As he stood over the dying Fell and his half-butchered betrothed, Orrock saw Iona walking toward their pursuers—a dozen or more Charic’sada with bows in hand and steel weapons glimmering on their belts.

Orrock stood straight. “Wood witch! What are you—”

“I am an earth witch, Orrock Guar.” Iona’s voice had somehow deepened, and boomed low out of her small body, as if she spoke from all of Kassia. “There is no such thing as a wood witch.”

She knelt on her left knee, placing her small green hands on the desert floor.

The ground rumbled.

Iona lifted her head, staring at the approaching Charic. Orrock saw the white-haired creatures slow as they realized something unnatural—or perhaps super-natural—was happening beneath them.

Even knowing he needed to get them to safety, Orrock could not help standing in awe of the scene before him. The Charic knocked arrows to their bows but held them still as they glanced at one another . . . and at the bushes and cacti around them.

The desert flora erupted.

Green bushes sprouted impossibly, their thin branches exploding with sudden growth as if their lifespan had been greatly advanced. Every bush, every cactus within three or four body lengths of each Charic grew and grew, shooting high into the air and waving like giant’s hands.

As the Charic tried to make sense of this mad scene, the flora lurched for them. In a mere heartbeat, the Charic became ensnared by the whipping tendrils and bristling stalks. Thorns dug into their flesh, their limbs yanked far from their bodies or else pinned uselessly against them. The dozens of Charic were lifted off the ground by the plants, while a sound like wind in a storm made the air sizzle around them.

The Charic screamed in broken unison. In the ears of the Guar, it sounded like heaven.

Let Anyi show them mercy. He would not.

One of them was torn apart. The Charic’s stocky body was rent in half at the waist by two opposing cactus arms. Orrock heard the creature’s spine split. One after another, the other Charic followed his fate. Arms snapped from torsos, legs bent and twisted in wrong directions. A Charic head was ripped from its shoulders by the writhing branches of a willowy tree. The wind caught the scent of the carnage and blew it past Orrock’s snout, which twitched with the odor of fresh slaughter.

“My god,” the monk whispered.

The ground ceased to shake. Iona stood, looking at the gore. Her face seemed as impassive as ever, though something gleamed in her green eyes.

“Come,” Orrock said hoarsely. “There will be more. We must hurry.”

He dropped down to scoop up Memine and Tanin. “Mohani. Can you move?”

The Agnise spit blood on the ground, her voice damp as if gargling. “Of course I can move, monk.” She gestured with the hammer. “I suggest the forest, if we can reach it.”

With a deep groan she kept pinned behind closed lips, Mohani rose and stumbled toward the woods. Orrock broke into a trot, making sure Iona and Mohani stayed close; the earth witch’s face had turned brown and dry, and the discoloration spread down her body even as he watched. The arrows in Mohani’s back bounced such that he could see their fletching rise and fall behind her shoulder. Blood dripped freely from her mouth now and she made no effort to stop or clean it.

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Orrock prayed. Just to the forest. Please. We have come so far and you have blessed us so much, just let us reach the forest and heal . . .

They did not reach it.

Orrock ran for at least a full jaunt, but stopped when he heard a heavy thud behind him. Mohani had fallen onto her back, the arrows snapped into kindling beneath her. As he took in this sight, the earth witch also collapsed. Most of her skin had browned, with only vague green patches dotting her limbs. By some magic or miracle, her limbs did not break off when she hit the ground.

Orrock scanned the horizon behind them, searching for signs of pursuing Charic. His tribe had made it far enough that he could no longer see the tall, branching flora of Iona’s attack. Between here and there, he saw nothing but desert. No dust clouded into the sky, no white specks approached them in the distance.

If the Charic were coming, it was not at this moment. Orrock decided they could stop. Not for long, but they could stop.

Orrock veered for a low, dense tree large enough to cast a wide net of shade. He knelt and released Memine first, onto her back. She braced herself with her hands, giving the monk soft thanks. He placed Tanin by her side. The Fell’s breath was ragged, the arrow pumping up and down in tune with his heartbeat.

He went back for the females, picking them up and bringing them into the shade. He turned to the witch. “Iona. Have you any magic left? Something?”

Her eyelids opened halfway. It was the first time he’d seen her exhausted. “I can try, Orrock Guar.”

She pulled herself between Tanin and Mohani, surveying the damage. It took but a moment. While her face remained in its usual impassive state, Orrock saw anguish in her green eyes.

“I cannot heal them both, Orrock Guar.”

Orrock stared back at her, his mind racing as fast as his massive heart. He closed his eyes and prayed to Anyi. Whether or not Anyi spoke to him, Orrock could not say. When he opened them, he beheld Memine laying on her side, stroking Tanin’s face much as Iona had done earlier. She was speaking softly to him, though Orrock could not hear her words. He doubted Tanin did either; the Fell’s eyes were closed, his mouth agape as his body fought to keep breathing.

In this terrible moment, he considered, quickly, what Brother Obos would do in his stead, and knew—with or without Anyi’s wisdom guiding him—what must happen now.

And may Anyi damn the Charic’sada for it, he thought.

“The Fell.”

Iona immediately turned to Tanin and laid her hands on his wound. Memine watched her, eyes wide in wonder and hope.

Orrock knelt beside Mohani, assuming her already dead. But the Agnise’s eyelids fluttered and she grinned, her teeth grotesque with blood.

“How is the little Fell?”

Her voice gurgled deep in her throat. Orrock had heard such sounds before, in his old life; it was the sure approach of death.

Orrock put a hand on her shoulder. “He will live.”

“But not I.”

“Agnise . . .”

“For what other reason would a Guar touch me?” She coughed. Blood splattered out of her mouth. “At last you touch my skin, monk. How does it feel?”

“Good,” Orrock said, not hesitating. “It feels good, Agnise.”

Mohani’s eyes drifted to face straight up, gazing at the bright desert sky. “I spent my life training to conquer a Guar. But we are not trained to die. How shall I do it?”

Orrock strained for words, and found none. No scripture, no wisdom, no prayer.

She did not look at him. “Hold me, monk.”

The Guar nodded. He rearranged himself on the ground and slipped his arms under her knees and body. The blood from her wounds sank into his forearms, saturating his thick hair. Mohani screamed as he lifted her to his lap, cradling her close to his body like an infant. She draped limp in his arms.

“Good,” Mohani said in a harsh whisper. She coughed once more. “You see? We would have made good mates.”

“. . . Yes.”

“I would have birthed . . . a fine Agnise. She would have . . . made you proud.”

Orrock said nothing.

Mohani reached out and gingerly touched the tip of one of Orrock’s horns. He thought she might say something more, but she remained silent.

Her arm dropped to her chest. Mohani sucked in a breath that wheezed in her lungs. Her eyes flew wide and she clutched at her throat—no more sound came from it.

“Mohani!” Orrock shouted impulsively. “No!”

The Agnise trembled, then convulsed in his arms as she struggled to get breath. None came. They locked eyes, and Orrock had never seen such terror in another living thing. Mohani’s mouth opened and shut, blood shooting out from it and dribbling down her chin.

“Anyi!” Orrock cried to the sky. “Anyi, help me!”

Mohani’s body went rigid. A moment later, the strength went from her limbs and she sank into the monk’s arms, her eyes open and seeming to gaze at his broad chest as if still yearning for him.

Orrock waited, listening, hoping for breath. Mohani was silent.

The monk whispered her name. When she did not respond, Orrock lowered his head.