“Abioye!” I hissed as quietly as I could, holding a hand out and stepping forward again—to see a glow appear in the fog in front of us. Crimson and warm, and accompanied by the crackle of burning twigs and the sweet, sweet scent of roasting meats. The glow grew brighter, resolving itself into a fire between two boulders, with a bundle of rags on the ground around it, a discarded cloak perhaps.
The fire still burned, but on the side of the nearest larger boulder there were already laid out several strips of some tawny-brown meat. Wild buck, I thought.
“But where is everybody?” Abioye whispered at my side, looking from the meat to the fire to the rags on the ground. Whoever had been cooking here wouldn’t be gone long—the meat still had the gleam of wet fats on its surface, as if they had just been hauled from the coals…
Abioye looked at the strips of deer flesh, and I knew that he must be thinking the same thing that I was—surely whoever it was wouldn’t begrudge two starving and put-upon travelers just one strip of meat each?
But no. I held myself back. As much as I wanted to, this looked too smart. A little too inviting. Even though Daza rules of courtesy told me that I hadn’t partaken of this hunt—and therefore I had no right to that food unless the hunter offered it—it wasn’t just that awareness that held me back. What hunter leaves their kill unguarded in the Plains? I thought. The Plains were filled with creatures that would steal your food, given half a chance—and then decide to try and eat you, too!
No—something is wrong about this… I was in the middle of considering, when Abioye made up his mind, sheathing his sword to step forward, pulling the glove from one of his hands and reaching out—
Thwap! Suddenly, Abioye fell to the ground, rolling over and over. “Ach!
“Abioye!” I sprang forward to his side, to see something wrapped around his ankle—a rope-hoop, a simple form of a trap that he must have triggered…
“Dammit!” Abioye muttered, as I looked around quickly. The rope shot out into the murk—presumably tied to tree limb or pole that had been bracing the tension. I had to cut the rope or loosen the hoop—but I didn’t have a blade!
“Abioye—give me your sword,” I hissed, already grabbing the pommel from his scabbard and starting to draw it out just as the sound of pounding feet filled our ears.
“We got someone!” a man’s voice shouted, and a tall, dark-cloaked figure in a tight-fitting studded-leather helmet barreled out of the mists, his own blade already raised.
“Little Sister!” Ymmen roared angrily.
Stars! I swore, spinning myself around and raising Abioye’s blade just in time to clang it against the downward sweep of the attacking Red Hound.
“Ugh!” I grunted with the force of the blow and swiped with Abioye’s blade at the man’s legs—but he easily skittered out of the way with a simple jump.
Abioye’s blade was longer and larger than any weapon I was used to—but it was weighted well, with a heavy pommel at one end. But still, for all of its fine craftsmanship, it was a weapon that I hadn’t been trained in, and as I staggered to my feet in front of the guard I knew that he would have the upper hand.
And he knows it, too, I thought as I saw the man’s evil grin.
“It’s them! Tell the captain it’s them!” the Red Hound mercenary shouted as he took another swing at me. I had to use both hands on the hilt of the blade as I parried his second blow, and all the while Abioye struggled with the hoop on his ankle behind me.
Clang! Another parry, and even though I lunged forward, trying to copy the movements I had seen Abioye perform in battle, I knew my footwork was all wrong, and this time when the mercenary parried my attack, he hit Abioye’s sword and then did something with his wrist to turn my blade.
“Ach!” Abioye’s finely crafted blade spun out of my hand, end-over-end, and vanished into the mists to one side of me—leaving the mercenary standing in front of me with his blade leveled at my chest, drawing it back, ready to run me through.
“The cap said he wanted you two alive—but I lost two good friends to that mud last night…” the mercenary growled.
Thock! The man staggered backward, a black-and-white fletched long arrow sticking out of his throat.
What? I watched in a sort of slow-motion horror as the Red Hound tottered on his feet, his hands making feeble movements to scrabble at his own neck in disbelief as he wheezed and tried to breathe—and then the mercenary fell to the ground.
Okay. That was not something I was expecting, I thought, just as grunts and sounds of short, sharp-sounding movements came from the mists. Suddenly, another Red Hound stumbled out of the mists, arms waving frantically in the air before—Thock—another arrow met him in the center of the back, dead before he hit the floor.
“Abioye.” I rushed to help Abioye with the knotted rope at his ankle, when a voice coughed above me.
“I think it would be easier if you used one of these.” It was a woman’s voice, and the owner of it had stepped out of the mists to kneel down and cut the rope with one sharp and savage movement with her curved hunting knife. It was a skinning knife. The sort that we Souda used.
Not only that, but the woman who wielded both the knife and the voice wore the simple, close-fitting sleeveless leather jerkin of the Souda, and her woven trews had the same leg-bindings that we Daza wore to stop our trousers snagging on the plants and thorns as we ran across the Plains. Her hair was black like mine, but it was fantastically braided where my own plait was plain. Her braids were decorated with the many bright blue ribbons that I remembered this woman wearing as a younger girl—it matched the blue of her bound trews.
She had always like sky blue, perhaps because it was the hardest dye to make, I thought as I looked into the older and sterner face of the Daza woman who was glaring at me.
“Narissea,” the woman hissed in her low voice.
“Naroba,” I greeted her. She was Naroba of the Souda, and she had been my village rival ever since I was old enough to hold a bow.
Chapter 16
Naroba
“It would have to be you, wouldn’t it?” Naroba surprised me by muttering angrily at me, before looking over her shoulder and whistling a long trill of notes—a few seconds later, more Daza tribesmen and women stepped out of the mists with bows and short spears.
More Souda tribespeople, I saw, as my heart jumped into my mouth.
“Aroul! Benassa! Namki!” I recognized faces of some of our most experienced hunters and warriors, but only broad and tall Benassa smiled back as she stepped forward to hand something to Naroba.
“Good to see you again, Little Nari,” she said gruffly, but my eyes were on what she had just handed to Naroba.
The staff of the Imanu. My mother’s staff. It was made of dark black Ever-Wood, which was a rare tree in the Plains as it was so large. The wood was difficult to cut and even worse to burn—and there were a hundred different traditions and customs relating to those who foolishly disrespected the solitary Ever-wood trees. Which was why its timber was used almost solely for the creation of ritual objects, like an Imanu’s staff, or their smaller ritual objects. This staff was whorled and humped at the top, where its natural curves and growths of root-knots had been allowed to stay, and polished to a dull gleam.