SART WORKED into the night, the flickering light of the fire dancing across the white wood illusion she had built. Every once in a while, one of Barit’s rovers would come up behind her on her watch, pausing to ask her a question about halmwork—she answered with responses cut of whole cloth and about as true as a child’s answer to who had first hit whom—but for the most part she worked in peace. When dawn broke to the east, she had two sharp knives upon her lap. Toil waned above, its sliver of a crescent working toward the tree line to vanish shortly from sight.

When Barit stirred from his blankets with a yawn and a loud fart, he immediately came to her side and let out a whoop at the sight of the two knives on her lap.

He reached for one, and Sart slapped his hand away. “You have not yet guaranteed my safety. I have made you what you asked for. You will get it when I say you may have it.”

The back of his hand smashed into her cheek, sending her sprawling on the muddy creek bank. “I didn’t ask for nothing, halmer.” He spat. “You’re here because I told you to be here.”

Sart’s chest tightened with a hot ball of rage. Her cheek smarted where he’d hit her, and the two knives had landed in the dirt. Barit walked toward her, one foot on either side of her legs. He bent to pick up one of the knives, and Sart froze. His proximity would work to her advantage; the other knife was well within her reach, and even without it she could land a punch to his eggsack or drive a pair of fingers up under his kneecap. Two knives wouldn’t be enough. Sart already knew that from what she’d overheard from Barit and Kahs that first day. She concentrated on the hum of magic in her skull, felt the buzz of it through her bones as if it were waiting, hoping for the chance to lash out. Or maybe that was just her.

Barit tested the edge of the blade on his thumb and grunted his pleasure at the sharpness of it. Sart carefully schooled her face in nonchalance with a touch of the fear she knew he would expect. She allowed her chest to rise more quickly, to show her anxiety at his closeness. She let her gaze settle upon the knife she had made from clay, the one that even now fooled his eyes and hands. She gave him reason to think she feared its blade against her skin.

The rover leader caught her by the hair, his fingers barely finding purchase at the back of her head in its short black length. He nodded to Kahs and one of the knifers. Tark, Barit had called the knifer. “Seems we’ve caught ourselves a halmer proper.” Barit said, sneering. He jerked Sart out from where she still lay sprawled, pulling her to her knees. “Let me tell you how things are going to be, halmer.”

Sart hated the feeling of his fingers in her hair. She could smell his breath even at arm’s length, and it smelled of morning dryness and rotten meat. But she forced her head to bob in a sharp nod.

“You’re going to make Kahs here a new bow,” he said. “Sy’s in dire need of a nice halm bow. Isn’t that right, Kahs?”

Kahs gave a laugh, reaching out to punch Tark lightly in the shoulder. “A new bow’d be welcome, sure as spring,” Kahs agreed.

“And when you’re done with that,” Barit went on, “You’re going to make me a sickle-sword. These here knives are for Targ and Owit. You can make a couple spares after that.”

“And where exactly am I supposed to find enough halm to work all that?” Sart spat. Her cheek still throbbed where his hand had smashed into it. She’d have a bruise, to be sure. Culy’d be thrilled to see that, assuming Sart ever made it to hyr.

“We’ve got your halm,” said Tark. “You’ve got work to do.”

Sart decided she’d had quite enough. The balance of risk had tipped away from her benefit. She had to get away, and she had to do it now.

She bowed her head contritely and lifted two fingers to her lips to indicate thanks, her mind rushing through possibilities.

“Good little halmer,” Barit crooned. “Get up.”

Sart rose to her feet. She couldn’t quite tell if Barit and his band were very stupid or very smart. They’d caught her, to be sure, but they hadn’t thought to check her for weapons, only taken her shortsword and belt knife that had been in plain sight. They’d left her pack unopened—not that she had anything of value they could find in it—and they hadn’t posted a guard for her. As she stood, waiting for Barit’s next command, she raised her hand to her swelling cheek. Her eye felt puffy and hot, and the lids were starting to tighten. If she didn’t move soon, the wound would obscure her vision.

She was glad he’d missed her nose. She liked her nose.

