A line of wounded, bruised men were already at the wagon, the two priests in their hooded orange cloaks attending to their hurts. And with the priests worked their gentle-faced wives, the priestesses of Zo Aldan Ra, the god's beloved mate. Hardan's blood pounded fast as he caught a glimpse of the white-robed novice, Ylda Rusla, bearing a steaming basin of water in her dainty hands.
"Hardan!" cried the girl, her soft green eyes lighting up, "you escaped death! You will take us back to Tarn—to safety?"
The frontiersman smiled down at the lithe full-breasted woman facing him. Even the soggy vurth-padded garments and the coarse white robe could not conceal the perfection of her body and face.
He shook his head.
"We go into the Malsalm Range," he told her, "and beyond."
"Not even to Lake Gron!" Ylda's face was ghastly. "But, I must—surely you could send me back."
"Sorry," Hardan muttered, "but you cannot leave us now. The wagon train must disappear—as though the Drylanders had attacked and destroyed it."
The girl's eyes flamed. "I command you to take me back to Aba!" Her foot stamped down imperiously.
"Ylda, believe me, I would if it were possible. But the lives of us all depend on absolute secrecy. No word of this train must ever reach the Consars of Tarn."