Convergence

The stronger demons would not attack first. First the Thandi would try to break the wards, and wear down the defenders’ courage. As she slipped over the great tree bole, Zhura exchanged a glance with Keya. The priestess nodded.

With the setting of the sun, Keya had doffed her hat. She walked behind the men who crouched at the berm, their eyes upon the shrieking hyenas.

“We hold sacred ground!” the priestess cried, her voice ringing clear over the din. “We will not fear. Our forebears have seeded this land with their blood and their bones. And they will rise up to guide and protect us! Our Ancestors have led us across hills and plains and forest to this land, and they will never forsake us! Demons and men will break upon us like the river against a mighty rock, yet we will not be moved!”

Keya continued the prayer, calling upon the dead heroes of Morore that she had learned sitting under the Brassbelt baobabs. She invoked Mama Nyah and Papa Yaz, her own Oko Ancestors and those of House San. Last, Keya called upon the spirit of Anathe. Wardens and askari took up the prayer, appealing to their own sacred Ancestors, calling out one name after the other.

They were still calling when the sanju came.

The first appeared not ten paces away from the ditch, crouched and gray in the flickering light. In moments, arrows from the tower plunked into the red clay at its clawed feet. It reached up to take off the beaten brass mask that covered its face, just as two arrows sank into its shoulder and chest.

The demon screamed in pain, and toppled, writhing on the ground. The sound ripped at Zhura’s heart. She couldn’t help but think of Miliki’tiki, the gentle creature she’d set free in Namu. But two more sanju appeared, yanking off their masks to show their faces to the defenders.

Zhura had never seen Miliki’tiki’s face before. Confronted by these sanju, she was unable to look away. Their ashen skin rippled, jowls oozing like mud during a storm. Eyes bled white as the demons seemed to bulge towards them, all razor teeth and liquefied flesh.

But for all the horror of it, whatever magic the sanju wielded was gone. Zhura recoiled. She felt the revulsion of the men around her like a wave. But none of the defenders broke. The surviving demons whirled and vanished, arrows falling in their wake.

The Ancestors stand with us.

A warden standing nearby shouted in pain. Not all of the hissing arrows were coming from the tower. Others arced into their defensive enclosure, shot from the dark shadows amongst the shops across the intersection. Wardens and Ikanjans flatted themselves against the berm. Zhura grabbed Keya and pulled her close, to the shelter of her and Ngo’s raised shields.

The hyenas circled, cackling as they roved in the shadows. The animals were smart enough to stay out of the open, probing until they sensed a weakness. They would have torn apart anyone who had run from the sanju.

The assault was sudden. A wave of attackers, swathed in green and yellow, sprinted out of the darkness towards the barricades. They carried shields and all manner of weapons, pounding across the open intersection.

Zhura slipped off her sandals. Ngo appeared beside her, shield and gleaming iklwa spear at the ready, his eyes fixed upon the coming onslaught. His lips twisted into a half-smile.

“So it begins, my friend,” he said in their native Sung language.

Arrows rained down on the attackers. A few staggered as the defenders threw axes and spears at them. One man twisted like a harpooned fish, transfixed by an arrow that only could have come from Musa’s bow. Those who did not fall kept coming. They launched themselves over the ditch. Some slid to the bottom, but others clung to the berm.

“Ancestors bless, chief’s second son.” Zhura grinned fiercely back. She saw a gap between the askari on the left, near the log, and wardens. She leapt towards it, as Ngo also charged to the front.

Zhura ran the few steps up the top of the berm, toes finding purchase in the loose rubble. A Scarred Woman had reached the top of the mound already, cutting down a warden with a vicious swing of her long axe. Thin braids fanned out beneath the yellow scarf she wore. Her skin was covered with ritual scars.

Zhura caught the witch’s backswing on her shield and bulled the woman backwards, sending her tumbling into the ditch. She flinched as an arrow shot past her head and slammed her club down on a warrior as he tried to mount the berm. The crunch of bone beneath the heavy knob of her club both satisfied and sickened her. The air rang with screams of rage and pain, and the wallops of hide-covered shields and the clash of blades.

The hyenas’ calls had changed, high-pitched giggles signaling their attack. The predators raced along beside and behind the wave of attacking men. Others scrabbled up over the log, braving arrows and askari spears. The defenders held off the human attackers. But the hyenas came in such numbers that within seconds some of the beasts scampered behind the defensive lines.

The long-necked predators scrambled everywhere. With most of the wardens repelling green-garbed attackers, only the sub-chief, Jinai and a few of the Ikanjans were able to fend them off. Jinai batted one of the hyenas away with a long baton. Ngo traded blows with a Scarred Woman who, with a handful of green-garbed attackers, had gained the top of the berm.

Keya stood behind the askari, clutching the talisman at her throat and chanting something. At least she looked safe for the moment.

Zhura ducked down as an arrow whizzed past. She swung at a hyena, but it dashed quickly away.

The archers atop the tower couldn’t shoot down at this angle, or they would risk hitting their own.

We’re losing, already.

Hyenas growled, attacking wardens from the rear. The defenders were already at a breaking point, and the strongest of their enemies hadn’t even appeared yet. The bajari were still waiting to join their attack. She could still feel their demonic control over the hyenas. That energy had unleashed them to attack. It could pull them back just as easily.

There was no way Zhura could contest that control. Was there? How did the bajari master all of these animals?

When she had pacified the rhinos she was able to confront each of them alone and bend them to her will. But there were dozens of hyenas here, their maniacal giggles lending a cruel irony to the battle. She struck one beast aside, slamming it into the massive log with a sweep of her kirri club.

Every hyena’s cry was different. What sounded to human ears like meaningless yammering was constant communication. Each animal’s aura was unique. Fearful, eager, hungry, frantic…dominant.

There. The largest of the hyenas savaged a badly wounded warden on the far side of the battle, against the log that blocked the bridge. The man’s companions tried to reach him, but other hyenas harried them, darting away from blows and then snapping at the men when their backs were turned.

This was the leader. The leader controlled the hyenas, and the bajari controlled the leader.

Zhura trotted through the battle, swatting at hyenas that approached her, reaching the leader just as it – just as she, for she was a female – tore out the warden’s throat.

Zhura shouted, charging. The female scooted away at the last moment, turning her rump towards Zhura, abandoning her kill. The matriarch let out a low giggling sound.

