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Still grinning, Sam knelt down, surreptitiously picked up several likely stones, and ripped the sleeves from his spare shirt. He’d let the Gore Crow follow them for a while, he decided, and grow even more confident. Then it would pay the price for spying on a scion of the Old Kingdom.
Sam led Sprout westwards along the streambed, till it joined another, larger watercourse, and he had a choice of directions. Upstream to the northeast or downstream to the southwest.
At the junction, he hesitated, using Sprout’s bulk to shield himself from view as he cast a mark upon the stone and settled it into the makeshift sling. The Gore Crow, seeing his hesitation, circled lower to make sure it could see which way he chose. It was obviously put off by the running water of the larger stream and perhaps hoped he’d turn back.
Sam waited till its spiral turned it closest to him. Then he stepped away from Sprout, the sling whirring above his head. At just the right moment, he yelled “Hah!” and let the stone fly.
The Gore Crow had only an instant to react, and being stupid, sunstruck, and Dead, it simply flew straight into the rocketing stone, meeting it in an explosion of feathers, dry bones, and putrid gobbets of meat.
With great satisfaction and then outright joy, Sam watched the disgusting creature fall. The crushed ball of feathers landed with a splash in the stream, and the fragment of Dead spirit inside it was instantly banished back to whence it came. Better still, it would drag all the other fragments of that same spirit back into Death. So any Gore Crows that shared it would be dropping inexplicably, wherever they might be.
With the fall of the Gore Crow, he could sense no Dead nearby. The Shadow Hands would be long hidden now, as would any Dead Hands that remained. The intelligence that commanded them from afar might guess that Sam would take the southwest stream towards the Ratterlin, but whoever or whatever it was would not know for sure, and might split its forces, increasing his chance of evasion and escape.
“We have a chance, faithful horse,” announced Sam cheerfully, leading Sprout towards an animal track that ran parallel to the stream. “We have a definite chance.”
But hope seemed to slip from Sam’s grasp as the day progressed and the going became slower and more difficult, so he couldn’t ride Sprout. The stream had grown considerably deeper and faster, but also much narrower, barely three or four strides across, so it was impossible to stand in it or make a camp that would be protected on both sides.
The track had grown narrower, too, and overgrown. Sam had to hack through low branches, high shrubs, and barbed coils of blackberries. His hands became heavily scratched, attracting hordes of flies to the lines of drying blood. That would attract the Dead later, too. They could smell blood a long way away, though fresh would bring them faster.
By late afternoon, Sam had begun to despair. He was really exhausted now. There would be no question of casting a diamond of protection this coming night. He would pass out just trying to visualize the marks—and the Dead would find his defenseless body stretched out upon the ground.
His weariness was closing down his senses, too, narrowing his sight to a blinkered view and his hearing to little more than a muffled awareness of Sprout’s hooves, dull upon the soft, forgiving forest floor.
In that state, it took him several seconds to realize that Sprout’s hooves were suddenly making a sharper sound, and the cool green light of the forest had given way to something much sharper and more bright. He looked up, blinking, and saw that they had come to a wide clearing. The clearing was easily a hundred paces wide, cutting through the forest from the southeast to the northwest, continuing in both directions as far as he could see. Saplings had grown up on its borders, but the middle was stark and bare—and there was a paved road in the middle of it.
Sam stared at the road and then at the sun, which he’d barely been able to see under the forest’s shady roof.
“About two, maybe three hours to dusk,” he mumbled to Sprout, as he fiddled with the stirrup and mounted up. “You’ve had a good meal of grain today, haven’t you, Sprout? Not to mention an easy walk, without carrying me. Now you can pay me back, because we are going to ride.”
He chuckled then, thinking of an expression from the moving pictures he’d often seen in the Somersby Orpheum in Ancelstierre.
“We’re going to ride, Sprout!” he repeated. “Ride like the wind!”
An hour and a half later, Sprout was no longer running like the wind, but back at a walk, legs trembling, sweat drenching her flanks, and froth forming at her mouth. Sam wasn’t in much better shape, walking again himself, to give Sprout a chance to recover. He wasn’t sure now what hurt more—his leg or his backside.
Even so, they had covered six or seven leagues, thanks to the road. It was no royal road now, but it had been built and drained properly long ago, and so was more than serviceable.
