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“I am here!” calls Hanna.
Li’at’dano’s head raises in surprise. At first, seeking, she does not find Hanna among the herd, but at last, spying her hidden in the grass, she nods. Hanna steps into the open.
“Luck of Sorgatani,” the centaur shaman says, but where she looks none of the others can see anything. Not even the Quman shaman can see her. He stares, he seeks. The others stare, they listen, but Hanna understands that only the Holy One can see and hear her because Hanna inhabits this land as a part of that dream known solely to the Kerayit sorceresses, who are bound to the Horse people by threads woven in the time long ago.
“What news?” Li’at’dano asks her.
Quickly, Hanna tells her what she knows: the battle between Anne and Liath fought by the standing stones and reported to her by Bertha and Sorgatani; the fiery tempest as seen by Bertha’s party and by Hanna and the clerics within the Arethousan army; the destruction along the coast that wiped out the imperial city of Arethousa; the little band that has trudged through mountains and forest across a vast distance to reach Wendar at last. She is an Eagle, trained to distill and to report.
“Why are you come to me? Where is my daughter, Sorgatani?”
“Sorgatani sleeps in her cart. I am on watch. We fear enemies may stalk us, robbers or outlaws. The wind carried me here. I don’t know why.”
“Hai!” The Quman shaman points to the heavens. “Beware!”
Smoke curls up into the heavens, dirty streamers against the white-blue sheen of the sky. Distant shouts ring. Horses trumpet in alarm.
“Raiders have set fire to the grass!”
“Where are they? What happened?”
“They wear the faces of animals!”
Li-at-dano staggers as if she has been shot. Horse people and their Kerayit clansmen bolt into action. The swirl catches Hanna, spinning her away as on a rising plume of smoke.
“Beware!” the Quman shaman cries again.
A hiss burns her cheek.
“Aie! Unh!”
Stephen’s shout yanked her back into the night shadows. In the camp, the dogs barked furiously, whining and growling. At first, she could make sense of nothing except that it was night. The air tasted of rain, but no drops struck her.
A second hiss teased her ear. The air trembled, displaced, and as if it had sprouted there, an arrow quivered in the ground a finger’s width from her left knee.
That woke her.
“Unh! Unh! Ai, God! God!”
Stephen had fallen onto his back. She flung herself down alongside him. Blood coated his shoulder. A shaft protruded from his flesh. A third arrow whistled overhead.
“Attack! Attack!” She jumped to her feet, got her hands under his good arm, and dragged him backward. He was a big enough man that he ought to have been difficult to pull along, but he pushed with his legs and anyway she was racing in her heart, every limb on fire and her face flushed and her breath catching in her throat. Lady Bertha shouted commands, barely heard above the clamor of the dogs, and not soon enough Hanna stumbled into what shelter the half fallen walls of the chapel offered. Other hands grabbed Stephen and hauled him away. She sank down on her knees, bent over her thighs, and tried desperately to catch her breath. Little thunks peppered the other side of the wall as the enemy shot at them from the safety of the darkness.
By the light of red coals simmering in the fire pit, she measured their position. The dogs swarmed around Lady Bertha’s feet, yapping and circling. A dozen soldiers were ranged around the chapel, a few fixed up on the wall, others braced behind the wagons or the shields. One man cut away at the arrow in Stephen’s shoulder.
“You’ve suffered worse, old friend!” the surgeon joked. “You’re just wanting a scar to impress new lovers—”
Stephen gagged, stiffened, and went into convulsions, twisting right out of the other man’s grasp. Hanna stumbled forward, dropped beside him, and held him down, but when the fit passed, he stopped breathing and fell slack.
Dead.
The other soldier—it was Sergeant Aronvald—looked up at her, eyes wide with disbelief. “That shouldn’t have killed him.”
Hanna touched the shaft where it met the skin. She circled it with her finger, then sniffed. “Poison, perhaps. Or magic.”
“Poison!”
She wiped her moist skin on the dead man’s leggings, then for good measure in the dirt, rubbing it and rubbing it to make sure it all came off.