Zhura heard panting behind her. She spun, knocking aside a lunging beast with her shield, and following with the kirri club. She felt the animal’s skull give way under her blow. Zhura whipped around again as the matriarch approached her back. The predator veered away and whirled to face her again, showing a mouthful of jagged bone-crushing teeth that dripped with blood and gore.

Before facing the rhinos, Zhura had prayed to Anathe. But now she didn’t need to pray. Anathe was with her. Anathe was her. She fixed her gaze on the hyena, seized her full attention.

The beast grunted a challenge, and Zhura responded with one simple thought.

Mine.

“They are all mine,” the herb-witch snarled, waving her club at the backs of the wardens who fought. The hyena backed away. Zhura advanced. “They are under my protection.”

The beast would not comprehend her words. But the meaning behind them… that she would understand.

“Mine!”

The matriarch turned her stunted tail. She raced to the log, scrambling under the spear of one of the askari. In a leap, she was atop the tree trunk, and over.

As if tied to her by a long leash, the other hyenas fled as well. But they had done their damage. Several of the wardens limped from bite wounds. At least two lay dead behind the defensive line. Those that could still fight returned their efforts to the barrier, engaging the remnant of their human foes. Green garbed men tumbled into the ditch.

Ngo, leaping down from the berm, favored Zhura with a grim smile. His spear dripped with blood. But a cry from the sub-chief turned their attention back to the front.

Bajari raced towards the defenses.

Like their hyena counterparts, these demons were hunched and brawny around the neck and shoulders, with a ruff of spotted fur behind the head that trailed down the back. They were tall, bodies tapering beneath the chest to a slender waist and canine legs and paws. Though some had vaguely human faces, most had the snout and lethal jaws of hyenas. They carried stone blades – axes and curved knives.

There were Scarred Women among the infernals, carrying long battle axes with blades shaped like half-moons.

Upturned shields protected most of the demons from the hail of arrows that struck from above. But they were not all so lucky. One fell back as if it had hit a wall, toppling to the ground with the shaft of Musa’s giant arrow lodged in its chest.

Bajari leapt over the ditch, and again the clashes came. Wounded defenders staggered or crawled back from the barrier. On the left side of the line, the askari fought the demons off with a steady line of jabbing spears, Jinai anchoring their flank. The demons shrank from her, their fur sizzling and smoking as they drew near her wards.

Zhura leapt atop the berm, ready for the one of the bajari. But the demon veered away from her. Instead, a Scarred Woman streaked towards her, yellow scarves flashing.

Arrows pelted past, as the woman vaulted through the air with preternatural strength. She held her axe high in an overhand swing that could split a man in two. Zhura hopped back, the axe blade nearly hooking over her shield and shearing through her collarbone. Instead her shield took a glancing blow. Zhura bounced away from the impact, countering with her club.

But this woman was quick, and skilled with her weapon. She twisted and knocked away Zhura’s strike.

The kirri club was a new weapon for Zhura. When she didn’t think about it, just let go, she flowed with the club, its heavy knob never still, weaving around her like the edge of a wheel around its hub. That was Anathe’s uwa within her.

Then Zhura would think about what she was doing, and her movement would stutter. The witch knocked another blow away with the haft of her axe, whirling it around to bite into Zhura’s shield. Zhura thrust her opponent away.

She saw another Scarred Woman coming over the berm towards her. She couldn’t get trapped between the two.

With a savage cry, Zhura launched herself at the second witch. The woman, startled, raised her axe to parry.

Zhura poured her strength and momentum into the swing. The bronze-chased ball of her club splintered the axe shaft and smashed into the woman’s rib cage, dropping her like a stone.

The herb-witch spun to meet her first opponent’s charge, side-stepping a swing.

“I know who you are,” the Thandi said. She stepped over the prone form, as if the body of her fallen coven-sister meant nothing to her.

As they circled, Zhura took in the surrounding battle. Ngo furiously fended off two witches and Jinai exchanged blows with another. Knots of wardens and askari desperately fought off the marauding demons. One of the hyenoid demons ripped the face off of a warden with the swipe of a paw. The bajari gutted the poor man with an obsidian blade and hurled the man’s body aside.

“You’re keeping us occupied,” Zhura said. “You fear that we’ll tear into your bajari. They won’t be able to stand against those of us with wards.”

“Very good,” the witch said. “Not that it helps you to know.”

Keya was hunched over, hidden against the log barrier, still chanting. The priestess wasn’t far from Jinai and the other askari. Fortunately for her the combatants seemed to have forgotten her. She poured from a jug of the libation water.

What is she doing?

Zhura warded off another fierce attack from her adversary. The axe blade looped, whistling as it cut the air. The Scarred Woman was an expert with the weapon. Thandi blood gifted her with quickness and strength. The sneer on her face betrayed her confidence. She knew how good she was, and she wanted to take Zhura down.

But Menga had taught her well. Zhura knew how to study her adversaries and find their weaknesses. Every fighter had weaknesses.

But the defenders wouldn’t hold forever against bajari. If this woman had a weakness, Zhura had to find it now.

A reddish mist rose from the ground.

It curled up from the mud where Keya knelt. More rust-colored mist rose in a curtain around the defensive position. From the same spots Keya and the other priests had set their wards. It swirled and coiled in the night air like living smoke.

Zhura’s adversary saw it too. She launched a flurry of attacks at Zhura, driving her back. Then the Thandi woman rushed at Keya.

Zhura slipped the shield from her arm, until she held it in one hand.

She whipped her shield at her opponent, and it struck the woman in the side. Stumbling, the Thandi woman looked up in alarm, only to see Zhura’s club sweeping down upon her.

The herb-witch quickly went to Ngo’s aid, dispatching one of his attackers before the woman knew what was happening. The next fell easily. Ngo hadn’t come out of the fight unscathed. He bled from a few shallow cuts, but shrugged them off. Jinai, too, had bested her opponent.

Little glowing motes reddish smoke wafted in the air, beginning to coalesce with a purpose. The combatants noticed, and the fighting lessened as the bajari snarled at the churning clouds.

Smoke wreathed the bajari in loops of red, orange and brown, swirling about as they hacked and lunged at it. A few tried to escape, but the mist the priestess had spawned followed them, growing thicker and heavier until it concealed every one of them completely in a demon-sized cloud.

The defenders could only gape as the bajari were enveloped. And then the clouds dissipated.

Where every bajari had been, there was an inanimate figure in its place. Each of the demons had been turned into the copper-rich clay of the Big Mongoose river valley.

Zhura heard the faint, familiar laugh of a man and woman.

