Byrthiri

Almost all of the villagers of the town left shortly after that, though some only at the insistence of their families. Within a week, the only people left in Haugra were those who, by some fate or another, had weaponry or armor or both.

My mother spent a few days consoling the family of the woman who had been slain in front of her home, leaving our household for most of the day each day to help take care of the four young children that had been left motherless by her death. After those few days—during which my father and I greatly felt her absence, from just after dawn until just before dusk—my mother and sister left with that family to go into the south.

After the night of the fires, my father decided to let me stay and learn to fight. At first I almost felt that I shouldn’t—that I didn’t deserve to, after failing to show the valor I felt had been expected of me. I had been useless during the battle, and the carnage—though I knew it was nothing compared to what I would see when the full scale of the raid reached Haugra—had been difficult for me to stomach. I was no warrior, and I knew it, and my father knew it too. But he admired my courage and persistence, and decided that, with the help of our neighbors who had some knowledge of battle, he would help me train, to learn to fight like a real warrior.

There were only twenty-three people left in the village, all men, of whom I was the youngest. The next in age closest to me was nearly seventeen years old—two and a half years older than I. This did not escape my father’s notice; he made sure I trained harder than anyone else, for long hours, each and every day, so that I was ready to stand alongside even the most experienced in battle.

Of course, I knew I my skills could never rival theirs. But my father made sure that, when the largest group of invaders came, I would be ready and able to defend Haugra.

It took longer than we had expected for the rest of the invaders to come. We thought they would be there in a week; it was nearly three. I remember the sense of unbearable anticipation. Every night I would lie in bed wondering whether I would be awoken to find my home engulfed in flames. I kept seeing the fires in my sleep: Demons’ claws grappling with each other between earth and smoke and sky.

The night before the next round of raids came upon Haugra, however, I did not dream of fire, as one would expect; I did not see the flames or the Dragon-Folk’s crazed eyes as a warning of what was to come at sunrise.

I dreamed instead of my mother. In my dreams I was young again—five years old, the same age Alani was in reality then—and I was in my mother’s arms, but we were not in the house I had grown up in. We were on a ship, all alone, in the middle of the night, surrounded by an eternity of water in all directions. The vastness was enough to be terrifying, but I felt an odd calm wash over me. I could smell the salt of the sea, and I could feel the gentle swaying of the ship, and I could see the swirls of the countless stars above me. Above all, I could feel my mother’s warmth as she held me to her bosom, softly murmuring into my ear. Her smell mingled with the salt and her skin was so soft and I felt like nothing else in the world existed, and with the comfort of the emptiness around us, for all I knew nothing else did exist.

I woke up feeling confused that the rocking motion had stopped. Then my senses filtered in the external world little by little—the stillness and silence became distant, muffled screams; the complete darkness broken only by pinpricks of starlight became an unnatural red glow; my mother’s scent mingled with the smell of salt became the nauseating odor of charred flesh.

My father awoke at the same time I did. We had both taken to sleeping in the main room of our house, on straw mats like we had once made for travelers from the north, with our weaponry set aside nearby so that we could be ready at a moment’s notice.

I pulled myself together for battle as quickly as I could. Before I even had my sword in hand I was shaking with fear.

When my father and I got outside, many of our comrades had already begun the battle; the carnage had begun. More of Haugra’s warriors filtered out into the streets, but it quickly became apparent that we were outnumbered almost two to one. And, for the most part, the enemy were more skilled. The first small pack of raiders to come to Haugra were weak and unprepared; they had been foolish enough to go ahead of the rest, and their foolishness had carried over into battle. This fresh round of invaders was like a giant pack of wolves. They were here for the kill.

There were already a dozen bodies on the ground. I was afraid to pay much attention at first, but I steeled myself and took in a quick assessment of the carnage. I was pleasantly surprised to find that eight of them were of the enemy. I didn’t check to see who the bodies of my own neighbors were. I knew that if I recognized one of the slain as someone I cared for, I would lose all courage and willpower to fight.

I knew the battle was already going on without me on the edge of town. My father was rushing in that direction, and beckoned me to follow, so I did.

It seemed like the western half of the village was entirely engulfed in flames. I was choking on smoke, but I charged forward into the melee of clashing weapons.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a pair of long shadows slipping around behind one of the houses. I stopped short mid-charge and crept around the other side of the building. I intended to catch the two men at whatever destruction they were about to attempt to cause unnoticed, but I heard a rustling behind me. I turned around just in time block a swinging sword aimed at my poorly guarded neck. With agility and adeptness I hadn’t realized I had possessed, I locked my sword against his, swung it with such force that he lost his grip on his sword, and slit his throat, all in one swift motion.

