—Cries, moans, screaming and shouting, steel slashing against steel—

Mira could hear other, more offensive noises as well: there was the roaring and growling of animals coming from the throats of men. There was a laugh—a deep, evil cackle in the midst of it all. And at least one man was barking like a hunting dog; the sound turned her stomach so quickly she thought she was to vomit. Someone else was howling like a wolf when the moon was full, and neither her mind nor her heart could comprehend what would compel men to make such vile sounds.

The sound of something metal clattering against stone shook Mira out of her stupor, and she ran to the gallery door, closed it, and sought to bar it, but the door only locked from the outside. Her stomach twisted within her as she debated running downstairs to another room. Before she decided, Dayne appeared in the hall.

He was not at all his usual self; his voice was full of command. “Stay here. Be silent.”

He closed the door, and Mira heard the lock shift and settle within the wood. She heard the door creak as he pulled at the handle, proving to himself it was secure, and then his footsteps—quick and certain—as he ran down the steps.

She kept silent as he ordered but moved around, blowing out any of the candles that were still lit so the room would appear empty from the outside. She was on the third floor of the castle. The invading men would be killed before they reached her.

But if they aren’t…

No.

Stop.

Just look back out the window, she urged herself. Look back outside. The fighting is probably nearly over.

When Mira peered out into the darkness, the struggle seemed far from over. There were furry shadows in the courtyard, slamming themselves against the gate from the inside, snarling like manticores. Light spread across the scene as the stables went up in flame, and horrid screech-neighing made her chest burn.

A shadow dropped from atop the gate into the courtyard, revealing a shirtless man, his skin orange from the reflection of the raging fire beside him; a shrill hooting sound coming from the big black hole that was his mouth. He sounded like an owl—an evil, deranged owl—and then he killed three men in moments.

Mira had never seen men fight for real; it was quicker than she expected. One man died, and the living moved on to the next—almost no time for reaction at all.

Some men dropped to the ground for seemingly no reason; it took a moment for Mira to realize they’d been struck by arrows. She could not understand where the men were coming from or how they were getting inside the walls. The door of the sanctuary was kicked in, and the maids inside shrieked. As the great flame spread to the blacksmith’s workshop, Mira forced herself to look away.

I don’t want to see any more. I can’t.

But what could she do? Her stomach was tumbling.

Sit and wait. It will all be over soon.

Sitting in the darkened gallery was no better than watching. Without a visual to distract her mind, she began to imagine the worst; Dayne running out to join in the fight, her father drawing a sword in the face of a basilisk. (She had become certain there was a basilisk for what else could explain the blood-curdling screeching sounds?)

No. This will not do.

Mira stood and paced around. This also did not help.

She could hear them down on the ground, the clanking of steel on steel, the cries of pain. Men were roaring with… was it desire? Their sounds horrified her; she hated them, not just those attacking, but her father’s men as well. She tried to imagine the sounds were coming from the painting, not from real people, but it offered no solace. It will all be over soon.

It sounded like they were slamming into the barred door of the keep two floors below, or maybe she was only imagining this; maybe another fit was coming on, and that’s why it seemed like the noise was getting closer. Her father’s men were shouting from within the keep, that much was certain. There was the great clamour of armoured men rushing, and then: bang.

Thud.

Thump.

Crunch.

The crunch echoed through the halls beneath her feet, and men were yelling, and there were women screaming too. Things were being knocked about and thrown in the rooms below the gallery.

Mira moved to the north side of the room when the chaos was happening below to the south, to the west side when the terror was below and to the east. It was foolish in a sense, to run like that, only she did not want people dying beneath her feet.

Of course, the moment she heard footfalls on the stairs moving between the second floor and the third, all thought of the people being slaughtered in the rooms below left her mind. There was space in her head for only herself. Mira felt like someone was walking up towards where she was, and then she couldn’t be sure, for it grew quiet in the stairwell. She thought she heard a soft step but doubted her ears and wondered if she was going mad. And then there was no doubt at all: quick light steps. She froze. There were feet very close to her, just outside the gallery door.

