Whoops and cackles chased Zhaleh. The hyenas remained just out of sight, rustling through the grass instead of overrunning her.

  She pushed onward, numb hand holding her aching stump. Each step was a struggle, because it was a reminder. Her recovered sword weighed too much upon her hip, and her teacher's sash sat strangely against her feathers. Aside from his many lessons it was all that remained of him, ragged cloth stained crimson.

  Hunting howls and cackling grew closer and closer. Grass rustled, baying yips threatening her when she strayed too far one way or another.

  Some distant, weary part of Zhaleh's mind not set upon the task of staying upright knew what the predators planned. There was an ambush waiting for her by the tree. The harassment from the hyenas reeked of cunning, but she expected no less from the most hated predators of the plains.

  She couldn't even contemplate stopping. Her vessel felt cold like the rest of her, terribly cold even with the boundless Wood attuned qi of the plains all around her. Breathing just as she was taught, she attuned herself to the element, but it wasn't enough. She needed to meditate to gather all the qi dispersed in her fight.

  Whatever tiny wisps of strength she could get back had to be enough. She hurried onward, trying not to sway or stumble too much, towards the spot the hyenas directed: a huge karr tree twisting above wind rippling grasses.

  She had fond memories of racing the younger disciples, and even her rival Sironka, to that tree. Many had shared pledges in the branches of that tree. Friendship, wagers, confessions, promises to travel, it had been a place of hope for the entire sect.

  An unmarked grave at the hut sized trunk, she decided, was better than her bones scattered and forgotten in the plains. What remained of her blood could water the roots of the old tree, giving life to seeds that would one day spread on the winds. In a new life, if the gods granted her another turn through cycles, maybe she'd find that new tree and live peacefully, unaware of The Art and all its suffering majesty.

  And perhaps, when she finally reached the spot beneath familiar boughs that would be her grave, she could water its roots with a few hyenas.

  Zhaleh would fight to her final breath. That would honor the final embers of Ngnun, letting them die in a final, purifying blaze instead of crumbling from exhaustion.

  ---

  "Hyenas," Osso whimpered, clutching his bronze dagger at the sounds ahead of their group.

  "Hm," Tross hummed happily. "Fresh pelts."

  "That won't make Sassa like you any more," Tass chided, eyes and ears sweeping about.

  "Her sister wanted some of their teeth."

  "More than hyena teeth from you," Tass snorted.

  "If you want to join us, brother, you only have to ask. I'm sure that widow sweet on you would—"

  "Quiet," Emrys hissed, exhausted with his guards' love lives already. "Did you hear that?"

  "They're hunting wounded prey," the broad shouldered Tpocic man whispered, gripping the woven straps of his pack tightly.

  Emrys closed his eyes. The two sorcerers lost their mirth instantly, each facing a different angle and pointing their spears in the peculiar grips their kind favored.

  Far off, something yowled in pain again.

  "They got it," Osso barely breathed.

  "That was no prey," Emrys opened his eyes and pointed a finger northeast of the path they'd been cutting. A large, twisting karr tree was the only feature in that direction. "Something wounded a hyena."

  "Go around?" Tass asked, brisk and serious.

  Emrys shook his head. "Towards it."

  Osso's tail bristled with genuine fear. "Master Emrys, this is an ill omen."

  "The twins will protect us," Emrys promised, eyes flicking to the twin wolfkin sorcerers. "Come along, all of you. Nowhere is safer than with these two."

  "Don't need to tell us," the lankier porter said, his brother-in-law bobbing his head in agreement.

  The volpes nervously nodded and set off with them, clutching his dagger close to his chest.

  Emrys grit his teeth and leaned harder on his staff, gripping it with both hands to limp quickly. If Titus saw that, the boy would have his head, but some matters required throwing good sense away. The set of his jaw frightened the men he'd hired, their affable caravan master replaced with a frightful man they rarely had a chance to see but knew all too well lurked beneath.

  Or so they thought. None of them truly knew the mind of the caravan master, and Emrys intended to keep it that way.

  Furious snarls floated across the Mgan Plains, pierced by sharp yips of pain.

  Tross sprinted ahead several strides, just far enough so no one was in danger of a large spell, while everyone else kept pace with Emrys' jogging limp. Grass hissed and crunched under sandals and paws. Metal clinked inside Emrys' white robes with each laborious, lurching step. Despite the condition he never spoke about—and no one was brave enough to ask about his lamed leg—he wasn't slow. The rest almost ran to keep up with his long, lurching stride.

