Nunt’cha crawled on her belly to the rise overlooking Brokeleg tower.  What’s left of it, at least, she thought as her head topped the rock outcropping.  The outpost was a tumble of stone and deep sandy craters now surrounded by a high fencing of pointed logs.  Weeping stumps of sacrificed trees surrounded the fence from her position to the edge of the beach.  She fumed at the abomination, but her duty required detached calm.  Inside the fence was a carnival of movement, but in the dimming light she saw little but shadows as they passed in front of the large campfires dotting the area.  She waved at the novice crouching beside the thin coward.  Tetana, small and lithe and still a kit, had the best eyes in the patrol in Nunt’cha’s opinion.  She watche...

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