Dreamseeker's Road (22 page)

But the Hunt was on that small form now; dogs—black dogs with flame-red eyes—coursing ahead of the pounding hooves like some black and evil tide. Aikin held his breath as the lead hound, which alone of that company wore a collar and alone had crimson ears, drew ahead of the pack and closed in for the kill. He could practically hear its jaws snapping, the thudding of its feet, the eager whoosh of its breath.

And then the little man uttered an indignant cry, and spun around to face it. The dog skidded to a halt, and they met eye to eye—at the man's level (like him meeting a horse, Aikin concluded inanely)—and for a moment the Faery looked as though he was about to lash out with his fists. Instead, he simply stood glaring: weak, helpless, and defeated, a refugee who had not reached whatever haven had been his dream.

With his thumb and little finger, the man sketched a sign across his torso, and closed his eyes. The dogs, which had gathered around panting, moved. In an instant they had knocked him to the ground and pinned him to it with huge hairy paws. A few nudged him with sharp-toothed muzzles, and one ripped his tunic open with a swipe of claws, exposing a chest matted with ruddy hair. A vast dark shadow fell upon him, and Aikin's point of view shifted to that of someone gazing down on the trembling half man from horseback height. A spear descended from the horned figure to his left, its point probing toward the helpless Faery.

Closer and closer, and Aikin couldn't watch, yet had to; thus his eyes were wide open when that glittering icy point tapped the center of the Faery's exposed chest. A dull thump, and blood sprang forth, at that lightest of touches; yet the Huntsman did not drive that weapon home, but simply left it in place, while blood pooled around it: a scarlet lake in the valley of the little man's sternum. The Faery tried to push it away, of course, with both hands around the shaft, but the strength seemed to have left his limbs, and Aikin could only stare wide-eyed as, empowered by its own weight and a sharpness that transcended sharp, that point pierced muscle and bone and found the wee one's heart.

The Faery cried out once, a word that almost had to mean “No!” and with that his eyes popped open, only to go dull and unfocused. A swirl of white vapor rose from a wound that was far too small to have cost a life, and drifted toward the sky. The Huntsman had apparently been awaiting that, too, and withdrew the spear from the flaccid body—to stab it through that cloud of mist and nothing, and suck it in.

“Another soul for my hungry cauldron,” he told the rider beside him. And the Huntsman set spurs to sides and once again was moving.

Aikin's gorge rose at what he'd witnessed. Those guys had
murdered
somebody, dammit: someone small and helpless and afraid. And he tasted bile all over again when he realized that the Hunt had turned back his way. As best he could tell, it had covered at least half a mile in pursuit of the little man—which put it close to three-quarters of one from him. The tower was less than that up the next slope. If he could reach it ahead of them, maybe he could hide—locate a defensible position—anything to buy time.

Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the black pool, glanced at the rise beyond it, saw its summit still clear—and thrust himself to his feet to run as hard as he could in the opposite direction.

It was the longest run of his life, that headlong rush up the open slope—or so he thought. The air that had earlier tasted so thick and sweet seemed now insufficiently dense to sustain life, and ripped into his lungs like new-forged flames, leaving pain in lieu of sustenance. And the scrubby vegetation, that seconds before had seemed entirely
too
short, when he cowered beneath it, abruptly seemed too tall, and impeded his every step, so that to run through it was like running through mud (or one of those nightmares in which you can never run fast enough, but the nameless
it
can make all speed), and every leaf and twig tore at him and slowed him, so that he had to lift his knees strenuously high or else be utterly entangled. His heart was laboring, too, thudding along like the beat of the music back at the 'Watt. And a trio of fine clear pains had awakened in both overstressed thighs and one side.

But the cover was lower now, and more rocks showed as he approached the height. Yet just as he began to slow, his shaky peace was shattered by another winding of the horn. In spite of himself, he spun around, and saw that which made his blood run cold: black figures on black horses pursuing black dogs down a slope only slightly less stygian. It was true then, what he'd feared: The little man had been merely a diversion—an appetizer before the main course—which was clearly him.

