[Folwren]

Athwen tumbled down from the tall horse as her husband came rushing forward. She stood back, holding one of the reins as she watched the brief fight between the slaver and Dorran. She did not see how he had killed the slaver, for Dorran instantly got up and ran to her side, blocking her sight. His mind was working faster than a horse could run, and his words proved it. “Are you alright?” She hardly had time to nod. “Did he hurt you?” She didn’t know whether to nod or shake her head, even if she did have time for it. “I couldn’t clear the trench. Thank goodness Hadith was here to help. . .”

He hurried on, but Athwen hardly listened. She was thankful that he was there, that his arm was around her shoulders, supporting her. But then his voice changed and he spoke again of what needed to be done and the business at hand.

“You must get out of here. Hadith needs your help and others as well.” Yes, of course. How could she have forgotten? She turned back to the slaver’s horse (her own had wandered off somewhere) and mounted up while Dorran pulled Hadith’s limp body towards her. With only a little difficulty, he heaved the young man up behind the saddle. As he did so, he told her where to go, and that shortly, they’d bring the rest of the wounded.

Athwen nodded and drew a deep breath before turning the horse’s head and putting him into a walk. They rode slowly and carefully around the trench. The horse was skittery and nervous in the wind, an ill-tamed brute who wanted to bolt at the slightest chance. He had worked well for charging his own master, but for this short journey with a wounded man across his haunches, the slaver’s horse was not what Athwen wanted.

Behind the line made by the tunnel and trench, Athwen could make out the images of dark groups in the blowing sand and dirt. At the place of the tunnel, a struggle was still in process, though dying down even as she rode passed it. She could see horses struggling in the narrow trench where the tunnel was, and other horses standing above them on the near side. ‘Those must be our horses,’ she said to herself, and turned to look ahead. ‘Where are the archers? I thought there were supposed to be some on this side?’ Almost as soon as she asked herself the question, she saw another dark gathering almost directly ahead. More horsemen. . .another section of the slaver’s force. They were in combat with another group of her allies, people on foot.

Athwen changed her course. She would have to go around them. She hoped that she would catch no one’s attention as she passed to the left by fifty yards. She ducked her head and with one hand drew up the sash that had been tied around her neck. There was a chance that she would pass unseen. . .

In two minutes she had completed the half circle around them. She urged the horse into a slightly faster walk, being careful that he did not break into a trot. But as she came over the next ridge on the land she pulled him up abruptly. Here the wind was just a bit sharper than below, but the air was clearer and she could see better, slightly. Down below her, far behind the place of the camp, another group of horsemen were cantering across the sand. Another part of the cursed slavers! They were not concerned with the fighting going on now, behind her in the camp. They were looking for a more easy prey. The women, children, and wounded. Athwen felt her heart sink.

The grove where the children and women were hiding was directly to her right. She could reach it with a simple dash. But not just yet. She couldn’t risk being seen and showing them the way. She turned her horse about again and went back down the incline until the slight hill hid her. Then she turned her horse towards the grove and now she risked a trot, hoping that Hadith would stay put. She turned the horse’s head back up the hill and when she reached the top, as quickly as she could she slid into an opening of rock.

Athwen dismounted the horse at once and led him hurriedly across the grove to where she knew the children and women were going to be. Some slight relief came over her as she spotted Rôg speaking with the children. She ran forward and grasped his sleeve.

“Rôg, there’s another attachment of horsemen riding out behind us, looking, I’m sure, for this place! They’ll find us very little time at all and they’ll kill all of them! We’ve got to stop them, we’ve got to-” her voice broke off as she choked suddenly on an unexpected sob. “He’s wounded,” she went on in a voice broken at intervals by her flood of tears and indicating Hadith as she spoke, “and Dorran’s going to be bringing up more of the wounded people, and soon we’ll be assaulted ourselves, and I don’t know what to do! I can’t mend people with all this wind and sand and - and -”

Athwen couldn’t tell herself why she was crying like a child. All she knew was that she had narrowly escaped being captured by a pack of brutes, she had watched a man get cut down like a tree before her eyes, she had been hurt by the slaver’s beastly blow to her face, that she was being driven to distraction by the wind and sand, and that shortly a pack of men would be up to kill helpless women and children.