Alfred was considerably alarmed at the suggestion. “I don’t think that would work, Sir Hugh. I’m not very adept at things of that sort.”
“He’s right there,” Haplo agreed grimly. “Knowing Alfred, he’d end up hanging himself.”
“Can’t you”—Hugh the Hand glanced at Haplo’s blue-glowing skin—“magic him down?”
“Using the magic drains my strength, just as running or jumping drains yours. I’d rather conserve it for important things like surviving, not little things like getting Sartan out of trees.” Haplo tucked the dagger into his belt, walked over to the base of the tree. “I’ll climb up there and cut him loose. You stay down here and be ready to catch him.”
Hugh the Hand shook his head, but couldn’t suggest any other option. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he slid it safely into his pocket and took up a position directly underneath the dangling Alfred. Haplo climbed the tree, tested the limb holding the Sartan before crawling out on it. He had been afraid, by the look of it, that the branch wouldn’t hold his weight. But it was stronger than he’d supposed. It bore his weight—and Alfred’s—easily.
“Caught him as he went flying past,” Haplo repeated in disgust. Still, he’d seen stranger things. Most of them involving Alfred.
“It’s … it’s an awfully long fall,” Alfred protested in a trembling voice. “I could use my magic …”
“Using your magic’s what got you here in the first place,” Haplo interrupted, crawling gingerly out onto the
limb, flattening himself in order to distribute his weight evenly.
The branch sagged. Alfred gasped in terror, waved his arms, and kicked his feet. The limb creaked ominously.
“Hold still!” Haplo ordered in irritation. “You’ll bring us both down!” He slid his dagger between the coat and the branch, began to cut through the seam.
“What … what do you mean—my magic got me into this?” Alfred asked, closing his eyes tightly.
“That wind didn’t pick up any of the rest of us and try to impale us on a mountain. Just you. And the mountain didn’t start to collapse until
you
began to sing those damn runes of yours.”
“But why?”
“Like I said, you tell me,” Haplo grunted.
He was about halfway through, cutting slowly, hoping to let Alfred down as easily as possible, when he heard a low whistle. The sound went through him like a bolt of hot iron, burning him, piercing him.
“What an odd-sounding bird,” said Alfred.
“It’s not a bird. It’s Marit. Our signal for danger.”
Haplo gave the knife a jerk, slit the coat seam in one long, jagged tear. Alfred had time for one wild yell; then he was plummeting through the air. Hugh the Hand stood stolidly, feet planted firmly, body braced. He caught Alfred, broke the Sartan’s fall, but the two went over together in a heap.
Haplo, from his vantage point in the tree, looked to the ridge. Marit detached herself from the boulder long enough to point to her left. She gave another low whistle and added a series of three cat-like howls.
Tiger-men.
Marit raised her hands, spread all ten fingers wide, then repeated this gesture twice.
Haplo swore softly. A hunting pack, at least twenty of the fierce beasts, who were not really men at all, but were known as such because they walked upright on two strong hind legs and used their front paws, complete with prehensile thumbs, like hands.
1
They could, therefore, use weapons, and were skilled with one known as a cat’s paw, intended to cripple rather than kill. A disk-shaped piece of wood with five sharp stone “claws” attached, the cat’s paw was either thrown or flung from a sling. Its magic was weak against Patryn magic, but effective. No matter what part of a sigla-covered body it struck, the cat’s paw inserted its claws through the small breaks in the tattoos, bit deep into muscle, and clung there tenaciously. Often hurled at the legs of a victim, the cat’s paw tearing into a calf muscle or thigh felled the prey with deadly efficiency.
Tiger-men prefer their meat fresh.
Haplo cast a fleeting glance behind him at the ruined mountain, knew before he looked that it was useless. No hope of crawling back into that cave. He scanned the horizon, then noticed that Marit was waving to him, urging him to hurry.
Haplo slid down the tree. Hugh the Hand was picking Alfred up, attempting to help him stand. The Sartan crumpled like a rag doll.
“Looks like in the fall he did something to his other ankle,” Hugh the Hand said.
Haplo swore again, louder and more graphically.
“What’s all that hand-waving and shrieking about?” the assassin asked, looking in Marit’s direction.
