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It was some time before Calder and Kinnon controlled their panicked mounts and found the spot again. Alistair lay just as they had left him, his gray tunic almost invisible among the bracken.

"We'll just make sure," Calder said, dismounting and starting down the hillside. "Come on, man," he called and reluctantly Kinnon followed, looking about him nervously.

He didn't like this. There was something strange about those corbies. Carrion birds, filthy, disgusting creatures they were even at the best of times, but these two had some madness in them. Kinnon had never heard of corbies attacking men and horses before—not living ones, at any rate.

As they reached the bottom of the hill, an enormous hound leaped up and came at them, hackles raised and teeth bared in a snarl.

"Get away," Calder said, lashing out a booted foot and catching the dog full in the ribs. It yelped, sprawling awkwardly upon its back.

Kinnon cried out in disgust. The corbies were there before them, one perched on Alistair's chest, the other with its dark claws dug into his hair. Even as Kinnon watched in horrified fascination, one tore a bright strand loose.

"Leave him," he said to Calder. "Let's begone."

"Nay. We must be sure."

As Calder strode forward, the hound leaped at him, growling, and the birds flew at his face. He flung up an arm, stepped back and tripped, measuring his length upon the bracken.

"Forget him, then," he cried, scrambling to his feet. "We'll go. Come on, Kinnon—"

The two men fled up the hillside, mounted and galloped off.

"Alistair. Alistair, wake up."

"Go away," Alistair mumbled.

The voice went on, urgent, insistent. "Come on, man, get up."

"Oh, God, Ian, let me sleep."

"Later. Now ye must get up. Come on, Alistair, on your feet now."

Alistair stumbled to his feet and stood swaying dizzily. Every muscle in his body ached and his head pounded. He squinted his eyes open and groaned aloud.

"What were we doing last night?" he said thickly. "I canna remember."

"Aye, I know, but now ye must come with me. Come on, Alistair."

"All right, all right. What's your hurry?"

"We have to get back to Ravenspur. Come on, that's right, one step and then another. They're waiting for Jemmy in the chapel."

"Who?" Alistair tried to focus on Ian, but the effort brought such sharp pain that he had to close his eyes again. "The tinkers?"

"Aye, that's it, the tinkers are waiting for him. Let's go now, Alistair. Ye can do it."

Alistair staggered like a drunken man up the slope. "Where am I? What's happening? Ian, wait."

Ian stopped. The breeze ruffled the dark hair back from his brow and his eyes were very bright. "We have to get back to Ravenspur," he repeated. Alistair took another step, then dropped to his knees.

"Must rest a bit," he mumbled, wiping his stinging eyes. When he lowered his hand he saw that it was wet with blood.

"No! Get up! Ye lazy, useless bastard, what do ye think you're about here? Get on your feet, man!"

"Aye, all right, I hear ye, Ian. Stop shouting at me."

"That's better," Ian snapped, and though he sounded angry, his face was wrenched with pain. "Now walk."

Each step sent a bolt of white-hot agony through Alistair's entire body. "Ian," he said at last. "I thought—I dreamed—that ye were—"