Sword of Flames

21 Just Like the Old Days

In a very different city, far to the south, another Queen was contemplating her future.

Sara awakened with a jolt, torn out of the nightmare by the sound of her own screaming. Her eyes flew open, blind to everything, for a moment, but the closing scenes of her dream that were still imprinted on her inner eye. As full consciousness crept back to her, she realized that she was looking through a mist of gauzy white draperies that hung limp in the stifling heat, diffusing the bars of strong afternoon sunlight that invaded the chamber through the lattice of the shutters. Sara rolled over on the wide bed, almost weeping with relief, clutching the tangled silken sheet to herself for additional security. She was home. She was safe. It had only been a dream.

She pushed aside the light coverlet and reached for the loose white robe of gold-embroidered silk that lay across the bottom of the bed. Slipping it over her head and smoothing the clinging fabric down over her sweating skin, Sara swung her legs off the low couch, enjoying the comparative coolness of the blue-and-white tiles against her bare feet. Fighting her way through the layers of white gauze that hung down from the canopy above, she emerged into the stifling gloom of the shuttered chamber.

Standing on tiptoe, Sara raised her arms above her head and stretched until her joints cracked in complaint. Ah… that felt better. She twisted the thick, heavy mantle of her golden hair into a rough knot at the nape of her neck and pulled the clinging robe away from her sticky shoulders, before padding across to the low table. As always there was water there, and a pitcher of fruit juice that had been cool when she had gone to sleep—for like the Khazalim, she had learned better than to drink wine or spirits in the heat of the day. On this particular day, however, Sara felt the need for something stronger. Taking a flask from a nearby cabinet, she filled a goblet to the brim with wine before crossing the room to the great windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up half the wall.

As she folded back the shutters, dazzling sunlight poured into the chamber in a flood of molten gold. Sara blinked, and shaded her eyes until her vision had adjusted to the stronger light. The air that had entered the room was no cooler than the stifling air within. If anything, it was hotter—but she had grown used to that by now. Feeling a need for space, as though the four walls of her chamber still trapped the echoes of her nightmare, Sara went out on the balcony and leaned against the rounded top of the marble railing.

The maze of white buildings, courtyards, gardens, and low towers that formed the Khisu Xiang’s seraglio were still and deserted in the afternoon’s oppressive heat. The soft, silvery patter of fountains, the rhythmic rasp of cicadas and the chirruping of a drowsy bird were the only sounds that invaded the heavy silence. Beyond the walls of Xiang’s vast palace, dropping down tier after tier into the shadowed, red-walled canyon of the river, stretched the city of Taibeth, of which she was now Khisihn—the Queen. Some Queen, she thought bitterly. Why, I may be the royal wife of the Khisu, but I’m as much a prisoner here as—her glance flicked back into the shadowed room, where her bright-hued finches slumbered in the heat, within their golden cage.

Don’t be stupid!. Suddenly, Sara was furious at her own weakness. She thought of her clothes, her jewels—the power that was hers within the constrained, unnatural little world of women that was hidden behind these high white walls. Would you rather be back in Nexis, she demanded scornfully of herself, dressed in rags, and sewing and scrubbing and trailing all the way to market for your father? Would you rather still be married to that dolt Vannor, with his sly little sneak of a daughter and his endless demands that you share his bed? Would you rather have been married to Anvar?

A shiver ran down her spine. Clutching the goblet in both hands, she took a long swallow of wine to steady hands that had suddenly begun to shake. She had dreamed about Anvar. The reminder was enough to disturb her all over again. For a long time now, Sara had succeeded in putting him out of her mind entirely—ever since he and that red-haired harridan of a Mage had stolen the ferocious Black Demon from the Khisu’s arena, befriended Xiang’s rebellious son, the Prince Harihn, and thrown the entire city of Taibeth into utter turmoil before making their escape into the desert. Why did he come back to haunt her now, of all times—just when she needed all her wits about her to survive these next few months?

With a shudder, she forced herself to remember the dream, in the hope that once she had confronted it, she could expunge it from her mind. She had been in Nexis, with Anvar, in the shop of his father Tori in the Grand Arcade. The events had been the same ones that had led up to the death of Anvar’s mother in the fire—but instead of Ria, it had been Sara herself who’d been the victim of the blaze. She remembered screaming and screaming as the flames leapt around her, catching greedily at her clothes and hair—but in her dream, instead of extinguishing the fire, it had been Anvar who had started it, and Anvar who was burning her. He was standing over her, gloating, a ball of Magefire in his hand. “Now you will never have a child. …”

With an anguished cry, Sara dropped her face into her hands.

