The Blood-Tainted Winter by T L Greylock Page A

chest before he could rise. Wrenching his sword from bone and flesh, he straightened and switched the sword to his right hand just in time to brace for an oncoming rider. Sidestepping at the last moment, Raef took a cut at the horse’s legs, sending the horse tumbling over its head and the rider flying from the saddle. The man regained his feet, but not quickly enough to evade Raef’s sword and the arcing blade cut deep into his shoulder, dropping him. Raef, already focused on the next opponent, didn’t even see him die.
    The fight was brutal, bloody, and short. Of his men, two were wounded but would survive. Seven men died at the hands of Raef’s warriors before the others begged for mercy. Raef, clutching his shoulder where the stitched wound throbbed, granted it and then stumbled back to his horse, leaving the others to secure their prisoners. He sank to the ground, eyes closed, breath ragged, and then a sure, calm hand sought his and he opened his eyes to see Siv’s face close to his own.
    “On your feet,” she said. And somehow he was able to rise, her arm guiding him.
    The captives, huddled together on their knees, wrists bound, were willing to answer Raef’s questions this time.
    “Rikar of Danewyll is our lord. You were spotted entering these lands and we picked up your trail two days later.”
    “For what purpose?” Raef asked.
    “Only to watch,” the man said, though Raef caught the flickered glance of another man and wondered if there had been some disagreement amongst them.
    “Which king does Rikar support?”
    “Fengar of Solheim.”
    “And when will Rikar’s spears be bloodied?”
    “I do not know.”
    He could be lying, but Raef was inclined to believe that a scouting party would not be privy to Rikar’s, much less Fengar’s, battle plans. Raef turned his attention to his own men. “Take anything of use. We will leave them here.”
    The men began picking through the few belongings the Danewyll men had with them, and Raef chose two horses to take as spares. Raef slipped a gold ring from the arm of one of the men he killed and pushed it up his own arm to join the others. Soon the group had remounted and was prepared to ride. Raef looked over his shoulder at the captives one last time. “If you should make it back to your lord, tell him Brandulf Hammerling sends his greetings.” Raef urged his mount forward and they soon left the stranded men behind, nothing more than specks on a windy moor.
    That night, Eira cleaned his shoulder, dabbing at the raw, angry flesh. The stitches had held, but blood had leaked through and dried to a crust on his skin.
    “You should not have attacked that man,” he murmured as he leaned back against a tree trunk and watched her work. “We did not know if they were friend or foe.”
    Eira snorted. “Tell me that you truly think it would not have come to blows, and I will pretend to be sorry. All I did was begin the inevitable.”
    Raef smiled a little. “You are probably right.” Eira finished wrapping the new strips of cloth and sat back to examine her work. “It is a thing of beauty. You should kiss me now.”
    Eira arched an eyebrow, but leaned forward, hunger in her eyes and on her lips. The kiss was deep and eager, and Raef soon forgot the ache in his shoulder.

    Their days were full of silence and their nights full of the sound of wolves. They kept to the open moors, choosing wind and rain over the pine shrouded hills and the beasts that lurked within. Snow fell again, two days after the first dusting, and did not melt away this time. The air grew cold, colder than Raef expected at that time of year, even as far north as they were.
    One of the injured men developed a fever. After two nights of hearing him cry out in his sleep and seeing him nearly fall from his horse during the day, Raef made the decision to leave him. Siv spotted a farm and she and Raef approached it cautiously.
    A young boy was feeding a pair of pigs as they rode up to the low,