“Thank you, Mama Nyah. Thank you Papa Yaz,” she whispered. She caught Keya’s eye. Keya looked exhausted sitting on the ground, but a grin crept across her face.

“The Ancestors protect us!” someone shouted.

A warden wondered the same thing, as he knelt to pray. “We’ve survived,” he sobbed.

If they had, the cost had been less than Zhura expected.

And yet, it had been too much.

The barricaded area was littered with bodies. All but a handful of the wardens were wounded or dead. The dead included the sub-chief, who had survived the last two nights, but fallen in the last few moments of this battle. Two of the eight askari from House San were dead, one of those ripped apart like a carcass on the savanna. Many of the wounded still stood, but the worst had crawled or been dragged to the rear to lean against the guard-post wall. Jinai tended to the bloody arm of one of the surviving askari.

Beyond the berm, dozens of corpses were strewn about in the street and intersection. Even as Zhura watched, one unfortunate who tried to pull himself away was feathered with arrows from atop the tower. The hyenas had vanished, perhaps frightened away by the ancestral magic.

The city seemed to hold its breath. It was full night now. A thousand thousand stars grieved in the black sky.

Keya picked up Zhura’s shield and handed it to her.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Zhura said, examining the closest of the petrified bajari.

Little tendrils of vapor still rose from the creature’s open jaws. One of the askari tapped the statue with a spear. It toppled and shattered into a dozen brittle pieces.

“Sometimes,” Keya said, “the Ancestors make their will quite clear to us.” She reached up to caress Zhura’s sweat-streaked face.

Zhura kissed Keya’s pale, grimy hand. “I should help with the wounded,” she said.

Just as she turned, there was a distant shout from the south. Then a blowing, like the bellows from a forge in the Caster’s Guild. Fingers of dread crept up her spine.

A low rumble came from down the darkened street, like the sound of many feet.

Or very large hooves.

The defenders turned as one to peer into the night. Zhura wanted to believe it was over, but she quickly realized what was coming.

“Keya, get out of here,” Zhura urged.

“I’m not leaving you-”

Zhura slapped Ngo on the shoulder and hurried towards the berm. “More are coming!” she shouted.

Two zenkomo emerged from the gloom.

They stood over three paces high, each larger than the one Zhura had faced in Kichinka. They looked to be solid, hulking muscle, painted in garish blues and reds. Above their brass masks were thick bosses of horn that curled to sharp points.

Bayati walked between the massive demons. This time she held a staff – the weapon upon which Zhura had trained her. Behind her was a second wave of bajari. Zhura counted easily twenty of the hyena demons – more than the defenders left standing.

“Form a line!” Ngo cried.

He began physically hauling men who could still stand into a line of shields and spears, wardens and Ikanjan askari, side by side. It was a desperate attempt to keep the survivors alive, but Ngo must have known that they couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds, if that, against this onslaught.

Bayati had committed. The fact that she was joining the attack gave Zhura hope that this was everything the Thandi had left.

“Musa!” Zhura yelled to the top of the tower. “Do it now!”

The zenkomo demons charged. One, with a scythe-like stone blade, curved around towards the log barrier. The other, swinging a maul, came straight for the berm, and behind it, the meager defensive line.

“Ulubuleli!” Zhura cried. “Ulubuleli!”

Still the zenkomos came.

Marble…

A single flaming arrow flew from the top of the tower. It arced high overhead, a lone ember over a raging fire.

More arrows fell in a deadly hail. But they were barely more than pinpricks to the massive bull demons, either failing to penetrate the dense flesh, dangling like spent needles. One of Musa’s elephant-killers only seemed to enrage the zenkomo that barreled straight towards the ditch and berm. The demon snapped the shaft that stuck from xhis shoulder, not even slowing.

The other bull demon’s winding approach aimed for the end of the huge log barrier. As xhe lowered its head and angled towards xhis target, Zhura saw Jinai step protectively in front of Keya.

“No!” Zhura gasped. She ran, throwing herself at the two women just as the zenkomo rammed head first into the tree trunk.

The log spun like a stick kicked by a child. The near end of it lifted off the ground, caroming towards the guardhouse wall. Zhura shoved Jinai and Keya down and clear. Splinters and bits of debris struck her head as she dove. The log crashed to the ground, rolling into the brick wall, crushing wounded men.

Dazed, Zhura tried to climb to her feet. The earth swayed beneath her.

The zenkomo bellowed in triumph in the breach. The demon lifted its roar to the sky, taunting the heavens, shaking the ground. The massive obsidian blade gleamed like fire in the torchlight.

Zhura grimaced in pain as she stood to face the behemoth.

The bellow died in the demon’s throat, like a well run dry. The scythe fell from its fingers and thumped to the earth.

The zenkomo leaned. Then it fell, like a rotting tree, striking the ground with a hammer’s blow.

An arrow as long as Zhura’s arm sprouted neatly from an eyehole of its mask.

The pitiful line of defenders swiveled to guard the broken barrier, even as snarling bajari poured through the breach. Jinai, with a blade in each hand, charged forward, tearing into the hyenoid demons. They tried to avoid her, shying away from the consecrated wards that seared their flesh.

Zhura staggered, trying to shake her head free of haze from whatever struck her. The surviving zenkomo had cleared the ditch and crashed through the berm. Bajari raced past the enormous demon to clash with the shields of wardens and askari. The zenkomo, however, twisted and turned, trying to smash the lone adversary that dodged and circled and struck.

It was Ngo. His shield had been splintered, but he jabbed with his long-bladed iklwa, ducking to elude the demon’s great maul.

Zhura pushed towards the fight, crippling a bajari demon that was too slow to get out of her way. The zenkomo was turned away from her. With all of her strength, she swung the club into the back of xhis muscled leg. The demon flesh blistered as she neared. The leg buckled with the blow, sending the zenkomo to one knee.

The next moment, Zhura threw herself to the ground as a boulder-sized fist whistled over her head. Demon skin split and steamed so close to her and Ngo’s wards, reeking of ichor and burning dung. The demon roared again as Ngo attacked from the front.

The sound of battle cries and pounding feet drew near as Zhura rose again.

It was Emmi, a huge hammer in his hands, charging at the head of a crowd of Casters and refugees, joining the fight.

The zenkomo threw Ngo aside. The Sung warrior slammed into the log that blocked the bridge entrance. The demon began to turn on Zhura.

She reversed her kirri club and stabbed the demon with its tapered end. The zenkomo howled as Zhura drove the shaft deep into its side. Its skin blackened and smoldered, but still the demon had the strength to toss her away. Zhura tumbled hard into the ditch, falling atop dead men, even as the men and women of Emmi’s reserve leapt over and past.