“Lady—what in the Reaper’s name are you about? Come away from there at once! Have your wits been stolen by the desert winds that you stand thus for all the world to see?” The reedy, piping voice that broke through her meditations was snappish with alarm. Sara gasped, and whirled—but it was the voice itself that had startled her, not the identity of the owner.

There was no mistaking the shrill, lisping tones of Zalid, chief eunuch of the seraglio, procurer of women for the Khisu—and in this place, the only person she could trust. Just at this moment, Sara couldn’t have been more pleased to see him—though it looked as though he was far from returning the compliment. The swirling designs in gold paint that adorned his bald head were blurring at the edges in the heat, and the many sparkling necklaces that he wore were jingling with his agitation. His chubby, frowning face was creased with anxiety.

“Come inside at once, Lady,” he scolded. “Where is your veil? Have you already forgotten how ill you were last time from the sun? And for shame, to stand brazen and barefaced before the world, like a harlot on your balcony. Is this the behavior of a Queen?”

When Sara turned to face him, he gave a yelp of dismay; indeed, he was so agitated that he abandoned all pretense at courtesy. “The padding! You fool, how could you have forgotten? In your heedlessness you will kill us all!”

“Be still, Zalid!” Sara snapped. “Don’t be such an old woman. Why, I don’t really need the padding yet. And who is there to see me, you imbecile? The entire seraglio is asleep.”

Zalid’s blow caught her completely by surprise. His hand flashed out, striking her so hard across the face that she staggered back against the marble railing. While she was still unbalanced, he grabbed her arm and spun her back inside the room. Sara fell, only a last-minute reflex saving her from striking her face on the hard tiled floor. She pulled herself shakily to her feet, her head still spinning from the force of the blow. She was blazing with anger that nevertheless had a cold, pulsing seed of fear at its core. “How dare you strike me?” she snapped. “I’m the Khisihn, and when Xiang gets back—”

“When Xiang returns and his spies that infest this palace tell him what they saw on your balcony, he will have you tied in a sack and dropped in the river to feed the great lizards.”

The cold implacability of the chief eunuch’s words stopped her ranting as effectively as though he had hit her again. Zalid advanced on her, his dark face pale with anger. “Just because the Khisu is away, you may not allow yourself to grow careless, woman—not even for a moment. This plot was your idea. I warned you before we started of the difficulties involved, and the constraints that would be upon you—and now that we have started, there is no going back. I have no intention of losing my life through your stupidity. You may no longer sleep unclothed, or walk naked through these apartments like a brazen northern whore. You must become accustomed to that padding now, before it becomes essential. You will wear it at all times—no matter how it inconveniences and galls you. Now go and put it on—immediately.”

When Sara hesitated, he advanced upon her menacingly, spitting out the words in his anger. “You should bear in mind,” he hissed, “that though you might be Queen, in the Khisu’s absence I am in charge of his women. There are many ways you can be beaten without scarring—and the marks will long have healed ere Xiang returns. Now go—and if I ever again see you on that balcony without proper robes and padding and decent veils, I will punish you until your screams can be heard all the way to that godless northern cesspit from whence you came.”

Sara stared at him, appalled. He meant it—and in fact, she realized, with cold, sinking fear in the pit of her stomach, on the flimsiest of excuses he would beat her anyway. She had dragged Zalid into this plot of hers—and now that he was in too deep to back out again, he was terrified, and wanted to take it out on her. Shaking with fear, she rushed into her robing room and found the tangle of straps that held the thinly stuffed and slightly weighted sack securely to her stomach. She fastened it on, already hating the unwieldiness and trying not to think about the next five months, when the weight and padding must be markedly increased. Once it was hidden beneath her loose robe, she stared at her silhouette in the tall mirror of polished silver and scowled, wondering how in the name of all the gods she’d thought she could get away with this. And yet what choice did I have? she thought despairingly.

