The rider recovered from his momentary fright and grabbed her hands, but not before she had the knife. The man scrambled to his feet, his fingers tight around her wrists. Eyes bulging, he laughed unconvincingly. “You are real after all,” he said. “I thought I had seen a shade down there.” Then he looked beyond her at the flame sprouting over the thatch. “Here! What have you done?”

She twisted her wrists in his grip and the blade bit into the flesh of his arm. “Ow!” He dropped his hands. Charis raised her knee in the same instant and planted her foot firmly on his chest. She kicked with all her might, springing backward through the air to land on her hands. The rider stumbled and struck the stone breastwork; his breath rushed from his lungs in a gasp and his helmet clattered from his head.

Charis whirled to see the flame deepening, spreading across the thatch, a plume of white smoke thickening to a column. She grabbed the fleece and began fanning the flames.

A moment later hands were on her, an arm thrown across her throat. She was dragged off her feet and thrown aside viciously. She struck the wooden planking.

Pain shot up along her spine and into her brain in a sickening, black flare.

The rider stooped and yanked the fleece out of her hand, turned and began beating out the flames.

With a groan, Charis dragged herself to her feet. She stood, leaning against the breastwork, shaking her head to clear the gray mist from her eyes as the fleece rose and fell again and again. When the flames were out, the enemy horseman turned toward her. “Now I will settle with you,” he said, his voice thick with rage. There was blood splashed over his clothing from the cut on his arm.

The blow caught Charis on the jaw just below her ear and nearly took her head off. She rolled against the breastwork but did not go down. The enemy came toward her. She closed her eyes.

His fist lashed out and smashed her cheek. Charis tasted blood in her mouth. Her fingers fought to hold on to the stone. The man drew his arm and loosed a vicious backhanded slap that snapped her head to the side. The pain cleared the gathering mist and she saw the rider coming for her, hands grasping for her throat; beyond him, the fire had rekindled. She slid back against the stonework, holding on with one hand.

Her attacker stepped close and reached for her, but she spun, bringing the knife up as she turned. The blade slid easily between his ribs and blood spurted with a bubbling hiss as the pierced lung deflated. The rider stared at her dumbly, his hands fumbling at his side.

“Stay back!” Charis spat through bleeding lips. “Come at me again and I will kill you.”

The fire crackled as the thatch caught and sent a gray-black cloud rolling skyward. “It will not do any good,” the man wheezed, his hand pressed to his side.

“We will wait and see.”

“They will see it down there and send someone.”

“Let them.”

“Give me the knife and I will see that you are not harmed.”

“Kian is my brother!” she snapped and then winced at the pain the words cost her.

The rider grimaced and pressed his hand to his side. Blood streamed from the wound, and in the early morning light Charis saw that his face had gone the color of ivory. He swayed on his feet. “Give me the knife.” He held out his hand and stepped toward her unsteadily.

“Stay back!” Charis hissed.

The rider lurched forward; his knees crashed down on the platform. His eyes rolled up into his skull, and he toppled onto his side and lay still. Charis stared at him for a moment and then cautiously crept to him. She pressed her fingertips to the side of his neck and felt the flutter of a weak pulse. She pulled the man’s garment aside and examined the wound. It was clean and the blood already congealing. Her pit experience told her he would live.

She heard a shout from Below and with her hands on her knees she straightened herself, feeling hot knives ripping along her spine. The pain was making her groggy, but she gulped air to keep her head clear and moved to the stone breastwork. Six enemy troops had climbed the bank and were running up the hill to the watchtower.

Charis sighed. She could not fight another attacker, let alone six. She turned and picked up the fleece and flung it onto the flames which were now burning furiously, their ragged red streaks angry against the pale yellow of the risen sun.

The wooden poles that formed the beams of the crude roof collapsed then, scattering flames onto the platform itself. She backed away from the flames, hoping that Kian would somehow see the pyre and recognize it as a warning. She slumped against the stone as the enemy soldiers came pounding up the inside steps.

A second later, the first one jumped through the entrance hole. He crossed the platform in three quick strides. Charis raised the knife. The man’s foot lashed out, and the knife went spinning from her grasp.

An instant later her arms were jerked over her head and she was slung over the man’s shoulder. She had a glimpse of two other soldiers tugging at the body of the rider she had stabbed. There was a dizzy swirl of smoke and darkness and then she was lying on the grass beside the tower, which had become a flaming beacon. She saw black smoke coiling into the blue sky and felt a warm tingle of pride force its way into her muzzy consciousness. If Kian is anywhere near, she thought, he will see it. He must see it.

The soldiers had gathered for a quick consultation, which ended abruptly. One of the men came to her, jerked her upright, and hoisted her across his back. Two others helped their wounded comrade to his feet and they started back down to the shore.

Charis allowed herself to be carried a little way while she gathered her strength. When the party reached level ground, the man carrying put her down to shift her weight to the other shoulder. That was all she needed.

She stepped to the side and kicked at her assailant’s knee. The man’s leg buckled and he fell, yelling to his comrades, but she had already leapt away and had four strides on them before they knew what had happened. Ignoring the pain, she fled up the hill.

As she reached the crest of the hill, one of her pursuers caught up with her, seizing her arm and spinning her around. She pulled her hands back, drawing him toward her and at the same time raising her knee sharply. The man gasped and crumpled to the ground, clutching his groin and rolling in agony. The next one to reach her was more wary, although no more lucky. He dived for her feet, hoping to trip her. She timed her jump perfectly and landed with both feet on his outstretched arm. The bone snapped with a sickening crunch and her attacker groaned.

The next two took her together, closing in from either side; one had his knife in his hand. They lunged and lunged again. Each time Charis was able to elude them-dodging, feinting, always just out of reach. The soldiers cursed and rushed at her. She spun from their grasp, but the knife snagged her sleeve and she was caught. Instantly the enemy’s hands were on her. “Got her!” he cried. “Use your knife!”

The second attacker drew his knife and ran toward her. Charis waited until he was too close to dodge away and then simply lifted her legs, planting her feet firmly against the man’s chest. Momentum impelled him forward and lifted Charis into the air. She swung up and over the man holding her, as lightly as if she had been tossed by one of the bulls. The two assailants collided, and one of them dropped to the ground with a knife wound in his side.

She was free once more, but the remaining two had caught up and, together with the one wielding the knife, were advancing slowly toward her, swords drawn. The pain in her back was fierce, the muscles stiffening. Her cheek and jaw throbbed and her vision wavered.

The three circled around her and Charis faced them, allowing them to ready themselves for their assault; she already knew what she would do. When they rushed upon her, she leaped forward into the downward slope of the hill and rolled, swiping the feet of one of her attackers from under him as she passed.