Free B007IIXYQY EBOK by Donna Gillespie Page A

her belt, she blew three urgent blasts—the signal for a raid.
    And to her surprise, from ahead she heard an eruption of answering shouts. As she flashed past a break in the trees, she saw, far ahead of her, a second band of warriors, at least a hundred in number, just as they crowned the rise that concealed Elk River and disappeared. She felt a first spasm of fear—they would reach the ford before her, and she would be trapped on the wrong side of the river. She was a maid alone. They would cut her throat and pitch her into a bog for hunting in territory they claimed as their own. Or they would take her as a slave, and she would live out her life as some warrior’s prize, a miserable creature no better than his cattle or sheep.
    Then from behind her came still more warriors’ cries. A third band followed her. How came there to be so many? The three bands seemed almost to run in formation. The men behind were perhaps meant to hold the ford, or to serve as a reserve force. Something about this was sinister and wrong. Hermundures never raided in such numbers, nor with such foreplanning. And what war band would ever agree to follow another? It would bring too much shame. Among both her own people and the Hermundures, warriors fought all their lives for the coveted places at the head of the charge.
    Again she lifted the horn to her lips and blew three blasts, knowing as she did so she might be giving up her life in warning, for she signaled her own position. But life left little choice in these matters. The safety she would have won by silence was the safety of a niding, the strongest term of condemnation in use among the tribes, which roughly meant: “wretch who loses his soul through betraying his kin.”
    And this time she heard the answering horns of her people, carrying on her warning to the remotest parts of Chattian lands. The droning and trilling increased, moaning through the wood, sounding near then far, until the horns became so numerous they melted into one powerful disharmonious tone. Her spirit rose with the horns and she was seized suddenly with a fierce love of all this country. She felt her mind a great wing stretched out protectively over the land.
    Brunwin struggled up a path cut long ago through the scrub pine and at last gained the top of the ridge. She looked down. At first she saw only the gleaming serpent-shape of the river, molten in the sun. Then she saw them, three hundred and more, swarming in a dark knot, bristling with a thicket of upright spears. The sight was fascinating and terrifying at once, like coming upon a nest of wasps. Some forded the river in thin files while others milled behind. She pulled Brunwin to a halt, fearful they would see her.
    A slingstone slashed through the boughs from above and grazed the pony’s rump, searing flesh and bringing blood. Auriane looked up. A warrior left to serve as a sentry had climbed a pine. She watched, paralyzed by the sight of him, as he took aim a second time.
    Brunwin kicked out once, nearly throwing her over his head. Then he bolted. His belly low to the ground, with strenuous strides he flung her toward the busy ford. She clung to his mane, knowing bit and rein were useless now. Brunwin would not slow until he reached his own shed in the horse pens of the hall of Baldemar. Branches lashed her face. Dark patches of sweat appeared on the pony’s neck. Then they broke free, onto the wide, treeless bank of the river.
    She shut her eyes. They saw her. Sharp barking shouts were raised. With a grim innocence she thought—and so, death comes. Except for Hertha’s torments, life was kind and good. Why should anyone expect to live long?
    Her one hope was that they would consider a lone maid on a bolting pony not worth their trouble while greater plunder waited beyond the river. Brunwin had just enough wit left to know to stay away from them; as he galloped he edged to the right. Four of the warriors broke from the band, shouting and laughing in the