Free Chains of Gold by Nancy Springer Page B

hand, but I did not reply; how could I leave him to face sixteen armed men alone? We stood side by side, at the ready.
    But at the base of the esker their charge faltered to a halt. It was bad footing for horses, I knew, but they turned aside before they touched it. What had stopped them? Horses milled about as the men sat them uncertainly, and one hulking man, he who must have been the leader, shouted furiously at the others to continue.
    â€œIt’s that confounded aura of yours giving them pause!” Arlen exclaimed. “By my body, Rae, perhaps you had better stay with me after all.”
    I was not listening. I only stared at the captain, the big brute. “It’s Eachan,” I breathed.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMy father’s toady. That swine. The one who killed my sister.” A taut, burning feeling filled my chest.
    He had struck her down with his own ugly fists; only for that she had shown him some spirit, he had bruised and battered her and knocked her head against a stone pillar until she was dead. Then he had buried her with no more ceremony or sorrow than he would have shown for a middling-fine hunting dog. Now Father had sent him for me, it seemed.
    â€œHere they come,” said Arlen.
    Eachan had bullied them into ascending the slope at last, but they came halfheartedly, the horses soon slowing to a walk. Eachan himself stayed below, lolling on his steed and watching—
    The taut feeling in my chest tore open, and rage burst out. I flung a stone with a force that brought forth a yell of pain from somewhere in the ranks.
    â€œEachan!” I screamed, a witch’s shrill. “Ea-chan! Coward! Coward! Murderer! Woman-killer—how many men does it take to help you kill women?” I hurled stones furiously, knowing that none of them could reach him, venting my rage on the men within range. Arlen was throwing stones also; one man had fallen from his horse, stunned, and others were cowering under our pelting. I was not satisfied; I wanted to hurt Eachan.
    â€œDo you not care to murder women yourself these days? Must you have hirelings do it for you?”
    His face had gone dark with wrath—and shame, I hoped. But there was no shame in his voice, only the hard edge of malice. “My orders are to take you alive, missy,” he boomed. “The Gwyneda want you for killing. Forward!” he roared at his men.
    They heard the threat in his voice and kicked their mounts into a plunging canter, the steeds slipping on the pebbly terrain. Swords drawn and shields at the ready, they made for us. Arlen leveled his pitchfork to hold them off, and I swung the spade at them, screeching, slashing with the edge of it and hitting at their legs and the shoulders of the horses; I had not known such ferocity was in me. As for Arlen, his eyes burned with such reckless despair—or desperation—that I would have been afraid of him had I not known that something of the same sort was in me as well; he lunged fiercely, spearing his enemies with his awkward weapon. Some already bore wounds, and they fell back for fear of him.
    â€œSurround them!” Eachan bellowed.
    There was, indeed, no reason why they should not take us on all sides and not in the front merely, where our breastwork was. Some of them went around to come at us from behind, and I put my back to Arlen’s back, defending him as best I could, swinging my spade as high as my arms would take it. But from time to time one of our enemies would reach over me to prick him in the shoulder. Never badly; each such attack gave me a surge of new force that sent them swiftly into retreat. But Arlen must have known I was tiring. He maneuvered us so that we each had some breastwork to one side, wheeling us around a quarter turn—and then I could see Eachan still down below, watching. The sight enraged me.
    â€œCoward!” I shouted at him. “Murdering coward! Are you afraid to face me youself, you who killed my