Well, he'd give 'em a fight, he would. And he'd meet 'em on his own ground: Lord of this tower, if only for five minutes. (He had no doubt it was deserted, for he wasn't fifty yards away now and no one had hailed him through empty windows or gaping doors, or from what he could see through a rent in the side, was probably a missing roof.) No sirree, he wouldn't die as a helpless serf, a cowering mini man.

And with that, he redoubled his efforts.

Forty yards, and his legs were going numb with fatigue.

…Thirty and he could barely move them (and wondered where all the strength and stamina that were his vanity in the Lands of Men had gone).

…Twenty, and the blackness of the tower revealed a darker blackness that was surely a doorway.

…Ten, and his other side caught fire from the first, giving him twin stitches. He gasped, but stumbled onward, was vaguely aware of an archway looming before him, then over him, then as a blackness behind, as he tumbled to his knees on moss-covered cobblestones.

Breathless, giddy, he stayed there, panting, sweating, trying to still his heart, while striving even harder to contrive some means of staving off the Hunt. Maybe he could reason with him—it—them—whatever. But the lives of sentients obviously did not concern them, and Dave had likewise hinted that most denizens of Faerie tended to regard humans as little more than gifted vermin.

But if he was going to act from a position of strength, he'd damned well better be at it! Which meant, first off, that he needed to set himself at a higher level than his adversaries. Already he was probing the darkness, seeking stairs, a ladder—anything that would raise him above the Huntman's head.

Instead, he saw two bright lights, close-set among the shadows beside a shattered ramp—and nearly cried out, thinking the hounds already upon him.

Only…the hounds had red eye-shine and this did not—at which point whatever it was vented a lowpitched whistle-trill, stepped into what passed for light, and stood revealed as the troublesome enfield.

If a creature could look alarmed, that one did, for every muscle in its body trembled, and every hair was erect, with a species of anticipatory fear he'd never observed in an animal. The belling of the hounds was growing louder, too; and with each attenuated howl, its ears flared and flicked, while it wrinkled its dainty nose to taste the breezes.

“Death rides on 'em, kid,” he told it dully. “Mine, if not yours.”

The enfield blinked at him, tilted its head as though considering his remark, and trotted warily across the broken flagstones to where he sprawled on all fours, too tired to rise.

The horn blared again, closer yet, and the enfield started. It was shaking even worse, Aikin noted, as was he. And if the beasts of Faerie feared the Hunt, what hope had a mortal boy?

The Hunt was still approaching, too, as a glance over his shoulder revealed. The vanguard of hounds had reached the place he'd hidden and were nosing about there; it was only a matter of time now, surely, until they found his spoor.

Yet the pack seemed confounded, with several of its number questing north and south. Stupid—for surely he'd been visible when they breasted the rise. Surely those who drove the pack had seen him. But perhaps that didn't matter; perhaps it was watching the hounds that pleasured the Hunt, not the quarry, even when sighted. Perhaps it
was
the quest and not the kill.

Perhaps pigs farted Frank Zappa tunes in Bob Jones University whorehouses.

The enfield barked sharply—a new sound for it, and so loud he feared the hounds would hear and hasten the inevitable. He glared at it, startled and angry—this was, after all, its fault; had it not leapt from the trail, he'd not have been prompted to pursue it. To his surprise, it glared back—and bared its teeth, black eyes wide and glittering. A low growl issued from its throat and he was certain it was about to attack.
Can't trust a canine,
he grumbled to himself.
Not when the chips are down.

But the growl wasn't for him, he saw in an instant. For without him noticing it, one of the hounds had made its way to his sanctum. His heart flip-flopped when he got a good look at it: far larger than he'd expected—hundred forty-fifty pounds easy—and effectively blocking the exit. Moonlight slashed across its coat, but did not reflect off hide or hair, as though the beast's very substance drank it down as it would soon enough drink his life. He scrambled backward—tried to—but as he moved, so did the enfield. It shot across the cobbles faster than he could have believed, and just as the hound opened its mouth to bell forth the alarm that would bring the whole Hunt down upon him, vulpine fangs found its throat. The dog vented a rattling gasp, followed by a whimper of pain—and collapsed, blood pulsing from savaged arteries. It steamed in the clammy air, smelling less like blood than hot metal.

