Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (26 page)

Not
wolves, he thought with detached interest, turning his attention back to the
prairie in front of them. Look something like hyenas. May as well call them
that.

By
late afternoon the hills were within reach. Momentarily rising in the stirrups,
Jeff viewed the last stretch of ground they had to cross. It was quite flat.
The hyenas had continued to close the gap and were less than a hundred yards
behind. Cynic was running strongly but covered with lather and working hard to
get his breath.

“I
am loath to ask this of you, horse-brother, but now you truly must fly so we
may find refuge and seek revenge for this day’s work.”

“Then
prepare yourself.”

Shifting
his entire weight to the stirrups, Jeff leaned forward nearly onto Cynic’s
neck. Gathering himself, Cynic burst into an all-out gallop that took Jeff’s
breath away with its power and speed. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder
and saw that the hyenas were running flat out but losing ground.

That’s
what he had hoped for. They needed the time to prepare a defense. As they
thundered along, Jeff angled Cynic toward a rocky promontory that looked like
it might have a spring at its base.

Still
a quarter mile to go, foam flew from Cynic’s mouth in white streamers and he
was laboring. Suddenly, he stumbled. Positioned so far forward, Jeff’s face
smashed against the back of Cynic’s head and he was nearly pitched off. Cynic’s
agony was palpable as he exerted every ounce of remaining strength to stay on
his feet. Catching himself, then almost falling; doing it again.

A
wailing chorus of triumph from behind spurred Jeff to fight his way upright and
to lean far back onto Cynic’s hindquarters.

“You
can do it! Rise again, Shadowfax!”

New
fire burst into Cynic’s mind. With a tremendous heaving of muscles, he caught
himself. Regaining his stride, Cynic poured his heart into a sprint that tore
tears from Jeff’s eyes.

Cynic’s
fight to recover allowed the pack of hyenas to close the gap until they were
nearly snapping at his heels. Pounding into a narrow declivity with a stony
wall ahead and a creek to his right, Cynic slide to a rock-spitting halt on his
haunches. Jeff leaped from the saddle with a handful of arrows, nocking the
first as his feet hit the ground.

With
their quarry at bay, the fifteen or so carnivores milled around to take stock.
The game had come down to the final moves. Chittering and wailing eagerness,
the pack of hyenas paced continually. Every so often one or the other would
make a tentative dash toward Cynic or Jeff while deciding on the best plan of
attack. The two-legs would be easy, the horse likely would put up a fight.

Although
the animals were nearly as big as a wolf, the similarities stopped there. They
had humped shoulders, small ears, and gargoyle heads covered by skin rather
than fur. Colored a mottled yellow, they gave off a putrid stench. The largest
of the hyenas stared at Jeff with such intelligent malevolence that he felt his
skin crawl. He didn’t know whether the creature had mind speech and didn’t
care. Gathering a mental bolt, Jeff let fly.

“C’mon,
you ugly devil! You think you’re going to have it easy?”

The
hyena abruptly crouched like a coiled spring. His ears shot forward and he
raised crimson lips to expose yellow fangs. What slithered into Jeff’s mind was
so alien, so vicious, that his mind tried to twist away.

“So.
Puny two-legs talks. How sweet you will taste! Come to me so your death may be
swift.”

A
wave of command washed over Jeff’s mind, but it had little strength and he
brushed it away like a mosquito.

“Seek
dung for your meal, speaker of filth. Your mind crawls with maggots, your
appearance that of long-dead carrion. Leave now, or die.”

“This
day I will crack your bones to suck their marrow!”

The
wailing abruptly stopped and the pack raced in.

Arrow
drawn until the triple-bladed broadhead nearly kissed wood, Jeff sighted on the
leader and twitched his fingers free of the bowstring. He immediately nocked a
second arrow without looking at the flight of the first.