When she had maneuvered and plotted to become Queen, she had never considered the fact that she could not have children. But neither had she reckoned on the Khisu’s desperate desire for another son—another heir—to replace the luckless and despised Harihn. As each month passed without a hint that the longed-for child had been started, Xiang had begun to turn colder toward her; less patient and more careless and cruel. When he started to neglect her, and turn back once more to the beauties of his harem, Sara knew that she would have to act quickly to preserve her position—and Zalid, with his power and influence within the harem, was the only one who could help her. Luckily, because he had been one who’d brought her to Xiang in the first place, his fortunes were very much tied up with her own. Being the discoverer of the new Queen had brought him a good deal of riches and prestige—but Xiang had no use for those who failed or disappointed him, and if that Queen should be found wanting, not only would Zalid lose his livelihood but quite possibly his very life.

Between Sara and the eunuch, Ae plot had gradually been hatched. Zalid had found the Queen her own personal, and very bribable, physician, and was squandering much of his own gold and her jewels upon the man in the happy knowledge that the wretch would not live many more months to enjoy their benefit. Sara only had to pretend to turn moody, as pregnant women often did, and Xiang happily acceded to her request that her body servants be replaced by a single mute slave girl. The odd custom of this land, that women were sequestered during pregnancy, had worked in their favor, as had other, unexpected events.

Xiang had been overjoyed by Sara’s false announcement—but swiftly following his first rush of triumph came the rankling awareness that the other, older heir still lived. Though Harihn had vowed never to return, the Khisu had brooded blackly upon his son’s continued existence, and the threat that it posed to the unborn Prince—for of course, in the manner of those who always got their own way, he was convinced that the child would be a boy. Enough time had passed now for Xiang to forget the fear that Aurian had instilled in him. For days after her departure the city had been a bloodbath, while his soldiers quelled the uprising of the slaves that the Mage had freed and got things back on a proper footing. Once this had been accomplished, however, with none of the dire repercussions that Aurian had promised, he had dismissed her as a threat. When the sudden ending of the sandstorms had opened up the desert route to the north, he had decided to take his army and eliminate Harihn once and for all.

Xiang’s departure had come as a considerable relief to the Queen and her fellow conspirator. Aman, the vizier, who had taken charge in the Khisu’s absence, knew what was good for him and kept well away from the seraglio. When it came to his women, Xiang had a well-deserved reputation for jealousy. That left Sara and Zalid free to act—and it was much easier now to keep up the subterfuge. The eunuch had agents among the poor, in the lower quarters of the city, who were keeping an eye on several girls due to give birth at about the right time. As soon as one dropped a son… Sara smiled to herself. What a joke on Xiang, that the next ruler of the Khazalim would be a beggar’s brat! By the gods, if she could bring this off it would be worth it!

Heartened by the thought, she washed her face and collected herself before going back into the other room to confront the eunuch. She must not let him see how badly he had frightened her. As she passed the mirror, she caught a glimpse of the bruise that was darkening on one side of her face, and scowled. One day she would make him pay for that! As the beloved mother of Xiang’s heir, she would have far more power than she possessed now. In the meantime—Sara grimaced. Zalid had certainly found a way to ensure that she wore those accursed veils!

The other chamber felt much more pleasant now, with the approaching cool of evening. The eunuch was standing looking out over the very balcony that he had forbidden her to use. Anger dissipated the last traces of Sara’s lingering fear. She drew herself up to her full height and looked at him coldly. “Have you no duties to perform?” she snapped. “I want cooled wine, a light meal, and my slave girl to draw my bath.”

Zalid turned to her with an insolent bow that was hardly worth the name. “Your will, my Queen. And do you not want the news I came to bring you? News of your beloved Khisu?” His smile was mocking—he had no illusions about Sara’s true opinion of her royal husband.

Sara’s heart leapt into her throat. “There’s news? What is it? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Pray do not distress yourself, Lady—not in your delicate condition.” His manner was so falsely unctuous that she wanted to strike him.

“Get on with it!” she shrieked.

“As you wish. A homing bird arrived today with a message that Xiang had reached the far side of the desert. They not only found signs of Harihn’s occupancy at Dhiammara, but there are clear signs on the edge of the forest that the Prince and his companions survived the crossing. That being the case, the Khisu is determined to follow his trail farther northward.” The eunuch bowed again, not making an effort to hide his smile. “Alas, my Lady, it seems we must steel ourselves to bear sad tidings. The absence of our beloved Lord must be extended.”

