Sam was surprised to find himself alive.
The flames had flared all around him, igniting the trees and his clothes. He had passed out from the pain and must have fallen, tumbling down an unseen bank into the sluggish stream where he now lay half-submerged. The water must have put out the flames. He was scratched and bruised from his tumble and scorched from the fire, but alive.
He could not have been unconscious long. He heard a voice that must belong to the elven mage that had burned him. The elf was probably so sure of his powers that he hadn’t bothered to check on Sam. Sam strained to make out the words.
“I’ve downed the tusker and one norm, Grian.”
“Roger,” came a reply fuzzed with the static hiss of a radio transmission. “Both vehicles burning. We’ve got three probable kills, but the clearing’s in flames and we can’t land there to confirm.”
“Want me to do a ground sweep?”
“Negative. You know the procedure, Rory. Nobody goes into an unsecured zone without back-up. Besides, you’ve been pumping a lot of power.”
“Null perspiration, Grian. I’m fresh enough. These gutter scum weren’t as tough as the briefing indicated. I won’t have any problems.”
“One more time, Rory. Head back to the rendezvous point. I’m bringing the flight down there. We link up, then we all go in together.”
“Don’t you think I can handle them? I am a noble-class sorcerer.”
“That’s not the point. They already winged me. I don’t want any more casualties. Meet us when we land.”
“Understood,” the mage said finally, but his next words were mumbled, obviously not intended for the other elves to hear. Sam couldn’t make them out either, but the tone was surly enough to guess the meaning.
Sam was suddenly terrified that the elf might want proof of his kill. He began to pray that the mage would just leave, preferring to let others confirm his prowess. The night grew quiet as the helicopters moved out, their fading sound leaving the forest to its own noises. Once more the leaves rustled in the wind, but the animals, frightened by the noise and flames, were silent. Sam decided to follow their example. It was time for him, too, to be very still.
He waited.
Tense minutes passed and he tired of shivering in the water. He moved his arm, careful to avoid splashing or dripping water as he raised it before his face. The screen of his watch was dark. He tried the reset button and the light feature activated only long enough to show him that the screen was misted on the inside. Useless. He flipped the toggle to release the catch, only to have the band snap in his hand, Reaching back to toss it away in disgust, he remembered that he was trying to be quiet. He slipped his hand underwater and let the broken timepiece sink to the streambed.
He waited some more, then dared to crawl back up the slope, his passage accompanied by the cracking and snapping of twigs and branches. Each sound increased his fear that he had not waited long enough for the mage to leave. When he finally poked his head above the bank, the mage was nowhere in sight.
The two Caravaners still burned, but the grass fires had mostly died. Kurt and Black Dog lay sprawled in death, along with the scattered remains of Sloan. Hanae was incinerating in one of the vans. Of Roe there was no sign. Between him and the devastation in the clearing lay the pool of slime that had been Chin Lee.
He was alone.
In the distance, Sam heard the howling again. This time another, different howl seemed to reply. The sound made him realize how alone he was, lost in a forest somewhere within Tír Tairngire, a nation that had demonstrated its hostility to him. The forest would be home to many paraspecies that wouldn’t mind making a meal of him. Thoughts of griffins and basilisks raced across his mind. And dragons. Sloan had said that the elves used dragons as border guards. His recent close encounter with the feathered serpent made him realize that such a beast could swallow him in a single gulp.
Chin Lee’s assault gun lay nearby, lost and forgotten when the ork got hit by the elf’s spell. Sam stared at it. Its metal parts were dark, looking cold even though faint reflections of flames danced on its surface. The ergonomically designed plastic stock and grips hinted at a seductive ease of use. Its sleek metal parts spoke of deadly efficiency. The assault gun was a weapon designed to kill people, yet Sam had vowed never again to touch such a thing.
The wolf howled once more.
