This is our House

53rd Day of Harvest

767 Karloman’s Peace

Ice and wind. It had consumed everything, covering the world in a sheen of white, blue, and deep, deep black. There were no sounds or scents of the earth. The plants had died, and the animal life had fled. His garden was dead.

Ekkehard stood on the lake bank, its waters frozen solid. On the far side stood the barren husk of the massive cherry blossom tree, its bleak dagger-like branches spidering into the sky, casting shadows that made it seem like the world's roof had cracked. A domineering and predatory silhouette sat upon one of the branches; the great Shrike, come to feast on the last vestiges of life. It shrouded itself in its giant midnight wings, its body trembling and writhing, its fanged beak slavering, and its yellow eyes fixed upon him.

Crimson flashed above the abyssal sky, casting a fiery glow over the desolate place. In its light, he spotted a final figure lingering: a woman made of cerulean light standing alone on the far side of the lake, caught in the shadow of the dead tree. She reached out for him.

His heart raced. He knew her danger and every inch of his being told him he had to save her. He took the first step onto the frozen lake. The Shrike screeched in return, its wings opening wide as it dived from the branches. It circled the woman and darted toward her. A talon struck her throat. She burst.

Owls of the same wondrous luminosity as her fluttered free of her shattered form. Each majestic bird tried to fly free of the darkness, fields of stars falling from their wake until their light was extinguished. She was gone. There was nothing to save. The Shrike laughed.

Ekkehard drew the burning sword from his hip and tried to dart across the lake. Shadows erupted from the ice, skeletal beings armed with swords and shields. They charged him, one at a time. He struck down one, its essence banished by the flames, and then killed another. Two more fell as he closed the gap between him and the place where the woman had once been.

He was struck from the flank and carried sideways.

The weight of a large square shield slammed him against a wall. His bloodied blade was trapped between it and his chest, his sword arm pinned and useless. The attacker, a white-cloaked guardsman in heavy armour, tried to jab at him with a spear. The weapon was too long for this distance, allowing Ekkehard to deflect it away with his own shield easily.

The opponent pressed hard, his shield’s riveted surface digging into Ekkehard, causing white-hot pain to shoot up and down his arm. He endured it through gritted teeth, hissing away his fury. His nostrils flared, and his bloodshot eyes widened with rage as he used the edge of his shield to strike the soldier in the open faceplate of his helm. Once, twice, thrice. The man stumbled backwards, nose broken and eyes sealed by blood. Ekkehard pounced.

Before the man could wipe away the ichor that blinded him, Ekkehard’s sword struck where his shield had moments before. The blade burst out the back of the man's head. As the corpse fell to the ground, his weapon slid free, coated in meaty chunks.

With his opponent dead, Ekkehard took in the scene around him—total pandemonium.

Vedast’s men had followed Ekkehard’s charge into Hanib’s line, and Hanib’s men were in disarray. The commandant had called his troops away rather than stand with Hanib, and yellow cloaks fought to escape the battle, pushing through their former companions. They left gaps in Hanib’s shield wall, which collapsed under the weight of the ganger’s assault. The enemy was further harried by rooftop archers, whose arrows struck those trying to reform the wall.

Still, those who remained to fight were well-trained and well-armoured. They did not go down quickly. Dozens died, agonised screams heralding their end.

Ekkehard scanned the clashing figures, searching for his target. The commandant and other nobles had fled, but Hanib’s horse remained. Through the throngs of fighters, he glimpsed the murderer and clenched his fists and jaw so tightly his face might have shattered.

Bile caught in his throat as he saw what the man was doing. Kneeling beside the body of Ekkehard’s beloved, Hanib worked at her with a dagger. Ekkehard unleashed an inhuman scream at the sight, his throat straining and his neck bulging with the effort. Then Hanib was gone, the rearmost of the man’s force reforming their ranks, their shields blocking Ekkehard’s view.

