The fire on the other side was dying. Dry as the grasses were, the cold night had brought dew, and with her magic no longer fueling them, the flames were having a hard time spreading. Steam was rising off four blackened corpses, and for the first time Amira noticed the sweet smell of roasted flesh. She turned away and walked to Gyaidun, who was cleaning his knife and club on the tunic of the dead bandit leader.

The Tuigan's skull was bashed in.

The final bandit to fall had stopped his struggles. He lay on his back in a sickly mud, drenched in his own blood, his empty eyes staring up at the cloudless sky. Several paces away lay the body of the first bowman. Gyaidun's blade had cut him deep on the inside of his thigh from knee to groin. Amira knew from her years on the battlefield that such a wound bled a man to death in moments.

Gyaidun stood and sheathed his knife. He was covered with dirt from lying in wait under his sand-covered cloak. He looked to Amira.

"You did well, though the fire wasn't the best idea." Amira bristled.

"And why is that?" "Fire means smoke. A big fire like that made a lot of smoke. Everyone within thirty miles will know right where we are."

Durja landed on a tussock near Gyaidun, let out a final caw, then fell silent. "I'm a war wizard," Amira said. "I needed something to take them all down fast. It worked." Gyaidun grunted and walked over to the bowman whom Amira had taken down. Amira followed him. The man lay in the grass. He clutched at his chest, his face twisted in pain and tears streaking his face. But he was very much alive, though he seemed to be struggling to breathe. Gyaidun stood over the man. "You and your friends," he said, "you had horses, yes?" The man glared up at Gyaidun. "Kill me. Spare me my… my shame." "The horses." The Tuigan took in a shaking breath, then spat on Gyaidun's boots. Gyaidun shook his head, then placed one heavy foot on the man's chest and pressed down. The man's eyes went wide and his mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out. "The horses," said Gyaidun. The Tuigan pounded his head on the ground, struggling to breathe. Gyaidun stepped off. "I won't ask again." The man raised one trembling hand and pointed northward. "That… way. A mile. No more." "How many guards?"

"One," the Tuigan said. "Ujren's… son. Don't harm… him. Just a boy." Gyaidun scowled. "I'll leave him most of your horses. The rest is up to him. Your thievery made him fatherless today." The Tuigan said nothing, just lay there struggling to breathe. So fast that Amira jumped, Gyaidun brought his iron club down on the man's skull. Amira looked away, but she heard the wet crunch. Durja cawed twice, and in the following silence, she could no longer hear the man's harsh breathing. She looked on Gyaidun in shock. "Why did you do that?"

Gyaidun's brow fell as he looked down on her. "I could have used the knife, but he would have suffered. The club was quicker." "He might not have died. There was no need!" "You're in the Wastes now, girl.

That-" "Do not call me 'girl!'" Gyaidun continued undeterred. "That man tried to kill you. If we'd left him to recover and nurse his wounded pride, he might well have come after us. The Commani-even outcasts-do not forgive an affront. We have enough to worry about without setting enemies on our trail." She held his gaze and considered pressing the point. But it hit her: He was right. She was a long way from home, and her notions of honor and chivalry weren't going to get Jalan back to her. And Gyaidun knew this country, knew it like she knew the Hiloar meadows. Finally, she dropped her gaze, careful to avoid the corpse at her feet, and said, "You won't… you won't harm the boy?" "Not if he's smart. Let's get our things and be gone before anyone curious decides to have a closer look at your smoke."

The Endless Wastes Sitting in the grass, his wrists and elbows bound behind his back with rough strips of elkhide cord, Lendri watched the first edge of the sun peek over the horizon. He sat in the middle of the Vil Adanrath, wolves and their elf brothers seeming to mix in equal measure, on a long rise of land that was not quite steep enough to be called a hill. Nearly a quarter mile of land rose at his back, and twice that fell at his feet so that he seemed to look down upon the sunrise. Mingan lay near his feet, sound asleep. Tension ran through the camp like mice in the grass-more felt and heard than seen. Every elf or wolf walking about or lounging in the grass shot furtive, suspicious glances at them. Some stared in open malice. Still, once Mingan had realized there would be no immediate violence, he had settled down. It was the first time he'd been among his own kind in many seasons. The elves, both men and women, had the same pale complexion and hair as Lendri, but they wore even less clothing-barely enough for modesty, and none wore any covering on their feet. They too had skin decorated in many swirls and thorns-the younger members of the pack sporting only a few while the elders seemed more black lines than white skin. This had been a hunt, not a permanent camp, and they were still a ways from the nearest cache, so few of the elves had weapons. A dagger or rough spear here and there, but nothing more.

