Zan and several of his lieutenants rode by. He stopped short when he spotted Beramun among the others.
“You there,” he said. “Stand up.”
Dazed by thirst and fatigue, Beramun didn’t realize he was speaking to her until a fellow captive prodded her sharply. She got to her feet.
The raider on Zan’s right, a balding man wearing an elaborate collar of bear and panther teeth, looked her over. One eyebrow climbed his high forehead.
“You’re right, Zannian. You have an eye, don’t you?” he said.
“It’s just a girl, Hoten,” said the man on Zan’s left, a dirty fellow with deep-set eyes. “Close your eyes, they all look alike.”
“You’re a pig, Kukul.” Zannian said. “You know nothing about beauty.”
Beramun was only distantly aware they were talking about her. She’d lived her whole life among kinsmen too close in blood to be considered possible mates. She had little idea what strangers would make of her looks.
“Will you keep her for yourself?” asked bald Hoten, smiling.
Kukul snorted. “Only if his mother approves!”
Zan turned on him. “Hold your tongue, you scab! I am chief of this band, and I answer only to the Master!”
Kukul held his hands up, palms out. “Peace, Zannian, peace! I jest!”
The raider chief twisted his horse’s head around. “You’d be wiser to obey more and joke less!”
He trotted away. Hoten called, “Zan, the girl — do you want her culled out?”
Zan gave a quick shake of his head. “All captives belong to the Master. If he allows it, I’ll take her, but not until then.”
Kukul rode after him, leaving Hoten with Beramun. Looking down, the older man said, “You’ve caught the eye of our chief, girl. Mind what you do, and you might come out of this far better than you imagine.”
Beramun, who had been staring at the ground in embarrassment, raised her eyes to meet the raider’s. Though she didn’t understand just what the raider chief had in mind for her, she thought it had to be better than slavery or death.
The sun went down, and still they squatted on the east bank of the river. The bored laxity of their guards encouraged some prisoners to think of escape. The younger men on the other leash worked their way into the midst of Beramun’s group. A red-haired fellow Beramun’s age pushed in shoulder to shoulder with her and Roki.
“Name’s Opet,” he whispered. “The raiders caught my family southeast of here, in Khar land. They’re heading for their own camp, so we better escape if we want to live. Are you with me?”
Roki and Beramun exchanged looks. “Yes,” they said in unison.
“Good.” He slipped a hand under his buckskin shirt and drew out a small, sharp chip of obsidian. “When they settle for the night, we’ll cut our bonds and go.”
“Is that your only plan?” Roki said, shaking her head. “You won’t get six steps before they spit you like a partridge!”
“We’re not gonna run,” said Opet, eyes shining. “We’ll jump in the river. They won’t be able to use their horses to catch us. Can you swim?”
“Yes!” said Beramun, feeling a surge of hope. Roki’s wide shoulders slumped.
“I can’t swim,” she muttered. “I’m probably not the only one here who can’t.”
Beramun clasped the downcast woman’s hand. “I’ll help you!”
Roki shook her head. “Have you seen that current? Your ancestors will bless you if you manage to make it across by yourself!”
Opet frowned. “We have to try. The raiders are waiting for something — maybe another band to join them. If we don’t act soon, we’ll likely be surrounded by even more of them.”
Roki’s eyes flickered between their captors and the racing river. At last she nodded. “I’ll try. If it’s the will of the Great Spirits, I’ll make it across.”
Word of the plan passed among the prisoners. Opet’s sharp black stone was likewise passed from hand to hand. On his advice, the rawhide ropes were cut just to the point of breaking. At the right moment, all the captives had to do was snap the last bit of thong and race to the river. As Roki had feared, some of the prisoners could not swim, but all vowed to chance death by drowning rather than face whatever fate the raiders intended for them.
Raiders moved among them at sundown, bringing water and evil-smelling jerky for a meager meal. The captives submitted meekly to the jeers and kicks of the raiders, biding their time till the planned escape.
Time seemed to crawl. Many of the weary captives fell asleep, as did quite a few of the raiders. Lutar, the red moon, rose from its resting place and cast a sanguinary light over the plain. All was still. Even the spring crickets were silent.
Opet crept up to Beramun and tugged at her elbow. “Time to go!” he hissed. His hands were free, and with a sharp tug, he broke the weakened thong around Beramun’s wrists.
Quietly, the prisoners stirred their sleeping comrades. No more than twenty paces separated them from the rushing water. Beramun gathered her feet under her, poised to flee.
Opet slapped her on the back, and she took off like a rabbit, sprinting down the stony riverbank. The time for stealth was over. Her footfalls and those of her fleeing comrades were loud in the quiet night.
The noise roused the raiders. Some tried to mount their horses while still weighed down by sleep and fell heavily to the ground. Zannian, barefoot and bareheaded, shouted orders as he wrestled with his nervous gray stallion.
Beramun reached the water first, with Opet close behind. She dived in, surfaced, and waved for Roki to follow. “Come on!” she cried.
Roki hesitated only a moment before fear of her captors overcame her terror of water, and she charged into the river. She floundered close enough for Beramun to grab the back of her shirt. Swimming out from the shallows, the two women were hit by the rush of the current. Roki panicked, pounding the water with her feet. Beramun had no breath to spare for soothing words. Tightening her grip on Roki’s clothing, Beramun crawled against the powerful rush of the river.
The older woman calmed when she realized she wasn’t drowning. Also heartening was the sight of mounted raiders trying but failing to urge their horses into the river. The animals would not advance beyond the firm footing in the shallows, so all the raiders could do was hurl spears at the fleeing captives. The long weapons made poor projectiles and fell short of the swimming prisoners.
All at once the night sky blossomed with an eerie green light. Beramun slung wet hair from her eyes and saw that a pine copse on the far shore had burst into flames. She continued her desperate swim, certain her eyes were deceiving her. How could flames be green?
Without warning, Beramun slowed her strokes, and Roki promptly sank beneath the surface.
Rising again, the older woman sputtered, “What are you doing?”
“Look there!” Beramun cried, treading hard to keep her head above water. She stared with wide-eyed terror at the western shore.
Hovering in the air above the burning trees was a huge, winged creature, many times the size of the largest horse or ox. Its long, skin-covered wings moved up and down in broad strokes, fanning the green flames consuming the pine copse. Four muscular limbs dangled beneath the creature, and a long, serpentine tail balanced an equally sinuous neck.
“What is it?” Beramun cried in horror. “What is it?”
Roki clung to her, eyes fastened on the fantastic creature. “Stormbird!” she replied.
The monster alighted on the riverbank. Shouts went up from the assembled raiders, and Beramun wondered if Zan’s men would fight the gigantic creature or flee.
Opet and some of the stronger swimmers were nearly to the other side. They too had seen the stormbird and were trying to give it wide berth. The creature reared up on its hind legs and waded into the water. It struck as swiftly as a viper. Raising its head again, it held a man trapped in its jaws.
The sight was too much for Beramun, and she panicked. Seeing this inconceivable monster killing a fellow plainsman struck terror into her heart. When she froze, the current rolled her and Roki over until they were both
