Orim pulled free of her own guards and hurried over to him.

Klaars's arm bore a crude splint, probably devised by the man with the medallions. His skin had been pasted with a thick orange goo. It clearly agonized him. His eyes rolled in his head.

Orim patted his healthy shoulder and spoke soothingly. "Stay calm. I don't think these people mean to hurt us. They could have done so quite a while ago if that's what they intended."

The young crewman continued to breathe unevenly. The vein in his neck pulsed in a violent rhythm.

The leader of the raiders arrived, stepping into the firelight. His coin-braided black hair dripped lagoon water. He said something to Orim and pointed to himself.

"What? What is it? I don't understand." The healer spread her hands in a gesture of frustration.

Patiently he repeated the phrase, again pointing first to people around him, then to himself. "Yo shava Cho-Arrim. Ja shav Cho-Manno."

Orim shook her head in frustration. Beside her, Klaars gave a moan of fear and pain.

The chief reached down to Orim. His hand gently lifted Orim's chin. She found herself staring into deep brown eyes that contained a flash of humor. Satisfied he had her attention, the man pointed to himself. "Cho-Manno."

Orim nodded slowly, repeating, "Cho-Manno."

He smiled and gestured to the crowd. "Cho-Arrim."

"Cho-Arrim." Deep within her, Orim felt a long-dormant excitement begin to build.

He pointed to her and cocked his head.

"Orim," she said.

"O-leem."

"No, Orim."

"O-reem."

"Yes. That's it. Orim."

He flashed white teeth at her and glanced swiftly around the gathering. His hair shimmered with hundreds of coins. Striding toward the gawking villagers, he drew forth a pretty teenaged girl. "Is-Shada."

"Is-Shada."

Is-Shada smiled nervously. She was beautiful, with long dark hair, a smooth olive complexion, and dressed in a kneelength white shift. She approached Orim, took her hand, and stroked it gently. Then she lifted it to touch her forehead.

"O-reem. Is-Shada. Do chrano 'stva o'meer." Her hand glowed faintly.

To her surprise, Orim saw that some of the silver light from Is-Shada's hand passed momentarily to her own fingers. She smiled and gently released her hand.

The girl knelt next to Klaars.

"Can you do something for him?" Orim looked from Cho-Manno to Is-Shada.

The former looked grave and pointed across the fire.

From the other side of the clearing came the thin, brownhaired young man she had seen on Weatherlight. Orim suddenly realized the pouches about his neck were medicine bags, not unlike her own, and the medallions symbols of healing.

The young man knelt beside Klaars and gingerly probed his wounded arm. Releasing a shriek of pain that echoed through the forest, Klaars fell back on the pallet and writhed in agony. The young healer shook his head in concern, raised the largest amulet at his neck, and touched it to Klaars's forehead. He spoke a brief word.

Klaars immediately sank limp, a faint snore emerging from his lips.

Orim stared in astonishment at the young healer. "Thank you," she said, hoping he could hear the gratitude in her voice.

The young Cho-Arrim stepped back a pace and said something to the leader.

Orim watched their grave faces as they spoke. "The things I could learn from these people," she whispered in amazement.

Cho-Manno nodded in decision.

In a single fluid motion, the young healer turned, drew from beneath his robes a weighty cleaver, and slashed it down and across Klaars's arm.

The crewman awoke, giving another wild scream of pain. The arm fell away from his side.

"No!" Orim shouted, reaching out. Her warrior escorts dragged her back.

Three more warriors held down Klaars as the healer knelt with a cloth and bound the spurting stump. He placed a stick in the rag and twisted it until the tourniquet shut off the blood flow.

Orim fought the warriors who hauled her away. She stared in horror at Klaars's maimed body. "No! You monster! You're all monsters!"

Is-Shada was suddenly there, wrapping Orim in a tight embrace. Even as the warriors pinned Orim's arms, the young woman held her tightly, patting her back and whispering soothingly in her ear.

"O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer. Is-Shada 'stva o'meer…"

Night came to the village of the Cho-Arrim-though night was little different than day. The yellow-orange sky had gone dark, yes, but even during the day, little of its illumination reached the forest floor. Day or night, most of the light came from the silvery gleam of the ubiquitous trees.

That gleam was the only source of light in Orim and Klaars's cell. The room lay deep in the root cluster of an ancient tree. Though the chamber had neither door nor lock, it was clearly a prison. Stout roots formed a cage all around them, receding fifty feet in each direction. There was only one pathway down into that thicket of roots, and Orim and Klaars had been forced to descend it despite the man's amputation. At the top and the bottom of the path, a guard had been posted. No door, no lock-and no way out.

"Monsters," Klaars said, gripping the tourniquet on his arm. He paced across the foot-smoothed cluster of roots, his teeth grinding angrily. "Savage monsters!"

Orim shook her head. She had been trying for hours to calm the man, to comfort him, but he would not sit down beside her or listen to her. "I think they just didn't understand. They didn't realize the limb could be saved. Perhaps gangrene is worse here-"

"I'm going to get up there and kill one of them. I'm going to find that healer and chop his arm off!"

"No, Klaars," Orim said. "That wouldn't do any good."

"It sure would feel good!" Klaars hissed. He made a vicious chopping motion with his remaining hand. "How do you like that, you Cho-Arrim bastard!"

A new voice spoke out of the murk. "O-reem?" Soundlessly, Is-Shada had descended past the two guards to visit her new friend. "O-reem? O'meer Is-Shada." She stepped furtively into the chamber.

Orim hadn't the chance to warn the young woman. Klaars leaped like a wolf upon her. He knocked her down and wrapped his good arm about her neck. He flexed his elbow, but not before she released a strangled shriek.

Through the doorway came a guard-a huge and metal-plated manifestation of the night. A sword flashed out from his belt.

"Fight him, Orim," Klaars shouted, swinging Is-Shada out as a shield before him. "Fight the guard! Get his sword!"

Orim stood there, imploring, "What are you doing, Klaars?"

"Getting us out of here! Take his sword!"

"Let her go!"

The guard sized up Orim, who stood with hands trembling before her. He decided she was not a threat and lunged at Klaars. The sword darted in.

Klaars pivoted, flinging Is-Shada into the guard's way. Steel bit into her side. Blood welled forth.

The soldier withdrew, staring in disbelief at the blood he had drawn.

Growling, Klaars only tightened his hold. Is-Shada's face went from crimson to purple. In moments, she ceased struggling and hung limp in his grasp. Snarling like a cornered beast, Klaars shouted, "Drop the sword, or I'll kill her! I'll do it! I'll kill Eeeshadda!"

Somehow, the guard understood. He dropped the sword on the floor and lifted his hands. He nodded in supplication.

Klaars dragged the limp young woman across the floor and picked up the sword. Once its hilt was in his hand, he brusquely dropped Is-Shada.

The guard stooped to grab her, but suddenly, red gore sprayed all across the motionless young woman.

"No, Klaars!" Orim shouted.

The guard stood. His severed arm flopped grotesquely atop Is-Shada. He staggered, blood jetting from his stump.