  Suddenly, ahead of them, Tross' tail flicked three times.

  Tass and Emrys stopped, the human leaning on his staff and huffing as sweat dripped off his nose. The porters and Osso carried on a few more steps before scurrying back to the safest spot: behind Emrys and his sorcerers.

  When nothing happened for a minute, aside from yips and rustles of grass farther off, a question started to form on both the porters' lips.

  "Hya!" Tross bellowed, Potential ripping from the air around him. Ice crackled around his feet and mist billowed off his instantly frosty fur, the blade of his spear glowing along with two green stones.

  That was all the warning a sorcerer casting a war spell gave.

  Lightning shrieked from the spear tip, striking stones and grass as it lanced towards hyenas hiding within. Four of the beasts collapsed into spasms, another started to flee with a smoldering mane, and one tipped over dead, joints stiff and quivering.

  Tass took a step forward and thrust his spear, a softer mist billowing out of his mouth. Grass parted in a straight line following his jab, as if a ship's hull careened over the plains, the motion swiftly overrunning the burning hyena. Raging wind hit the predator in the flank, sending it tumbling in a mess of breaking bones and snuffing the flames on it.

  The beast quivered, but would soon die.

  Emrys, unafraid of the magic, hobbled forward on his staff. He made for the karr tree towering over the plains.

  Small fires smoked all around Tross, yet snuffed out as the wolfkin walked, and gems on his staff glowed like stars. He left icy, wispy pawprints as he moved to trail half a step behind Emrys.

  Osso and the porters watched, transfixed, as the sounds of terrified hyenas scattered in all directions across the plains, fleeing the sorcerers that had killed half their ambush.

  Tass went to stand watch over the porters, the guide, and the supplies.

  Emrys trusted both wolves with his life and more, so he focused on not letting pain slow him.

  Ahead, on the other side of the karr tree, the sounds of fighting had stopped. If it was a wounded lion, there would be rejoicing in the camp. But if it was a person, then Emrys wasn't about to abandon them to an ignoble death and scattered grave.

  Silently cursing the heat and how slow it made him feel, Emrys shuffled around the absurdly wide tree trunk.

  Where the grass grew on the other side, it was shoved down in a ragged circle. Five very dead hyenas littered the clearing, with signs of more that had been wounded before fleeing.

  'Too many so far for a local pack,' Emrys coldly observed, leaning on his staff and taking stock of the situation.

  All but two of the hyenas were dead from their heads or chests crushed, as if a millstone had dropped on them, the leaking blood and brains and innards already drawing in flies. A beast cut in half at the jaw, top of its skull a stride forward from its body, promised a blade. That killing stroke was far too clean for something that cleaved bone, reminding Emrys of something he couldn't quite place. He'd remember days later, when it hardly mattered, and that irritated him.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Strangely, he saw no sign of the one responsible—and he was confident only one fighter had been involved. Someone light on their feet, probably no bigger than a Shorsiel crow.

  Emrys considered what to do when Tross tapped on his shoulder and pointed to the enormous karr tree.

  There, standing on a branch several dozen feet up, was the fiercest birdkin he'd ever seen.

  She was no eagle or hawk, despite a clear resemblance, and the raw intensity of her blue eyed glare at the wolfkin impressed Emrys. He noted details quickly, out of a well practiced habit. In her left hand, that side facing him, was a remarkably crafted cinnarbronze sword that dripped the same shade of crimson as the metal. That along with the splatter of red on her talons and legs explained the dead hyenas. A sash of similar bright red held up a scabbard to her waist, on the left side instead of the right. That detail was curious, considering swordsmen he knew preferred a crossdraw.

  Her glare shifted from Tross to Emrys, as if she just now noticed him.

  So he continued to observe the bird, not as a dangerous figure standing straight on the tallest branch but as a person.

  Fatigue sagged long, quill-like feathers sticking up behind her head, beads somehow attached near the roots of a few. He thought she wore partially red clothing, but as she shifted to face them better, Emrys recognized her right side to be drenched in blood. It stained feathers white and gray and shone upon the black. Bandages did little to cover her ample chest, and where they pressed against her right shoulder they had almost soaked through. Her right arm was entirely gone, tension in her slightly unfurled wings suggesting a pain she otherwise refused to show—something Emrys understood all too well.

