strategies as well.
“I’ll leave ten of our fastest runners,” he said and pointed to key high points. “Along the ridges here and there. With arrow and bow, they should be able to hold the pass, slow the others a bit longer. We don’t want to be caught on the cliff, still on the ladders. A few ax chops and we’d all be tumbling headlong into the hinter.”
“How likely will her hunters be to follow us down there?” Tylar asked.
“She won’t stop until we’re all dead,” Harp said with certainty. “But I’ve already soaked the ladders in poxflame oil. Once below, we can set the ladder afire. Burn them off the cliffs. It will take time for any pursuers to find another way down.”
Brant read the appreciation and respect in the regent’s eyes as he nodded. “Very good,” Tylar said.
Krevan stood at the lip of the cliff, a long glass to his eye. He finally lowered it. “Six score,” he said. “Eighty with bows. Forty with spears.”
Harp frowned at him. “Six score? You’re sure of that count?”
Krevan stared hard, not bothering to answer.
Harp’s frown deepened as he glanced below. “The best of her hunters number two hundred. She comes with too few.”
Brant understood what he meant. All attention had been on the war party that crossed the river directly. But the burn spread to the north and south, stretching out of sight in both directions, beyond the view of the sentries in the makeshift watchtower.
“She sent others ahead of her,” Harp said and turned to them, his eyes wide with worry.
“To close off our escape,” Brant said. There was a reason their god was named the Huntress.
Confirming this, screams suddenly erupted, faint and distant, coming from the top of the pass. Where the others had been headed. Horns sounded from that direction, echoing darkly through the wood.
The snare had been sprung.
Responding to the horns, the Huntress called to them from below. Her voice carried to them, borne aloft in Grace.
“I want only the Godslayer and the boy! To bring his stone!” Horns punctuated her words. “The rest will be allowed to leave my realm. But any further trespass will be met with blood!”
“What are we going to do?” Dart asked as the horns echoed away. She stood with Lorr and Malthumalbaen at the door to the lodge. “You can’t go down there.”
“Agreed.” Krevan pointed toward the Forge. “Best we fight our way through to the Divide. There are only two score up there.”
“Two score of her best hunters,” Harp said with a sour shake of his head. “And they have the high ground. Even if we could make the cliffs, they’d burn us or chop us off the ladders.”
The Huntress called again, pointing an arm. “Come to where the black rock meets the green wood! In the open. If you are not there when I set foot back to loam, your lives-all your lives-will be forfeit!”
Brant watched Tylar study the spread of hunters below, his eyes narrowed with calculations. Though his body was broken, his mind remained sharp.
Tylar finally spoke. “Krevan, lead the others toward the Divide. Gather everyone you can along the way. Keep them safe.”
The leader of the Black Flaggers seemed ready to argue, but whatever he saw in the regent’s eyes held his tongue.
Dart was not so reticent. “I can be of help,” she said.
“No. If the Huntress spots anyone else below…” Tylar shook his head. “We dare not antagonize her any further. And I’d rather you’re safely away.”
“Then take Pupp at least. No one can see him, and he’s…he’s fierce.”
“He is indeed. But we’ve never tested his nature against a god, and now is not the time to find out. Still, you’ve given me a thought.”
Tylar turned to Harp. “You mentioned swift runners. Take me to your fastest.” With a nod, Harp led him around the corner of the lodge.
Dart came to Brant and touched his arm, still unconvinced. “It is surely your death if you go down there.”
“I pray it’s only my death,” he mumbled, remembering the bloodstained lips of Marron. “Perhaps this is my path. It started in the shadow of the Forge. Maybe it is supposed to end here.”
Tylar quickly returned, hopping on his good leg. He had overheard Brant’s words. “Don’t be so quick to accept death. Do that and you’ll have one foot in your grave already.”
Rogger crossed to them and held out his hand. A piece of yellowed bone rested in his palm. “Before we fled, I stole a sliver of the skull. Mayhap it still contains enough Dark Grace to break the seersong’s hold with that black stone of yours.”
Brant stared at the skull, touched the stone at his throat, and slowly shook his head. “I feel the smallest tingle or warmth, nothing more.”
Rogger frowned. “I was afraid of that.”
In his heart, Brant was relieved. He wanted nothing more to do with the skull.
“Still, keep it safe for now,” Tylar ordered the man, then nodded toward the approaching hunters. “We dare tarry no longer.”
In short order, their two parties split. Harp led the others toward the higher pass, guarded by Krevan and Malthumalbaen. Tylar headed back down the small deer path. He hobbled heavily on one side, lost in his own thoughts.
Brant followed. “You have some plan?” he asked.
“I do.”
Brant waited for him to elaborate, but the regent remained silent, marching onward, descending toward the dark river below. A view opened briefly. The leading edge of hunters neared the fringe of forest below, running ahead of the Huntress. Her scouts would reach the jungle first.
Brant tired of Tylar’s cryptic silence. “So am I part of this plan?” he asked, a bit harshly.
“A big part.” Tylar glanced back to Brant. “You’re the worm on the hook.”
Dart climbed beside Malthumalbaen. The giant looked back as often as Dart. Both were worried for Brant…for Tylar. While they climbed toward safety, the others descended toward certain doom.
“Master Brant knows how to take care of himself,” the giant said.
Pupp also kept her company, lagging at her heels.
Ahead, Krevan slipped into and out of shadow, sword drawn. Calla and Lorr followed behind with a handful of Harp’s young hunters. Farther ahead, Rogger marched with Harp. Spread around and between them were the other ragged survivors, the last small handful.
Boys in torn leathers, some bootless. Elders with crooked staffs to help their steps over uneven rock. One young girl carried a babe in her arms, though barely more than a babe herself. All looked gaunt and hollow.
There was no joy in their survival.
Even if they cleared the Divide, they were headed into the hinterlands.
Rounding a steep jog in the track, they heard a horn sound ahead. A commotion jarred through the group, starting near the front and flowing downslope.
From both sides, hunters appeared, dressed in leaves to match the jungle, faces painted black. They bore spears, poison-tipped for sure. Their party was herded closer together, forced up the slope to a jungle dell with a creek trickling over rock. Moss lay thick over all surfaces, turning the small glade emerald green.
It was too bright and handsome a place for the horror here.
To either side knelt the party that had left earlier. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Many looked beaten. One old woman lay on her side, face bloody, unmoving.
But worst of all, a body lay near the creek, seeping blood into the water, swirling it crimson.
Headless.
Standing over the body was a familiar figure, baring the filed points of his teeth, feral and blood-maddened. His arms and chest were drenched in the fresh flow of his kill, lifeblood steaming on his skin.
“Marron…” Harp moaned.
To the hunter’s side, a fierce fire had been stoked with smoky greenwood. Another of the hunters charred the
