The minutes dragged by. It could have been hours, or days; in the dim illumination of the low lantern there was no way to tell night from day, much less the passing of time. The droning outside crescendoed and fell several times, and her head began to ache with it. She longed for a breath of cool air, even if it was full of sand, and was grateful that she did not have to keep an edge down and so would not be tempted to try for one. She wondered how the others fared, and what they would do if they emerged from their tent once the wind was quiet and found the caravan gone. There was no way to tell from in here if anyone was hurt or dead, and no way for the others to tell anything about them. They could be all alone, and they wouldn't know it until the storm blew out.

Malorik turned the lantern down to conserve its fuel, and Raspeth fell into an uneasy sleep.

A blast of cold air woke her, followed by a choking cloud of sand that made her shield her face and cough, and then another figure was in their small space. It was swathed almost entirely in leathers and skins and its eyes were huge and round, and Raspeth stared until Cale took off his goggles, shaking the sand from them with a practiced flick of his wrist. She let out a breath and felt a little better.

He looked around at them and she met his eyes when he looked at her, but he didn't seem to notice. He turned in the small space and began to check their supplies over, taking nothing. Then he turned to leave as quickly as he'd come, and Raspeth suddenly thought of something she had to know before he left. She couldn't decide quickly enough what to call him and instead reached out and touched his hand briefly with hers to get his attention, the only part of him that she could reach. He stopped and looked down at her, the other hand on his goggles. Only his eyes were visible, and Raspeth swallowed dryly, summoned her courage and asked, her eyes locked on his face.

"Over?"

"Sounds like it," she said, sounding just as relieved as he did. "About time. Let's up and see."

Carefully they crawled past the others and out of the tent. It was early afternoon, and the rest of the caravan was beginning to stir. Mal stretched, cursing as she did so; she was sore from spending so long sitting around, but had an almost manic energy from sleeping so much. Reno shook his head at her as she bounced on her toes.

She had glanced him over when they first came out, and he had looked alright, just as Cale had said. Now she gave him a thorough checking over, though she wasn't entirely sure what she was looking for. He was extremely sandy. When she patted his side clouds of dust came off. She asked for and obtained a brush from Mal that the woman normally used on her horses and tried to knock the worst of it off. The camel shook his skin in different places and leaned in her direction every now and then and she received much of the dust he cast off, but she didn't mind. She'd never gone so long without having a bath before, and though the novelty had worn off quite some time ago, she'd grown used to being filthy and this seemed more play than punishment.

Cale and his men went hunting and brought back fresh meat, and there was a minor feast to celebrate the passing of the storm. Raspeth joined Devona and Malorik to share in the meal and to enjoy the open air. Before the storm it had seemed that the desert was an empty, desolate place, but now it was just big enough to fulfill her need for space.

"What's not to like? The song of the wind, the harsh yet loving embrace of the sands, sitting in near-darkness with those you happen to tent with..." Agar fancied himself a bit of a poet, but years of cultivated cynicism always shone through.

"When you put it that way..." Winnat smiled, amused. He glanced at Riham, who was silent. He wondered what the man was about. Winnat had not taken a chance to talk to him since they left Guildsport, and he knew Agar would think himself superior to the man until he had proven himself a skilled hunter.

The cousins had always managed to amuse themselves in downtime. They had plenty of it, it seemed - skinning game, which had become mindless in its repetition, or mining, which honed the muscles but left the brain idly spinning. Rather than start one of the complex word games they had developed, he asked a simple question, hoping that Riham would see this as a friendly opening.

"When your time comes, will you ask for the venom?"

Agar's calm face twisted a bit. He hated talk of mortality. If there was anything he could do about it, he would personally choose to live forever. He tried ignoring Winnat, but the question just hung there.

The storm looked like it was going to be a long one, and it was a pleasant surprise to be sharing space with men that weren't afraid to talk - if men they could be called. On their first run with the caravan, most of the hands tried to curry favor with Cale by imitating his habitual social silence. It usually took another trip through the desert for them to join in with the other hands in conversation. Not so with these two.

They had been talking back and forth with each other, and Riham was mending a rope and listening with half an ear until one of Winnat's questions caught his attention.

"When your time comes, will you ask for the venom?"

He slowed in his work and looked up. Winnat's cousin Agar did not like that question. "No," Agar said shortly, as if the idea itself were out of the realm of sanity and that it would be too much effort to try to explain to such as Winnat and Riham.

Winnat looked at Riham, who went back to his work. So Agar disapproved of the way Greth'has had died. Riham was not surprised. He might have disapproved when he was younger and less experienced.

