Eldest [en]

Roran sipped the cool cider. “If we live that long.”

“Aye.” She brushed back a strand of her blond hair and shook her head. “You’ve chosen a hard path, Roran.”

“I had to make sure that Katrina would leave Carvahall.”

Elain lifted an eyebrow. “So that was it. Well, I won’t argue about it, but why on earth didn’t you speak to Sloan about your engagement before this morning? When Horst asked my father, he gave our family twelve sheep, a sow, and eight pairs of wrought-iron candlesticks before he even knew if my parents would agree. That’s how it should be done. Surely you could have thought of a better strategy than striking your father-in-law-to-be.”

A painful laugh escaped Roran. “I could have, but it never seemed the right time with all the attacks.”

“The Ra’zac haven’t attacked for almost six days now.”

He scowled. “No, but... it was... Oh, I don’t know!” He banged his fist on the table with frustration.

Elain put down her cup and wrapped her tiny hands around his. “If you can mend this rift between you and Sloan now, before years of resentment accumulate, your life with Katrina will be much, much easier. Tomorrow morning you should go to his house and beg his forgiveness.”

“I won’t beg! Not to him.”

“Roran, listen to me. It’s worth a month of begging to have peace in your family. I know from experience; strife does naught but make you miserable.”

“Sloan hates the Spine. He’ll have nothing to do with me.”

“You have to try, though,” said Elain earnestly. “Even if he spurns your apology, at least you can’t be blamed for not making the effort. If you love Katrina, then swallow your pride and do what’s right for her. Don’t make her suffer for your mistake.” She finished her cider, used a tin hat to snuff the candles, and left Roran sitting alone in the dark.

Several minutes elapsed before Roran could bring himself to stir. He stretched out an arm and traced along the counter’s edge until he felt the doorway, then proceeded upstairs, all the while running the tips of his fingers over the carved walls to keep his balance. In his room, he disrobed and threw himself lengthwise on the bed.

Wrapping his arms around his wool-stuffed pillow, Roran listened to the faint sounds that drifted through the house at night: the scrabble of a mouse in the attic and its intermittent squeaks, the groan of wood beams cooling in the night, the whisper and caress of wind at the lintel of his window, and... and the rustle of slippers in the hall outside his room.

He watched as the latch above the doorknob was pulled free of its hook, then the door inched forward with a rasp of protest. It paused. A dark form slipped inside, the door closed, and Roran felt a curtain of hair brush his face along with lips like rose petals. He sighed.

Katrina.

A thunderclap tore Roran from sleep.

Light flared on his face as he struggled to regain awareness, like a diver desperate to reach the surface. He opened his eyes and saw a jagged hole blasted through his door. Six soldiers rushed through the yawning cleft, followed by the two Ra’zac, who seemed to fill the room with their ghastly presence. A sword was pressed against Roran’s neck. Beside him, Katrina screamed and pulled the blankets around her.

“Up,” ordered the Ra’zac. Roran cautiously got to his feet. His heart felt like it was about to explode in his chest. “Tie his handsss and bring him.”

As a soldier approached Roran with rope, Katrina screamed again and jumped on the men, biting and clawing furiously. Her sharp nails furrowed their faces, drawing streams of blood that blinded the cursing soldiers.

Roran dropped to one knee and grabbed his hammer from the floor, then planted his feet, swinging the hammer over his head and roaring like a bear. The soldiers threw themselves at him in an attempt to subdue him through sheer numbers, but to no avail: Katrina was in danger, and he was invincible. Shields crumpled beneath his blows, brigandines and mail split under his merciless weapon, and helmets caved in. Two men were wounded, and three fell to rise no more.

The clang and clamor had roused the household; Roran dimly heard Horst and his sons shouting in the hall. The Ra’zac hissed to one another, then scuttled forward and grasped Katrina with inhuman strength, lifting her off the floor as they fled the room.

“Roran!” she shrieked.

Summoning his energy, Roran bowled past the two remaining men. He stumbled into the hall and saw the Ra’zac climbing out a window. Roran dashed toward them and struck at the last Ra’zac, just as it was about to descend below the windowsill. Jerking upward, the Ra’zac caught Roran’s wrist in midair and chittered with delight, blowing its fetid breath onto his face. “Yesss! You are the one we want!”

Roran tried to twist free, but the Ra’zac did not budge. With his free hand, Roran buffeted the creature’s head and shoulders — which were as hard as iron. Desperate and enraged, he seized the edge of the Ra’zac’s hood and wrenched it back, exposing its features.

A hideous, tortured face screamed at him. The skin was shiny black, like a beetle carapace. The head was bald. Each lidless eye was the size of his fist and gleamed like an orb of polished hematite; no iris or pupil existed. In place of a nose, mouth, and chin, a thick beak hooked to a sharp point that clacked over a barbed purple tongue.

Roran yelled and jammed his heels against the sides of the window frame, struggling to free himself from the monstrosity, but the Ra’zac inexorably drew him out of the house. He could see Katrina on the ground, still screaming and fighting.

Just as Roran’s knees buckled, Horst appeared by his side and wrapped a knotted arm around his chest, locking him in place. “Someone get a spear!” shouted the smith. He snarled, veins bulging on his neck from the strain of holding Roran. “It’ll take more than this demon spawn to best us!”

The Ra’zac gave a final yank, then, when it failed to dislodge Roran, cocked its head and said, “You are oursss!” It lunged forward with blinding speed, and Roran howled as he felt the Ra’zac’s beak close on his right shoulder, snipping through the front of the muscle. His wrist cracked at the same time. With a malicious cackle, the Ra’zac released him and fell backward into the night.

Horst and Roran sprawled against each other in the hallway. “They have Katrina,” groaned Roran. His vision flickered and went black around the edges as he pushed himself upright on his left arm — his right hung useless. Albriech and Baldor emerged from his room, splattered with gore. Only corpses remained behind them. Now I have killed eight. Roran retrieved his hammer and staggered down the hall, finding his way blocked by Elain in her white sleeping shift.

She looked at him with wide eyes, then took his arm and pushed him down onto a wood chest set against the wall. “You have to see Gertrude.”

“But—”

“You’ll pass out if this bleeding isn’t stopped.”

He looked down at his right side; it was drenched in crimson. “We have to rescue Katrina before” — he clenched his teeth as the pain surged — “before they do anything to her.”

“He’s right; we can’t wait,” said Horst, looming over them. “Bind him up as best you can, then we’ll go.” Elain pursed her lips and hurried to the linen closet. She returned with several rags, which she wrapped tightly around Roran’s torn shoulder and his fractured wrist. Meanwhile, Albriech and Baldor scavenged armor and swords from the soldiers. Horst contented himself with just a spear.

Elain put her hands on Horst’s chest and said, “Be careful.” She looked at her sons. “All of you.”

“We’ll be fine, Mother,” promised Albriech. She forced a smile and kissed them on the cheek.

They left the house and ran to the edge of Carvahall, where they found that the wall of trees had been pulled open and the watchman, Byrd, slain. Baldor knelt and examined the body, then said with a choked voice, “He was stabbed from behind.” Roran barely heard him through the pounding in his ears. Dizzy, he leaned against a house and panted for breath.

“Ho! Who goes?”

From their stations along Carvahall’s perimeter, the other watchmen congregated around their murdered compatriot, forming a huddle of shuttered lanterns. In hushed tones, Horst described the attack and Katrina’s plight. “Who will help us?” he asked. After a quick discussion, five men agreed to accompany them; the rest would remain to guard the breach in the wall and rouse the villagers.

Pushing himself off the house, Roran trotted to the head of the group as it slipped through the fields and