The real question was, what could Brian tell him without breaking the boy's nerve? "Dougal will have beasts on guard throughout his forest, vicious things he's caught and trained or broken to his will. He'll have some human guards as well, closer in where they'll be safe, because some of the animals he keeps will kill anything that walks."
In other words, Jo could die quickly if she was wandering alone. Brian didn't want to remind David of that.
"Watch the forest," he said, "not me. Man or beast, anything out there besides Jo or Maureen is fair game. Kill it before it kills you."
Brian moved as if he patrolled alone: eyes ahead, eyes behind, checking out each tree, each rock, each step along the beaten leaf-mold of the trail. He couldn't expect David to spot danger, couldn't rely on the boy to guard his back. The training wasn't there.
The damned leg and shoulder still hurt. His ribs still stabbed him in the side with an ice-pick when he tried to breathe too deeply, and he had all the stamina of a week-old kitten. That was always the last thing you got back after wounds, the body's revenge for deadly insults.
Sean couldn't have waited another day, another week, to snatch Maureen. He had to do it last night.
Bastard.
Scraps of purple rip-stop nylon lay in the trail, mixed with white fluff. Brian squatted down with a quiet grunt of pain, and studied the pattern, automatically looking for trip-wires or the evil little prongs of a contact mine. To hell with the fact that explosives wouldn't work here: old habits die hard.
His fingers traced prints in the exposed dirt. Something big had walked here, something with scaly feet and claws. A whiff of vinegar mingled with the earthy rotting of the forest floor. He wrinkled his nose.
Dragon. That would explain the overgrown lizard tracks.
David grunted something inarticulate, and Brian scanned the forest for mythical beasts. Nothing moved. His gaze flicked across the young human and then back to him again.
The boy's face looked like pale ash, a mask. He was staring at the cloth and blinking.
"Jo. Jo's ski-jacket. She wore that when she left."
Brian picked up a scrap and ran his thumbnail over one of the dark blotches on it. Part of the stain flaked off, reddish brown: dried blood. He looked around for more splashes and puddles on the dead leaves, the torn earth.
Not enough for death.
He teased at the stain again, sniffed it, tasted it: the heady musk of a fertile female of the Ancient Blood. It was definitely Jo's jacket, almost the same fragrance as Maureen. Maybe a day old, maybe more. Less than a week.
Time ran differently in the Summer Country than in David's world. Time even ran differently in one part than in another. Last night in the "real" world might be last month or tomorrow here.
His fingers traced the tracks again, and then he looked up at David. Brian decided to give it to him straight and see if he panicked. Better now than later.
"It looks like a dragon caught her and didn't kill her. The beast may have a brood she's teaching to hunt, like a mother cat. Or sometimes Dougal wants to take prisoners. That's not a thing you should be hoping for."
The fear had faded from David's face, replaced by white rage. He forced words past his clenched teeth. "Dougal. One of your Old Ones. What are his powers? Will these arrows work on him?"
Controlled anger was good. Much better than either blind rage or panic. Brian could use anger--could aim it and pull the trigger, could set a timer on it and leave it ticking on someone's doorstep.
"Arrows will work. He controls people and animals, not things, and he needs to be close to them for hours or days. He's a beast-master. The other side of the coin is, the control lasts. It's not like a glamour, where if you move away five feet, ten feet you lose your power. His beasts will obey him even if he doesn't see them for weeks."
"I think I'd rather strangle him. If he hurts Jo . . ."
"Just kill him the fastest way you can. You won't get a second chance."
David swallowed and nodded. At least the kid wasn't sputtering about dragons. Shake him loose from his mind-set once and he was willing to take all comers. Good. Very good.
How would he act under fire? That was the acid test.
"If you see a dragon, aim for the eyes or down the throat. The only place your arrows'll pierce the hide is right under the legs, and you'll never get a shot at that. Most other stuff you see, go for the chest or belly. Slow down, stay calm, choose a target, remember the smooth release. Panic won't help Jo."
"Jo," David muttered. "Dragon. Eyes. Throat. Kill."
And he was off down the trail, stalking like a wind-up toy all stiff in the legs and with the bow held like a forgotten walking stick.
"Bloody raw recruit!" Brian swore and hobbled after him, struggling to catch the kid before he triggered one of Dougal's traps.
Dark scales glittered between the trees and swirled toward David, a wall of armor more than man-high. He jerked the bow up and loosed an arrow that flew wild, the string twanging like a plucked lute. The shadow hissed like a snake imitating a Russian basso and then struck at David with a head the size of a small car.
Dragon. The kid was lunch.
Somehow, David rolled sideways from the teeth and bounced back to his feet, shedding bow and pack and quiver. The dragon whipped her tail around, sweeping her prey from his feet and into a tangle of brush.
{The Master said nothing about eating you.}
Brian jerked his kukri from its sheath and limped forward, working a stunning spell as he walked. Real dragons didn't have magical defenses--they rarely needed them.
"Hey, snake!" Brian shouted. "Stop to eat him, and