He pulled back the robes and loose trousers to show his left calf, where there was a fine network of scars. "This was the worst. This was bad luck."

Winnat had been there when his cousin received the injury - it was a matter of poor circumstances. They had been stalking gazelle during the plentiful season, and had come across a grove of whipthorns. Though usually dormant in the day, they had attacked Agar, who was closing in for the kill.

Winnat had been terribly proud that Agar had quickly and cleanly dispatched the beast even as the thorns ripped through his flesh. Agar never spoke of his own resilience in that situation, though Winnat had known him to occasionally show his scars to women to impress them.

There was enough of a dip in the land to afford them a little privacy, but Devona still stood on the bank and kept watch while Raspeth and Malorik walked into the water. Raspeth removed only her outer wrap before entering the pool, content to wash her clothing and herself in the relative privacy of the water. Malorik was less formal, casting off all her leather and a good deal of her dusty coverings before splashing in after the girl. Devona could now clearly see the intricate network of dark tattoos that covered portions of the woman's body.

She turned and faced the camp, watching for any sign of intrusion, and though a few of the men looked at her with curiousity none of them attempted to approach the water.

Malorik finished first and took time to wash her clothes. Raspeth completed her bath and emerged redressed and dripping. Devona put the wrap loosely about Raspeth's shoulders despite the distressed look the girl gave her at having the dusty thing around her so soon after being clean, but received no complaint.

Devona looked back to Malorik, who was almost done dressing.

"Will you take her back to the tent?"

The evening meal was just being served, and Raspeth's stomach rumbled eagerly. Malorik was close enough to hear it and grinned at her. "I'll get your meals. Here." She handed something bulky and damp to Raspeth to carry. "Hold this for me and stand right here where I can see you. I'll be right back."

Winnat caught Agar's eye, then nodded to a slender figure standing still beside her tent. Agar joined his cousin, handing him a full bowl. They skulked their way over to Raspeth. This time Winnat took watch.

"Was this your first sandstorm?" Agar asked, making small talk that had every sign of being genuine rather than trite. "They can be a bit... scary." he continued, and smiled. His voice was light but there was something more sinister in his eyes.

She was aware of her wet clothing and would have pulled the wrap closer around her, but she was holding Malorik's burden and could not find a way to shift it before they were there. She became aware of them both now in a way she hadn't been before, and this one's eyes felt far heavier on her than the other one's had. She found she was no more comfortable with the other behind her than she had been with this one, but with that discomfort was an odd tingle of excitement.

She didn't feel she was any danger, despite what Devona had tried to instill in her regarding the opposite sex; the whole camp was here, and Malorik would be back any moment. These two didn't know who she was and probably didn't care, and what did it really matter if she talked to two men in the caravan?

Bolstered thus by her internal dialogue, she met the eyes of the man in front of her directly and did not glance down as she wanted to. His eyes were an interesting shade of brown, so light they were almost yellow, and she looked into them for several seconds before she remembered to answer his question.

The other one was humming, and that was better than him standing silently. At least she could tell where he was. She wanted to turn around and ask him not to stand there, but then they would know they were making her nervous and laugh at her.

Don't be foolish, she chided herself. They are just being friendly and I am being rude because I have been listening to Devona. She took a breath and calmed herself and tried a small smile as he came to a pause in his description of a particularly bad storm.

"Oh, no, little princess. We come from the desert. It's a bit rougher than what you're used to, even after having been on the caravan." His voice held only a tinge of amusement, and no scorn, as Agar's would have.

The boy now behind her said something but she was no longer paying attention to him. Instead she was studying the other one's face and deciding at once that he had meant nothing, that he knew nothing and that perhaps Devona had been right about speaking to strangers.

Agar studied her back, which was outlined nicely despite the wrap she wore. "Where are you from, little princess, that people are so strict? At least here a man can say what he pleases." He spread his arms and spun once, his figure silhouetted by the cooking fire. Winnat had heard his thoughts on civilization before, and cut him off before he could begin.

It was not hard to recognize the looks on the boy's faces; they acted as if they'd just cornered their prey, and were trying to decide how best to catch it. Raspeth was less certain, glancing around as if uncomfortable, and Malorik sauntered up beside her and smiled broadly at the boys. It seemed friendly enough, but she felt protective toward the girl, and they would not find her as easy to intimidate.

Winnat shifted position again, so now the two sides were face to face. He flashed a dazzling grin at the older female, and finished his cousin's explanation. "The little princess here was going to tell us about her homeland." His expression suggested that he was truly fascinated by anything Raspeth could teach him of geography and culture.

Her voice was like honey. "Aren't you just sweet. It's a shame," she drawled, her gaze a little more dangerous, "that I don't keep pets."

