He dropped back under cover, looking around wildly. Where were they, where had they gone? Before panic took over he forced himself to think, not react. The Yilanè were here, that was certain. This was no accident—or possible murder by another hunter. They all made their own darts now, took patient care with their construction so they would be more accurate in flight. Yet the one before him that had killed the guard, this one had been grown on a bush. Picked by a fargi—and fired by a Yilanè. They had come from the sea. But how many? He had to give the warning. Where were the nearest Sasku working? As warily as he could he hurried toward the center of the city, making a swing away from the most direct route.

There were voices ahead—speaking Sasku! He ran toward them, ready to call out when he saw the two warriors among the orange trees. There was a sharp cracking sound and one of them stumbled and fell. The other turned about, startled, kept turning and fell on top of the first hunter.

The words caught in Kerrick’s throat and he hurled himself to the ground, dropping behind the trunk of a tree, seeing the two Sasku dead before him.

Dried leaves crackled in the small grove while he lay motionless, not breathing, staring at the dark form that slowly emerged into the sunlight.

A Yilanè!

She stopped, motionless, just her eyes moving, looking about but not seeing him. Her arms were half-lowered in the gesture of fear, the hèsotsan pointed at the ground. She was young, just a fargi he realized. But there would be others with her. He was right, for a moment later he heard an irritated voice say Forward. The fargi writhed with fear and indecision and finally moved. Two others emerged from cover behind her, showing the same overriding fear as the first. Then a fourth figure became visible in the shadows, erect and commanding, familiar. Stepping forward into the light.

Vaintè.

Kerrick shook with the wave of fierce sensations that swept over him. Hatred and loathing—and something else, he couldn’t tell what it was, did not want to know. Vaintè had returned, there were invading forces, he had to give the warning.

He had to kill her, that was all that he knew. Once before he had plunged a spear into her and she had lived. Now, a single bite from his dart, an invisible drop of poison on its tip—and instant death. Yes!

Raise the weapon slowly, sight along it, a touch of moving air on his cheek, allow for it, she was turning toward him, how well he knew that face . . .

Squeeze.

The weapon cracked loudly in his hand just as one of the fargi stepped forward. To receive the dart in her flesh, stumble and fall.

“You!” Vaintè said, staring at his face, hatred coloring the word, rippling her flesh with its strength.