“I—” Albriech stopped with a grimace and felt his jaw. “I went scouting with Darmmen. The Ra’zac have posted soldiers on several hills. They can see across the Anora and up and down the valley. One or two of us might,might, be able to creep past them without notice, but we’ll never get the children to Cawley without killing the soldiers, and then we might as well tell the Ra’zac where we’re going.”

Dread clutched at Roran, flooding like poison through his heart and veins.What can I do? Sick with a sense of impending doom, he put an arm around Albriech’s shoulders. “Come on; Gertrude should have a look at you.”

“No,” said Albriech, shrugging him off. “She has more pressing cases than me.” He took a preparatory breath—as if he were about to dive into a lake—and lumbered off through the downpour in the direction of the forge.

Roran watched him go, then shook his head and went inside. He found Elain sitting on the floor with a row of children, sharpening a pile of spearheads with files and whetstones. Roran gestured to Elain. Once they were in another room, he told her what had just occurred.

Elain swore harshly—startling him, for he had never heard her use such language—then asked, “Is there cause for Thane to declare a feud?”

“Possibly,” admitted Roran. “They both insulted each other, but Albriech’s oaths were the strongest. . . . However, Thane did strike first. You could declare a feud yourself.”

“Nonsense,” asserted Elain, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “This is a dispute for arbitrators to resolve. If we must pay a fine, so be it, as long as bloodshed is avoided.” She headed out the front door, a finished spear in hand.

Troubled, Roran located bread and meat in the kitchen, then helped the children sharpen spearheads. Once Felda, one of the mothers, arrived, Roran left the children in her care and slogged back through Carvahall to the main road.

As he squatted in the mud, a shaft of sunlight burst underneath the clouds and illuminated the folds of rain so each drop flashed with crystalline fire. Roran stared, awestruck, ignoring the water streaming down his face. The rift in the clouds widened until a shelf of massive thunderheads hung over the western three-quarters of Palancar Valley, facing a strip of pure blue sky. Because of the billowy roof above and the angle of the sun, the rain-drenched landscape was lit brilliantly on one side and painted with rich shadows on the other, giving the fields, bushes, trees, river, and mountains the most extraordinary colors. It was as if the entire world had been transformed into a sculpture of burnished metal.

Just then, movement caught Roran’s eye, and he looked down to see a soldier standing on the road, his mail shining like ice. The man gaped with amazement at Carvahall’s new fortifications, then turned and fled back into the golden mist.

“Soldiers!” shouted Roran, jolting to his feet. He wished that he had his bow, but he had left it inside to protect it from the elements. His only comfort was that the soldiers would have an even harder time keeping their weapons dry.

Men and women ran from their houses, gathered along the trench, and peered out through the wall of overlapping pines. The long branches wept beads of moisture, translucent cabochons that reflected the rows of anxious eyes.

Roran found himself standing beside Sloan. The butcher held one of Fisk’s makeshift shields in his left hand, and in his right a cleaver curved like a half-moon. His belt was festooned with at least a dozen knives, all of them large and honed to a razor edge. He and Roran exchanged brisk nods, then refocused on where the soldier had disappeared.

Less than a minute later, the disembodied voice of a Ra’zac slithered out of the mist: “By continuing to defend Carvahall, you proclaim your choice and ssseal your doom. You ssshall die!”

Loring responded: “Show your maggot-riddled faces if you dare, you lily-livered, bandy-legged, snake-eyedwretches ! We’ll crack your skulls open and fatten our hogs on your blood!”

A dark shape floated toward them, followed by the dull thump of a spear embedding itself in a door an inch from Gedric’s left arm.

“Take cover!” shouted Horst from the middle of the line. Roran knelt behind his shield and peered through a hairline gap between two of the boards. He was just in time, for a half-dozen spears hurtled over the wall of trees and buried themselves among the cowering villagers.

From somewhere in the mist came an agonized scream.

Roran’s heart jumped with a painful flutter. He panted for breath, though he had not moved, and his hands were slick with sweat. He heard the faint sound of shattering glass on the northern edge of Carvahall . . . then the bellow of an explosion and crashing timbers.

Spinning around, he and Sloan sped through Carvahall, where they found a team of six soldiers dragging away the splintered remains of several trees. Beyond them, pale and wraithlike in the glittering shards of rain, sat the Ra’zac on their black horses. Without slowing, Roran fell upon the first man, jabbing his spear. His first and second stabs were deflected by an upraised arm, then Roran caught the soldier on the hip, and when he stumbled, in his throat.

Sloan howled like an enraged beast, threw his cleaver, and split one of the men’s helms, crushing his skull. Two soldiers charged him with drawn swords. Sloan sidestepped, laughing now, and blocked their attacks with his shield. One soldier swung so hard, his blade stuck in the shield’s rim. Sloan yanked him closer and gored him through the eye with a carving knife from his belt. Drawing a second cleaver, the butcher circled his other opponent with a maniacal grin. “Shall I gut and hamstring you?” he demanded, almost prancing with a terrible, bloody glee.