The riding beasts were large, looking a bit like epetruk, striding forward on their thick hind legs, heavy tails swishing through the grass behind. Each of them had a Yilanè rider straddling its forequarters. Now they paused, looking up at the slope and the trees beyond. Waiting there as the rumbling grew louder.

Kerrick gasped as the crest of the ridge darkened with the running figures, low beasts with too many legs. They stopped as well, milled about, armed fargi on their backs. Four legs to a side, eight in all. Tiny heads on thick necks. Raised and bred to carry, to bring the fargi here, more and more of them all of the time. They surged and crowded each other—then started ahead.

The wind blew from them, carrying the cries of the Yilanè, the loud hammer of feet, shrill animal screams, the sour, bestial smell of the creatures.

Closer and closer, looming high, coming forward along the track straight towards the handful of hunters hidden beneath the trees. Every detail of their spotted hides was now clear, the fargi clutching their weapons and blinking out through the dust, the Yilanè on their larger mounts forging ahead.

Herilak’s warbling cry was small against the loud thunder of the attackers.

The first death-sticks cracked out.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kerrick fired at the nearest Yilanè, missed, but hit her mount instead. The creature reared up—then fell heavily. The rider dropped to the ground, unhurt, aiming her hèsotsan. Kerrick’s next dart caught her in the neck and she crumpled into the grass.

It was a slaughter. The first row of attackers fell before the concentrated fire from the trees. Many of the lumbering, eight-legged beasts were hit, dropped as well, spilling the fargi from their backs to the ground. Those few that kept coming forward were killed well before they reached the line of trees. The survivors fell back, became entangled with the riders who were still coming forward. The darts flew into the jumbled mass and the bodies piled higher. The attack stumbled to a halt, encumbered by the dead, the air filled with the pained cries of wounded fargi crushed beneath the fallen beasts.

Orders were being called out now by mounted Yilanè grouped to the rear of the attackers. Under their direction the fargi struggled to seek cover, to fire back. Kerrick lowered his own weapon to listen, understanding some of what was being said. One of the riders rode free of the attackers, calling for attention, issuing orders. Kerrick raised his hèsotsan but saw that she was carefully staying out of range. Her voice was clearly heard now, making order out of chaos. It was clear to Kerrick as well.

He froze. Eyes wide, hands clenched and muscles locked. That voice. He knew that voice.

But Vaintè was dead, he had killed her himself. Stabbed deep. Killed her. She was dead.

Yet it was undeniably her voice; loud and commanding.