Something was set against the door, pressing into it, causing the wood to groan. There was a clangour as the handle was shimmied. Bang. Mira jumped, and for no good reason, she shut her eyes.

Thud.

She clasped her hands together above her heart. Have mercy, please, I beg you, mercy…. She didn’t know which god she was praying to; all of them, probably—any that would listen.

Thump.

Mira found a decent place to hide herself—behind the sculpture of Holy Farryn, the famed witch hunter—nearly forgetting her harp at first. Whoever was on the other side of the door might be led to think someone was in the gallery if it was left out. She grabbed it and curled up, as small as she could behind Farryn, pressing herself into the wall so hard it hurt. From the doorway, no one would be able to see her. But she knew that if someone were to walk the length of the gallery and turn around, she would be easy to spot. She held her harp tightly against her chest, closed her eyes, and waited.

Crack.

A scuffle.

A muddled-drag like leather being pulled across stone.

A scrape-clink, and then whatever was left of the door creaked as it opened.

Mira didn’t make a sound. Even her breath was silent. She could hear that it was a lone person, moving slow and breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight. And though she didn’t want to, she opened her eyes.

There was a man facing away from her: larger than even Gaewen the blacksmith. The man was without a tunic, his back painted red with blood splatters. There was also something else on his back—a bluish pattern that mixed in with the shiny blood. He stopped to observe her favourite painting, tilting his head to the side as he stared at it.

Mira wondered if she should run to the door while the man was turned away. Perhaps he would not notice her quickly enough to stop her. But if he did… he was likely faster than she was. She stayed in hiding.

He held an axe in one hand, his arm loose and relaxed. He lifted the other up to the painting and touched it, scratching at the colour and looking at what came off on his fingers. He smelled the paint chips as if he were a dog and then touched them to his tongue.

The invader perked up suddenly, his back straightening, his grip on the axe tightening. He turned and looked straight at her.

Mira’s heart beat fast and strong against her ribs; her blood rushed about wildly within her as if the liquid knew it was to be spilled at any moment and was trying to prepare itself.

The giant stood puzzled, watching her for a moment—the longest moment Mira had ever encountered. Her fear felt like wooden planks placed on either side of her head, pressing inward and squishing her mind into nothingness.

He came towards her slowly, and though she thought to run, her muscles had locked in terror, and she could not. She was not even able to blink; her eyes were pried wide open with dread, silent tears burning her cheeks.

He crouched in front of her, draping his axe lazily across his knees and tilted his head again, just as he had when he looked at the painting. Mira’s eyes focused on only one thing: within the tangle of his white-blond beard, there were knots of pink—the blood of her father’s men—sinister pink elderflowers growing from a white bush.

He wrenched the harp out of her grip and turned the thing around in his hands, lifting it to his face so he could sniff it and bite into the wood of its frame. He hit the strings by accident and jumped a little, laughing and exclaiming awe in a throaty babble of foreign words. He dragged a knuckle across the instrument, slowly at first but then quickly several times more.

He grunted and offered the harp back.

Mira didn’t understand.

He grunted again, more aggressively this time; still, she did not know his meaning. The man reached for one of her hands, and she tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to pull to: she was tucked into the corner of the wall and the sculpture. He took hold of her three middle fingers, his palm coarse and sticky with blood, and pulled her hand towards him, setting her fingers on the harp.

He wants me to play?

Mira was confused by this but so frightened of the man that she did as she was bid. She took the harp from him with shaky fingers, worrying that she couldn’t manage what he was asking on account of how badly she was trembling. This was not the case. She was so afraid of upsetting the giant that she played exceptionally well, maybe even better than ever before. Tears of the Mander. A song about young lovers, unaware of the tragedy awaiting them. A sad song, but Mira’s favourite. As she played, he moved a little away from her, lounging back and watching.