With the source of his hatred out of sight, Ekkehard's anger began to subside, and the weight of what had happened dawned on him. Auriana was dead. His wife, the woman he loved, his very reason for enduring everything wrought upon him and his family, was gone. Taken from him. Her life was stolen, and the future they might have had together was gone forever.

He froze, his heart aching, its beating erratic and mistimed. The air in his lungs went cold, refusing to sustain him. His eyes welled with tears, and his weapons and armour became so heavy they dragged him to his knees. He wanted to die. He deserved to die. He should have died before breaking his promise to her. He had vowed no evil would reach her again. He had failed.

A spear thunked into the dirt beside him. Had it struck him, he would have died. He cursed the man who had thrown it. They should have aimed better.

He was yanked to his feet and spun around. “Are you going to help me kill that man or what?” Audomar screamed in his face. Ekkehard did not react. He just stared at his brother, unable to move or speak. He didn’t want vengeance; he wanted it to be over.

Then he heard it.

It was a soft sound, alien compared to the clanging of metal and death screams surrounding him. It was crying—the gentle wails of a babe.

Ekkehard turned to face the enemy lines again. There, waiting behind three fully formed ranks of his men, was Hanib, sitting on his horse, drenched in crimson, the evidence of his bloody work coating his hands and face. Held in his arms was something equally crimson, wriggling and writhing.

Auriana’s murderer looked from the baby over the battlefield and directly into Ekkehard’s eyes. “It’s a girl,” Hanib called, raising the poorly formed child, cut too soon from her mother’s belly, and displaying it for all to see. Ekkehard stepped toward them, his vision fixed on the tiny form of his daughter—his first daughter. Despite everything, a desperate smile forced its way onto his face as his glistening eyes widened with a father's joy.

With a malevolence entirely inhuman, Hanib’s face bore relish. He threw the child from atop his horse. The crying ceased as the baby's little body vanished behind the shield wall of Hanib’s men.

Ekkehard’s head hurt. His temples throbbed, and his vision swam. Nothing made sense. He was a father again. Hanib had been carrying his daughter. She couldn’t be gone so quickly. That didn’t make sense. No one would do that. Would they? Could they? Could a person kill a baby so callously? But Hanib had killed the baby, throwing her fragile newborn body to the ground right before his eyes. That man isn’t human, Ekkehard thought.

“He dies today,” a voice said beside him—someone’s voice—someone who had been holding him—Audomar, Ekkehard’s brother. Sensibility began to return to Ekkehard as his awareness awakened again. He recognised the danger of the battle and the small window for revenge he and his brothers had. His heart quickened again, and his blood warmed, unshackling his muscles from paralysis.

His head snapped to the side, and he stared wide-eyed and wildly at his brother. “Yes!” Ekkehard barked. “Yes, he must. Help me, brother,” he pleaded, grasping Audomar’s shoulder. “Help me kill that man.” Audomar nodded, and the two brothers raced into the fray.

Each moved with predatory grace, their veteran instincts guiding them to cut down the most vulnerable foes first. A half dozen guards, each already occupied with their own challengers, fell swiftly, blindsided by the sudden attackers. Soon, all the guards who had failed to fall back and reform down the road had been killed.

“Get back in line!” Audomar bellowed. “Back in line!”

“Reform the shield wall!” Ekkehard shouted in support. The remaining four lines of gangers quickly restored their ranks and raised their shields, forming a barricade across the street. Hanib’s remaining men, also reformed, had finished their assembly. Their forces were twice as deep as the Reubkes. With the initial bout over, the gangers' only advantage was the archers on the rooftops, who continued to harry their enemies’ lines.

Ekkehard and Audomar took their place at the centre of the front row. Ekkehard noted his elder brother's furrowed brow and stern expression. They were both ready and willing to die to see Hanib meet the same fate. They exchanged nods, accepting the likely outcome of their actions with stoic grace, and Audomar gave the order to advance.