I was relieved to find that my training with the villagers had been helpful, but I couldn’t suppress feelings of disgust at myself for having killed a man. I knew it needed to be done, that my actions had been just—even necessary—but nonetheless I felt as though I could never be forgiven, by myself or by any God that may exist.

Still, I knew that it would not be the last time.

I silently crept along behind the buildings until I found the two men whose shadows I had seen moments before. They each held torches, casting an eerie light over their faces. I followed them, as silently as I could. Neither of them, surprisingly, was wearing much armor; they must have been there specifically for the purpose of burning the village to the ground. The way they were creeping about, trying to avoid being detected, I supposed that their intention was to stay out of the fray of battle, merely causing as much destruction to the town as possible in the background of the fight.

I followed them as carefully and cautiously as I could in between a few of the houses that were already aflame, choking on the smoke all the while—no matter how hard I tried to stay low to the ground, the smoke crawled down my throat. The smoke also provided cover for me, but it made it harder to pursue my adversaries. I had to stay closer to them than was comfortable. I wasn’t sure yet what I hoped to accomplish by following them—I knew I wasn’t adept enough in battle to take on two opponents at once—and I tried not to think about what would happen to me should they notice me before I figured out a plan of action.

After a time, I was blessed with a stroke of luck—the two men I was pursuing separated. I knew that I could handle fighting them one at a time. I followed the shorter of the two, creeping closer with every step, thankful that he remained oblivious all the while. I was mere feet from him now. I watched him lower the torch to the base of a wooden building. I took a couple more steps toward him. Just before the flame of the torch touched the wood, I wrapped my arm over his shoulder, pinning him to me, and, with a deft motion, slit his unprotected throat, letting him crumple at my feet afterwards.

I didn’t feel the same guilt that time. I wondered if all of this would, in the end, turn me into a cold-blooded murderer incapable of guilt. After killing two men—two men out of the dozens that were destroying my home, I reminded myself—I already was becoming numb to the idea of causing death.

The crackle of fire and the nauseating smoke was beginning to drown out all of my senses. I knew that I had to get out of the maze of flames quickly, but I couldn’t leave another attacker free to do his worst. I knew he couldn’t be far.

Physical illness began to overcome my ability for stealth, so I didn’t try to be silent. Let him find me, I thought; the outcome will be the same either way—we will fight, and one will get the better of the other, and if it is he that comes out the victor, no one can say I didn’t play my part.

My armor made me louder than I would otherwise have been, and he found me first. It was he who had gone undetected this time. By the time I noticed him, he was already raising his arm to attack. But he was armed only with a torch and a short sword. He swung his sword, but clumsily. It was obvious that, though he had succeeded in staying quiet, he lacked the coordination to do much else of use—he was visibly drunk. I could have detected him by smelling the alcohol on him if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by smoke.

I overpowered him easily, grappling with him only momentarily—he was strong, but his movements were anything but agile—before forcing my own blade up to the hilt through his stomach.

I felt nothing that time. The only thing I remember thinking or feeling was that I wondered whether his accomplice had been as badly inebriated as he. But it was a fleeting thought; I had done what I had set out to do. Three more Utlagi invaders were dead by my hand, but there were several more, and my people were still outnumbered. How many had there been? Forty, I would have guessed. How many more had died?

Was my father even still alive? I dreaded the thought. But I knew my priority couldn’t be answering that question. Not yet.

As I made my way back to where the battle had begun, trying to clear my head of the smoke, I tried to think about the possible outcomes to which I would return. I couldn’t help but notice a silence that had not existed before.

There had been about forty Utlagi raiders, and twenty-three Haugra defenders. I knew that four of my people had been killed already, as had eight of the Dragon-Folk. Was it possible that the nineteen remaining Haugra warriors could have killed the roughly thirty Utlagi enemies in the time it took me to kill those three invaders?

They had. I returned to see only a dozen men remaining, standing before a newly risen sun whose light was diffused by fire and smoke. Almost half of them, then, had been killed. And where was my father? Immediately I felt as though my insides had been carved out and replaced with bricks. I couldn’t move.

I merely looked around at the dozen somber faces before me. We should have been cheering with the victory of having destroyed almost twice our number of enemies. We should have had cause for celebration and rejoicing. But the village we all had loved was burning around us now, and every man there had lost a friend, father, son, or brother. We knew that we had not truly won.

I waited for one of the men to suggest the next course of action. The fires were still burning, but was there any use in putting them out now?

I looked around at the fires, and tried to summon my voice to call the men to help put out the fires. It was true that the only good it would do now was to save the corpses from further desecration.

But I thought my father deserved at least that much.