'Coming down is easy.'
HOW long Shadow slept he never knew. Sleep was supposed to be very difficult at great altitudes, but exhaustion belied that theory. He awoke choking, but suddenly and completely, knowing where he was and astonished that he was still alive. He was hot. At some time he had unfastened his flying suit, but he had no memory of that. He closed it up once more, fumbling in the dark, and wondered if he dared search for his food and water. NailBiter felt him move, tightened his wing slightly, then relaxed it again. The bird would not have slept, of course, but he must be growing perilously hungry.
Shadow crawled out from under the wing and stood up and looked at that deadly stare.
'Breakfast?' he asked. 'No? Well, let's get going.'
Would he be allowed to dress the monster? He picked up the helmet, and NailBiter lowered his great head slightly to make it easier. Incredible! Birds were smart, Shadow knew, and if they were to be cooperative also, then things were going to be a lot different. The saddle went on, and he clipped back the blinkers as soon as possible, knowing it was a risk but anxious to show appreciation. Perhaps he had just gone mad and this was not happening at all. He scrambled back down the length of the rope to collect the grapnel and then scrambled up it again, coiling. NailBiter turned and stared at him.
Then he opened his wings a fraction.
Shadow was definitely insane.
'Okay, Naily,' he said, tying the coil to the saddle, 'you're the boss now.' His teeth were chattering again. Every bone in his body was chattering. The stars were still there, but the shining mountaintops had changed since he last studied them; there was certainly a gap in them. That might be a shadow from Eagle Dome, or it might be the central windgap he was seeking--in either case, he must be close to the crest. If it got any higher, he was dead anyway.
NailBiter rose erect and turned his head back and forth. Then he took a few unsteady steps and stopped.
Shadow dismounted. The bird paced over the rocks, picking his footing with care--eagles were never good on their feet. He found a better launch pad, where the wind was stronger. Shadow climbed back into the saddle, tempted to pinch himself awake.
'If only you could talk, old buddy!' he said.
NailBiter crouched, spread, and leaped. For a tense moment rocky fangs snatched out on all sides, and then man and bird were airborne, fighting once more against the icy wind.
The bird was allowed to make the decisions now. Once he stopped for a rest, buffeted so roughly by the wind that his talons made scraping noises and he was continually seeking a better grip. Shadow could not have dismounted there if he had tried, so the message was clear. He was not supposed to. No more kiting!
Then there was turbulence and cold beyond belief, and he knew that he had reached the divide. And suddenly the wind was behind them. They soared and whirled up a steep cliff which must be the back of Eagle Dome, swept forward and upward relentlessly by the great wash coming down from the High Rand, starting to curve over to the right. Shadow heard himself cheering, and he reached out to rub NailBiter's comb in triumph. Then he blacked out.
He was awakened by a headache worse than anything he had ever known. NailBiter was gliding, floating down a vast gorge with the sun climbing over the horizon ahead. Shadow was stiff and frozen. His fingers and toes were numb, and when he was conscious enough to think about it, he decided that he probably had frostbite. But straight ahead must be Allaban--he had made it through Dead Man's Pass. One more for the history books.
Then a turn took them out of the gorge, and they drifted over a green countryside. He had been told that Allaban was a richer spot than the rest of the Rand, but he had seen nothing like this since he had left the Range: terraced fields and cottages and even small woods, and a prosperously cultivated hillside facing toward a white and brilliant sun. Not here the great tilted steps of the typical Rand, but gentle ridges and valleys running sunward, with many tiny dams to catch the spring, and canal's beating their lifeblood to the crops.
Suddenly the flying suit was outrageously hot and his feet and hands began to thaw in agony.
NailBiter's head flicked from side to side. Wilds! Several of them, above and to either side.
Shadow's heart sank again. His bow and quiver had vanished somewhere in the pass--but he probably was not capable of shooting an arrow into the side of a castle, let alone hitting a bird. Frantically he searched the ground below for shelter and selected a group of farm buildings.
He decided to steer for that. NailBiter ignored his signals.
On the point of imposing his will by closing the blinkers, Shadow changed his mind and decided to wait and see. He stretched out prone once more, almost too weary to care. Two of the wilds took up station to his right and three more to his left, but they stayed distant and seemed to be posing no threat--he had been given an escort. Was he being taken in under guard?
He wondered if this was what Vonimor had been warning him about. And Ukarres had said something about Karaman being a fantastic trainer of birds. Was it possible that the men of Allaban could teach eagles to perform without a rider, like dogs?
The fields raced by below him, and he saw a few men working; they glanced up to stare--as though a skyman were a rarity. There were few fences, and he could see no livestock, but there seemed to be more bicycle traffic than he would have expected.
Then NailBiter banked without warning, circled around a large huddle of farm buildings, and swooped deftly down to a landing post nearby. A place not large enough to boast an aerie would usually have such a structure, a flight of steps up to a stout wall from which the eagles could take off again.
Two weary beats of the great wings and NailBiter landed. Then there was stillness and peace and warm sunshine.
Shadow reached up and stroked the bird's comb--and this time he felt the rumble. NailBiter was pleased, too.
Shadow pulled off his mitts and counted: eight fingers, two thumbs. They hurt enough for sixty. He started to dismount but slid, fell, and crumpled limply on the platform. He sat there for a moment, trying to gather his wits. His head was spinning, and his throat and lungs felt burned raw.
First problem: There were no shackles. So NailBiter would have to stay blinkered.
Second problem: He looked around and could see no hoods or hooding poles.
With an effort he clambered to his feet, thinking that at least he could remove the saddle.
'Let us help you,' a quiet voice said behind him. In turning around he staggered and sat down again, hard. He was looking at a pair of worn, patched brown trousers and two skinny bare legs. Then a hand took his and he was helped to rise; his arm was draped over thin, bony shoulders.
'Six steps,' said the voice, an elderly voice. 'Take your time.'
Shadow wobbled down the steps, leaning on this frail little man. Then he stopped and turned around. The bare legs belonged to a young boy who had scrambled nimbly into NailBiter's saddle and was reaching up, fumbling with the buckles of the helmet.
'No hood!' Shadow mumbled urgently, feeling as though his mouth were full of sand. 'Stop him!'
'That's all right,' the old voice said calmly. 'He won't hurt us.'
Then bigger, stronger arms gripped Shadow and made a human chair and lifted him from the ground-- husky, bare-chested farm workers, smelling of hay and sweat, grinned on either side of him. NailBiter's helmet fell away beyond the perching wall. NailBiter turned his head and looked ferociously toward Shadow.
Shadow tried to shout a warning and produced a hoarse croak. The boy jumped down to the platform and started on the saddle girths, and the two bearers turned Shadow around and began to carry him away, ignoring his pitiful struggles.
He had a vague impression of trees and buildings. The first speaker, the elderly man in brown, who was small and stooped and had a great shock of white hair above his weather-burned face, was walking alongside,
