The crossing was long but tranquil enough. She slogged ashore on the east bank and immediately spotted a cut through the wall of willow trees. Closer inspection revealed hoofprints, a good sign. Amero had said Karada’s band rode horses.
Beramun walked through the gap in the trees and spotted a trail winding away into the high grass. Before she’d gone ten steps, a rough net of woven vines dropped over her. Amid deep-voiced yells, she was swept off her feet and dragged pell-mell through the grass.
Beramun shouted and kicked at the sturdy net as she bumped painfully over rocks and roots. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, her trip ended. One edge of the net was pulled hard, rolling her out into the grass.
She sat up, furious. Her protests died in her throat when she saw her captors.
They were centaurs — four dark, heavily muscled horsemen. One flanked her on each side, and two others stood in front of her. They were armed with long-handled clubs, blackened by years of bloodstains.
The largest centaur asked a question in his own tongue.
“My name is Beramun,” she said, guessing at his inquiry. She tried to stand, but the centaurs behind her tripped her. She rolled over and yelled, “I’ve done you no harm! Why do you attack me?”
Big Centaur yelled right back, saliva flying from his lips. Beramun thought of her bronze dagger. Usually she wore it in a sheath at her waist, but for swimming, she’d tucked it in back of the collar of her shirt. It was still there, and the centaurs hadn’t found it.
The chief centaur uttered a long imperative phrase that ended in what sounded like “seelwanest.” He pointed south with a thick finger. Beramun had a glimmer of understanding. She faced the chief and mimicked his gesture.
“Silvanesti?” she said.
He bobbed his shaggy head. “Seelwanest.”
They were taking her to the elves!
“No Silvanesti,” Beramun said, shaking her head vigorously. She raised her left hand and pointed northeast. “I’m here to find Karada. Karada!”
The centaurs instantly lost their bored manner. Big Centaur stepped forward and grabbed Beramun by her hair.
“Karada?” he roared, followed by undeniably ugly denunciation. He shook her like a panther worrying a fresh kill. Beramun, blind with pain, clawed and struck the centaur’s brawny arms. With a final exclamation of hatred, he threw her to the ground.
The leader spoke, and two of his companions took hold of Beramun’s arms, pulling her to her knees. The third stretched her head back. Wide-eyed, she saw the big centaur raise his club high -
There was a meaty thunk, and a long, slender wooden shaft, tipped with gray feathers, appeared in the centaur’s ribs. Blood welled out around the shaft.
The chief centaur’s front knees buckled, and a second shaft sprouted from his chest. When a third appeared in his throat, he toppled to the side with a feeble grunt.
The remaining centaurs released Beramun and galloped away. One of them received a wooden shaft in his back. He stumbled, calling out to his friends. They kept going and did not look back. Weaving from side to side, the wounded centaur tried to catch up with his fellows.
Beramun’s shocked gaze left her erstwhile captors and turned to her savior.
It was a woman, striding through the waist-high grass. Lean, clad in tan, close-fitting buckskins, the stranger had sun-gilded brown hair pulled back in a thick braid that reached to her waist. Her face and arms were brown as leather from years in the sun. She wore a spirit mark — three short horizontal lines of white paint on her forehead. What
Beramun first took to be other painted lines on her throat and jaw turned out to be massive scars, which did not tan as darkly as the rest of her skin. Though not really a handsome woman, she was tall and had an arresting presence.
Halting a pace away from Beramun, the woman raised an amazing device. It was a long, bent piece of wood. The two ends were joined by a taut length of sinew. She fitted one of the slender wooden shafts — it looked like a miniature spear, with a flint head on one end and feathers on the other — against the sinew and drew it back with her fingers while holding the wooden part at arm’s length. The stave flexed deeply. Releasing her grip, the woman sent the tiny, feathered spear winging toward the wounded centaur. It struck him in the hindquarters. He went down, disappearing in the tall grass.
At last the woman took notice of Beramun. “All right, girl?” she asked. Her accent was odd, but her words understandable.
Beramun, still stunned by her last-second reprieve, stuttered, “I am. Yes. Thank you!”
“Good.”
She made for the spot where the second centaur had fallen, Beramun following. Along the way, she slipped the dart thrower over her head for carrying and drew a wickedly long bronze knife.
The centaur was lying on his side, breathing raggedly. When he saw the two women approaching, he struggled to rise. He failed and lay bleeding in the grass.
The woman said a sentence in the harsh centaur tongue. Rage, impotent but genuine, bloomed on the wounded creature’s face.
“What did you say?” Beramun asked.
“I told him to prepare to meet his ancestors.”
“You mean to kill him?” At the woman’s curt nod, Beramun added, “You must not!”
The woman pondered a moment, then reversed her grip on the knife. “You’re right. You should do it.” She offered the handle to Beramun.
“No! I mean you should spare him. I’m not hurt, and he’s suffered enough.”
Studying her with penetrating, hazel eyes, the woman flipped the knife back again into her right hand. “He’s got one arrow in his lung and another in his haunch,” she said. “If we leave him here, he’ll die slowly — unless wolves or panthers get him first.”
Beramun looked at the wounded centaur. One hoof, held off the ground, trembled. The centaur’s face was twisted in agony, his breathing shallow and short. Though he and his companions had tried to kill her, she felt no pleasure at his condition.
He gasped a few words. Beramun looked questioningly at the woman, who translated. “He says he hurts and I should finish him. He laid hands on you, girl. What do you say?”
“Do what you must,” Beramun said. She turned away.
After a moment, the woman, wiping her blade with a tuft of plucked grass, caught up to Beramun.
“I don’t know why they attacked me,” Beramun said.
“The big one, Ponaz, was a vicious renegade.” The woman sheathed her knife and took her dart-throwing device in hand again. “He and his sons capture humans to sell to the Silvanesti. The elves pay in flint and hides.” She gave Beramun a thoughtful look. “They pay more for a live human than a dead one. I wonder why Ponaz was willing to lower your value?”
Beramun fingered her bruised head. “I think it’s because I mentioned Karada.”
The stranger laughed. “That would do it. Karada and Ponaz have had a blood feud going for quite a while. He must’ve thought you were one of her band.”
The woman’s long gait forced Beramun to jog to keep up. “Where are you going?” she asked.
Again, that disconcertingly direct gaze was leveled at her. “Why do you want to know?” the woman asked.
“I’m a wanderer, new to these parts. I was sent to find Karada.”
“Were you? Who sent you?”
“Her brother, the Arkuden of Yala-tene.”
The woman halted. She didn’t draw her knife or load her dart thrower, but Beramun had the distinct feeling she was in peril.
“Centaurs aren’t the only ones who take payment from the elves,” the woman said slowly. “The Silvanesti have a price on Karada’s head — one hundred jewels or one hundred pounds of fine bronze. Such wealth could easily turn a girl’s head.”
“I’m telling the truth,” Beramun replied, trying to stay calm.