Step by careful step, the lines of the gangers' force crossed the dozen meters separating them from their foes, avoiding tripping on the bodies that littered the ground. “Move steady and stay together!” Audomar barked as one flank drifted ahead. Jeers of obedience and approval replied as the line readjusted itself.

“Hold firm!” Ekkehard added. Look to the man beside you, shield him as he shields you in turn!” The call was an old war drill, one he had shouted many times during his time at war. Although Ekkehard did not notice it, his breathing was steady, his heartbeat stable, and the anxiety of the coming fight unusually absent. He was committed to the death to come and found himself unafraid.

As the gangers neared the waiting guards, the exchange of projectiles began. The gangers lobbed hatchets, daggers, and large stones at their enemies while the guards responded with javelins. A half-dozen men on both sides fell before the two lines were only a few meters apart, and the initial probing began. Individual warriors broke from their lines to attempt spear thrusts and sword swings, hoping to make an opening in the other side's defences. Most efforts were in vain. Weapons clanged harmlessly against interlocked shields before a spear or blade found them—bloodied bodies coated the gap between the two little armies.

As far as Ekkehard could tell, the two forces were evenly matched. Audomar’s training had made up for the gangers' lack of proper armaments. Yet, Hanib’s men had the numbers. The Reubkes would lose this war of attrition long before Ekkehard and his brother reached Hanib and exacted their revenge. He needed to act to shift the balance in their favour.

One of Hanib’s men stepped forward to attack, presenting the opening Ekkehard desired. The man brought a sword down harmlessly on a linesman’s shield. Ekkehard seized the moment, coming in low and swinging his own blade. It landed, biting deep through the mail and into the man's hip. As blood spurted from the wound, a flash of Auriana’s open neck filled Ekkehard’s vision.

Hanib’s man fell to one knee; then a ganger finished him with a stab to the face. Ekkehard prepared to launch himself into the gap left by the dead man, but just before he did, he was tugged backwards. A shimmer of iron reached for his eyes, stopping an inch short. Ekkehard rejoined the line.

“Don’t be so reckless!” Audomar hissed. His brother had saved his life; seeing the retaliation, he hadn't. Another replaced the dead guard’s position, and Hanib’s shield wall still held.

Ekkehard cursed himself for his foolishness. For a moment, he considered a prayer to Summer, the Lady of War, for courage to control himself long enough to see his suicidal mission through. Then he caught himself and wondered why he’d even bother. What blessings had the gods ever bestowed upon him that they hadn’t snatched away just as quickly? With this revelation, he cursed the gods instead and left himself blameless.

Still, how was he to reach Hanib? His men would be long dead before he managed to fight through Hanib's ranks.

A new commotion erupted within the enemy lines. Tussles broke out, men stumbled, and their formations began to crack. Ekkehard spotted the cause; a group of gangers, led by Gerwald and Porfinn, had struck the enemy's flank, arriving from one of the narrow alleyways. Ekkehard seized the opportunity, springing forward into the disarray.

“Charge!” he screamed as he pounced. Audomar and the rest of their lines flooded forward into the distracted guardsmen, cheering and crying out their bloodlust. In an instant, the orderly conduct of the battle devolved into another mad brawl.

One of Hanib’s soldiers was sprawled on the floor before Ekkehard, a second trying to drag the man back to his feet. Ekkehard kicked at the would-be saviour, who blocked the blow with his shield but was still cast back. The prone man, now alone, tried to rise, but Ekkehard drove his blade through the open faceplate of the man’s helmet. His sword slid in and out, leaving behind a red maw in the man’s face. The would-be saviour, now a would-be avenger, rushed Ekkehard.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Ekkehard sidestepped, raised his shield, and bashed it into his attacker’s flank. He pushed the man back into a crowd of his companions, knocking some over. One man, confused and trying to get to his feet, didn’t see the downward slash Ekkehard buried into his skull. Thick torrents of black blood ran down the dying man’s eyes as Ekkehard pulled his weapon free. The others tried to respond but were overrun by the onslaught of the gangers.

