The sounds of pursuit were growing louder behind them now. The younger girl was dragging with exhaustion, and Nereni herself was in little better case. She ran on blindly, lacking the energy to push the sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. Her legs were weak and aching, and her face and limbs bled freely from a hundred scratches. Each breath was a gasping torment. But unless she wanted to share the other poor woman’s fate, she had no recourse but to run—and run she did. It was one thing she had learned from Aurian—to keep on going, no matter what.
Suddenly the earth dropped away beneath Nereni’s feet. Flailing in panic, she found herself sliding down a steep bank—then rolling, as her feet went out from under her. She could hear Ustila shrieking as the others tumbled down behind her. Then something hit her, hard—and the next thing she knew, the girl and soldier were both on top of her. Fighting for breath, Nereni struggled to slide out from under the tangle of bodies. As rough bark scraped her shoulders, she looked up into the towering branches of the immense old tree that had broken her fall. Now that the others were beginning to disentangle themselves, she finally managed to get free of them, using a low branch to pull herself to her feet, and discovered that they were at the bottom of a broad, steep-sided dell—a trap if ever there was one.
“Hurry!” She bent down to help the girl to her feet, but triumphant cries from above froze her in position. Even as she straightened, four Khazalim warriors came sliding down the bank. Nereni used a word she had learned from Aurian and backed against the tree, pulling Ustila to her side. She drew the knife from her belt, hiding the hand that held it in a fold of her skirt. The young soldier—though her heart went out to him, she could not, in that black moment, remember his name—scrambled to his feet and drew his sword, placing himself between the women and the enemy: a futile gesture, but brave. Nereni heard his death scream but did not see him fall, for by that time, the other Khazalim had surrounded her.
The warriors of the Khisu stopped dead at the edge of the great clearing and stared at the settlement in amazement. This cluster of woven huts, the women working around the fire, and all the other signs of a young but burgeoning community were the last things they had expected to find in the forest. The wily, scarred old veteran, who had been Xiang’s second-in-command for years, reined in his horse. He held up his hand and gestured, and the forty-odd soldiers that he had managed to save from the ambushes and collect together melted back into the forest, awaiting his signal to advance. Yet something made him hesitate. He had not survived and kept his command all these years by rushing blindly into any situation.
He frowned and played absently with his long mustaches, as he often did when he was thinking. Just what was going on here? In all his years of venturing north to raid the Horsefolk, the forest had been deserted. He was amazed that the pampered Harihn had elected to settle here, of all Reaper-forsaken places, yet the men who had ambushed his troops—and done it very well, he was forced to admit—were certainly Khazalim.
In all the ambushes, however, there had been no word of the Prince. The spineless puppy was probably skulking here, the warrior thought scornfully, as usual letting his men take all the risks. For a long moment he watched the women, all decorously veiled in the Khazalim manner, going calmly about their homely tasks, guarded only by two sleepy men who stood with drawn swords on the steps of the larger wooden building. Clearly, Harihn had never expected any of the enemy to penetrate this far. The fool must have been confident indeed. The veteran captain grinned mirthlessly to himself. Well, the Prince was going to be in for one big shock. Dropping his hand, he gave the signal to advance and spurred his mount, charging into the clearing with his soldiers swarming at his heels.
In a flash, the women at the fire shed their skirts and veils to reveal themselves as men and warriors. Even as their swords flashed in the sunlight, there came a hail of arrows from the smaller woven shelters that mowed down the charging soldiers as soon as they were in the open. Those left standing found themselves divided from each other, and fighting for their lives against groups of stern-faced warriors who once had been their countrymen. The captain’s horse screamed and went down, an arrow in its neck. The veteran rolled clear of his thrashing mount and back up to his feet, his saber still in his hand—and came face-to-face with a ghost from his past—Eliizar, the one-eyed swordsman who had once been his commanding officer. “You!” the captain gasped.
Eliizar nodded. “I am glad that you remember me,” he said grimly. His sword flashed down so quickly that the veteran barely defended himself in time. He parried clumsily and scrambled backward, almost tripping over a fallen body. Eliizar followed, his sword a whirling blur of light, the other responding with the speed of pure desperation. To his dismay, the captain discovered that despite the lack of an eye, the swordmaster had lost none of his old skills. White-hot agony ripped through his guts, and a flood of weakness overwhelmed him. Through a darkening fog of pain he saw Eliizar’s sword dripping crimson. The veteran staggered but kept his footing.
Eliizar stepped back and looked at him consideringly. “It need not be a mortal wound,” he said. “You always were one of the best, and we need good men for the new life we are making. Yield, and I will spare you. Join us, here in the forest.”
The veteran spat in his face. He raised his wavering blade again, determined to sell his life dearly. “Betray the Khisu? Never!”
Eliizar shook his head sadly. His sword swept down again, and the captain saw no more.
The swordmaster looked down at the body of his fallen foe and shook his head sadly as he leaned, panting, on his blade. I’m not as young as I was, he thought ruefully. Not only do I lack the endurance I once had, but I feel no joy now, in the slaying of a worthy opponent. How can a man rejoice in such a waste of life?
Catching his breath, Eliizar turned to survey the progress of the battle—and found that it was over. Bodies were strewn about the clearing, most of them wearing the uniform of the Khisu. A group of survivors was being held at sword point by the settlers, and the women were emerging cautiously from the longhouse to tend the groaning wounded. One of them stooped over a still form and stiffened in shock. “Eliizar,” she called urgently.
The wounded man was Jharav. His face was gray, and he breathed in wheezing, bubbling gasps. The front of his leather jerkin was stained with crimson. As Eliizar leaned over him, he opened his eyes. “Good fight,” he whispered. “Just like the old days…”
Eliizar cursed under his breath. Jharav needed help quickly. He needed Nereni… The swordmaster froze. Where was Nereni?
They had not counted on a woman fighting. The first of the Khazalim to lay hands on Nereni got the knife between his ribs, but two others—one with his arms stained crimson to the elbows with the young lad’s blood—laid hold of her and dragged her down, raining blows upon her and tearing at her clothing. The other warrior must have caught Ustila. Even as she fought her assailants, Nereni could hear the girl shrieking. The tearing cries gave her the anger-driven courage to fight all the harder. Aurian had taught her a trick or two in the time they had spent imprisoned together. She managed to wrench an arm free, and jabbed her rigid fingers into the eyes of one of her attackers. Bile rose in her throat as she felt his eyeballs yield beneath her fingers. He reeled backward, howling, his hands clasped to his face as gory fluids leaked between them. Wild with rage, his companion drove a fist into Nereni’s jaw, and she choked on the blood that flooded her mouth. Holding her down, he was too close to draw his sword—but suddenly a knife was glittering in his hand.