Teri McLaren
red even in the day, and their eerie, laughing wails rode the wind over the dry valley. Twice they came upon the canistas' recent kills-the carcasses looked to have been lions, but it was hard to tell, with nothing left but bones and flies. Yob's second-in-command had wasted no time in gathering the trophies. The heat seemed to be more oppressive, too, but that could have been because they'd had so little rest, thought Cheyne.
"Who do you think they were?" whispered Claria as they trudged along in the ore war party. Og had recovered somewhat, both from his blisters and from Womba's heartfelt advances, especially since Yob had tied her hands behind her back.
"What? Who?" he said, his mind still on the bones.
"Them. The heads on his belt. Who were they?" She shuddered, pointing to the big ore walking in front of Og.
"You don't recognize them?" asked Cheyne.
"Should I?"
"They were two of the 'phantoms' we fought in the alley. Look behind their ears. See the tattoos? Same as the one that didn't get away."
Claria squinted hard, trying to catch a glimpse of the double crescent marks they had seen on the other assassin. When the big ore missed his footing going up a dry gully, he paused to right himself, and she saw them clearly. "Oh. Do you think they were still following us?"
"Probably. My guess is that Yob saw us coming a long time before we saw him. If he had wanted our heads, he could have taken them as well. The spear was just a calling card. Og here is some kind of favorite-with this tribe, anyway."
Claria walked on in silence, her hood pulled low over her eyes against the strong wind, thinking of her chroniclave, still wrapped in its linen covering, hidden in the little cave back at the oasis. She hated leaving it, but had not wanted to risk the ores' rough hands on it.