Some guards ran, seeking to regroup and form a new line further up the road; others stayed to fight to the last. Duels broke out all around Ekkehard as Vedast’s men slayed as many of Hanib’s entourage as they could. It was as if they had become extensions of Ekkehard’s rage, seeking the exact revenge he did.

Ekkehard stalked through the fighting like a beast, pouncing, striking, and killing wherever his prey left themselves exposed. His blade swam through the melee, felling one man, then another, and then another. He gave himself over to a sanguine hunger, relishing the slaughter, losing himself in the red mist, his head throbbing with flashing images of the massacre he revelled in.

“Ekkehard!” a voice screamed as someone grabbed him by the arm and pulled him aside. He swung his blade around, halting seconds before the tip plunged into the man’s chest. He recognised the terrified eyes staring back at him. “We need to go,” Gerwald trembled.

Ekkehard’s breath was frantic, and his vision blurred. His ears, deaf to the horror around him, were now restored. The wretched groans of the dying and the screams of women hiding in the houses along the street all mixed with the raging of murderous men. He looked around, disgusted by what he saw. Forcing away the dizziness of nausea, he told his brother, “I have to kill Hanib.”

“Hanib is gone,” Audomar said, joining his brothers at the back of the fight.

Ekkehard looked up the road where Hanib had been. There was no one; the horse and rider were gone. The retreating guards had reformed, their ranks only three lines deep now. His own forces, busy cutting down the last of the stragglers, were finally a match for their opponents.

“We can take them,” Ekkehard declared. “We beat them, and we go after him.”

“No, we can’t,” Audomar retorted, pointing down the road to the other battle. The southern formation of Hanib’s men had not suffered the setbacks of the north. The commandant’s retreat order hadn’t reached the yellow cloaks there, and no ambushes disrupted their lines. Vedast’s gangers were entirely outmatched. Little more than a dozen men held a thin line of shields, keeping the guards from attacking Ekkehard and his brothers from the rear. “It’s time to go, brother,” Audomar insisted, pulling at him, urging him to retreat to the safety of Vedast’s house.

Ekkehard tried to resist, scanning the scattered field of bodies for the yellow of Auriana’s dress. There was naught on the ground but dull iron painted in black and red. He couldn’t find her. His resolve failed, and he was pulled away. “Fall back! Defend the house!” Audomar yelled his order, throat straining as he did, calling the retreat. Audomar led Ekkehard back to Vedast’s home. As they went, the southern line finally collapsed, and dozens of guards charged toward them.

“Get inside!” Vedast bellowed from an upper window. “Bar the door!” The twang of a crossbow string sounded as the lead attacker fell, a bolt jutting from his collar.

They reached the door of Vedast’s house. Audomar pushed Ekkehard through the threshold but did not follow. He turned back, waving the gangers in. “Fall back! Everyone inside now!”

Ekkehard was helpless to stop it. He didn’t even see the man coming, the man who drove the tip of his blade through Audomar’s back. His brother’s head and spine lurched as the iron erupted from his chest. His mouth was agape, a mix of pain, anguish, shock, and disbelief. The southern attackers clashed with the retreating northerners, and Audomar was the first casualty of the melee.

Ekkehard called out something involuntary, unaware of the words. However, he was aware of his blade and the fact that he was running. Before the man could pull his sword free of Audomar, Ekkehard drove the point of his blade up through the man’s jaw and into his skull. The man fell backwards, Ekkehard’s blade firmly fixed in his head.

Audomar fell quickly, landing with a thud and a clanging rattle of iron rings. Ekkehard was too slow to catch him, but he dropped to his knees and lifted his brother, cradling him in his arms.

