Nereni had known from the start that it was hopeless. Even if they had raped her, they would have killed her afterward. At least she had spared herself that pain and humiliation. Eliizar would have been proud of her…
The knife rose, flashing blood-red in the sunset light—and dropped from convulsing fingers as the man choked, eyes bulging, clawing vainly at the thin cord that was looped around his throat. Even as he was jerked away from her, a wiry hand pulled Nereni to her feet, and she found herself looking up into Petrel’s storm-dark eyes. She doubled over his arm, retching and spitting out blood and a tooth that had been knocked loose by her attacker’s fist. When she straightened, blotting her streaming eyes with a rag of her torn skirt, she saw Finch removing his foot from the Khazalim’s back as he wound up the bloody cord. Ustila, her clothing torn, was huddled, sobbing, among the roots of the great tree. Her assailant lay beside her, a Skyfolk dagger with its distinctive carved-bone haft protruding from his back. Not far away, the man Nereni had blinded lay dead, his skull smashed by a large stone. Petrel spread his great white wings, blotting out the horrors from her sight. “Come, brave Lady,” he said gently. “The worst is over now. We will take you home.”
A frantic Eliizar was organizing search parties when he heard the sound of wings in the distance, and saw the Skyfolk swooping toward the clearing, dipping dangerously near the treetops with their human burdens. As Petrel landed with Nereni he rushed forward, his heart turning to ice at the sight of her tattered, bloodstained clothing and her bruised and swollen face.
“Nereni!” As he took her in his arms he could feel her shaking, but she lifted her chin proudly and scrubbed the tears from her eyes with her sleeve in an impatient gesture that was oddly reminiscent of Aurian. “I’m all right,” she said thickly, through swollen lips. “The Skyfolk saved us, just in—” Over his shoulder, she caught sight of Jharav. “Eliizar, no! He isn’t…”
“No, but he is badly wounded,” Eliizar told her gently.
“I must help him!” Brushing aside his protests that she was also in need of care, Nereni rushed to the side of the wounded man.
The swordmaster turned to the Winged Folk. “I can’t thank you enough,” he began, but Petrel forestalled him. “Think no more of it,” he told Eliizar. “Today, for the first time in centuries, the Skyfolk have actively joined in the affairs of a groundling race. Finch and I have discovered that we can care—and fight—for someone not of our own kind, and that felt good to us. If it please you, we would like to bring our mates here, and any others that we can persuade to, come, and settle in the mountains at the edge of the forest to be your friends, and to join in your endeavors: the two communities, in the sky and on the ground, acting to help and support each other.”
Eliizar’s jaw dropped open. Not only was this the longest speech that he had heard one of the Winged Folk make, but its content astounded and delighted him. Smiling, he held out his hands to the two winged warriors. “Join us and be welcome,” he told them. “I can think of nothing that would please me more.”
An hour later, the clearing had been transformed as, despite their exhaustion, the settlers hurried to clear the aftermath of the battle from their home and from their lives. Food was being cooked on several fires, and savory smells were beginning to drift on the darkening evening air. The wounded had been settled in the longhouse under the devoted care of the remaining women, and Nereni had reported that Jharav was still clinging to his life. “If we can get him through tonight,” she had told Eliizar, “I believe he has every chance of recovery. The Reaper knows, the old fool is tough enough—and stubborn enough—to pull through.”
The remainder of the evening’s work had left Eliizar far less happy. A plume of greasy smoke arose from a nearby clearing, where the bodies of friend and foe were being burned on separate pyres. Despite his misgivings about the wisdom of the move, he had offered the captured survivors of Xiang’s forces a chance to join the settlers—but he need not have worried. All had remained unswervably loyal to Xiang, and had refused to break their oath of allegiance. To a man, they had taken the only honorable way out that he’d been able to leave them, and had fallen on their blades. Eliizar was sickened by the waste of so many good men. Once again, he blessed Aurian for giving him the opportunity to leave the land that had been responsible for so many atrocities. The events of this day would haunt him to the end of his life.
But these were no thoughts for a day of victory! The swordmaster had walked apart from his people to the edge of the clearing, hoping that the solitude would help settle his mind when, to his relief, he heard the sound of the Winged Folk coming home. They had offered to do one last sweep of the forest before the light was gone, to make sure that none of the invaders had slipped through the net, but they had been gone far longer than necessary for that and, as darkness had fallen, Eliizar had begun to grow worried.
“Good news,” cried the impatient Finch, speaking, as was his habit, before he’d even reached the ground. “We have located your missing King!”
“At least we believe so,” added the more cautious Petrel as he landed. “If the fool had been less impatient and waited until moonset, we might never have found him. But we could see him in the gemglow, riding off across the desert as though demons were on his tail.”
Eliizar stiffened. “How far has he gone?” he demanded. “Can you take me to him?”
“Of course!” said Petrel. The less robust Finch flexed his wings and sighed. “For you we will contrive—but this had better be today’s last errand. I could sleep until the seasons turn and spring comes round again!”
From the air, the Glittering Desert was an amazing sight.
Across the rippling sea of gem dust, the light of the new-risen crescent moon ignited sparks of fire in ruby, sapphire, emerald, and diamond-brilliant radiance. Spars of dazzling light were reflected up into the air to dim the glory of the heavens—and Eliizar, dangling beneath the laboring Winged Folk, could descry, far out across the sand, the dark blot of a swiftly moving figure. The Skyfolk, with their raptor’s vision, had already seen it. The swordmaster felt the change of pressure in his ears as they swooped down on their prey.
Xiang, intent on his escape, never thought to look up at the skies. Eliizar waited until he was above the Khisu as the weary Winged Folk made one last valiant effort to match their victim speed for speed. He took his knife and sliced the bottom of the net, dropping down upon the fleeing King and knocking him from his saddle.
They both fell hard—but the swordmaster, at least, had been expecting it, and his dagger was already in his hand. He wasted no time on dueling with Xiang—with a fighter of his caliber it was the first stroke, and the first stroke only, that counted. The Khisu was a killer born, and besides, Eliizar had seen too much death for one day to indulge in unnecessary heroics now. As the two men hit the ground, still entangled, he slashed at Xiang’s throat with his dagger, hoping to get in a mortal blow on the first strike, but his arm was jarred by the fall and the blade missed its mark. Cursing, Eliizar loosed his hold and sprang to his feet, his sword coming out of its scabbard even before he was fully upright.
Xiang’s eyes widened as he recognized his attacker. Quick as a striking snake he scrambled to his feet in a spray of incandescent sand, roaring: “I should have killed you when I had the chance!” He was almost as quick as Eliizar—almost. Before his sword had fully cleared his scabbard, Eliizar’s blade bit into his neck. His head came to a rolling halt in the gem dust a dozen feet away.