Sara sat down on the edge of the bed, weak-kneed with relief. No matter what abuse she had to put up with from Zalid, it seemed that the gods were still smiling on her plan. Companions, the eunuch had said. So when Xiang finally caught up with the runaway Prince, he would have Aurian to contend with. She wondered what would suit her best: to have Xiang return to indulge her for giving him an heir—or to have him dead, and be the mother of the newborn Khisu of the Khazalim, with all the power attendant on such a position. Either way, she stood to win. Sara smiled to herself. It looked as though the next few weeks would be very interesting indeed.

Xiang was unnerved by the forest. This place was like nothing in his experience. He was used to the open spaces and endless horizons of his barren land, where the only sounds were the chirring of the cicadas and the susurration of the shifting desert wind. Here the trees pressed in on him, surrounding him in gloom and cutting off the warmth of the sun. On all sides there were shifting shadows—swift flickers of movement that startled the horses and made the Khisu jump and whirl, hand on sword hilt, to face a threat that turned out to be nothing more than a branch that was tossing in the wind.

That same wind in the trees was like the distant whisper of surf, creating a constant background sound that drowned out the warning of any approaching dangers, as did the unfamiliar chuckling chatter of the rushing streams. Strange beasts and birds rustled the undergrowth and cried shrilly from the treetops overhead. The hooves of the horses were muffled by soft loam that concealed hazardous holes and roots and fallen branches. The way ahead was blocked time and again by tree trunks, deadfalls, and patches of thorny, impenetrable brush, so that the band of Khazalim warriors were forced to turn aside from their chosen path. Before long, they had lost all sense of direction and were wandering blindly though a thick green maze.

The Khisu was a worried man. His troops were wearied from the grueling race across the desert, and as unnerved by this alien place as himself. From time to time, he was certain he had heard distant shouts and screams coming from other parts of the forest. Three times now he had sent messengers to locate the remainder of his forces. None of them had returned. With regrets that were growing greater by the minute, Xiang pushed grimly on, surrounded by only a handful of his men. Of the two hundred soldiers he had brought with him, these scant few were all that were visible through the rustling, screening foliage. The Khisu suppressed a shudder. Never in his life had he felt so alone; so hemmed in, yet conversely, so exposed.

By this time, the Khazalim forces had penetrated deep into the forest. All sight of the blessed open spaces of the desert had long since been left behind them. When they came at last to a broad, open clearing, Xiang relaxed a little. How good it was to see the sun again, and have open space around him! Without warning, an arrow came whirring through the trees and struck with deadly accuracy though the eye of the guard who was riding beside him.

“Down!” Before the echoes of his warning had time to die away, Xiang was off his horse and lying flat on the forest floor. For a moment all was chaos: confused and shouting men, and horses hurtling in every direction with shrill neighs of terror, trampling the hapless warriors who were trying in vain to conceal themselves from the deadly bolts that rained down from the trees. The sounds of the forest were drowned by the screams of dying men, and the loam underfoot ran red with blood.

Xiang, cringing on the ground with a mouthful of leaf mold, was beside himself with fear and fury. In all his life, no one had dared to do this to him. No one! Except that wretched woman—but that was not a thought to dwell on—especially now. An arrow came thudding into the ground, inches from his face, and shock and outrage made him gather his wits. Quickly he loosened the brooch at the neck of the sumptuous cloak that marked him as royalty and slipped out from under the dangerous garment. Praying that he would be unseen in the confusion of running horses and falling men, he rolled toward the edge of the clearing with its thick fringe of bushes. The undergrowth that he’d been cursing a moment before he blessed now as he squirmed deeper into its concealing shade.

Eliizar was pleased. The day was going well. The plans, over which he had labored through so many sleepless nights, seemed to be working perfectly, and he was infinitely grateful for Anvar’s warning. His little community, which consisted of Harihn’s surviving warriors and the household staff that the Prince had abandoned in the forest, had been well prepared and organized in the defense of their newfound home. Though Eliizar had hated to take men from the all-important tasks of building the new settlement and clearing and cultivating hidden pockets of land within the forest, today had proved that the sacrifice had not been in vain. Lookouts had informed them in ample time when the Khisu had left the desert. Once Xiang and his men had entered the thick woodland, it had been easy for the settlers to split up the invading forces, luring the scattered groups farther apart and ever deeper into the labyrinth of trees. Then the Khazalim interlopers had turned swiftly from predators to prey.

