“They are unseen to the alagai as if they wear the Cloak of Kaji,” Ashan said.

A demon clawed through the chest of a man, and he cried out and went down, dropping his axe. The cloaked women hurried to the man, the taller one putting an arrow in the demon as the slender one knelt by the man’s side. She pulled back her hood, and Jardir saw her face.

She was even more beautiful than Inevera, her skin white like cream, a sharp contrast with her hair, black like the armor of a rock demon.

The woman tore the man’s shirt, tending his wound while her female bodyguard stood watch over her, shooting any alagai that dared draw close.

“Some sort of Northern dama’ting?” Jardir mused aloud.

“A heathen parody of one, perhaps,” Ashan said.

After a moment, the beautiful woman gave a command to her bodyguard, who slung her bow across her shoulders and lifted the wounded man in her arms. The way back out was blocked by a group of alagai, but the Northern dama’ting reached into her pouch and removed an object. Fire appeared in her hand, setting spark to it, and she drew back her arm and threw. An explosion blasted the alagai from her path, leaving them littering the ground, unmoving.

“Heathen, perhaps,” Jardir said, “but these Northerners are not without power.”

“The men must be cowards worse than khaffit, to depend on women for their rescue,” Shanjat said. “I would rather die on the field.”

“No,” Jardir said, “the cowards are us, hiding here in the shadows while chin fight alagai’sharak.”

“They are our enemies,” Ashan said.

Jardir looked at him and shook his head. “Perhaps by day, but all men are brothers in the night.” He put up his night veil and lifted his spear, giving a war cry as he charged into the fight.

There was a surprised hesitation in his men, and then they, too, roared and followed.

“Krasians!” Merrem the butcher’s wife screamed, and Rojer looked up in surprise, seeing that she was right. Dozens of black-clad Krasian warriors were charging into the clearing, brandishing spears and whooping. His blood went cold, and the bow slipped from his fiddle.

A demon almost killed him in that moment, but Gared cut the arm that swiped at him clean off with his machete.

“Eyes on the demons!” Gared bellowed for all the Cutters to hear. “Krasians ent gonna get a fight if we let the corelings do their work for ’em!”

But it quickly became apparent that the Krasians had no intention of attacking the Hollowers. Led by a man with a white turban and a warded spear that looked as if it was made entirely of polished silver, they fell upon the wood demons like a pack of wolves breaking into a chicken coop, killing with practiced efficiency.

The leader waded out alone into clusters of wood demons, but his fearlessness seemed justified, for he laid waste to them as easily as the Painted Man could have, his spear a blur and his limbs moving inhumanly fast.

The other warriors linked shields in fighting wedges, mowing demons like summer barley. One group was led by a man in a pristine white robe, a stark contrast with the black-clad warriors. The man in white held no weapons, but he strode through the battlefield confidently. A wood demon leapt at him and he stepped to the side, tripping it and shoving as it passed him by, driving it onto the spear of one of his warriors.

Another demon attacked him, but the man in white swung his torso left, then right, his feet never moving as he smoothly dodged the demon’s clawed swipes. On its third swing, he caught its wrist and twisted, turning its own attack against it and flipping it over onto its back where a warrior casually skewered it.

Rojer and the others had assumed the scouring would take all night, and planned for reserves of fighters to be brought in as needed and much of Leesha’s flamework used.

With the Krasians fighting, the battle was over in minutes.

Krasian and greenlander alike stood frozen when the last demon fell, staring at one another in shock. All continued to clutch their weapons, as if unsure the time for battle was past, but none dared make the first move, waiting for word from their leaders.

“The chin watch us with one eye,” Jardir said to Ashan.

Ashan nodded. “The other eye looks to the giant and the red-haired khaffit boy who made the alagai run in terror.”

“They stand as frozen as the others,” Jardir noted.

“Not the true leaders, then,” Ashan guessed. “Kai’Sharum, or the heathen equivalent. The giant might even be their Sharum Ka.”

“Men still worthy of respect, then,” Jardir said. “Come.”

He strode over to the two, slipping his spear into his shoulder harness and showing his hands to indicate he meant no harm. When he stood before the men, he dipped a polite bow.

“I am Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, of the line of Jardir, son of Kaji,” he said in perfect Thesan, seeing the men’s eyes flare in recognition. “This is Damaji Ashan.” He gestured to Ashan, who imitated his shallow bow.

“Honored,” Ashan said.

The two greenlanders looked at each other curiously. Finally, the red-haired boy shrugged, and the giant relaxed. Jardir realized with surprise that the boy was dominant.

“Rojer, son of Jessum, of the Inns of Riverbridge,” the red-haired boy said, sweeping back his multicolored cloak. He set one leg forward and the other back, lowering himself in some sort of greenland bow.

“Gared Cutter,” the giant said. “Er…son of Steave.” He was even less civilized, stepping forward and sticking out his hand so quickly Jardir almost caught his wrist and broke his arm. It was only at the last moment that he realized the giant merely wanted to clasp hands in greeting. He squeezed hard, perhaps in some primitive test of manhood, and Jardir returned the pressure until both men felt their bones grinding together. The giant gave him an extra nod of respect when they finally broke apart.

“Shar’Dama Ka, more chin approach,” Ashan said in Krasian. “One of their heretic clerics and the heathen healer.”

“I’ve no wish to antagonize these people, Ashan,” Jardir said. “Heathens or no, we will respect them as if they were dama and dama’ting.”

“Shall I wash the feet of their khaffit, as well?” Ashan asked, disgusted.

“If I command it,” Jardir replied, bowing deeply to the new arrivals. The red-haired boy stepped in smoothly to facilitate introductions. Jardir met the Holy Man, bowed, and forgot his name instantly, turning to the woman.

“Mistress Leesha Paper,” Rojer introduced, “Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow.” Leesha spread her skirts and dipped low, and Jardir found himself unable to take his eyes from her displayed cleavage until she rose. She looked him boldly in the eyes, and he was shocked to find hers were blue like the sky.

On impulse, Jardir took her hand and kissed it. He knew it was bold, especially among strangers, but Everam favored the bold, it was said. Leesha gasped at the move, and her pale cheeks reddened slightly. If it was possible, she became even more beautiful in that moment.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Leesha said, nodding her head at the hundreds of alagai corpses in the clearing.

“All men are as brothers in the night,” Jardir said, bowing. “We stand united.”

Leesha nodded. “And during the day?”

“It seems the Northern women do more than just fight,” Ashan murmured in Krasian.

Jardir smiled. “I believe all people should stand united in the day, as well.”

Leesha’s eyes narrowed. “United under you?”

Jardir felt Ashan and the greenland men tense. It was as if no one else on the scene mattered. Only they two would determine if the black demon ichor on the field of battle would soon be covered with red human blood.

But Jardir had no fear of that, feeling as if this meeting was destined long ago. He spread his hands helplessly. “If it is Everam’s will, perhaps someday.” He bowed again.