A part of him, above the growing unease, tried to understand why. If the Wardens reserved wild areas, that fitted their philosophy. If they hunted for sport, what of it? Yet this region was so blasted desolate. Auri’s home woods had teemed. Here he had seen nothing but trees and bushes and one carrion bird, heard nothing but wind and the unnaturally rapid approach of dogs.
The moon swung higher. Shafts of light pierced between trunks turned ghostly grey, to speckle the ground with shadow. Deeper in, the gloom was absolute. More and more he felt as if he were in flight down an endless tunnel. He began to breathe hard. Howling echoed, the horn blew again, he sensed hoofbeats drum through the cold earth.
Ahead of him, the forest opened. Hoarfrost glinted on heather and the Limfjord lay black and silver-streaked under flickering stars. Lockridge heard himself sob with relief.
But suddenly the hounds yelped and yammered, the horn rang shrill, and the gallop became thunder. Knowledge stabbed: They’ve got my scent! Uncontrollable, the fear rose up and took him. He ran, with horror at his back.
Closer the pack clamoured. A woman screamed like a wildcat. He broke into a dazzle of moonlight. A mile away, next the shore, he saw a black mass and a few tiny yellow glimmers. Houses—He tripped, into whins that raked him bloody.
The fall shocked out a little panic. He’d never make that shelter, if shelter it was. The dogs would be on him in minutes. Storm, he wept, darlin’, I’ve got to get home to you. The memory of her breasts against him gave him the courage to double back.
To the forest edge . . . up a tall tree . . . stand on a branch, hug the bole, become another shadow, and wait!
Down the trail and out onto the heath came the hunt.
Those were not dogs, that score of wolfish monsters, roaring forth under the moon. Those were not half a dozen horses, they were much too huge and narwhal horns sprouted from their heads. The lunar light was so icily brilliant that he could see dark, clotting wetness on one point. They were human who rode two women and four men in Warden uniform. Long fair hair blew wild with their speed. And that shape was also human slung naked with a rent belly across one saddlebow.
A man winded his trumpet almost beneath Lockridge. Such dread came upon the American that he was near losing his hold, he knew only that he must run, run, run—Subsonics! flashed through his last sane part, and he clutched the tree till the bark bruised him.
“Ho-yo, ho-yo!” The leading woman shook her spear aloft. Her face was unbearably akin to Storm’s.
Forth they galloped, until the hounds lost the scent and cast about with angry snufflings. The riders reined in. Through wind and beasts, Lockridge heard them shout to each other. One girl pointed eagerly at the woods. She knew what the quarry had done. But the rest were too drunk with motion to go beating the bush. After a while they all lined out eastward across the waste.
Could be a trick, Lockridge thought. They figure me for comin’ down, as I’ve got to, and they’ll be back to catch me then.
The horn sounded anew, but already so far off that most of its mind-destroying effect was lost. Lockridge slid from the tree. They might not expect him to make for yonder hamlet immediately. He wouldn’t have that much coolness left him, if he were some ignorant slogg.
Where did he get that word? Not from his diaglossa, which held so carefully little truth about this half of the world. Wait. Yes. Storm had used it.
He filled his lungs, pressed elbows to ribs, and started running.
Moonlight flooded the earth, the heather was frost-grey and the waters gleamed, surely they would see him but he could only run. Bushes snagged and scratched, the wind blew straight against him, but he could only run. Naught else was left in all the world, unless to wait for fang and horn and lance. Did terror, or something put in his veins by John and Mary, lash him to the pace he made? This part of his flight was no dream eternity; he reached the shore in one sprint.
The settlement was a mere huddle of huts. Though their walls were concrete and their roofs some glistening synthetic, they were more cramped and poor than those of the Neolithic. Through ill-fitting shutters and doors trickled those gleams he had seen.
He beat on the first one. “Let me in!” he cried. “Help!”
No answer came, no stir, the house closed in on itself and denied that he was real. He stumbled across bare dirt to the next and hammered his fists raw. “Help! In Her name, help me!”
Someone whimpered. A man’s voice called shaken, “Go away.”
Remote on the heath, the noise of the hunt was checked. It lifted again and began to sweep closer.
“Go away, you filth!” bawled the man within.
Lockridge cast himself at the door. The panel was too strong. He rebounded in a wave of hurt.
Into the hamlet he lurched, shouting his appeal. At the middle was a sort of square. A tau cross rose twenty feet high near a primitive well. Upon it was tied a man. He was dead, and the ravens had begun to eat him.
Lockridge went past. Now again he could hear the hoofs.
At the far end of settlement lay some fields that might have borne potatoes. Plain in the relentless moonlight he saw the tracks of riders. A cabin even meaner than the rest stood hard by. Its door creaked wide. An old woman stepped forth and called, “Here, you. Quickly.”
Lockridge fell across the threshold. The woman closed and locked the door. Above his gasps, he heard her drunken grumble: “They’re not like to come into town. No sport, killing a boxed-in man. And I say a Wildrunner is a man. Let her get wrathy as she likes, if she finds out. I know my rights, I do. They took my Ola, but that makes me his mother holy for a year. None less than the Koriach can judge me, and my lady Istar won’t dare trouble Her over so fiddling a matter.”
Lockridge’s strength crept back. He stirred. The woman said hastily, “Now remember, if you make any fuss, you, I need but open the door and holler. I’ve strong men for neighbours, who’d be glad to get their hooks on a Wildrunner. I don’t know if they’ll tear you to pieces themselves or send you out for Istar to chase, but your wretched life is in my hands and don’t you ever forget that.”
“I . . . won’t . . . be any bother.” Lockridge sat up, hugged his knees, and looked at her. “If I can give you any thanks—any return—”
She was not so old at that, he realised with an unexpected shock. The stooped gait, in her drab gown, the gnarled hands, weather-beaten skin, half toothless mouth, had fooled him. Her hair, braided to her waist, was still dark, her features not much wrinkled, her eyes drink-hazed but unfaded.
The one-roomed cabin behind her was scantily furnished. A couple of bedsteads, a table and a few chairs, a chest and cabinet . . . wait, that kitchen corner held apparatus that looked electronic, and there was a communicator screen on the wall . . . opposite a little shrine with a silver Labrys—
She started. “You’re no Wildrunner!”
“I suppose not. Whatever that is.” Lockridge cupped an ear. The pack had veered off again. He drew a ragged breath and knew this was not his night to die.
“But, but you come naked from the woods, fleeing them, II you’re barbered, and talk better’n I do—”
“Let’s say I’m an outlander, though no enemy.” Lockridge with care. “I was bound this way when the hunters chanced on me. It’s important that I get in touch with, uh, the Koriach’s own headquarters. You ought to be well paid for saving my life.” He rose. “Uh, could you lend me some clothing?”
She looked him up and down, not as a woman at a man but with an immemorial wariness that slowly yielded to resolution. “Very well! Might be you lie, might even be you’re a devil sent to trap poor sloggs, but I’ve scant to lose. Ola’s tunic should fit you.” She rummaged in the chest and handed him a shabby one-piece garment. As he took it, she stroked a hand across the fabric. “His spirit must still be there, a little,” she said low. “Might be it remembers me. If so, I’m guarded.”