‘Scatter,’ Ilandeh screamed. ‘Scatter!’

Those Whispers who could disengaged instantly, ducking, rolling, and sprinting out of reach of their opponents, weaving through the trees at the edge of the clearing and vanishing into the pre-dawn. Five were too heavily engaged to make it out and Ilandeh retrieved her spear and dashed for the closest, her ribs a forgotten hurt that would haunt her later, and scythed the legs from under the nearest enemy warrior. The Whisper didn’t waste time thanking her – together they helped a third and turned for the dark of the jungle, Sarn vanishing just ahead of them. The final two they left to their fate, and screams rose before they were ten strides into the treeline.

Fury boiled in Ilandeh’s veins as she ran. The first engagement since Pilos had arrived – one intended to clear the route ahead of them – and fucking Sarn had got half her pod slaughtered. No, she reminded herself, she’d got half her pod slaughtered. She was Flight. The responsibility – and the blame – was hers, no matter what Sarn had done.

Ilandeh gritted her teeth. Knowing she’d disappointed Pilos hurt more than a club to the chest. She’d forgotten just how much the High Feather’s good opinion of her mattered and how, despite the utter purity of his blood and lineage, his status and reputation, he never once looked at her with anything other than respect. Or he hadn’t, before this.

They reached the camp. Ilandeh snagged Sarn’s armour and pulled him close. ‘With me, right now,’ she growled, and strode towards the High Feather before she lost her nerve.

PILOS

Northwestern Yalotlan

232nd day of the Great Star at morning

Pilos walked through the latest ambush site to plague their advance as storm clouds bellied across the sun, their ragged edges turning pink and peach before fading back to grey. He picked his way among the corpses, analysing the arrows, the darts, the direction of flight of both warriors and weapons.

One man dangled by an ankle from a trip-snare, his head mashed to pulp, body twisting gently around and then back, around and then back, as the wind stirred the branch from which he hung. The clearing was silent but for the call of birds high above and the hum of insects enjoying a brief respite from the rain.

The High Feather dipped his fingers into the mess of crushed skull, then rubbed them together. The humidity had kept the blood fluid but it was thick, trying to clot. A couple of hours then.