Rworg’s sword swooshes as he spins it once, gripping it with two hands as it comes to a halt before his body. He angles it to the side of his body this time, unlike the time he waited for the riders. I have a bad feeling about what is going to happen next and keep my eyes firmly fixed on the top of the hill.

  The shouting and the thumping of feet come closer. I see a single figure pop up from over the edge of the hill, silhouetted against the bright sky. They point their finger at the sky and us and I’m sure they are shouting, but the two guards are so close that I can’t hear anything over their war cry.

  Rworg grunts and the sound is followed by a tearing sound, metal and leather and flesh and bone being smashed apart all at once. Half of a shield lands next to me, semi-circle rolling half a turn on the sand before clattering to a stop. The thrum coming from behind the hill continues, while the screaming near to us cuts off abruptly. I keep my eyes on the hill. Wet thumps follow each other, as somethings fall on the ground in a series of splats.

  I said it wouldn’t be a problem.

  More figures rise up from behind the hill. Five, ten. None of these Kertharians will probably be a match for Rworg or even Finna or me. They are cooks, stablehands or farmers, just barely taught how to swing a sword and left behind to guard the camp. Or at least that’s what I hope.

  But even with that said, fifty of them, all slavering and scrambling over each other to claw and bite and stab at us at the same time, is not anything we could survive. I need to thin their numbers as much as possible before they flood over us, trampling us under their numbers and sheer disregard for their own safety. The few soldiers that are left, Rworg can handle.

  I’m not sure how Finna will fit into all this. I take a look around, but can’t see her anywhere anymore. “I’ll thin the horde!” I shout out loud. “If you spot more mages or something, help us out!” Maybe she heard me, worth a try.

  Five Kertharians start running down the hill. They kick up so much sand I can’t see the ones behind them anymore or how many more there are coming. That’s going to be a problem. Like Finna said, this place is impossible to defend. There are no choke points, nothing that could stop the Kertharians from coming at us from every side, crush us to death like a noose tightening around a neck. The auroras swim and spiral above. The wind seems to follow their movement, whipping up the sand in the air and pulling it toward the sky.

  I don’t know anything about strategy or tactics, but I know we can’t get surrounded. One Kertharian coming down the hill looks like a soldier, so I take aim at him. He is wearing actual armor and carries a long spear, which would let them attack Rworg from afar, while the other Kertharians rushed close. He keeps running in a straight line, heading directly at Rworg, who’s standing between me and the hill.

  It makes the shot easy. I let him come a bit closer before letting go of the arrow. Mandollel’s arrow sings as it flies, hardly arcing down at all. Because of that, the arrow strikes higher than I intended, hitting the man directly on the forehead. His leather helmet and skull are no protection against a fully drawn arrow. He jerks and stumbles, but a woman in a skirt jumps right over him and continues running. None of the four people running around him show any hesitation or take a look at what happened. They continue screaming and running directly at Rworg.

  Poor bastards.

  The thought comes and goes. I don’t feel sorry, not now. The screaming curdles my blood, makes my cheeks cold and hot. I want to scream back at them, their anger impossible to ignore. The sand cloud behind them still hides the other Kertharians. They are vague shapes in the dust, but there are many, so many. I will have to start shooting soon, whether I see them clearly or not. Maybe they are insane, maybe they didn’t choose this for themselves, but what the hell am I supposed to do?

  Rworg spins and bashes the first Kertharian aside with a backhand blow of his left hand, the rotation lending strength to the strike. The woman is lifted off the ground, thrown aside, head and neck at an angle that makes me think she won’t be getting up anymore. I haven’t seen anyone spin so much while fighting. You’d think it would leave him completely open, but he’s so fast and strong and has such a large range that it doesn’t matter.

  A wind blows through the cloud, revealing a mass of Kertharians. At least fifteen are running down the hill, kicking up even more sand.

  I shoot. The arrow takes down one Kertharian. I shoot again, and again, and again. The sand follows the running Kertharians and once it reaches them, I won’t be able to see anything anymore, probably for a long while. They fall, one at a time, occasionally stumbling over the bodies of the ones I’ve already shot.

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  I’m trying to make sure as few as possible reach Rworg at the same time. He’s singing his own battle song, chanting something in language that sounds similar, but different from the Kertharian war cry. He stomps his foot down in time with the chant, kicking up rust-colored mud underfoot. I know he can handle at least four soldiers at the same time. I’ll try to keep it to that.

  Someone runs at the Kertharians from the side, a smaller figure. I reflexively start to track them, but relax the draw as I realize who she is.