She was no longer visible, having retreated behind the boulder again to keep the tiger-men from seeing her. Although, if what Haplo suspected was true, they didn’t need to see her. They knew what they were looking for and probably where to find it.
“Tiger-men are coming,” Haplo said shortly.
“What’re they?”
“You have house cats on Arianus?”
Hugh the Hand nodded.
“Imagine one taller, stronger, faster than I am, with teeth and claws to match.”
“Damn.” Hugh looked impressed.
“There’s a hunting pack, maybe twenty of the beasts. We can’t fight them. Our only hope is to outrun them. Though where we’re going to run to is beyond me.”
“Why don’t we just lie low? They couldn’t have spotted us yet.”
“My guess is they know we’re here. They’ve been sent to kill us.”
Hugh the Hand frowned skeptically but didn’t argue. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out his pipe, stuck it between his teeth, and stared down at Alfred, who was rubbing his injured ankles and trying to look as if the massage was helping.
“I’m really very sorry—” he began.
Haplo turned away.
“What do we do about him?” the Hand asked in a low voice. “He can’t walk, much less run. I could carry him …”
“No, that would weigh you down. Our only chance is to run and keep running until we drop. Tiger-men are fast, but only in short bursts. They’re not good at long distances.”
A low and urgent whistle from Marit emphasized the need for haste. Haplo glanced over at the dog, then back at Alfred.
“You’ve ridden dragon-back, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes.” Alfred perked up. “In Arianus. Sir Hugh would remember. It was when I was tracking Bane—”
But Haplo wasn’t listening. He pointed at the dog, began speaking the runes softly. The animal, aware something involving it was about to happen, was on its feet, its tail, its entire body seeming to wag with excitement. Blue sigla flared from Haplo’s hand, flashed through the air, and twined about the dog.
The runes sparkled over its body like the ’lectric zingers of the Kicksey-winsey gone mad. The dog began to grow in size, expanding, enlarging. It came to Haplo’s waist; then its muzzle was level with his head, and then it was looking down at its master, tongue lolling, bathing them all in a rain of slobber.
Hugh the Hand gasped and staggered backward. Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes. When he looked again,
the dog was even bigger. “I’ve had drunken hallucinations that weren’t this bad.”
Alfred sat on the ground, stared up at the magically transformed animal with a doleful expression. Halting the magic, Haplo started toward the injured Sartan. Alfred made a pathetic attempt to stand, scrabbling backward up a convenient boulder.
“I’m much better. Truly I am. You go on ahead. I—”
His protestations were cut short by an exclamation of pain. He would have fallen, but Haplo planted his shoulder in the Sartan’s middle, lifted him, and tossed him onto the back of the dog before Alfred knew precisely what had happened, where he was, or which end of him was up.
Once he figured all these out, he realized he was sitting on the back of the dog—now the size of a young dragon—and he was well above the ground. Giving a low moan, shutting his eyes, Alfred flung his arms around the dog’s neck and hung on for dear life, nearly choking the animal.
Haplo managed to pry loose the Sartan’s death-like grip, at least enough to let the dog breathe.
“Come on, boy,” he said to the animal. He looked over at the assassin. “You all right?”
Hugh the Hand gave Haplo a quizzical glance. “You people could take over the world.”
“Yeah,” said Haplo. “Let’s go.”
He and the assassin set off at a run. The dog—with Alfred clinging and groaning and keeping his eyes shut—trotted easily along behind.
Haplo—keeping low—crept up the side of the ridge to join Marit. He left the others at the bottom, awaiting his signal before proceeding.
“What have we got?” he asked softly, though by now he could see for himself.
Off to his left, a large group of tiger-men was crossing the plain below. They loped along at a leisurely pace on two legs. They didn’t pause to look around, but kept coming. And there were at least forty.
“This is no ordinary hunting pack,” Haplo said.
“No,” Marit agreed. “There’re too many of them. They’re not fanning out, not stopping to sniff the air. And they’re all armed.”
“All heading straight in this direction. And us with our backs against the mountain.” Haplo scanned the vast plain in discouragement. “And no help down there.”
“I’m not so sure,” Marit said, sweeping her hand to her right. “Look over there, on the horizon. What do you see?”
