men. Nothing. No cries, no excitement. Only this deadly calm. He gritted his teeth and hung on. At last, the green beast lowered his head and charged. Rigo’s mount did the same.
The opposing mount was coming up on his right, neck arched down and turned so that the barbs jutted wickedly outward. Rigo’s mount had taken the same position. They were like two warhorses, thundering toward one another. Neither of the beasts could see where he was going. Each threatened the other. Stavenger sat like a dummy, unseeing. At the last possible moment, Rigo jerked the toe of his right boot out of the stirrup hole and stood on his left toe, right leg high and bent back, holding himself high by locking his left hand tightly around the blunted barb.
The barbs of Stavenger’s beast meshed with those of Rigo’s mount, passed through and raked the place where Rigo’s booted leg had been, missing the blue Hippae skin by the thickness of a finger. Still holding himself high, Rigo could see Stavenger’s right boot in tatters. Blood blew from the man’s leg, long ragged lines trailing into the dust. The animals had no intention of hurting one another. The barbs were aimed at their rider’s legs.
Rigo settled upon the creature’s shoulders, and as they moved apart he took out the knife and cut the four barbs immediately in front of him, striking them to make them fall to one side. Though there were longer barbs on the neck, the amputation made him safe from being skewered, at least. The Hippae had turned and were readying themselves for another charge. They had to aim themselves like missiles; once their heads were down, they could not see where they were going. Some instinct or long practice let them know precisely where their opponent was, however. They passed this time on the left, the barbs meshing like gears, screaming as they plunged past one another, and once again Rigo moved his leg and balanced high on the opposite side of his mount, glued there by equal parts rage and fear.
This time Stavenger’s left boot was in tatters, his left leg streaming blood. There was still no expression in his face. The Hippae would keep it up even if Stavenger fell, even if he died. The Hippae would keep it up until Rigo was dead. There was no point in trying to kill Stavenger. It would be like killing a flea on the neck of an attacking dog. No. To stop the battle, the Hippae themselves would have to be stopped.
The next charge was to the right again. Rigo wound the reins around his left arm, grasped the smoothed barb in his left hand, withdrew his right leg, threw himself across his mount as the other went by, and struck at its rear legs with the knife extended to its full length. The blade hummed and sliced, through the flesh as it had through wood.
The green beast screamed, tried to walk on a leg half cut through, and crashed to the ground. Rigo’s mount pranced and howled and lashed back at him with barbs that were no longer there. Rigo reached low along one side and cut a back leg from beneath it, rolling away as the beast fell.
Noise. Two beasts screaming. He staggered to his feet, eyes fixed on them. They were trying to crawl toward him. trying to get up on three legs. He turned the knife to its maximum length and moved forward, slashing once, then again, cleaving the two skulls down through those clamping jaws, to leave the truncated, cauterized necks to lash themselves into quiet.
A great noise was coming from somewhere else. He turned just in time to see the Hippae who had been ranked along the wall charging at him, hooves high, jaws extended. There was no way to avoid them. He threw himself behind the bodies of the dying Hippae and cut at the legs and teeth that sought him from above. Blood rained down on him, blinding him.
Something struck him on the head. He slumped, stunned. There was sound, roaring, screaming, voices howling. Hippae shrieking as they backed off. Blackness came up around him, sucking at him.
Persun Pollut’s voice said, “Up, up, sir. Get in. Oh, get in, we can’t hold them off for long.”
Then vibration, the sound dwindling, and at last the blackness took him entirely.
It was Figor bon Damfels who reached Stavenger first, after waiting a considerable time for the Hippae to finish their slaughter and go away. Roderigo Yrarier’s servants had driven the Hippae off with the aircar, had leapt out and rescued him. Figor was astonished at this. None of the bon Damfels servants or the bon Laupmon servants had made any move to protect their masters. The twelve riders had borne the full brunt of the Hippae fury. All twelve had died, most of them bon Laupmons, fourteen deaths including Stavenger bon Damfels and Obermun bon Haunser. Stavenger showed no wounds, though he was pale and cold. His boots were in tatters. Figor unbuckled the strap that held the boots high and drew them off. Stavenger’s feet came with them. Only a thin strip of leather on the inside had kept the boots together. They had filled with blood and overflowed. Stavenger had bled to death, without moving.
Four Hippae were dead also, the two who had taken part in the joust and two others, their legs lopped off as though by some great cleaver. It was this death of Hippae that the others had sought to avenge.
The death of Hippae, though perhaps Yrarier’s escape had infuriated them more. They had danced and howled and leaped, trying to get their teeth into the ascending car. While all of it had been going on, Figor had not had time for much thinking, not time, nor ability. There was nothing in anyone’s mind then but red rage and a furious astonishment. After the Hippae had gone away, however, room for some thought had opened up. Thought and reflection on what eyes had seen even while minds had been unable to comprehend.
“Figor,” his cousin, Taronce bon Laupmon, said. “I found this where the
Figor took it. Some kind of tool. It had a thumb switch and he clicked it on. The blade quivered, humming with deadly force, and he clicked it off again. He whispered, shocked, “By our ancestors! Taronce!”
“It must be what he used on the mounts,” cousin Taronce whispered, rubbing at his shoulder where his prosthesis joined his body. “Cut their legs out from under them Chopped their heads in two. The way they chop at us. They way they chopped at me.” He looked around, guiltily. “Put it away before someone sees it.”
“What does Obermun bon Laupmon say? Lancel?”
“He’s dead, Gerold is alive. He wasn’t one of the mounted ones.”
“How did this all…” He gestured around him. “When I got here, it was already started.”
“The Hippae were waiting this morning, waiting on the gravel court. They took people, that’s all. They took Stavenger as soon as he arrived, and bon Haunser, as well.”
“No one bothered me.”
“No one else was bothered, just twelve riders, and Stavenger, and Jerril bon Haunser. And now they’re all dead.”
“Plus four mounts,” whispered Figor. “I’ve got the thing put away. I won’t let them know we have it.”
“You’d use it, wouldn’t you?”
“Would you?”
“I think so. I think I’d use it. It’s so neat. So little. You could keep it in your pocket. They wouldn’t know you had it. Then, if one of them came at you…”
“If Yrarier had this thing, they’re probably easy to get. In Commons, maybe.”
“Why didn’t we know? Before?”
“They didn’t let us know before. Or maybe we haven’t wanted to know, before.”
When Persun and Sebastian Mechanic reached Opal Hill they left Rigo in the aircar while they called Persun’s father on the tell-me and told him they wanted to evacuate the estancia. Rigo was unconscious. There was nothing they could do for him; he needed to go to the hospital in Commons at once, but there was this other very important consideration.
“Evacuate the village?” Hime Pollut asked. “You’re joking, Pers.”
“Father, listen. Rigo Yrarier killed at least two Hippae. I don’t know how many men died in the ruckus we left behind us, but some must have. I’m remembering the stories of Darenfeld estancia. How it was burned after somebody wounded a Hippae. How all the people in the village died. The people at Opal Hill village, the servants here in the big house, they’re our people, Father. Commons people.”
“How many at Opal Hill?”
“A hundred and a bit. If you can get Roald Few to send out some trucks…”
“Will the people be ready?”
“Sebastian is on his way to the village now. If you can get the trucks we use when we go into winter quarters, they can bring the livestock in. They’ll need their animals…”
A long silence. “Can you bring the foreigners from the estancia?”
