Erika’s woolen cowl hung over her forehead, veiling her pale complexion so she didn’t glow when the moon rose. Crouched in a crevice, bow in hand, she guarded the men-at-arms as they hurried down the ridge of the canyon, not far beyond the boundary of Tellwater Valley.

“By the might of my father’s gods, keep them safe,” she prayed as they dashed into the shadows. They weren’t just soldiers, they were the men she’d sparred with and who taught her what she knew concerning warfare. Men she admired. Men whose characters she respected—powerful men. She’d be joining them for the first time in action against the opponent. A chill of excitement rushed through her, but a knot formed in her stomach when she caught wind of their foe.

“Barin, these skura smell worse than boar’s hair in a sty!” she uttered. Her brother slid into the cranny alongside her. His warm breath against her ear reinforced her confidence, and a smile crossed her face. He rested a hand on her shoulder and pointed to the hillside. “Look! There’s one across the way. See it?”

The brightness of the setting sun blinded her but for the silhouette of an olive tree and the lone skura that perched on its limb. The beast—tall as a man—unfolded a featherless wing twice the size of its height. When it did, it blocked out the sun, allowing her to see its features. She shrank at its size and the ugliness of its body, owl eyes, a squat nose, and fangs that protruded from its human mouth.

“They’re horrid. How could anyone live around them?” she asked, sinking further onto her knees and staring at the creature. Barin had described them to her at home, in the comfort of the grand hall over a chalice of wine. How much more daunting they were in the flesh!

“It’s not as though Lord Garion has a choice.”

She took her eyes off the skura to study Barin. “Tell me. Is it true this wizard bonded with the emperor of Casdamia to gain the power to control these creatures?”

Barin hadn’t admitted to believing in the Vouchsaver named Skotádi. The legends came from country folk who lived in the southern villages along River Ream. Even Erika thought the tale far-fetched. According to legend, the wizard Skotádi had taken on the properties of his magic rather than wielding it and bonded himself to the emperor Bahldi in a conspiracy to conquer the world.

“Someone assassinated Bahldi the Great years ago,” Erika whispered. “If this Skotádi still lives, did he bond to Bahldi’s grandson, Barte, son of Moshere, as well? Are these skura a leg of the Casdamia’s army? Or is Skotádi acting on his own?”

“You’re assuming the legends are true.”

“Well, if they were true, what would Skotádi want with these vineyards?”

“Revenge, they say,” Barin replied.

She peeked at him. His smile had disappeared, replaced by a set jaw.

“Our grandfather fought these beasts, Erika. Same enemy. Same war.”

“Then it’s ours to end.” She lifted her bow.

“Not yet.” He stayed her hand. “Patience. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to kill these beasts. Wait for the ambush.” He surveyed the terrain. “A band of foreign warriors is coming to aid us. I’m not sure when they’ll be here, but we can’t wait too much longer. We need to attack before dark.”

Erika took her focus off the skura and regarded the landscape. Limestone cliffs grew dim as the sun sank behind the crest of the mountain. Nothing stirred. No sound, not even the chirp of a cricket. The breeze itself held its breath—no sign of any foreign army.

“When Commander Neal and I reach the olive grove, we’ll strike. Shouldn’t be more than a hundred of these beasts, and then we’ll dodge for cover. You and these men will pick off the ones that fly out of the gorge.”

Erika wet her lips and glanced at the men hunkered along the rim. They had crossbows, a Casdamian weapon so new to their kingdom Barin hadn’t yet trained her with one.

You’ll do well.” Barin patted her on the back. His smile reassured her. “After this, you won’t need to petition Father to come with me. I have faith in you, Princess Erika.”

“Thank you, Prince Barin,” she uttered with a grin. Nothing pleased her more than her brother’s trust.

Silence cloaked the landscape as Barin joined his men-at-arms, now swallowed in shadow. Erika blew a curl from her forehead. Today held her chance to prove to her father she could be a warrior.

She switched hands holding her longbow, and then brushed the dampness off her palms onto her leather leg guards, taking a deep breath to quiet her racing heart. The few men on the ridge crouched by her side with their poisoned bolts loaded, waiting for her brother’s wave—young men and less experienced than Barin’s men—but zealous.

The breeze from the mountain summit picked up again as dusk encroached, dropping the temperature. She hadn’t grown accustomed to the bitter cold, but at least snow had not yet covered the ground.

Samuel, the soldier next to her, nudged her.

“That skura—the one you were watching—I think he’s seen your brother.”

