Blades of Wolfsbane - episode seventeen

A story in the Ravenglass Universe.

Warriors clashed with raiders in the courtyard below, the castle walls echoing with screams and grunts.

Townsfolk retreated inside the outer bailey, huddling together with a ring of men surrounding them, defending them with anything they could lay their hands on—pitchforks, kitchen knives, forge hammers, and wooden axes.

Ragnar the Elder swung his war hammer while Olaf fought at his side with a sword and shield.

The hammer struck a raider’s skull, smashing it to pulp in the torchlight.

Ragnar glanced back at his sister hiding beneath the furs, glad she could not see this side of her father—the warrior, the killer.

Ulfred had more than once taught him the significance of the Wolfsbane Hammer—the symbol of the chieftain’s power forged in blood and fire from the purest ravenglass. Worth more than gold and jewels, the hammer was as much a sign of the Wolfsbane family as the wolf and spear standard. It was as much his birthright as the lands and the protection of its people, or, at least, he hoped it was.

His uncle’s blade moved with a blur, gliding through the throat of a raider while driving a second back with his shield and into a swinging hammer, smashing a skull as if it were no more than an egg.

Olaf’s shield seemed to act on its own, blocking strikes intended for both him and his brother.

Shouts and cries sounded from the corridor. Had the raiders breeched the castle?

“Keep hidden, Maja.”

He leaned towards the chamber door and picked up footfalls and unfamiliar voices, the ring of steel on stone.

“For Wolfsbane!”

Ragnar started at the voice just outside his door, recognising a member of his father’s household guard.

A deep groan resonated along the corridor.

Something heavy bashed against the door, forcing Ragnar back.

He turned to his sister, his heart racing, his hands shaking. He pointed to his father’s trunk. “Hide in there.”

Maja shook her head.

“Fine, at least get under the bed then. And don’t say a word.”

She crawled from beneath the furs and rolled under the bed.

“Stay there.” Ragnar readied his sword and dagger. “No matter what happens, stay there.”

The door thudded as if struck by a battering ram.

Splinters flew, and a boot smashed through a gaping hole.

A flailing hand reached through, grabbing for the bolt like an adder seeking meat.

Without thought, Ragnar swung his sword, severing the man’s hand.

With a scream, the arm retreated, and sprayed blood through the hole.

Ragnar stared at the hand on the floor, a dribble of blood and moon-white bone issuing from the stump.

He let out a shuddering breath and tried to ignore the heaves in his stomach.

The door opened.