to behave. Wynter admired that. It showed unexpected refinement and diplomacy towards a confounded enemy.
The youngest Haun was last to get going, and he mounted his horse as if in a daze. He appeared stunned and distracted with confusion. It was apparent that he could not believe this sudden reversal of his hopes and plans. As he urged his mount to catch up on the others, Wynter stepped from between the tents and watched him with the strangest mixture of fear and regret. There was so much this man might be able to tell her about her father and his past; so much that she longed to know. At the same time, she felt almost glad she would never have the chance to ask those things of him.
The young man saw her, and to her surprise he reined to a halt, staring at her. All at once, his bewildered confusion transformed to hatred. Wynter saw his face darken, saw his intentions rise clear in his eyes, and he abruptly burst into action. Kicking his horse to a gallop, he thundered towards her. As he advanced, his hand dropped to his side, and Wynter – fixed like a rabbit under an eagle’s eye – stared in horror as he drew his sword.
Úlfnaor whispered, ‘Frith an Domhain!’ then yelled, ‘Stop! ’ Running forward, he flung himself between Wynter and the charging horse as if his body alone could stop its wild-eyed advance. He was knocked aside. Behind Wynter, Hallvor spun and bellowed in Merron, undoubtedly calling for weapons.
Wynter stayed rooted in place. The young Haun’s eyes were locked with hers. His bitter grin was mesmerising. On the road, someone yelled a warning, and even through her frozen shock Wynter knew it was Oliver. Still she could not move. The Haun swung his sword over his head; his rage, the gleam of his weapon, his thundering horse, filled the world. ‘Tell your father!’ he screamed. ‘Tell your father!’
Tell him what? thought Wynter idiotically, gazing up at him.
The Haun stood in the stirrups, his grin widening. Wynter thought, But I don’t want to die. Then he was gone, and she found herself blinking up at empty sky.
The Haun landed with a thud at her feet, a crossbow bolt sticking from his throat like a scarlet thorn. His horse veered away, passing Úlfnaor, who stood, dazed, in the middle of the road. The alley behind Wynter filled with noisy, shouting warriors. There was pushing and shoving as they streamed past to get to their Aoire. Soldiers filled the road.
In the thoroughfare, the Haun who had fired the bolt lowered his bow and lifted his hands. ‘He die!’ he shouted to Oliver. ‘I kill! He no hurt woman!’
Soldiers ran forward, their swords drawn. Across the road, the Wolves had come to see the show, and a high cackle of laughter signalled Jean’s amusement at the sight of the young man gurgling and twitching in a pool of his own blood.
‘Is not quarrel!’ shouted the older Haun as the soldiers crowded his horse.
Oliver was striding towards him, his face livid. ‘Protector Lady?’ he shouted as he strode by.
Wynter lifted her hand, her attention on the young man at her feet. I’m fine.
‘Is not quarrel!’ repeated the Haun. ‘Borchu-xah dead! I kill! I kill!’
Borchu-xah, thought Wynter, dropping to her knees by the young man’s side. Is that your name? His eyes rolled towards her. He jerked, dark blood pouring from his mouth and oozing from around the arrow in his throat. ‘Get Razi,’ she whispered to no one in particular. Then she yelled it, staring around for whoever would listen. ‘Get Razi!’
The Haun’s arm spasmed outwards and Wynter realised that he was trying to get his sword. She grabbed his hands. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Stop! You’re dying! Can’t you stop?’ His eyes widened at that, and he clutched her hand. She saw his desire to kill fall away in terror as the truth of his predicament hit him.
‘Borchu-xah?’ she whispered. ‘Is that your name? Borchuxah?’ He hissed a sound, but no words.
‘Shhhh.’ Wynter wiped the dirt and blood from his mouth, and squeezed his hand tighter. ‘Shhhhh. My friend will help you.’
The young man’s eyes filled with tears and he stared desperately into Wynter’s face. He did not want to die. Wynter could see that. He did not want to die. No matter what he had thought just moments before, no matter how determined he had been. This man wanted to live. ‘Be still,’ she whispered. ‘My