She snatched her hand back and the man snarled at her. “Bitch,” he growled before backhanding her across the face.

But this time she didn’t fall to her knees. She didn’t whimper and cower and cry because the pain was so unbearable. Instead, she stood tall—and backhanded him in return.

He stumbled to the side, shocked that a woman—any woman, much less a slave—could harm him.

“You little—”

One of the others who’d died but was now back, caught the man from behind. She gritted her teeth as she held him, her expression one of grim determination and, in her eyes, hopeful glee.

Understanding what was needed, She of No Name yanked the sword from the sheath at the man’s side. But it was long. It would impale him and the one who held him. So a shorter blade was retrieved from the man’s belt. This blade he’d stolen from the one who’d once ruled these lands but now lay dead in the mud and muck not far from where they stood.

Yes. This would do.

She wasted no time burying that shorter blade in his side and then slowly dragging it across his belly.

The man screamed as she’d screamed during her own death, but she felt no pity. She felt pity for no one any longer.

Another man ran toward her, his sword raised, ready to cut her down where she stood.

Yanking the blade from the first man’s gut, she turned toward her new attacker. He swung the blade, trying to cleave her from shoulder to waist, but it was easy to avoid the weapon. She quickly realized she’d never been able to move so fast. At first, the man looked stunned. Then angry. They didn’t like it when those they considered slaves didn’t die quickly and without much fuss.

He swung his blade again. Again she avoided it.

This time he went to ram the blade in her belly and she stepped aside, caught his arm, and bent it. The arm cracked like dry wood, part of the bone jutting through the skin, blood splattering across her face and the face of her comrade. Neither of them minded. The blood was like rainwater to them now. Refreshing in its purity.

There were more angry men coming, so she cut the throat of the broken-armed man and faced those who would kill her. But she was no longer alone. The three other women who had died but now lived, jumped into the fray. They attacked with brutal force and unmitigated fury. Screaming and snarling, they took the men down and tore them to pieces, using the weapons of their enemies or their own hands.

That’s when she noticed they had a bit of an audience. More crows had come to watch, staring at the women as they did their bloody work. One of the birds—birds she once saw as a portent of death but now saw only as winged friends—picked up a bit of bloody remains with its taloned feet and ate it.

She lifted her own blood-covered hands and watched in horrified fascination as her fingers turned long and bladelike.

Talons. Shenow had talons.

She dropped the weapons she held. She could still use them if she had need, but this weapon would do her just fine.

A man ran up from behind her and she turned into him, ramming her taloned hands into his gut. Once embedded in him, his shocked face staring down at her, she wiggled her fingers inside him, cutting his organs, gleeful in the knowledge that she was making his death as painful as possible.

She’d been taught by the elders of her people that it was wrong to enjoy the death of another. One should kill out of necessity only. A fine and lofty belief. But who could afford fine and lofty beliefs among people like this?

So instead, she shed her lofty ideals and embraced her rage. She embraced it as a lover would. Or the way a mother embraces her child.

She ripped her hands from the man and his guts fell to the ground, moments before he followed.

“They are demons!” someone screamed. “Kill them!”

“We have played enough, sisters!” she called out, shocked that they seemed to understand her. They all spoke such different languages that none of them understood anyone very well. Instead, their masters showed them what they wanted or needed by force; although she’d begun to learn the masters’ language simply so that she knew when a blow was coming. When to anticipate pain. It had been a struggle . . . until now. Now she spoke and understood the language of these lands easily.

“We have a chore to do for our new god,” she yelled out to her sisters. “She calls upon us. Let us do her bidding!”

The women dropped their victims and finished them off. Then, as a well-trained fighting group, they charged into the newest bunch of men who came toward them. Cutting through them. Some of her sisters used stolen weapons. Others used the talons they now all had.

It was joyous! The feel of destroying one’s enemy! After so much pain, so much torment . . . these men were now nothing to fear.

She took it upon herself, as the first of those given this gift of a second life, to go for the Jarl who held the god’s prize. She rammed her body into him, taking him to the ground. Someone tried to pull her off, but that man was dragged away by one of her sisters. A woman now bound to her the way a blood sister was. Only this connection was stronger. They’d never fight over toys or their parents or, when older, men. Their bond was forged in blood and hatred and revenge. And nothing would ever sever that steel-plated connection.

The leader she had pinned to the ground reached up and wrapped his hands around her throat, trying to choke the life from her. She grabbed his hands with her own and snapped back his fingers, breaking at least three on each hand. The leader screamed out and she knocked his arms away. She tore open his shirt with her talons, instinctively sensing where to find the god’s prize.