True
to its aim, the arrow struck the lead hyena squarely and disappeared into the
animal’s chest. Emitting a piercing squeal, it gave a tremendous leap and
collapsed to thrash on the ground as the second arrow transfixed another’s
throat. The rest of the pack seemed confused by the sudden deaths and turned
away to mill about again. They wailed like tormented children, the effect
doubled by a gibbering quality that inspired horror.

While
he was tempted to get off a few more arrows, Jeff didn’t want to get caught
without a weapon for close-in work. His hand caressed the butt of the Colt for
only a moment. That was a weapon of last resort and five rounds might not be
enough. Jeff extracted the saber from in front of the saddle in spite of
Cynic’s plunging about. Exhausted or not, he was after blood. The creatures
came on with a rush.

Darting
in and out, attacking in twos and threes, they swirled around man and horse.
Jeff put his back to the creek, broke into Valholm’s war song, and attacked.
One hyena underestimated the length of the saber and a two-handed stroke
decapitated him. Whirling, Jeff backhanded the sword in an upward curve that
cleaved halfway through another’s body. He had barely recovered when two hyenas
launched themselves at the same time.

Ramming
the saber into the chest of one of them, he released the haft and grabbed the
second animal’s neck with both hands as it landed on him. Forced backward, he
fell into the stream with the hyena straddling his body. Fangs snapped shut
just inches from his face as he rolled the hyena under the surface. The animal
weighed as much as he did and fought clear of the water.

Getting
his knees under the animal’s chest, Jeff somehow kept the fangs from his throat
with one hand and desperately groped for the survival knife with the other.
Yanking it out, he rammed the knife between ribs and twisted. Shrieking and
contorting his body, the hyena thrashed the water to red foam. Pulling the knife
free, Jeff splashed out of the creek and made a dive for his sword.

Close
by, the rest of the pack darted in and out at Cynic. In constant motion, he
whirled around with legs plunging and striking out in lightning-quick kicks. A
hyena dashed in going for the hamstrings only to catch both hooves as Cynic
ducked his head and lashed out. Such was the force of his kick that the hyena
was lofted high into the air gibbering insanely. It fell onto some boulders
with an audible crunch and lay still.

The
hyenas were so intent on pulling Cynic down that they didn’t take note of Jeff
until he leaped up behind. Shoulder muscles bulging with the effort, he threw
everything into a two-handed cut that whistled down behind the ears of one of
them. The severed head went one way, flopping body another.

Retreating
to circle and snap, the remaining hyenas whined frustration but were reluctant
to get in close. The bow lay nearby and Jeff picked off another. All the heart
gone out of them, the hyenas turned tail and ran.

It
was after dark before the arrows were reclaimed and Cynic walked until cooled
off. Before turning Cynic loose to drink, Jeff plucked handfuls of grass and
rubbed him down. Donning gloves, Jeff dragged hyena carcasses well out onto the
prairie and set up camp deep inside the rocky defile. The campsite was
protected on two sides by cliffs, and by the creek on the third.

Jeff
eventually started a fire with brush growing along the creek and prepared a
simple meal but a big pot of coffee. While there was little sleep to be had
that night as a result, he really could not have cared less.

The
following morning Jeff declared a lay day. He figured Cynic needed at least
that much time before being saddled again, and a full week of short days and a
slow pace to recover. His decision was greeted with enthusiasm.

“Truly
it is time to rest and roll in the grass!”

Stripping
to the buff, Jeff splashed in the creek’s clear waters for some time. Since it
was a make and mend sort of day, he dug out dirty clothes for a thorough
washing. Spreading a shirt on a flat rock, Jeff kneaded dirt out of the fabric
with the help of lye soap.

Nearby,
Cynic lay with his legs straight up in the air groaning with pleasure as he
rubbed his back. It was amusing to see no more than four legs sticking out of
the grass kicking back and forth.

Laying
out his clothing to dry, Jeff decided to shave off his beard. Dressed in a pair
of shorts, floppy hat and boots, he picked up the bow and set out on foot to
see what he could see.

“I
will be walking in the hills until the sun is low. Be aware that scavengers may
well come to feed on the dead. If they appear and pose a danger, come to me.”

