B007IIXYQY EBOK by Donna Gillespie

meant to come no closer to the dark grove; he slowed, then cast his spear before turning back. But the dark-haired warrior seemed not to know an ash from an apple tree. He ran with the frenzied energy of a hound closing on game, powerful strides pulling him steadily closer. His broad chest strained against the close-fitting red tunic. The muscles of his upper arms seemed ready to burst the warrior’s ring that encircled them. He meant to have her.
    With one hand she sought beneath her tunic for Ramis’ amulet of sacred earth, the aurr, and pressed it to her breast. She thought she felt it quicken and grow warm. Sacred earth, flesh and mind of Fria, keep me on the path to my fate, she prayed. But perhaps her fate was to die.
    When she came alongside the upright spear, she acted without thought, grappling with it desperately, then managing to pull it up, nearly unseating herself. From behind she heard a sputtered curse. The spear felt heavy and awkward in her hand. Athelinda had taught her spear-casting along with the many arts of the homestead, for a woman must be able to defend field and hall in time of raids. But the spears she used were lighter, and not iron tipped, and she cast them at nothing more fearsome than posts.
    I’ve enraged him—now he will kill me cruelly and slowly. But he has one spear—if he misses, I’m armed and he’s not. Surely he will think of that. I’ve never killed a man, only hares …. I cannot! Yet it is done every day. Will his ghost pursue me off the world’s edge? I know my ghost would pursue him. Does Baldemar consider these things before he slays? I will not live to ask him.
    The sky disappeared behind a rippling canopy of ash boughs. She was swallowed up in holy gloom. The warrior of the Hermundures was but four horse lengths behind; his heaving breath was rasping and loud in this hushed place. Why had he no fear? “Should any man enter the Ash Grove who was not called in by its Spirit,” the Holy Ones warned, “he will not walk out again in human shape.”
    We will become sparrows. Or both of us will be imprisoned in a tree, living a life of tiresome sameness, our feet embedded in earth, our leafy hair touching the sky. My mother and father will never guess what became of me.
    The ash trees watched her dourly, too venerable and aged to react swiftly to this intrusion. Where were the grove’s priestesses and priests? No one ever told her if they too sought cover in a raid. Hollow silence pooled in the bluish deeps between austere trunks; gauzy shafts of light occasionally illumined the forest floor. The slender pillars of this temple stood free and alone: The Ash was proud and let nothing grow beneath it—any hapless plant that tried was strangled by its roots or killed by its shade.
    Brunwin staggered pitifully, and she knew he must rest or die. His coat was now wholly soaked and his wheezing hurt her to hear.
    It is time. I must try to save myself, or I disgrace all my kin.
    She pulled hard on the reins, but the pony would not slow. So she raised herself up and sprang from his back while keeping a good grip on the reins with one hand and holding the spear aloft in the other. She fell hard. Brunwin reared, his body twisting round as he came to the end of the rein. The warrior slowed in surprise. He danced lightly toward her, balancing the spear, deftly taking aim. She saw he was fair of face and full of brash confidence.
    She moved behind an ash tree, careful not to injure it by touching the gray-green bark, dragging the pony with her. Sick terror rose in her throat. The warrior approached with caution, gracefully springing sideways round the tree. She did not understand why he was so determined to slay her rather than take her alive; it was one more element of the raid that was both horrifying and peculiar. To him, she was no more than a wild animal to be taken down; the random malice of a troll flickered in his eyes.
    As she moved too, careful to keep the tree between them,