Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [75]
She lined up six arrows point-down into the snow, then put a seventh on the string. Seven. Always her lucky number. She pulled back her arrow, sighted carefully on the lookout, and let fly.
The first missed, lodging in his shoulder. But before he could shout, her second took him in the throat. Her third and fourth went into one of the sleepers, as two more arrows hit the sentry before he could slump to the ground, her fifth and sixth went into the next sleeper, and her seventh into a third. By that time, all of the men but the one she had designated as the one to save were feathered with four to six shafts, all without any of them uttering a sound. The last one woke by being kicked over by Aeron, to find three swords pointed at his throat.
He tried to get up and fight anyway. That didn’t last long. He was lying down, and although his ax was at his hand, there wasn’t much he could do before a vicious slash to his arm opened it up from wrist to elbow. Aeron was the best of them at sword work; he managed to keep from cutting the man open so badly he would bleed to death before they got any information from him.
Gwen had stayed well out of his line of sight, letting the men disarm him and tie him up. She had an idea; she didn’t much like the results she had been getting from beating information out of prisoners—it tended to be wrong as often as right, and there was no way of knowing which. She’d talked this over with the troop this morning; they had agreed with her on that point and decided to let her try something different.
One of the things in her kit was powdered chalk; she dusted her hands with it when she was going to attempt a difficult climb or when she was unsure of her grip on a weapon. While the other two kept the prisoner busy, Aeron came over and helped her dust it all over her face. She held her breath to keep from inhaling any of it, then did the same with her bare hands. Then she took off her cloak, and unbound her hair, and approached the prisoner from behind, naked sword in her white hands.
Owain wrenched him around when she was in place and forced him to his knees so that he gaped up at the white-faced, white-haired, gray-clad virago glaring down at him.
His eyes registered his shock. She smiled.
“Do you know what I am?” she whispered in Saxon. She had reckoned that whispering would be more impressive than speaking.
His mouth worked for some time before any words came out. “Th-th-th-the White Ghost!” he stammered, sweat starting all over his greasy brow.
She leaned down slightly. “Yes,” she breathed. “And I eat men’s souls. The bodies I leave for my black chickens.”
As if on cue, several ravens, attracted by the red blood soaking into the white snow and made bold by winter hunger, alighted in the tree branches above her, calling. She did not bother to keep the glee from her face. This could not have been timed better if she had planned it.
His face had been white with pain and fear, but now every vestige of blood drained from it. She leaned forward a little more. “I have feasted upon the spirits of your companions,” she said, narrowing her eyes and smiling as if sated. “And I am inclined to let you live—if you tell me what I wish to know.”
She straightened, and allowed the smile to slip from her face. “You might as well,” she added. “I will have it from you anyway.”
By the time the man fainted, he had told her everything he knew. Not a great deal, but it was enough. Indeed, this group had been advance scouts to test the borders of Pywll, moving ahead of the Saxon army. As she had suspected, they were making a push here, but not only because of the pressure that High King Arthur was putting on the Saxon kingdoms in the east; they hoped to flank him by spring, and when his army rode out again, to cut it off from his lands and supplies.
As her men looted the bodies—and she made a good