The nameless assailant’s weapon protruded from Audomar’s chest, torrents of blood seeping around its edges. If Ekkehard removed the blade, his brother would die instantly. He tried to stem the wound, but it was hopeless. His heart raced, and his already blurred vision worsened. Ekkehard’s blood-soaked hands shook as he pressed them against Audomar’s chest. He could feel the stuttering rhythm of Audomar’s breathing. He was choking. Blood was filling his lungs. His heart was slowing.

“This is my fault.” The words came unbidden from Ekkehard as his glassy eyes met Audomar’s, bloodshot and paling. This is all because of me, he thought. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I should have joined the faith.” I have done this; my own selfishness brought this upon you all. My brother, my brother who I would have followed anywhere, I have killed you. All this was about punishing him because he was too proud and ashamed to take on the mantle of Teacher. He wanted more than that, and his desire had brought nothing but death and despair.

Ekkehard, lost in rumination, failed to see another assailant coming for him. Audomar saw him, however, and, with wide-eyed fear, struggled to lift his spear to defend Ekkehard. He failed. The strength was gone. He lost his grip on the spear, and it fell to the floor. Ekkehard saw the desperation in Audomar’s eyes and turned to see the oncoming attack. A short sword parried the attack at the last second, then deftly found its way to the attacker’s throat, sending him spinning away. Porfinn, joined by half a dozen others, fought to push back the southern assault. Gerwald, charging alongside them, froze at the sight of his eldest brother’s destroyed body. “Audo,” he whimpered.

Ekkehard brushed away the tears at the corner of his eyes, his blood-drenched sleeve smearing red ichor across his face. “Help me with him!” Ekkehard barked at Gerwald as he tried to drag Audomar into Vedast’s home. Gerwald hesitated. “Now!” Ekkehard called. Gerwald obeyed, grabbing Audomar by the ankles and helping to carry him inside. Somehow, with the last vestiges of his strength, Audomar gripped the haft of his spear, dragging it along the floor in his wake. Several gangers followed them in.

As the last of Vedast’s men tried to retreat to the doorway, they were overwhelmed by the swell of Hanib’s retinue. One ganger slammed the door shut, trapping a handful of his fellows outside, and barred the door.

Stanner groaned as Svanhildr pushed ream after ream of linen into the open gash along his midriff. “Bitch,” the man hissed.

“Watch your manners,” Svanhildr snapped without taking her eyes off the wound. The linen was already soaked red. He wouldn’t last long. No point wasting any more time on this one, she thought, best find one with a chance.

The cutting room of the butcher’s shop was no stranger to the scent of blood, but it had never been this heavy before. The usual earthy smell of animal carcasses was overpowered by the sweet, coppery scent of human plasma, mixed with the headiness of body odour and fear. Stepping back from the man in her care, she looked around for someone she could get back in the fight.

Two dozen men, all bleeding, some fatally, littered the butcher's shop. Many wounded were beyond help, but some could survive with bandaging and time. She was about to go over to a young man sitting in the corner, clutching a gash on his wrist that looked tenable even from a distance, but she froze halfway as she saw the three of the Reubke brothers stumbling down the stairs into the cutting room.

Is that a sword in his chest? Her eyes widened at the sight of Gerwald and Ekkehard carrying the paling Audomar. The clanging of metal joined the sound of their laboured breaths as the spear Audomar carried slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. “Gods,” she whispered as the severity of Audomar’s injuries dawned on her.

“Quickly, this way,” Svanhildr instructed the young boys, waving them to a table at the back of the room. A man lay upon it, already dead. Apologies, she thought as she pushed the corpse off the far edge, freeing the space for Audomar. “Put him down here.” The brothers did as they were told.

Svanhildr tried to roll Audomar into the least painful position she could, resting him on one side. Then, she inspected the wound. She saw the two brothers' horrified expressions from the corner of her eye. Gerwald, the younger, looked childlike, on the verge of tears. “Aren’t you two needed out there?” she demanded, diverting their attention from their brother.

