A sense of something, maybe the tiniest hint of a vibration through the soles of her feet or the feel of the jungle stilling. Perhaps it was just a … a knowledge, the warrior’s awareness, but Xessa halted, toes splayed wide on the trail. Fifty paces on, a flicker of movement – Ossa jumping, landing back feet, front feet. She raised her arm so he knew she’d seen him and then held her palm out, requesting information. He pointed his nose downhill, giving the signal for predator.

Shit. Just what I need.

She had a dog and a knife and a sling, a bag for carrying any medicine she found, but no more.

Xessa took another few steps, looking where he’d indicated, but she could see nothing in the shade beneath the trees. The wind picked up and shook the undergrowth and she startled, seeing things that weren’t there and, potentially, not seeing things that were. If it was a jaguar, chances were she wouldn’t notice it until it moved, charged her with teeth bared and tail lashing, and opened her from screaming mouth to steaming guts.

Xessa crouched and put her right hand into the mud, peering low across the trail for eyeshine or slink of predator in the low scrub. She clicked her tongue and Ossa looked up. She held out a palm and he pointed again, gave the predator signal again. She tasted the air for the musk of cat, got nothing. Looked back at the dog. His ears flattened and then pricked again, and once more he signalled predator, without her asking this time.

Shit.

She was upwind of whatever it was, so if she could hide, it might pass her by. Xessa scrambled up off the trail into a dense stand of palm growing around one of the outcrops of sharp, black rock that sprouted from Malel’s skin. She crouched and patted her knees – Ossa got his front legs onto her lap and put his head on his paws. She put her fingers between his eyes and he stilled, panting lightly. Beneath her other hand, Xessa felt his hackles rise and prayed he didn’t whine because there they were, on the trail, close enough to spit at: a dozen warriors with red feathers in their hair, with sharp stone and obsidian in their hands. Empire warriors. Their hair was braided Pechaqueh style, but the patterns dyed in their kilts and the flashes of tattoo she saw spoke of different tribes. Her stomach cramped with tension and bile scalded her throat.

Another dozen emerged from the trees, and then a dozen more, these ones wearing grey-banded eagle feathers.

War had reached the Sky City.