They were currently climbing up a slight ridge, the road attacking it directly rather than winding around. Sam lifted his head as they approached the top, hoping for a glimpse of the Ratterlin before the day came to an end. By his reckoning, the ride—and the road—had saved more than a day of foot travel through the forest, so they should be close to the river. They must be close to the river. . . .
He stood on his toes for a moment but still couldn’t see. It was an annoying ridge, this one, full of false heights and annoying dips along the way. But surely in a moment he would see the Ratterlin!
Clip! Clop! Sprout’s hooves sounded loud on the road, as loud as Sam’s own beating heart, but much, much slower. His heart was racing, racing with a combination of hope and fear.
There was the real crest ahead. Sam pushed forward, trying to see, but the sun was setting directly in front of him, a huge red disc sinking into the west, blinding him.
He screwed his eyes almost shut and shielded them with a hand, looking again—and there, under the sun, was a thick ribbon of blue, reflecting orange-red streaks back into the sky.
“The Ratterlin! Ow!” exclaimed Sam, stubbing his toe as he stumbled over the rise. But he ignored the momentary pain. There was the swift river whose waters would bar any Dead. The river that would save him!
Except, he thought, with sudden dread, it was still half a league away, and the night had almost come. And with it, he realized, so had the Dead. There were Dead creatures not too far away—perhaps even ahead of him. This road—and the point where it joined the Ratterlin towpath—would be an obvious point to be watched.
Worse than that, he thought, looking down at the river, he hadn’t actually planned what he’d do once he reached it. What if there was no boat or raft to be found?
“Hurry,” said Mogget from the saddlebag behind him, making Sam jump in surprise and start leading Sprout on again. “We must head for the mill and take shelter there.”
“I can’t see a mill,” said Sam doubtfully, shielding his eyes once more. He couldn’t see any detail near the river at all. His eyes were blurry from lack of sleep, and he felt as stupid as a Dead Hand.
“Of course there’s a mill,” snapped Mogget, leaping down from the saddlebag onto Sam’s shoulder, making him start again. “The wheel does not turn—so we can hope it is abandoned.”
“Why?” asked Sam blearily. “Wouldn’t it better if there’s people? We can get food, drink—”
“Would you bring the Dead upon a miller and his family?” interrupted Mogget. “It will not be long before they find us—if they haven’t
already.”
Sam didn’t reply, merely encouraging Sprout with a gentle slap to the neck. Perhaps he wouldn’t weary her too much if he hung on the stirrup, he thought. He hoped she’d make the distance, because he didn’t think he could walk that far unaided.
As usual, Mogget was right. Sam could feel the Dead closer now and, looking up, saw two black specks spiraling down out of the night that swept in from the east. Clearly the particular necromancer who drove them had no shortage of Gore Crows. And where the Crows flew, there would soon be others, brought out of Death to seek their prey.
Mogget saw the Gore Crows, too, and whispered in Sam’s ear.
“There can be little doubt, now. This is the work of a necromancer who bears you particular ill will, Prince Sameth. His servants will seek you wherever you flee, and he will use all the creatures of Death to drive you to your doom.”
Sam swallowed. The dire pronouncement echoed in his ears, imbued with the faint hint of the Free Magic power that was contained within the cat form on his shoulder. He slapped Sprout on the rump to get her going; then he said the first thing that came into his head.
“Mogget. Shut up.”
Sprout fell a hundred yards from the mill, worn out by her earlier gallop and the dead weight of Sam hanging on a stirrup. He let go just in time to avoid being trapped under her. Mogget leapt off his shoulder to get even farther out of the way.
“Foundered,” said Mogget briskly, without looking at her, his green eyes peering sharply back into the night. “They’re getting closer.”
“I know!” said Sam, urgently pulling the saddlebags free and slinging them over his shoulder. He bent down to stroke Sprout’s head, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes showed white and rolled almost completely back. He took the reins and tried to pull her up, but she made no move to help, and he was too weak to force her.
“Hurry!” urged Mogget, pacing around him. “You know what to do.”
Sam nodded and glanced back at the Dead. There were a score or more of them, dim, lumbering shapes in the gathering darkness. Their masters had clearly driven them hard from some distant cemetery or boneyard, walking them even under the sun. Consequently, they were slow, but implacable. If he lingered even for a minute longer, they would fall upon him like rats on a worn-out dog.
