He froze. Eyes wide, hands clenched and muscles locked. That voice. He knew that voice.
But Vaintè was dead, he had killed her himself. Stabbed deep. Killed her. She was dead.
Yet it was undeniably her voice; loud and commanding.
Kerrick leaped to his feet, trying to see her clearly, but she was facing away from him. Then, as she was turning back in his direction, he was hit hard in the back, tumbled to the ground, dragged back into cover. Darts rustled in the leaves around him. Herilak released him, sought cover himself.
“It was her,” Kerrick said, his voice tight with the effort. “The one I killed, the sammadar of all the murgu. But I killed her, you saw me.”
“I saw you stab a marag. They can be very hard to kill.”
Still alive. There was no doubt. Still alive. Kerrick shook his head and lifted the hèsotsan. There was no time to think about that now. Unless he could kill her again. Still alive. He forced his thoughts back to the battle.
So far few darts had been fired by the attackers, so sudden and overwhelming had been the disaster. But now they found shelter behind the bodies of their dead and began to fire back; the leaves rustled and stirred at the impact of the numberless darts.
“Don’t expose yourself!” Herilak called out. “Stay down. Wait until they attack.”
The Yilanè who had survived the first charge now kept their large tarakast safely behind the mass of uruktop and fargi. There were loud cries as they ordered the attack to be pressed home. Reluctantly, the fargi rose and ran forward, died. The attack was broken even before it began.
“We stopped them,” Herilak said with rich satisfaction, looking out at the corpse-strewn slope. “We can hold them.”
“Not for too long,” Kerrick said, pointing down the hill. “When they attack from the sea they use a formation called the outstretched-arms. They go out to both sides, then come in behind. I think they are doing that now.”
“We can stop that.”
“For a little while. But I know their strategy. They will attack on a wider and wider front until they turn our flanks. We must be ready.”
Kerrick was correct. The fargi climbed down from the eight-legged uruktop and spread across the face of the hill, coming forward slowly. They died—but more were ordered up behind them. The slaughter was great, but the Yilanè commanders did not care. More and still more fargi advanced, sheltering behind the dead, some even reaching the edge of the forest before they fell.
It was midafternoon when the first fargi found protection among the trees. Others joined them and the Tanu defenders had to draw back.
A different, yet equally deadly, battle now began. Few of the fargi had any experience in woodcraft. When they left their cover death usually sought them out. Yet still they advanced. There was no front to the battle any more, hunters and hunted mixed together in the gloom beneath the trees.
Kerrick fell back with the others, the pain in his leg almost gone now, trying to keep the bulk of the trees between himself and the fargi. Yet when he straightened up there was a sharp crack and a dart hit the bark of the tree close to his face. He spun about, his spear ready in his left hand, sinking it into the fargi who had come up behind him, wrenching it free then hurrying deeper into the forest.
The retreat began again. Whispered commands started the mastodons along the escape route, the hunters gathered behind them and guarding their backs. There were other, harsher commands being called through the forest now and Kerrick stopped, cupping his hand to his ear. He listened carefully, then turned and ran back through the trees to find Herilak.
“They are withdrawing,” Kerrick said. “Without seeing them I can’t be sure of everything that they are saying, but there are bits of it I could make out.”
“Are they retreating, beaten?”
“No.” Kerrick looked up at the darkening sky above the trees. “It will be night soon. They are regrouping in the open. They will attack again in the morning.”