This mortal stopped a few long paces from the bottom of the slope and waved his arm urgently, then sent another streak of flame into the swarm of diggers where they were thickest, around the hole where the giant had first broken through. As the flames splashed them, the little creatures milled in screeching confusion, some still trying to climb out of the tunnels while others, many badly burned, fought to get back in. The din was terrible and shrill, like the piping of terrified bats. Nezeru saw now that the mortal carried a pot of flames in his hand, but had to set it down each time he wanted to draw his bow, which slowed him considerably on the steep slope.
Goh Gam Gar had dug his way out of the collapsed snow and out onto open ground with only one hand, because his other clutched the limp body of one of the Hikeda’ya as though it were a child’s doll.
“Up here!” the mortal cried. “Up here, where it is only rock beneath. Their tunnels do not reach here!” To Nezeru’s further astonishment, he said it in flawless Hikeda’yasao, the speech of Nakkiga.
Now that fire was no longer falling on them from the sky, the diggers were beginning to find their courage again. The terrified horde that had seemed about to disappear back into the earth only moments earlier now came rushing back out into the blue dawn. Nezeru knew she should wait for Makho to command them, but she could not see the hand chieftain at all and could barely hear his voice, so instead she scrambled over the bloody snow mounds toward the slope where the stranger waited, treading on tiny, burned bodies with almost every step.
A moment later Makho himself appeared at the opposite edge of the great hole. He was clearly exhausted and had taken many wounds—his arms, neck, and face were all dripping blood—but he found the strength to reach back down into the pit and help another red-smeared figure that Nezeru guessed must be Kemme, and then began dragging him up the hill. After a moment Kemme found the strength to stumble after Makho on his own. Even the giant had managed finally to clamber out of the hole, and was crawling up the icy slope on all fours, leaving broad streaks of red on the blue, dawn-brightened snow.
The stranger led Makho’s Talons up the snowy hill until they reached a flat overhang of rock a hundred steps above the valley floor. Only when they were far enough beneath the overhang to feel stone both beneath their feet did they let themselves slump to the ground in exhaustion, gasping for breath. Nezeru’s heart was beating even faster than it had in her fight to escape the island of the bones; she had been so certain death had come that it was hard for her to understand that she was still alive. Her very bones seemed to quiver within her. The smell of blood and burning goblin flesh was everywhere, fouler even than the stench of the giant at such close quarters.
For long moments no one spoke, then Makho stirred and sat up, glaring at their rescuer where he crouched a few yards away. For half a moment the golden color of the stranger’s skin almost made Nezeru believe she had misidentified him as a mortal, that he must really be a Zida’ya, the Hikeda’ya’s untrustworthy cousins, but the bones of his face were nothing like theirs. It was only a long life in the sun that had given such strange color to his skin.
“Who are you?” Makho demanded of him. “How do you dare interfere in the great queen’s business?”
The mortal, who wore clothing made of scraped white hides, gave Makho a look that Nezeru could only interpret as amused, as bizarre and dangerous as that seemed. He was tall and almost as slender as a Hikeda’ya, and his short, straight hair was colored a much lighter gold than his skin, so pale that it was almost white. “Ah, I beg pardon,” he said to Makho. “Was it your business to die, then? Because otherwise, instead of interfering, I just saved your queen’s hand from being eaten by goblins. I was taught that the Cloud People brought courtesy with them from the Garden as well as witchwood—”
Before the mortal had even finished, Makho lunged across the distance between them and pressed the tip of Cold Root, still festooned with the bloody hair and rags of dead Furi’a, against the stranger’s throat, leaning so close that their faces were only a few handspans apart. “Why do you speak of witchwood, mortal?” Makho said in a serpent’s hiss. “You are a spy.”
The mortal only stared back at him, then said, “Look down.”
Nezeru saw it at the same time as Makho himself did: even with the chieftain’s sword at his throat, the stranger managed to draw his own long, thin blade in an instant. In a blink, its point was touching Makho’s ribcage, poised just above his heart. Nezeru was stunned. Even Makho, for all his fierce scowl, seemed slightly unnerved, and no wonder: Who had ever heard of a mortal as swift as one of the Hikeda’ya?
