His spear shifts toward the distant horizon. "The Borok are there. On their own turf, where they belong."
A few warriors chuckle. The chief spreads his hands as though explaining something obvious to a child. "When the Borok comes, the women are already wives."
Laughter rolls through the crowd.
The knot in my stomach tightens again. The chiefs aren't denying Korr'ax's strength. They've simply decided that he won't arrive in time to be a problem. Judging by the expressions around me, every tribe here has reached exactly the same conclusion. And the worst part is that they’re almost certainly right. There’s no sign that the Borok tribe will come for me. I told Praxigor I was fine.
The chiefs reach a decision.
I see it happen before anyone speaks. The arguments begin to die away, not all at once but in pieces. Spears stop waving. Men who were shouting at each other a moment ago start looking in the same direction. The older chief lifts his arm and points toward us, and the attention of hundreds of warriors settles on the four women standing behind a thin circle of Plood.
My mouth goes dry.
"Clyde," I whisper.
The misshapen Plood is already staring. Around us, the others have gone completely still. Every huge black eye fixes itself on a tribesman somewhere in the crowd, and for a few secondsnothing seems to happen. Then several warriors in the front rank simply stop moving.
One man remains frozen in mid-step. Another still has his sword raised. A third looks as though somebody carved him from wood and planted him on the hillside.
The effect spreads along the front of the crowd. More warriors lock in place with every heartbeat until perhaps twenty men stand motionless among their companions. For a moment confusion ripples through the gathered tribes. Warriors glance at one another. Several chiefs begin shouting questions. One man reaches out and shakes a frozen tribesman by the shoulder, but the victim doesn't react in any way. His eyes remain open and alert while the rest of him stays perfectly still.
Beside me, Beth tightens her grip on my arm. "What did they do?"
"I don't know," I admit.
I've seen the Plood do strange things before. Clyde once shoved images directly into my mind, and they somehow carried messages across half the jungle. Even so, this feels different. The frozen men aren't unconscious. They're trapped inside their own bodies, fully aware and completely helpless.
I suddenly remember the river monster and how it would just watch instead of attack when Clyde stared at it. This could be the same thing.
For a few precious seconds the attack stalls. Some of the warriors look genuinely frightened. Others glance toward their chiefs as if waiting for instructions. I catch myself hoping that the display might be enough. Perhaps the tribes will decide we're too dangerous. Perhaps they'll back away and leave.
Then one of the chiefs bellows an order: “Get them!”
The hesitation breaks.
Warriors begin spreading out around the frozen men. The front ranks no longer matter. There are too many attackers. The Plood can stop twenty men, perhaps a few more if they keep shifting their attention, but there are hundreds gathered on this hillside. The realization settles over me with awful certainty: They're simply going around them.
The first attackers rush forward from the flanks. Several Plood shift their gaze and more warriors freeze where they stand, but every new victim seems to release another. The strange power has limits, and the tribesmen discover them with terrifying speed.
A spear flashes through the air and punches into a Plood's chest. The creature examines the shaft protruding from its body for a brief moment, as if trying to understand what happened. Then it collapses into the grass.
Another tribesman charges with a sword. A second Plood falls. The rest don't run. They don't fight back. They simply keep staring at the attackers, freezing whoever they can while the surviving warriors close in from every direction.
The circle begins to shrink.
"Clyde, get back here." My voice sounds thin against the deafening noise of the crowd. Whether he understands the words or merely the urgency behind them, I can't tell. He remains where he is, staring at a charging warrior until the man freezes three strides away with his spear raised and his face twisted into an expression of rage.
I grab Clyde by the shoulders and drag him behind me. The gesture makes no sense. He's an alien creature with powers I barely understand, while I'm a human woman who couldn't win a fight against most of the people charging toward us. Yet I can't stop myself.
He's Clyde. He brought me the message. He found the girls. He followed me into danger without hesitation. Somewhere along the way he stopped being a strange little monster and became my friend.
Around us the battle turns into a massacre. Swords crash into Plood skulls. Spears strike home. The Plood continue their hopeless defense, freezing one attacker after another while more warriors push forward to replace them. Beth has started crying openly. Abigail stands with both hands pressed over her mouth. Quinn has picked up a fallen spear and grips it with white knuckles, although the way she's holding it suggests she has no idea what to do with it.
I don't know what to do either. The hillside has become a nightmare of shouting warriors, dying Plood and motionless men trapped by alien powers. Every minute the defensive circle grows smaller. Every minute there are fewer defenders standing between us and the tribes.
And for the first time since leaving the crater, I begin to suspect that we may already be too late.
Another Plood falls only a few yards away. A tribesman buries a sword in its shoulder and the little creature collapses without a sound, huge black eyes still fixed on its attacker. For a moment the man freezes where he stands, caught by that terrible gaze. Then another warrior pushes past him and drives a spear through the Plood's chest.