He remembered the barghest that had attacked Sally Tsung. He would never forget its terrifying howl and slavering jaws. The beast’s baying had frozen him and the others where they stood. The wolf’s howl did not have that power, but it was chilling nonetheless. Sam had no magic to destroy a beast as Tsung had done.
What could kill people could also kill animals. He walked over and picked up the weapon. The weight surprised him, for Chin Lee had waved it around so easily. At least it had a strap, which he slung over his shoulder as the ork had done. He would carry the weapon in case of attack by some ravening paranimal. But he wouldn’t to use it against people. That he promised himself.
Sam looked again at the clearing. If he stayed to bury his former companions, the elves would return and catch him. Choosing his direction blindly, he turned his back on the scene and began to walk. He wondered how far he would get before the elves came back.
Sam started to run as soon as he heard the first rustling in the undergrowth. He hadn’t seen anything, but neither had he waited around to look. Now he couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of his own passage. The assault gun bounced against his shoulder and back, bruising the skin even through his tough coverall. Already he was winded, panting hard for every breath. He should have gone running more often with his dogs, or otherwise exercised to keep himself in better trim. Now he was running for his life and paying for his indolence. He wanted to stop, to breathe, to rest, but did not dare. They were behind him somewhere. They wouldn’t rest, so he couldn’t.
A root snagged at his feet, forcing him into a sideways lurch. The assault gun dragged at him, pulling him off balance. He staggered and crashed into the bole of one of the forest giants. The tree was unimpressed and he caromed off, losing his balance totally. He toppled over backward to land painfully, the gun’s magazine and stock digging into him even before his head rocked back to rap against the barrel. Dazed, he rolled over and tried to stand. Nausea swelled in his stomach and his head pounded. His vision narrowed and he fell heavily. The gun’s barrel wedged against a root, and he sagged over the weapon like a limp sack as his vision dimmed.
Lord, not now, he prayed. They’ll get me.
His body had no strength. It was weak, exhausted. But he could not rest until he was safe. He needed to know if the elves were tracking him.
Sam tried to get up but the world spun, then went dark. The next thing he knew he was rushing back along the path he had just taken. Here and there some twisted tree or rock outcropping looked familiar, but he saw no signs of his pursuit. Had he lost them? Was all his running in vain?
His questions were answered as he looked out onto the clearing where the elves had killed Hanae and the runners. He watched from the edge of the trees, the leaves shadowing his position and the bushes screening him. The scene had an unreal quality, a dreamlike distance as though it were continually receding at his approach. Everything was gilded with a faint, silvery light, yet the moon was cloud-hidden at the moment. A band of elves roamed amid the ruins of two strangely insubstantial Caravaners, one of them still burning. All but one of the elves wore uniforms bearing badges whose symbols spoke of protection and guardianship. Sam surmised that they were Tír Tairngire border guards.
The elf not in uniform stood apart from the searchers. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, he seemed to radiate power. He was familiar somehow, and Sam concluded that this must be the elven mage that the radio voice had named Rory. Other than these seven elves, Sam detected no other living persons in the area.
“What’s the story, Grian?” the mage asked the tall elf who approached him.
“One deader in the burned-out van. Bran says the skeleton looks to be female and there are indications that it’s the renegade from Renraku. Aidan scraped a couple bones out of the other van, so it looks like we got the second woman, too. The three in the open all match the runner descriptions, and the ork you got accounts for all the males except the Renraku guy.”
“Got him, too,” Rory assured him.
“We’ll see about that soon enough.” Grian shook his head. “Too bad about the high-tech stuff in the van. Ehran would like to have seen it.”
“You sure it’s beyond salvation?”
“Couldn’t be in worse shape if a dragon sat on it.”
Rory clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, at least we got a full count on our uninvited guests. Makes it a profitable evening.”
“Don’t spend it before you get it, Rory. We don’t have a full count until we get a confirmation on your second kill.”
“Then let’s get it. The guy went down over here.”