Haplo looked, squinted. Gray clouds hung low; fingers of mist dragged over the tops of a distant stand of fir trees. The jagged peaks of snow-capped mountains could be seen when the mist lifted. And there, above the dull green of the firs, about halfway up the side of one of the mountains …
“I’ll be damned!” Haplo breathed. “A fire.”
Now that his attention was drawn to the brilliant spot of orange, he wondered that he hadn’t noticed it immediately, for it was the only splotch of color in the dismal world. He let hope, kindled by the flame, warm him an instant, then quickly stamped it out.
“A dragon attack,” he said. “It has to be. Look how far it is above the treetops.”
Marit shook her head. “I’ve been watching the fire while you were down there fooling with the Sartan. It burns steadily. Dragon-flame comes and goes. It may be a village. I think we should try for it.”
Haplo looked at the tiger-men, steadily decreasing the distance between themselves and their prey. He looked back at the flame, which continued to burn steadily, brightly, almost defiantly lighting the gloom. Whatever decision they made would have to be made soon. Heading for the fire would carry them down the ridge, into the plains, clearly into view of the tiger-men. It would be a desperate race.
Hugh the Hand crawled up on his belly beside Haplo.
“What is it?” he grunted. His eyes widened at the sight of the cats moving purposefully toward them. But he said nothing beyond another grunt.
Haplo pointed. “What do you make of that?”
“A beacon fire,” Hugh the Hand said promptly. “There must be a fortress near here.”
Haplo shook his head. “You don’t understand. Our people don’t build fortresses. Mud and grass huts, easily put up, easily abandoned. Our people are nomads—for reasons like that.” He glanced at the tiger-men.
Hugh the Hand chewed thoughtfully on the pipe stem. “It sure as hell looks like a beacon fire to me. ’Course,” he added dryly, removing the pipe, “in a place where house cats are as big as men and dogs are as big as trees, I could be mistaken.”
“Beacon fire or not, we have to try for it. There’s no other choice,” Marit insisted.
She was right. No other choice. And no more time to stand here arguing about it. Besides, if they could just make the forest safely, that might discourage their pursuers. The tiger-men didn’t like the forests, the territory of their longtime foes, wolfen and snogs.
Wolfen and snogs—other threats they’d have to face. But—one way of dying at a time.
“They’ll spot us the moment we break cover. Run down the ridge and across the plains. Make straight for the trees. If we’re lucky, they won’t follow us into the forest. Not much use in setting an order of march. Try to keep together.” Haplo looked around, brought the dog forward with a gesture.
Alfred opened his eyes, took one look at the band of tiger-men moving toward them, gave a groan, and shut his eyes again.
“Don’t faint,” Haplo told him. “You’ll fall off and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stop and put you back on.”
Alfred nodded, clutched the dog’s fur even more tightly.
Haplo pointed toward the woods. “Take him there, boy,” he ordered.
The dog, realizing this was serious work now, cast a baleful glance at the tiger-men and then stared at the forest with fixed determination.
Haplo drew in a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
They plunged down the side of the ridge. Almost instantly, wild cat screams rose on the air—horrible sounds that raised the hair on the back of the neck, sent shivers through the body. Fortunately, the ridge was made of granite, solid and hard, and they were able to scramble down it swiftly. Moving at an angle away from the tiger-men, the small band reached the level plains ahead of their pursuers.
The ground was now smooth and flat; whatever type of vegetation had once covered it appeared to have been deliberately
cut down, allowing them to run unobstructed. The thought occurred to Haplo, bounding swiftly over the dark black dirt, that he might have been dashing across lush farmland perched high in the mossbeds of Pryan. The idea was ludicrous, of course. His people were hunters and gatherers, fighters and roamers, not farmers. He put the thought out of his mind, put his head down, and concentrated on pumping his legs.
The level ground was an advantage to Haplo and his group, but it was also a distinct advantage to the tiger-men. Haplo, glancing behind, saw that the creatures had dropped to all fours, their powerful limbs galloping with ease over the dirt and plant stubble.
Their slant-eyes glittered green; the glistening fangs in their panting mouths were spread wide in grins of blood-lust and the thrill of the chase. The dog had raced on ahead, Alfred bumping and jouncing, his legs flung up and back and sideways. The dog easily outdistanced those on foot. Casting a worried backward glance at its master, it started to slow, waited for him to catch up.