Child of Flame (Page 153)

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.

Ekkehard and his comrades followed smartly. For all their complaining, they were strong young men, well fed, strengthened by riding and weapons drill, and so scared that none of them wanted to be the one to fall behind.

Hanna’s feet felt like ice and her hands were freezing. Flakes of snow stuck to her eyelashes. She flinched at every least crack and hiss from the snow-laden trees around them, but she pressed on determinedly. As long as they were moving, they weren’t dead.