through sand looking for a seed, and he raged against his limitations.
Banruud had dismounted. His heart pounded, the only recognizable rhythm in the thunderous haze. Hod couldn’t hear Ghisla or Alba. His terror ballooned and he bit it back, forcing them from his thoughts. He was no good to them if he was dead.
Someone rushed the king from behind, lungs rasping, heart wailing, and Hod released his arrow, glad to have an obvious target. He listened as it found its mark; the man’s heart slowed . . . then dropped . . . and his howl of attack became a whoosh of air that bid goodbye to the ground.
Banruud swore and said Hod’s name, acknowledging the rescue. The ruckus swelled to a fever pitch, dancing feet and clashing blades, the movements too intermingled for Hod to enter the fray, and then someone yelled, the sound triumphant, and a chorus of cheers rose in answer.
The battle was won.
Thank Odin.
Hod rose to his feet, unsteady, and went to find Ghisla.
Had Hod not warned them, it would have been much worse. The carriage was broken, the wheels split and the door caved in, but Ghisla and Alba were unharmed. They’d knocked heads as the carriage rolled, and Alba’s eyes were already blackening, but they crawled out of the window and climbed down the wreckage when the cry of victory went up.
The driver limped toward them, his whip still clutched in his hand, his left arm tucked against his side, and Ghisla searched the wreckage for Hod, dread and terror warring within her. She’d screamed his name when the carriage rolled, unable to help herself, but she dare not call for him now.
One horse had a broken leg, one a broken neck. Two still stood in their harnesses, waiting to be rescued, and they nibbled at the grass at their feet as if nothing were amiss, but the worst of the battle scene was behind them.
Three dead men were still draped in the trees, arrows protruding from their chests, but most of the slain lay beneath them, piled and pinioned by other dead, including some of the king’s guard. She found his staff first. It protruded from the ground like a spear, the sharpened end buried deep, and she ran to it, pulling it free before she saw him, moving toward her from the edge of the wood, covered in mud and navigating the dead with searching steps.
Then she and Alba were spotted and swarmed, the soldiers of the king rushing to inquire after their welfare, and Hod was lost to her view.
“The Northman tried to warn us. But we didn’t listen,” the driver confessed to the captain of the guard. “I thought he just wanted a break to stretch his legs and take a pisser, and the mud was too deep to slow.”
“Were they Northmen?” someone asked, suspicious. “Maybe he was in on it.”
“The Northmen sailed from Berne two days ago,” Ghisla shot back. “And we left before them. How would they get ahead of us, with no horses, and hide in the trees? I also recall the blind man pleading with you to halt.”
The guard had enough conscience to look ashamed, and Ghisla bit down on her cheek so she wouldn’t say more. The king was pushing through his men, giving orders and demanding answers, and the speculation began.
“They’re clanless,” someone else suggested. “They wore no colors.”
“They’re Bernians,” Hod said, working his way through the gathering crowd. The king turned and his men shuffled, parting for him. Ghisla stepped into the space they made, using the staff she held to clear the way. When she reached him, she took his hand and placed it on the stick.
He grimaced slightly, almost like her touch pained him, and she immediately stepped away, afraid she would bring him unwelcome attention with her care. His face was battered and one of his empty eyes was swollen shut, but he did not move like he was greatly injured, and the blood he wore did not appear to be his own.
“How do you know they were Bernians?” the captain challenged.
Hod pointed his staff toward a captured, wounded man propped against a tree. He was gray and grim, and he wouldn’t live long. “He told me they were Bernian.”
“And you believed him?” the captain retorted.
“He sounds Bernian, smells Bernian, and I’m guessing he looks Bernian too,” Hod responded, his voice dry. “There are a few of the clanless mixed in, I’d suppose, but the Bernians knew we would be