought wars in the winter, but she was just crazy enough to send her men out into the snowy wilderness to do it.

  Daniel clenched his fist, fighting his own hatred. But the weak sob Elanor released snapped his attention back to her. He pulled her close again, holding her against his chest as she cried. His nose stung, moisture filling his eyes as he thought about the agony the Altairs faced once again. Two of their family members were gone now because of his family and their bloody quest for power.

  * * *

  Jace sat at the fireplace with Kyrin, holding her close, just as he had the day her father died. And just like that day, he wished desperately for a way to take her pain upon himself. He hated to see her and her family suffer so. Hadn’t they borne enough pain and loss? Why Michael too? He couldn’t help asking Elôm such questions. He trusted there was a purpose—there had to be—but, in the midst of grief, it felt so… pointless.