Blood And Stone

Chapter 50: Bäckahäst and Ulfheðnar

Whispers of steel on flesh caressed the empty streets of Sitharu. Eryn's blue eyes surveyed the rooftops, barely catching sight of the Diviners hidden there. He caught sight of his sister Xenya and studied the way she sat, listening to the same sounds of chaos as him. On the other side of the hedge wall that surrounded the city, their other sister was yelling. Her words were unrecognizable but her voice carried on the wind, so commanding that Eryn twitched with the instinct to follow her orders.

Both siblings longed to move from their positions and join Raven. The battle that raged on sent shivers down their spines. The scent of blood wafted along, clinging to every snowflake that fell. The sense of dread that followed, pressed down on their shoulders. Eryn shook before straightening himself and inching toward the hedge before him. His pale hand reached out and pushed the vegetation aside to allow himself to look through.

He could not make out individual bodies. All he could see was a pulsating black mass among the trees where the battle was taking place. Arrows rained down from the trees, laying enemies flat in the snow. There was no sound of steel on steel, just soft squelching sounds of wounds being drawn on flesh. His stomach turned and his heart stuttered at the sight. Right in front of his eyes, his fellow Peace-loving kin were being slaughtered. Every one of them broke their vow to be non-violent as they were cut down. The thought made Eryn's eyes burn with tears.

Thoughts clashed inside his mind. He couldn't help but think that this battle was not theirs to fight but a battle the Winged Council should have taken on their own. The mad sorcerer was after Peace, after all. Not the Sithaurian people. If they just handed her over, maybe the violence would end and they could save themselves. But that was selfish, another thing that the Sithaurian race had never been. Eryn shook his head in an attempt to clear these thoughts. Whether the fight had been theirs or not to begin with was irrelevant. It was their fight now. With each Sithaurian that lost their lives, he felt his anger growing. He allowed it to grow as it should but carefully monitored himself, making sure he did not slip into bloodlust.

His eyes rose as a Winged shadow flew overhead. With one spin, War indicated that the archers were beginning a retreat. Eryn pressed himself against the hedge again. Small bodies jumped and turned in the air, releasing their arrows back toward the enemy. The enemy was now facing the opposite direction. Raven must have flanked them somehow and pulled their attention away from the archers. Clever little Trickster, she was.

He pulled away from the hedge and stepped back into line. He was not one to fight, none of them were, but he took his place now. He freed his sword and pulled his shield up in front of him, just below his chin. With a loud metallic sound, the rest of the swordsmen drew theirs. They heated their shields against their chests and let out a determined grunt. They were as ready as they would ever be.

Trees creaked as the weight of the archers landed on tired branches. Screams of fear and pain pushed through the wall, licking at the hearts of those preparing to fight. Eryn could sense the tension rising around them. This was it. No more practices, no more sparring. This was battle.

A low, hollow rumble bubbled up into the quiet streets of the city. Eryn turned on his heel, looking behind the line of swordsmen. The sound seemed distant but echoed out into the night so intensely that it felt as though it were in his ear. The entire line turned back to look toward the sound. It was as though a hoard of ghosts were parading through the empty pathways, unseen but heard quite clearly.

The splash of water made Eryn furrow his brow. He looked up at Xenya who was frowning in the direction of a well. Several stone wells sat around the city, making certain that every Sithaurian had water within comfortable walking distance of their homes. No one had to carry heavy buckets for miles. Even the elderly had wells close with younger citizens who would lug the water for them. Each well sank low into the ground and gave way to fresh, naturally cold water.