The desert sun hammered down on the canyon. Heat rising in wavering sheets off the red stone. Thorn Kessler, a young drifter not yet past 23, rode steady along the dry trail when a sound cut through the stillness. Screams. Not laughter.
Not joy. Raw, desperate fear. His pulse kicked hard in his chest as he pulled his horse to a stop, listening sharp. The cries carried from beyond a jagged rise. Thorn didn't hesitate.
He drove his heels in and sent his horse charging uphill toward the noise. The sight that met him at the crest turned his blood to ice. Three women from Halona's circle were running for their lives across the open valley. Behind them thundered a pack of ashen howlers, riding hard. Their war cries bouncing off the canyon walls like thunder.
Thorn had seen this kind of hunt before. Long-standing grudges between tribes turned mercy into a rare thing. Those women weren't being chased. They were being claimed. If the ashen howlers caught them, it wouldn't end clean.
They'd be taken, broken, or worse, left to vanish in the wild like they never existed. Thorn didn't weigh it. There was nothing to consider. No plan. No time.
Just action. He pushed his horse downhill at full speed, dust bursting behind him in a golden plume. The three women spotted him. And for a split second, their fear sharpened. Another rider.
Another threat. But Thorn lifted his hand high, open, calling out in the broken tongue he knew. Friends, I ain't your enemy. Come on. The tallest of them, dark hair braided with turquoise, caught his meaning first.
She barked something quick to the others. Thorn swung his horse in close. No introductions. No hesitation. She leapt up behind him with practiced ease.
The other two turned and sprinted. The ashen howlers were closing fast, less than a hundred yards now. East, to the rocks, Thorn shouted, pointing. They ran, and Thorn wheeled his horse wide, circling hard with the woman gripping tight behind him, drawing the hunters off their trail. It worked.
Five riders broke away, charging straight for him. His horse was powerful, bred and raised under his hand. But now it carried double weight. He could feel the strain in every stride, the loss of speed inch by inch. Behind him, the pounding of hooves grew louder.
The canyon swallowed sound, turning it into a storm. Still, ahead, the land shifted. The stone rising into towering formations carved by time itself. The other two women had made it there. Thorn knew this ground.
He'd tracked through it before. There was a way in. A narrow cut only a few would dare. He steered straight for it, brushing so close to the rock that the woman behind him nearly scraped against it. The ashen howlers roared in frustration.
Two tried to follow, but their mounts were too large. They slammed against the stone and had to pull back. Thorn pressed on, weaving through the twisting passage as it tightened like a funnel. Then, dead end. The other two women waited there, pressed against the stone, fear and hope tangled in their eyes.