As soon as Erika sighted the beast, it took to flight and glided above the canyon, circling over Barin. Her brother glanced her way, pointed at it, and then dove behind a rock. Taking that as a signal, Erika aimed, but it didn’t attack. Instead, it landed somewhere to the right of her in the brush just as the sun fell below the horizon. The world gave way to the darkness she felt more than saw. She blinked hard—the fading landscape played tricks on her. Because the skura was so large, it should have been visible, and yet she saw nothing, only the rustling of sward where no other grass stirred.

A heavy breath helped to steady her hands as she drew her bowstring. Samuel waved at the other men, and they slipped out of her line of fire. Her target moved.

Something stirred behind the tree limbs, and images of her brother being devoured by these horrid beasts flashed in her mind. More rustling in the bushes and the sound of wings flapping quickened her reflexes, and then a deafening howl, so brash Erika winced.

She let loose her arrow.

Someone screamed.

With what rumbled like headwaters rushing into a canyon, a dark cloud of flying beasts tore out of the trees below, soaring in formation like a plump of geese.

“Draw bow and sword!” Barin’s order echoed through the ravine as the enemy stormed upon them too soon. The other soldiers scattered, dropping into the valley to fight with Barin’s men. Erika swallowed her fear and slipped over more rocky terrain to join them. She skidded down the hill, dodged behind a tree, and released her arrows in rapid succession.

No sooner had she reached the basin when an opened-mouth skura flailed at her, its bloody tongue flapping in the wind. Before she could shoot, its talons snatched her by the shoulders and dragged her through the brush. As it dug into her leather armor, she dropped her bow and clenched her dagger. She slashed the beast’s scabby legs. Its talons dug deeper as it dragged her over rocks, stripping her baldric free, crushing her quiver, and breaking the pack off her back. She thrust her dagger into its body. Blood splattered. The skura released her, and she plummeted to the ground. The wounded beast fell beside her. She rolled away from the skura’s body, staggered to her feet, and picked up a sword lying next to a fallen soldier, then charged into combat swinging and hacking at scaly forms and ghastly faces that screeched until her ears hurt. Her arms grew heavy. Her fingers cramped around the hilt of the weapon, but she could not stop lest she die.

Louder than the skura’s screeches, drums beat.

Drums?

A force unseen sucked the beast she had been fighting into the sky and a whirlwind took shape, spinning it and hundreds of other winged beasts into the heavens. The faster the drums beat, the wilder the wind reeled until the entire legion hovered overhead.

Just as the pounding had started, the drumming ceased, and the horde of skura tumbled. Soldiers dodged out of the way as the skura crashed against the earth one after another, dust billowing into the air. When the grime settled, a pile of dead skura remained.

Silence followed.

Erika swayed, blinked sweat out of her eyes, and wiped the blood from her face. Her shoulder ached. She abandoned the sword letting it drop into the same dust that would bury its keeper. Soldiers rose from the debris, stumbling among the fallen, treading over the limp bodies of men and beasts. There must have been twenty Potamian soldiers fallen. Many more skura than Barin had estimated lay scattered among them.

Barin ran up the slope and met with his commander and several other men who hid in the shadows. She followed and paused when Barin, his face pale in shock, fell on his knees at the feet of a white-haired man lying in the grass. The stranger wore attire she had never seen. Leather pants, red bands adorned his ankles, turtle shells covered his calves, beads laced his neck, and black feathers dangled from his arms and in his hair. Armor made of woven grass had shielded him but now collapsed, broken apart, an arrow embedded in his chest.

Her arrow.

She stepped back as Barin dropped the dead man’s wrist, leapt to his feet, and marched toward her. His cheeks flushed.

Erika’s blood ran cold.

She stumbled over the stony field as Barin grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the others.

“Don’t let those people know you did this!”

“I—,” she stuttered as she watched Commander Neal and a group of dark-skinned men approach the body. Dressed identically to the fallen—feathers in their long dark hair—drums strapped to their backs, the foreigners carried the dead man up the hillside, making a somber procession against the last light of the day. They sang a low, mournful chant.

Neal hurried toward Barin.

Thoughts flew through Erika’s mind, but no words formed. She tried to recall what had happened, how she had mistaken those men for the enemy, but found no excuse. She’d been a fool, a mindless, unintelligent fool!

“Who was he?” she muttered.

Barin let go of her arm as Neal moved between the two.

“It’s over,” Neal said. “They’re going home.”

Barin gave Neal a nod. “Not a word,” he reminded Erika with a look so forbidding the impact drilled a hole in her heart. He pivoted and walked away.

Erika’s unanswered question loomed.

“The Cho Nisi King. He and his warriors came to help us.” Neal’s voice lacked the fierceness of Barin’s, yet his continence displayed the gravity of the man’s death. He followed Barin.

Stripped of dignity, Erika’s heart sank as shame devoured her. Her hands shook, her throat tightened. Had they abandoned her on a raft in the middle of the ocean, she would not have felt more alone.