The wind blew again from the north today, bringing with it that same scent of dust from Sands, that summer dry heat that took over so much of the land beyond Crevasses. Sart felt the wind pool around her, gathered it to her, took it into herself. Her pack sat behind Tark a short distance, and her shortsword’s hilt protruded from its scabbard on a pile of supplies a bit beyond that. She followed Tark toward that pile, keeping her eyes watchful to see if she could spot her belt knife. She liked that knife.

Tark led her past the mound of packs to a lashed bundle about the length of a child who had seen ten harvests, though half as wide. The bundle was wrapped in waxed canvas and secured with leather straps. Sart let the feel of the wind wash away the memory of Barit’s fingers tangled in her hair and thought out her options. She couldn’t fight ten rovers, not alone. Even five at a time would be too much, with Sart exhausted from a night without sleep and maintaining the illusion on the false halm knives. Too risky. She had to thin them out.

Sart hung back from the bundle, staying near the pile of supplies where her shortsword sat like pillaged loot. She supposed it was.

There wasn’t much within reach that she could use. Her sword alone would only provoke the type of fight she didn’t want. She had to do something to tip the balance of risk back in her favor. Surly, she wished she had real skill at the halmer’s craft. A halm knife or two wouldn’t go amiss.

A glint of bronze stood out from the supply pile, a curve of smooth metal. A horn.

Tark busied himself with the long bundle, undoing the straps of leather and peeling back layers of waxed canvas to reveal lengths of halm. Enough for all the weapons Barit had listed and more—they had planned this. Sart thought of the rover leader Barit had mentioned to Kahs—Wyt?—and made a note to pass that information on to Culy if she ever made it to hyr. Glancing over her shoulder, Sart saw Barit and the others examining the false halm knives with triumphant faces. Mind whirring like a spinner’s wheel, she bent, kneeling in the damp ground. She tugged the brass horn from the pile and pulled on the wind that ruffled her hair. She imagined the wind’s source, far to the north. Picturing its path across the leagues, she closed her eyes and saw the land just to the north, over a rise in the trail. Sart brought the horn to her lips, bending so the pile of supplies hid her from all view but Tark’s, and he busied himself only with the parcel of halm.

Sart blew on the horn, the wind humming around her. The sound rose, clear and strong and…distant.

No sound rang through the land around her, only blared overland from the north, like the wind, carrying with it a threat.

Tark dropped a chunk of halm with a clatter, and Barit let out a yell from the campfire. Two of the knifers and one of the swords went running northward on swift legs. That left seven rovers for her to dispense with. Tark’s eyes were on the north, and with one smooth motion, Sart unsheathed her sword from the supply pile and, with two long strides, buried it between Tark’s shoulder blades. Yanking it back out, she drew it across his neck, and he died with a gurgle. Bright red blood splashed across the newly uncovered whiteness of the halm. He had a dagger at his belt, and Sart bent, unbuckling his belt with one hand, edging herself behind a tree trunk. The tree’s limbs were covered in bark-rot, but one half of the tree bore bright green leaves. Life and death sharing one trunk.

Sart buckled Tark’s belt around her middle and then moved out from behind the tree, keeping in a low waddle, listening for any sounds of approach. She unsheathed the dagger and wielded it in her right hand, point low along with the shortsword in her left. Wishing she had time to rummage through the supply pile, Sart skirted it. Her heart pounded in her chest with a steady thumping. She drew again on the wind and clashed her sword and dagger together. Again the sound seemed to echo far away, like a distant battle. Her mind still full of the buzzing of magic, Sart sucked in a deep breath. Her blood danced in her veins in spite of the fatigue she felt.

Kahs and Barit stood near the fire, both looking into the north. No one had yet noticed Tark, and Sart felt a swell of relief.

A shout made her spin to her right, where one of the saber-wielding women stalked toward her, eyes blazing. The woman had a deep scar down one cheek, and Sart felt a grin spread across her face. “Want one to match?”

The woman yelled, charging at Sart. Sart flitted to the side and parried the first slash of the woman’s saber with her shortsword, driving her dagger into the side of the woman’s neck. Barit saw her then, and his snarl of rage bellowed through the camp.