Late
afternoon he crested one of the hills. Jeff stopped to catch his breath and
followed the range’s eastern flank as it undulated to the southern horizon.

“These
are impressive hills. They can’t be anything but the escarpment Ethbar
mentioned, and that means we’re maybe two-thirds of the way to Khorgan.”

Warmed
by the sun and caressed by a gentle breeze redolent with grassland smells, Jeff
found a nice overlook with a sweeping view to the east and settled in. Sitting
cross-legged with hat cocked to one side, he plucked a stem to chew on and
watched clouds play shadows across the grassland ocean far below. In the middle
distance, three raptors endlessly spiraled up and down coursing the prairie.

“The
sun grows tired. All is well?”

Loath
to break the spell of silence that embraced him, Jeff stretched mightily and
wandered toward camp.

“I
come.”

Properly
chastised upon his return by a revitalized Cynic, Jeff spent some time playing
tag with him. Later, Jeff reflected on the changes that had taken place in
Cynic since leaving Rugen. While still given to biting comments, he had matured
beyond the coltish intransigence that on earlier occasion had proven so
infuriating and embarrassing. His run was nothing short of magnificent, Jeff
reflected. Thank God his lungs weren’t destroyed. Jeff hugged Cynic’s neck.

“You
are a mighty horse and friend.”

Cynic
nuzzled Jeff’s shoulder, horse and man standing in tableau as dusk faded to
darkness.

Over
ensuing days Jeff skirted the escarpment’s eastern flanks. Occasionally he
moved higher into the hills looking for evidence of an army on the move such as
a large dust cloud. He spotted nothing the least suspicious. When the
escarpment took a bend to the west, Jeff angled Cynic off on a southeast
tangent.

One
blistering-hot morning they cut what appeared to be a major east-west road and
turned east at a fast canter. Jeff figured the road might be a trade route
between Khorgan and points west. He hoped to join up with a caravan in order to
soak up local jargon before being put to the test at Khorgan’s gate.

Day
after day they encountered no traffic, raising doubt that caravans used the
road. A dust cloud some miles ahead supplied the first hint that he might have
guessed right. As they drew closer toward evening, Jeff was able to see a
plodding line of pack animals. There were only three outriders.

“I’m
in luck, and about time. They might be willing to take on an extra hand.”
Jeff’s face split into a dust-caked grin. “Damn. An honest-to-god caravan!”

One
of the outriders spotted him, circled back onto the road and waited. Urging
Cynic to be alert, Jeff exchanged a careful appraisal with the guard. Short,
swarthy and incredibly dirty was his first impression.

Black
greasy hair hanging in ringlets was topped with a steel-banded, leather pot
helmet. The man was armed with a bow, short sword and the inevitable dagger
belted over a chain mail vest. Jeff raised his hand palm out in what he hoped
was a peaceful gesture.

“Greetings.
I am destined for Khorgan and seek employment. The guard on yon caravan seems
slight.”

It
seemed the man understood at least part of what he had heard, but was silent.
Apparently arriving at a decision, he indicated that Jeff was to remain put and
wheeled his horse. The caravan had stopped allowing the dust cloud to blow
away. Jeff counted ten packhorses in the caravan, plus eight or so ungainly
creatures that might result from crossing an elk with a camel.

“Maybe
twenty people on foot,” he muttered, “plus the three on horseback. Easy
pickings for bandits.”

The
same guard trotted back and motioned Jeff ahead. As they traversed the line of
animals and humans, he was struck by their ragtag appearance. One man had his
arm in a sling and another was using a staff to walk. Without exception they
all looked tired. Jeff concluded they had been on the road a long time and run
into trouble somewhere along the way.

The
guard stopped by a freight wagon at the head of the column. The man driving it
was of average height, wiry, and neither old or young. Salt and pepper hair
fluffed around his head, setting off a bushy mustache and close-cropped beard
that still had some black in it. Beady eyes sparkling with suspicion, the
driver scrutinized Jeff and his gear.