Two-legged, like himself, but swathed in gleaming white. Their coats stood out like corn kernels in a broth. They rode animals of some kind, tall and narrow bipedal beasts. The beasts scrambled across the desert floor, prancing like enormous birds, while the riders clung to their backs with practiced ease.

What in Kassia—?

Memine’s sudden cry pinched the tips of his ears: “Tanin!”

Her voice, distant, was acute and terrified. Tanin contorted his body to extricate himself from the citrus tree, but in his haste, he caught himself amongst the thorny branches. Frantically abandoning his satchel, he retreated, trying to re-trace the movements he’d used to get to the trunk.

He could see his party standing upstream in a loose cluster. They looked nervous, darting glances to one another and then to the riders as they neared. Memine sidestepped Tanin’s direction while moving her head in all directions; he realized she couldn’t see him caught in the faraway tree.

Chenoa strode out to meet the strange white riders, chest thrust out in confidence. He then hesitated as the sky darkened.

The suddenness of it made Tanin stop struggling. He could see the sun plainly even through the branches, but it was as if a cloud covered it now.

Shards of black rained from the sky upon the Fell party as he watched.

Chenoa jerked backward off his feet. He tumbled down the slope and into the water, several arrows sticking out of his body. Others in the party fell straight to the ground, leaving only Memine, Hewa, and a few others on their feet, arms raised as if to ward off the flight of deadly missiles that had hit their friends.

Tanin shook as Chenoa’s body washed past in the river, only a length or two from the tree where Tanin remained concealed. Arrows, thicker and longer than those used by Fell Guardians, jutted out from his legs, chest—and face. Blood trailed in the water behind him in crimson clouds.

Tanin gasped his name, then looked upstream. “Memine . . . !”

The white figures riding in from the south reached his party. More than half the young Fell lay motionless on the ground or had fallen into the river, shot through with arrows. Those Fell who remained ran now in all directions. The white creatures—there were dozens and dozens of them—broke into smaller bands to give chase. Their tall mounts made the ground rumble beneath their hooves.

Memine ran in Tanin’s direction. She was unhurt, but terrified. She ran too fast to scream, putting as much distance between herself and the band of white creatures, several of whom angled their beasts to pursue her.

Panic clutched Tanin’s throat. His voice squeaked, “Memine, run!”

She halved the distance to his tree, but she was only aimed his general direction, not coming right for him; much too far for her to hear him over the thundering beat of the two-legged beasts. He struggled again to free himself as she and the white riders closed in.

They caught her only a few lengths away from him.

One of the pursuing riders threw a woven net. It landed expertly atop her. Memine fell to the ground in a heap.

The riders, six of them, pulled their steeds to a halt as Memine screamed and struggled. In the sudden relative silence, Tanin bit back another cry; the riders were close enough now to hear him if he made a sound.

They wore no clothing, only strips of leather in various configurations for sheaths and scabbards. The whiteness of their bodies came from long, thick hair, crown to foot. In a different scenario, they would have been beautiful to behold. Each carried an assortment of bladed and blunt weapons and a stringed bow over his or her shoulder; Tanin could see their different sexes clearly. Their steeds were pale and hairless, with powerful hind legs and short forelegs. Great bulbous satchels of dark leather hung on either side of their saddles.

Memine fought against three of them who were binding the net around her body. One rider pulled a curved sword from his belt and raised it.

Stop struggling! Tanin thought madly. Memine, stop!

She did. The sight of the blade lifted high over her body seemed to freeze her muscles. Two of the riders waved the male off with strange grunts, and he reluctantly sheathed the weapon.

The other three riders stayed mounted, and rode toward him. Tanin stayed still, hoping his limbs would blend with those of the citrus tree. Maybe, if they didn’t search closely, they wouldn’t see him.

The riders stopped and dismounted. They were close enough to smell: dirt and blood. Their hideous faces made Tanin’s muscles clench terribly under his skin. The riders had no ears he could see, which disgusted the tall-eared Fell. Their eyes slithered within crooked, angular sockets, giving them a carnivorous glare. A single dark hole punched into the middle of their heads as some kind of nose; their mouths worked ninety degrees from Tanin’s own, jaws full of ragged black teeth chomping left to right rather than up and down. The three appeared to be speaking to one another, some perverse version of standard Kassian speech. Tanin recognized some words, but they were too slurred and accented for him to be sure. The three of them, almost close enough to touch now, rubbed tree leaves in their hands and sniffed their fingers.

Several lengths beyond Memine, one of the white creatures yanked one of the Fell party by the hair; one of the girls. Several arrows pierced her body—it was Hewa, Tanin realized—but she still bucked and thrashed beneath the creature’s grip. She was wounded, but alive.

The slit-mouthed creature lifted Hewa off the ground, her hard, bare toes sliding on the desert floor. In one smooth motion, the creature raised an axe and chopped at Hewa’s throat.

Her body collapsed into the dirt. The creature held her head aloft, blood dripping from her neck. It turned Hewa’s head this way and that, as if showing off for its fellow riders . . . then tossed her head aside.

Like it was bored.

Memine was utterly ensconced in the net and other binding now. She writhed on the ground like a worm, flexing her body to try and break free again. It was futile; the wraps were too strong and she was surrounded by the riders, who sounded as if they were laughing.

She flipped onto her back from the force of her struggle. “Leave me alone!”

The three creatures by his tree laughed as she was slung over the neck of one of the mounts. Memine grunted painfully and lifted her head to snarl at the monster.

And met Tanin’s eyes.

That her gaze found his was sheer luck, Tanin knew. The right angle, the right slant of sunlight through the branches. Her tense expression relaxed, eyes widening.

Do something, he thought. Now, right now, fight them somehow . . .

With what? Citrus fruit?

As if reading his thoughts, Memine shook her head. Their eyes stayed locked on one another as the white riders arranged Memine on the beast of burden. Again she shook her head; just a quick back-and-forth that went unseen by the riders.

He begged her with his gaze: Let me try!

Then the creature who had his betrothed on his steed kicked the animal’s flanks, and sped south toward Desita.

Desita—the fires. Of course, the fires, these invaders had set fire to . . . to what? Everything?

The other five creatures stayed by the river a while longer, picking through the satchels of fruit, sometimes pausing to run a weapon through the body of some poor Fell who was groaning in agony.

Tanin’s heart beat so quickly his entire body trembled. He still didn’t make a sound.

Finally, the five creatures mounted their steeds and rode upstream before the entire group of them galloped south, leaving the bodies of Tanin’s party to rot in the sun. They’d taken every satchel of fruit, and recovered every arrow from every dead Fell body.

Tanin waited until he could no longer see even a trace of dust in the air before picking his way out of the tree and collapsing in the dirt.

Chenoa and Hewa, dead. The others, dead. Memine, taken.

“Memine,” he whispered. “Memine, I’m coming.”

He forced himself to rise, and ran for Desita.

# # #

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