Deep in the night, Kráva sensed a presence. She snapped awake, one hand already gripping the knife beside her on the pallet. Then a familiar shape and scent put her at ease for a moment.

“What is it, father?” she murmured.

Derga grunted. “Some trouble outside. Arm yourself, and come.”

He withdrew. Now Kráva could hear voices and movement, from elsewhere in the hall. The Wolf-clan and their guests were beginning to stir. Men and women rose from sleep, seized their own weapons, moved toward the entrance in a confusion of bodies and dim firelight.

From outside, she heard sudden shouts of anger and fear.

Kráva rolled off the pallet, convinced now of the need to hurry. Quickly she pulled on tunic and trousers, hung her blade at her side, strung her bow, and caught up her quiver full of arrows. She emerged from the cubicle old Dúvelka had assigned her, and crossed to the hall’s entrance.

Out into firelight and chaos.

Whoever attacked Taimar Velkari had gained almost complete surprise. They had somehow climbed the path up the hillside, smashed through the gates, and broken into the enclosure, all before anyone could sound the alarm. Now the Wolves streamed out of their round-houses, two or three at a time, only to be cut down by the solid phalanx of foemen in the open yard. Others of the foe ran as they pleased, hurling torches to set haystacks and thatched roofs ablaze.

Kráva got a good look at the enemy and felt a chill of fear in her gut. Not any of the Mighty People, not even any kind of foreigner she could recognize. Not human at all. They stood upright, two arms and two legs, they carried weapons, but their color! Fish-belly pale, corpse-from-the-river pale. They were stocky things, banded with muscle, with heavy jaws full of sharp carnivore teeth.

Almost without thought, she nocked an arrow, took aim, and shot one of the invaders through the throat.

Skátoi, she thought. How are they here? We’re a long way from the Black River, and the Men of Iron in between.

Kráva counted the enemy and saw they were only a few, no more than a hundred. The Wolves could muster enough armed men and women to outnumber the foe . . . but that would do no good unless they could form up and strike together.

A deep shout captured Kráva’s attention. Derga stood firm a few paces into the yard, bawling orders, gathering what few of the Wolf-clan had their wits about them. A burly young man stepped up beside him, then a tall woman with a spear. Order began to appear out of confusion.

This attracted the attention of the skátoi. A band of the creatures rushed forward in close formation, barking a harsh battle-cry, ready to smash the Tremára line before it could take shape.

Kráva glanced around and saw a cart standing beside Dúvelka’s hall. Quickly, she took three steps and vaulted up into the cart, to get a better vantage point from which to shoot.

Derga roared in wordless defiance, setting his feet and holding his shield high.

At the last moment, one of Kráva’s arrows took a skátë in the left eye, sending it shrieking to the ground. That seemed to blunt the enemy’s momentum. When they crashed into Derga’s line, he and his new shield-companions managed to hold their position.

More of Dúvelka’s people entered the open yard, struggling toward the growing defensive line.

Kráva aimed and fired, aimed and fired. There’s a difference between speed and haste, said a memory, in her father’s voice. Even if you must fire quickly, make sure of every shot.

Derga twisted his iron blade in the guts of one of his enemies, then yanked it back out with a shout of triumph. The skátoi line began to waver.

Then it appeared. Bigger than any of the other foes, it wore a thick leather hauberk, and an iron helm crowned with black feathers. Kráva could see nothing of its face, except the red gleam of eyes, and the wicked points of its fangs. In its weapon-hand it brandished a great sword, unlike any Kráva had ever seen, one that shimmered like fine silver in the firelight. It barked orders, and then charged the Wolf-clan line, right where Derga stood trading blows with another enemy.

“Father!”

Kráva ignored all the other skátoi, firing three arrows in rapid succession at the massive leader. One missed. The second was deflected by the creature’s helmet. The third struck its shield.

Derga finished his opponent, just a moment too late.

The creature arrived. Like lightning, its sword flickered out, getting past the guard of the shield-woman to Derga’s left. She went down, clutching at her belly. Like thunder, its shield smashed down at the big man to Derga’s right. He fell, stunned or slain, and did not move.

