Morgyn sat on the edge of the bed’s straw mattress, undoing the buttons of her faded gray blouse one-by-one. The mattress had been made for a person larger than her, though she didn’t really remember her betrothed. He was just an old memory, every bit as faded as her blouse, and she wasn’t sure what she’d say if he came home again. He was more like an older brother she’d never truly known, now.

She could hear Waltyr snoring from up in the loft, where he usually slept with their father. They had all shared the loft, years prior, where the warm air from the stove rose, but, when she’d begun to bloom, her father had decreed she’d have her own bed beside the iron stove. Duncan had been long gone by then, and her mother had died not long after giving them Waltyr.

Sometimes, it was lonely.

She was pulling her blouse off, when the door to the house opened. She glanced up, expecting to see her father’s tall frame, musket cradled in his arms. Instead, she saw a bizarrely dressed man, a naked sword in his hand and a bright-colored sash at his waist. His eyes blinked at the glare from the opened stove and candle, before they fixed on her, reflecting back the flickering lights.

The beginning of panic reached down her throat, threatening to choke her for a moment. The man stared at her, an expression on his face she’d never seen so nakedly; like she was something to be used. She stumbled back away from the mattress, feeling the heat of the stove behind her.

There were a pair of thunderclap explosions, muffled by distance, from down the draw, and Morgyn flinched at the sound. They were so close together they almost sounded like one. The Man of the Moon just grinned at her, his pale face split by broken, dirty teeth. He said something, but it was neither in the Triant or the old Hrafnstungan the High Ravens still spoke. The meaning, though, was clear enough as he began moving toward her.

Panic welled at the back of her throat, choking off breath and thought. The heat from the stove behind her made her turn, though, and grab the kettle. He made to grab her arm with his free hand, the sword still there as a threat, and she spun about, the kettle sloshing water as it arced around. 

The look of lust that had been in his eyes was replaced by horror, as the pain registered. Water that had been near boiling made him jump back with a scream, and he slashed out with his sword in a blind rage, catching nothing but the kettle, which rang like a temple’s bell.

Morgyn swung the kettle again, this time empty, feeling the jolt and shock in her wrists as it connected with the pagan’s head. He stumbled back, one side of his face a burned, bleeding mess, and swung his blade once more

Something burned hotter than fire, and Morgyn cried out in a pained shriek, dropping the kettle and clutching at her breast, where the fabric of her undergown was soaking red with blood. The Man of the Moon bellowed something in his own language, and moved toward her, his blade up and murder in his eyes.

Backing away again, every breath bringing searing pain in her breast, Morgyn hit the stove, crying out again in surprise as the metal burned her through her skirt. The new pain brought a clarity she had never known, as a feeling of coldness gripped her. Fear and desperation. The heels of her bare feet found the wall a moment before her back did, and the choking panic returned. Her eyes darted side-to-side, trying to find anything—

There was a gurgling noise, and the pagan slipped to the floor, drowning on his own blood. Waltyr stood in his nightgown, their father’s gifttand in his hand, covered with blood. The short sword did not waver, even as Waltyr stared at it in fascination and horror.

Morgyn let out a choked sob, wanting to collapse against the firm wall, but knowing she couldn’t yet.

Still bleeding, she grabbed her blouse from where it had been discarded on the bed, hurriedly pulling it on and trying to ignore the pain that lanced from her breast. She’d cut herself many times, working around the house, but nothing like this; the pain made her feel queasy. She buttoned the blouse tightly, and cried out from the pressure on her wound. It needed to be tight, though.

Waltyr was staring at the dying man now as he was twisting in death throes. There was a strange look on his face. “Where’s Pa?” he asked, his voice struggling to make the words heard, but only for how quiet they were. “Is he—?”

“He won’t have been alone,” Morygn said of the dead pagan, her voice quavering, though there was still strength in her words. “Where’s the pistol?”

Waltyr looked at her. “Others? Where’s Pa?” he repeated.

“Where’s the pistol, Waltyr?” Morgyn demanded, wanting to scream at him, but holding it down. The expression in his eyes was strange; like . . . their father, sometimes. When he talked about the stridsefttand.

The boy blinked, clearly thinking. “With Pa’s kit,” he said.

Morgyn rushed to where their father’s work kit was piled in a corner, stumbling around the dead Man of the Moon. The old, heavy cavalry pistol was charged, and felt as heavy as a set of horseshoes to her.

“I’m going to find Pa,” Waltyr said simply, starting toward the door.

“No!” Morgyn said, her voice sharp from the pain in her breast, making Waltyr glare at her, though her tone cut through his daze. For a moment, the stridsefttand lost its hold, and he was just her younger brother, rebellious at the notion of taking an order from a girl. “We’ll go together,” she amended.

Outside, the air was cool, and Morgyn felt cold even before she stepped outside. The night was quiet; unnaturally so. No nighthawks hunted in the dark, and all was deathly quiet after the twin thunderclaps.

Tentatively, they made their way down the path that led to the well. The cavalry pistol gripped tightly in Morgyn’s hand, while Waltyr held their father’s bloody gifttand. She wondered if he even knew he held it.

Something was moving up the draw, clawing its way along with ragged gasps, and she cried out softly when she saw it was their father. The front of his shirt was covered in blood, and she stared at him when he looked up and saw them.

His eyes were dark with fury and the stridsefttand, though the look faded as he saw his children alive. The pain left his expression bound into knots, as he sweated and strained against burning pain, and queasiness. For only a moment, Morgyn wondered how she looked to him.

He collapsed against them, once they reached each other, and Morgyn felt the cut flare as her father leaned heavily against her. His musket fell to the ground, but Waltyr reached down to pick it up.

As she held him, she could hear the rasping of her father’s breathing. She could hear how there was a separate sucking sound from his chest, whenever he breathed.

All three made their way up the draw, using the light from their home to guide their way. But, they’d only taken a handful of steps into the light, when a half-dozen other men stepped out of their home. Some wore loose tunics, others Roser-style shirts, but all wore bright, multi-colored sashes at their waists. Swords were buckled there too, and some carried muskets, while others carried spears.

They had their arms full of what little treasures had been in the house. One reiver carried an armful of undyed cloth that had been meant for Morgyn’s wedding dress, while another laughingly wrapped a faded Pental battle banner around his waist, like another sash.

All of the People stopped for a moment, as they saw the three Ravens; the man, the girl, and the boy.

Morgyn could still hear her father’s breathing, and felt the terror rise up in her throat again. Before it could reach too far, though, her father straightened from his children. “Do you know where Prain Bay is?” he asked, his voice cracking from the pain and hole in his lung. He reached down and took the musket from Waltyr.

“Yes,” Morgyn answered, before Waltyr could.

“Dyn’s on the road to there. He’ll help you. More than the men at Calilis’ Hall.” Using his musket for support, he stepped away from them, toward the People of the Moon. “Go.”

Morgyn snatched Waltyr’s hand and ran.

Her brother shouted for her to stop. “Let me go back!” he cried, the coldness of the stridsefttand in his voice. He jerked at her, pulling her off-balance, and she slapped him hard, making him flinch in surprise from the painful sting. The stridsefttand was gone, just as quickly as it had come.

She threw a glance over her shoulder, before they vanished from sight of their home, and saw the People in a circle around their father. He was using his musket like a club, and caught one of the People with the butt. Their laughter died down, and one pointed a musket at him.

Morgyn looked away, back toward the direction they were running. Brush snapped at them, catching their clothes as they ran down the draw, following a dry creek bed. Behind them, there was the thunder of a musket. Then another, as someone blew a horn.

THE END OF PART ONE