Another death worm?

Ashyn sucked in air, but reminded herself that they hadn’t seen sand or soil in a day.

As she sat up, she heard a scraping to her left. She caught movement. When she glanced over, it stopped, but she could make out the faint outline of a human figure.

Tova started walking slowly in that direction. Ashyn crawled from her sleeping blankets, staying on all fours, ready to follow Tova—

She heard a crack behind her. Something struck her, fast and hard, searing her skin, wrapping around her neck and yanking her up as Wenda screamed. Ashyn’s hands flew to her neck as the cord tightened, cutting off her air. Tova let out a roar and raced behind Ashyn. The cord tightened again as if he’d grabbed it in his teeth. Then it slackened, and as she yanked it off, she fell to the hard rock.

She heard another roar and lifted her head to see Tova leaping onto a dark figure. Both went down. A man screamed. Then Tova threw the man aside, his body falling limply as Tova stood there, snarling, his legs planted, fur on end.

“The dog!” a man shouted. “Shoot it!”

“No!” Ashyn screamed.

She ran for Tova and threw herself over him. Something hit her shoulder, piercing right through her cloak and tunic. Then another, this one catching in her cloak before clattering to the rock. Arrows.

“Get off the dog, girl!” a man shouted.

“It’s not a dog!” Wenda shouted. “It’s a Hound of the Immortals. And that’s the Seeker.”

Laughter echoed seemingly from every direction. Ashyn’s heart pounded, but she stayed on Tova and slid out her dagger, keeping it hidden under her.

“All right, Seeker,” a man’s voice said, mocking, drawing closer.

He stepped from the darkness. He had the coppery skin and eyes of one from the distant desert lands. His head was shaven and he stood at least half a head taller than any man she knew, with broad shoulders and burly arms, bare despite the cool night air. His filthy clothing was covered in silver beads, an odd display of wealth on such shabby apparel. When he smiled, his teeth shone, too, his front ones silver-coated.

A bandit.

Another man sidled up behind him, smaller, with lighter skin and braids.

“Look at that hair,” he said, his voice breathy. “The color of the setting sun.”

The big man snorted. “Have you never seen a Northerner? Skin pale as a fish belly. Hair like dirty straw.” His lip curled in distaste. “We’d be lucky to find a man willing to take her to bed.”

“Oh, I’d be willing,” the smaller man chortled. “I think you need spectacles, Barthol, if you think that hair resembles straw. And those eyes? Like a summer sky.”

The big man—Barthol—shook his head. “On your feet, girl. Mind your cur.”