At long last she opened her left eye; the right was swollen shut. For a moment, she could see nothing, and the afternoon sunlight filled her aching head with fire.
She counted eight ogres before her and heard what sounded like two more behind. Some of the brutish creatures stood at the edges of their simple camp, watching the dying forest around them. Another tended a fire, carving strips of flesh off what looked like a scrawny, dead boar, and setting them on hot stones beside the flames. The meat’s rancid stink made Moonsong’s gorge rise.
The two largest ogres were also the ones closest to her. They were arguing, barking viciously at each other in their harsh, guttural language. She didn’t understand the words, but she didn’t have to. Shuddering, she realized they were arguing over her.
The argument grew more fierce, becoming a shoving match. At last, one of the ogres backhanded the other across the face. The second ogre stumbled back, then wiped blood from its mouth and balled its hands into fists. The first one-a tan-skinned, fur-clad monster with a pockmarked face-snarled, and the second stayed where it was.
The pockmarked ogre turned to face Moonsong, leering cruelly, then walked toward her.
“No,” Moonsong pleaded. Loathing choked her.
She tried to struggle. Fresh blood ran down her arms as the rope rubbed against her wrists. The pockmarked ogre only chuckled, though, reaching for her with a filth-smeared hand. Its sour breath watered her eyes, and she gasped in disgust as its greasy fingers touched her face.
“Pretty,” it growled.
Moonsong tried to scream, but the only sound that escaped her fear-tightened throat was a thin, shrill wail. The pockmarked ogre threw back its head and laughed.
Then, abruptly, it fell silent. Eyes widening with shock, it fell forward against her, then toppled sideways onto the ground. A white-fletched arrow quivered in the back of its neck.
The other ogres gawked at his body, stunned. A second arrow struck one of them in the chest, punching through its leather breastplate and burying itself in its heart. The monster clutched feebly at the feathered shaft, then fell. A third shot grazed the arm of the one tending the fire, drawing a line of blood.
The ogres started shouting, grabbing up clubs and axes. They cast about madly, trying to find the archer among the trees. Another arrow hit one in the eye, killing it-but the shot gave away the archer’s position. Growling with rage, they started toward the arrows’ source.
As they charged, however, slingstones started to rain down on them from behind. Two more ogres fell beneath this new bombardment. The others looked around in amazement, unsure of what to do, then scattered as more stones fell among them. Two charged into the woods after the archer. Another pair went the other way, trying to find the slinger. The last one stayed in the camp, moving to stand by Moonsong’s side. Its face was livid with fear and rage.
The thrum of the bowstring and whistle of the slingstones stopped, then the sounds of fighting rang out on either side of the camp, steel clashing against steel as the ogres fell upon their attackers. Voices grunted in pain, and metal sliced through flesh. The ogre beside Moonsong stared around the camp in indecision, its spear quivering in its grasp.
It jerked suddenly, its body going rigid as something hit it from behind. It swayed unsteadily for a moment, then crashed headlong to the ground.
Behind it stood a tall, stout kender with short-cropped, yellow hair. In his hand he held a metal-studded club, tipped with a long knife blade. The blade gleamed with the dead ogre’s blood.
“Who-” Moonsong began to ask.
The kender shook his head and started toward her. “Later,” he said. He swung his club at the stake, and the knife-blade cut through the rope. Moonsong dropped to her knees with a groan, then struggled to rise.
“Giffel!” shouted another voice. A second kender dashed into the clearing, a bloody axe in his hand.
Seeing his chestnut cheek braids and green clothes, Moonsong gasped in recognition. “Kronn?” she breathed.
“Hi, Moonsong!” the kender said. He waved to her as he hurried over. “Can you walk? No, on second thought, can you run?”
The Plainswoman regarded him blearily, then nodded.
“Good.” Kronn looked across the camp, toward the direction the arrows had come from. “Swiftraven should be about done with the others.”
“Swift-Swiftraven?” Moonsong gasped confusedly.
“Right here,” said a voice as the young warrior strode into the clearing. He held his sabre in one hand, a knife in the other. Both dripped crimson. He smiled when he saw her. “Stagheart told us what happened,” he explained. “We came after you.”
“Stagheart…“ she murmured. “He’s still alive?”
“And safe in Kendermore,” Kronn averred, “which is where we’re taking you.”
New sounds rose around the camp. More ogres were crashing through the trees, shouting in their guttural tongue. Swiftraven glanced around sharply. “Damn,” he swore. “They were faster than I’d thought. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Back west!” Giffel shouted, waving his bladed club. “To the creek!”
He dashed off into the forest. Kronn grabbed Moonsong’s hand and dragged her after them. Her legs burned as she ran, but fear kept her on her feet. Swiftraven came last, watching their backs as they fled.
The sounds of pursuit dogged them as they dashed through the woods. Glancing back, they saw the dark shapes of their pursuers. A dozen more ogres had picked up their trail, howling with battle lust as they crashed through the forest.
They gasped and wheezed, leaping over rocks and fallen trees as they ran. Their pursuers paused when they found the guards Kronn had shot with his blowgun, but soon they were running again, weapons held high.
“How much farther?” Swiftraven panted. The ogres were less than two hundred yards behind them. He could see the fury in their eyes.
“Two miles,” Giffel answered breathlessly.
Kronn and Swiftraven exchanged looks, sharing the same dire thought. The ogres would catch them before they made it another two miles. They ran faster, Kronn pulling Moonsong along with him. She sobbed incoherently, tears streaming down her face, as she stumbled after the kender.
They ran another mile, then Moonsong stumbled over an exposed root and fell. Kronn jerked to a halt, and he and Swiftraven tried to drag her to her feet. The pounding of the ogres’ footsteps grew closer with every exhausted heartbeat.
Swiftraven didn’t hear the faint hum of the javelin flying through the air. It struck him in the back of his knee, impaling his leg. He fell to the ground with a cry.
“No!” Kronn cried.
Swiftraven reached back and pulled the spear from his leg. Bright blood coursed from the wound, and he ground his teeth together and struggled to his feet. When he tried to take a step, though, his knee buckled and he nearly fell again. He groaned with pain. The charging ogres heaved more javelins, which fell all around them.
Swiftraven looked at Kronn, then, his eyes like stones. “Go,” he said.
Kronn’s face was also hard. “Swiftraven…”
A spear hit the ground at Moonsong’s feet. She stared at it dully, uncomprehending.
“Go!” Swiftraven bellowed. “Get back to Kendermore! I’ll try and slow them. Now, Kronn!”
Obediently, Kronn grabbed Moonsong’s hand and ran to catch up with Giffel.
Swiftraven watched them go, then turned, dragging his injured leg, to face the onrushing ogres. He raised his arms, drawing their attention. “Here!” he shouted.
The monsters threw the last of their javelins, but their shots went wild. Then they stopped, all twelve of them, and stared at the wounded Plainsman. They circled around him warily, starting to laugh.