The herb-witch hurt everywhere. Sticky wetness trickled down the back of her neck.

This is not over.

The voice between her ears willed her to her feet, even though her body wanted nothing more than to lie in the dirt.

The zenkomo still kneeled, head hanging down, still as a statue. The kirri club pierced xhis side, driven in almost to the knob. Several arrows still stood in xhis steaming flesh. Dark ichor pulsed from its wounds. Slowly, it slumped to the ground.

Ngo lay some distance away. Zhura breathed a sigh of relief as she saw him rub his head.

The battle still raged. The bajari were trapped now, between the battered line of wardens and askari on one side, and fresh fighters from the Guild on the other. With the melee at close quarters, most of the bowmen from the tower would descend to reinforce the wardens. The bajari were outnumbered and badly outflanked.

Mortar, meet pestle.

Zhura clambered out of the ditch, looking around. She spotted Keya’s pale face beyond the melee. The priestess stood near the guardhouse door, as wardens emerged past her, come down from the tower.

Jinai tore into the bajari with a blade in each hand. The demons that shrank from her found themselves trapped between foes. A few of the creatures on the flank broke away, loping into the road towards the safety of the dark shops. Even as she watched, one staggered and fell, run through by another arrow from Musa.

And there…

Bayati watched Zhura from across the intersection, on the Brassbelt. Her yellow skirt was untouched by blood or dirt. She had sent her demons to their demise, without the courage to lead them.

The Thandi was far enough away to be safe from bowshot. But Zhura saw the smirk that played on her lips.

She wouldn’t get away, to summon more infernals and launch more attacks. Zhura couldn’t allow that to happen.

She strapped the shield to her back. As Zhura began to move, Bayati clutched her staff and turned to run.

Screams and clashes of metal faded behind her, like the roar of a waterfall dwindling to the soft hiss of rain. The Brassbelt was vacant, as deathly quiet as a ruin, as Zhura chased down the woman who had been her friend.

Bayati veered right. She cut through a narrow alley between compound walls. Zhura caught glimpses of yellow in the passageway, choked as it was with spiky plants and overhanging trees. They tramped through a tiny plot of finger millet behind someone’s shop. Bayati vaulted over a low wall to get to a street.

Zhura slowed as a mottled dog raced at her, barking. She calmed the dog with a raised hand, and then jumped the low wall.

The street was quiet. To the left was the Brassbelt. To the right, the empty street headed south. Both ways were decently lit.

A wall ran along the east side of the street, cordoning off a huge lot full of granaries. Zhura slipped her shield off of her back, securing it on her arm again.

Bayati was fast. Zhura grimaced, reminded again of how long the woman had fooled her.

Where did she go?

She had to be amongst the granaries. One-handed, Zhura vaulted over the wall.

Her nose filled with the smell of grain. Sweeter and grassier than the rice of the Sung Valley, but it made the mouth water all the same.

It was impossible to be completely silent. Like granaries everywhere, some small bit was wasted. Baskets were spilled; birds and rats took their tribute. Empty husks and chaff littered the ground, softly crunching under Zhura’s feet.

She stopped, and listened. Bayati couldn’t have gone far, not without making noise herself.

The forest of little round storehouses stretched before her, steeped in shadow. There were no sconces or torches here. The only light came from the stars above and what leaked from the sleeping city. There wasn’t enough space for a person to hide underneath the granaries, and the roofs of each were more than an arms-length overhead.

Zhura crept down one of the rows, shield ready. She moved slowly, listening and letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The herb-witch ventured past several storehouses. She turned to creep south, down a column.

Her first warning was a whiff of hibiscus oil. Quick footsteps and the rush of something moving fast. Zhura fended off the staff with her shield. Bayati followed the clash with a flurry of strikes.

The Thandi woman had learned the staff well. She had certainly held back her strength and speed when she and Zhura had trained together. Her strokes were deft and efficient. Even in these close quarters, there was no wasted movement, no hindrance of her strikes. Zhura scrambled to ward off blows that might lick over or under the edge of her shield.

Without a weapon, Zhura had nothing to counter with, and could only hope that Bayati would make a mistake. The herb-witch skipped back, narrowly avoiding a downward thrust that would have shattered her foot.

There were no words now. Only labored breath, Bayati’s shrieks of rage and the slam of wood on hide.

Zhura felt rage too. She had known Bayati. The woman had not been entirely false. She had won Zhura’s trust for good reasons. Underneath the herb-witch’s fury was a well of grief. Zhura struggled to keep her head above that surface, to keep her mind fixed on survival.

Driven back by the blows of Bayati’s staff, Zhura rounded a corner. It was there that she saw her opening. Blocking a sweeping strike, Zhura pinned the staff against a granary wall. She stepped forward, her shield grinding Bayati’s hand against the dried mud. Bayati’s free hand clawed at her face. Zhura knocked it away and drove her palm up under the woman’s chin. Bayati’s head slammed into the brick, and she sagged like a heavy sack to the ground.

Zhura let out a slow breath. Bayati may have been dead or alive, but it was clear she wasn’t getting up again soon.

The herb-witch eased down, sitting next to the woman that had been her friend. She was wracked with pain. Her head throbbed from an unseen wound. Her heart ached even more. Her fingers curled reflexively around the shaft of the staff.

“You’ve come such a long way,” a voice said. “But finally, you’ve returned.”

The voice was familiar, in that southern drawl that was common in the Nubic Kingdoms. But Zhura had heard it for the very first time eighteen months ago.

The Scarred Woman Ntoza stepped out of the darkness. She wore a robe of dark teal; a single strip of fabric strategically wrapped around her body. It left much of her midriff and all of her legs bare, exposing sinuous scarification patterns and a body that was as alluring as ever.

Somehow, Zhura never expected to see Ntoza out in the open. She seemed a woman who much preferred manipulation to fighting. She wasn’t even carrying a weapon.

Zhura glanced at the unconscious woman next to her. Hefting the staff and shield, she slowly rose to her feet.

“Let’s end this now,” she said. She tensed, ready for one more contest. But for the first time in so long, she gazed again into the dark wells of Ntoza’s eyes, and memory gave her pause.

Ntoza’s expression was one of admiration and sadness. She revealed the small item she held in her hands, a bead-eyed doll of dyed raffia. The linen on the doll resembled a halter and short wrap skirt. What appeared to be human hair twirled around its fibrous head.

