Then the first one made a beckoning motion and shouted to her, inviting. Come all the way.
Inos’s feet began backing up of their own accord. To meet four strange men in a forest was bad enough, but to do so with no clothes on was the stuff of nightmares.
There was no way she could even pull on her stupid slip without laying down her weapons.
The strangers conferred briefly. One gestured at the horses, and the others jeered at him. The leader said something and they laughed. They laid down their bows, slid the quivers from their shoulders, and dropped those also.
Again the leader called to her, and she made out enough to know he was telling her to disarm, also. She had three arrows, only three. Plus one bow and a white flag.
“Who are you?” she shouted. “What do you want?” She eased back a few more steps—nearer the river and the forest beyond, nearer her heap of clothes. Kade! What had they done to Kade?
What? the leader shouted. Or so she assumed—he cupped an ear.
“What do you want?” she cried again, ashamed of her shrillness.
One of the others said something, and they all laughed again. The leader shouted, pointing: You!
Then one of the others made a joke, and they all laughed, and quickly spread out in a straight line. The leader glanced along the line, then called out two or three words. Then two more . . .
On your marks . . . Get set . . .
They were going to run her down on foot. She would be first prize in the men’s cross-country sprint.
And perhaps all the other prizes, too.
If she tried to escape from the loop of the river, the men would run her down easily. She could not swim. Crocodiles were a trivial evil now—she whirled around and took to her heels. Another obvious shout: Go!
And a glance over her shoulder confirmed that word. The race was on.
Three arrows, four men, fading light . . . she would not dare shoot until they were at point-blank range, and if they charged her together, she would not have time to draw her bow a second time. Could she bring herself to shoot an arrow into a human being? Even to try might be a stupidity, for if she felled some or wounded some, then how would the others retaliate?
She ran as she had never run, and the river was horribly far off. Beyond it lay deep forest where she could hide if she could ever reach it alive. Harsh breathing and pounding heart and tangles of grass grabbing at her legs to trip her . . . Somewhere on the run her useless slip caught on a bush and was lost.
She would never make it. She had provoked enough chases in her life to know that female legs were no match for men’s when it came to running. Even when she had been taller than Rap and Lin she had never been able to outrun them.
Then a chorus of mule noise in the distance, and a thump of hooves—Azak! With a cry of relief, Inos stopped and spun around. The men were dangerously near already, closing in on her like talons, but they had stopped and turned also, to see who came. And they had left their bows at the shelter! Had she had any breath left, Inos would have cheered—Azak would ride them down and fill them full of arrows and chop their heads off in the first half minute.
The mule came into view, coming from the upstream side, the way Azak had gone.
A largish mule, riderless.
Skittering and jumpy, it raced around in terror and indecision, and then headed for the others. It was Azak’s mule. No Azak. The implications of that were not thinkable.
The four men laughed and jabbered and lost interest in the new arrival. They turned to face their quarry again. They were so spread out that it was hard to keep all four in view.
The leader called out to her and she thought she picked out some of the words: lady . . . friends . . . be friends . . . He repeated the beckoning gesture he had used before. Inos shook her head and stepped back, speechless with terror and lack of breath.
Blood roared in her head. Terror . . .
The man laughed. He pointed an arm at the mules, then raised a hand high to indicate height. He pulled an imaginary bow, swung his arm around, jabbing a thumb in his chest. He made falling gestures. The other three gasped out fits of laughter at this dumbshow.
Azak bushwacked? Shot down from cover? So his panicdriven mount would have fled and then eventually circled back to join its companions.
Azak shot . . . What had they done to Kade? Azak . . . Kade . . .
Now Inos.
She dropped two arrows and heaved on her bow to string itfaster than she had ever done that—and she had the third arrow notched at once, pointing at the leader. In this twilight, with her heart bouncing all around her chest, she was probably not capable of hitting a rain barrel from the inside.
The men on the ends were edging around, moving to encircle her. Again the leader called out in his singsong dialect, unfamiliar and yet teasingly close to being intelligible: hurt? . . . no, he meant not hurt. . . promise, promise, promise . . . She would trust his promise like a viper’s kiss. The meanings came more in gesture and inflection than words, but the mockery and gloating came more clearly still.
“Go back!” she shouted, drawing the bow. “Call off your men. I’m not bluffing!”
The leader cowered in pretended fear and backed a couple of steps. But the others . . . Evil take it! She couldn’t watch all three and aim an arrow at the same time.
Three? She whirled, and the fourth was not a dozen paces off, between her and the river. As her bow turned on him, he stopped and threw up his hands in mock surrender. He was taller than the others, fresh-faced, not very old. He spoke, and again the main words came through: . . . mercy . . . have mercy . . . lady . . . mercy . . .
“Stand aside!” Inos shouted, and moved to edge past him. He stepped to block her. She glanced around at the others. They were closer. The tall one shouted to attract her attention; then the others did. Now they were openly playing a child’s gamewhenever she was looking, they stood still; when she wasn’t, they moved.
That river was horribly wide and swift, but it could contain no monsters worse than these. She dashed for the widest gap. The tall youngster dived for her. She struck with her bow, and he grabbed it. She let go, staggered, and was taken from behind by two arms like barrel hoops. She kicked screamed twisted butted . . .
Her captor cursed in her ear and squeezed until her ribs creaked. She cried out with her last puff of breath, going limp, as dark spots danced before her eyes. He eased the strain a little. The three other men were clustered around, inspecting the spoils, all winded, panting and grinning.
They were not tall, but then Inos had become accustomed to djinns. Imp height, then-middle size for a man, but still taller than she. Their faces and arms were a middle shade of brown, too, but they were not imps. Their hair was paler, curly not straight; they had too much shoulder and not enough hip . . . and their eyes were set at a curious slant, like an elf’s. Pointed ears. Pixies. Living pixies! Young men out for devilment, two of them little more than boys.
But old enough. Four of them. God of Mercy!
They were panting too much for so short a run. They kept smiling, chuckling, breathless with excitement. They spoke words that meant nice girl and much happiness. That meant horrible things.
They wore sleeveless shirts and long pants and boots—all of them well-made garments, embroidered, fitted. All the same olive green. Clothes and wearers smelled of woodsmoke, and horse, and male sweat.
The leader reached out to stroke her cheek and she tried to bite his hand. He laughed and fondled her breast instead. “Brute!” she shouted with all the wind she could find. “Animal! Evil!” She kicked, and he caught her leg and hung on to it, so she reeled on the other foot, held up only by the man behind her, who chuckled in her ear.
The leader said something and stroked her thigh. Her skin came up in gooseflesh and he laughed at that.
“Don’t understand! Don’t know what you say. Monster! Four against one? You’re brutes! Cowards! Spawn of Evil!”