The Silver Witch

But they do not speak. They urge their horses on until they circle me so close I am flecked by foam from the mouths of the destriers as they champ their iron bits. The silence of the men is menacing. It is clear by the way they watch me, drawing nearer and nearer, that they are not on some night hunt, nor making a journey, but they have come in search of me. And now I am found. I take my blade from my belt and turn as they circle me, trying to watch both riders, but they dig their spurred heels into the flanks of their increasingly agitated horses, spinning about me, faster and faster. Had I time to prepare, I might have cast a spell to protect myself. I could have transfixed their horses, or sent an apparition to confuse my assailants, or disguised myself. But I am caught unawares, alone, away from my home, my back to the water.

‘What do you want from me? Who sent you?’ I shout, for it is plain they are here on the instructions of another. These are not schemers or planners, not men of thought and guile. These are brute weapons, wielded by one who hides in safety while they go about his or her work. These are nothing more or less than instruments of death.

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.