Page 34 of Heart of the Hunter (Band of Bastards #3)

“What is your name?” she whispered into the child’s ear as she turned her away from the horrible sight of her mother only to find that they were surrounded by the evidence of the violence that had befallen the village.

The little girl continued to whimper against her shoulder and weakly call for her mama as Anora walked farther down the lane toward the commotion and looked for anyone who might be able to comfort the child.

In the center of the village men, women, and the older children worked to contain flames that looked to Anora beyond hope of being extinguished, while others broke down the doors of any buildings not yet completely consumed by fire.

There was a small group of people huddled against one of the few buildings not touched by fire, but they looked to be more small children, elders too old or feeble to fight the fires, and a few adults with grave injuries.

As she approached the group, a woman came running toward her with her arms outstretched. “Mair!”

Anora relinquished the girl when the child turned and put out her arms to the woman, obviously recognizing her.

The woman brushed a hand over the child’s hair and peered into her face as though she looked for confirmation Mair was truly safe and whole.

When she seemed satisfied the girl was hale, she hugged her tightly to her chest and lifted her eyes to Anora.

“Her mother? My sister?” The words were spoken frantically and in Welsh.

Anora felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“I am sorry,” she replied in her limited Welsh and shook her head so the woman would understand.

The woman’s face contorted painfully as she pressed her cheek to the little girl’s head.

Tears ran down her sooty cheeks, but she fought to regain what she could of her composure.

“I do not know you,” the woman said in English, narrowing her eyes at Anora inquisitively.

“I am Anora. I came with—” She turned to look over her shoulder despite knowing Hunter would not be there as she tried to think of how to explain her presence. “I was on my way to Hawkspur and saw the smoke. I want to help in any way I can.”

“Follow me.” The woman handed Mair to an older woman sitting on the ground with other children, then took Anora by the arm as she hurried toward the homesteads where the wind was blowing sparks onto the thatched rooftops of cottages and other structures.

“If anyone is inside, we must get them out. The doors were barricaded after people tried to hide in them,” the woman said frantically as she pointed to a row of cottages engulfed in smoke but not yet on fire, though the flames were getting dangerously near.

“Help me open the doors.” With that, she was gone, already running to the closest building and kicking and pulling away the pitchforks, hoes, and scraps of wood levered against the door to hold it closed.

She pushed it open before quickly moving onto the next door, clearing the barricade and pulling open the door to call out to anyone who may be inside.

Anora followed her, helping to clear the doors, hearing people coughing and yelling as she drew closer to the smoke-filled cottages.

She couldn’t even begin to comprehend how anyone could be so heartless and cruel to hard working, innocent people.

People poured from each cottage the moment the door was opened.

Wind began to catch the flames, blowing them and embers from one cottage roof to the next in the row of structures. Anora realized that soon the entire row would be aflame.

“Is there anyone else inside?” she yelled toward the people who were gathered a short distance from the burning buildings, many of them kneeling on the ground as they coughed and tried to clear the smoke from their watering eyes.

Realizing they could not see to know if anyone was left behind, she went to each door to call out while she peered through the thickening smoke for any sign of people still trapped inside.

As the people recovered from their coughing and their eyes cleared, they returned with blackened and soot-streaked faces to look for anyone else still in the cottages.

Anora took a breath and looked around at the chaos and destruction only to notice a flame start to shimmer and grow on the roof of a single cottage next to a small wooden pen near the edge of the settlement.

She could see something jammed against the door and thought she heard yelling from the vicinity.

As she ran toward the building, sparks and ash landed on her, some burning through the material of her clothing to blister her skin, but she ignored the pain.

She kicked away the wooden staff wedged against the door and flung it open.

A gray-haired man fell through the opening and into her arms. His hands were covered in blood, and he was hoarse from yelling.

She helped him to his feet, and he immediately stumbled toward the pen at the side of the cottage.

“My lambs!” he wailed in Welsh. “My lambs!”

Anora put a hand on the man’s shoulder as she looked down into the enclosure. There were three little lambs lying in a wide puddle of blood in the pen, their throats slit.

“We heard them crying,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “I tried to break the door down. They tortured them. My wife had to listen to them kill her little loves.”

Anora looked over her shoulder at the cottage; the flames were dancing along the rooftop had not yet burned through the thatch. “Your wife? Is she in there?”

The old man turned, the light from the growing flames illuminating his horrified expression.

They both started toward the door of the cottage, holding their arms up to shield them from the smoke beginning to fill the one room structure as they entered.

Against the far wall, Anora could see a woman lying on a bed with her arms over her head as if trying to hide from the horror around her.

“She cannot walk without help,” the man said in a scratchy voice as they both moved to her bedside.

Anora watched as a gap formed in the roof and the flames jumped to the beams inside the cottage.

The man spoke to his wife in Welsh, coaxing her from the bed as he slid his arm under her shoulders to help her sit.

When she was upright, he slid his other arm under her knees and tried to lift her, but the strain was too much.

Anora quickly moved to the other side of the woman to slide an arm under the woman’s legs and the other around the woman’s back to help support her.

She clasped her hands over the man’s forearms in each place and together they were able to lift the woman and shuffle toward the door.

They were halfway there when a beam fell and hit the man in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

Anora was unable to bear the weight of the woman alone and they both toppled down to the floor as Anora cried out in dismay.

She pushed to her knees, overwhelmed by defeat as she looked at the scene in front of her.

The old woman was sobbing while she reached for her husband.

The old man was not moving, likely knocked unconscious from the heavy piece of wood slamming into him.

The beam that had felled him glowed red on its edges as the embers curled through it and more burning thatch from the roof and slats of wood from the walls were falling into the room.

It was only a matter of time before the entire structure would be engulfed in flames, and collapse.

Panic took hold of Anora as she tried to pick up the woman in her arms once more.

“We cannot leave him,” the woman sobbed in Welsh.

Anora coughed, watching through watering eyes as the flames raced across the walls, moving closer to the door.

In moments they would be cut off from escape and the entire cottage would come crashing down on their heads.

She wanted to run for the door, get out while she could, but she could not bring herself to leave the couple to die.

She could barely keep her stinging eyes open, and her lungs burned like they, too, were on fire, but she reached for the woman one last time, determined to save her.

Or die trying.