"No. They would kill us all, alone, individually. Our only hope, together or alone, is to reach the Changeling. They will not follow us there; the Forest Lord fears his Brother."
"But what of the Changeling?" Atti asked. "Will he treat us any better?"
"I have no idea. But I know for certain what will happen to us if we dally here."
They crossed over a ridge, and Perkar saw another line of hills in the distance. Between them and those ridges stretched a vast bottomland.
"We can make better time down there, perhaps," the Kapaka said hopefully.
Perkar couldn't answer. More than anything, he wanted rest. His clothes and armor felt like a skin of scabs, and he could not think clearly. His eyes were wooden balls, rattling aimlessly about in their sockets, his fingers continually slipping from the reins.
"We need rest, Mang," he muttered, patting the great beast's neck again, leaning his forehead down upon his mane. The rich, warm scent of the horse seemed the only real thing in the world, a smell from home, the scent of the barn. Everything else was a dream, a fumbling, nightmarish dream in which he ran and ran and never got anywhere. He kicked Mang's flanks, regretted it even as he did so, as the great heart under him strained to go just a little faster. Perkar felt his eyes blink closed, open reluctantly, blink closed again.
He was standing near the city of white stone, ankle deep in water. The water sucked and pulled at his feet. He looked down at them, saw the angry, brilliant reflection of the sun there. Immensely tired, he stripped off his armor and clothes, crouched down in the water, and then, with a sigh, lay back in it, relaxed in its insistent tugging.
When he opened his eyes again, there was the little girl, gazing at him with large, expressive black eyes. As he watched, she began to weep, and with a growing horror, he realized that her tears were red, like blood. Rivulets of it collected on her chin, cascaded down her chest, thickening, so that sheets of blood were pouring into the river at her feet. It was then that he realized that the entire river was blood, and the stench of it filled his head. He leapt up out of it, but the blood clung to him, even when he wiped at it frantically with his hands. He began to cry, but his own tears were blood, too. He began to shriek.
Perkar jerked awake, gasping, his heart hammering in his chest. It took a long moment to remember where he was, what was happening. The dream had been so vivid that it seemed more concrete than waking. A miracle that he had not fallen off of his horse. The others were ahead; Mang had taken his dozing for a break. Reluctantly Perkar urged him on.
When he caught up with the others, Apad was talking to Eruka. Perkar was a bit surprised; after recovering from Ngangata's blow, Apad had been sullen and completely silent.
"Perkar," Apad said as he trotted up. "We thought we had lost you for a moment."
"I fell asleep. I need rest."
"We all do," Apad said.
"How are you, Apad? We've been worried about you."
"I'd be better with some rest, I think," he said. "I was mad there for a while, wasn't I?"
Perkar shrugged.
"I've never killed anyone before," Apad admitted.
"Nor have I," said Perkar.
"I just can't believe…" Apad trailed off, his eyes becoming distant.
"Later," Perkar told him. "Think about it later. Right now we have to see that the Kapaka lives to reach the River."
Eruka nodded, but worry lay on his face, slumped on his shoulders. "Do you think Ngangata is right? Will the Huntress come after us?"
"I think so," Perkar said. "Ngangata knows this land, these gods. It was stupid of us to doubt him."
"I know," Apad said. "Much as I hate to admit it. If we live through this, I suppose we have him to thank for it." The tightness of Apad's mouth suggested that this observation was not one he enjoyed making. "He should give me my sword back, though. If he's right, we're going to need it."
"If any of them will listen to any of us," Perkar said. "But when the time comes, I will ask for you."
"Thank you, Perkar," Apad said. "I'm sorry for what happened. I'm sorry I killed her. It's just that I thought…"
"The Lemeyi set you to it," Eruka said. "He told us she was the Tiger Goddess, just waiting for her chance."
"The Lemeyi," Apad said dully. "It is his fault. Why did he do that?"
"I don't think the Lemeyi needs a rational reason for doing things," Perkar said, and then, after a moment: "Any more than we do."
After noon, the sky began to darken. A thunderhead gathered above the mountain, and cold, wet wind began to bluster down, bending the trees. Leaves flapped their pale undersides, and it seemed to Perkar as if they weren't leaves at all, but thousands of white moths, clinging to dead branches. Ravens flew above, croaking their dire songs, ebony harbingers of the storm.
"The hunt has begun," Ngangata said grimly. "We still have far to go."
They redoubled their speed, and Perkar was again surprised at what Mang was willing to give him; though he could feel the animal shuddering, he broke from canter to gallop as they beat recklessly across the open floor of the bottomland. Perkar tried to calculate how far they had to go to the next line of hills. Engaged in that, he heard the first, faint howling. Wolves, and many of them, singing their hunger.
Thunder cracked above, but to Perkar's ear it sounded more like the croak of a giant raven.
By the time they reached the hills, the howling of the wolves had taken on an exultant tone, a fierce anticipation.
"Maybe we should just stop, make a stand," Perkar shouted up to Ngangata. "After all, we have the godswords."
"That is the Forest Lord's hunt," Ngangata bellowed. "He can call every god and beast in this land. You cannot slay them all, Perkar. It would only give them sport."
"They will catch us anyway!"
"Over these hills is the basin where the Changeling flows. We must cross those hills."
Perkar set his teeth. Eruka was pale, frightened. Apad—Apad looked grim.
They forded a stream, stopped just long enough for the horses to wet their mouths. Ngangata reached back to the bundle on his saddle. He took his bow and strung it; Atti did the same. Perkar watched helplessly. He could string his bow, of course, but if he tried to fire it from horseback he would certainly fall off.
Ngangata slid the godsword he had taken from Apad from his saddle. He scowled at it.
"Apad," he called, and tossed the sheathed weapon to the man. Apad caught it, bowed his head in acknowledgment and thanks.
"Piraku around and about you, Ngangata," he said softly.
Ngangata nodded back. "Don't let the horses fill their bellies," he told them all. "They won't be able to run."
Mang stumbled often as they hurried up the steep slope. Once both front legs collapsed, and he nearly rolled over Perkar trying to get back up. Perkar dismounted and ran holding the reins of the trembling beast. Slower, that put him back with the Alwat, who were at last beginning to straggle. They were running in a tight little group, the slightly larger males on the outside, cane spears in hand. Perkar got a glance at their feet; their deerskin shoes were in tatters, and the flesh within was bruised and bleeding.
The ground steepened a bit more and, worse, became gravelly. The horses slipped on it, and for that matter so did Perkar. The wolves were close now; Mang shivered nervously at their scent, but was otherwise brave. Glancing back down the slope, Perkar made out a gray shape coursing toward the base of the hills—and then another and another. And then, through a break in the trees, the hunt itself.
More wolves than he could count swarmed through the forest, but they suddenly seemed the least of their worries, for with them came the Huntress. Her face was too small to read at this distance, but Perkar could see her eyes flashing green fire. Her antlers were black, and in one hand she carried a recurved bow of bone. She was seated atop a lion, but it must have been the Lion Master, for it was three times the size of any lion Perkar had ever seen, golden but striped with black. It was female, maneless, a Huntress, too.