Bulkezu cursed wickedly, standing at the brink, not going forward into the current although the river looked fordable. She crouched to splash water on her face. Its touch stung, so sharp a pain especially on her bruises and cuts that she whimpered, trying to hold the sound in so he wouldn’t know how scared she was. That was the lesson she and Matthias had learned in Gent: never let your fear rule you. Those ruled by fear died.
The wailing cry cut through the air again, closer now, followed by an answer off to the right and, abruptly, a third yipping wail behind them.
A rider galloped toward them along the shore of the river. Anna blinked, thinking the sun or her injuries had addled her mind: the creature had only one head, yet it was obviously human. Wasn’t it?
“Pray God,” she murmured, drawing the Circle of Unity at her breast, waiting for Bulkezu to force them out into the water. “Lord and Lady protect us.”
“Anna! It’s centaurs! I heard them coming!”
Bulkezu broke to the right, but as Blessing bolted for the slope, he whirled back, grabbed her, and slammed her against his body, holding his knife to her throat.
Three horsemen came out of the grass, bows drawn and arrows fixed, aiming right at Blessing’s chest. Anna’s heart thudded madly.
They were not horsemen.
They were not human.
They were women—that was obvious, for they went bare-breasted—but at their hips their human form flowed away and became beasts. Women with the bodies of horses.
Centaurs.
Bulkezu did not move nor did his knife waver.
One of the centaurs, a cream-colored mare with dark hair on her woman’s head, spoke to him in words Anna could not understand. Still he did not move, although he was surrounded.
“They told you to let us go!” shouted Blessing indignantly, squirming in his grasp. “I hate you, you smelly bag of grease!”
He released her. The centaurs backed up, still with their arrows trained on him, but they did not move as he bolted away upriver, running east toward the crags.
“I told you something was coming, Anna! No one ever believes me!”
Anna staggered. The sun made the swaying grass into a green-gold haze, impossible to focus on. A cloud of white butterflies rose up from the shoreline of the river, light winking with each beat of their dazzling wings. A distant call rose, high-pitched, melding with the song of the river. Far above, a graceful shape emerged out of the vanguard of the new storm sweeping in from the east.
“Look!” shrieked Blessing. “Look there!”
Its iron wings flashed and glittered, catching the sun’s light. It wore an eagle’s proud head and a lion’s strong body, with a snake’s tail lashing as it flew. If it saw them, it ignored them; perhaps they were beneath its notice. Certainly it was too far away for any of the centaur women to shoot at it.
“I knew we’d reached the hunting grounds! Now we can hunt!”
Anna’s knees gave out, but she did not hit the ground.
Strong arms caught her, and she was lifted as easily as a grown woman hoists a weary infant and thrown across the back of the cream-colored mare.
She clutched at the creature’s mane to drag herself upright. This was neither mare nor woman. Creatures out of legend had rescued them. Bulkezu had not raped and murdered them. They were free. Laughing, crying, she could not speak to thank them, but she had no need to do so since Blessing had already begun asking questions, demanding to know more about the griffins and the river and the storm of butterflies.
Someday Anna would go home to Gent and tell the tale of her adventures. Matthias would never believe her.
That thought only made her cry more.
3
“CENTAURS!” breathed Captain Fulk. Like the rest of the men, he stared in astonishment at the inhuman army—perhaps five hundred strong—that approached their hastily-drawn line.
“Let the men remain in formation,” said Sanglant, “but do not act unless I give you a signal. Or if I fall.”
“My lord prince!”
“I know what I’m doing. Breschius, accompany me.”
He sheathed his sword and stepped out in front of the line of soldiers drawn up along the slope with the camp behind them. They had a terrible position, downslope, where the weight of the centaur charge would press them backward into the wreckage of their camp, scattered, frightened horses, tangled ropes, twisted and fallen canvas everywhere … yet such a ruin gave dismounted soldiers an advantage over four-legged opponents.
Breschius and Hathui fell in behind him as he trudged up the slope toward the creatures advancing at a walk over the crest. Behind, men called out, calming horses, seeking armor, trading weapons, strengthening their line in case the worst happened. He had only his red cloak to shield him should they attack—that, and his mother’s curse. “Are these the sorcerers we seek, Breschius?”
