“Those two were kind to me,” Kontas said suddenly, pointing at the mismatched pair, blond and dark. “They’re orphaned cousins. The Vidrini captured them months ago when they raided the remnants of their tribe. They were traded at the same time as me.”

Those two, then, and the two little blond brothers, who upon being brought across told Kirya that the angry youth had been beaten five times by the guards for helping boys who were faltering, which is why he had those scars. So she must indicate him as well, and he wasn’t eager to come until she spoke to him in a low voice and told him what she hoped for, and then he didn’t want to believe her because it is fearful to hope for the very thing that is about to be ripped from your hand, but she was a woman of the tribes after all, willing to walk into demon land to free her brother. Once started, he told her a great deal quickly: He had walked with the merchants for many days; he had watched them bargaining for horses and hides and flesh; he had seen them desperately trying to coax girls, especially blond girls, out of the tribes, but of course not even the Vidrini would hand females over to foreigners.

“Swear to me that you and this other youth will help my brother sneak past the Vidrini and reach my cousin,” she said to him. “That you’ll obey Orphan, who is the war leader of our tribe. Swear to me that you’ll become Moroshya.”

“I’m an orphan,” he said. “I’m ill-fortuned. The gods cursed me and left me alive when my kin died. No one wants an orphan except the demons, and they are cruel, and they hate us.”

“You’re not an orphan. You are Moroshya.”

He was a fierce boy, with bright eyes and so much anger, which she saw now was strength, not a bully’s weakness. “I am Moroshya, then. I swear this oath: Your tribe will never die, because you are our mother, and gave us life.”

“What is your name?”

“Ilia. What is yours?” He had a western twang to his speech, but he was as human as she was. He was a lad she might marry.

“I am named Kirya. Four more boys I can choose. Hurry.”

Hurry.

Too quickly she assembled the little war band. The fat man brought saddlebags crammed with provisions, dried meat and also slabs and balls of tasteless grain that the boys assured her were edible. She approved three horses; with five all together, the ten boys might ride doubled-up. With some coaxing and after one frustrated kick, the gelding agreed to accept Kontas and Ilia. In an odd exuberance of generosity, the old merchant gave them leather bottles filled with foreign drink, which anyway could be used for water later.

“There, now,” he said, “give the boy back his weapons and let them go.”

What was this demon yammering about? “The boy has no weapons. He is too young to be a rider.”