Warcry

are taken. Our arms are empty.” Atira’s throat closed at the memory. “This is our burden, this is our pain.”
    Amyu finished the chant. “This is the price of our freedom.”
    Lara yawned as Eln declared himself finished with his task. “You need sleep, Daughter of Xy,” Eln continued, starting to wash his hands.
    “We must present the babes to the witness and have them blessed,” Anna said. “Lara, close your eyes for a bit. We’ll get you cleaned up shortly. Amyu, we’ll need more water for washing.”
    Amyu got up and followed Anna and Keir out the door. Eln was right behind them, a cloth-wrapped burden in his hands. The afterbirth, no doubt. The other two women had some of the dirty linens in their hands as they followed him, laughing and happy. Atira could hear the shouts of happiness and surprise as the door closed behind them.
    Lara sighed, her eyes already drifting shut.
    Atira yawned as well. It seemed like forever since—
    A noise brought her back. The sound of a door being barred.
    Atira opened her eyes. One of the ladies in white was still in the room, moving around to the head of the bed. Atira glanced at the door. It was barred.
    She frowned. That was wrong. Why would she bar the door?
    The woman had a pillow pressed over Lara’s face.
    Lara was struggling, but she couldn’t seem to reach the woman. Atira pushed herself to her feet and staggered toward the bed. “Stop,” she rasped, the room spinning widely.
    A pounding at the door, with voices raised outside. Keir’s was loudest. Then the doors seemed to bulge as the men began to ram something against them.
    “This whore killed my son.” The woman looked at Atira, her eyes filled with madness. “Women die in childbirth all the time.”
    Beatrice. Durst’s bonded. Atira remembered seeing her, a shadow next to her lord. There was no sanity there, no reason. The winds had taken her wits as sure as the sun rose. Atira staggered over, grasped the pillow, and yanked it out of the woman’s grasp.
    That was her intent, at least. But the woman hung on with both hands, and they tugged it between themselves.
    Lara heaved in deep breaths, clutching at the bed with her hands, staring wildly about the room.
    Atira’s grip was with a single hand, but Beatrice used both. So Atira tugged hard, and when Beatrice struggled harder, she released the pillow, sending the woman staggering back from the bed. Atira placed herself between Lara and the madwoman and reached for her dagger.
    Her fist grasped empty air.
    Atira cursed. No armor, no weapons. Never again would she wear a cursed dress.
    Beatrice had Eln’s knife. She stood there, framed in the window, held the blade high, and laughed. “I’ll cut her head off, just like the Warlord cut off Degnan’s.” Beatrice waved the blade at Atira.
    The door boomed again, the bar starting to splinter. Lara was sliding off the bed on the opposite side. She went to the floor, dragging bedding with her.
    “Then the babes, I’ll kill the babes. Children die, so young, so precious. They die so easily—”
    “Enough,” Atira growled. There was no choice. If the woman managed to take her down, Lara would be an easy kill.
    Beatrice attacked, slashing with great sweeps of her arm.
    Atira dodged the blade and rammed the woman in the chest, forcing her back, back—back once more, and Atira rammed her hard enough to force her over the sill and out the window.
    Beatrice never stopped laughing as she fell.
    Atira put her back to the wall and closed her eyes.
    “Atira?” Lara asked. “Atira?”
    The door burst open and Keir and Heath ran into the room.
    Lara peeked her head up from the side of the bed, her curls in total disarray. Atira smiled at her as she let herself slide down the wall. The pain was calling, and she really wanted to go into it for just a little while.
    Heath’s arms enfolded her, his voice in her ear asking questions. She didn’t even try to hear the words. She just enjoyed his touch and the sound of his love.
    “Go ahead,” he whispered. His arms tightened around her, supporting her. “I’m here. I have you.”
    That was right, wasn’t it? He was always there, supporting her, standing with her. What would it be like if he was always there for her? And her for him?
    She smiled at the thought as she lay her head on his shoulder and slipped away into sweet oblivion.

CHAPTER 33
     
    HEATH CARRIED ATIRA, HER HEAD ON HIS SHOULDER, all the way to his room. A cadre of guards lit the