Wood splintered with a sound like a breaking bone. The Warg hit the miller's door with its shoulder, and the rusted latch gave way instantly.
Cian watched, his feet nailed to the mud. The scream that tore from inside the house was high, shrill, and abruptly cut short.
Move, his mind screamed. Do something.
But his body was cold lead. He was watching a nightmare, waiting to wake up.
Two more shapes erupted from the briar tunnel behind the first. They didn't stop for Cian. They smelled blood. They scrambled over each other, claws gouging the mud, rushing into the open door of the miller's cottage.
"Hey!"
The shout came from the road. Garret.
The old man was running, his lantern swinging wildly, his sword drawn. He wasn't wearing his helmet. He looked small.
"Garret!" Cian choked out.
Garret saw the broken fence. He saw the Wargs inside the house. He saw Cian standing there with a wood-axe, shaking.
The old guard didn't waste breath on questions. He didn't look at Cian with disappointment. He didn't look at him at all. He charged the door.
"Get to the bell!" Garret roared, his voice cracking with strain. "Ring the damn bell, Cian!"
Cian stumbled back. The bell. The town square.
He turned and ran, not toward the danger, but away from it.
Behind him, the sounds of combat erupted. The clang of steel on bone, the snarling of beasts, and the shouting of a man fighting for his life.
Cian reached the square. The rope for the alarm bell hung by the well. He grabbed it and pulled.
Clang.
He pulled again, putting his whole weight into it.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The village was waking up now. Men were coming out of their doors, holding pitchforks, confused, half-asleep.
"What is it?" someone shouted. "Is it fire?"
"Wargs!" Cian screamed, pointing back toward the miller's house. "At the mill!"
He didn't say I let them in. He didn't say I broke the fence.
The men ran past him.
Cian let go of the rope. His hands were raw. He should go with them. He had an axe. He should help.
But his legs carried him toward the miller's house slowly, like a man walking to the gallows.
By the time he got back to the yard, it was over.
The three Wargs lay dead. They were not invincible monsters; they were flesh and blood. Twelve men with pitchforks and heavy clubs had beaten them into pulp.
But the silence was back. And it was heavy.
The front of the miller's cottage was ruined. The door hung off its hinges.
The men were standing in a circle in the mud, looking down at something. The miller was on his knees in the doorway, weeping into his hands.
Cian pushed through the crowd. No one stopped him. They were all staring at the ground.
Garret lay in the mud.
His leather brigandine was shredded. His chest was a ruin of red wetness. His sword was still in his hand, buried to the hilt in the neck of the largest Warg.
Cian dropped to his knees. The mud soaked through his trousers immediately.
"Garret?"
The old man's eyes were open, staring up at the rain. His breath was coming in wet, bubbling rattles.
He turned his head slowly. He saw Cian.
Cian waited for the accusation. He waited for Garret to point a dying finger and say, He did it. He opened the way.
Garret's lips moved. A trickle of blood ran down his chin into his grey beard.
"Keep..." Garret wheezed. "Keep... your shield... up."
The light went out of his eyes. The rain washed the blood from his face, but it couldn't wash the look of surprise from it.
"He died saving the girls," the blacksmith said, his voice thick. "Damn brave fool."
"How did they get in?" someone asked. "The gate was closed."
Cian felt the axe at his belt. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
The blacksmith walked over to the briar patch. He kicked at the broken vines. He saw the tunnel. He saw the sawed-off branches, the clear path cut by human hands.
He turned around. He looked at the crowd. Then his eyes found Cian.
Cian couldn't breathe.
The blacksmith didn't shout. He walked over to Cian, reached down, and ripped the wood-axe from the boy's belt. He looked at the blade, then at the cut vines.
"You," the blacksmith whispered. It wasn't a question.
The village went silent. The only sound was the miller weeping for his wife, who lay dead just inside the door, her throat torn out before Garret could reach her.
Cian looked at the dead woman. He looked at Garret.
He wanted to explain. He wanted to say he just wanted to practice. He wanted to say he didn't mean for this to happen.
But Garret was right. The world didn't care about what he meant. The sword—or the axe, or the gate—was a promise. And Cian had broken it.
"I..." Cian started.
The blacksmith backhanded him.
It was a blow meant to hurt. Cian hit the mud hard, tasting copper.
"Get up," the blacksmith spat. "Get up and look at what you did."