  A single question rested in her eyes, the orange coloration around them like a war mask as she glared right through Emrys.

  He approached, taking off his broad brimmed hat for manners that mattered little in the plains, and gave her a respectable nod. "Do you need help?"

  She blinked once, twice, her unspoken question apparently answered.

  The bird dropped from the branch, landing straight and stiff. That should've broken her ankles, at least. Instead, long legs brought her close enough she could easily skewer him with that sword.

  Emrys held a hand out towards Tross to keep him back and didn't break eye contact with the bird that easily stood a handspan taller than him. He'd gotten used to female eagles standing over him after decades in this southern continent, but they were so rare to meet it still felt strange; other than some wolves, Emrys usually had to look down.

  "What," she heaved, putting on quite the front for someone that looked inches from death, "are you?"

  "A traveller headed towards Tpocic-tal, with quite the caravan." Emrys nodded towards the bandaged stump where a right arm should have been, impressed yet deeply worried that she hadn't bled out yet. "Do you need help?"

  "Hold out your hand," she demanded.

  "Master Emrys," Tross growled, "you should step back."

  "Silence," he snapped at the wolfkin, who reflexively bowed.

  The birdkin's crest feathers stood tall, ready to fight over the intensity of his tone, but Emrys gave an apologetic smile and lifted his right arm, palm facing up.

  "Like this?"

  The sword stabbed between Emrys' feet, hilt wobbling. He hadn't even seen her strike. The bloodied bird snatched his wrist, thumb over the vein, while the light of awareness threatened to waver in her gaze. From the pale look of her tongue barely staying in her beak, he knew her to be dangerously anemic.

  He twitched, something he'd never experienced happening, and it fascinated him.

  Something not at all like magic intangibly flowed through his skin and probed at his pulse. His spine prickled, the sensation bizarre but not hostile, so Emrys kept silent.

  A garden. The sensation was akin to walking through a lovingly cultivated garden, rich with both useful and beautiful plants.

  The birdkin glared down at him, ready to spend her last scrap of life crushing him with whatever strange strength she possessed. Emrys ignored that along with the lively sensation coursing across his veins, and examined the edges of her eyes. They weren't bloodshot, if anything they seemed unhealthily pale. Nor was her hand as warm as a bird's should be in this heat.

  Then there was all the blood soaked into her bandages. She was barely alive.

  Still, the grip on his arm tightened, claws threatening to break his skin as that bizarre sensation of a lovingly cared for garden retreated.

  Her head tilted, an interrogative yet confused look bearing down upon him.

  "What..." She blinked hard, as if to clear sight that wouldn't obey. "What are you?"

  "Someone that can help," Emrys said. "If you let go—or hold on, I don't mind—I can take you back to one of the best healers to visit these plains."

  The bird considered him, then the wolfkin standing back and trying not to growl protectively.

  Blue eyes turned back down, as if seeing Emrys for the first time.

  He felt weighed. Not upon the intangible scales of a merchant or conniving helpfulness of the Mgan Plains. She judged harshly, openly.

  And quickly.

  "Fine," she muttered, releasing him.

  The bird's eyes fluttered shut, the strain of staying conscious finally too much. She collapsed right into Emrys' arms, his good knee taking the brunt of the weight.

  Not for the first time, he was grateful to come from such a hard people.

  ---

  The hyena pack harried the birdkin bitch.

  Onago kept far away, listening and creeping through the grass silently. He wasn't fast like Hoonu, nor any of the warriors of their sect. Onago was, however, so attuned to the Wood qi that only their Master could quickly spot him in the grasses if he really tried to hide. Their Master said that one day he could turn it into a technique to pass on, once Onago reached enough enlightenment.

  But for now, Onago kept two hundred paces away from the hyenas. Even when his pack cornered the bitch at an old, lonely karr tree, he kept his head down and stayed far from sight.

  Onago drew a small throwing spear from the quiver on his back, that he'd bundled Hoonu's head to, and watched the bird realize she was surrounded.

  Instead of climbing up the tree, she drew her sword and fought back.

  One armed from her encounter with Onago's Master, or so Hoonu had said, and half dead, the birdkin whirled about in that terrifying war dance of her sect. Her sword swished through captivating patterns, feet bouncing from spot to spot, and even Ongao had to admit the technique was beautiful.

  But it cleaved mercilessly through his precious pack.

