There was supposed to be a second group of volunteer exiles from the Slope, following behind this one. For their sake, Dwer smeared dabs of porl paste on prominent landmarks every half a midura or so, blazing a trail any moderately competent Jijoan could follow, but that should be untraceable by Galactic raiders or their all-seeing machinery.

Dwer would rather be home at the bitter end, preparing to fight hopelessly against the aliens, alongside other militia soldiers of the Six. But no one was better qualified to lead this expedition to the Gray Hills, and he had given Danel his word.

So now I’m a tour-guide, after all, he thought.

If only he felt sure it was right.

What are we doing? Fleeing to another place we don’t belong, just like our sinner ancestors? It made Dwer’s head ache to think about such things. Just please don’t let Lark find out what I’m doing. It’d break his heart.

The trek grew a little easier when they spilled off the mountain onto a high steppe. But unlike his other expeditions, this time Dwer turned south, toward a rolling domain of bitter yellow grass. Soon they were stomping through a prairie of calf-high shoots, whose florets had sharp tips, forcing the humans — and even the donkeys — to wear leather leggings for protection.

No one complained, or even murmured discomfort. Danel and the others took his guidance without question, wiping sweat from their hat brims and collars as they slogged alongside the stolid donkeys. Fortunately, scattered oases of real forest helped Dwer pilot the company from one water source to the next, leaving markers for the next group.

Rety must’ve been dogged to cross all this, chasing after her damn bird.

Dwer had suggested waiting for the girl. “She’s your real guide,” he had told Danel.

“Not true,” Ozawa demurred. “Would you trust her advice? She might steer us wrong in some misguided gesture to protect her loved ones.”

Or to avoid ever seeing them again. Still, Dwer wished Rety had made it back in time to depart with this group. He kind of missed her, sullen sarcasm and all.

He called a halt at a large oasis, more than an hour before sunset. “The mountains will cut off daylight early,” he told the others. Westward, the peaks were already surrounded by a nimbus of yellow-orange. “You three should clear the water hole, tend the animals, and set up camp.”

“And where are you going?” Lena Strong asked sharply, mopping her brow.

Dwer strapped on his hip quiver. “To see about shooting some supper.”

She gestured at the sterile-looking steppe. “What, here?”

“It’s worth a try, Lena,” Danel said, slashing at some yellow grass with a stick. “With the donkeys unable to eat this stuff, our grain must last till we hit hill country, where they can forage. A little meat for the four of us could help a lot.”

Dwer didn’t bother adding anything to that. He set out down one of the narrow critter byways threading the spiky grass. It was some distance before he managed to put the donkey stench behind him, as well as the penetrating murmur of his companions’ voices.

It’s a bad idea to be noisy when the universe is full of things tougher than you are. But that never stopped humans, did it?

He sniffed the air and watched the sway of thigh-high grass/ In this kind of prairie, it was even more imperative to hunt upwind not only because of scent, but so the breeze might help hinder the racket of your own trampling feet from reaching the quarry — in this case a covey of bush quaile he sensed pecking and scratching, a dozen or so meters ahead.

Dwer nocked an arrow and stepped as stealthfully as he could, breathing shallowly, until he picked out soft chittering sounds amid the brushing stems … a tiny ruckus of claws scratching sandy loam… sharp beaks pecking for seeds … a gentle, motherly cluck… answering peeps as hatchlings sought a feathery breast… the faint puffs of junior adults, relaying news from the periphery that all is well. All is well.

One of the sentries abruptly changed its muted report. A breath of tentative alarm. Dwer stooped to make his profile lower and kept stock still. Fortunately, the twilight shadows were deepest to his back. If only he could manage to keep from spooking them for a few more …

A sudden crashing commotion sent four-winged shapes erupting into the air. Another predator, Dwer realized, raising his bow. While most of the quaile scattered swiftly across the grasstops and vanished, a few spiraled back to swoop over the intruder, distracting it from the brood-mother and her chicks. Dwer loosed arrows in rapid succession, downing one — then another of the guardians.

The ruckus ended as swiftly as it began. Except for a trampled area, the patch of steppe looked as if nothing had happened.

Dwer shouldered his bow and pulled out his machete. In principle, nothing that could hide under grass should be much of a threat to him, except perhaps a root scorpion. But there were legends of strange, nasty beasts in this realm southeast of the gentle Slope. Even a famished ligger could make a damned nuisance of itself.

He found the first bird where it fell.

This should make Lena happy for a while, he thought, realizing that might be a lifelong task, from now on.

The grass swayed again, near where he’d shot the second bird. He rushed forward, machete upraised. “Oh, no you don’t, thief!”

Dwer braked as a slinky, black-pelted creature emerged with the other quaile clutched between its jaws. The bloody arrow trailed in the dust.

“You.” Dwer sighed, lowering the knife. “I should’ve known.”

Mudfoot’s dark eyes glittered so eloquently, Dwer imagined words.

That’s right, boss. Glad to see me?Don’t bother thanking me for flushing the birds. I’ll just keep this juicy one as payment.

He shrugged in resignation. “Oh, all right. But I want the arrow back, you hear?”

The noor grinned, as usual betraying no sign how much or how little it understood.

Night fell as they ambled toward the oasis. Flames flickered under a sheltering tree. The shifting breeze brought scents of donkey, human, and simmering porridge.

Better keep the fire small enough to seem a natural smolder, he reminded himself.

Then another thought occurred to Dwer.

Rety said noor never came over the mountains. So what’s this one doing here?

Rety hadn’t lied about there being herds of glaver, southeast of the Rimmers. After two days of swift trekking, loping at a half-jog beside the trotting donkeys, Dwer and the others found clear signs — the sculpted mounds where glavers habitually buried their feces.

“Damn… you’re right …” Danel agreed, panting with hands on knees. The two women, on the other hand, seemed barely winded.

“It looks… as if things… just got more complicated.”

You could say that, Dwer thought. Years of careful enforcement by hunters like himself had all been in vain. We always figured the yellow grass could be crossed only by well-equipped travelers, never glavers. That’s why we aimed most of our surveys farther north.

The next day, Dwer called a halt amid another jog, when he spied a throng of glavers in the distance, scrounging at one end of a scrub wadi. All four humans took turns observing through Danel Ozawa’s urrish-made binoculars. The pale, bulge-eyed creatures appeared to be browsing on a steppe-gallaiter, a burly, long-legged beast native to this region, whose corpse lay sprawled across a patch of trampled grass. The sight stunned them all, except Jenin Worley.

“Didn’t you say that’s how to survive on the plains? By eating animals who can eat this stuff?” She flicked a stem of the sharp yellow grass. “So the glavers have adapted to a new way of life. Isn’t that what we’re gonna have to do?”