him. He could hear those inside begin to move around restlessly, crying out. The scent of smoke became suddenly sharper, a thin trail marring the blue sky overhead.
More cracks and thuds as more arrows struck, and Tom swore, cursing the leather thongs that held the hides tight, so tight his blade couldn’t get up underneath them. His fingers cramped and he licked his lips, tasted blood from the slash across his cheek. Sweat broke out across his chest, his back.
Inside the wagon, someone screamed, and the suddenly restless sounds became a panic. The wagon shook. Someone cried out, trying to keep the children calm, a woman’s voice.
“Don’t come out the back!” Tom barked. “They’re waiting-”
But someone leaned out of the back of the wagon. Tom felt the wagon shift as they moved, heard the sickening chunk of an arrow hitting flesh. A body-a woman’s body, Clara, her face stark, eyes dead, facing Tom almost accusingly-hit the ground with a horrifying rustling sound, and the wagon shifted back.
Fresh screams escaped from the wagon, and everyone inside rushed away from the back entrance. Tom’s dagger slid beneath the first set of ties, cut through them with a jerk, and he cried out as wisps of smoke escaped through the opening.
“Arten!” he bellowed, his voice cracking. He gasped in desperation as he moved frantically to the next set of ties. All around, understanding dawned and men leaped forward with their own knives, began sawing at the hide, not bothering with the ties. “Arten! Sam! Anyone!”
“Those of you with weapons,” Arten bellowed, “come with me! We’ll have to charge them, give those inside the wagons a chance to get out.”
Tom didn’t turn, heard feet gathering behind him, heard Arten barking orders, dividing the men up, and then he heard all of them roar, saw them charging out from behind the wagons out of the corner of his eyes, an acrid taste filling his mouth as he heard the sudden twang of more than a few bowstrings, the screams that followed, breaking the roar of the charge Followed instantly by another roar coming from the other direction and the thundering of horses’ hooves.
Walter, he thought, grinning in spite of himself, in spite of all the pain that Walter had put him and his family through.
The hide was tough. As he sliced through it, a small hand suddenly emerged through the hole and grabbed his wrist. He cried out, startled, then gasped, “We’re coming!” and shook the hand free. He continued to whisper, “We’re coming, we’re coming,” under his breath as he worked. To his right, men shouted in triumph, and he risked a quick glance, saw children spilling out of a hole in the nearest wagon along with white-gray smoke. The women inside practically threw them out, motions controlled but still frantic.
And then the last of the hide succumbed to his knife and he ripped the flap aside, a small boy already half outside, his face streaked with tears, eyes wide open in terror. His shirt rucked up to his arm as it caught on the edge of the wagon, tore as he slid free and fell to the ground, and then a girl’s face appeared, coughing harshly. Domonic was suddenly at Tom’s side, reaching forward to haul the girl out and the next, more openings appearing on either side, the smoke coming out thicker and blacker as they worked. Tom shot a glance under the wagon, saw a scramble of feet-men, dwarren, horses, and gaezels-heard shouts and commands, roars of pain. Someone fell, hand clutching an arrow embedded in his shoulder, and then Tom grabbed the nearest man and hauled him close. “Take the hide! Hold it!”
As soon as the man took the flap, Tom darted to the edge of the wagon and looked out onto the fight before the wagons.
As he watched, Walter swung his sword in a loose arc, more brute force than skill, and cut into the spear the dwarren used to block the blow. Both maneuvered their animals around, the gaezel dancing out of the much larger horse’s way. Walter pressed his horse’s advantage, swinging again and again, the haft of the dwarren’s spear shattering on the last blow, Walter’s sword cutting down into the dwarren’s forearm. The man roared, blood flowing down his arm to his elbow, and kicked his gaezel away from the battle.
Walter wheeled his mount toward where Arten and a group of the expedition’s men were surrounded, the dwarren circling their gaezels around the group, continuously moving. Arten watched warily for an opening, while the others tried to cut into the dwarren’s flanks. Walter charged the dwarren line, Jackson and the three other Armory men on horses already engaged with the outskirts of the group.
