Jharav was standing at the edge of the clearing with the Khisu’s purple cloak in his hand, scanning the surrounding earth in search of any tracks or other clues to his enemy’s whereabouts. His frown rivaled Eliizar’s own, for he was one of the Prince Harihn’s ex-troopers, and Xiang had been his enemy long before he had joined the settlers. As the swordmaster approached, the grizzled warrior looked up from his contemplation of the ground. “My sorrow,” he said heavily, “that I let this viper escape. In the thick of the fighting, he seems to have crept off through the undergrowth.”
“We will find him,” Eliizar reassured the man. “The men must search—”
He was interrupted by the return of the Skyfolk. “Eliizar,” Finch was shouting, even before he had landed. “Help is needed. A large group of the invaders has broken through our defenses over to the east, and is heading toward the settlement!”
“Reaper’s curse!” Eliizar snarled. “The women there are undefended! Everyone—leave the fallen! Back to the settlement!”
Within an instant, the clearing was deserted once more as the defending settlers raced for home. Eliizar commandeered a captured Khazalim mount and leapt astride. The animal squealed and sidestepped, terrified by the Skyfolk, and he wrenched its head round, holding it in tightly. “Petrel, Finch—gather our other warriors from the forest and send them back to the settlement. Make sure they bring all the women!” Then he released his frantic mount and was off like an arrow, spurring away through the trees.
The settlement, as yet, was barely deserving of the name. It was nothing but a cluster of woven shelters that huddled in a broad clearing near a stream, with other, more sturdy timber dwellings in various early stages of construction. So far, only one permanent building had been completed, and that was currently being used as a meeting place and a retreat for everyone in bad weather. Today, it was doubling as an infirmary.
The women who had remained behind were attending to the first few wounded who had already been brought in. Those outside who were tending the fire looked up in surprise and consternation when Eliizar galloped into the clearing with Jharav and a handful of other mounted warriors hot on his heels. The swordmaster leapt from his lathered mount and flung the reins into the hands of the nearest man. “Hide the horses!” He turned to the knot of startled women by the fire. “The enemy is coming. Take what you need and get inside the longhouse. No matter what happens, I want absolute silence from everyone in there. Keep the wounded quiet in any way you can. Now go!” The frightened women scurried to obey him.
By this time, groups of warriors and the women who had been taking part in various ambushes were running back into the clearing, warned by the Winged Folk. Eliizar gathered them together. During his wild race through the forest, he had been thinking quickly. Summoning Jharav to his side, he began to explain his plan. By the time he had finished, most of his warriors had returned. He looked quickly from one to another, expecting questions, but none came. All of them understood. Eliizar’s heart swelled with pride. Every one of them was more than ready to lay down his life for… Suddenly Eliizar realized that one familiar, beloved face was missing. His heart froze within him. “Nereni!” he gasped. “We must find her!”
Jharav laid a restraining hand on his arm. “It is too late,
Eliizar—we must take our places. Already the enemy approach.”
Nereni, her little band of three other women and the two young soldiers who guarded them, had concealed themselves so well in the undergrowth near one of the forest trails that they had been missed in the general panic of the call to return. So they stayed in position, according to their orders, waiting for other victims to happen along, or for word that it was safe to disperse. At first the waiting was easy, for they were buoyed by their success, and understandably proud of the role they had played in the defense of their settlement.
The mixture of herbs and tree sap—a secret of the Winged Folk, with which they had coated their darts—had worked perfectly, itching and burning in the tiny wounds until the horses of the invaders had become maddened, throwing and trampling their riders or bearing them helplessly away to fall prey to the warriors who waited farther along the track. Although the young women—who had hitherto occupied all their lives with gentle, feminine tasks in the service of the Prince Harihn—had turned pale and sick at the sight of the ensuing gore and violence, they soon overcame their revulsion in the knowledge that they were defending their men and their homes. Nereni, who could sympathize with their distress, having seen far worse in her travels with the Magefolk, was proud of the courage they had shown.
As time went on, however, the women began to grow restive. A long time had passed since any victims had come their way, and there had been no sight or sound of their own folk. Had they been forgotten? And what should they do now? The two young soldiers, with scant experience between them of warfare, were little help. Eventually, after a long and intense debate conducted in whispers, the ambushers decided that they must have been overlooked and should head for home. After all, there had been no sign of life in their part of the forest for ages. Surely it must be safe now to emerge from their refuge.
For a time, all went well. Nervously, at first, they pushed their way with difficulty through the tangled underbrush to one side of the track. Thin branches snagged them with thorns, tearing their skin and catching in their hair and clothing. The going was dreadful underfoot, with nettles and briars, roots to trip them, and concealed, uneven hummocks and hollows in the ground to turn an unsuspecting ankle. After a time, they had had enough. After all, they had seen nothing on the trail to alarm them. Scratched, begrimed, and sweating, they abandoned the slow and difficult route with relief, and came out on to the open track itself. Nereni was beginning to relax now, convinced that they had made the right decision, after all. It had worried her, for a time, that they were disobeying orders, and she had found herself at a loss without the support and experience of her former comrades. How she missed them—especially now. Still, it seemed that she could manage on her own, after all…
Rounding a sharp bend in the trail where two paths joined, they walked right into a dozen Khazalim warriors. It was hard to tell who got the biggest shock. For an instant, the two groups stood looking at each other: Nereni’s group transfixed in horror; the invaders suspecting some kind of trick. Then it dawned on them that their opponents were really no more than they seemed: two callow youths and a handful of women. As one, they charged.
Shrieking, the women scattered into the bushes that bordered the track as one of the young soldiers was cut down where he stood. The invaders’ horses could not penetrate the undergrowth, and the Khazalim wasted precious seconds having to dismount. Her heart hammering in panic, Nereni forced her way through the bushes, careless now of thorns and whipping branches, dragging Ustila—at barely fifteen, the youngest of the girls—behind her, and with the surviving young soldier at their heels. Piercing screams came from somewhere off to their left, and Nereni’s stomach knotted in terror and revulsion. One of the women, at least, had been caught. Ustila broke into sobs and stumbled, and the older woman yanked her savagely to her feet. “Come on! Do you want to share her fate?” Mercilessly, she pulled the girl onward.