The arrow drove through his mouth. He staggered and dropped.
No time to think. They had no bows. She could outrun them.
As she pulled her mount around, she saw shadows in the forest. They moved like hunters and yet at once she knew they weren’t men, no kin of these bandits come to aid them. They carried bows as slender and light as if they had been woven from spider’s silk twisted and folded together a thousandfold to make them as strong as wood.
Caught between the one and the other. She had no reason to trust either side.
The man she had kicked struggled back, grunting, and jumped for her.
Living wood in damp winter cold burns poorly … she reached for fire and called it down on the old bridge.
The logs and planks caught fire with a burst, a snap and whuff of flame. The men on the bridge screamed, jumping to safety into the river’s cold waters, floundering there or leaping for the shore. Her horse screamed and bolted. A thin silver arrow gashed its flank and fell to the ground. The man coming after her yelled in terror, then crumpled as he groped at a silver needle embedded in his own throat.
She rode for the river. Men scrambled away, fleeing from her—or from what pursued her, half hidden in the forest behind. The cold water came as a shock, coursing past her thighs as she urged her horse across the stream. The animal needed no pressing; it, too, was smart enough to run. The water flooded its rump and washed away the thin stream of blood that ran from the cut made by the arrow. For a moment, Liath felt the horse lose its footing; then they were struggling up the far bank, breaking through the film of ice that rimed the shoreline.
From behind she heard screaming; she did not pause to look. In the center of the road, stunned into immobility, stood one of the bandits. He stared in horror at the burning bridge and at his comrades falling on the other side or thrashing their way down the cold stream.
“Do you think King Henry leaves his Eagles unprotected?” she cried. He bolted into the woods, running from her—or from what lay behind her. She turned.
The burning bridge flared like a beacon. No shadows emerged from the forest, and the bandits had scattered. The bridge would be ruined. As she stared, she realized she could not put the fire out—she did not know how. She tried reaching, imagined a fire dying to embers and embers dying to dead coals, but the bridge burned on with the glee of a raging fire. It terrified her. She had no way to control it.
Then they came out of the forest. They had bodies formed in human shape, even the suggestion of ancient armor, hammered breastplates decorated with vulture-headed women and spotted lions without manes. But she could see the trees through them. They were more like a dense smoky fog forced into an alien shape, humanlike and yet not human at all—and they were coming after her. One raised its bow and shot at her, but the silver arrow, a wink against the sun, vanished in the flames. They came to the stream’s bank, well away from the scorching flames that devoured the old bridge, but they did not attempt to cross the water.
She turned her horse and fled.
She rode, walked beside her horse, rode again, then trotted again alongside her tired mount. But though a winter’s day was short, this one seemed to drag on and on. The forest would never end.
At dusk, at last and amazingly, it gave into scrub and overcut woods. Pigs scattered away from her. Fields which cut into stands of trees like gaping scars lightened her way. She was still shaking with reaction when she reached the town of Laar as the waxing gibbous moon rose behind her.
At the closed gates she called out. “I beg you. I am a King’s Eagle riding on the king’s business. Give me shelter!”
The gate creaked open, and they let her in. Good Varren villagers, they were not sympathetic to Henry, but she was a lass riding alone and, when it came down to it, they were eager to hear what news she had.
The village deacon led the horse away at once and applied a salve of holy water, dock, and stitchwort to the elfshot gash while singing psalms over the wounded beast. “It is clear you have been at your prayers, daughter,” said the deacon, “for surely the intervention of St. Herodia— whose feast day this is—saved you from harm this day.”
Liath left the horse in the deacon’s care and let herself be escorted to a longhouse where the whole village gathered to watch her eat a cold supper. The villagers knew of the bandits and were glad to be rid of them, and it was clear that Laar’s townsfolk had long ago resigned themselves to the depredations of the nameless creatures who lurked in the forest.
“Do you know what they are?” Liath demanded.
“The shades of dead elves,” said the householder who had taken her in.
