The Silver Witch(64)

The first blow misses me only because I hear the sound of the sword cutting through the air as it descends, and spring to my right. The first rider wheels his horse about, while the second charges straight at me. I time my jump poorly, and though his sword does not find its target, his horse catches me a glancing blow and I am knocked to the ground. I leap to my feet, slicing at the leg of the nearest attacker. He screams curses. I press home my advantage, raising my arms and shrieking a hex as I run at his horse’s head. The animal is spooked by the combination of my voice, the harsh words and my wolf headdress, sending it skittering sideways, so that the rider momentarily loses control of the horse, distracted as he is by the blood that begins to gush from his wounded limb.

I spin about, ready to face the second man, but I am too late to avoid him this time. He is already so close that I snatch his horse’s bridle, forcing the animal to twist as it slithers to a halt. The attacker has no room to swing his sword about, so instead he brings the hilt down upon my head. His aim is expert, so that he avoids my headdress, which might have afforded me some protection, striking me through only the skin of the wolf. The crunch of my own skull as the force of the metal connects with it echoes through my head, and I crumple to the ground. The snow softens my fall, but the blow has left me helpless. That I should be rendered defenseless with a single strike! I feel anger at myself. I let down my guard, and now I am paying the price. My would-be assassin looms above me, his horse’s iron-clad hooves churning the snow to a filthy mush as it fidgets and stamps. He cares not if it treads upon me. My eyes start to fail, so that everything swims before them, shifting and blurring. I can discern the movements of my attackers, and I feel the thud through my body as the nearest one dismounts and strides toward me. Who is it, I wonder idly, who wants me dead? Who have I angered so? Who has most to gain? Had I time, I could seek out the answers. But my life can now be measured in seconds. Through the cloud that drifts before my eyes, that has come to claim my final vision, I see the henchman stand above me and raise his sword in both hands, high above his head.

There is a cry. From the second rider. The swordsman hesitates. He looks away from me, first toward his fellow, then forward. He does not bring down his mighty sword. He does not deliver the fatal blow. Instead he staggers backward, in such haste that he stumbles, dropping his weapon and falling onto the snow, only to scramble as quickly to his feet once more. Both men are shouting now. As my attacker hauls himself onto his whinnying horse and whips it into a gallop, I hear a low rumble behind me. With failing strength, I roll to my side and push myself up onto my elbow, raising my shattered head as best I can. Now I see what has driven terror into their black hearts—the Afanc! She has returned to save me! She rears up, high above the water, lifting her head and letting loose a blast of sound unlike any that exists apart from within her. Her noble face is the last thing I see before I slump into the snow and drift into the comfort of the beckoning darkness.

* * *

On my bed of snow, the winter air filling my lungs, the cold masks my pain. I do not suffer. I could slumber here, as I fade to eternal stillness, and not experience any agony of death. It is tempting to do so. To allow myself to be drawn to that place where I may at last take my ease, no longer troubled by the woes of the world, the quarrels of men, the ravages of age, the ache of my own foolish heart. Yes, it is tempting. But what of my prince, then? If he is truly in danger, and now I must believe him to be, who else but I can warn him of the treachery that will see him dead? I must tell him of my vision. I must show him what happens to those who point the finger of suspicion at his nonblood kin. I must speak to him. I must go to him.

But my senses are numbed, my limbs doubled in weight, my will draining away with my blood into the snow. Such a cumbersome thing, the body of a human. Too much reliance lies in the head. Too much. We have let our frames become frailer down generations, in favor of our seething minds and greedy hearts. Instinct has been dulled by thought. I cannot get to my feet, let alone drag myself back to the crannog. As I am, I am finished. My only hope, then, is to become other than I am.

I have none of my shaman’s tools to aid me. I am away from my potions and infusions. I do not have the luxury of time to conjure or spellcast. I must act quickly, before the cold that holds me so softly hastens me to my end. I must make that leap, as I have done so many times before, but this time I make it unaided. And I must do so not in a vision, not leaving my womanly body to sit by the fire while my spirit travels where it will. Not this time. This time, my transformation must be complete. I must take my damaged body with me. I must shapeshift to my other self, my stronger, lighter, fleeter self, which will be able to withstand the wound, to carry me on lithe limbs, quickly and silently across the snow to the crannog. To my prince.