The larger, shorthaired alaunts were responsible for the racket, while the smaller, floppy-eared lymers sniffed eagerly and pulled on their leashes. Rimler cursed and shouted as he tried to keep them all in check. The shaggy-haired kennel master with a dirt-streaked face full of boils and a bulbous nose was said to be part dog himself. People whispered that he slept with his hounds whenever the drink took him, which was more often than not. Still, he was an expert at tracking and hunting with dogs. One of his assistants nursed a broken arm from the pongina attack, offering little assistance other than cursing the animals in between wincing and clutching the makeshift sling on his arm. The other lad tried his best to aid Rimler in keeping the hounds from dashing ahead. Both of the boys were as tattered as Rimler, their long faces and disheveled hair marking them as his spawn.
"Now this is bloody queer." Gile waved the men away as he studied the muddled tracks. "Back away, you witless goat buggers! You're muddling all the traces." Crouching down, he pointed to a set of smaller boot prints. "The knight doesn't travel alone. The Gutoths were hunting a woman, from the look of it. Marcellus came to her aid. He killed the men, and he and the woman left together. This way."
Gile continued to follow the tracks, followed by the pack of overanxious hounds and their handlers. Valdemar and his Dragonists led their horses, trailing in the wake of the dogs' barking and throaty howls. The rest of the men formed a haphazard line, scanning the terrain.
They soon came upon a trampled clearing. Large hoof prints were clearly visible despite the gravelly terrain.
"Grunnien." Gile spat to the side. Scrubbing his mouth with a calloused hand, he frowned as his gaze followed the receding tracks. "Those bloody Gutoths had a pair of the stinking beasts. Better suited for the mountain passes than horses, too. Marcellus and his lady friend were lucky. Now they have the advantage."
"Advantage?" Valdemar sneered. "These tracks can't be over a day old. The Dragonspine is nearly impassable, even aided by grunnien. And you forget — his new companion hampers him, fool that he is. Any advantage he may have had is negated."
Valdemar looked at the rest of his men. They gazed back with eyes that shone with anticipation of the hunt. They still believed in him. They were still his. Seeing him resolute and in command eliminated any doubts that may have arisen from Marcellus' escape. And soon they would witness Valdemar's greatest triumph. New tales would supplant those told of his defeat. Soon the tales would spread of the Dragon Lord who hunted and slew the Lion prince.
"Let the dogs have the lead," Valdemar said. "Fly, all of you! Our quarry is not far. Deis has led us to this moment, and his might is with us. By nightfall Marcellus Admorran will be ours."
Rimler and his sons released the hounds, which eagerly took to the fresh trail. The loud baying of the alaunts was deep enough to prickle the shorthairs, their voices echoing from crag to precipice.
Listen to the song of the hunter, Marcellus Admorran, Valdemar thought. Listen to the sound of your freedom dying, one breath at a time.
They followed the dogs, racing the sun as it flared across the hazy sky. The men's vigor quickly returned. Their voices were excited as they followed as quickly as the terrain allowed. The horses slid across the treacherous slopes but managed to keep their feet. Valdemar wanted to press them further but knew the only reward for haste was a broken leg or falling into some hidden chasm. He rode as fast as he dared, his mouth practically frothing for a glimpse of his enemy.
Towards the evening they caught a glimpse of something else. Smoke billowed upward in the distance, thick black smoke that frenzied the hounds and drew the men's eyes as if beckoning them onward.
"A trap." General Ganbatar shielded his eyes, squinting. "No one would be so foolish. He knows we are close and has set a trap for us."
"You do not know Marcellus as I do," Valdemar said. "I have drawn his blood and seen his worth. He would be so foolish if the cause were worthy."
Ganbatar glanced at him askance. "What do you mean?"
Valdemar's gaze never left the trail of smoke. "He is a knight."
Ganbatar snorted. "Is that supposed to mean something? I have killed many knights. They are the same as any other man. Cowards, liars, oath-breakers. Their code of chivalry is not worth the pages they are written on. Only the Dragonists know what honor is. Only the Dragonists wed the blade, serve blindfolded, and embrace death. The Leodians know nothing of this."
"No," Valdemar said softly. "But this one lives his own code, Ganbatar. So like ours, but for the last." He shook his head. "No, Marcellus does not know how to embrace death." He nudged his horse forward. "Come. Let us see what prompted this act of foolhardiness."
The sun had sunk behind the jagged peaks by the time they reached the remains of the funeral pyre. Valdemar and his Dragonists studied the campground as the men looted the tents. The hounds were everywhere, sniffing and howling as they worked to single out the varying scents. They avoided the pile of burnt bodies neatly arranged in the center of the camp. Human bones protruded from the ashes, blackened and still laden with sizzling meat. The scent of burnt bodies was so similar to pork that some of the men stared hungrily at the charred flesh.
Ganbatar stopped in front of the smoldering remains, his dark eyes unreadable behind his leering mask armor. "You were right, Lord Commander. This is nothing more than a funeral. Your Marcellus is an honorable and foolish man."
"These folk must have been slain when he found their camp," Valdemar said. "He gave them their proper rites before moving on. That would have slowed him down." He scanned the terrain, where twisted shadows danced along with the movement of the wind. His heart quickened, pounding against his chest. "He is not far. He will be pressing hard, but it will not matter. He cannot hide his scent, and grunnien are not built for speed." His knuckles cracked when he clenched his fists tightly. "It is only a matter of time. We ride."
He gestured to his men. "We ride! Light the torches and remount, for the Dragon hunts the Lion tonight." The men whooped as they leaped onto their horses, spurred on by the spirit of the chase.
The torches were just lit when the hounds went ominously quiet. The accompanying silence was almost loud in the sudden absence of the hounds' endless barking and baying. Only the creak of armor and saddles and the stamping of hooves were audible. The dogs huddled together, tails and heads drooping as they whined fearfully.
Ganbatar and Khidyr closed in on Valdemar, hands on their sword handles. "I knew it," Ganbatar said. "A trap."
The world span around Valdemar; dizzying blurs of black-violet sky and deadened silhouettes. "There's nothing here," he said. "Marcellus would be a fool to—"
The shriek that rang in the frosty air was nothing human. The piercing cry sank deep into Valdemar's spine, leaving him shuddering from the sensation. A rush of wind carried the stench of rotting leather as something sailed over their heads, a winged shadow hissed as its pale eyes glimmered from a darkened, misshapen head. The great wings beat the air, holding the creature aloft as it swept its terrible gaze over the men, gibbering with a sound like broken glass sliding against slick metal.
The dogs erupted in a fit of terrified yelping, fleeing as though their fur was on fire. They tore down the hillside in the general direction of Bruallia, ignoring Rimler's frantic pleas. The horses reacted much the same, rearing and whinnying tremulously. Men were flung to the ground, ignoring the pain as they scurried on hands and knees, cowering at the sight of the hovering apparition. Valdemar and the Dragonists were able to keep their better-trained mounts under control, but just barely. The ragged wings of the creature buffeted the men, smothered them with the creature's raw animal stench. Razor fangs flashed in its mouth as it squealed and shrieked, distorting any clear view of its misshapen face.