In the first cart, straight-backed on the driver’s bench, a boy an a girl sit side by side. In the white cloudlight, the quarter circle brand stands out starkly on their foreheads. Stewards of the Earth. DeMalo’s Chosen ones.

There’s a spotted kercheef tied round her neck. Her hair ripples loose down her back. She ain’t seen more’n fourteen summers. Him, the boy, about the same. Strong an shinin with health, like all Stewards. So young, they’re probly newly paired outta Edenhome. Chosen fer each other by DeMalo, like the top breedin stock they are. The cart’s piled high with table, chairs, tools an other necessaries fer a life on the land. A life where, though? Surely not the Raze. It’s a wasted, desolate place.

But it’s the second cart that stops my heart.

One Tonton drives. Another sits facin backwards, firestick at the ready, keepin watch over their load. It’s slave workers. Maybe ten, maybe twelve of ’em. Men an women, crammed tight together. Sittin on the floor of the open cart. Shaved heads. Iron collars around their necks. Chained together, like slaves always is here. By the ankles when they’re workin, by the ankles an hands an necks fer transport.

Eight more mounted Tonton bring up the rear. Two great hounds pace beside them. Smooth white skin. Raw pink eyes. Massive heads with powerful jaws.

Ghosthounds, says Creed. Dogs of war.

My eyes flick to the fuse. It’s burnin, still sluggish but steady. Headed fer the bridge an the blastpack. Slaves. Innocent blood. I’m on the move. Throwin down the looker, snatchin my knife from its boot sheath.

Tommo grabs my sleeve. Too late, he says.

I fling him off an I run.

Saba, come back! says Lugh.

I pelt downhill, keepin low, chasin the lit fuse. Gotta beat it. Gotta stop it. Lucky it’s damp. I’m gainin on it. I pass it. Do a quick swing about. Snatch at the unlit fusecord, sweepin my knife in, ready to cut, to kill it.

My feet hit some scree. I slip. I’m fallin. I slam to the ground an I’m gone. I slide on my back, boots first, down the hill. Now the fuse burns brisk, hissin past me, racin home. I wing offa trees, crash into bushes. I flail with a wild hand, reachin fer somethin, anythin at all to stop me. I grab a thick root. Sharp jolt, wrist to socket. I jerk to a sudden halt.

I am. Too late.

The first three Tonton ride onto the bridge. Their horses sound soft thunder. An right behind ’em, the Stewards’ cart, loaded high, rolls onto the boards. The sizzlin fuse nips outta sight. Now the slave cart’s about to hit the bridge. I throw myself face down. Arms around my head, cramped tight to my ears.

It blows. A thick boom shakes the earth. I’m thrown in the air. I land with a thump. Stones an dirt shower down. On top of me. Around me. The sound of the world’s gone dull. Like listenin from deep down in water.

I raise my head. My throat’s choked by a warnin scream. A scream I never gave voice to. I squint through the shift of the cloud. An as the boom starts to fade to heavy, shocked air, I see. In flashes. Like dream shards. Through the rain of debris, I catch glimpses of our work. An my skin shrinks to my bones.

Gone. The three Tonton. All gone. The Stewards in their cart. The blameless beasts. Animals an people, now bloody lumps of flesh. Flung like so much bad meat. On the rocks of the Eastern Defile. Bits of cart. Sticks that was chairs, a table. They smash, slide, tumble an crash. Head fer the river below.

No dream, this. A nightmare. The sight seared cold to my soul. I git to my feet. A cart wheel hurtles from the clouds straight at me. Vengeance slammin down from the sky. I scramble an duck. It hits the ground. Bounces wild. Strikes my shoulder an knocks me flyin.

Fire gobbles at the bridge. Orange flames score the night. Smoke billows an rages.

Then. Sounds fade in. Horses. People. Screams. Cries. Through the smoke an cloud an chaos. A Tonton’s bin crushed by his horse. It strains an thrashes as it struggles to its feet. The slave cart’s shattered. Bodies spilled, sprawled still on the road. Still chained at the wrists.