But here in the desert, Cale was more than a man. He was the leader of this caravan, and his judgement had to be fair and impartial. His men respected him because he kept his personal feelings out of it when decisions had to be made for the good of the crew. So Cale spoke as a leader, not as a man.

"You're new to the Desert Road, so I'll say this once: you do not own the cargo. I do. Everything we are carrying across the desert belongs to me. You may have some idea that certain items are just things, and others can decide for themselves who owns them. You may think that if you borrow some item and use it for a while before putting it back, that's alright. You're wrong. You are not to touch my cargo in any manner that would displease me. If you do, you will be executed for theft. I hope you understand. We've had enough deaths on this journey."

<Brave or foolish to turn his back on us after that.> Agar signed, his fingers flickering in the dim light.

<Do not heed him. He is the type to get pleasure from control. I pity his wife.> Winnat returned, intending to soothe his cousin, but unable to resist insulting the man who had so bluntly insulted them.

<He is jealous that his possession might not want to be owned by him.> Agar shrugged, finishing with a gesture that only Winnat could see; a prayer to the gods for revenge.

Winnat did not approve of the prayer, but not for the reasons most might disapprove. The gods, he felt, were very real and were aware of what they were doing to the land. Most of the clans felt abandoned, but some of the Dahro believed that this was a test of faith, and they intended to pass. Agar's chosen diety governed the hunt, no matter what, or who, the prey. Winnat had picked the god of mirth, entertainment and distraction. It served him well in all aspects of life. He made the small handsign offering gratitude and reverence to his god.

<"Only boys, taking a fancy to the girl."> He nodded and then smiled at Raspeth, gesturing for her to sit. She did so silently, and after taking the bundle of clothes and giving her the bowl of food, Mal sat down beside her and patted her hand.

Devona appeared just a moment later, and Mal could feel Raspeth shift uncomfortably. The girl's previous encounter with those boys had not passed her notice, and she remembered Devona's careful guard and, belatedly, the night that the two had come angrily into the tent. She was certain that the woman would reprimand Raspeth for having spoken to them again, and so Mal smiled brightly before any questions were asked.

"We were just beginning our meal. Come join us, Devona."

It was too dark to make out the features of the men, but Cale's instincts warned of danger. "These are not Freyet."

Riham, whose eyesight was better than Cale's, confirmed his suspicion a moment later. "They aren't even clansmen," he said.

"Tell the men to arm themselves, but no one is to attack without my command. I will go to speak with them."

Saul made a low movement with his left hand and the others fanned out at an easy trot to surround the caravan. He counted twenty riders but only a few on horseback. It was dark, but he could tell even from a distance that one of those two was a woman. Horses were dear in the desert for a caravan to feed and water. The agent had been truthful after all.

The leader of the caravan and his first separated, the leader arming himself while his man ran the line, but there was no immediate signal to attack. A cautious man, then. It was too dark to see clearly the weapon that the caravan leader carried with him, but he held it like a crossbow. As the man approached Saul could see the outline of the weapon, an old piece well-used but not well-liked. Not a warrior's weapon.

He let the man come within twenty feet of him before he dismounted. The rest of his men remained on horseback.

"Do not look at me," she said in Suna, and the girl twitched at the language but was able to obey. "Listen to me, girl. Do not follow me and say nothing until these men are gone. Do not interfere."

It took some time for the man to retrieve it; the camels shifted uncomfortably and the caravan rustled, but his men and their horses were silent. The man reappeared from the dark cluster of the caravan carrying the box his employer had described, but he stopped before he was close enough to hand it over. Saul looked at him askance and felt the eyes of his men on him, but he did not give the signal.

"In exchange, you will take your men and leave this caravan in peace," the caravan leader said firmly. Saul looked the box over as if considering but did not reach out for it.

It was like time had slowed, as he pitched forward with a bolt in his side, and then another century in time as a sword thrust into his chest. The bandit who had wounded him looked up at her, and Malorik screamed. "Reno!"

His hunting blade was coated with blood almost immediately, as he gashed the first man to come forward. Winnat was to his left, moving with surprising grace and speed as he avoided a blade thrust and snapped his own into his opponent. The caravan column shifted wildly as the bandits smashed into it.

Minutes or hours after the fighting, Agar looked down at an uncomfortable itch across his abdomen. Dark wet stickiness was seeping out of his clothing. Coldly, he pulled his robes aside to view his wound. It was bad, quite bad, through the muscle wall. Winnat had managed to stay on his mount as well, and rode over to see what was occupying Agar.

