My heart sinks into an even deeper despair.
I am so tired, yet I do not dare sleep. I lift my eyes to the dark sky, hoping that the men will soon crawl into their beds. I cannot bear the suspense of awaiting our discovery or our moment of escape.
When the first startled cry comes, I merely disregard it as part of the men’s revelry. But then another comes, and another. Shouted commands, the clash of blades, and screams of pain and terror swiftly follow. Ágota dares to rise to her knees, craning her head to attempt to see what has befallen the encampment. I start to follow, but she presses me down with one firm hand. Shaking her head , she signals for my silence.
The noises emanating from the camp are violent. Grunts, curses, cries of pain, and the clank of metal assure me that a battle is underway. The horses snort and whinny provoking me to stifle sobs at the thought of them being killed. I am childishly relieved when I hear them thundering away at a gallop. Soon the reek of blood is carried on the wind. It mingles with other distasteful smells. I gag and cover my mouth with the collar of my blouse.
Ágota pulls my cloak from the bag and then her own. Motioning for me to be careful, she stores the black feather away and pulls the hood over her head. My fingers are stiff from the cold, but I manage to fasten the cloak at my throat. Gesturing for me to keep low to the ground, Ágota slings the bag across her chest. Together, we slowly crawl through the meadow in the direction of the woods. The grass is coarse against my palms and slaps at my face as I bite back my tears and follow Ágota.
The sounds of combat fades away, not because we are gaining distance from it, but because there is apparently a victor. In the aftermath, men call out in agony for their mothers, only to be silenced one by one. Perhaps my wish came true and The White Woman of the Wood has inflicted her vengeance on the men who dared violate her land.
Ágota dares to climb to her feet, crouching over to stay out of view, and takes hold of my hand. Hurrying toward the trees, the urgency of our escape makes my heart flutter with fright.
The silence that fills the night is more terrifying than the sound of the battle a few short minutes before. Ágota does not even bother to hunch over anymore as the trees loom closer. I cling to her hand, my legs pumping in the effort to match her swift pace. We are nearly to the trees when Ágota gasps, spins about and snatches me up in her arms. I do not see what frightened her so terribly, but I cling to her as she runs. Staring over her shoulder, I peer at the ruins of the camp. Firelight illuminates the torn bodies of men. Blood splashes the tents and covers the corpses. The victors are nowhere to be seen.
My sister stumbles to a halt, her chest heaving against mine. Gasping for air, she spins about as though searching for something.
“What is it?” I sob in fright.
“Hold onto me. Do not let go,” Ágota replies.
Struggling to run with me in her arms, she rushes through the meadow toward a slope the leads higher into the mountains. Boulders and trees offer a hiding places. We are almost to the base of the incline when something drops from the sky and lands on a large pile of rocks before us. I twist about in my sister’s grip to see what has followed us, hoping that perhaps it is The White Lady of the Wood coming to our rescue.
Instead, I glimpse a tall blonde woman dressed as a soldier. Her black tunic is over a mail shirt and she holds a sword covered in blood. Her long hair is braided and coiled over one shoulder. In the moonlight, her eyes appear black as pitch and her bright red lips slide into a smile.
“What have I found?” she asks in German, but with an accent.
“Travelers,” Ágota blurts out.
The blood dripping from the sword
stains the rocks the warrior woman stands upon. Staring at her face in the moonlight, I observe she is both beautiful and cruel.
I am enthralled and afraid.
“We beg your mercy,” Ágota says. “We are not your enemies. We were hiding from the men and mean no harm to you.”
The dark eyes observe my sister thoughtfully but show no tenderness toward our situation. “Yet, you lie to me.”
“No, I do not. I swear it,” Ágota replies. “We are travelers. We are passing through Styria on our way to our father’s home in Transylvania.”
“Why so far from home, witch?”
Flustered, Ágota is speechless.
“Yes, I know what you are, Ágota. The White Lady of the Wood said she’d allowed a witch and her human servant, Erzsébet, to enter her domain.”
“I am her sister! Not her servant!” I declare, lifting my chin.
To my surprise, the woman smiles. “Oh, my mistake.”
“I am not lying about our journey, but you must understand why I must keep my nature a secret,” Ágota exclaims in her defense.
“You did not use your magic against the men, or to hide yourself. Or even against me. You sustained your vow to The White Woman of the Wood,” the stranger says, one arched eyebrow lifting. “Impressive for someone so young and so afraid.”
“I made a promise to The White Lady of the Wood,” Ágota replies. “I keep my word.”
“Do you know what I am?”