  Finna dives out of the dust cloud, landing feet first on a Kertharian’s back. There’s a flash as her blade catches the sun and a shower of red before she kicks off again, flying in one direction as the Kertharian falls to the other. She hits the ground at the same time as the corpse, but she keeps moving, rolling and running in the opposite direction. Two Kertharians turn and follow after her, all three of them disappearing into the dust cloud rolling down the hill.

  Seven Kertharians are approaching Rworg, still running at full clip. He stands with sword ready, surrounded by more or less recognizable corpses of the previous attackers. He hasn’t moved a step from his position. The ground under him is mixed into brown paste, footprints and swirls of his spins. Behind him is a cone-shaped area of yellow untouched sand, surrounded by red.

  Three Kertharians reach him at the same time. I shoot the one behind them. They fall and another attacker stumbles on the falling body, landing hard on the sand face first.

  The wave of sand breaks over us all. It’s everywhere, in my eyes, mouth, nose. The sound of screaming and metal on metal and flesh continues. The Kertharians and Rworg are vague shapes. I didn’t know anyone like him existed. Seen through the stinging sand, he’s a whirlwind, a vortex of blood and steel.

  Two shapes move toward me, from both sides, keeping well away from Rworg. Some part of me is annoyed at them for having enough sense to attack the one in the rear, but mostly I’m reaching for a new arrow. Heart pounds in my chest, its rhythm and the sand blocking out every other sound. There’s no telling which of the shapes will be more dangerous, so I nock an arrow and shoot the one on the right.

  I’m holding my eyes practically closed, and the sand is still clumping in them, but the Kertharian is so close, it doesn’t matter. The twang and the thunk follow each other without delay. Before the body has hit the ground, I’m pulling a new arrow and turning toward the other shape.

  He appears from the cloud of dust, like a diver surfacing from water. The scream hits me head on, shrill, the voice behind it already frayed. The axe he has is a long and heavy one, meant for chopping wood. He swings it down, two-handed. I jump back, the arrow I had half nocked wrenching off my grip. The axe buries its head into the sand, pulling the man off-balance. The string of the bow slaps my tender inner arm. I cry out in surprise and pain, even if I’m familiar with the stinging wedge the string leaves on my skin from the time I was still training.

  I whip my leg forward at him as he’s pulling up the axe. My boot crunches on his chin, the impact vibrating through my leg. I can’t be sure it’s enough. I jump forward and drop my foot on his hands as he’s still clinging onto the axe. He’s pulled down, hands between my boot and the wooden shaft. My other knee slams into his face. There’s no time to be subtle or clever. Quick and brutal is the way to go.

  The man goes down. The war cry has turned into a wet blubber, but it still continues. I snatch the arrow from the ground. Turn away, run away, leaving him behind. To get into a better position, get away from him if he still manages to crawl up, or to avoid having to decide if I should make sure he doesn’t, I’m not sure.

  I keep blinking and wiping my face with my sleeve. My eyes are still full of sand, even if the initial wave of dust has passed and settled down. I run out of the cloud, happy to catch a breath without getting a mouthful of sand with it.

  A spear thunks into the ground ahead of me. Sand shoots up from the place it lands. I yelp, duck, roll. I land in a crouch, facing the direction where the spear came, ready to keep dodging. Sand swims before the hill, covering whoever threw the spear. I’m exhausted, panting, like I’ve sprinted for an hour. Still, I rush toward the trees and the cover they would provide. The sound of Rworg fighting the Kertharians, the clanging and the two songs fighting each other as well. So far Rworg’s song is winning, as the Kertharian voices keep cutting out one at a time.

  There’s more coughing mixed into both songs at this point. The sand billows back and forth, showing glimpses of Rworg surrounded by at least five Kertharians, Finna on the hill raising up from on top of a corpse with spears stuck on the ground next to them, the sky with the swirling green of the auroras sieving through the brown sand.

  I have eight arrows left. How many of the Kertharians are left? How long have we been fighting? Rworg’s sundial stands next to where I’m panting, leaning on a tree. Much good that will do us, now.

  I keep wiping my eyes. We can’t keep this up.

  We have to get out.

  “Rworg!” I shout. “Move to me! We’re leaving!” I’m screaming at the top of my lungs. “Finna, we’re leaving! Now!”

  It’s no use. The Kertharians bellow and wail over my voice, the screaming of the wounded adding to the cacophony. A shape shimmers through the sand, too small for Rworg, too large for Finna. I nock the arrow and shoot, the shape falls backward. A thought flashes into my mind that it could have been Mandollel, but that’s stupid. He would have sneaked up behind me to say something pithy or caught the arrow from flight.

  Seven arrows. We need to go.

  There’s no use shouting. I have to go fetch them. I take a breath, squint my eyes and push into the sand.