Evie is on Mother Manai’s heels, drawing her sword and rushing past the death dance. She grips the tsuka with both hands and raises the sword, slashing down expertly and chopping through the horn’s mouthpiece with one swipe. In almost the same motion she gives her shoulder to the blossoming spiral of bone and pushes the entire thing, horn and pedestal both, until they tip over.

Mother Manai removes her blooded blade from the soldier’s throat and does her best to ease his body to the ground quickly and quietly. She leaves him lying there, sheathing her dagger as she steps away to join Evie. No one appears to have yet noticed what they’ve done, but the certain remedy for that is to remain beside the body and the disabled alarm.

“Move,” Mother hisses at Evie. “Don’t run, just move!”

Evie nods, lowering her sword and keeping it unsheathed at her side as they both walk away from the scene.

They begin to hear the battle cries of Savages rising above the fiery tent peaks on the far side of the camp. Evie’s heart feels as though it’s rising through her throat. The sound either means the Savages have turned on the emissaries sent to infiltrate their camp and enlist their aid, or it means they’ve raided the armory wagon and are attacking the Skrain, led by Lariat and Bam. They couldn’t risk trying to send signals back and forth between the Skrain-guarded lines before the attack. Evie trusted to the Elder Company’s reputation and influence over the rest of the dominant Savages attached to these companies of Skrain.

The soldiers stationed in the center of the encampment have begun mustering together en masse, most of them fleeing burning tents and flaming arrows. Small groups have gathered water in buckets and troughs and are attempting to extinguish as many tents as possible. The attention of the rest is being collectively pulled toward the commotion originating in the Savage Legion quarters. Evie and Mother Manai remain in the background, far enough removed from the others to flee, yet close enough to blend in with the rest of the Crachian helms and scaled armor.

“What happened to the alarm?” an angry, authoritative voice demands. “Where’re our sentries, our scouts?”

Almost as if in answer to him, a shrieking voice pierces the scattered and confused chatter among the rest of the Skrain. A lone soldier is bolting between the tents, running away from the direction of the Savage quarter. Evie glimpses him through the mass of other armored bodies. The man has lost his helm, and his face and breastplate are streaked and splattered with blood.

“The Savages are attacking the camp!” he’s screaming, frantic and obviously in shock. “They’re killing everyone! There was no warning! We had no warning!”