The dying sun spilled gory color across the sky. Purple, red, orange spatters behind the bulking triceratops cows of the caravan.

At this distance, Trals could not see the men and women tied to the travois behind the beasts. The children. The boys.

A boy, ropes sawing at his wrists, straining to scream around the ball of hide stuffed into his mouth, the blood of his father and brothers still tacky on his skin. The smell of it still in his nose, while coins jingled in ...