Crimson Fire by Holly Taylor Page A

dribbling blood into the muddy hollow. Each man
    then pulled his dagger from his belt and cut his thumb, all of them dripping their own blood on the earth to mingle with Havgan’s. Havgan placed his hand above the bloody ground, and Sigerric placed his palm on top of Havgan’s bleeding hand. Then Penda laid his hand over Sigerric’s. Catha laid his hand over Penda’s, and Baldred laid his over Catha’s. Lastly, Talor-
    can laid his hand on top of Baldred’s.
    They spoke in unison, their voices mingling in the quiet clearing.
    “So long as there is breath in my body, I pledge true friendship.
    So long as there is blood in my veins, I will shed it in your defense.
    So long as you call, I shall answer. So long as you ride, I shall follow.”

    Havgan then stepped back and picked up the wineskin. He took a hearty draught, then passed it to Sigerric, who drank and passed it to Penda. One by one they each drank the blood- red wine.
    At last they faced east and said solemnly together, “Air has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” They turned south. “Fire has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” They turned west. “Water has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.” At last they turned north. “Earth has written the words we spoke today. We will keep faith with one another.”
    When they were fi nished, Sigerric could clearly feel the
    heaviness, the fi nality of what they had done. Then he heard
    one other thing. Somewhere, far, far in the distance, he heard the sound of a hunting horn and knew it for what it was.
    The Wild Hunt had heard this vow today.
    And Havgan’s doom, whatever it may be, had come still closer, reaching out to encompass them all.

    T HEY RETURNED TO the city as dusk was falling. The streets were still crowded with revelers celebrating Gewinnan Daeg Eve. When they passed the open doors of public taverns, bright lights and noise spilled out onto the streets; the sounds of people singing, shouting, drinking, and laughing tangled in doorways and passed out into the night.
    As they traveled north up Lindstrat toward Havgan’s house, they passed Byrnwiga, the black stone fortress belonging to the Warleader of the Empire. The building loomed ominously. Narrow windows with iron shutters pierced the dark walls at irregular intervals. Torches burned in brackets across the blank face of the building, faintly illuminating the roof that glittered with tiny jet-black stones. Carved boars’ heads with ruby eyes sat among the eaves, dangerous and challenging.
    The windows glowed with light, and the sounds of men cele- brating came clearly to their ears. Prince Athelric seemed to be fully engulfed in his own celebrations, having evidently turned down the invitation to attend his brother’s festivities at Cynerice Scima this evening. Not that Sigerric blamed the Prince for that—he understood that celebrations at the Emperor’s palace were far too tame for a man of Prince Athelric’s jaded tastes. Faintly he thought he heard the sound of women screaming through the noise.
    “The Bana is celebrating Gewinnan Daeg Eve, I see,”
    Sigerric said to Havgan.
    Havgan’s lip curled in contempt. “He brings shame on the title of Bana. The Warleader ought to at least be one who is skilled at arms.”
    “Havgan . . .” Sigerric began, startled by a sudden thought, jolted by the contempt in Havgan’s tone.
    “Yes?”
    “You can’t possibly think to be made Bana. Prince Athelric holds that title and will do so until the Emperor declares Aelf- wyn’s husband-to-be. And that man will be Warleader until he takes the throne at the Emperor’s death.”
    “I am aware of that, Sigerric,” Havgan said, his tone amused. “The only way you could become Warleader is if the Em- peror declares an open tournament and you win. And that he would only do if something happened to Athelric. If Prince Athelric dies while