The fire was starting to flame up noisily and brightly, but Rap was still shivering. Then his fur robe was snatched away and Little Chicken began slapping big handfuls of grease on him, spreading it in a disgustingly thick layer.
“Here, I can do that,” Rap protested, trying to take the bucket.
Little Chicken knocked his hand away and kept on working. In a few moments Rap discovered that the grease did seem to keep the cold out, when it was thick enough. Then he was being helped into the new buckskins, his protests completely ignored. They fitted surprisingly well, yet Little Chicken fussed and adjusted ties and straps on waist and ankles and wrists, taking a long time to dress his new master to his satisfaction. Then he said, “Sit!” and began greasing himself, Rap tried to help and got shouted at, but was grudgingly allowed to coat his slave’s back for him. For trash, Little Chicken was remarkably lacking in respect. He donned his old buckskins, which had been lying in lonely neglect by the door, Then he said, “Stay! Back soon,” and vanished out into the moonlight.
Rap’s farsight traced him automatically, discovering then that the whole horde of goblins was pouring out from the big house. The boys were ready, and a bonfire had been lighted to brighten their coming contest. Little Chicken dodged around the far side of the stable, made a quick dash to the women’s house, and headed for the food store.
Cheep-Cheep and Fledgling Down were led out in fur robes. Now Rap tried desperately not to watch, but apparently farsight could not be turned off at will—not, at least, when there was something of interest happening. He tried to distract himself by inspecting the horses in the stable, for the visitors had brought twenty or more of the scrawny ponies with them and he must be sure to select the best for his escape… but in spite of himself, he was a spectator. He knew how the youths staggered as they took the strain of the load, how they began to tremble when the cold ate into their exposed flesh. They did not push and pull as Little Chicken had done; they just stood and stared doggedly at each other and tried to endure. They lasted much longer than Rap had, but then Cheep-Cheep buckled without warning. Fledgling Down was wrapped up and rushed off into the lodge again. The spectators followed, two of them dragging the unconscious Cheep-Cheep.
Then Little Chicken returned. He carried a very small backpack, most of which seemed to be occupied by a wallet of bear grease. It also contained fire-making equipment, a couple of knives, a little food, and much cord, which might be for trapping or fishing. From somewhere he had obtained two short bows and two quivers of arrows. Rap was a sorry archer, but he decided he could carry his set as a spare for Little Chicken to use.
“Eat!” The goblin thrust a wad of hard wafers into Rap’s hand. They tasted like hay mixed with honey, but he was starved and chewed them greedily, crouching by the hearth.
Little Chicken had not eaten that day, either; he sat by the door and munched loudly, apparently finding the vicinity of the fireplace too warm for comfort. He also talked continuously with his mouth full, in his usual laconic phrases. “Moon up. Go to Porcupine Totem. No rush now. Cheep-Cheep make good show. If Fledgling Down, not last so long.”
“How can you know that?” Rap asked, squirming. His farsight told him that Fledgling Down was already sitting on the platform, being hailed by whatever his new name was. He had recovered much faster than Rap had done.
“Good blood!” Little Chicken explained: Cheep-Cheep’s brother Sweet Nestling had lost to Raven Claw two winters before and had done very well, the best show in many years. “First dug out toenails,” he said. “No scream. Said Thank you. Then hammer toes flat, one by one, with rocks. Said Thank you. Much applause. Then—”
Rap had lost his appetite. “I don’t want to hear!” he squealed.
For an instant the old mockery gleamed in Little Chicken’s eye. “Then sharp stick from fire…” If Rap disliked hearing such barbarities even when they did not concern him personally, then here was a way to get back at him. So Little Chicken proceeded to narrate all of Sweet Nestling’s death agonies in meticulous detail. He spoke with great admiration, sounding sincerely regretful that he had not been allowed to try to better the performance, and watching Rap’s nauseated reaction with bitter joy.
By the time the meal was over, Rap knew that Cheep-Cheep was already hanging in the middle of the lodge, waiting for his long ordeal to start. He must get out of range quickly.
“Let’s go,” he said, wondering if he would freeze to death before Cheep-Cheep died. “How many horses do we take?”
Little Chicken frowned. “No horses. Run.”
“Run all the way? No horses?”
“Horses?” Little Chicken spat. “Horses for babies and old women. Men run!”
Before Rap could argue, a handful of bear grease was pushed in his face. Little Chicken spread it with care, on Rap’s lips and eyelids and even on the insides of his nostrils. Then he adjusted Rap’s hood, pulling down and lacing a mask that Rap had not known existed, covering his face completely except for eye and nose holes. He did the same for himself and turned for the door, conversation now being almost impossible.
He was serious, obviously—they were going to run to the mountains. He began a slow jog as soon as his moccasins touched the snow. Rap fell in behind him, not truly believing that the feat was possible. All the way? The cold would freeze their lungs in minutes.
They jogged out the gateway and started across the clearing.
Two men against the wastelands? Two boys… Rap felt horribly vulnerable, much more so than when he had set out from Krasnegar with Andor. Perhaps it was the absence of the horses, perhaps just that now he knew more. Only the two of them, master and slave? He had trusted Andor completely. How could he ever trust Little Chicken, who might well intend to imprison Rap in some convenient spot and then put his good ideas into practice?
One more companion would be a wise precaution, Rap decided.
Fleabag, sleeping happily in his snow hollow, jerked his head up as if he had heard a call. He rose and shook himself. He bowed low to ease his front legs. He pointed his nose at the sky to stretch his back legs. Then he set off into the forest in a wolf’s long, easy lope.
4
Buckskins were indeed better than furs—for running. They weighed nothing, they seemed to let the sweat out without letting the cold air in, and feet could flex inside the soft moccasins and so stay warm. Encased in grease and leather, Rap jogged over the moonlit snow behind Little Chicken and gradually began to feel more confident. Fleabag soon joined them and then took up position ahead.
After covering a league or so, Little Chicken dropped to a walk. He snapped off the icicles below his nose so that he could open his mask, but when Rap raised his mitts to do the same, the goblin knocked his hands down.
Red and puffing, he studied Rap impassively for a moment, then asked, “Blisters? Rubbings?”
Rap mumbled something incoherent and shook his head.
Little Chicken nodded in grudging satisfaction. “You run good, town boy.”
Rap grinned, but only to himself. He nodded.
“Go much faster, then?”
Rap nodded with less certainty, and the goblin chuckled as he closed his hood, but when he broke from the walk into a jog again, he kept the same pace as before.
Any resident of Krasnegar needed good legs. Rap had hoped that his week on horseback might have left him in better shape than Little Chicken was. As the hours crept by, he discarded that idea. The night became a blur of snow and trees, of shadows and moonbeams, of pounding heart, of smoky breath out and icy breath in, of chest burned by the frigid air, of Fleabag loping along, always at a distance, of Little Chicken ever just ahead, usually jogging, rarely taking a walk break. At times they must run with hands held high to divert branches, at times they were slowed to a snail pace by cluttered deadfall, but mostly they just ran. There was no conversation and Rap would not have been capable of it anyway. He was soon unable to think or feel anything except a steady, grinding, suicidal resolve that the town boy was going to keep up with the goblin.