“I agree completely, Zhura of Boma.” Ntoza said.

Light streaked out from the doll.

The world spun.

**

How was it possible to win every battle yet still feel as if you’d lost?

The southern reaches of the kingdom were at once barren and beautiful. The scrublands still showed evidence of war and fire. Blackened, skeletal remains of trees and farms still clawed the sky where retreating armies had scorched the ground behind them. But new grass sprouted, to choke away what was left of croplands of millet and beans.

Like the edges of a watering hole during the dry season, the soldiers and farmers had fled this place and not come back. In Morore, there had been rumors that this land would become a new kingdom, carved out of Chide. After their defeat at Bandiri Slopes, the Sizwe impi had withdrawn far to the south. Farmers hesitated to resettle disputed land. Perhaps after the next rainy season, the villagers would return.

Or perhaps they never would. Perhaps this land would always remain wild and free.

But the Big Mongoose still flowed. It swept through great ravines and tumbled over bluffs, casting off a many-colored mist as it snaked towards the great rifts of Northern Nyandema. Its banks nourished the succulent roots and grasses that fed Anathe’s elephant herd. The herd, and the remnant of Anathe’s army, followed the river, hoping to find a new home.

In the months after Bandiri Slopes, the city of Morore had not been kind. The nobles and clans who had fought side by side at the battle began fighting each other. People said Anathe was a barbarian, raised by wild animals. She was the consort of a demon. She was the secret lover of Yende, already pledged to a daughter of the powerful Malindi clan.

Anathe’s followers, by the hundreds, had chosen to stay. The kingdom, at least, promised land to settle, and life without war or privation.

So Anathe had left, along with those few of her people who knew there was still a war to win. Of those who had remained with her, only Mande openly argued that she should stay in the city.

But even though Anathe refused to stay, Mande remained by her side. Anathe didn’t know why, but she guessed that it was because the Thandi woman carried Tswe’s offspring. Mande had stopped drinking blood-seed tea before the battle, and she must have known Tswe would never leave Anathe.

Wind blew delicate ripples along the surface of the watering hole. The presence of the elephants drove dangerous crocodiles and even hippos away. Tswe and a few of the warriors kept watch so that others could bathe and rest.

As Anathe sluiced cool water over her neck and breasts, she looked over to the grassy shore, where Sathu nursed baby Zhura. Sathu had also been pregnant during the battle. The babes could grow up together. Anathe had never had a human friend as a child. She never really felt she understood most people.

For Zhura, it would be different.

“Do not fear,” Mande said. “Your daughter will always be loved and cared for.” The Swaga woman’s skin gleamed as she waded closer. Like Anathe, Mande was submerged to her chest.

“We will make a home for her,” Anathe said. She opened her arms as Mande embraced her, soft skin kissing her own.

“Yes, we will…” Mande whispered.

The blade was cold, numbing, as it slipped between Anathe’s ribs. Anathe gasped as Mande drove it deep. Steel seized her in an icy grip.

“…without you.”

Anathe’s eyes grew wide, uncomprehending. She tried to pull away, but Mande held her tight, as a lover would.

“Why?”

“Shhh…”

The water around them had already taken on a crimson tinge. Anathe felt weak as she began to struggle.

“Tswe will kill you,” she snarled.

“Not while I carry xhis child. Kukuru are loyal to their offspring. No matter what Tswe feels for you, you are not xhis offspring.”

Anathe twisted, looking away.

Other bathers had not yet noticed. On the shore, Zhura suckled at Sathu’s plump breast. She was safe and content, for the moment.

All a mother could ask.

Anathe lunged, shoving Mande away. But not far enough. How did the woman become so strong?

Anathe’s vision began to cloud. It was too late.

Forgive me, Daughter.

The rest of this journey, you must make on your own.

Chapter 5

The last dream had not been like the others. Zhura felt as if she’d watched the water bloom with her own lifeblood.

Zhura had never been in a cell before, but she had imagined them. Deep dark pits under the earth where prisoners were left to die. Keya had spoken of the lofty spires in Namu where condemned nobles had lived out their last days.

The place she woke to was like nothing she’d ever imagined. The walls were rough-hewn rock; rusty red, white, and moss green. A chain, locked around her wrist, was bolted to the wall, allowing her to move a couple of paces away from the wall, but not all the way to the grate that was the cell’s only exit.

But the most bizarre part of her prison was the lights. The ceiling was alive with their pale glow, and the luminescence reflected upon bright veins of ore. Zhura peered at the tiny, brilliant spots above her, and guessed that they were some sort of lichen or tiny mushroom.

She crept as far as the jangling chain would allow, until she could look through the gate. A Thandi woman appeared to be standing guard outside. The Scarred Woman spotted her as well, and slipped from Zhura’s view.

Hunger twisted Zhura’s belly. She reeked of sweat, blood and ichor. Her skin was streaked with filth. Zhura tested the chain, and her strength. She was weak. Normal.

She guessed it had been several hours since she had fallen. Perhaps it was the following night. The wards that had adorned her wrists were gone, as was the sanjuskin wrap she wore.

Where was this place? An old mine, perhaps. But Zhura didn’t know the surroundings of the city well enough to even guess a direction.

She winced as she remembered throwing Keya to the ground at the end of the battle. The priestess was barely a third of the way through her pregnancy. The child should be fine. It would have been rather worse off had Keya’s head been detached from her shoulders.

In her mind she could still see Ngo tossed through the air, striking the wooden barrier. She’d seen him move after that, but that didn’t mean he’d recovered.

She’d been wrong to leave them. So foolish, to run off alone after Bayati.

The sound of women’s voices came from where the guard had stood. Zhura stretched the chain taut. It was Ntoza and a bajari demon.

The pair unlocked the grate and stepped into Zhura’s cell. The demon, tall and broad around the shoulders and hips, had to stoop and squeeze its way inside.

The Thandi woman wore a white dress that opened to her navel and hung in panels to below her knees. The hyenoid demon was golden furred, with blue runes painted on its flesh. Its notched ears were adorned with gold rings.

Zhura’s heart sank. She had seen this bajari, near the end of the battle, in the handful of infernals who escaped.

During the battle, the infernals had worn harness, but this bajari was naked. Its cock hung, thick and the color of coral, along its thigh. Zhura edged back towards the rock wall.

Noting the herb-witch’s apprehension, Ntoza smiled with satisfaction. She watched Zhura, basking in her triumph.

“This is so tragic,” Ntoza said. “I hoped it wouldn’t end this way.”

