Clyde makes a distressed clicking noise beside me.
I tighten my grip on his narrow arm and pull him closer. There aren't many left now. A few wounded Plood still stand between us and the tribesmen, staring desperately in every direction at once, trying to stop an ocean with their bare hands. The circle keeps shrinking.
The chiefs have stopped arguing. That frightens me more than anything else. A few minutes ago they were still shouting at one another about ownership and rights and who would take which girl. Now they seem to understand that those details can wait until later. Because later is coming.
Beth must realize it too. She stands shoulder to shoulder with Quinn, holding a sharpened stick in both hands even though it wouldn't slow a determined rabbit.
"If they grab me," she says quietly, "I'm taking somebody's eye first."
Quinn gives a shaky snarl. "Good. I'll take the other one."
Abigail's face has gone pale beneath the dirt and sweat, but she lifts her chin anyway. "My dad always said I was difficult."
"Your dad sounds smart," Beth replies. The joke isn't very good. We all laugh anyway.
For a few seconds the sound feels almost normal. Four Earth girls standing together and trying to pretend they aren't about to be dragged away by hundreds of cavemen.
Then the laughter dies. The tribesmen begin advancing again. They don't need to rush us. The confidence in their faces is somehow worse than rage would have been. They know they've won.
I look around the tightening ring and try to think of something clever. Nothing comes. No plan. No miracle. No hidden weapon.
Just jungle.
Just tribesmen.
And the certainty that everything is about to go horribly wrong.
A shout erupts somewhere behind the crowd. At first I barely pay attention. The sound blends into the constant noise of the gathering. Then another shout follows, sharper this time. A warrior stumbles sideways through the press of bodies and crashes into two others.
The chiefs turn. More voices rise from the edge of the crowd. Confusion spreads outward in ripples.
A man suddenly flies through the air. Actually flies, arms and legs cartwheeling wildly as he screams in fear.
He lands flat on his back and skids through the leaves at the feet of another tribe. Several warriors leap away from him in alarm.
For one strange heartbeat nobody seems to understand what happened. Then the screaming starts for real.
The crowd changes violently. Men who had been advancing toward us begin turning around. Spears lift. Warriors shove one another aside trying to see.
Something is forcing its way through them. Something large. Something furious.
A brief opening appears between two warriors and I catch a glimpse of dark scales shot through with gold. My heart nearly stops.
"Oh dear God," I whisper.
Another man is hurled aside. Then another. The opening widens.
And suddenly I can see him.
Vyrathion.
Relief slams into me.
He's still in his human form, but he's fighting with a savagery I've never seen before. Every movement sends warriors sprawling. Spears snap in his hands. Swords shatter against his scales. He drives forward through the crowd like a storm given flesh.
For a moment I actually think he's going to win. Then I notice the blood.
Golden ichor drips from cuts across his arms and chest. A spearhead is buried between two scales near his side. Three warriors attack him at once. Then five. Then ten.
