Suddenly, there was a human foot in front of it.
The foot was at least twice the size of the ant. Looking up, though, the insect saw a human being not much larger than the ones in its valley. But where a normal human had hips that forked into two legs, this one had only one leg the width of its whole body, a massive column, slightly bent at the knee, which descended into the huge flat foot that lifted as the creature hopped into the air then plummeted down, its foot spread wide to crush the ant.
The ant stared, not understanding—never had it seen an ant being crushed. At the last second, though, it connected with a memory of a tree falling on another worker-ant and dashed to the side. The huge foot slapped down into the sand, and the uniped man bent his knee deeply, crying, “Vermin!” then hopped high and forward.
His foot caught the ant on its underside and hopped up again, sending the ant flying twenty yards. The impact hurt, but the ant had felt worse; it scrambled up and ran from the uniped man. Shouting, the man came hopping after it, but the ant was far faster than any human, especially one hopping. It ran until the uniped sank below the horizon behind it.
Then the ant slowed, its antennae probing for anything that might be edible. It quickly found a lizard, one almost gelled solid by the night's chill. Shortly after, it found a family of mice. As it was eating, though, it heard a distant thud. Looking up, it saw the uniped hopping toward it.
Ants don't have a wide range of emotions, but it did feel anger at the man's tenacity. It gobbled up the rest of the mice, turned and ran again.
Running is hungry work, and half an hour later, with the one-footed man out of sight, it slowed to hunt some more. It found some prickly vines and managed to eat the vines and leave the prickles. It was just finishing when it heard a thud again.
It looked up at the approaching hopper with fresh anger, then turned and ran north. Once more it slowed as hunger turned to famishment, and cast about, seeking something to eat. It found little except sand and another very small lizard before it heard another thud.
The ant looked up in a fury. Would the uniped never stop? Would it have to kill the uniped to get a little peace?
The thought struck it with pleasure—a way to satisfy both ends at the same time, safety and appetite. It streaked back toward the uniped, wary of that great slapping foot but also very much aware that the man was made of meat.
The uniped shouted with anger, hopping high and aiming for the ant. At the last second the ant dodged aside and, before the man could hop again, ran up his leg and over his hip and chest, its mandibles reaching for his throat. After all, when two anthills fought one another, biting off your enemy's head always stopped it, and if it worked with an ant, why not with a human?
But the uniped man shouted in anger and struck the ant with a huge fist. It fell, rolling, and struggled up to see that huge foot descending right toward it.
The ant dodged again, but when it tried to climb the leg a second time, the uniped was ready; the fist swung down out of nowhere and the ant went spinning. It sprang to its feet and ran in a half-circle, the great foot thudding behind it. Around and around the ant ran, watching out of its faceted eye as the uniped man spun about, stamping and shouting. Then, dizzy, he toppled.
The ant sprang in, mandibles wide, reaching for the uniped's neck—but the huge foot swung around, knocking it off its feet and through the air. This time the ant struck against a rock and landed dazed. It saw the huge foot approaching, hop by hop, but couldn't get its legs working again. The great sole lifted one last time to fill the sky, then descended…
The ant's legs started working and it shot out from under just as the great extremity slapped earth where it had been. All thoughts of food abandoned, the ant ran north, the direction the scent of the gold had been going. This time it knew better than to stop, and ran and ran northward, not even pausing to look back.
But as it ran, the clouds blew away, and the naked sun baked the desert with its rays. Between the heat and its hunger, the ant slowed, then finally stopped, trembling, and looked back— to see the uniped man hopping over the horizon. But he, too, had slowed, and now stopped, wiping his brow and lifting a waterskin for a long drink. Then, to the ant's astonishment, he lay down on his back and raised his foot. Its shadow fell across him, providing the uniped with shade in the'heat of the day.
But he had also put himself low enough for the ant to reach.
Slowly now, shivering with hunger, fatigue, and heatstroke, the ant went back toward the man. This desert's heat was a far cry from the moist jungle of its home valley—but it was beginning now to suffer from thirst, treading as lightly as possible until it was ten feet from the uniped, angling around so it came upon him from beyond the crown of his head, where the stupid blind human could not see. Then it rushed. The uniped never knew what bit it.
Matt pulled his cloak tighter about him; the wind of Stegoman 's flying was chill, especially at this altitude. He drew a forearm across his face to shield it, and beyond the folds of his cloak he saw a sinuous shape flanking them and veering closer. “Female flying object at nine o'clock,” he warned.
“I see her,” Stegoman said in a carefully neutral tone.
Dimetrolas converged on their course in a matter of seconds, and Matt decided he had definitely been away from Ali-sande too long—he was actually thinking the female dragon's graceful S-curve was attractive. It was either pure aesthetics or having been with Stegoman long enough to perceive as he did.
“I have heard something of your woeful travels, wizard,” Dimetrolas jeered. “What manner of man are you, who had the chance to fertilize dozens of females and refused?”
Matt felt a spurt of anger at the intention of the insult, if not its substance. “The only kind of man I respect, Dimetrolas— one who is faithful to his mate!”
“Oh, aye, even as dragons mate for life!” Dimetrolas jeered. “Have you been so long with this great scaly hulk that you have begun to think like our kind?”
Matt gave her a funny look, one he'd been practicing. “Humans mate for life, too, dragonette.”
“Not those I have met, silly male! In truth, even those I have seen who claim to be married are quick to couple with any females who offer!”
“The more shame to them for offering,” Matt called back. “I'm sorry you've only met such low examples of my kind.”
“Every human male whom I call friend has been faithful to his mate, save one,” Stegoman rumbled. “In truth, you have seen such sordid samples!”
But Dimetrolas picked up the mention quickly. “Save one? And who might that be?”
“A ragtag poet called Frisson, who rose to rule a kingdom as a wizard.”
“And you call him friend even though he is unfaithful to his wife?”
“He is unmarried,” said Stegoman, “and so far as I know, refuses to couple until he falls in love.”
“He is a madman and a fool!” Dimetrolas snorted.
“He is a poet,” Stegoman replied.
“As I said, a madman and a fool—and a paltry excuse for a male, as are you, O Most Celibate of Dragons!”
“Are you not celibate also?” Stegoman countered.
Red though she was, Dimetrolas's whole body turned redder. “Oh, then, let us praise the celebrated Stegoman! Would your fame be half what it was if folk knew you feared a female?”
“You have heard of me since last we met, I see,” Stegoman replied, “but I fear no female, though some disgust me.” He added pointedly, “And I have no fame.”
“Do you not! I have heard human folk speaking of the great Stegoman, who carried the Lord Wizard of Merovence to victory!”