Somethin flutters down to land on my arm. I pick it off an stare. It’s a tatter of spotted cloth. The Steward’s kercheef, the long-haired girl. It’s wet. Dark wet with her blood.

With a clatter of scree, Lugh skids in. C’mon! He hauls me to my feet. Starts draggin me uphill. What the hell, Saba, what was you thinkin?

The words stick to my lips. I tried to stop it, I says.

There’s a shout from below. We glance back to the road. Tonton. Gittin to their feet. Dazed. They’ve seen us. One points at us. Shouts. Gives orders. Six start to run in our direction. The ghosthounds come with ’em, howlin pursuit. A high-pitched wail, like a winter north wind.

Hurry! Creed an Tommo speed us on with anxious hands.

I grab the whistle. Blow two long blasts. Run! I yell. Go! Run!

Creed grabs Tommo an they’re gone. Scattered to the woods above. Ash’ll hear it too, wherever she is. She’ll head right away fer the meet point.

Go! I tell Lugh.

No, I ain’t leavin you!

We meet at the rendezvous. Dammit, Lugh, go. Go!

I shove him in the chest. With a curse, he scrambles off over the hill. I head the opposite way.

The red hot’s wild in me. Floods me. Speeds me. It flies my feet as I flee through the woods. As I leap felled trees. Vault over rocks. Nero flees with me. He’s silent. Smart bird. Don’t caw, not a peep, or they’ll find us.

Sounds of pursuit. Shouts. The Tonton. Headed away from me. Good, oh good. No, they could be chasin one of th’others. Maybe Lugh. No, not Lugh, please oh please. They’ll hurt him if they find him. Revenge, they’ll want revenge. Fer what we done. What we done, ohmigawd. The blood an the screamin an the blood an the flesh an bits of body blasted an flung—

My stummick heaves sour to my throat. I stumble to a halt an I’m sick. Thinly, wretchedly sick. Bent over, one hand on a tree. With a gasp, a sob, I run on, swipin at my mouth with my sleeve.

Wait. What’s that? Banshee yowls knife the air. Wails that slice to my bones. The ghosthounds. I falter. Listenin. Fearin. Oh gawd, they’re comin this way. Panic sweeps me on. Faster. Faster. I cain’t outrun dogs. I need water. A stream. Gotta lose my scent now.

I crash through the forest. Think, quick quick, think. Water. The bridge. The ravine. The river. Yes. Where did it fall from? Think. Nor-nor-east? Yes, where am I now? Wind’s lifted the cloud. I see Jupiter. Low, behind me. I peel off to the left. Nero sticks with me close.

I scramble over rocks. Stumble. Race on. My lungs burn. I start to hear somethin. Faintly. A rush. Wind in the trees? No, more like water, I think. I follow the sound. The unearthly yawl of the ghosthounds ever louder. Closer, closer, ever closer. My skin reeks of fear. My trail must hang sharp. Faster. Faster, run faster.

Then I bust from the woods, I’m free of the trees an—yes. A river. Narrow an fast. Clear an—oh merciful—shallow. A foot or so deep, no more. I hurry downstream. Dodgin low-hangin boughs, takin care to flag my direction. A snapped twig here, a cracked branch there. Nuthin too much, jest enough. I go a little ways along, then double back an head upstream. Roughly north. That’s good. North. The right direction.

Nero scouts ahead, flappin low to the water. I keep my head movin. Check this way, that way, all around. But it’s quiet. The shallow rush of the river. A redthroat warbler tunin up. The soft sounds of a wood as it gladdens to the day. Not long till dawn, not long now. The hounds ain’t wailin no more. Could it be? Did I manage to throw ’em off my trail? What if they found other quarry? Tommo or Creed or Lugh? I cain’t hear nuthin though, not a thing. Surely I would. Shots or shouts or somethin.