But he could buckle the knees of the one now approaching him, as if a net had entangled its feet. It went down, dumping its rider in a heap, and Wulfston concentrated for a moment on sending the man deep into unconsciousness.
There were still eight riders.
He sent another slumping into Adept sleep, but the method was too slow. He could not stop the other seven before they netted him.
His own knees buckled as a wave of dizziness swept over him-there were minor Adepts among them, joining their powers against him! If they could make him waste enough energy-
He shook off their attempt, and darted between two horses, pushing the animals apart with sheer Adept strength. That was working directly against nature, not an act he could perform very often, especially when he was not in peak condition.
But how could he work with nature here? Fire was too dangerous, and the little animals of the plain too small to do any good.
Then he remembered-down there by the lake-he concentrated, creating a fear, a need to move, to run in this direction-
As his mind went off in search of his weapon, the riders circled him again, nets spread-
Again the attack on his mind-he fought it-flailed at the descending net-
He was tangled!
Adept power tore through the wiry strands, but not without cost. Wulfston could feel his powers weakening as he regained his feet, tossing the shreds of the net from him.
The horsemen turned, surrounding him again.
A pounding louder than the horses’ hoofs shook the plain.
The herd of water buffalo, drawn by Wulfston’s message, stampeded toward the riders!
Their horses screamed, bucked, and galloped off to save their own lives, carrying their riders along, like it or not.
Wulfston called Traylo and Arlus, gathered them close against him and held the terrified pups still while he concentrated on separating the mindless stampede around them. Choking dust rose, hoofs pounding within a hand’s span on either side, but Adept concentration gave them a tiny island of safety as the herd thundered past, driving Wulfston’s would-be captors eastward toward the jungle.
When the herd was gone, he remained, still holding the whimpering dogs, deliberately guiding the buffalo to force the riders to the edge of the jungle, miles away. They would come back, he knew-and he wanted to be far away before they did.
Finaly, Wulfston released his concentration, and calmed the two pups. He looked around at the flattened grass, the settling dust, and knew a moments triumph. He was alive-he had survived in this strange land, won against enemies who knew the territory.
He turned back toward the lake… and saw the smashed, dead body of the rider he had sent to sleep. In his concentration on saving himself, he had forgotten the completely helpless man.
As he stared at the mangled body, though, he remembered that even though these men had obviously had orders to take him without killing him, they would have carried him off to face death… or worse.
It would be best if Sukuru or Z’nelia-or both-thought him dead.
Distasteful though the work was, he stripped the bloody clothing off the corpse, took off his loincloth, smeared it with the man’s blood, and put it on the body. The man’s face was smashed beyond recognition-and the scavengers of the plain would begin their work before the riders could get back here. Let them think two men had died here, and the jackals had carried off one of the bodies entirely.
Naked, Wulfston carried the dead man’s clothes back to the lake and washed them. The fresh blood came out easily in the cold water, and there were only a few tears in the cloth.
This time he used his powers to dry the material, and studied the clothes: a tan tunic with a braided belt, and a faded yellow hooded cloak. Nondescript, and similar to what the other riders had worn. Plain leather sandals also had no identifying marks that Wulfston could see.
There were also a wristband with a pattern burned into it, and a talisman of some sort on a leather thong.
These he buried deep in the sand, then put on the dead man’s clothes, uncomfortable at the thought, but knowing no other way to blend in than to dress like someone who lived here. Surely he would be less conspicuous this way than stark naked!
As if to confirm that he was doing the right thing, when Wulfston turned to look for Traylo and Arlus he saw a horse approaching the lake-the dead man’s horse that had run off before the stampede, now over its terror and seeking water.
The horse put Wulfston on equal terms with his pursuers.
Furthermore, there was a leather water bag attached to the saddle. He emptied out the warm dregs and refilled it with fresh, cool water from the lake.
There were saddlebags, with the same design burned into them that he had seen on the man’s wristband.
They would have to be buried, too, but first he searched them, and found bread and cheese, an apple-and a knife!
He devoured the food, stuck the knife through his belt, and continued the search. A pouch of coins!
Coppers only, but at least a means of buying more food. There was also a small packet containing one bone and one metal needle and a folded paper of salt, which he put in the coin purse and suspended from his belt.
There was only one more item, a well-worn wooden plaque whose design appeared to be lettering rather than decoration. He wondered if Aradia could have read the language-she had shared their father’s love of books gathered from all over the world.
But the plaque might be identified, so it was buried with the saddlebags. Wulfston mounted the horse, called to the dogs, and set out for that wagon trail to the south, counting on the footprints of the animals who would come to drink at the lake during the night to obscure his trail along the shoreline.
That night he slept in one of the buildings he had seen from the eagle’s point of view. They turned out to be a deserted village, but gave Wulfston shelter for himself and the horse and dogs.
At dawn he set out along the wagon track again, spending the long hours practicing his rapport with Traylo and Arlus, or with other animals. He saw no people all day, just herds of wild animals. No wagons had been on this trail for days, for new grass was struggling to grow even in the ruts.
Its struggle was not entirely successful, though, for there had obviously been no rain recently-even the deepest ruts were dry. There were no rain clouds in sight; the sun beat yellow on the yellow plain, and Wulfston was grateful for the lightweight cloak with its hood to protect his head.
He sensed no pursuit. He hoped his ruse had worked, and his enemies thought him dead. It would give him time to find out what had happened to his friends.
Again he hunted, and shared fresh meat with the dogs, while the horse cropped the dry grass. When there was no watering hole, he figured out the use of a sort of leather bowl dangling from the bridle-he could pour some water from the water bag to share with the horse. Traylo and Arlus drank from it, too.
By noon of the second day on the deserted trail they were out of water.
The character of the land had changed: although the ubiquitous grass grew here now, the land was furrowed, as if it had been plowed and a crop grown at some time in the past year. In this part of the world, it appeared that crops would be grown in the rainy season, and the fields left fallow during this dry time of year.
Plowed fields had to mean people close by.
Wulfston wasn’t sure he was ready to meet anyone, yet he needed to trade coins for fruit and vegetables.
And he had to find out where his friends were.
He also had to learn to Read people, not just animals.
So he stuck to the wagon track, getting more tired and thirsty with every step, wondering where the nearest settlement was.
Instead of a village he saw in the distance a cluster of green trees. That meant water! The dogs smelled it and ran eagerly ahead, and the tired horse picked up his pace when Wulfston urged him.