But still, he thought as he stared out over the land, all shifting grays and blacks beneath a cloud-wracked anvil of sky, We might have to go down there.

He considered the campfire once more. Gwenna’s head wound required rest. They all needed rest. The rations they’d stolen in their flight from the Eyrie were nearly gone. Both Talal’s injury and Valyn’s own needed to be cleaned and cauterized, which meant fire and yet more rest. It was possible to make their own camp, to go without food, to tend their own wounds and steer clear of the people below, but that choice presented its own risks. In the end ’Ra’s deteriorating wingbeat decided him.

The bird couldn’t stay in the air much longer. She was gliding in long sweeps, losing hundreds of feet of altitude as she rested, then struggling mightily to regain the lost elevation. The stutter in her wingbeat had grown worse, and she was flying head-down. Laith would have to look her over on the ground to discover what was wrong. Worse, a battered kettral could take days or weeks to recover. That campfire meant Urghul, and Urghul meant horses. Valyn hated riding, but it beat walking, if Gwenna even could walk.

He reached for the signaling strap, tugging out the relevant code: Circle target.

For a moment nothing happened, then he felt the bird bank slightly to the north, aiming directly at the campfire.

He leaned over to Talal, cupping a hand to his mouth. “How’s your Urghul?”

The leach grimaced, though whether at the question or the pain in his leg, Valyn couldn’t say. “Awful,” he replied.

“Can you tell them we don’t want a fight?”

“I don’t think Don’t want a fight is an Urghul concept.”

“How about, If you move, the bird will rip your throat out?”

Talal frowned. “Bird kill you is about the best I can do.”

“Bird kill you it is.”

“Are you certain about this, Valyn?” the leach asked.

“No.” It had been a very long time since Valyn felt certain about anything.

He turned back to the flame. As they grew closer, his spirits rose. There was only a single fire with a few small figures gathered around it. Two api, the collapsible hide tents favored by the Urghul, stood a little way off, with a line of hobbled horses between them. The camp probably contained about ten people. No more than a dozen. Even injured, a Kettral Wing would be equal to ten or twelve nomadic savages.

“I’ve got no ’Kent-kissing certainty whatsoever,” he went on. “But we need food and fire, rest and horses—and they’re all right there.”