Before the song was finished, the giant’s head jerked away, and his axe sprang up. Mira’s fingers stumbled on the strings and then stopped, unable to carry on. Another man entered the room and the pink-bearded one settled. The new man was holding a shield and, immediately, Mira recognized the short rounded shape.

Northmen.

Northmen had never come so far west before. Once again, her heart raced. She’d heard that Northmen ate the bodies of those they killed; raw, the way wolves and bears and gyrfalcons took their meat.

The new man walked closer and saw Mira tucked in between Holy Farryn and the wall. He knelt to see her better, slapped his pink-bearded comrade on the shoulder, and laughed. The newcomer smiled at her—a frantic widening of a mouth that was far too big for his face. This terrifying gesture, coupled with the way he was panting, made him appear mad. His teeth were white and shiny, and each one was sharp like a spear, not square the way people’s teeth ought to be. He licked his pointed fangs, and Mira grew woozy, her head only staying upright because of the wall behind her.

The pink-bearded one elbowed the spear-toothed one in the stomach, snickering and uttering gargled words in the back of his throat. The toothy one giggled and wandered away, his legs moving with leisure, his arms swinging about in such a way that Mira couldn’t help but wonder if the man was drunk.

The man with the sharp teeth stopped to admire a small stone sculpture of a woman with a babe on her breast. He lifted the carving in one hand and then ripped down a tapestry with his other. He took the sculpture and the tapestry and left.

Mira’s chest caved in on itself; we’ve lost. A man would not risk being unable to defend himself by carrying so much unless the fight was over. Mira hoped she was wrong, that the spear-toothed man was drunk enough to be stupid, but as soon as the thought passed through her mind, she knew it to be foolish—the halls had grown quieter, only she hadn’t noticed it until then.

The pink-bearded man crept closer, and Mira’s eyes fixed on the wet axe still hanging loose in his hand. She wanted to beg, but she was afraid of annoying him, and also, she could not be sure her voice would work. It felt like there was a large acorn wedged into her throat.

He gripped her chin with his free hand and gently tugged, trying to bring her to her feet. In fear, she did not think of resisting. When they were both standing, his beard hung just in front of her nose. With each breath she took, tufts of bloody hair lifted and reached for her lips: a mane full of red globs that dripped pink, like berries dropped in snow.

She kept her eyes down and away from him, but he grunted and pushed her chin further up, forcing her to see his face in detail. Wintery blue eyes surrounded by red and black and brown; blood and dirt and something else… ink maybe? He whispered more jugular words, pointing at the door as he spoke, and then he smiled as if the whole attack had been a jest. He took her harp and strolled out of the gallery leisurely, humming Tears of the Mander.

Mira stood with her back pressed against the cool stones behind her, dizzy with relief. Her respite did not last long, for the sharp-toothed man returned. The items he’d stolen were no longer in his hands, but his palms did not stay empty for long. He laughed when he saw her and pointed at the door.

He gestured with both of his thick forearms, seemingly trying to encourage Mira to walk through the door. When she didn’t move, his brow furrowed, and he came closer, taking hold of Mira’s wrist. She pulled back instinctively, though it made no difference—his hand kept steady. She cried.

Please.

The sharp-toothed man made a few whispery noises (seemingly trying to calm her, but this only added to her fear and confusion), and then he lifted her up over his shoulder as if she was nothing, carrying her down both flights of stairs and out into the courtyard, past the mushy bodies with skin turned grey by the moonlight, past the cursing and gagging and wet-choking noises.

He’s taking me away, she realized as the cold night air cleared her mind. She pounded on his back with her fists and kicked him as hard as she could, but his grip never lessened.

The fight persisted on some of the ramparts, but most of the Northmen had filled their arms with whatever they could carry and were heading out the open gates to where their horses waited for them.

Northmen don’t ride. Mira could see that was no longer true, or maybe it never had been. She cried out, hoping some of her father’s men would hear and come help her.

No one came.

The spear-toothed Northman slung her over his horse like a hunted deer.

Her home got smaller and smaller. And then it was gone.