Free The Silver Sun by Nancy Springer Page A

arrows into their cover. Hal aimed his first arrow at the apparent leader, and the man yelped as his arm was pinned to his side. Hal's next shot tumbled a man from his horse, shot through the heart, and his next arrow parted one's hair.
    The hunters stopped abruptly and looked at each other. They had not known that their quarry possessed a bow, and especially not such a powerful and accurate one. Though they were nine bows against one, he had shelter and they had none, and they were being picked off in the open like birds on a branch. Even as they paused, another of their number fell from his mount with a scream. They retreated hastily to the thickets from which they had come.
    “Two down,” sighed Hal. “How is Arundel, Alan?"
    Alan had not enjoyed working while arrows whistled overhead, landed underfoot and rattled in the branches of the copse that sheltered him. Nevertheless, be had removed the arrow from Arundel's leg and dressed the wound. He brought Hal a bunch of arrows he had gathered from the outlaw assault.
    “The wound is not bad,” he reported. “The shaft passed between muscle and bone, hurting little but the skin. Still, he should not run on it, or carry weight."
    Hal nodded, frowning. “Have I ever so many arrows,” he muttered, “I can only shoot them one at a time. It will soon be dark. They must rush us, and we have nothing to set our backs against. They are four against one. We need some help."
    Alan snorted at the understatement. “There is nothing to help us on this Waste except the crying birds and the little rabbits. I fear we must trust in our own luck, which has been a bit overstrained, lately."
    The bounty hunters left their cover and ranged themselves in the open, just out of bowshot. Each one carried a freshly cut staff, long and stout, usable either as a blunt-headed lance or as a cudgel. The leader's arm was bandaged, and his face did not look friendly.
    Hal looked at them and swallowed, as if he were swallowing his pride. Then he raised his head at an angle and called out in a clear, carrying voice: “ 0 lian dos elys liedendes, on dalyn Veran de rangrin priende than shalder .” ["Oh spirits of those who once lived, a son of Veran from peril prays your aid."]
    As if from very far away, as if from the heart of the earth, a low voice replied: “ Al holme, Mireldeyn .” ["We come, Mireldeyn."] As if from the dome of the sky, and very far away, a gray voice called, “ Al holme, Mireldeyn ."
    “What is it, Hal?” Alan whispered, frozen. His hair prickled.
    “Friends,” Hal replied.
    “ Holmé a eln! ” ["Come to us!"] spoke the low voice. Alan could not tell from what direction it came. It seemed to fill the world. But Hal started walking up the gentle slope, toward the barrow and the ring of standing stones. Alan and the horses followed him. From behind them came terrified screams. Alan stopped in spite of himself.
    “They are not being harmed,” Hal said. “Look."
    Alan forced himself to turn. In the failing light he could see the men running, stumbling, falling in blind terror, getting up to run again. From what they ran he could not tell, unless it was the same nameless fear which he felt choking his own mind, so that his eyes saw black and his legs felt numb. The cries of the bounty hunters faded into the distance.
    Hal turned and continued up the rise. Arundel and Alfie followed him. As he was calmly passed by his own horse, Alan's pride was stung, and somehow he willed his reluctant legs to move. He drew abreast of Hal and felt the focus of the fear, ahead of them, at the barrow. They walked closer; Alan moved like a blind man, step by slow step. Then his legs stopped. They wanted to turn and run. He kept them still, but he could not force them to go on. He could not see. His tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. With great difficulty, he moved it.
    “Hal,” he whispered, “help me."
    He felt Hal take his hand, and with that touch warmth moved through the