Zhura inhaled, calming herself. If Ntoza expected her to grovel, she would be disappointed. “You mean, you hoped it wouldn’t end with your forces getting crushed on the Brassbelt like overripe fruit. How is Bayati, by the way? Is she able to sit up yet? She might need an herb-witch.”

Ntoza turned her wry smile to the demon beside her, as if proving a point. The bajari licked its chops, eyeing the herb-witch hungrily.

“I’ll never follow you,” Zhura vowed.

“That is clear. Painfully so,” Ntoza said smoothly. She tipped her head to the ceiling, as if remembering the past. “You are remarkable, Zhura. When I found you, you knew nothing. Since then, you have learned much. I never expected you to become as formidable as you are.

“And yet you know only a fraction of what I could have taught you. Among us, a girl half your age would know more of her traditions, her abilities. That is what is so tragic.”

The bajari crouched before Zhura, examining her with an amused expression. The pink length of flesh between xhis legs twitched with excitement. The demon reached a clawed hand towards Zhura’s bare foot. She flinched away.

“As my farewell to you, I have given you a great gift.” She produced the doll from her dress, and tossed it into the cell. ‘It has a little piece of you and your mother, made from hairs you left behind. With its magic, you were able to channel your mother. To know what she knew, and feel what she felt. All the way to her crushing end.”

The Thandi woman sighed. “I’ve always given you what you truly needed, Zhura.”

Zhura stared at the doll. All of the confidence and eagerness of the past days had drained away, leaving only sorrow. She wiped away tears, and turned back to her captors.

“What is happening in the city?” she asked. Even if she lacked it, she had to show strength. She didn’t expect the truth, but she hoped Ntoza might reveal something.

“Morore remains in your father’s hands,” Ntoza said, watching Zhura closely. “But soldiers from Chide are already in the outskirts of the city. The defenders are badly outnumbered. The Upper City will soon be under siege, and when starvation and thirst sets in, it will fall. The battle you take such pride in was ultimately futile.”

Ntoza sighed. “I shall tell you of the history of this place. A history that your father would never tell you, and likely does not even know. One thousand years ago, these Nubic people were ruled by demons called the Clover Princes. Their noble clans are an artifact of that age. Though many choose to forget, each clan traces their line back to a royal demon’s consort.

“The centuries of rule by the Clover Princes was the golden age for the Nubic people. It was then that they developed their cities, their language, their brassworking Casters’ Guilds… they dominated everything from the forest to the southern plains.

“Since they overthrew their demon rulers, these people have known nothing but fratricidal war and infighting. The same demons they fear and despise were what made them great.”

Hunger and nervousness gnawed at Zhura. She shifted, her chain clinking softly. “Why are you telling me this?”

“In hopes that you will finally realize you’ve taken the wrong side. It makes no difference, of course. Your fate is already decided. But perhaps wisdom will one day give you peace.”

“I see,” Zhura said. “So you terrorize and murder people for their own good? For the right reasons?”

Ntoza ignored the jibe. She paced, looking casually around the little chamber. “This is Bouda,” she said, gesturing to the bajari. “You will be given to Bouda’s cackle as a breeding slave. Your blood is so strong, Zhura! You will bear strong offspring, and they will no doubt prove to be wiser than you have been.”

Zhura glared at the demon. “I will kill Bouda,” she said, simply. “If I fail, my friends will. Or I will kill myself.”

Bouda made a soft giggling noise, showing a mouth full of jagged teeth. “I’m going to enjoy this one,” xhe growled.

“I have heard other troublesome Thandi make the same brave vows,” Ntoza explained. “The truth, Zhura, is that without wards on your wrist and a belly full of cum, you are but a normal human being with illusions of your prowess. Bouda’s demons will break you more quickly than they have many others.”

Ntoza paused. She beckoned to the bajari. “We both have important matters we must attend,” she said.

Ntoza opened the grate and she and the demon stepped through. As she closed it behind them, she looked through the cross-hatch bars. Zhura looked away from the woman’s mesmerizing gaze, afraid to reveal the tears that welled up again.

“Once you are properly broken, you will beg to be bred, again and again,” Ntoza said. “It will be all you have left. Remember that I told you this.”

**

She dreamt of Keya. They lay on soft furs, with the priestess straddling her belly. Keya’s skin was like ivory, so translucent that blue veins were visible in her arms. But it was the priestess’s hands that made Zhura marvel. They were as soft as a baby’s.

In the village, no one had hands or feet like Keya’s. Not a market-woman’s daughter, or a chief’s son. Her touch was as gentle as evening sun dappling forest leaves.

Zhura awakened on the damp, chill floor of her cell. As her eyes adjusted to the weird, glowing light, she remembered where she was and what had happened. How long had she been here? A day? Two days? If they had truly lost to the Thandi, what would happen to the others? Would her companions be expelled from the city? Would her father seize Keya in an act of desperation? The worst part of getting herself captured was that Zhura was powerless to help her friends.

A young woman was sitting beside her.

Zhura gasped.

I’m losing my mind.

The stranger had mischievous brown eyes that watched Zhura closely. She was unchained, resting her head and hands on one steepled knee. She flexed long, nimble fingers and tossed about a mass of twisted black hair. She wore a slightly translucent dress, nearly as thin as the vellum Keya wrote upon. Apparently, that was all she wore.

“By all the dreaming gods, it is you,” the woman announced, elation ringing in her voice. “Do you know who you are?”

Zhura sat up, slowly, giving ample time for the apparition to go away. But the stranger remained as solid and present as she had been. The grate still appeared to be closed. When Zhura craned her head, she could see a long-haired, scarified guard, outside the cell.

Maybe if I speak to it, this illusion will disappear.

“What do you want?” Zhura said, her voice a hoarse rasp.

“I want you, Zhura,” the woman grinned, cheerfully. “Just like everyone else does.”

Zhura swallowed. Her mouth and throat were bone dry.

“Let me explain. My name is Whisper. I hate these gods-damned Thandi bitches with a boiling passion. I think we can help each other.”

Zhura waited. She looked the bizarre woman over once more. “I don’t think I can help anyone, just now.”

“But you are a great warrior. The daughter of a great warrior. Anathe, the forgotten hero now redeemed. Riddles are so much more satisfying once you’ve figured them out.” Whisper said, grinning.

Zhura gaped in confusion. “Anathe was a great warrior. She won every battle. But she also lost everything that was precious to her.” She slowly searched for the words. “I am not a warrior. I’m just an herb-witch who… who occasionally knocks people on their asses.”