Not until its legs had stopped twitching, however, did the enfield release its hold. But there was something odd about the way it was looking at him now: grinning in its foxy way, so that he could see the darkness that stained its fangs, the matted wetness around its mouth. A strange light woke in its eyes that reminded him too much of intelligence. And then, with a low growl, it sprang again—at
him
!

“Shit!” he spat—and tried to knock it away, even as he scrambled to evade it, caught an elbow on an uneven paving stone, and tumbled sideways, to slam hard into the floor.

Somehow the enfield twisted around his awkward blow, and leapt straight toward his face. He raised his free arm to block—and screamed, as pain flooded his wrist. Vision became a blur of varying shades of darkness sparked with red; sound was scrapes and rattles, harsh breathing and strangled curses. The stench of blood thickened the air.

Abruptly the enfield released his arm—it had brought blood but done no real damage, so far as he could tell—and retreated. He kicked at it savagely, only to hear it whimper; its rage returned to calm. Indeed, it was blinking wide eyes at him, and as he tried to determine what to do next, it rubbed against his legs, then sat down, and calmly licked the blood from its muzzle.

Blood…

His
blood, at least in part, for his forearm was red with the stuff.

But he had no thought to spare for that, for the enfield was acting odder than ever. In fact, it seemed to be…growing, expanding in all directions, as its proportions blurred and shifted. Its head was larger, but the ears were shrinking. Its tail had lost both mass and hair, and was now scarcely a nubbin. Far more skin showed than fur all over, and what hair was present was darkening. The hind legs changed articulation; forelegs gained meaty arms where had been thin-scaled talons.

It was becoming human! The enfield, crouched still on all fours in front of him, was turning into a man!

In fact, he realized, as it twisted onto its side, it was turning into…

Into
him
!

There on the shattered flagstones of that abandoned tower, the enfield had become his identical twin! Naked, for certain, but—minus assorted scars and snippets—definitely all Aikin.

“What?” he cried in alarm, as his twin rose unsteadily to its feet. It looked frightened—(Did
he
look that scared?)—and more frightened yet, when the horn sounded closer yet and a tide of yips and barks rolled up from the adjoining valley. A glance that way showed the dogs halfway to the tower, with the Hunt but a short way behind.

“What…?” Aikin asked again, but his twin shook its head and pointed to its mouth, then shook its head once more.

“Can't talk?” Aikin whispered harshly. “But why…?”

In reply, his alter self dashed to the dead hound's body, thrust a hand into the blood at the torn throat, and brought it to its lips, then pointed at him, and repeated the charade.

“You want me to do that?” Aikin managed. “Why? There's no time for games!”

Not hardly: in less than a minute the hounds would arrive.

And there was nowhere to hide! Not now.

His twin looked truly desperate, and was repeating its pantomine ever more frantically.

“Fuck it,” Aikin sighed finally. “What've I got to lose?” And with that he scrambled toward the body, knelt beside it, and crammed three fingers into the neck wound. Not pausing to think what he did, nor give himself time to dread, he closed his eyes and stuck the fingers into his mouth.

The blood tasted awful—and then he didn't taste it at all, as pain seized him and doubled him over where he crouched, while his blood took fire, his bones dissolved, and his muscles, his organs—his very
brain
were torn asunder. It was like being drunker than he'd ever been and more hung over, all at once, with a five-hour cudgeling thrown in. His senses had all gone wild, were showing him sensations he'd never suspected, and denying him familiar ones. He could no longer kneel, but had to lie flat, to stretch his paws along the floor—

—paws?

He had
paws?

Black paws that reflected no moonlight.

He had become a hound!

He was also damned uncomfortable, because heavy wet things were encumbering him in unlikely places.
Clothes,
something more distant than it ought to be provided.
Things to be
escaped from,
another aspect advised.