Sart looked behind her. Seeing no one, she skipped backward in a zig-zag pattern, angling herself toward her pack. Two of Barit’s people gone and two dead. That left five for her to deal with. She saw Barit and Kahs, the other saber-holder, and one densely muscled knifer visible a bit ahead of her through the trees. Only a crack of a twig behind her made her turn to see the man with the sickle-sword coming toward her. He moved quickly, and Barit and Kahs closed in on her. Sart searched for Kahs’s bow and didn’t see it; either sy had left it unstrung and useless, or sy had set it down not expecting trouble. Either way, Sart was thankful for that reprieve.

Barit spat something at her, and Sart darted out of the middle of the three incoming attackers. Barit still held one of her false blades in one hand, and she tried her best not to look at it. He didn’t know. The man with the sickle-sword moved like fluid over the land, cutting off Sart’s retreat.

The two who had run off to investigate the horn call could return at any moment, Sart knew. She felt a grim smile spread across her face. She hoped Culy would forgive her if she died.

She had to stay out of Barit’s way. That knife would be his choice weapon; that she knew. Sart dropped into a roll just as the sickle-sword whistled through the air toward her, swung in a wide arc by its wielder. She tumbled across the ground and leaped to her feet, darting toward Kahs. Sy hadn’t gotten hys bow, and Sart came up mere feet from hyr, spinning and landing a kick in the middle of Kahs’s stomach. The impact sent the archer flying backward, and even before sy hit the ground, Sart was on hyr, stabbing her dagger into hys draw arm just below the wrist. Kahs screamed.

Sart sprang away, but Barit caught her sword arm. The false halm knife punched into her ribcage like a fist.

It crumbled to dust.

Barit’s surprise loosened his grip on her arm, and she pounded her knee into his groin. Snapping her leg back, she kicked him in the kneecap. He crumpled to the ground, swearing. Breath leaping in Sart’s throat, she whirled to face the sickle-sword owner. Whispering a string of words, Sart pulled again on the wind, swirling it around the man’s head so the sound of her whispers would wrap around his ears. He shook his head, eyes darting to and fro as if he could shake them off. He advanced on her, and in his eyes Sart saw the certainty that she was to blame for the words in his ears. She smiled at him, showing her teeth, her whispers still hissing from her mouth in a string of nonsense words.

His sickle-sword flashed out, and she parried it, striking out with her dagger. It sliced into his shoulder, and he drew back and slashed at her again with his sword. Sart ducked below the sword and swung her leg around, cutting his leg out from under him. He stumbled to the side, but righted himself quickly. Sart reassessed the man, warily hanging back. She didn’t want to end up hooked on that sickle of his. Barit clawed at the dirt, still cursing. Kahs had torn a strip from hys shirt and tied it off around hys bleeding arm.

A wave of dizziness crashed over Sart, and she stopped the whispers. She used the moment of disorientation in the sickle-sword’s owner to dart forward and stab at his unprotected middle. He spun out of the way, clumsily swinging his sword at her. Sart parried with her dagger and struck, not at his middle, but at his leg. Her short sword, wielded in her left hand, swung out around his right knee. She felt it make contact with the back of his leg, and she pulled it toward her with a sharp motion that left the blade bloody and sent him falling to the ground. Sart kicked his sickle-sword out of his hand, stomping on his wrist and landing a kick on the side of his head. His eyes glazed and rolled backward. She leaped toward Kahs and did the same, her foot finding a target just above Kahs’s ear.

Striding toward Barit, she stepped over his crumpled form until she fully mimicked his posture with her earlier. She leveled her sword point at his throat.

“The day I see you again is the day you die,” Sart said.

The ball of her foot slammed into his chin.

She relieved the rovers of as many weapons as she could carry, as well as two waterskins and a large bundle of dried meat. Finding Kahs’s bow behind a tree, Sart stooped to slash the string with a twang. She worked as quickly as she could, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the rovers who had hurried to investigate the horn blow to the north returned. The final rover who had stayed at the camp saw her, but made no move to engage her. She gave him a look that said she commended his intelligence. He thumbed his bottom lip, face grim, but said nothing.

Her pack was heavy as she left, walking in the creek bed to disguise her footprints. Sart was sure she hadn’t seen the last of these rovers, but with several of them dead and others injured, they wouldn’t be able to catch her, even as tired as she was.

She scratched the halmer brand from her cheek as she walked, flakes of days-dried mud dropping into the murky creek.

Sart considered that lesson learned. Her nails felt good on her face.