Whisper nodded. “Just so. That works, too.” She glanced around the cell. “They’ve left you in here hoping for your strength to fade before they move you. If I free you, give you your strength back, put wards and weapons in your hand, Ntoza and Bouda need good ass-knockings.”

Zhura nodded, humorlessly. This couldn’t possibly be real. “You’re locked in here with me.”

All fluid movement, Whisper sat back. Zhura noted the stud that pierced the woman’s left nipple, outlined clearly through the dress. Curved, it appeared almost serpentine.

“It will be a journey,” Whisper grinned. “But Adder and I know where they are going. Chide will be tricky, but I have a talent for getting into and out of tight spaces-”

“Wait. What are you talking about? What journey?”

“Ntoza and her pet fled this afternoon for Chide.”

“Fled?”

“You’ll still do it, right?”

“No! Look, I don’t even know who you are. All I want is to live in peace with my friends and the woman I love. Can you help me or not?”

Whisper sighed. She swept to her feet in one lithe movement and crept towards the grate to peer through. Maybe it was the odd light, but when it hit her skin from that angle, it almost looked like the woman had tiny scales.

“You’re not human,” Zhura gasped.

“Neither are you, daughter of the Demon Queen. You only look human. Perfectly so. For that you are blessed.” Whisper chewed on her lip, considering. “Do you know what the Thandi do with demons?”

Zhura thought about Blossom and Talek, about their fear of the covens and the summoning stones. “I have an idea what they do,” she said.

“The bajari serve the Thandi willingly. The Scarred Women bind more independent-minded demons with their little wooden cocks. The thrice-damned bitches did this to one demon from Morore that I have a particular attachment to… for reasons you might guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Zhura said.

Whisper ran a hand through her thick locks. It was almost comical, her standing there, locked in a cell, bargaining with a chained prisoner. “Why should I free you for nothing in return? Even what I’ve already told you has a price.”

It was then that Zhura remembered where she’d heard the name Whisper. “Marble worked for you.”

“You know Marble?”

Zhura nodded. She suspected Marble was aiding the Thandi, but said nothing of it.

“Is she well?” Whisper asked, concern etched on her youthful features.

“She was the night I was captured. She is clever, that one.”

Whisper breathed a soft sigh of relief. She turned towards the entrance. “Five hundred Sung and House San mercenaries arrived in the city yesterday to support your father. Ntoza and her allies from Chide have given up on a siege of Morore. She herself has already left. If she was still near, I wouldn’t have dared to come in here.”

“How did you find me?”

“I’m good at getting into and out of tight spaces,” Whisper repeated, absently. It wasn’t clear if she meant the cell, or somewhere else. “The only people left in this old copper mine are some of the Thandi families and the slaves. A few of Bouda’s bajari will escort them and you out. Which is why we don’t have much time.”

“Hold… what slaves?”

“Time’s up,” the guard said from outside.

Whisper planted her back alongside the grated entrance to the cell. An index finger to her lips, she flashed Zhura a conspiratorial grin.

What in hells was going on?

“Breeding slaves,” Whisper uttered in hushed tones. “The bajari captured dozens of people in the Lower City during the last several days, and they’re marching them to Chide. Well, they’re going to try.” She pressed back against the red rock.

A bajari prowled past the guard with a set of manacles jangling in its claw. “Get her out,” xhe snarled. “The last boat is ready.”

Whisper emerged from her concealment beside the grate. The demon could clearly see her looking out, and Zhura farther back along the wall.

“Gods’ balls! Who is this?” the hyenoid demon growled to the guard. Xhe glanced down at the single pair of restraints xhe carried. The Thandi guard approached as the bajari neared the cell.

“The answer to that question,” Whisper said to the demon, “is going to cost you.”

The guard, walking up smoothly behind the bajari, thrust a slim blade into its back. The ichor-streaked point poked out through the creature’s belly. The bajari growled, twisting to face the attack. With a second, shorter blade, the guard slashed the demon’s throat. The growl turned to a gurgle. Black blood pulsed from the wound. The demon slid to the floor and stilled.

Zhura had seen Ntoza’s ritual scars up close. Very close. The guard’s scars didn’t look quite right. The spots that ran up the neck and along the shoulder above the collar of the tunic were well shaded, but completely flat. Paint, perhaps.

Zhura wouldn’t have even noticed if she hadn’t watched this person stab a demon in the back. The guard stared at Zhura with narrow-eyed intensity.

“Zhura, this is Adder,” Whisper said. “My enforcer.”

“It’s time to go,” Adder said. “Someone else will come, looking for this one.”

Whisper pushed the grate open. It hadn’t even been locked.

“You know my father is the king,” Zhura said. “If you free me, he will be grateful.”

“That’s something,” Whisper acknowledged. She held up a finger, glancing back. She disappeared from view in the outer chamber. “Now that his heir is his rival, conspiring with Vong Clan, your father might actually be able to hold onto his throne. His wife’s Clan wouldn’t dare to get rid of him.”

Adder crouched, relieving the demon’s corpse of a large key and a long knife and harness. The dark blade was curved like a claw, with the creased surface of obsidian or some other stone. Adder entered the cell, wrap skirt swishing around lean legs.

The lithe enforcer’s brow furrowed with concern. Adder bent to unlock the manacles. Though Zhura had assumed Adder was a woman, now she wasn’t so sure.

“Can you use this?” Adder asked, handing Zhura the knife.

“Not any better than anyone else,” the herb-witch said. She could see how razor-sharp the stone edge was. She stood up slowly, and realized she barely had the strength to do that from lack of food or water. “No. Definitely worse than anyone else.”

“Drink this,” Whisper said, reentering the cell. She wore a plain dress now and carried a ceramic vial and a pair of sandals for Zhura’s feet. Thinking it was water, Zhura twisted the wood stopper and tipped her head back, downing it.

Smelling more than tasting it, she almost immediately choked at the pungent bitterness.

“No,” Adder seized the herb-witch’s shoulders with surprising gentleness. “Don’t spit it out.”

Zhura gagged it down. At least her mouth no longer felt dry. Warmth and strength quickly rushed through her limbs. She slipped on the sandals. “What was that?” she asked, still choking a little.

“A draught commonly harvested and stored by the Thandi. It isn’t as good as bush-butter sap, but it is a lot quicker. I suppose you can figure out what it is made of,” Whisper said.

Zhura grimaced. She knew the safu, the bush-butter fruit, but had never heard of the sap. “Bush-butter sap?”

