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DRESSED IN TAZWARA'S BLACK UNIFORM and carrying his spear, Thami stood and stepped away from the campfire. Around him, the Tutrumese camp was fully embroiled in chaos as more tents had caught fire. And in between attempts to put out the raging blaze, soldiers continued to bicker and brawl. The bedlam had given Thami time to darken his skin with the burnt end of a log to better match his captors’ appearance and to better blend in with the moonless night. He’d also used the rope from his bonds and leash to quickly tie and gag Tazwara, hopefully keeping him from sounding an alarm.

All that remained was leaving the camp and picking his way up and over the cliff. From there, he’d have to find his way back to Zahir and tell the commander about the Tutrumese threat. Hopefully, the enemy weapon and uniform would be all the proof Zahir needed.

How though? Thami wondered. How will I cross the Ta’Gengan without food and water?

Thami shook his head, pushing the negative thought away. First, he needed to get clear of the camp. These other problems would only be problems if he managed to escape. And why would the Maker help him escape, only to let him die of thirst or hunger? One thing at a time.

Focused on his current goal, Thami slipped into the shadows and picked his way toward the empty maw of pitch-black night that marked the edge of the camp. He skirted the few smoldering campfires he encountered, even though no one sat beside them. Slowly but surely, worked his way forward until the tents gave way to the desert, and the cacophony of angry voices was swallowed by the suffocating silence of the Ta’Gengan.

Thami pressed forward, doubling his pace. The way out was up not forward, so he stayed as close to the cliff as he dared. All he needed was a break in the sheer wall beside him. A crevice or slope where he could climb his way out. And even though he moved further and further from the Tutrumese encampment, his muscles remained taut. His skin buzzed with nervous anticipation. At any moment, he expected to be confronted by sentries, so he kept testing the nearby wall for a promising place to start climbing. The sooner he got out of the valley, the better.

At last, half a mile into the Ta’Gengan or maybe more, he finally found a break in the cliff. A vertical chute with jagged edges he could easily grip. One handhold. A second. A third. The chute was also narrow enough for him to press his back against the opposite wall, locking him in place when he needed a break. And soon enough, Thami made significant progress up the wall.

Slowly but surely, though, the chute widened as Thami climbed until finally fading completely away. Thami swallowed. He had climbed high enough for a fall to be dangerous—even deadly. And here, the cliff was once more exposed to the elements. The handholds were smoother and harder to grip.

Remembering the fall that had gotten him into this mess, Thami tipped his head back and looked skyward, hoping to pierce the blinding veil of the Ta’Gengan night and see where he was going. Was he at least close to the summit?

The sky above him, though, offered no help. No even a smidgeon of starlight to outline the top edge of the cliff. Black as pitch, clouds undoubtedly shuttered the sky. He might as well have his eyes closed.

So Thami did precisely that—he closed his eyes and whispered skyward. “Great Maker Amghar, I know I have failed you in countless ways. But please, please, guide me out of this mess, and I will be forever a faithful servant to you.”

As soon he uttered his prayer, though, Thami rolled his eyes. Who am I kidding? he thought. This is a fool’s path. Dead by Tutrumese hands or dead by my own stupidity, does it matter? Dead is dead. Maybe I should just climb down and wait until dawn to make the climb.

Paralyzed by indecision, Thami looked back toward the distant Tutrumese camp. The blazing tents looked to be extinguished, but a different sort of fire—clustered pinpricks of moving light—made his stomach tighten. Torches. Scores of them. To his horror, several groups of soldiers were streaming out of the camp and into the Ta’Gengan. The largest of these groups was heading directly toward his position. Despite the impenetrable darkness, they seemed to be following his path as if they could see him. How?

And then Thami knew. A muffled bark twisted his already taut stomach. The hounds he’d seen earlier were on his trail. Why hadn’t he thought to burn his clothes instead of leaving them beside the fire? Not that it mattered much. He’d undoubtedly left some blood behind, too, when he had cut through his bonds.

For a second, Thami thought he was going to throw up. He coughed and his stomach flinched. But even as it did, he sprang into action.

He reached up and groped the rockface until he found a handhold. Then a toehold. Another handhold. Another toehold. Like a bug caught in an unexpected light, he scurried up the cliff only focused on one thing. Going up. Up and away from the dogs. Each bark drove him to climb faster and higher. The darkness was his friend now, and he needed to get high enough that the night would hide him from the torchlight that undoubtedly approached.

Finally, Thami reached up and found more than a handhold. To his surprise and relief, a flat surface stretched beneath his palm and continued beyond his reach. Muscles exhausted, heart pounding, he pulled his body onto a narrow ledge and took a moment for a much-needed rest.

Directly below him, the dogs barked again—and apparently stopped moving. He’d hoped his climb would throw them off his trail. But instead, the hounds marked where he had left the valley floor. Grimacing, he crouched down and peered down the base of the cliff. Sure enough, a group of Tutrumese had gathered by the dogs. The warriors were waving their torches and looking up with blood-thirsty eyes, hopeful to catch sight of their prey.

Thami shrank back, expecting the cliff wall to stop him, but to his surprise, he slipped inside a small niche in rocks. Certain he couldn’t be spotted, he closed his eyes and exhaled. Exhaustion and terror made all his muscles tremble. He needed to rest, but only for a moment. If he wanted to escape, he needed to overcome his fear and keep climbing.

As Thami tried to regain his composure, though, a familiar, raspy voice called up to him. “Oh, naughty little runt. I know you’re up there. Do you really think you can still escape us? The hounds have your scent, and they will not lose it no matter how far you run. There’s no water, no rain here, to wash your putrid stink away. Why don’t you just climb down and make it easier on all of us? If you do, I promise to kill you quickly and save you from the pain of torture. The chief can find others to test his staff on—maybe the naked uzemzum you left behind.”

Aseggas was leading the group below. Mortified, Thami slunk further still into the niche until, at last, he backed into the cliff wall.

“But if you don’t come down, runt,” Aseggas said, “I’ll make sure the Chief tortures you. Tortures you for as long as you can live without food and water. And have no fear, we will come up and get you once it’s light enough. Not long now. Not long. Look to the East if you dare. It’s already aglow with the rising sun.”

Thami blinked and stared out of his hiding place. Sure enough, a faint gray line smoldered in the distance. His whole body sagged as he realized Aseggas was telling the truth.

Overwhelmed by dread and panic, Thami drew his legs up and squeezed them into his chest. He rocked back and forth in the tight space, repeating the same question to himself. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

Each time he asked the question, he slammed his back into the cliff wall harder…and harder.

What am I going to do?

The third time he rocked into the wall, his head knocked against a small protrusion.

Something clicked.

Thami’s stomach pushed into his throat as the wall behind him dropped away, and he tumbled backward.

Once again, Thami was falling.