“Have we reached the mountainside yet?” Dirk asked.
“The grade’s not steep enough,” Cort told him, then stiffened. “Listen!”
They did. Faint on the breeze came the belling of hounds.
Gar cursed. “I’d hoped they’d left those blasted nuisances with the farmer they bought them from. Wading that stream won’t slow them by more than fifteen minutes now.”
“That should be time enough,” Cort said. “We’re almost to the mountainside.”
“You’re the one who knows the territory,” Dirk grunted.
They toiled uphill, the ground rising more and more steeply, the hounds howling closer and closer. Finally they halted to rest and breathe at the uphill edge of a mountain meadow, turning back to look out over the countryside. The tall trees of the forest lay below them now, the smaller trees of the mountainside around them. The Hollow Hill lay below, too, past the edge of the forest and almost on the horizon.
“Yes, I’d say we’re on the mountainside,” Dirk said.
Then half a dozen men rode out of the trees at the other side of the meadow, following a peasant who held the leashes of five hounds. The beasts saw the companions and leaped against the leashes, baying eagerly. The horsemen shouted and spurred their horses, leveling their lances.
“Back behind the trees!” Gar snapped. “Climb if you can! If you can’t, trip the horses!” He didn’t need to say what to do after that.
Cort managed to find a low limb and scrambled up to hide among the leaves. Gar caught up a fallen branch and hid behind a tree. Dirk disappeared.
The horsemen came thundering in. Cort jumped down onto the back of the first, howling as though he were demented, and threw an arm around the man’s neck. He wrenched back, and they both fell off to the side, away from the path. Cort twisted as they fell and landed on top. He drew his dagger and struck with the hilt, as he’d seen Gar and Dirk do. Then he scrambled up and spun about, just in time to see Gar leap out and brace one end of the branch against a tree trunk, the other aimed for the midriff of the horseman. He parried the lance with his dagger, and his makeshift staff caught the rider square in the stomach. The Hawk fell, retching.
Then another rider was galloping down on Cort, yelling, his lance pointed squarely at the lieutenant’s chest. Cort leaped aside, but the horse’s shoulder caught him and sent him spinning against a tree trunk. His head cracked against the wood, and the world went wobbly. He clung to consciousness desperately, working his way back to his feet by clutching the trunk, then turned, shaking his head, to see the lance shooting toward him again. With his last faint hope, he shoved the lancehead aside. It thudded into the tree trunk, and its butt whipped out of the rider’s hands. He cursed, turning; and drew his sword.
Cort reversed the spear, braced the butt against the tree, and aimed it at the rider’s torso. It caught him on the hip; he screamed, falling, and bright blood stained his livery. Cort yanked the lancehead free and stepped out onto the trail, ready for the next man.
They were all down, and the horses were turning to run back, shying away from the dogs, but sending them into a confused mass. Gar stood over two men, blood streaming from the wound on his hip, but with their lances in his hands, and Dirk had somehow managed to knock out his pair, too, though the side of his face was already swelling.
Then Gar strode back down the path, face contorted with rage. He raised the two spears and roared.
The dogs howled and turned to run, their handler hard on their heels.
“The Hawks will … catch them and … turn them back on us,” Cort panted.
“No doubt.” Gar came striding back, grinning. “But it will take time.”
“I thought this mountainside was too steep for horses,” Dirk said.
“It is,” Gar told him. “As you see, the steeds did them absolutely no good. Come, gentlemen—onward and upward.”
“Excelsior,” Dirk muttered. “What’s that?” Cort asked.
“A strange device, and Heaven knows we’ve been seeing enough of them lately. Which way is up?”
They plowed on toward the top of the mountain, and though they heard the hounds coming closer after an hour, they weren’t moving very rapidly. The Hawks couldn’t make any better time on horseback than the companions could on foot, and night fell before they reached the top of the mountain.
When they did reach the peak, Dirk stopped to rest, but Gar said, “You’re a very clear silhouette against the stars. Just a few more yards, my friend, to put the mountaintop between us and them.”
They climbed over the ridge and started down. When they had made another dozen feet, Gar called a halt. He asked Cort, “What are the odds the Hawks will keep after us even though it’s night?”
“No question about it,” Cort said. “They’ll keep chasing. They’ll go slowly, though.”
“Especially since they’ll be leading their horses,” Gar said. “We can go faster than they, for a change. Cort, how far to Quilichen?”
“Four hours’ travel,” Cort said, “since we’ve come over the mountain this time, instead of around it.”
“But that’s when we’re fresh,” Gar said grimly. “We’re tired already. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it before dawn.”
“Only if we can find some way to stall the Hawks,” Dirk said. “They’re bringing their horses with them, remember?”
“They will go faster than we will once the ground levels out,” Gar admitted, “but still no faster than a walk, in the dark and with no road.” He handed Cort one of his captured lances. “Use it as a staff. Let’s go.”
It was a long night, with the Hawks coming closer and closer behind them. They laid false trails, breaking them with streams and rock slides. Time and again they hid, and let a squadron of horse soldiers pass them by. As dawn neared, they were plodding along the bottom of a gully, both because it would hide them and because it might slow the hunters a little. They began to hear the belling of the hounds once more.
“What did they do?” Dirk groaned. “Let them sleep?”
“I suspect they had difficulty driving them back onto our trail, after their fright,” Gar said, shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
In spite of his weariness, Dirk looked up at him sharply. “I’ll just bet they did! Come on, Cort.” The lieutenant felt as though each foot was made of lead, but forced himself onward sternly, not complaining. “Have we gone far enough along this dry streambed?”
“I’ll take a peek and see,” Dirk answered, then gritted his teeth and forced each foot up the slope. Cort took advantage of the opportunity to rest, but knew better than to sit or lie down; he simply leaned against the nearest boulder.
“They’ll be on us soon,” Gar told him. “If I go off away from you…”
“I’ll be amazed if you can put one foot in front of the other, let alone outrun me,” Cort said though his teeth.
“Is he volunteering for martyrdom again?” Dirk called down.
“I don’t know what martyrdom is,” Cort called back, “but I think he’d volunteer for anything right now.”
“So would I, if it got me out of here.” Dirk forced himself up the last foot and gave a cry of delight.
“Can you see it?” Cort stood bolt upright. “Quilichen’s wall!” Dirk called back. “Just enough light to see it by!”
Hope pumped new energy through the other two; they plowed up the side of the slope. Sure enough, there stood the city, looming above the morning mist in the distance.
“Let’s go!” Dirk scrambled out, visions of Magda dancing in his head.
Cort put out a hand to stop him, looking back at Gar. “Why are you so slow? We need speed!”
“We need to stop our hunters even more,” Gar grunted as he rolled a small boulder into place. Cort’s eyes widened. “No man can move a stone that heavy!”