Quickly he pulled his cousin down into the sand, keeping his head elevated by propping him up against his knees. The movement momentarily pulled the wound open, and Agar gritted his teeth against the fiery pain. He lay in the sand quietly, occasionally closing his eyes to pray. Winnat's legs behind him felt almost unbearably hot; Agar felt as though he were freezing. He had never been so cold in his life, and it made him surprisingly sleepy.

Cale took a bandit off his horse with a crossbow bolt, then used his weapon’s stock to bash the back of another’s head from behind. The battle closed around him, and Cale was blocking slashes with his crossbow while he flailed back with the blade from his belt. And as suddenly as it had started, the battle was over. The bandits still on horseback were fleeing, and one more man who had lost his mount somewhere in the melee chased after them, only to fall with several swords through his torso when Cale’s men caught him. There were eight horses leaving, but one was from Cale’s caravan; one of the bandits must have taken it to replace his own. On those horses were ten silhouettes, and Cale didn’t have to guess who had been taken. Cale called off the men shooting after the bandits with hunting bows. He did not want to hit the captives.

“Riham, how many casualties?” Cale shouted, looking for his first. He bumped into a figure wrapped in cloth, and recognized it as Raspeth when she looked up at him. Cale pushed past her and moved into what had been the heart of the battle. There were six bodies there, but Cale was not immediately able to sort out friend from foe due to the trampling several had received, either before or after death. Cale was crouching to look at the faces more closely when a shout drew his attention.

“Cale! It’s Riham!”

Riham was on his back in the sand with an arrow jutting from his chest. It was high and left, not near anything critical, but the barbs on the shaft were the real danger. It would be much more damaging -- and painful -- coming out than going in.

Cale knelt beside his friend, looking at the wound. He said, to Riham and the men standing near, “It’s going to have to stay for the moment.” He looked around him. “Get a tent pitched around him, we need to keep the sand out. Bring any other wounded over to share it. Unpack the medicines and what’s left of the wood supply. You lot, start gathering what wood you can find, don’t stop until I say so. You, how many dead?”

The man singled out barked, “Three, sir!” He glanced at Riham.

When she looked up from the corpse the bandits were gone into the dark, and Raspeth was alone.

She crawled blindly, trying to make herself small, trying to get out of everyone's way at once. Her hand landed on someone else's and she looked up and met Reno's eyes. They were blank, his face slack, and she huddled next to him and hesitantly touched the dark, shaggy head. He was already cool, and now she could see the arrow still protruding from his side and the ugly wound in his chest. Malorik was not next to him or anywhere here. She'd been captured, just like Devona.

Now I understand why Devona didn't want me to make friends with men. Women are only taken away in battle. Men are killed.

There was shouting near her, Cale's voice loud in her ear, and someone kicked her. She looked up into Cale's face, but he didn't really seem to see her, and then he was past her and moving toward the dead bodies in front of them. Raspeth looked down at Reno's still face and rested her head on his forehead.

"Cale! It's Riham!"

She looked up at that, and saw Cale's first was laying on the ground. An arrow was embedded solidly in his left shoulder, and she could see him blinking dazedly at the men around him. Devona had warned her, kept her from it the last time, but now Devona was gone and Raspeth had no one but these men, and she would not let another one die when she could keep him alive.

The men were rushing to erect a tent around Riham, and she walked steadily toward it. They had it up by the time she was there and she slipped through the flap and pulled it closed behind her. Riham was here, the arrow still locked into his wound; Winnat's cousin lay beside him, and Winnat hovered on the far side, ashen faced, and held his hand over a wound on his cousin's abdomen that seeped blood.

Cale entered the tent then, and Raspeth turned her attention to him.

Riham was before her, the arrow buried in his chest. She focused on him, and now she could see why they hadn't removed the arrow. The shaft was covered in barbs, and as she looked deeper she saw the head was barbed as well, and sat on a large life channel. If they attempted to pull it out they would tear it, and the man would be dead long before the blood could clot. She laid her hands carefully on Riham's chest on either side of the wound and felt him wince. Her right hand went to his forehead to soothe him; she could not take his pain away, but she could try to make it brief.

She concentrated and the muscles under her left hand went lax, and she felt an immediate weight; the man was fighting the arrow, fighting to remain conscious, and his effort was counter to hers and cost her strength. She watched and the tissue around the arrow softened and weakened, and she moved her left hand from his forehead to the shaft to steady it. It was delicate work, and she had to keep him still while she did it, but the life channel remained intact as she slowly drew the head of the arrow out of his chest, sealing the smaller life channels temporarily as she went. When the arrow finally came free she was sweating and dizzy with effort, and a larger hand took the arrow from her unsteady hand before she dropped it.