“We barred the door,” Gerwald mumbled.

That isn’t good, she thought. Barring the door meant they’d given up the street. If they’d given up the street, the battle was lost. Soon, her home would be flooded with men of ill intent. She glanced at the eldest Reubke. Should she be wasting time on him right now? There were minutes at best, and she had a daughter and husband to tend to.

“Get your swords, boys,” Porfinn called to the wounded as he entered the room, marching toward Svanhildr and the Reubkes. A few injured brutes got to their feet and took up arms; others just panicked where they lay. “They’re breaking down the door,” the young warrior informed the three of them, “we’ve got half a dozen in the shop, but they won’t hold them long.”

“Forget about that,” Gerwald interjected, and he turned to Svanhildr. “Can you save my brother?” His voice was shaky and desperate. Svanhildr’s heart ached for the young lad. No one his age should see this, especially one who had already been through so much. She dropped her eyes to the floor, not wanting to witness the pain her words would cause.

“This wound is beyond me. The blade is straight through his ribcage. He’s lucky they missed the heart, but once I pull that thing out…”

“Can we get him to a healer?” Gerwald asked.

“I’m sorry, lad, but I don’t think anyone is getting anywhere,” Vedast’s baritone voice carried through the room. Svanhildr looked at her husband and smiled. His big, imposing presence always made her feel confident. He was a proper man. An old-fashioned man. A big bully with a heart of gold. She loved him, even if he was a fat old ugly fart. There were two more men with him: spindly Florentin, the last of the Reubke brothers, and the ever-dependable Alfa, who somehow managed to be uglier and more brutish than her husband.

“That door will be down in minutes, if that,” Florentin assessed as the three men joined those around Audomar’s table.

“I thought you’d fled,” Ekkehard groaned when he saw Florentin. His voice was croaked, and his eyes were glazed. “Why are you still here?”

“Where is our daughter?” Vedast asked Svanhildr, ignoring the two brothers’ exchange. She turned her focus to him.

“Gone,” she answered.

“Gone where?”

“Didn’t have time to talk about that. Over the fence, that’s all I know. She’ll be safe, safer than us anyway,” Svanhildr explained.

“Well, that’s some good news, at least,” Vedast replied.

Svanhildr looked at her husband for a long while. The sweat on his brow caused the fringe of his hair to clump and stick. His protruding belly rose and fell with each pant, and his broad arms were taut from using the repeating crossbow resting in them. She wished the two of them would one day have the chance to reunite with their daughter again, but they weren’t runners, and that wasn’t going to happen. Pyra was an intelligent girl. She would be alright.

When Vedast caught her staring and returned the look, she knew they both understood they would die defending this house. I love you, she thought, but knew there was no need to voice the words.

Their longing exchange was interrupted when Ekkehard muttered a name. “Cnut.”

“What?” Vedast asked, the only other person seeming to have heard him.

“Cnut,” Ekkehard repeated. “He stood up for us. He wasn’t in the fight. I’m sure I didn’t see any purple cloaks out there. He must have fled. If we can find him, maybe he can get us out of the city.”

“How are we to find him, though?” Florentin asked, his voice surprisingly calm and neutral given the circumstances. He always was an odd one, Svanhildr thought.

“He will be out there,” Ekkehard replied, pleading more than explaining. “There are axes around here. We can cut a hole in the fence and carry Audomar. We can find him a healer in one of the towns.”

“Audomar is dead, Ekkehard,” Florentin replied.

“No, if we get him out of the city, we can find a proper healer. They can treat his wounds, and we can just run again,” Ekkehard argued.

“No, brother,” Florentin said softly, “Audomar is already dead.”

Ekkehard froze, and Svanhildr’s heart went out to him. He slowly turned to look upon Audomar's body. He was silent, tears running down his face. His body twitched and spasmed as if muted sobs racked him.