Many of the elves walked the dreamroad next to their sleeping wolf brothers, but a half dozen or so of each patrolled the area, scanning the horizon and sniffing the breeze while the others kept close watch on Lendri and Mingan. Lendri did not know whether to cling to hope or despair. They had not killed him on sight, which was good, he supposed, but every attempt to speak to them had been met with either cold silence or a command to close his mouth. After his fourth attempt, his brother Leren had threatened to gag him, so Lendri sat and waited. Little brother had grown in the years they'd been apart.

His limbs were lean but filled with a hard strength, and he walked with the poise and confidence of a true pack leader. Pride and sadness filled Lendri's heart-pride that little brother had taken his place in the pack and sadness that it had to be so. The bottom rim of the sun was a finger's width over the horizon when Lendri first noticed the long shadows in the distant grass-several of them headed right for the pack. It wouldn't be long now. Leren, pacing not far away, saw them as well. He was one of the few in camp with a weapon-a long knife that he held naked in his hand. He watched the shadows a while, then turned and looked down on Lendri. "They are coming," he said. "Thank you, Brother," said Lendri. "Don't call me that, hrayek," said the warrior, and he spat on the ground beside Lendri. Mingan raised his head, and a growl, more felt than heard, rumbled deep within the wolf's throat.

Leren ignored him. Hrayek, thought Lendri. Outcast. Oathbreaker. This was not going as well as he'd hoped. It was not altogether unexpected, but still it saddened him. He and Leren had been close once. With full light bathing the rise, the Vil Adanrath stirred out of dreamwalk and sleep. The news spread quickly. The omah nin was coming. Several of the wolves sent up a song to greet him. A pack of twenty wolves, led by a massive male with fur the color of new snow, ran among the gathered pack. The hunters greeted their lord and his guard, dancing about him, yipping and barking, the greatest of the pack licking his muzzle and bowing with lowered ears and tail. The huge wolf allowed it for a time, then snarled and barked till the others cleared a path for him. He walked up the slope to Leren, wolves and elves following him.

Mingan circled Lendri a few times, then settled on his haunches beside his friend and watched. Leren knelt, lowering his head and opening his palms. "Well come to the pack, Omah Nin." The wolf looked at Leren, then glanced at Lendri and Mingan. His fur bristled, then began to ripple as if stirred by a hundred tiny breezes. Fur faded to a misty light, the pale shadow within stretching. When the light cleared, an elf stood in front of Leren. This newcomer was the tallest elf in camp. His snow white hair fell well past his waist, and his entire body was a maze of black tattoos and old wounds. Runes the color of fresh blood lined his arms and chest. Three scars marred his skin from scalp to cheek to chin, leaving empty tracks through his pale eyebrows. His eyes stood out like jewels burning with the light of a winter sky. This was Haerul, Omah Nin of the Vil Adanrath. Chieftain of chieftains. What the Tuigan would have named khahan. Haerul knelt by the wolf next to him, which had a light pack on its back. He reached into the pack, removed a loincloth, and covered his nakedness before looking down on Leren. "Rise, my son," he said. Leren stood, and together the elves turned to face Lendri. "Hrayek," Haerul said, no warmth in his eyes. "You know the penalty for returning to the pack. There is no help for you here. You know that." Lendri looked into the chieftain's eyes. "I know, Father." For the briefest instant, sorrow clouded Haerul's countenance, then he suppressed it and turned to his younger son with his hand open. Leren slapped the blade into his father's palm. "Then," said Haerul, "I suggest you speak quickly.