  She cut down one hyena at the same time her talons crushed another underfoot, the blade flinging a perfect arc of blood as it sliced through bone. She dodged with kicks or stabs, making his pack scream in pain. The horrible dance faltered on a few steps, disrupting the violence of her techniques of The Art, but against hyenas she could afford the missteps.

  Onago swallowed the pain that each yelp and yipe of death stabbed into him.

  Even near death, she outmatched him. He understood now how she'd killed Hoonu and crippled the man's brother. Hoonu hadn't said much of what happened on the mountain, only that the thieving sect there put up more of a fight than expected. That it had been costly.

  If this birdkin was an example of the mockingly titled War-Dancers, then the battle must have been brutal.

  Slowly, Onago stalked forward. Grasses parted for him before he touched them.

  He stopped, ears straining as something whispered along the plains. Steps, too far off to hear, but he could sense them. They were coming from the opposite direction, where a mostly dried up river waited for the approaching rainy season.

  The hyenas felt it as well, alerting him through their thin connection with Onago. His bond with Yellowclaw and Redtooth from the Vinebound Soul went the deepest, flowing out to the lesser hyenas taken into the pack, but even the lesser could send him intentions, and he could give them commands. Not true communication, only vague impressions, but it was good enough for a cowardly scout and hunter.

  Half the remaining pack pulled away, creeping towards the group approaching from the direction of the dry river.

  Onago bounded forward on two legs and an arm, hunched over in the awkward gait of his quietest swift Art, a nameless thing he'd been creating, and left his pack to occupy the bitch.

  He needed to see who intruded.

  The raid had been planned for years. No other sects should have been within five days of the mountain, but surprises always happened.

  Onago left the tree behind and smelled the foreigners mixed with plains people, right before a deep voice shouted.

  "Hya!"

  Lightning shot across the top of the grass, power surging up from the land itself to angrily strike at the pack stalking toward the group of travellers. Onago hissed and crouched, stopping dead still and peering through the swaying stalks at the nightmare foe of all who practiced The Art.

  A wolfkin magician channeled arcing bolts of crackling fury from an ornate spear. Lightning made hyenas scream and panic, set several on fire, and terrified most of the pack. The bright power burning his eyes, Onago still saw the others behind the magician, including another wolf.

  Onago held his breath.

  The two identical wolfkin were the same, down to their spears and bead woven fur. He blinked, afraid he'd been caught in a grand spell of the magician, but no. He focused his sight with qi and confirmed there really were two identical wolves, only the scars on one's chest setting them apart.

  The second advanced and thrust his spear.

  A wave of air surged across the plains and smashed into the hyena on fire. He was swatted away, limbs breaking as he bounced across the dirt, the spell snuffing out the flames before the grasslands caught fire.

  Onago lowered himself to the ground, breathing carefully as qi vibrated within his throat. With tones below what human or beastkin could hear, he sent an absolute command for his hyenas to retreat. Not a word or a whistle but a single, primal sound meant only for his pack. He'd lost too many against the birdkin bitch, he couldn't have them all die to a pair of gods cursed magicians wandering the plains.

  Though he couldn't see it, Onago could feel his pack retreat, scattering in all directions. So many were missing. The bravest slaughtered by that bitch, and at least five killed in an instant by the magicians.

  Anguish filled Onago's chest, but it drowned under his rage.

  What could he do against magicians?

  Other than keep them away from the mountain.

  Between swaying stalks, over the stench of burnt fur, Onago crept closer instead of fleeing. There was more than loyalty to his sect and Master. He had to see for himself if the bitch lived or died. To both those ends, he needed to remember the scents of these travellers.

  He got as close as he dared, Wood qi humming all over him as he trusted in the cowardly strength his Master praised. Onago barely breathed, except to sniff like one of his hyenas.

  One of the group had a familiar odor. The sharp, dreadful scent of a Mark left by his Master. Chosen survivors carried it after fate set them to cross paths with the Master of Masks, forever imbued with a sign that any in the sect could sense. And only their sect.

  Yes, Onago wasn't wrong. He smelled the Mark upon one of those hiding with the sorcerers.

  Not the man in a broad brimmed hat, going towards the tree. That one had commanded the magicians, but that didn't matter for now.

  Onago had an ally, no matter how reluctant the Marked one might be. Such was the reach and wisdom of his great Master, that none in the plains were truly safe from the sect of Ngnandra once they met.