But Fors had already grasped that. He broke out of the other’s grip and ran down the length of the table looking for a weapon. A small spear was all he could see to snatch up. Arskane took the pestle of the herb grinder as Fors used the point of the spear to rip through the far wall of the tent.
Outside they headed away from the chieftain’s enclosure, running and dodging among the tents, joining other running men in the shadows. In the stirred-up ant hill of the camp it was ridiculously easy to get away without notice. But the sky behind was growing steadily brighter and they knew they must get out of the camp quickly.
“It’s sweeping around.” Fors pointed out the swing of that ghastly parody of daylight. East and west the fire made a giant mouth open and ready to engulf the camp. There were fewer men running now and order was developing out of the first confusion.
They rounded the last of the tents and were out in the open, looking out for clumps of bushes or trees among which they could take cover. Then Fors caught a glimpse of something which brought him up short. A glare of yellow showed before them where it should not be—reflection—but how? A moment later Arskane verified his suspicion.
“It’s a ring of fire!”
Fors’ hunter’s instincts began to work as those tongues of flame lapped skyward.
“Downhill!” He threw the order over his shoulder.
He could see a trampled trail marked by many hoofs, hoofs of horses led to water. Downhill was water!
Downhill they ran.