Sergeant Aronvald had lit no torches. His men waited in the shadows, four of them up on ladders to get aim over the wall. They were all in mail and helmets, some inherited from the dead. The half dozen Lions waiting below beside the narrow orchard gate wore brigandines and decent helmets. All had boiled leather greaves, gloves protected across the back of the hand with chain mail, and good boots—a soldier’s stout friend on the march. This she had noted when she’d first met them at the village; after so long on the road she had learned to assess quickly what manner of armor her friends, and her foes, kept on them.
A moaning cry rose out of the forest, more wail than sob, an awful racket that made her cringe and then hate herself for her fear.
“What was that?” whispered one of the men as the sound died. Wind rattled branches. The orchard swayed as if each tree were trying to come unstuck, to move its roots, to flee that noise, which rose a second time, hung in the air, and faded.
“I don’t like this,” said another Lion.
She encountered no more obstacles as she came up beside Thiadbold and Aronvald, who were talking with the intensity of men who know a decision must be made swiftly and decisively.
“… fire,” Thiadbold was saying. “So we can see them. We might see if we can shoot flaming arrows into the trees.”
“It’s not likely to work,” replied Aronvald, “as it is so damp, but I tell you, Captain, it’s better than no idea at all, and no idea is what I’m having, for we lost half our company and our good lady to these creatures.”
“If that’s what’s out there. It might be bandits. We came across some the night before we reached Freeburg, but Liath chased them off. With fire, that is. Which is how I came to think of it.”
“There’s a trick to getting the flame to hold as the arrow flies.”
“I’ll put my men to work on it. Mayhap the good nuns have some pitch—here! Hanna!”
“I’ll go and ask them at once, and take the message to Ingo, of what to expect,” she said.
“Folquin and Leo can be in charge of fixing the arrows. They’ve done something like in the past, and are clever. Go.”
This time she knew enough to skirt the stone that had tripped her before, and as she swung wide around it a golden light flared above her, hissing as it spit sparks. Had one of Aronvald’s archers gotten fire fixed so quickly?
The bright missile pierced the thatched roof of the main hall and at once streamers of flame blazed down the slanted roof. A second arrow skittered along the incline and tumbled to the ground. Two more lit the sky, arcing in over the wall, but they missed the hall and skipped over the tiles of the small chapel, the only building not roofed in thatch.
“’Ware! ’Ware!” shouted Aronvald. “Laurant! Tomas! Get to the horses! Go!”
She turned just as an arrow buried its burning head in the thatch that roofed the weaving shed. The roof of the hall smoldered but did not catch, but when a second arrow slammed into the weaving shed’s roof, flames caught and leaped and danced. The light threw twisting shadows all around, and cast yellow into men’s complexions as they backed away. Their enemy had settled on the same plan of attack: burn them out.
“Water! Water!” cried Thiadbold.
Horses neighed from the corral where they had been confined. If they panicked—
Sister Rosvita and Sister Acella appeared on the porch of the hall. Smoke leaked out of the door, wrapping them in a writhing gray aura that dissipated an instant later in the wind.
Must go, she thought, knowing herself vulnerable out in the open, but she could not make her feet move as a fire broke out in the thatch of a storage hut. A clamor began out by the main gate, men shouting an alert, men running. A man screamed.
“Hit! Hit!”
“Pull him back!” That was Ingo calling out commands. Ai, God. “Where’s that cart? Faster, boys! Get it in place! Keep your heads down!”
“It burns! Ai! Ai!”
“Hold him down! Get him to the hall!”
“Hanna!” The cry came from Thiadbold.
She turned toward him, and saw a streak, a shadow. “Thiadbold!”
Too late. The arrow cut through his glove and stuck, bobbing as he cursed and yanked it free. Aronvald, behind him, sprang forward, shoved the captain to the ground so hard that Thiadbold collapsed straight down on his back, arms flung out. The sergeant swung with all his strength and with precise aim. He severed Thiadbold’s left arm midway along the forearm, cut it clean off.
Thiadbold seemed in shock, perhaps from hitting his head on the ground, as the sergeant dropped his own sword and fell to his knees, unbuckling his belt. There was blood, but Hanna was too far to see it gush from the wound, only trails of it rushing past Aronvald’s kneeling figure. The flow slowed to a trickle.