Rory led his companion toward the spot where Sam crouched spying. He feared that the elves would discover him and cry the alarm, but they seemed not to see where he hid. They stopped near where the sorcerer’s spell had overwhelmed Sam. Though they had come closer to Sam’s hiding place, their voices were no clearer. A trick of sound the forest was playing on his weakened condition.
“No body, Rory,” Grian observed to the accompaniment of Rory’s curses. Then he raised his voice. “Bran, get over here! We need a tracker. Our cocksure sorcerer went and missed.”
Grian skidded his way down the slope while Rory, more fastidious, followed him carefully. Both elves moved with a languid, slow-motion grace. Bran arrived in time to find Grian bending over to pluck something from the streambed. At first, Sam couldn’t tell what sort of device the elf was holding. Then he recognized the broken strap and realized it was his discarded watch.
“He went down here, all right.”
Rory reached out from where he stood on the bank and snatched the watch from Grian. “See. Good and charred. If he walked away from here, he didn’t get far.”
Grian ignored him. “Take a look around, Bran. See if you can find us a trail.”
Bran nodded and headed upstream. In a quarter of an hour, he was back. He spent several more minutes studying the stream bed near where Sam had fallen. The others watched him, Grian standing patient and confident, Rory pacing back and forth at the edge of the stream.
“Don’t think you’ll have to worry,” Bran announced.
“Why?”
“Found some hoof prints on a mud flat upstream. Looks like a single horse; riderless, I think. No signs of entry or exit from the stream for almost half a kilometer. No normal horse would take that kind of path at night.”
“Water horse, then?” Grian hypothesized.
“Looks like.” Bran nodded and pointed out signs as he spoke. “Stopped about there, where our boy fell in. Stood for a while, then took off downstream like a bat out of hell. Should have reached the Columbia by now. Looks like our boy is breathing water.”
“Nothing more to do here then,” Grian concluded.
Rory blocked him as he attempted to climb the slope. “What about confirmation?”
“If he took a ride on a water horse, there isn’t going to be a body.”
“Then we’ll get credit for the kill?”
“More than likely.”
“So I guess there is nothing more to be done here,” Rory said cheerily.
Sam saw the sour look Grian gave the sorcerer as Rory started up the slope.
“All right, mark it and we’re done. We’ll let the regular patrol clean up in the morning.”
There were murmurs of approval from the elves as they left off what they were doing and joined their leader. Bran tapped buttons on a shiny object he took from his backpack before dropping it near the burned-out van. While he was doing that, Rory spent some time staring at the marks his magic had made on the forest. He looked troubled, as though he couldn’t remember something that was important to him. When Grian called his name, the sorcerer shrugged and slowly turned away to follow the others. Sam watched the last elf leave the clearing to follow his companions back to their transportation. They were heading well away from the direction that he had run. He was safe.
Exhaustion swept over Sam. He left the clearing, turning his eyes from the death and destruction again. He had no awareness of the walk to the tree that had felled him, but suddenly he was there again.
Something nagged at him, a sense of being watched. He stretched his senses, pushing back the fatigue that dragged at him, dulling his perceptions. The woods were still peaceful. He caught a glimpse of shadowy shapes loping between the trees.
Dark beasts, canine and at least as big as wolves.
Then they were gone.
Strain as he might, he lost them among the trees. Were they coming closer? He didn’t know and almost didn’t care. He had pushed himself beyond his limits. His head drooped; he was tired beyond comprehension. Lord, he was tired.
Once more, he felt the pain of the assault gun grinding into his back. All the aches of over-used muscles and the small pains of scrapes and cuts swelled. It was deep in the third period of sudden death overtime and he was an Ice Brawl puck. If the beasts were coming to get him, they could have him. He already felt dead.
Intermittent puffs of hot air beat on the left side of his face, and he smelled the fetid stink of a carnivore’s breath. Cautiously, he turned his head and opened his eyes.
Two slanting, golden-green eyes stared into his.