Derga stood alone. Kráva couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell how he reacted to the enormous skátë looming over him, or the wave of its followers just an instant behind. He braced himself, presenting his shield as if the line around him hadn’t just been shattered.

The shining sword swept upward, then downward.

Derga shifted his weight, turning his shield to deflect the blade just enough. His own sword slashed at the creature, rebounding from its shield with a hollow boom.

The noise of battle slowed, as Wolves and skátoi on all sides turned to watch the duel of champions. Kráva thought about trying to shoot her father’s opponent, but the two of them were too closely engaged, moving too quickly. She stood with an arrow to the string, ready to fire if any of the other monsters tried to intervene.

Derga and the skátë circled slowly, each to the left, no longer pretending to command their respective shield-walls. They fenced with their shield-edges, their swords lashing out into momentary openings. Derga managed to get through once, opening a shallow gash across his opponent’s thigh. The skátë responded with a snake’s-tongue cut that nearly took out Derga’s right eye. The next time Kráva saw her father’s face, it streamed with blood.

The skátë was big, aggressive, well-armed, and terribly strong. Derga had survived more battlefields than even he could count, and all the Mighty Folk respected his courage . . . but he also had seen more than forty summers. He would never complain, but Kráva knew that he had begun to slow down during weapons practice.

Sky Father, be with him now.

Then the chant began. One of the Wolf-clan, then a few more, then all of them. Calling her father’s name. “Der-ga, Der-ga, Der-ga . . .”

The skátoi broke into a frenzy of yelps and barks, brandishing their weapons. Their leader bared its fangs and emitted a long, rasping growl.

“What are you waiting for?” Derga demanded.

The big skátë moved, a sudden rush, trying to overwhelm Derga through sheer mass. It launched a flurry of blows. Derga blocked them all with his shield, which was beginning to look rather battered. For a moment he was off-balance, his shield held a little too far to his left.

The skátë got the edge of its own shield inside Derga’s, and pushed.

Derga stood exposed, nothing but his sword to protect him for a moment. He saw the next blow coming and swept his blade up to meet his enemy’s, going for the bind-and-recover that would continue the fight.

The silver blade flashed as it met Derga’s sword, strength to strength.

With a scream of stressed metal, the defending weapon snapped in half. The point of the iron sword spun away, gleaming dully in the firelight.

As the monster followed through, Derga took a vicious cut, with nothing but his leather jerkin to protect him. A snarl of pain and rage tore from his throat. He recoiled, staring in disbelief for an instant at the stump of his blade.

The skátë stalked forward, grinning, pushing with its shield.

Derga moved stiffly now, in great pain, barely able to hold what remained of his sword. His shield-work somehow kept the enemy at bay for a moment longer. Yet with only a hand-span of edge left on his blade, he could no longer reach his foe.

Kráva leaped down from the cart, running toward her father.

He won’t thank me for breaking the single combat, robbing him of his honor. At least he will be alive to disapprove.

Too late. The skátë levered Derga’s shield aside once more, a powerful sword-thrust slamming home right behind. Derga sagged, dropping the remains of his own sword, and fell to his knees.

A twist of the monster’s wrist, a great sweep of the silver blade, and the sword pointed skyward, dripping red with Derga’s blood. The skátë loomed over him as he slumped to the ground. It roared in triumph. All around, the Wolf-clan stared, losing heart. They prepared to run, or to exact a final desperate payment for their lives.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Kráva’s last three arrows sprouted in the monster’s exposed torso, piercing its hauberk.

The skátë didn’t seem mortally wounded. Perhaps it was protected by thick muscle. Still, its roar of triumph turned into a snarl of sudden, unexpected pain.

Slowly, deliberately, the monster reached to tear arrows out of its flesh. Blood from the wounds ran down its chest and belly, to drip on the ground. The last arrow it brought to its mouth, to lick the gore from the iron point. Then it cast the arrow aside and brought its weapons back into guard position. It stared at Kráva over the rim of its shield.

“A little girl,” it said in the common tongue of the Tremára, with an accent so thick Kráva could barely understand it. “Tell me your name, little girl.”

