Prologue

A familiar hand on her shoulder roused her from sleep. It was as gentle as it was weighty, the years adding a bit more strength to her husband’s grip. She knew in an instant it was not yet time to fetch water from the stream, for the embers of the logs in the stone pit still glowed red. Then his breath, fouled from sleep, washed across her face. He whispered, and she stiffened, his words fading as her attention was drawn to the commotion outside. Thundering hooves pounding against the earth as steeds entered their tiny hamlet. Voices, gruff and demanding, rang out, and as orders were shouted, women began to scream.

Her thoughts were broken when he swept away the animal skins providing them warmth, and climbing over her, he slipped his feet into boots, worn and caked with dirt. They scrambled together, fastening clothes and donning cloaks to protect them from the winter winds. And as he reached for his axe, she reached for their children.

They whimpered as she awoke them from their dreams, and while they pleaded for more sleep, she did not listen. She needed to prepare them, and there wasn’t much time. She had heard the stories, and she knew…there wasn’t much time.

She tugged third-hand shoes onto their feet and draped every article of clothing fitting their tiny frames over them. Belts of rope held most in place, and grabbing the only other skirt she owned, she ripped it into strips, wrapping the shreds of wool around their heads and hands, adding as much protection as she could. They were so young, so innocent of the sheer evil lurking oh so close, but if they were to survive, they needed to know the truth…so she told them.

The two-year-old did not understand, her mother’s words too long and too complex for someone so young, but the eyes of her other two children widened in unison. The color slowly drained from their cherub cheeks, and even though she saw their chins quiver, she was single-minded. She was their mother, and they would do as she asked. They didn’t have a choice, and neither did she.

A rush of icy air tore through their hut as her husband rushed out the door. She knelt in front of her children and gathered them in her arms. She pulled them close, clutching them against her bosom as she breathed deeply their scent. It was a scent of perfection and a scent of innocence, and while vital seconds ticked by, her eyes became glassy. Would this be the last hug she ever gave them?