As soon as Walter struck, the dwarren turning to meet his charge, Arten ducked in behind them and cut two of the dwarren down from behind. One of the animals screamed-the same haunting, grating scream they’d made when Tom’s group had hunted them before-as Arten’s sword cut a gash in its side. It bolted for the plains, a few of its brethren following suit with snorts. The rest of the men with Arten closed in.
But they were outnumbered, even with the dwarren they’d already killed, even with Walter and the others on horseback. Only those from the Armory were true fighters. The rest were farmers or tradesmen, unskilled with weapons, even Walter and Jackson.
Tom shot a glance to either side behind the wagons, but everyone was occupied trying to get the last of the women out of the burning wagons, even Colin, Karen still sawing at the hides on her side with her thin eating knife. Black smoke gusted into Tom’s face and he coughed, covered his mouth with one hand, and turned back To see a dwarren raise his spear at Arten’s back. The commander’s attention was on the dwarren before him, fending off that man’s thrusts. He couldn’t see the dwarren behind him.
Tom drew breath to shout a warning And three arrows sprouted in the dwarren’s chest with three distinct hissing thunks.
The dwarren fell back off of his gaezel with a stunned look on his face. Arten stabbed his sword forward and pierced the dwarren he fought through the chest, the blade sliding out freely as he stepped back, and then he turned, glanced down at the dead dwarren who’d been ready to spear him from behind, then up.
Tom followed his gaze.
On the far side of the burning wagons, Aeren and the rest of the Alvritshai stood, firing into the fight, their targets the dwarren, their faces calm and intent. Aeren nodded toward Arten, the gesture somehow formal, and then turned, drawing an arrow from his quiver and sighting along it into the melee, releasing it with no change at all in his expression. Dwarren fell right and left, and with a roaring command, the gray-eyed dwarren that Tom had watched lead the charge, who had thrown his spear at Tom as he came, broke away from the fighting, the rest of the dwarren following suit. They streamed out onto the plains on their gaezels, half of their number left behind either dead or dying. Walter and the others on horseback charged after them for a moment, before finally slowing and turning back.
Tom watched long enough to be certain that the dwarren weren’t returning, then spun back toward the wagons. Pillars of smoke rose into the air, one of the wagons already a total loss, but the other two “Sam! Paul! Get some blankets or buckets of water! We need to get these fires put out.” He suddenly remembered the sound of liquid splashing. “Wait! Not water. They used some type of oil to help the fire catch and spread. Use sand or dirt instead!”
He heard Sam shouting, and everyone began scrambling, beating at the flames. Some of the women rushed to help. As soon as he felt the situation was under control, Tom turned back toward the plains.
The area in front of the wagons was littered with bodies-dwarren, gaezels, one horse, and a few men from the wagon train. He found Arten kneeling at the side of one of the fallen men, the one that had taken an arrow to his shoulder, now propped up against one of the dead gaezels. The man’s breath came in short, hot, huffing gasps, punctuated by moans as Arten prodded the area around the wound. His shirt was soaked with blood, from the wound down across his chest to beneath his arm. His face was pale. He turned pleading eyes on Tom as he approached.
Arten sat back. “The arrow’s in deep, Brant, but it missed the lung. I’m afraid that if we try to pull it out, it will catch on your ribs, or worse.”
“So what should we do?” Tom asked, crouching down beside the commander.
“Here.” Arten placed his hand up under Brant’s armpit, below where the arrow had pierced his chest. “Feel right here, where my hand is.”
He withdrew his hand, and Tom slid his in where it had been. Blood coated his fingers, but he ignored it as he felt where Arten had indicated, frowning. “What am I-”
But then he halted.
He could feel something hard beneath his fingers, beneath Brant’s skin. He pushed it, barely even moved it, but Brant hissed and jerked away, the end of the arrow wobbling. His hiss became a harsh cough that he tried to
