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Facing her stood a pale figure, more shadow than substance. It had a woman’s body but the face of a vulture, and the gleaming bronze armor at its chest was embossed with vulture-headed women bearing spears into battle.
Hanna could actually see the faint outline of the fir trees through its body, or maybe, horribly, actually even piercing its body, as though it weren’t really entirely there.
Lowering its bow, it spoke. “I smell the stench of our old enemy upon you, human. That is how we tracked you down.” It drew a long, ugly knife.
Stark terror flooded her.
It was going to kill her. With the branches pressed in against her, she couldn’t reach her bow. Her fingers found the hilt of her eating knife, but she knew it was hopeless, that cold iron would do nothing more than stick itself in the trunk of the tree behind the phantom, while any least touch from a cursed elven blade or arrow would sicken a mortal unto death.
It was going to kill her.
That was it, her last thought: Ai, God. I’ll never see Liath again.
The owl appeared out of nowhere, all beating wings and tearing beak. A moment’s reprieve, that was all. A moment was all Hanna needed. She dropped to her knees and crawled like a madwoman, finding room to escape all the way down against the ground under a roof made of the lowest branches. Her bow scraped wood, and an arrow, catching on a branch, snapped as she broke forward. The bed of dry needles gave way to a dusting of snow, and she pushed through low-hanging branches and found herself facing into a drift. She burrowed up between two sprawling branches and floundered forward through the snow.
All she could think about was getting away.
There was enough light to see, now, although everything was still in shades of gray as dawn fought to vanquish night, not an easy task with snow falling heavily and a dense blanket of clouds covering the sky. It was bitterly cold. Through the snow she saw other figures struggling to flee and, there, a lone horse.
With difficulty, she plowed through the snow and got hold of the horse’s reins. It reared back, terrified, and she almost lost hold of it.
One of the young lords materialized out of the snow beside her. He grabbed the reins out of her hands and within moments had the horse under control. By the way he favored one arm, she realized it was Prince Ekkehard. He turned to stare at her. He looked pale, scared, and very very young.
“Come on, Eagle. Lothar’s dead and Thiemo’s lost. We’ve got to run.”
Behind them, a man screamed horribly. She began to turn, to go to his aid, but Ekkehard lurched forward as if the cry had propelled him on, and she didn’t want to be left alone, God help her, to face those creatures. Sick at heart, she pressed through the snow in the prince’s wake. From this angle, she saw thin red gashes scoring the horse’s flanks, the mark of elfshot. Ekkehard’s cloak was torn. They hadn’t gone more than twenty wallowing steps through the snow when they were hailed.
“My lord prince.” The voice was ragged and almost incoherent with fear. Four of the young lordlings had taken refuge behind a massive elm, now stripped of foliage. They had three horses between them. As soon as they saw that Ekkehard was safe, they all blundered out into the snowy forest, aiming in no certain direction but only away from the refuge where they had so hopefully taken shelter the night before.
Hanna glimpsed a handful of other figures retreating far off to one side. Was that Gotfrid? She couldn’t be sure, and she dared not call out to him, and anyway, he was already gone, lost beyond the veil of snow and the ranks of evergreens. Maybe she had only dreamed them. Maybe it was the shadow elves, circling around in order to ambush them somewhere else.
One of the boys was weeping, “Lothar’s dead. Lothar’s dead.”
Ekkehard said, in a breathless voice, “Shut up, Manegold. They’ll hear us.”
“As if we aren’t making the noise of an army,” muttered Frithuric.
Lord Welf still had hold of the banner, although the haft had gotten broken off halfway, and the young man was so dispirited that he dragged it through the snow as he stumbled on. Snow fell densely around them, soft and silent, until Hanna thought they would be buried alive.
After a long time, Benedict said in a whisper, “I think we’ve escaped them.”
They all stumbled to a stop, breath billowing white in the cold air. The horses whickered nervously. Frithuric coughed. Ekkehard hissed a warning. They stood there with the trees all around them half invisible through the falling snow. It was utterly silent, except for the delicate shift of snow through branches and the merest whisper of wind through the crowns of trees. Because of the falling snow, Hanna couldn’t see more than a stone’s toss in any direction, but it all looked the same anyway: snow and trees, trees and snow.
“We’re lost,” said Lord Benedict finally in a very small, very frightened voice.
“I’m going to barf,” said Lord Welf suddenly.
“My foot hurts,” said Ekkehard, sounding surprised.
“We’re all going to freeze out here,” said Hanna sensibly, “if we don’t keep moving. We mustn’t believe we’ve escaped those shades. Whatever they were.”
“They’re the ancient ones,” whined Manegold, half frantic, almost babbling, “who were cursed for being pagans and foul murderers who cut up babies on their altars. They were cursed to walk as ghosts forever. That’s why they hate us. My old nurse told me stories—”
“All the more reason to keep moving,” snapped Hanna, hoping a firm hand would get them going.
So it did. She’d learned that trick from her mother when it came time to get drunken men out of the inn and off to their homes late at night.
She grabbed the reins out of the prince’s hands and pushed forward. There was no point in caring what direction they went now, except away from where they’d come. She supposed that the shades of the Aoi would have no trouble tracking them down no matter what the weather, but she’d be damned if she’d stand here waiting for them to take her unawares from the back. Let her die if she must, but as she’d said to Gotfrid not that many hours before, she’d really prefer to keep on living even if she wasn’t going to get a nice hot cup of spiced wine for her trouble.
