couldn’t make out what was said, but the speaker was male and only a few paces away.
With hand signals, Amero indicated that his companions should spread out so a single rider couldn’t stumble over all of them at once. The boys crawled off into the grass. Beramun stayed where she was. The clop-clop of horses’ hooves was plain now. Amero gripped his spear tightly.
“Ho, Tezar!” the rider called. “Any signs?”
Any reply from the distant Tezar was lost in the drumming rain. Amero was horrified to see Beramun suddenly get up on one knee. He gestured frantically at her to get down.
A horse came through the tall grass on Amero’s right. Drawing in his hands and feet, Amero made himself as small and still as possible.
There was another, brighter flash of lightning, followed at once by a booming roll of thunder. While it was still echoing, Beramun ran up to the first rider, cupped her hands under his right heel, and heaved. He hit the ground and, dazed, pushed himself up on his hands and knees.
Amero rushed forward and struck the raider on the head with the shaft of his spear. The man dropped facedown in the grass. Glaring fiercely at Beramun, Amero waved for her to get out of sight.
She answered his glare with a shrug, then vanished into the grass. Amero crept away, too. Moments later, a pair of horsemen reached the scene and found their comrade out cold, his horse cropping grass a short distance away.
Amero held his breath, but the newcomers burst into raucous laughter. “Drunk again, Wenaman?” said one.
“Better get him up before Hoten sees him,” growled the other raider.
The men heaved their limp friend onto his horse. Lightning flared, showing that their leather chestplates and hoods were embellished with garish paint, bones, horns, and animal teeth.
They rode on, and Amero lifted his head slightly to follow their progress. They headed northeast in the direction of Yala-tene.
Blinking hard against the rain, Amero turned to look for the rest of the raider patrol. He expected to see perhaps a score or so of riders. What he did see froze the blood in his veins.
Hundreds and hundreds of men on horseback, heads bowed against the rain, filled the plain in a ragged line half a league long. On their heels came a sizable herd of oxen, and behind the cattle was a bedraggled, slow- moving mob of people on foot. On each side of these obvious captives were more mounted men. Some prisoners were laden with towering packs or harnessed to long travois heaped with bundled goods.
In all, Amero estimated there were more than a thousand people crossing the plain. This was no scouting party, but the host Beramun had warned them about. She had greatly underestimated their numbers.
A dark suspicion rose in Amero’s mind. Was her mistake genuine or part of some complex stratagem to catch Yala-tene off guard? Was Duranix right about her?
Amero made himself small in the grass and tried to think what to do next. He had to get his people out of the raiders’ way, then they had to find Duranix and get themselves back to Yala-tene. All without being caught.
The sky lowered further, and though it was early afternoon, the day grew as dark as evening. Rain pounded down like a waterfall. Muddy water cut shallow gullies in the sod. Amero had to crawl on his belly through this muck to get away from the wide-ranging outriders. He thanked his ancestors’ spirits for sending the rain to shield him and his companions.
He barely managed to get out of the way before the main body of raiders rode by. He was close enough to hear voices calling out commands, complaints, and harsh jibes. He smelled the ox herd. An odd thumping noise he didn’t recognize at first turned out to be the sound of blows delivered to the backs of the raiders’ prisoners. Riders guarding the captives dealt these blows repeatedly, almost rhythmically, to keep the tired, reluctant mob moving.
Many paces away, behind and to Amero’s right, Beramun was hiding in the grass. She had upended the first rider because she thought they could steal his weapons, but he’d been seen by his comrades.
Peering through the grass and pouring rain, she watched the sodden herd of prisoners stumbling by. She recognized the faces of many of her fellow slaves from Almurk. She thought of Roki and the screams of her murdered family, the memories bringing anger and filling her with determination. Armed only with a short flint knife, she crawled toward the marching mass of prisoners.
As she slithered through the mud, Beramun came upon Paharo lying quietly in the weeds. She halted alongside him.
“We must do something!” she hissed in his ear.
“Against so many?” he replied. “What can we do?”
“They mean to attack your village! Here’s a chance to strike a blow before they get there!”
Rain streamed down Paharo’s dark face. Her words obviously struck a chord. He drew a knife from his waist and nodded. “We can free the prisoners. Some may be strong enough to help us. The rest can distract the riders long enough for us to get away.”
Beramun gave a sharp nod of agreement. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, the two crawled toward the plodding mass of captives.
A mounted man passed them, eyes averted to keep out the driving rain. Paharo dashed forward in a low crouch. Beramun followed. Prisoners on the edge of the crowd saw them but wisely kept silent. Another burst of speed, and the pair reached the slaves. They slipped into the slogging crowd, masked from view by the mass of captives.
“Here, take this,” Beramun said, giving one of them her knife. “Cut your bonds.”
“Free as many as you can, then wait for our signal,” Paharo added. “When it comes, everybody run for it!”
The knife was passed quickly from hand to hand. The flint blade worked its way deeper into the crowd, but those already free milled around nervously. Most wanted to run immediately. Others ached to attack the nearest raiders. They made garrotes from their rawhide bonds and surreptitiously picked up stones from the ground.
“Any sign of the green dragon?” Beramun asked, glancing around.
Stark fear showed on every face, and a pale woman said, “Greengall’s probably in the rear.”
Paharo was confused by the name, and the terrified prisoners explained. None of them had seen the dragon in either of his forms since yesterday.
Relieved by this news, Beramun pushed through the line of freed slaves and walked deliberately into the open. She kept going, even when a guard rode up and shouted a challenge.
“You! Get back in line!” the raider barked. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She whirled and batted his spear aside. Repeating her earlier trick, she cupped her hands under his heel and upended the astonished raider. He splashed to the soggy turf. Before he could get up or call for help, freed prisoners fell on him, pounding him into silence.
Paharo appeared. Beramun thrust the bridle of the fallen raider’s horse into his hands. “Go back to Yala- tene,” she told him. “Warn your people.”
“I don’t ride very well.”
“Learn fast!”
He climbed on the animal’s back. “The Arkuden is here somewhere. I should find him!”
“I’ll find him. You tell everyone Zannian is coming! They’ll be more likely to believe you than me.” Beramun ended further discussion by slapping the horse’s rump. The animal bolted, and Paharo had to give all his attention to staying on its back.
The prisoners burst into action. Almost half were free, and they scattered to the four winds. Some put their heads down and ran for their lives, others remained to fight.
Raiders on guard duty tried to summon help, but their rams’ horns were soaked and produced only mild bleating noises. They had little time to use the horns anyway before going down in a hail of stones. A few raiders charged the seething horde, spearing several prisoners. They too were dragged from their horses and beaten unconscious or killed. Smarter raiders wasted no time with either rams’ horns or resistance. They galloped away at once to get help.
“Flee! All of you!” Beramun cried. “Go in every direction! Spread the word! Warn everyone about Zannian and his monstrous master!”