Small groups of warriors had been concealed beneath a camouflage of woven branches, so that they could spring up beneath the very feet of Xiang’s soldiers and gain the inestimable advantage of surprise. Pit traps had been dug and covered—but there were few of these, for they were expensive in labor—and, besides, Eliizar had wanted to appropriate as many of the Khazalim horses as he could for his little community. Settlers lurked up in the branches with weighted nets to drop down on the riders, and slender ropes had been strung between the trees at neck height for a riding man, and at trip height for a horse. Eliizar had handpicked the most skilled of bowmen and placed them at strategic points.

Even the women had their role to play in the defense of the forest. Eliizar, having been forcibly given the example of Nereni’s courage and fortitude, had learned his lesson. Not only had they aided the diggers by carrying away the loose, betraying soil and disguising the traps and their approaches with fallen leaves, but they had woven the ropes and nets, and the camouflage for hidden warriors. The younger and more nimble girls, made agile by months of foraging in the woods while their men were at Incondor’s Tower, were among those who waited in the treetops with their nets and ropes.

A band of older women, led by the redoubtable Nereni, lurked in concealment with blowpipes armed with stinging darts that could madden the horses so that men were unseated and thrown to the mercy of Eliizar’s waiting warriors. The secret of making these had been given to Nereni by Finch and Petrel, the two winged couriers mat Raven had sent with the little band of settlers. They were the selfsame pair of Skyfolk who had conveyed Nereni to Aerillia on that fateful day, and who by now had been so thoroughly pampered by her cooking and her care that they would do virtually anything for her. Another group of the more timid women, who had no stomach for fighting, were back at the camp, boiling water, preparing salve, and making bandages for when the wounded should come home.

Not, Eliizar fervently hoped, that there would be many of those. As it was, the numbers of his settlers were pitifully small to found a new community, but that was exactly what he intended to do. He had had enough of cruel tyrants, treacherous Princes, and magical adversaries. He wanted to live out his years in peace now—and those who had joined him felt the same. If they had to fight to establish that freedom, then so be it—and this was a battle that Eliizar intended to win.

Though they were outnumbered, the settlers had several advantages over the marauding Khazalim. They were forewarned and prepared, they were not coming to the fight at the end of a long journey, and they knew the terrain, which was inimically favorable for ambushes and traps. They were fighting for their land and their freedom—and they had one additional advantage that the Khazalim could not even imagine. The two winged couriers, though they took no part in the fighting themselves, soared above the forest, hovering above the treetops to fix the positions of the invaders and bring word of the battle to Eliizar. Thus it was that the leader of the settlers could pinpoint the location of the Khisu, recognizable in his robes of royal purple that stood out so well against the forest greenery. When the Winged Folk brought him the news of Xiang’s ambush, Eliizar stiffened. “What of the Khisu?” he demanded.

Finch shook his head. “We did not see him. We only found his cloak, abandoned in the clearing.”

Eliizar cursed. If Xiang should escape, then the forest community would sooner or later be destroyed. The Khisu would not rest until every man and woman had been annihilated. “You had better take me there at once,” he told the Skyfolk.

By the time the winged couriers landed with Eliizar, the battle in the clearing was over. Bodies strewed the pine-mast across the sweep of open space, some alive and groaning from the pain of their wounds, others lying still and twisted, never to move again. Eliizar’s archers, led by Jharav, moved among the bodies, collecting weaponry and distinguishing the living from the dead. The one-eyed swordmaster frowned. In all his planning, he had given no consideration to the fact that some of Xiang’s men would inevitably survive the battle. He supposed that those who still lived should be given the chance to join the settlers—but what of those who demurred? They certainly could not be permitted to return to their homes. Eliizar shuddered. The idea of executing his countrymen and fellow soldiers in cold blood was not a pleasant one. Well, there’d be time enough to worry about that later. For now, he would have his hands full finding Xiang.

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.

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.

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.

Eliizar leaned on his sword and looked down upon his vanquished King and foe. “I always used to tell you not to waste time talking in battle,” he muttered. There came a thunder of wings from above, and Finch and Petrel landed beside him, the backsweep of their wings raising a whirl of glittering sand that drifted down to cover the Khisu’s body.

“Thank Yinze that’s over,” said the irrepressible Finch. “Now can we go home?”

Petrel glared at him, and touched a hand to his forehead, in homage to Eliizar. “All is well, O Master of the Forest Lands. The battle for our new land has been won.”

Eliizar looked down at the mortal remains of Xiang the Tyrant. “Yes.” He smiled grimly. “Now it truly has.”