“He’s right,” Vedast said when it became clear Ekkehard had nothing left to say. “If you get over the fence, maybe you can find Cnut; maybe you can get away.”

“We can try,” Florentin said with a shrug.

“Alright,” Vedast said, “you’d best get going. Svanhildr, give them the packs you put together for us.” She nodded to her husband and grabbed the two sacks of supplies she had stored in the corner of the room, offering one to Gerwald and the other to Florentin.

“You’re not coming with us?” Gerwald asked. The boy sounded genuinely sad, and that touched Svanhildr. She had never been entirely happy to have so many young men living under her roof, but Gerwald had always been sweet. I wish you the best, she thought of him.

“This is our house,” Svanhildr replied for her husband. “We’ll not be driven from it.” Her tone brooked no disagreement, stern enough that Gerwald appeared to have no inclination to argue.

“Thank you, Vedast,” Florentin said, extending a hand. The butcher grasped his forearm and gave it a firm shake. “For everything you did for us and for me.”

“It was a pleasure working with you, boy,” Vedast replied. “You’re a smart one. I’m sure you’ll make it out alive.” There was a banging, followed by the splintering shatter of wood. Hanib and his men had broken in. “Get going now,” Vedast commanded as he made his way to the back of the cutting room, flipped the armoury table onto its side, and took position behind it. “Porfinn, Alfa,” Vedast addressed his most capable men, “go with them over the fence, find my daughter, keep her safe.”

“Porfinn is sufficiently capable of finding your daughter,” Alfa argued. “My place is here.”

“Suit yourself, old friend,” Vedast said. “But don’t say I didn’t give you an out. Now, you lot, get going!” Vedast barked.

The Reubkes didn’t witness the last stand of the peculiar palimpsest house tucked away in the back streets of the Merchant Sector in the city of Werth. They didn’t see how, as Hanib’s men burst through the shop door, they cut down the gangers waiting in the dimly lit storefront. Nor did they see how, as the first of those men tripped down the unexpected flight of stairs, flooding into the cutting room, stumbling as they went.

They didn’t see how fourteen men died as a continuous stream of crossbow bolts, one fired every six seconds or so, struck them with deadly force. They didn’t see the half-dozen gang members defending that last bastion cut down twice their number. Nor the rage of Alfa, after a thrown spear struck Vedast’s shoulder, who bludgeoned three men to death with a cudgel before meeting his end.

They didn’t see the lady of the house take a hatchet from the rack and grab the man she thought was her husband’s murderer by the scruff of the hair, how she banged the man’s head against a wooden table and hacked it off in a series of savage swings to the neck. They didn’t see how five spear thrusts were needed to restrain her furious onslaught.

They didn’t see how, in the aftermath of the fight, one of Hanib’s men made the mistake of checking if Vedast was still breathing, only to have a dagger planted into his temple. They didn’t see the final execution of the butcher, carried out at point-blank range with the very repeater crossbow he had used to hold his foes at bay.

Ekkehard and his brothers didn’t get to see the last stand of the man and lady of the strange palimpsest house hidden in the back streets of the Merchant Sector. But those who did would have nightmares about it for the rest of their lives.

His brothers led Ekkehard over the fence and through the city streets. He was deaf to the chaos around him. News of what had happened was spreading, and many were disgusted. The lower classes began to riot, and that riot shrouded the Reubke brothers' escape.

When Florentin spotted Cnut leading a detachment of city guards trying to restore order, he caught the man’s attention. Cnut led them from the city as they hoped, ordering the east gate open. The two younger Reubke brothers, lacking direction, a plan, or any acknowledgement from Ekkehard, headed towards the Hastfala Forest at the base of the Udine Mountains.

All the while, Ekkehard found himself confined within his mind, his world one of endless torment. As he stalked the hallways of a burning manor, he fled from one horror to another until, at last, he tripped.