That place might not be Valdemar; that was something he was going to have to admit. They might not be able to deal with someone who had tufted, pointed ears, catlike eyes, and a satiny-smooth pelt of very, very short fur. It wasn't obvious, but a close examination would show it. The Heralds were open-minded, but were they open-minded enough for that?
To accept someone who looked half animal?
And he was going to have to go home eventually...That question kept him thinking until Wintermoon shook his shoulder.
After that, he was too busy breaking camp and following the scout through the darkness to worry about anything else. And when they finally made camp again, he was too tired to think at all.
*Chapter Five - Wintermoon., Corwith.. and K'tathi
The two hunters began using a different pattern than a follower might expect; they were on the move from about midafternoon to after midnight.
With the owls helping him, Wintermoon was completely happy doing most of his scouting after darkness fell, and even Skif's nightvision gradually improved with practice. He would never be Wintermoon's equal, but he grew comfortable with searching the forest in the darkness. There were advantages to this ploy that outweighed the disadvantages; the strongest advantage being that with K'Tathi and Corwith scouting for them, there was nothing that was going to surprise them-and nothing that would be able to follow them easily. Few creatures hunted the night by preference, and those few, though formidable, could be watched for. So for several days, they hunted and camped, and remained unmolested even by insects. But Skif knew that the situation could not last. Sooner or later, they were going to run into one of the kinds of creatures that had driven the Tayledras borders back in the first Place. Sooner or later, something was going to come hunting them.
That, in fact, was what he was thinking when they paused along a deer trail, and Wintermoon sent the owls up to quarter the immediate vicinity, looking for disturbed areas or other signs of someone who was not especially woodswise. Cymry began acting a little nervous, casting occasional glances back over her shoulder. But Wintermoon, who was sitting quietly on Elivan, didn't seem to sense anything out of order.
His first real warning that something really was wrong and that Cymry just wasn't being fidgety was when Wintermoon suddenly tensed and flung up his hand, and Corwith came winging in as fast as slung shot, landing on his outstretched arm, and hissing with fear and anger. Skif held out his hand as Wintermoon had asked him to do if one of the owls ever came in fast and showing distress. K'Tathi arrived a moment later, and K'Tathi hit his gauntleted wrist as if striking prey. It was the first time that the owl had landed on Skif, and nothing in his limited experience in hawking with merlins and kestrels prepared him for the power and the weight of the bird as it caught his wrist and landed. Those thumb-length talons closing-even with restraint-on his wrist could easily have pierced the heavy leather of the gauntlet. They did not although the claws exerted such powerful pressure that Skif could not possibly have rid himself of the bird short of killing it. K'Tathi hissed angrily, and swiveled his head away from Skif, pointing back the way he had come.
Before Skif could ask what was wrong, Wintermoon cursed under his breath and the dyheli stag he rode tossed its antlers and reared, its eyes shining in the moonlight, wide with fear. Wintermoon kept his seat easily, but Corwith flapped his wings wildly to keep his balance.
Tilredan, the second stag, the one laden with their provisions and extra gear, bolted; it was Skif's turn to swear, and not under his breath.
But he had reacted too soon; in the next breath, Wintermoon's mount followed the other stag, and Skif only had Cymry's warning, Mindcall of 'Hold on.' before she was hot on his heels.
Hold on? With an owl on one arm?
He dropped the reins-useless in a situation like this one-and grabbed for the pommel of the saddle with his free hand, deeply grateful that he had not given in to Wintermoon and exchanged Cymry's old saddle for a Shin'a'in model. Shin'a'in saddles had no pommel to speak of.
K'Tathi continued to cling to his wrist, mercifully refraining from using his wings to keep his balance. One strong buffet to the head from those powerful wings would lay Skif out over Cymry's rump before he knew what had hit him. Instead, the owl hunched down on the wrist, making himself as small as possible, leaning into the wind of their passing.
Skif tried to bring him in close to his body, but he wasn't sure how much K'Tathi would tolerate.
'What in-: Skif began.
A pack of something, that scented us and is hunting up our backtrail,' Cymry answered shortly. 'Not something we've seen before, but something Wintermoon and the others know. Worse than wolves, worse than Changewolves.
And smart-we're running for a place where we can defend ourselves.
K'Tathi found it just before Corwith sighted the pack.' He could only hope that an owl's idea of what was defensible and theirs was the same; sheer cliffs were fine if you could scale them, and a hole in a tree would be all right if the tree was the size of a house, but otherwise they'd be better off making a back-to-back stand.
And he hoped his idea of 'nearby' and the owl's was the same, too.
For behind him, he heard an uncanny keening sound; not baying, not howling, not wailing-something like all three together. The noise gave him chills and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and it sounded as if it was coming from at least eight or nine throats. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw nothing, but his imagination populated the darkness. If he heard eight, how many were really in the pack?
Twelve? Twenty? Fifty?
K'Tathi clutched his wrist a little harder, and the deadly talons pricked him through the leather. This was not a good way to carry the bird, but there was no way to turn K'Tathi loose to fly. The dyheli were nearly a match for a Companion in speed, and they were going flat-out; neither owl could have hoped to keep up with them by flying through the canopy, which was why both birds were clinging desperately to their perches on his wrist and Wintermoon's. But K'Tathi, at least, was having a lot of trouble holding on. If the owl exerted a little more pressure: Cymry! Can you talk to K'Tathi?' he asked Cymry, frantically.
Her mind-voice was colored with surprise and annoyance at what probably seemed like a supremely
