The interpreter spoke mockingly. “Prince Bulkezu wishes to share wine with his Wendish brother, in token of their kinship.”
“Is he going to poison me?” whispered Ekkehard, trying to look courageous and cool.
“Nay, my lord prince, he’s going to do just as he says, share a cup of wine with you that he’s taken off some poor God-fearing decent folk who are now dead and lying unburied, food for the ravens. I hope you enjoy it.”
It seemed to Hanna that not one man there was paying attention to her. There were no obvious sentries anywhere. Most of the two dozen men in the small clearing stood around watching with various expressions of amusement the interplay between their prince and his prisoners. Off to the right, beyond the tents, seven men moved among the horses. These stocky creatures looked awkward compared to the bigger, prettier mounts captured with Ekkehard. One older man with a tattooed face and wearing a strange costume composed of dozens of scraps of cloth sewn into a patchwork stood off to one side, where he fingered the elfshot gashes torn into the roan’s rump. With an absent, almost crazy smile, he smeared a yellowish paste onto the wounds, letting another man hold the horse’s head so it wouldn’t bolt.
She shifted sideways on her knees as Ekkehard made up his mind to approach the princely tent with as much dignity as his tied hands allowed. With everyone watching that little procession, she might have a chance to make a break for it.
But to what end? Would abandoning Ekkehard result in his execution? Could she really expect to escape when they had horses and she was on foot? Were the shadow elves still lurking in the forest?
Yet no matter what, no matter the risk or the consequences, she had to try to reach the king. He had to be made to understand that Quman raiding parties were overrunning the eastern borders of his kingdom.
Hanna got a foot under her, pushed up—
—and saw a needle-thin arrow skate across the snow right in front of her. It dissolved into smoke, melting down into the snow. A cloud of air, puffing out from nose and mouth, shrouded her vision briefly, but the shadow forms of the Lost Ones were unmistakable once you knew them, old enemies returned to haunt her. She sucked in air, and the mist cleared. A dozen bows aimed down at the camp as the shadow elves gathered at the forest’s edge.
At whose hands would death be worse?
Like firebrands being quenched in water, arrows hissed and smoked through the brittle air. Two struck into the snow, first at one side of her and then, as she rolled away, to the other. Tiny trails of smoke rose where the arrows melted into the snow.
It seemed impossible for such delicate threads to be so deadly.
A scream pierced the quiet clearing. A Quman soldier reeled backward, hands grasping his head. Blood leaked between his gloved fingers as he staggered and fell, although his scream echoed on and on in time to the pounding of her heart.
She scrambled backward. An arrow streaked toward the Quman prince. Whether by luck or calculation, he twisted, catching the dart on his griffin wings. A shower of sparks like a hot iron forge lit up the dawn.
Bulkezu shouted unintelligible orders. Those with horses near turned them to become shields against the shadow foe. A few Quman loosed arrows in reply, but their shots flew wildly, clumsily drawn, and the shadows always faded into bush or tree before Quman arrows could strike a target.
A half-dozen Quman soldiers shoved Prince Ekkehard and his company toward the big pavilion. Lord Welf fell, although Hanna did not see where he was hit. A burly soldier hooked him under the armpits and dragged him on after the others.
The patch-cloak man let out a sudden whoop, dancing toward the prince, who had slapped his helmet back over his head. The shaman stripped off his cloak to reveal a naked torso, his chest and back covered with fantastic blue-black tattoos. As he babbled and pranced, the designs, wild and magical animals, scenes of battle, celestial forms, began to writhe and come to life.
Hanna shook her head hard, thinking she was seeing things, and found shelter behind a stalwart pony too stupid to be scared. She could not keep her gaze from the dancing man, his stocky, hairless torso, muscular legs, and powerful arms. In each of his ears he wore a chain of three human noses. A golden needle pierced the septum of his nose, with a human ear, dried and withered, skewered on each end. His hands were gloved in skins from human feet and his feet in skins from human hands.
Bulkezu ducked, catching a shower of arrows in his wings again, and took cover behind the captured roan. But the shaman crouched in plain sight and sang. With each phrase he hunkered lower and lower until Hanna thought he meant to dig himself entirely into the snow. A white haze rose around him, like wind blowing the top layer off a snowy field, and his tattoos actually slipped off his body onto the snow and like a thousand wriggling worms climbed up onto Bulkezu, and the horse, spreading and growing until a half-dozen men and then a dozen more were dappled with his tattoos.