We had halted in what appeared to me to be the exact middle of anywhere. River off that way, give or take; a few shriveled hills lumping up that way; no–color evening sky baking above … I could never have imagined surroundings less suitable for a gallant last stand. It wouldn't have taken a Goro and two Hunters to pick us off as we stood there with the sunset at our backs: two small, weary figures, weaponless, exposed to attack on all sides, our only possible shelter a burned–out farmhouse, nothing but four walls, a caved–in roof, a crumbling chimney, and what looked to be a root cellar. A shepherd with a sling could have potted us like sparrows.
«I knew," he repeated, looking much more like his former superior self. «Not whether it would be here, but that it would be here.» It made no sense, and I told him so, and the yap–laugh sounded more elated than I had yet heard it. «Think for once, idiot! No, no — don't think, forget about thinking! Try remembering, try to remember something, anything you didn't learn at that bloody asylum of yours. Something your mother told you about such places — something the old people used to say, something children would whisper in their beds to frighten each other. Something even a fool just might already know — remember! Remember?»
And I did. I remembered half–finished stories of houses that were not quite … that were not there all the time … rumors, quickly hushed by parents, of house–things blooming now and then from haunted soil, springing up like mushrooms in moonlight … I remembered an uncle's absently–mumbled account of a friend, journeying, who took advantage of what appeared to be a shepherd's mountain hut and was not seen again — no more than the hut itself — and someone else's tale of bachelor cousins who settled into an empty cottage no one seemed to want, lived there comfortably enough for some years, and then … I did remember.
«Those are fables," I said. «Legends, nothing more. If you mean that over there, I see nothing but a gutted hovel that was most likely greatly improved by a proper fire. Let it appear, let it vanish — either way, we are both going to die. Of course, I may once again have missed something.»
He could not have been more delighted. «Excellent. I must tell you, I might have felt a trifle anxious if you had actually grasped my plan.» The pale yellow glow was rising in his eyes. «The true nature of that house is not important, and in any case would take too long to explain to an oaf. What matters is that if once our pursuers pass its door, they will not ever emerge again — therefore, we two must become bait and deadfall together, luring them on to disaster.» Everything obviously depended on our pursuers running us to this earth at the same time; if they fell upon each other in their lust to slaughter us, so much the better, but he was plainly not counting on this. «Once we've cozened them into that corner," and he gestured toward the thing that looked so like a ruinous farm–house, «why, then, our troubles are over, and no burying to plague us, either.» He kicked disdainfully at the stone–hard soil, and the laugh was far more fox than human.
I said, as calmly and carefully as I could, «This is not going to work. There are too many unknowns, too many possibilities. What if they do not arrive together? What if, instead of clashing, they cooperate to hunt us down? Much too likely that we will be the ones trapped in your — your corner — with no way out, helpless and doomed. This is absurd.»
Oh, but he was furious then! Totally enraged, how he stamped back and forth, glaring at me, even his mustache crouched to spring, every white hair abristle. If he had been in the fox–shape — well, who knows? — perhaps he might indeed have leaped at my throat. «Ignorant, ignorant! Unknowns, possibilities —you know nothing, you are fit for nothing but my bidding.» He stamped a few more times, and then turned to stalk away toward the farmhouse — toward the thing that looked like a farm–house. When I made to follow, he waved me back without turning his head. «Stay!» he ordered, as you command a dog. «Keep watch, call when they come in sight. You can do that much.»
«And what then?» I shouted after him, as angry as he by now. «Have you any further instructions for the help? When I call to you, what then?»
Still walking, still not looking back, he answered, «Then you run, imbecile! Toward the house — toward, but not into! Do try to remember that.» On the last words, he vanished into the shadow of the farmhouse. And I … why, I took up my ridiculous guard, stolidly patrolling the dead fields in the twilight, just as though I understood what I was to expect, and exactly what I would do when it turned up. The wind was turning steadily colder, and I kept tripping on the ruts and tussocks I paced, even falling on my face once. I am almost certain that he could not have seen me.
In an hour, or two hours, the half–moon rose: the shape of a broken button, the color of a knife. I am grateful for it still; without it, I would surely never have seen the pair of them flitting across the dark toward me from different directions, dodging my glance, constantly dropping flat themselves, taking advantage of every dimness, every little swell of ground. The sight of them froze me, froze the tongue in my mouth. I could no more have cried out warning than I could have flown up to that moon by flapping my arms. They knew it, too. I could see their smiles slicing through the moonlight.
I was not altogether without defenses. They had taught us somewhai of kuj'mai —the north–coast style in that place, and I was confident that I could take passable care of myself in most situations. But not here, not in this situation, not for a minute, not against those two. My mind wanted to run away, and my body wanted to wet and befoul itself. Somehow I did neither, no more than I made a sound.
The worst momentmy stomach remembers it exactly, if my mind blurs details — was when I suddenly realized that I had lost sight of them, moon or no. Then panic took me entirely, and I turned and fled toward the farmhouse–thing, as instructed, my eyes clenched almost shut, fully expecting to be effortlessly overtaken at any moment, as a sheknath drags down its victim from behind. They would be laughing — were laughing already, I knew it, even if I couldn't hear them. I could feel their laughter pulling me down.
When the first hand clutched at my neck, I did turn to fight them. I like to remember that. I did shriek in terror — yes, I admit that without shame — but only once; then I whirled in that grasp, as I had been taught, and struck out with right hand and left foot, in proper kuj'mai style, aiming at once to shatter a kidney and paralyze a breathing center. I connected with neither, but found myself dangling in the air, screaming defiance into a face like no face I knew. It had a lizard's scales, almost purple in color, the round black eyes of some predatory bird — but glaring with a savage philosophy that never burdened the brain of any bird — a nose somewhere between a snout and a beak, and a long narrow muzzle fringed with a great many small, shy fangs. The Goro.
«Where is he?» it demanded in the Common Tongue. Its voice was higher than I had imagined, sounding as though it had scales on it as well, and it spoke with a peculiar near–lisp which would likely have been funny if I had not been hearing it with a set of three–inch talons very nearly meeting in my throat. The Goro said again, almost whispering, «Where is he? You have exactly three daks to tell me.»
What measure of time a dak might be, I cannot tell you to this day, but it still sounds short. What I can say is that all that kept me from betraying the old man on the instant was the fact that I could barely make a sound, once I had heard that voice and the hissing, murderous wisdom in that voice. I managed to croak out, «Sir, I do not know, honestly» — I did say sir, I am sure of that anyway — but the Goro only gripped me the tighter, until I felt my tongue and eyes and even my teeth about to explode from my head. It wanted the shapeshifter's life, not mine; but to the wrath in that clench, what difference. In another moment I would be just as dead as if it had been I who stole a dream. The pure injustice of it would have made me weep, if I could have.