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 Mark’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 Mark 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.