inappropriate question. 'Yes, but this is no time-: He interrupted her. 'Tell him not to move, I'm going to try something with him, before he goes through my wrist.' He pulled his arm to his chest, and brought the bird in close to his ty, sheltered against his body. This left the owl unbalanced, with its ac~e shoved against his tunic, but K'Tathi displayed his agility and intelligence; somehow he managed to get himself reversed, so that his head faced forward and his tail and wings were tucked down between Skif's wrist and his chest. Now the bird wasn't having to fight the wind by himself, he was braced against Skif. The painful pressure on Skif's wrist relaxed. that takes care of one problem.
Cymry's muscles bunched and flexed under his legs, the sound of hooves drowning out anything else except the chilling cries behind them.
The wailing behind them seemed closer. Skif didn't ask Cymry if it was; it wouldn't make any difference. They'd either reach safety in time, or not.
He just wished he knew how far it was to that promise of 'safety.' If he knew, he might be able to guess whether they had any chance of making it, or whether it might be better to turn and make a stand.
And he wished that he had Wintermoon's night-sight, far superior to his own. To him, the moon-filled night was full of shadows his eyes couldn't penetrate. There could be nothing in those patches of darkness, or an enemy, or a hiding place. Though the moon was bright, there were still enough leaves on the trees to keep most of the light from reaching the ground.
The pack behind them cried again; this time there was no doubt in his mind about the peril of their situation. They were closer; if he looked back, he might be able to see them. The brush obscuring the path behind them didn't seem to be slowing the pack at all. In fact, they were probably breaking a trail for the pursuers to follow along. He'd learned long ago that being the pursued in a chase was more difficult than being the pursuer.
He crouched a little lower over Cymry's neck; as low as he could without flattening the owl. K'Tathi seemed to realize what he was doing, and didn't object or struggle, only giving him a warning stab with his talons when he crouched too low for the owl's comfort. Soft feathers pressed against his chin, and K'Tathi hunched down on his wrist so that the bird's chest-feathers warmed his hand.
He glanced up; saw the gray bulk of a rock formation looming ahead of them through the trees. In this light, it looked very like the one in which he and Elspeth had sheltered when they first arrived in Tayledras territory. A moment later, he saw that this one was bisected by a goodsized crack. just like the one he and Elspeth had used.
He seemed to spend a lot of time hiding in rock crevices lately.
Whatever had happened to hiding in rooms, behind drapes, or under furniture?
He had a moment to think-oh, no, not again-and then Cymry braced all four legs for a sudden stop, skidding to a halt beside the dyheli. At least the owls did seem to have some idea of what constituted a good shelter for the rest of the party. The crevice would be a little crowded for three plus the two humans, but it was better than facing what howled on their backtrail with nothing to protect their backs!
All three of them crowded into the narrow crevice between two halves of a huge boulder; the rock was easily two stories tall, and the crevice ended in the stone face of a second stone that was even taller. There was barely enough room for Cymry to turn around, but that was fine; less room for them meant less room for those things out there to try to get past them.
A strangled hoot and the booting of K'Tathi's head against his chest reminded him to turn the poor owl loose. He raised his arm and launched it clumsily into the air, thrown off by the confined quarters and the fact that the owl was considerably heavier than a merlin. It wasn't much of a launch, or much help to the owl in gaining the air; K'Tathi hit him in the side of the head with a wing, recovered, and got free of the crevice, just as the pack reached them.
Skif looked up when a note of triumph entered the wailing. A strange, yellowish flood burst through the bushes and into the area around the rocks. Dear gods-He needn't wish for night-sight after all. The damned things glowed.
Now that he saw them, he wished, perversely, he didn't have quite such a good view.
They looked-superficially-like dogs; they had the lean, long-legged bodies of greyhounds, the close-cropped ears, the long, snaky tails and pointed muzzles. But their faintly-glowing, pale yellow hides were covered with scales, each scale outlined by a darker yellow. Their heads, shaped like an unholy cross between dog and viper, held eyes that burned a sulfurous yellow much brighter than the bodies, and rows of sharply pointed fangs.
They flowed, they didn't run; they drifted to a halt outside the entrance to the crevice and wound around each other in a vicious, impatient, ever-moving tangle. A snarl of ropes, with teeth at one end. A ball of vipers. They confused the eye and baffled the senses with their hypnotic restlessness. Wintermoon slid off the back of his mount; Skif followed his example a moment later.
They couldn't get in; the sharp hooves of Cymry and the dyheli bucks awaited them if they tried, not to mention the bows that Skif and Wintermoon unlimbered from the sheathes at each saddle. But those who had taken refuge here couldn't get out, either.
Stalemate.
Skif strung his bow and nocked an arrow to the string, Wintermoon shadowing every movement. All right, here we are. Now what?
'What are those things?' Skif asked quietly, as the creatures continued to mill about in front of the crevice. He blinked his vision clear as they blurred for a moment. Was that just his tired eyes acting up, or were they doing it?
'Wyrsa,' Wintermoon replied, frowning as he sighted along his arrow.
He loosed it in the next moment, but the wyrsa that was his target writhed aside literally as the point touched its hide, evading the deadly metal hunting point in a way that Skif would have said was impossible if he hadn't seen it himself. He'd never seen anything move so fast in his entire life.
Wintermoon muttered under his breath; Tayledras words Skif didn't know, but recognized for intention if not content.
The Tayledras nocked another arrow, and sighted, but did not fire.
'They have no magic weapons, but they do not tire easily, and their fangs are envenomed,' Wintermoon continued, watching as the beasts flowed about each other. 'Once set on a quarry, they do not give up.
