"Giddap!" she barked, kicking her heels. The mare surged to a spine-jolting lope; she hung on, bouncing painfully, until her horse caught up and fell into trail, settling into a rolling walk. More passenger than pilot, Buccari relaxed and studied her surroundings. A covey of ptarmiganlike birds flushed from a weedy runnel and sputtered into the air, scattering downwind and bringing Buccari's eyes up to the vistas around her. Above them hunters—Tonto and Bottlenose—soared easily on buffeting thermals. A stately line of sunstruck squalls paraded across the dusky horizon, dragging thin sweeps of rain. Two-thirds of a rainbow magically appeared in the near distance and serenely faded into ephemeral memory. Scattered cumulus clouds drifted past, yet the skies overhead were so fresh and clear that the hunters were never hard to discern, despite their altitude. And the hunters were not alone in the skies—giant eagles also wheeled in the clear air, keeping their distance and posing no threat. Visible to the southeast, musk-buffalo grazed with singular purpose, the great bulk of their number shielded from sight by rolling tundra. Their odor had been absent for more than a day, the prevailing winds an ally. Instead, the sweet, musty scent of late summer wildflowers assaulted Buccari's senses, the pink and blue blossoms contrasting sharply against the gray-green of the taiga.
Hunters screamed. Bottlenose glided rapidly ahead and out of sight beyond a low line of humpbacked downs. Tonto remained overhead, swerving in a nervous figure eight.
"We must be getting close," Shannon remarked.
Tonto screamed, urgently and loudly. He hovered, flapping his wings.
"Let's keep moving. Something's up," MacArthur shouted, chucking his reins to the side and heeling his horse into motion.
Tonto broke hover and glided out of sight behind the ridge. The riders crested high ground and the rolling prairie dropped dramatically at their feet, leveling abruptly on the geometric flatness of the salt plains. The vista was dotted with activity. An arm of the musk-buffalo herd rumbled to the east, raising a gritty cloud. Nightmare packs harried the herd's flank, breaking out stragglers and calves, their kills marked by congregations of buzzards and eagles fighting for carrion. Buccari's horse trailed MacArthur's surefooted mount down the steep decline. The others followed.
Three hours of trotting found them on the dry patches of crusty alkaline, the terrain making the going easy except for acrid billows lifted by the horses' hooves. The riders spread out line abreast to avoid the dust. Sight lines across the salt flats were blurred with thermal distortion, but they could finally see the compact figures of cliff dwellers. Something was peculiar. The realization struck home—the cliff dwellers were fighting nightmares! Hundreds of the horrible beasts encircled the small creatures.
Braan, leader-of-hunters, knew not what to do. Normally he would signal his warriors to jettison their bags, to rise on the powerful thermals. Only this time the decision was not simple, because the long-legs were approaching—ironically, coming to help the hunters. The long-legs could not escape into the air.
Growler carcasses riddled with hunter arrows littered the field. Sentries bravely darted among the kill, retrieving their precious missiles. Hunters were injured, but only one so severely that he could not fly. That hunter, a sentry, must die if the expedition took to the air.
"Thy decision, Braan-our-leader?" Craag queried, a bleeding claw mark on his neck. "The growlers circle closer."
Braan turned to the approaching horses and their long-leg riders. A good idea—using horses to lift the burden from the shoulders of his hunters—but now it seemed foolhardy.
"Jettison the salt bags and take flight!" Braan screamed. Craag loudly echoed the command. The hunters screamed in bedlam. Salt bags not already dropped were let go, and hunters flapped their membranes, leather wings cracking and snapping. The creatures desperately reached for free air, wingspans overlapping and conflicting. The cliff dwellers elevated from the salty surface— except the injured novice, his hand and forearm broken, his left wing shredded.
The hunter leader glided to the bleeding sentry and landed with a dust-throwing skid. It was Braan's fateful job to mercifully terminate the young hunter rather than leave him to the torture of the scavenger pack. Braan had helped many warriors die. The novice stood bravely erect, eyes shining with black glory, honored to die at Braan's hands. But then the sentry's head jerked in alarm, and he whistled a warning. Vicious growls shuddered in the air, and Braan looked up to see growlers prowling close—too close. There would not be time to dispatch the sentry, yet Braan could not desert the injured one. Braan screamed and drew his sword. The hunters stood back-to-back, ready to do final battle. A mighty fanged beast broke from the skulking siege and bounded forward, its tail a whipping, whirring blur.
Brappa landed at Braan's left side, his bow singing. The growler died in mid-leap, two arrows jutting from its skull. Braan looked over his right shoulder and saw Craag nocking another arrow.
"Flee!" Braan screamed at his cohorts. "It is my order! Fly away! Craag, thou art in command. Who takes charge? Fly now!"
Craag had no time to answer, but neither did the growlers have time to attack.
Buccari lost control of her mount. Her reins were useless; the thick cords of the horse's neck resisted all efforts to change direction. The mare plunged across the salt flats, her gallop a soothing pace change—except for the breakneck speed! Buccari grimly held on to the thick mane with both hands. She dared to glimpse sideways. The other horses also dashed headlong, riders powerless to sway or slow the beasts, though MacArthur sat erect, his rifle in hand. Buccari returned her view forward. The nightmares were scattering, feral eyes wide in fear. Her horse bunched its muscles and drove hard with a gut-sucking burst of speed to overtake the retreating predators, lunging into their midst.
Buccari redoubled her grip, desperately trying to anticipate the steed's terrific accelerations and swerves. With nimble strength the golden animal drove the panicky nightmares in tightening circles, working in concert with other horses. When a collection of the slavering beasts were made to collide back upon themselves, rendering them directionless and confused, one of the horses would charge into the pack and trample upon them with unbridled fury. It was during one of those charges that O'Toole was thrown. Buccari watched him crash to the ground. The horses avoided the fallen man, driving the nightmares clear.
The hunters on the ground screamed in fright and huddled together. Horses rumbled past, thick legs crashing like earth-drumming pistons, trampling the bodies—living and dead—of the growlers. Braan, sword held impotently, watched as the giant golden animals—helpless and frightened long-legs clinging to their backs—towered upon hind legs and crashed hoofs down upon the crippled growlers, crushing life from the whimpering and howling devils. Flashing teeth grabbed and snatched at the cringing beasts; powerful hind legs delivered deathly blows, and growlers fell by the dozens. The beleaguered scavengers scattered in rout, and thehorses pivoted and pranced nervously, looking for more victims. It was over. The horses, one riderless, nerves high, tails twitching, danced sideways as they converged in a trot around the awestricken cliff dwellers.
Tentatively, like dry falling leaves, the troop of dwellers drifted down from the skies and formed up by the discarded salt bags. Craag comically recovered his demeanor, bowed in apology to Braan, and moved away to take charge. Brappa, leading the injured novice, followed Craag, leaving Braan—the diminutive hunter— standing erect, if uncertain, before the towering, prancing horses.
O'Toole limped in their direction, smiling awkwardly.
"What the hell!" Shannon shouted, thick, silver hair blown askew; perspiration rolled from his brow, his eyes wide in astonishment.