She turned, saw what was coming, and cursed. She had thought the horses could outdistance the wounded beasts, but the Hippae had kept pace. That made the odds six Hippae to five humans. Even though four of the Hippae were slightly wounded, it wasn’t good. Not good enough.
From the east came a great crumping sound, a concussion of air, like thunder. The ground shivered. The two Hippae on the hill screamed in rage, realizing before Marjorie did what had happened. Alverd Bee’s men had blown up the tunnel. The tunnel. For the first time, Marjorie realized that the tunnel had been too narrow and low to allow a sudden, full-scale invasion. If the Hippae had been planning their attack for long, there were probably other tunnels. There was that great trail out there in the grass. There had to be other tunnels….
“We’re looking,” said Someone. “We haven’t found any others yet.”
Which didn’t mean there weren’t any.
“Are you going to help?” she demanded. “Are you going to let us get killed doing this all by ourselves?”
There was no answer.
Rigo had heard the explosion. Now he leaned over Octavo’s neck and urged him forward. Her Majesty and Millefiori fled along behind him, moving like the wind, opening the distance between them and the Hippae.
Marjorie turned more to the north. It would do no good to come up behind the other riders. Now they had simply to outrun their pursuers. Get to the stony ridges of Gom, get to the gate.
“If it were your people, I’d try to help,” said Marjorie.
“Humans have been helping the Hippae kill foxen,” came the answer, snappishly, not at all allusively, in clear words. Not the familiar voice, another one. “All along.”
“You know damned well that’s not so,” she cried. “Humans have been used by Hippae to kill foxen. That’s entirely different.” At least partly a lie, too. Humans had been all too willing to lend themselves to that Hunt.
No answer.
They ran. Quixote was lathered, breathing harshly. It had been a long hill and the armor was heavy. Marjorie held the reins in her teeth, took her knife from her pocket, and cut the straps that held the armor, one around Quixote’s breast, two on each side. The plates dropped off and the horse made a noise that sounded like a prayer. Tony saw what she was doing and did likewise.
Rigo had been watching. He nodded and called to the other two. Sylvan followed suit, as did Rigo himself. Rowena cried out in dismay. She had no knife. She had come last, and no one had thought to give her one.
As though distracted by this cry, Millefiori stumbled and fell. Rowena went rolling away, coming up wild-eyed. Then she was up, running toward the horse, mounting all in one fluid motion as Millefiori struggled to her feet, limping. Then the mare was running again, though awkwardly, slowly, with a wide space opening between Rowena and the others.
Sylvan saw. He turned Her Majesty and made a tight circle which brought him to his mother’s side. He reached out, pulled her onto the saddle before him. Now Her Majesty was carrying double. She slowed. Millefiori slowed. Sylvan edged back to give his mother room. One of the Hippae leapt forward with stunning speed and gaping jaws, snatching him from Her Majesty’s back. Another ran even with Millefiori, ready to leap. Rowena, face like death and mouth wide with an unheard howl, rode on.
Sylvan had vanished. Where he had been was nothing, no movement. Marjorie screamed in anger and pain, tears streaking her face. “I’ll begin by burning the swamp forest. It won’t burn easily, but we’ll do it somehow. Then the grasses, all of them. That will take care of the plague and the Hippae. There’ll be no more Hippae.”
“What about us?” voices cried.
“What about you?” she snarled. “If you’re no help, you’re no help. You don’t care about us. Why should we care about you?”
A whine. A snarl. A slap, as from one being to another being. Then, suddenly, there was something behind Millefiori, rising to confront the approaching Hippae. Mauve and plum and purple, a lash of tail and ripple of shoulders, a moving mirage of trembling air.
“If He has to do it alone,” Marjorie cried, “I’ll still burn the forest, even if I have to do it by myself.”
“The ones behind us are gaining,” Tony called. “Blue Star’s exhausted.”
“We’re all exhausted,” she cried, tears running down her face. Where Sylvan had been was a tumult of beasts. “Turn more toward the road.” She looked behind her, then up at the sun. They’d been running for well over an hour. Perhaps two. Thirty miles, more or less, all of it over rough ground and a lot of it uphill. With another twelve or fifteen miles to cover before they got back to the gate. “If I die out here,” she threatened, “my family will burn the forest, I swear to God they will.”
“What’s going on down there?” cried Tony. “The Hippae have stopped.”
They had stopped. Stopped, turned, were running away. Not back the way they had come, unfortunately. Uphill. Toward Marjorie. “Foxen,” Marjorie cried. “Not quite where I would have wanted them, but better than nothing, I suppose.”
She was trying to feel philosphical about dying, not managing it, trying not be frightened, and not managing that, either. “Tony, we have to take out the two behind us before those others reach us.”
He turned a stricken face upon her.
“We have to! If the other four reach us first, we’ll have them all around us.”
He nodded, biting his