Whisper’s look was torrid, causing Zhura to blush. “Perhaps you and I will share bush-butter sap one day, Zhura of Boma. Just now, you have good deeds to do.”

Outside the cell was a small room with other cells attached. All were empty, except for one, where a dead Thandi woman lay. Zhura guessed that was the guard Adder had replaced.

The enforcer led the way out, swiftly moving through winding passages. The strange lights clustered on the ceiling of the tunnel, lighting their path like a night sky of aquamarine stars. Shards of clay and bits of raffia fiber were strewn about, as if the mine’s inhabitants had fled in a hurry.

Zhura felt disoriented, as much by her strange new companions as by the turns and forks in the mine shaft. She had the distinct sense that they were going down, rather than up towards the surface. “Wait,” she said, stopping. “You haven’t explained where we are or where we’re going.”

Adder paused and glanced back at Whisper.

“And I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me,” Zhura crossed her arms, eyeing them both.

Whisper sighed, hands on slender hips.

“Try to be kind,” Adder admonished her.

“We’re in a mine that has been abandoned – by humans, anyway – since the days of the Clover Princes,” Whisper said. “Until the Thandi migrated here from the south, before you or I were born, and began using it as a secret lair. We’re the better part of a day’s walk south of the city ancestral wards.”

“Why does it seem like we’re going deeper into the mine?”

“First of all, because the Thandi have escaped this way.” Whisper pointed further down the tunnel. “Which means that the other way is probably booby trapped, and I don’t care to find out by getting poisoned, impaled or dumped down a bottomless shaft. Secondly, they took their captives this way, and I may want to talk to those people.”

“I told you, I’m not going to Chide-”

“We’re not going to Chide,” Whisper huffed, gesturing impatiently. “But if we don’t move quickly, we may end up stuck in here. So, can we please?” Whisper looked at Adder. “Kind enough? Gods-damn it,” she muttered.

Zhura rolled her eyes. They continued on. The tunnels were nearly round, and Zhura imagined them having been made by a great worm burrowing deep into the earth. She began feeling cooler air, and heard a low roar, reminiscent of the waterfalls of the Little Mongoose.

The passage opened into a broad cavern, with a ceiling that yawned high above, alive with glowing light and a chill mist. A stream flowed through the cave, cascading out of a hole near their entrance. The stream ran in a narrow channel through the length of the cave and out through a tight shaft at the far end.

There, a Thandi woman and a few men worked. The boat was tied up beside the stream. It was secured by another rope to a line that appeared to run along the top of the shaft, and they used the rope to haul the boat into the water.

The Scarred Woman spotted Adder and Zhura as they entered the cavern and returned to the task of loading the boat. Then she did a double take. “Where’s…” her voice trailed off as she realized she didn’t recognize any of the strangers running towards her.

She threw a basket at Adder. With the help of the others, she pushed the boat over the water’s edge.

Zhura raced past Adder. The obsidian knife wouldn’t do her much good for protection. But she didn’t want to be trapped at the bottom of an abandoned mine, either. She snatched the securing line, just as the Thandi woman slashed the rope tying the boat to the edge.

The current pulled at the boat. Zhura fell backward, her sandaled feet planted against creases in the rock floor. Palm fibers bit into her skin as the weight of the small craft tried to haul her into the water. Too late, she realized that the witch had stepped to the rear of the boat, and the arc of her machete was swinging towards Zhura’s outstretched arms.

Steel clashed as the blade struck Adder’s, and the enforcer stepped in to shield Zhura. The witch matched Adder stroke for stroke, but her movement rocked the boat beneath her feet. The men held onto the edges as the craft tipped dangerously.

Whisper ran up alongside Zhura. She grabbed the rope, and gave it a savage jerk. She was stronger than her slender frame suggested.

As the Thandi dueled with Adder, she took a misstep. She tumbled overboard, between the boat and the edge of the channel. Frantically, she gripped the sides of the boat, causing the boat to capsize entirely, dumping the three men and their cargo into the water.

The Thandi and one of the men were swept into the tunnel. The other two managed to grasp a shelf of rock on the far side of the stream. They dragged themselves out of the water as Zhura and Whisper hauled the boat upright, and began shipping the water out.

The men glared at Zhura from across the stream. They weren’t armed, and they wore only breeches. The shelf of rock was isolated, and there was nowhere for them to escape to.

“Leave them,” Whisper said. “We only need the boat-”

“Zhura??”

The voice came from behind them, from the cavern entrance where they’d arrived. It was a voice Zhura feared she might never hear again.

The herb-witch turned to see Keya barreling towards her, faster than she thought the priestess could run. Keya slammed into Zhura, clasping her in an embrace. The impact would have surely sent Zhura into the water, had she not drunk the Thandi potion.

“I thought I lost you,” Keya moaned.

“I thought you did too,” Zhura whispered back.

As she stepped back, Keya returned to the center of the cavern, where she’d dropped a length of wood. It was Zhura’s staff.

“You came through the mine alone?” Whisper said, incredulous. “I told your people to go over the canyon!”

“I didn’t come alone. Blossom got us past the pit traps near the entrance.” Keya huffed back. “The others went over the canyon.”

Noting the faint whiff of jasmine, Zhura scanned the cavern. She saw the starlit demon, hanging above, nearly invisible amongst the lights. Blossom, eye patches aglow, showed her a mouthful of needle-like teeth.

If Whisper and Adder noticed or cared about the demon’s presence, they didn’t say so. “Let’s go, then,” the enforcer said. “The boat can take the four of us easily.”

They held the boat steady, climbed in, and hauled off. The two Thandi men watched them miserably from the far bank of the stream. Blossom seemed content to look on from above.

“These are the types of haunts Blossom favors,” Keya said in a hushed voice. “With the Thandi gone, xhe is at ease.”

“And healthy, I am happy to see,” Zhura replied.

She immediately saw why the boat was tied to a line overhead. The brisk current might have otherwise dashed them against the sides of the tunnel. There were paddles hooked to the sides of the boat, but they were hardly needed. They floated swiftly through the tunnel. Daylight greeted them gradually, like the sun at dawn.

The tunnel emptied into another open cavern. The overhead line ended, stopping their forward movement, and they were able to pull themselves to the side, where several other boats were piled.

This cavern was also large, but its exit broad and opened on daylight. The stream flowed out that way, into what appeared to be a canyon. Adder and Whisper climbed out of the boat first, hurrying across the rock floor. Zhura came next, helping Keya out of the rocking boat.