The thoughts came louder now, still unintelligible, but their meaning was clear. A spark exploded in the campfire and for an instant Dougal saw the whites of a dozen Indians’ eyes as they emerged from the forest. Their faces and bodies were painted to blend with the darkness, their long black hair ribboned with equally black feathers. They had crept close to the camp in utter silence and hadn’t counted on being detected, so when one appeared a few feet before Dougal, he yelped with surprise, then shrieked a stream of unintelligible orders to his fellows. Dougal acted without thinking, swinging his sword in an arc so that it sliced across the man’s belly, drawing blood. The Indian roared, seeming to gain strength from the cut. Injured or not, he seemed unconcerned about the dark red seeping down his belly. One of his hands held an ax over his head, and the arm supporting it was roped with muscle. He bared his teeth then lunged toward Dougal, eyes wide and flickering with the flames of the campfire.