“If I die, then you die in the same second,” the stranger said with surprising mildness. “If you prefer another conclusion to this ra’haishu—” he used an old Hikeda’ya term that meant “tunnel meeting” and implied a mistake that could lead to sudden death—“then I suggest you take your blade (which by the way is in need of cleaning) away from my neck and we can begin again. I imagine this time you will begin by thanking me.”
A low rumbling filled the shallow cave. It was Goh Gam Gar, crouched in a pool of his own blood, laughing. “I like it! This little ice rat has teeth!”
Makho pulled the crystal goad from his jerkin and pointed it toward the giant. His hand trembled, which was one of the more unexpected things Nezeru had seen in this long hour of surprises. “Open your mouth to me again, monster, and I will make you tear off your own head.”
“I can see you must be a very popular leader,” said the mortal.
“Makho,” said Saomeji. “A moment . . .”
“Do not use my name, you fool.”
“I am sorry, but I have words you must hear.” The Singer held up his hands, which were stained with blood. Even his sleeves were drenched in red almost to the elbow. “Ibi-Khai is dead.”
“What?” Makho turned from the stranger so quickly that Nezeru thought he might even have been grateful for the distraction. “Are you certain?”
Saomeji gestured to Ibi-Khai’s motionless form, which the giant had set down on the ground a short distance away. “See for yourself. His throat has been torn out by the Furi’a. He was dead before we reached this spot.”
“But how will we find our way through unknown lands?” Kemme demanded, as though angry at their dead comrade. “Only Ibi-Khai was told the way. Without another Echo to learn it from our masters, we are lost. We will never find . . .”
“Silence!” Makho had stepped back, his face rigid with fury, as well as something else Nezeru had never seen but which almost looked like fear. “Have you lost your wits, all of you? We will talk when we have decided what to do with this stranger—a stranger who very conveniently speaks our tongue.” He glared at their mortal rescuer. “What is your name and business, creature, and how do you know the words of the Hikeda’ya?”
The stranger’s long knife had disappeared again as suddenly as it had appeared; though he stared back at Makho without fear, he now showed empty hands. “My name is Jarnulf. I speak your tongue because I was raised beside the mountain, in Nakkiga-That-Was, before I became free.”
“Liar,” said Makho. “There are no free mortals in Nakkiga.”
“I am not in Nakkiga, am I? But I was freed by my master, Denabi sey-Xoka.”
Makho, Kemme, and Saomeji all stared at the stranger in surprise. Even Nezeru recognized the name.
“You lie.” Makho held one hand poised near Cold Root’s hilt. Violence filled the air like incense. “Anyone who speaks our tongue could claim to have belonged to the Weapons Master Denabi. His name is well known in all the lands of our people and any liar could learn it.”
“I did not simply belong to him,” Jarnulf said. “I was trained by the master’s own hand.” As with the long knife, the mortal’s sword seemed almost to jump into his hand. “Do you wish to test me, Hand Chieftain?” the mortal asked. “It seems a poor idea to me, since you have already lost one of your company today.”
Makho did not speak, but batted away the mortal’s blade with his bare hand and then sprang into an astonishingly swift attack, Cold Root a silvery blur. Nezeru knew that for all her own speed, if she had been the target she would already be dead, but the mortal barely moved, tilting his wrist and sword just enough to divert Makho’s lunge, pivoting easily on his heel to direct the force of the attack past him.
The hand chieftain did not let his obvious surprise at the skill of Jarnulf’s defense end his attack. For a few brief moments both blades whirled and struck, struck again, then jumped apart. Neither had drawn blood, and the mortal did not look as if he had been seriously tested. Nezeru kept her expression carefully neutral, but inside she was amazed and disturbed. Their chieftain was known as one of the best blades in all the Order of Sacrifice. She herself would never have dared to cross swords with Makho, and yet here was a mortal, a former slave if he spoke the truth, who might be his equal.