Mahlia struggled to break free, but the doctor was surprisingly strong.

“She’s going to get us killed!” Mahlia’s hand went to her knife. Where was it?

The doctor must have felt her motion, because he caught her hand. “Always that’s your solution! Is that what you are?” he demanded. “Just like those soldiers out there? Always killing?”

Mahlia looked around frantically, still trying to fight free. Caught sight of Mouse. “Get her!” she said. “Don’t let Amaya get back to town!”

Mouse looked from the doctor to Mahlia, uncertain.

Mahlia glared at him. “She’s going to do us, unless you catch her.”

“Stay there, Mouse,” the doctor grunted. “Make the right choice.”

Mouse looked down the path after Amaya, then back to Mahlia. Finally shook his head. “She’s bigger than me. I don’t think I can catch her before she’s back in town.”

Mahlia twisted and fought, finally threw herself sideways, taking both of them to the ground. The doctor’s grip popped free and she tore loose. She scrambled back to her feet, glaring at Mouse. “You chickenshit farmer.”

Mouse hung his head, but he didn’t go running after Amaya. The doctor slowly got to his feet, panting. Tool was watching them all, curious, almost amused.

Mahlia looked toward the town. The smoke was thickening. The soldiers had to be burning everything. Not just the town. Probably the crops as well. Scorched earth. More smoke billowed over her. Mahlia swore. She’d hoped to have more time to prepare for a journey north, but with Amaya ratting them out, it was time to run. Ready or not, it was time to run.

Mahlia turned to Tool. “Can you travel?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Doctor Mahfouz shift in disappointment that she wasn’t interested in suicide. That was Mahfouz’s problem, though.

Tool’s yellow dog eye regarded her. “There is no choice. We travel or we fight. And if we fight, we die.”

That pretty much summed it up. So why was she even delaying?

They didn’t have enough food. Didn’t have tools. No machetes, no nothing.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She wanted to scream in frustration at how quickly her bare plan had fallen apart. Her father had always said that battle plans fell apart. It was to be expected. A general had to adapt—that was what distinguished good soldiers from poor ones. So, she needed to adapt.

“We got to lose the trail,” she said. “We’re going into the swamp. Water travel.” She pointed. “Mouse can show us a way. He knows these swamps. We can still lose them.”

The half-man inclined his head in agreement. He limped over to a tree and took a branch in his fist. With a crackling explosion, he tore it free, making a staff to support himself.

“Damn,” Mouse muttered. “That’s what you do when you’re weak?”