“I am Kráva,” she told it, proud of the fact that her voice didn’t shake, that it could cut through the crackle of the flames. She raised her own sword, and her archer’s buckler.

It snorted in contempt. “Raven, ah? I catch ravens, eat them, take their feathers for my hrâsk. Think I will eat you. Make a cup of your skull.”

Kráva smiled, concealing that she wanted very badly to flee wailing into the night. “Come and try,” she said.

It did, a howl-and-charge designed to turn a woman’s guts to water and her legs to rotten strings. The shining sword lashed out.

Kráva was not there when it arrived.

The skátë turned, attacked again.

Kráva dodged and deflected the sword-blow to the side with her buckler. For just an instant, she sensed an opening and lashed out with her own blade. Her edge laid open another shallow cut across her enemy’s thigh.

She twisted away from blows. She spun toward the creature’s shield-side. She made a long leap backward, leaving her foe off-balance. She deflected the silver blade, never taking its full force on her buckler or the strength of her own sword. Every now and then she lashed out, forcing the skátë to use its shield or take another small cut.

Before long, the monster was bleeding from half a dozen minor wounds.

Kráva was not as massively built as her father had been, and she lacked the experience he had earned from a hundred battles and cattle-raids. She preferred the bow to the brutality of the shield-wall.

Still. Her people did not call her Kráva the Swift for nothing.

There was no chanting, as there had been for her father. The Wolf-clan and the enemy watched in eerie silence. Watched as the big skátë paused for a moment, staring at her, its fetid breath like a bellows.

“You dance,” it said. “Don’t win fight by dancing.”

“You bleed,” Kráva responded. “That doesn’t win fights either.”

It moved slightly to its left, its feet shifting.

“Getting tired, monster?” Kráva inquired. “That sword getting heavy in your hand?”

“Not yet,” it told her, and charged.

Kráva had read its footwork properly, but it moved so quickly, she didn’t quite evade in time. She felt the creature’s weight slam into her shield-arm, and felt something give in her shoulder. She lost her balance, falling ungracefully on her arse, the skátë looming close over her.

For an instant, she saw an opening. She didn’t take the time to think. She stabbed, with every remaining ounce of her strength.

Her sword point found its way under the skirt of the creature’s corselet and ran far up into its body. It screeched, one leg collapsing, and toppled over on top of her.

There was dead silence for a long moment. Then Kráva emerged, shoving the creature’s weight to the side. She staggered to her feet and stood in the firelight, covered with her enemy’s blood, and stared wildly about her.

“Well, Wolf-clan?” she demanded. “They can be killed. Let’s get to work!”

A shout went up, and then the howling war-cry of Dúvelka’s folk. Men and women surged out into the open yard, their courage restored, and fell upon the skátoi.

Kráva did not join them. Suddenly she felt terribly weary, as if she had been fighting for hours. She did a quick inventory and found no open wounds, although her shield-arm ached with pain and hung useless at her side.

Father.

Derga was still alive, barely, lying in a pool of his own blood with one hand pressed to the great wound in his belly. Kráva fell to her knees beside him. His eyes wandered for a moment and then focused on her. His lips moved, but it was clear he couldn’t get enough breath into his voice.

“Don’t try to speak, Father.” Kráva leaned close over him, to press her lips to his cold forehead. “Your enemy is dead.”

He nodded, his eyes sliding closed. His lips moved again, but even with her ear held very close, Kráva could not make out the words. Then he breathed no more.

Kráva knelt there for a minute, then two, listening to the sounds of battle. The Wolf-clan seemed to be pressing the last of the skátoi out of the open yard, through the gates and out into the night. Whatever had driven the monsters to come so far and attack Dúvelka’s people, they were paying a heavy price for it.

Not heavy enough.

She pushed herself to her feet and staggered back the way she had come, back to where the big skátë lay alone on the bloody ground. Standing over the creature, she picked up its weapon and examined it.

Beautiful. Straight and sharp. It will do.

She stood over the dead skátë, raised the bright sword high, and then struck.

When the Wolf-warriors returned, they found a spear standing in the earth at Derga’s feet. Impaled on the blade, the skátë’s head stared sightlessly into the darkness, a trophy to watch over his passage into the Otherworld.